He Just Wasn't That Into Me (Literally)

Few things confuse me more than math and Paris Hilton's popularity. But there is one thing that tops that list and that thing is Men. Lately, my brain has turned into a clusterfuck of confusing innuendos and out of control hormones. However, I can explain the cause for this in three little words. Hot Bicep Guy.

HBG has not been an easy man to conquer. He runs hot and cold with little more than a few hours to distinguish between the two. One minute I’ll receive text messages and phone calls in rapid succession then won’t hear a word for days just to have him hound me down again the moment I ask myself, “Hot Bicep Guy who?”

He’s interested and I know it. To be honest, I’m truly enjoying the built up sexual tension that’s emerging from our little game of Cat and Mouse. At the peak of insatiable lust and desire I’m certain he will be the best lover known to man with a cock the size of Mr. Ed’s. But when he goes MIA I’m positive he has a little penis and is suffering from erectile dysfunction. Funny how my mind works sometimes.

Had he given into my whims and desires from the start I no doubt would have bored of him quickly and moved on to some other member of the male species. By him playing Keep Away with his genitalia I’ve driven myself mad trying to figure out ways to make kidnapping legal.

With my patience nearing its expiration date, last week I told him I had waited long enough and it was time for him to prove he wasn’t just all talk.

About 9:30 that evening HBG pulled up wearing little more than a pair of shorts and tennis shoes. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt which I more than okay with. After giving me a hug, I led him down to Fantasyland intentionally walking behind him so I could take stock of the fine definition of his back and ass. I was going to savor every single part of this evening. After months of seduction this was finally going to happen!

As he lay on my bed and mindlessly droned on about work and other nonsense I tried my best to keep my fangs and claws hidden. Seeing him topless on top of the covers without having to worry about any unwanted distractions was almost too much to bear. I was ready to pounce.

Then he said he was tired.

I turned out the light hoping that “tired” was code for “sexy time”.

Then he turned away from me and got under the covers.

???

Occasionally, HBG would turn over and look at me, only inches from my face and say something uninspiring. It was becoming painfully obvious that if anything was going to happen I was going to have to make the first move. Pansy.

Not being able to contain myself any longer I leaned over and kissed him. Kissing HBG was much like kissing my pillow. Soft and warm yet nothing in return. Not sensing any reciprocation I backed off quickly and he continued to mumble about dumb shit as though I hadn’t just leaned over and tried to stick my tongue in his mouth.

But it gets better.

He explained to me that he considered kissing to be a very intimate act therefore he didn’t do it a lot. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I was making out with Pretty Woman. He had, in fact, come over with the intention of penetrating me with his manhood yet swapping spit was crude and inappropriate? Mental note to bring my straight jacket out of storage.

That’s when the unthinkable happened.

He turned into a woman.

HBG: When you get what you want from me, you’re just going to kick me to the curb and never talk to me again, aren’t you?

Me: Huh? Where did that come from?

HBG: And I didn’t bring any condoms anyway.

This isn’t exactly how I had planned this evening to go. I’m not sure what part of “I want you to come over so we can fuck all night” gave him the impression that we wouldn’t be having sex and condoms wouldn’t be necessary. He apologized and told me I was a “funny and cool chick” that he wanted to see again. Gee, thanks.

Then, without warning HBG jumped on top of me and said he wanted to see what I felt like. He kissed my neck for a little bit, dry humped me like a fucking teenager, got me all hot and bothered then jumped off and turned away leaving me bitter, frustrated and wondering if I was capable of raping a man.

So let me get this straight. HBG drove a half hour to my place at 9 o’clock to dry hump and sleep. I must look damn good for my age as he apparently has me confused with a 15 year old.

5 minutes later…

HBG: If I had come prepared, we would be going at it till morning. When ARE we going to have sex?

Me: How about NOW, Motherfucker?

HBG: Sorry, next time I’ll come prepared.

Me: Go to sleep.

Another 5 minutes later (from over my shoulder since I had turned my back to him not being able to look at someone so dumb)…

HBG: You’ve never had this happen before, have you?

Me: If you are referring to a guy coming over to have sex with me then NOT having sex with me, then yes, you would be correct in your assumption.

HBG: Are you mad? You aren’t going to get crazy on me, are you?

Me: I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Driving 35 minutes to my place half naked at 9 at night for a booty call without condoms only to go to sleep. This isn’t a fucking slumber party. I invited you over so we could fuck around and you knew that.

HBG: Do you hate me?

Me: Yes.

I was pissed and my loins were on fire. I would have cut off my left arm to have somebody fuck me at that very moment. And the fact that HBG was able to drift off to sleep so easily pissed me off even more. If he wasn’t interested in having sex with me then why the fuck did he even come over?

Finally, hours after he had fallen asleep I drifted off myself only to be bombarded with wet dreams. Dreams so vivid I actually woke myself up once from my own moaning. At least I was getting some fucking action in my dream.

6:30am the next morning HBG came to sit next to me on the bed while I still lay under the covers trying to make sense of the previous night’s events. As he grabbed my hand and placed it on his erect penis he asked how I felt and what I was in the mood for. That’s when I told the Rocket Scientist to get out. He thought I was joking. I walked him out.

I can honestly say that I have never been so damn sexually frustrated in all my life. The rest of that day was a blur. I couldn’t concentrate on even the simplest of things. If he was afraid of me using him and then avoiding him he won’t have to worry about that happening anymore. Now I’m just avoiding him only I didn’t get the pleasure of using him first. What a waste.

The next day he called and texted but I’m over it. I’ll be damned if I let him over just so he can tease me again. I’m now in the market for a new Rabbit.

VENEEReal Disease

“Do you consider oral sex cheating?”

I’m having déjà vu. I’ve heard these words before. Not only have I heard them before but they came from the same married jackass that spewed them 12 months earlier. Has he used this line so many times that he’s actually forgotten who he’s uttered this phrase too? Better yet, how many big busted, six foot tall blondes that he works with has he asked this question to in order to forget that he’s already broached this subject with me?

What makes this scenario particularly scandalous is that not only is the pint sized Puerto Rican married but he also has a kid on the way yet still finds it perfectly acceptable behavior to ask me if I’ve had sex in the office stock room. His wife is a lucky lady indeed.

Last year, it was a hot, sunny afternoon and I was alone in the office looking up porn working diligently when in walked Erik (the pint sized Puerto Rican). He was a very cute, well built, olive skinned man. Hispanic with jet black hair and beautiful big brown eyes. I instantly wanted to devour him. Then he smiled and my mind switched from thoughts of naked debauchery to wondering if his teeth would glow should the power suddenly go out. His teeth were nothing short of ginormous. Like Hillary Duff’s and Dr. Phil’s wife huge. If he thought these were an acceptable look for grills, I can only imagine what they must have looked like before.

We talked, we flirted and I felt that rush that can only come from the chase of the unknown. I had found my new pet project and Eric Estrada was it. Doing my homework like any good school girl determined to ace a test, I went about finding out all I could from his friend, my boss. Then I heard the words that would stop me dead in my tracks and put a damper on any dreams I might have had of dividing and conquering.

“He’s got the greatest live-in girlfriend.”

Shot down.

I certainly wasn’t getting any hint of a girlfriend while he was asking me what I did for fun. Nor was I when he was asking if I had a boyfriend. But a guy with a live-in girlfriend AND big teeth? No thank you. I think I’ll pass.

A few nights later, a few people from work were gathering at a local bar to watch the game. I knew Estrada would be there but paid no mind since I also knew that bar + football = single, eligible men. I and my best push up bra would be there in full force rooting for the team with the cutest fans.

After the game, everyone in my party began to disperse. As luck would have it, I had parked in a different lot from most everyone else…except Estrada, who being the true gentleman he was, offered to walk me to my car. After he insisted I sit and join him for one last drink, of course. Personally, I would have rather had my appendix taken out by a spider monkey but unless I felt like walking back to the dark parking structure alone at midnight I was shit outta luck.

Being slightly irritated and defiant, I asked him what his girlfriend was up to that evening. I had, after all, heard that she was a really “sweet gal”. As he uncomfortably shifted in his seat he launched into his “woe is me” tale about his son (didn’t know he had one of those either), his first wife, his days partying and what led him into AA. Sure, this was an interesting story and all but still didn’t account for the fact that he was sitting alone, in a bar, with 38 DD’s while his good little girlfriend was at home ironing his shirts and taking care of his son by another woman.

Then like a true cheating douche bag with no inclination that what he was doing may be construed as highly inappropriate leaned across the table towards me. With a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face uttered the words that every woman should hear at least once in their lives…

“So, do you consider oral sex cheating?”

After I reminded him that things hadn’t gone well the way of Clinton and Lewinsky his face fell like a lead balloon and I got up to leave. I asked if he would like to take his Diet Coke to go. Apparently, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

A week later he proposed to his girlfriend. I wasn’t invited to the wedding.

So, why am I having déjà vu you ask? Because once again, I found myself alone with the arrogant philanderer. I had gone almost a year without seeing Estrada and the only thing that had changed was the tan on his left ring finger. Having come in to work on a project, I was left alone with Estrada while he boasted about how wonderful married life was yet asking if he could “show me something in the back room” while holding his fly. Watching his confidence level shrivel when I told him he held no interest for me and that no, he would not be seeing my goodies (nor I his) was worth all the vodka in Russia. Or my wet bar. Whichever is greater, it’s a close call.

Moral of the story: Never trust a man with Day-Glo teeth the size of cue cards.