10 Seconds I'll Never Get Back

I’ve always had a hard on for men in uniform. Always. I consider them to be among the world’s super heroes. Just imagine Spiderman or Superman. In real life they are geeky and insecure. They are, in essence, normal. Once they don their tights and capes they become irresistible. I fully recognize it for what it is, though. It’s a power thing. Confidence is sexy and if you can wear spandex and still be confident, I want to have sex with you.

Minute Man just happened to be a man in uniform and thanks to Match.com he now had my undivided attention. Tall, Hispanic and relatively good looking he worked as a high school narc and images of 21 Jump Street flashed through my perverted mind. I’m not sure if he actually carried a gun but he did carry mace and that was good enough for me. He was shooting for the Police Academy and had already begun the long and tedious process. Thoughts of doing the nasty in the backseat of a squad car again had me bound and determined to make this man love me.

Not letting the hour and a half distance keep me from my soul mate we decided to meet up for dinner at a restaurant half way. I liked what I saw when I first arrived. He was everything he had claimed to be. And then some. He was tall, Hispanic, good looking but had the largest nose I had ever seen. Think Barbara Streisand’s nose on Enrique Iglesias’s face. Oddly charming.

Conversation flowed, cocktails were imbibed and it didn’t bother me in the slightest that he was 32, lived at home with his parents and had already been married and divorced twice. At least I knew that Ross was not afraid of commitment.

By our third date I was ready for the horizontal mambo. Every time the subject had been broached Ross was never at a loss for words. Provocative and not the least bit shy. According to him, he "knew his way around a bedroom" and had “never received any complaints.”

I'm always weary of a man that brags about his bedroom skills. My experience has lead me to believe that the more one brags the more one disappoints. I wasn’t expecting this to go as well as he had assumed. In my mind having “never received any complaints” equated to never having received any praise either.

(Men, just a word of advice. If you ever want to know how you really did between the sheets ask your girlfriend’s girlfriends. What she tells you and what she tells them may be very different stories indeed.)

Despite knowing this and being the eternal optimist, I asked him if he would like to buy some alcohol and go to our room. Knowing we didn’t have a room the implication was clear. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone yell “Check Please!” so fast.

At the Ritz Carlton (AKA, Best Western) down the road from the restaurant, we settled in for what I had hoped was going to be filled with declarations of love and unlimited orgasms. Covered in sweat, bruises and aching from sore muscles only to be concluded with hours of shower sex and neighbors knocking on the walls.

Instead, this is what I got…

Pump, pump, stop. Pump, pump, stop. Pump, pump, Uhhhhh!

*Snore*

The amount of time it took you to read the above line is the exact amount of time it lasted. I should have trusted my gut. It took longer to make the cocktail I wasn’t allowed to finish before being interrupted with empty promises of ecstasy and sexual gratification. 10 Second Man now carries the distinguished title of being the quickest lay in the history of my vagina.

Unfortunately, things went downhill fast after that. We stayed in touch but never went out again. As luck would have it and unbeknownst to me, a girlfriend of mine started corresponding with him (also through Match.com). Only by coincidence when 10SM was sending out a mass change of address email and she spotted me on the recipient list did she even find out that he and I knew each other. She immediately called for the scoop as their first date was just a few days away. I told her the truth. That he was nice, funny and the worst lay this side of the Mississippi. Despite 10SM regaling her with tales of his sexual prowess and experience I was able to set the record straight.

Yes, I cock blocked him. I freely admit that. According to girl code, it is our unequivocal duty to spare our girlfriends from bad dudes, bad sex and bad shoes. I didn’t tell her not to go out with 10SM, I simply warned her that he may need a cockring and some schooling in what it really means to “know your way around a bedroom.”

In other news, HBG texted me an unsolicited picture of his junk the other day. I’m not exactly sure what he has in mind or what I’m supposed to do with a picture of the one penis that got away. I’m no longer attracted or amused and more than a little creeped out now. HBG will now be simply known as Dumb Ass.

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.

Unwitting Homewrecker

Picture it…

Full moon, in the middle of the Mexican sea. Somewhere between Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlan. Cute girl stands at the rail overlooking the adult pool and stalking watching the adorable waiter that has come to know her quite well. Vodka tonic with a twist of lime. No card is needed. He knows her by name and automatically knows who to bill. With a wink and a nod, the order has been placed.

Across the deck, a good looking guy stands also looking over at the same pool.

Eye contact is made. Another wink and nod and it’s been determined that vodka isn’t the only thing coming that night.

Good looking guy walks over to cute girl and makes idle chit chat. They exchange pleasantries and he tells her how great her ass looks in “those pants”. He asks if they can go to her room and if she has condoms. And with the subtlety of a true gentleman, his intentions are made known. Who said romance was dead?

With that, CG and GLG head to the casino. A few shots and a Dos Equis later, GLG and CG are feeling quite chummy. Brief kisses and promises of what’s to come later while at the slot machine ensue.

Then these lovely words are spoken over CG’s left shoulder:

“Would you kindly take your lips off my husband? We are on our honeymoon.”

With a brief explanation and apology, CG grabs her beer and with head hung in shame leaves the casino and the now fighting couple, sure to need security intervention shortly and heads back to her room. Alone.

By the way, in case you all hadn’t guessed yet, cute girl was me. That was me being seduced by a married man. A man that was not wearing a wedding ring. He hadn't even been married long enough to get a wedding band tan.  A man that said he was there with friends. That was me being accosted by a pissed off wife. And that was me becoming the punch line for every argument they ever have until their almost certain divorce papers are signed. I will forever be THAT girl that GLG tried to cheat with on his honeymoon.

Born with a guilty conscience, I’ve replayed the evening’s events in my head countless times wondering where I went wrong. This hasn’t been the first time my need for penis has gotten me into trouble.

On my walk of shame I felt sorry for the newlywed bride. If that night was any indication of their future together, she may as well be looking for her next husband and I should have thrown his ass overboard when I had the chance and done the poor lady a favor.

After the feelings of sorrow and guilt subsided, I was filled with anger and resentment. How dare GLG interrupt my flirtation with the cute little Indonesian waiter with perfect teeth to bring such unneeded drama? It was MY vacation too and now I would be spending the remaining 3 days trapped on a ship looking over my shoulder and not standing too close to the edge. Just in case.

The next day, while in the hot tub playing a game I like to call “how long can I keep my hands all over your six pack” with my new friend, Hot Coco, Married guy decided to join us. Great.

Not particularly in the mood make the wife’s acquaintance once again, I firmly insisted that married guy go visit the other hot tub as he was not welcome in mine. After explaining myself to other inhabitants as to why I had just told this man to get the fuck out leave I was given high fives and a few “nicely handled”s. Mostly from the women.

I’ve often joked that I’m catnip for married men, however, I would never knowingly fuck around with one. That’s just plain bad karma and I’ve got my hands full with that little bitch already.

For the record, the next evening, I went back down to the casino alone. I sat down at the very same slot machine and I won $40. I'll be damned if I had auctioned off a kidney to pay for my first vacation in almost two years just to go into hiding, when for once, I hadn’t done anything wrong but try to get a little cruise ship tail.

But, next time I meet a man, I will be insisting on a background check.

With the exception of that little *cough cough* debaucle, the rest of my time on board lived up to everything you all have to come to expect from me. I drank too much, I smoked too much, I ate too much and I tried to seduce every man I could find that had 36” biceps. I don’t even know the meaning of the word “moderation” and I’m in no mood to learn about it now.

The Proposal

Before I begin, let me apologize for this post being so disjointed.  It was difficult for me to figure out how to cram so much bullshit into one entry ;-)


How It All Began

A year ago I received an email from Loverboy through Plentyoffish. He thought I was cute and I wholeheartedly agreed. Loverboy was supposedly a wannabe Hip Hop artist. Meaning he was unemployed. Our first phone conversation was nothing short of boring and blasé. After that I pretty much wrote him off as I wasn't particularly interested in getting to know a starving artist with the personality of a stop sign, regardless of his amazing abs. He called back a few times but I never felt the undying need to answer and continue our conversation about paint drying and grass growing.

BUT, when I get bored I tend to look for something to amuse me. In other words, that's when I get myself into trouble. I know the signs and I know the results and when I hear the little voice in my head that says "read a book", "take a bubble bath" or "go for a walk around the park" I usually tell it to fuck off because I'm a big girl now and can do whatever I want.

So, against my better judgment, I called Loverboy back and said I could be over in an hour. My first thought when seeing him was YUM! I smirked and told the little bitch inside my head that I was right, she was wrong and neener neener. She'd be thanking me later when we played naked Twister. Without the mat.

The evening went far better than expected. We talked, we made out and he asked me to come back the following evening. I was smitten.

But my gut told me something wasn’t quite right. It was that stupid little bitch in my head again saying "run", "get out" and "don't look back!" To which I replied, "Shut up! He has a 9" dick! I'm not going anywhere!"

The Beginning of the End

Driving out to eat one night in Loverboy’s Tokyo Drift Mercury Cougar, he had the volume of his radio set to approximately 43,000 decibels (which is about 307 times louder than a shotgun blast. I checked). As dogs howled and car alarms went off, I shouted above the song regaling me with tales of slapping bitches and Hennessey reigning supreme, to ask if he could turn the music down. Loverboy gave me a look that said “Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?” and reluctantly turned the radio down just as we pulled into the Pick Up Stix parking lot.

Not since being dropped off for school in my step dads ’73 Ford pickup truck with a Hound dog tied to the bed have I been so mortified. I’m sure we made quite the pair. He in head to toe FuBu and me decked out in Old Navy getting out of a racing car arguing over why or why not it’s for the best to turn the radio down when I’ve heard the word cunt one too many times. He barely spoke to me the rest of the evening.

The relationship took a steady downward spiral after that and it wasn't long before I had to finally concede to that voice inside my head and admit she was right. Loverboy and I were both hard headed and stubborn. I should have known we were doomed from the start. The fact that I later found out he had two baby mamas and a record didn’t help matters either.

The End

I never did find out what he did for a living other than pursuing his dream of being the next Tupac. The one song he actually did play for me was awesomely stupid. It was quite difficult to keep a straight face while listening to it. Even though he claimed to have written it for me I was far from flattered. He couldn’t understand why his early declarations of love were falling on deaf ears and I couldn’t understand why a 36 year old man had a drifting car.

When my fascination with the dick wore off, I split. That was nine months ago.

The Proposal

Every few weeks since I went Houdini on him, he would call. He never left a message and I never answered. I had no desire to go hang with him and his buddies crying over MJ’s death and smoking weed. But, as happens every time I get bored and horny, I do something incredibly stupid and this time was no exception.

I returned Loverboy’s call.

In the time apart, we had both moved locations and gotten new jobs. And when I say “we got new jobs” I really mean “I got a new job”. He seemed almost giddy to hear from me. I decided to stop by and see him after work. He said he missed me like crazy and apologized for not “being the man he should have been” when we were together before. He said things were different now, blah, blah, blah.

I went back and spent Sunday, the 4th of July with him. We basically did nothing but watch bad TV and fuck. It was pretty much how I prefer to spend all my Sundays. Again, he started in with how things were different now and how much he felt he’d been given a second chance and didn’t want to screw it up.

Then, out of nowhere he asked me marry him. He said I was so amazing that I “should be somebody’s wife”.

Did anybody else just pee a little because I sure as hell did. What does that mean anyway? Does he even know me? I sport fuck for fun. I laugh at people that trip and I think that most babies are assholes. What part of that says “Wife” to you?

Shell-shocked and thinking of no less than 49 ways to reject his proposal, I simply told him I didn’t want to get married right now. At all. To anyone.

It was also explained that I needed to take him up on his offer before I got too old and wrinkled and he became famous. Hell, when he puts it that way it’s almost poetic.

The shit I put up with for a decent lay. I’ve clearly gone off my meds.

Happy Anniversary to ME!

Exactly one year ago today, I sat with a friend of mine plotting world domination. Due to a somewhat shady history chalk full of questionable and unwise decisions, we quickly realized running for office may not be the way to go. Marrying well was also not an option as I’m way too opinionated to be anybody’s bitch. It was determined, however, that I’m a narcissistic, sarcastic, sexually liberated and somewhat decent writer (did I mention narcissistic?). Hence, Miss Melisa Mae was born.

Never in a million years would I imagine that even a single person would give two shits about what I had to say. Let alone comment and become loyal followers of my abrasive, somewhat offensive and crazy antics. I’m humbled and flattered by those that take the time to read my bullshit and over usage of the words fuck and penis.

So, in a moment of introspection I’ve decided to list some of the things I have learned in the past year from having this blog. Enjoy…

1. I am an animal. I hunt, I prey and I devour men. I am, in a sense, a predator of the male population as a whole. No man is safe and every once in a while no woman is either.

2. I am not a dating advice blogger. I date, I screw, I write. End of story. Anyone daring enough to ask my advice will probably be lead astray. But it will at least be amusing. For me, anyway.

3. I look really good when holding a camera 38 feet above my head and to the left. If anything can be learned from my 16 year old cousins, it’s that.

4. I have way more sex than I originally thought.

5. I am not the only nutty, sex crazed, 30-something obsessed with biceps and peni.

6. Despite making periodic breaks in my stream of conscious writing, I still have no idea where and when to end a paragraph.

7. Not everybody is going to love me or my writing and those people should be shipped off to the island of misfit toys that's okay.

8. Despite my initial reservations about putting my love life on record and in writing, it has been among the best and most cathartic things I’ve ever done.

9. I now have one year’s worth of blog posts outlining exactly why I’m still single.

10. Not only am I dating to find love, I now also embrace those awkward and disappointing first dates because they make for awesome stories.

11. I still have a great rack.

12. I’m kind of a bitch. But that’s ok. I own it.

And there you have it, kids. I need to run, I have a post to write about an engaged dickwad with huge teeth and a pecker the size of a walnut.

Ciao, babies!

Hot Bicep Guy

If you are a guy and we haven’t slept together yet I’m still talking to you AND I dedicate an entire post to you, you can bet that I am going to fuck the ever loving shit out of you you are pretty darn special.

Case in point, Hot Bicep Guy.

In case any of you have missed it, not only has HBG been occupying my (wet) dreams but also my Facebook and Twitter pages:

Tuesday, June 1st:

11:53am - Once again, just confirmed that I am completely incapable of having a coherent conversation with someone sporting amazing biceps and buns.

Friday, June 4th:

2:58pm - Just learned that since I left work early I missed hot bicep guy coming by to cut rock. Yes, I said cut rock. Who cares why?

Today, Thursday, June 10th:

9:30am - Dear Sex Gods, Please let hot bicep guy come by the office to cut rock BEFORE I leave the office today instead of after like the last two times. Kthxbye.

**The Sex Gods answered my prayers. Water was turned on (as was I), power tools were brought out and rock was cut**

12:00pm - Oh God...boss just ran out to arm wrestle hot bicep guy. Best. Job. Ever.

2:00pm - Ok, for those keeping tabs...hot bicep guy asked for my Facebook. Is that the 2010 version of asking for one's phone number? Either way, he will end up disrobed. Just sayin...

So, if I do the math, I’ve invested 10 days into this relationship. Assuming that’s the equivalent of approximately 3 dates, it’s time we did the horizontal mambo. He owes me. And he’s going to pay me. In penis.

I spent a full hour today in what can only be described as the most fun one can have with their clothes on. As if the Gods above had read my mind and answered my prayers, along came the construction truck with 185 lbs of pure muscle and 6% body fat tucked neatly inside its cab.

Time stopped. I watched as HBG jumped out of the truck and went over to inspect the slabs of rock waiting to be cut.

Wait, did he just look back at the office window? Oh yeah…it’s on like Donkey Kong!

Never mind that I was smiling like a Cheshire Cat. So? I was hungry and he was lunch.

I’m sorry, did my boss just ask me to do something? Not possible as there are only two people in this daydream. Me and HBG.

Shit, boss is talking to me but I can’t understand a word he’s saying. He may as well be speaking in Greek because at the moment I can’t even remember my own name, let alone how to type up a letter.

Still staring, I watch as HBG and his helper turn on the hose and saw. Things are getting wet (I love puns). His back is to me and all I see are muscles contracting and heavy equipment being used. He’s cutting then lifting the heavy slabs of rock into the back of his truck. The only thing missing is me, straddling the rock slabs in a white t-shirt.

Am I dead? Because this MUST be what heaven is like.

Uh oh, I’m drooling. Boss saw it and looked out the window.

Boss: What? You lookin’ at HBG?

Me: bholysoudtoaopshhdfgjslhg?

Boss: You know, I’m stronger than him. I can beat him at arm wrestling *heading for the door*

Me: bholysoudtoaopshhdfgjslhg…*following close behind*

I’m not about to miss two guys playing “who’s got the bigger penis” for my benefit.

They wrestle, I giggle and the boss concedes to a bad wrist. I now know who has the bigger penis.

Oops, time’s up. Time to leave work and head to job #2.

Boss: Can you stay for a few more minutes?

Me: Nope

Like a cougar stalking her prey I hightail it out of the office to go attack my unwitting victim.

With a grin and a wave HBG asks if I’m leaving. That’s my que. I got this. I just hope I didn’t leave claw marks when I pounced.

Some small talk and a Facebook invite later, the door has been opened.

Stay tuned…

The Fire Has Gone Out With The Fireman

Here’s how I know that The Fireman and I will not be sustaining a long and fulfilling relationship:

Five minutes after arriving, he began telling me of his “Latina” phase. Apparently, he is now into women of the Hispanic persuasion. Hi, have we met? I’m a 19 foot tall blonde. Thanks, Jackass.

He only brought one bottle of wine.

He spent 12 minutes discussing his previous night’s date where he spent $50 at the movies and didn’t get laid yet decided that he couldn’t forgo $10 to get another bottle of vino for me…even knowing that I WOULD be putting out.

I started playing on Twitter while he was talking.

He seemed slightly annoyed when I managed to rip his belt in half while trying to get it off of him. (I don’t mess around when I’m trying to get into a man’s pants. If I feel it’s taking too long, clothes will be torn and belts broken. That’s just the risk you take)

Since he wouldn’t let me sleep at 1:30 in the morning, I made him go out to buy me more wine because I realized he was only bearable if I’m intoxicated.

He tried to order a hamburger with a side of tits at the Jack In The Box drive through on our way back from getting alcohol.

He bit me.

I found myself rolling my eyes several times when he wasn’t looking and even contemplated if it was too late to go ask the neighbors if I could borrow their duck tape. At midnight.

He tried to stick his dick into my wine glass to get my attention since I found an old episode of Criminal Minds more entertaining than his thoughts of self realization and his need to acquiesce to the demands of family and friends to settle down and find a “good” woman.

All in all, this evening I just described can best be summed up as an “I shaved for this?” kind of evening. The conversation was dull and the sex mediocre at best.

I didn’t even bother with the morning sex. I got dressed and sat on the couch to wait for him to wake up. Walking him to his car was the highlight of the whole experience.

I’d once been told that if I were a bitch, I’d be nicer. I’m inclined to agree.

Ever Get The Feeling Like There's Something Missing?

Meeting One was a breath of fresh air. He was funny, engaging, TALL. By all accounts, perfect. One had his own house, his own business and a boat. He was divorced, had a son and didn’t spend countless hours bitching about the Ex. All signs pointed to yes. For once, I thought Match.com might have gotten it right. Or at least close.

Our first conversation was filled with laughter and flirting without him feeling the need to ask me for more pictures or my bra size. In a “what a small world” moment, it was soon realized that I had actually met his bartender brother two years earlier in Hollywood. I have a fairly uncommon French last name and as it turned out me and One had last names so similar we were one letter away from being kissing cousins. Giving his brother my card to start a tab is how he and I ended up having the exact same conversation years before.

Anyway, moving along…

A couple of dinner dates and a few Coronas later and it was time to test out the mattress. One had an amazing body and I was very much looking forward to exploring it. He knew how to kiss, he knew where to touch. This was going to be fun.

With my tongue, I traced the lines of his chest. Nibbling on his muscular pecks and lightly biting at his solid abs on my way down. I thought to myself “Wow, this guy has everything!”

But I may have spoken too soon.

Making my way down to show this guy one of my many talents, I thought I noticed something missing. Lights out, I thought the shadows of the room were playing tricks on me. I moved One Jr. slightly to the right then slightly to the left. Could it be? Was I seeing this right?

I thought they usually came in pairs?

Youngbuck Revisited

When I’m all alone at night my mind begins to wonder. Crazy shit streams through my head like a bad horror flick written by Heidi Montag. How do lizards have sex? Does So and So really look in the mirror and think “Damn that looks good” before leaving the house? How was I able to function before “Snapped” on Oxygen? Is Oprah really a lesbian? And when is a good time to tell my cousin she isn’t a model? The inner dialog inside my head is definitely questionable.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, actually it doesn’t except to show that I’m clearly crazy. But even I, in my craziest of episodes, wonder what the fuck people are thinking when they do, say or write certain things.

Case in point, Youngbuck (remember him?).

I want to take a moment and discuss Youngbuck’s steady spiral towards the “You’ve got to be kidding me and lose my number” zone. Perhaps someone can please shed some light on why Youngbuck went from a sweet, decent lay into a man with an unhealthy preoccupation with my knees and his penis.

Truth be told, I’m not really sure why he’s still around. In my heart of hearts I know that we will never be exclusive. Perhaps I like having him around because he’s cute, good in bed (as long as he gives it a rest without going all 12 rounds) and once I get over the fact that he spells “kik it” with a “k” I can relax and enjoy his company.

The moment he mentioned “feelings” is when the spiral began. Most everyone I know, knows that I don’t own a pair of those so when he mentioned the “F” word I backed off big time. I had thought we were on the same page up to that point so this was all completely out of left field.

I haven’t seen too much of him since then but he’s still actively pursuing me. However, his attempts at reconnecting have begun to border on the bizarre. Let me show you an example of one of his most recent attempts the other night (via text message):

YB: hey there

Me: hey

YB: How r u?

Me: Good. U?

YB: Good. Busy with work & skool

Me: Gotcha

YB: What r u doin?

Me: Just watching some TV.

YB: Sounds fun…u wanna suk sum cock

WHAT

THE

FUCK?

Oh gee, can I? Oh, pretty please?!? First off, my answer is no. I realize my day seemed to be devoid of something but I’m pretty sure sucking cock was not what it was missing. At least, not that day anyway. And secondly, you are not doing me any favors by sticking your dick in my mouth. As a matter of fact, that’s me doing you a favor.

I never responded to his offer of generosity so an hour later I got this:

YB: I guess that’s a no

See, he’s not so stupid after all.

Three days later…

YB: When kan we fuck

I didn’t even get any warning with that one. No “hi, how are you?” or “how was your day?” Nothin!

Me: When you stop sending me stupid texts about fucking and sucking dick. You know I hate that shit (Yes, I have told him on multiple occasions that I find “sexting”, as the kids call it, cheesy and lame. If you want to fuck, get your ass over here. I don’t need to talk about it. Put up or shut up.)

YB: Ok, no prob…karry on

Me: AND STOP SPELLING SHIT WITH A K!!!

For God’s sakes! This is a grown ass man. In college and holding down two jobs, no less. It’s like the closer he comes to the realization that I’m not interested in him romantically the more of a fucktard he becomes.

Is it because I’ve hurt his ego? Is he trying to outplay me in the game of NSA? It seems to me as if he’s gone overboard in trying to make it appear as though he no longer cares and he’s just in it for sex. The only difference being that I AM only in it for sex and he’s clearly gotten his wee wittle feelings hurt. I didn’t intentionally make it my mission to rebuff his romantic advances but I was up front and honest with him the whole time about where I stood. He knew the game. He knew the rules.

OR

He’s really just an idiot and thinks that women find it panty shedding hot to be bombarded with texts about hair pulling and knee scraping. I’m thinking a little bit of both.

And for the record, it’s apparently NEVER a good time to tell your cousin that she isn’t a model. Go figure.

Pants Party

I’m gonna jump on the penis bandwagon here, no pun intended. There’s penis in the air lately (again, no pun intended). Lots of articles asking “does size matter?”

Well, I’m here to tell you it does. To me, at least.

Being a self proclaimed penis connoisseur, I’d like to consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. I’ve dealt with teeny peenys, pencil dicks, crooked cocks and donkey kongs. There isn’t a whole lot I haven’t seen. I’m not bragging, I’m just stating fact.

I’ve dealt with minute men, marathon men and men going soft. Men that are cut, men that are not. Men that are shaved and men that don’t bother.

From what I’ve seen, the line between men and women has been clearly drawn in the sand. Women that enjoy an adequate member and how it’s used and men that claim it isn’t the size of the trouser snake but how it moves.

I’m here to say that I’m a size queen and proud of it. I make no apologies. It’s strictly a matter of preference. Go big or go home. That’s not to say it’s the only deciding factor when I meet a guy but it is most certainly a bonus.

So how does a woman preferring a larger penis differ from a man preferring larger breasts? A certain hair color? A certain race? Body type? I don’t think it does. People all have things that turn them on. Some things are stranger than others. Some people are into kink, bondage, feet, food. You name it, there’s somebody that wants it.

When a woman mentions liking a man of “size” I hear a lot of excuses. “Just because he’s large doesn’t mean he knows how to use it.” “She must have a huge vagina.” Retaliation by many (mostly men) countering with bullshit somehow insinuating that just because she enjoys a large cock she’s shallow, a whore or doesn’t enjoy all the rest that comes along with being intimate with somebody. I understand that there isn’t a whole lot a man can do with what he was born with but again it’s a matter of preference. He can’t change his size anymore than I can change into a petit Asian woman. That doesn’t make me bitter or insulted towards any man that happens to prefer all the things I’m not. I’ve dealt with bad lays on both ends of the spectrum but if I had my choice I’d still stick with the foot long over the finger pecker.

So why the bad rap for women that enjoy huge cocks?

I will, however, agree with most that it shouldn’t be the only factor when determining a man’s worthiness for bedding. It’s also nearly impossible to determine the size of a man’s goods until it is literally out in the open. Not from lack of me trying, of course.

I’ve heard the myths. I’ve checked them all out. I’ve dated 6’4” men with cocks the size of a thimble. I’ve dated men shorter than myself sporting 8” plus. Big noses mean nothing. Big feet just mean big shoes. Want to know a sure fire way to tell if the man you are with is sporting a baby shark? When he pulls down his pants and he has a 10” wiener. That’s how.

Moral of the story? People like what they like. Everybody is different. Some people are good in bed and in tune with what makes them and their partner feel good. And sadly, some people just aren’t.

Pocket Rocket aside…seriously ladies, when was the last time you purposely bought a dildo that was only 4”?

The Fireman (Part 3)

My entire body aches. My legs hurt. My arms hurt. My back hurts. Even my hair hurts.

Why?

Because I had The Fireman over Saturday night, that’s why.

Remember me telling you that I wasn’t as worried about him not writing me back as I was about him actually writing me back? I was right.

The moment I saw those 87” inch biceps and broad shoulders I knew there was going to be some serious fucking going on. Considering the dry spell I’d been having I had a lot to make up for. It’s been nearly two months since I’ve had my insides tickled and frankly I had some needs that needed to be taken care of.

The Fireman arrived at my place rather late on Saturday night. He’d had to work so I excused the tardiness. I should have had him wear his uniform over. Now that would have been HOT. I did, after all, have my own fire that needed putting out.

He picked me up and we decided to go out for a few bottles of wine. The only place open was a CVS so with the rest of the late nighters and half drunk assholes coming in from the closing bars we headed to the alcohol department. It was at this time I realized one unfortunate trait owned by The Fireman.

He was a loud talker.

Up and down the aisles he proceeded to tell me about crazy nights that included himself and mass quantities of Hennessy. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we were shopping for cheap wine at 1 in the morning, we (meaning he) were actually louder than the drunken idiots in there trying to act sober. The only difference being that we were actually sober. I found myself lowering my voice and then actually not talking in hopes that he would follow my lead. No such luck. The only highlight as I tried to distance myself from Lil Wayne was getting the chance to walk behind the hot loud talker and take full stock of what I was about to see disrobed and panting within the hour.

Of course, at this time of the evening CVS only employs checkers that are incapable of ringing people up and/or reading so we had to wait 15 minutes while Mr. CVS Checkout guy rang up a pack of gum. Just enough time for The Fireman to continue his stories of debauchery and to give me a chance to hear his Transformers ringtone. Correction, give the entire store enough time to hear of his stories and ringtone.

Once out in the parking lot, I began to breathe again knowing that we wouldn’t be sharing our business with the entire town.

We got back to my place and made ourselves cozy. We talked, laughed, drank lots of wine and generally had a very nice time. With the wine finished and morning approaching we got down to business.

In those next few hours, Mr. Fireman more than made up for the loud talking. He knew how to handle his business and riding that black stallion was worthy of Penthouse Forum. Just as I’d predicted, we were quite compatible and there was nothing left to the imagination. Any dry spell that I was having was completely quenched and we quickly fell asleep in a sweaty mess on top of the covers.

We slept in the next morning and I awoke to my head on his broad chest with his huge arm around me. A little groggy from the wine and late night erotica we gave round two a go before him getting ready to leave. As much as I wanted to chain him to my bed for all of eternity I let him leave about noon so he could drive back to his hood and do the things he had left undone in the few hours he had left before heading to work again.

He may not be relationship material but then again, I’ve come to the conclusion that I may not be either. However, with the sexual chemistry we both had he has definitely made his way to the front of my little black book. I won’t be going out with him in public due to his loud talking ways but rest assured, he can make as much noise as he wants when he’s behind the closed doors of my Den of Iniquity.

The 40 Year Old Virgin

I almost ate my date the other night. I only wish I was joking.

I was recently referred to as a cougar. Not in the traditional sense but because I actually eat men.

But before I get too far ahead of myself let me take you back to the beginning before I almost devoured my victi…date, yes, that’s what I meant…my date.

Six days ago…

Me (In my head): Wait…did I just hear that right? No, I couldn’t have. Let me ask him again…

Me (Into the phone): “What do you want to see me wear?”

Me (In my head): Oh God, he did say it…

Him: “Spandex”

Me (In my head): Oh fantastic, he’s elaborating in the event I’m confused…

Him: “You know, like bicycle shorts”

Me (Into the phone): Hmph

Me (In my head): Yeah, this date is going to be fantastic. I wonder if he’d also like me to wear leg warmers and a side pony tail. I bet if I look hard enough, I may be able to find an old “Op” T-shirt and my pink pair of “LA Gears”.

Six months prior to Spandex-gate was the first time the 40 Year Old Virgin entered the picture. After our initial correspondences I sort of forgot about him. He was a nice looking man and seemed decent. I was just in the midst of a dating burn out. He would call me every month or so to no avail and really, the only reason I decided to call him back was due to a severe case of Cabin Fever and boredom combined with my need for new meat.

The very day I called him back he returned my call three times. Ah yes, now I remember why we never met…he talked too fucking much. His over exuberance seemed more out of nervousness than lack of manners. I only hoped that he didn’t act like a junior highschooler on our date. Cute, yes, but still slightly annoying. But as is usually the case with me, biceps won over logic and common sense. One of these days I’ll learn. I hope.

He was your typical Persian/Assyrian in that he actually still lived at home. No joke. At 10:45 his mom actually called to see why he was out so late. Again, I’m not joking. If I hadn’t had a history with men of Middle Eastern persuasion I would have been switching my heels for a pair of running shoes. But again, biceps and lack of anything better to do won out.

He was yet another personal trainer and did some work in movies. He was a bit of a name dropper but I’m not sure if he was actually being conceited or still just nervous and trying to impress me. I figured if he got too obnoxious on our date, there was nothing a boob in the mouth couldn’t fix.

Present Day

When I drove up to our meeting place and saw him standing outside I almost crashed from trying to kick myself. I could have met this stud muffin six months earlier?!? Who’s the nerd now? Me.

Beautiful body, had all his teeth, gorgeous eyes and eyelashes so long they tickled me when we talked. Two words…DE. LISH! That’s when I started to play a little game in my head I like to call “How long before I can get his shirt off?” If I ever meet a mind reader, I’m in trouble.

Knowing his love for thick women, I jokingly asked if my ass was big enough. He looked behind me and with a slight grin responded, “Hmm, almost”. He said I was perfect and very beautiful and even a little too thin. I have NEVER been considered too skinny. This reason alone is why we are getting married this spring.

The rest of the night was amazing. He was nervous and polite, enamored and a pleasure to look at. We made out like teenagers and yes, I did get his shirt off. This is where I almost devoured him. If we had had the correct preparations I would have hit that shit like Lennox Lewis in a Tyson fight.

All night he made mention of the places he wanted to take me. He wanted to see me again. He wanted to see me soon. He wanted to see me the very next night. As he walked me to my car he asked that I call him the next day to set up a time.

The next day I called.

And texted.

And tried one last time to call.

Then I got this:

“Sorry hun! I had a little bit of family trouble, and drama! I’ll call u tomorrow! Be safe babe. Talk to u soon”

What the fuck?!?

Completely confused I found myself suddenly 35 times more attracted to him than before. Never more than in that moment was it so obvious how I wanted what wasn’t so easily handed to me. Damn him. My girlfriend summed it up…

“Wow, a dick you didn’t conquer right away!”

I don’t know about you but that sounds like a challenge.

Stay tuned for Part 2 because there WILL be a Part 2 if I have anything to do with it… ;-)

The Fireman (Part 2)

Fireman Update:

Less than a day after sending The Fireman my eloquently crafted email I received a response from him. I grabbed myself a bottle of water and braced myself for what this perfect specimen of a man had to say:

“You are too funny Melisa! I just read your profile and your a woman version of me! Hey what can I say were both sagittarius! I'm pretty sure we can reak sum havok upon this world! I'm a wild child, love my hennessy and I love sex too! Give me holla back when u get this message!
-The Fireman”

Okay, he’s not going to be winning any Pulitzer Prize Awards but at least he spelled my name right. Upon reading this message I knew I was in trouble. Just as I explained in my earlier post, he and I together have the potential to be nothing short of explosive. Call it my sixth sense, call it my woman’s intuition, call it what you will but I just had the feeling that having us two fire signs in the same proximity would make it a good thing he was already a trained firefighter.

Without wasting any time, I gave him my number. If this guy was truly for real, I wanted a piece of him. He called right away. We discussed all the usual topics in this first conversation in the limited time we had since he was on his way out. Turns out he lived about 3 miles from being in a rap song so it looked as if we would be meeting in my neck of the woods. I have no desire to be some random shooting statistic. Being in school and working for the LA County Fire Dept. full time I was already getting a sense that finding a time convenient for us to meet was going be a little difficult.

After that…

I got bored.

Yep, I’ll say it again. I got bored. It’s as if the excitement of the chase was over. He was my unicorn and now he was within reach. But something about knowing he was too busy for anything substantial turned me off. I’ve played the game in the past where I had to be “fit into” somebody else’s schedule. I may not be furthering my education or rescuing kittens from trees but my time is valuable none the less.

The following Friday night at 10pm we had this little text message exchange:

Him: Hey r u out?

Me: Just got home

Him: Ok, now you gotta come to my home and see me! Lol (Yeah no, that’s not going to happen. I won’t be visiting 8 Mile anytime soon)

Him: Hey, I just got off work and I’m a lil wired! Haha

Me: I just got home and I’m a lil tired! Haha

After that, he called me. Still trying to talk me into meeting up he began to inquire more about my location. But, face washed, teeth brushed and PJ’s on there was no way I was having company. I guess nobody can accuse me of being desperate. I don’t care who you are. If I’m tired and comfortable chances are I’m not going anywhere.

This is where he lost me. Upon discussing my recent move, he let it be known that my place wasn’t fully a home unless it had been “broken in”. I happen to agree with this statement but there was going to be no breaking in done this evening. He continued to enlighten me on his sexual prowess and open mindedness. I got the full picture of how “open minded” this guy was when he mentioned a swingers club he used to frequent with his ex.

Sure, I’m a little bit of a freak and I have a very healthy appetite when it comes to sex. If it’s been longer than a month I start to go into withdrawals. I get cranky and try to hump just about anything that crosses my path. I start imagining weather forecasters in the nude. It gets really bad. But even I was a little surprised at his bravado. I was even a little intimidated which says a lot considering I certainly have no problems holding my own under the sheets.

In my last entry I made mention of keeping him all to myself in my bedroom but those were my own personal thoughts. I did not mention my plans for his captivity to him so for him to immediately jump into the deep end of this conversation left me feeling a little bored and unimpressed.

Perhaps, deep down I was hoping for something more substantial than just another notch on my bedpost. That just doesn’t excite me anymore. It’s too easy. The real turn on for me these days is to actually find somebody who can make me laugh and have something more meaningful to say other than trying to guess my bra size. But, it looks like that’s not going to happen with this fellow.

I’ll probably end up meeting him just out of curiosity. I do still have my needs but as far as him being my white knight I don’t think that’s a role he’s going to be able to fill.

DateDaily.com

DateDaily.com is one of the first websites to feature my blog on their website (you can check it out here). So, I’d like to return the favor.

DateDaily.com is a dating advice blog that provides readers with insightful and witty articles on everything related to dating. But wait… there’s more. DateDaily.com also aggregates news on dating, relationships, sex and entertainment, and has a host of compelling tidbits on – you guessed it – dating.

In particular, I’m a fan of their “Crazy Dating Stories” and “Sexuality” sections as I most certainly can relate! So, check them out. You won’t regret it! XOXO

Keep It In Your Pants, Please

I recently took a quiz on Facebook. The quiz was expertly titled “How Well Do You Know Men?” My score? 0% - Pathetic (their words, not mine). I proudly posted my score for all to see finding it amusing yet realizing that that one quiz pretty much summed up my entire dating and relationship history.

Really giving this trivial yet meaningful quiz a lot of thought I figured the way I had been viewing the opposite sex could actually be flawed. Until 12 hours later when I met Vanilla. In 15 minutes of being face to face with Vanilla I was proven that my initial assumptions had been correct all along and that Facebook was full of shit.

As with any other dating site, much of my time is spent weeding through the social retards and leather wearing, motorcycle riding grandfathers trying to reclaim their youth till you find somebody that doesn’t make you cringe or vomit in your mouth a little. Receiving an email from Vanilla and not feeling the need to leave the table was definitely a good sign. He was tall, brunette, had abs you could wash clothes on and biceps that looked as though lifting my big ass would be a piece of cake. He had all his teeth, lived locally and apparently was a chubby chaser. Yay me! I think. Draw backs included being six years younger than me and him only looking to “hang out”. Still, I responded back.

Thanks to unemployment and a sudden appearance of one of my Wisdom teeth I put my newfound love interest on the backburner. This wasn’t good enough for him. The moment he knew there was a spark of interest he was relentless. Daily emails and miraculously, every time I logged onto the site he was there. If he weren’t so damn hot I would have avoided him like the plague. However, due to my circumstances I could see how I might have been coming across as a tad flaky so I cut him some extra slack for being so tenacious. If the situation had been reversed I would have already probably written myself off.

I gave Vanilla my phone number and let him call me. The initial conversation was decent. I’m not sure if he was trying to assure me or compliment me by telling me how much he loved women with “meat on their bones”. But his emphasis on the matter made me feel a tad uncomfortable. I’m not a freak, I’m not a circus monkey, and I’m not required to purchase two plane seats so he could have left it at “I like thick women”. Once I was able to direct him from the size of my ass the conversation flowed smoothly.

A few nights later we decided to meet for an impromptu late night snack. We chose a café close by and I arrived a few minutes early and prayed that things would go well. A few minutes later he pulled up. We both got out of our cars and despite him looking skinnier than his pictures he was still very cute. He immediately wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me close to him and tried to kiss me.

Wait, what?!? This would have been great if we were in the midst of a Harlequin Romance but we had just met. I gave him a quick hug and gently removed his hands from my hips. He checked me out from head to toe in a way that made me feel as though I were livestock and started to growl his approval. Yes, I said growl. Trying to get out of such direct scrutiny I suggested we go inside for a cup of coffee. He said we would “in a minute”.

Changing the subject from my curves to his upcoming birthday he made a very fateful decision. He started complaining about turning 26 and how old he was going to be. With disdain, I reminded him that I myself was 31 and that being 25 was by no means anywhere near old. To counter, he told me that the aging process was different for women than it was for men. I agreed, pointing out that in the battle of age men were usually the benefactors and women were usually stuck trying to reverse the process. Think Phyllis Diller v. Sean Connery. Who’s sexier? I think you see where I’m going with this.

To make things worse, he started to rub himself. And by “himself” I really mean his junk. The growling started up again and he told me he couldn’t help himself because I was so damn sexy. With disbelief, I caught myself saying “What are you doing? You can’t pull that out HERE!” At which point he told me that I needed to “see it”. I assured him that I had seen plenty of Peni in my day and that NO, I did not need to see his. As if things couldn’t get any more awkward he asked how close I lived and if we could go there. According to Vanilla, he wouldn’t be able to have a decent conversation with me unless he had a “release”. All the while trying to grab at me and bring me closer to him. And yes, we were still in the parking lot.

I decided it was time for me to extract myself out of this particular situation…and FAST. I told him I needed to go and started walking back to my car. The last words I heard escape his suddenly childish pouty lips as I disappeared into the distance were…

”you aren’t going to call me, are you…?”

I’m sure the closing of my car door answered that question. Buh bye.

Two weeks later, I got this:

Him: U still want to meet babe?
Me: What do you mean? We already met...
Him: like hang out
Me: I think I'm going to pass but good luck to you...

Folks, I can’t make this shit up…

Dear Junk...

Dear Junk,

I realize that it’s part of the evolutionary process for you to grow hair but at some point you need to stop. If your hair is long enough to require shampoo AND conditioner than that should be your first clue that it is entirely too long. If your hair is long enough to run your fingers through and can stretch up your happy trail to your belly button then that is your second clue.

This next part is for your owner…

Dear Junk’s Owner,

Just because the hair may be thinning on the top of your head and you can count the hairs on your chest with the fingers of your right hand does NOT mean that you should embrace the mass of locks beneath the belt. As a male you probably prefer, if not require your women to be trimmed. Some even bare. Newsflash, women enjoy the same courtesy.

Gentleman owner, let me enlighten you on a few things. We as women are a complicated species, as I’m sure you are perfectly aware. Without even traveling south there is a list longer than the Great Wall of China that needs to be accomplished before even heading down to trim the mane. Faces alone we have to battle crow’s feet, blemishes, wrinkles, dry skin, oily skin, COMBINATION skin. Eye cream, face bleach, moisturizer, special face wash, masks, exfoliants, botox, the list goes on and on. Don’t even get me started on the women that have to wax or bleach their upper lip. Luckily, as a blonde, I don’t have to worry about that but I truly feel for the women that do and I’m sorry for outing you, ladies.

Once we’ve mastered the skincare regiment we have hair. If your hair is dry you need to moisturize it. If it’s oily you need to be wary of conditioner. To blow it dry or make it curly we need to add product. We need to color and maintain and often times our hair stylists are putting their kids through college on our dime. Most of us will probably even be invited to their college graduations. Do you know how expensive this shit costs?!?

But those things are just the base. The canvas you might say. Then comes the makeup. A tube of lipstick can cost thirty fucking dollars! Then we have foundation, concealer, powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, eyebrow pencils, lipstick, lip gloss, lip PLUMPER. We as women spend more money on the part of the body above the neck than rent.

It’s a process and not one that I’m going to bitch about because it is also one of the wonderful things about being a woman. We get to play dress up on a daily basis. As women, we are artists trying to make ourselves look better to catch the eye of anyone willing to look. Consider that the next time you ask us “why does it take you SO long to get ready?”

Let me continue. Once we’ve perfected the art of hair and makeup we move south. Everything needs to be shaved and waxed within an inch of its life. Armpits, sometimes the arms themselves, legs, feet…TOES! We tan, we exfoliate, we lather ourselves with oils and moisturizers to keep the sagging at bay, disguise cellulite and to be soft to the touch.

Even after all that, we get to the bikini area. That’s a whole different Oprah. In order to maintain the secret garden we as women do horrific and barbaric things to the one part of our body that we can’t even see without a mirror. We take razors to an area so delicate going by nothing more than the sense of touch. We fold ourselves into Kama Sutra positions in front of the mirror trying to make sure we didn’t miss a spot. We use creams to DI-SIN-TE-GRATE the hair! If we choose not to shave or dissolve our southern tresses then we WAX! Remember the movie “The 40 Year Old Virgin”? Imagine somebody taking hot wax to your nut sack and ripping the hair right out of the follicles all on the count of three.

And now, I’m going to let you gentlemen in on a little secret. The hair doesn’t just grow on the sides of our pretty little lips. Oh no. It grows everywhere! Up towards your belly button all the way down your crack. Ever get a brazillion or Playboy wax? Didn’t think so, men. I ask you to try getting your butthole waxed, paying $100 and still trying to keep a smile on your face. Why don’t you try it sometime? I guarantee you will have nightmares and trouble sitting for weeks.

I’ll spare you on our need for shoes, clothing and the perfect $50 bra that makes us look as though we just had a boob job. Nevermind that we can’t breath but we do it for YOU.

But, for all this work we do to maintain ourselves for those that get to see us in the buff all we ask is that you take five fucking minutes and trim your Goddamn pubes. I don’t want to get hair in my teeth and I don’t particularly like sucking on hair. Nothing like wiping wet hair out of my face when I’m trying to make you feel good. I’m not asking for you to shave it all off...

I’m simply asking you to trim your fucking junk! PLEASE.

Kisses,
MMM

P.S. Although, men for the most part are aware of and appreciate what we as women go through and do take part in the art of manscaping, there are the unfortunate few who do not. This letter is dedicated to the clueless. To manscapers everywhere, I salute you and truly appreciate the hard work you put into maintaining yourselves so that for those of us that venture to the South Pole (pun totally intended) we aren’t forced to gag on your Dial flavored locks.

And to women that don’t mind a flowing mane of pubic hair, I apologize for generalizing by saying “we, as women”.

Shallow, party of one!

Before I get started, I feel as though I must address my last entry in regards to Flame Boy. I received many responses via email and comments about giving him a chance (all of which I wholeheartedly embrace and appreciate!) But let me try to explain a little further, in my defense. I’m not intentionally trying to be harsh but there was just something about him that made me curl up inside. I appreciate enthusiasm but flamboyance is something that I question and just can not find myself attracted to. I like my men to be…well, MEN. I definitely wouldn’t mind keeping him as a friend but that in itself may be a very fine line to maintain especially considering that I received this text from him yesterday…

“I have 2moro off *smirk*. Care for me to give you that cooking lesson?”

Seriously? What guy writes *smirk* in a text message??? So no, I will not be getting a cooking lesson from Mr. Flamboyant. I do realize that I’m perpetuating the stereotype of women only wanting bad boys but I don’t agree with that completely. It’s not that I want a boy that’s bad I just don’t want a boy that’s THAT good. An edge would be nice. And somebody that I can’t describe using the word “cheesy”. The way he tells his stories is like he’s auditioning for West Side Story. Sorry, that’s just not my style.

Now that that’s clear, you can disregard everything I’ve just said for the following post is going to prove what a hypocritical woman I really am. Yet one more reason why I’M still single ;-)

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I’m going to have sex on Monday or Tuesday of next week with a guy that wants to “kikk” it. I know, I know, ya’ll think I’m nuts. What-EVER. Following is our short but riveting email exchange:

VD: hey doll how are u doin....what did u get n2 4 halloween

Me: Hey there! Halloween was pretty tame. What about your Halloween? Get into any trouble ;-)

VD: no trouble yet....lol so when are we goin 2 kikk it....what is ur number so we kan hangout

Me: What's your schedule like? Then we can determine when we will be able to "kikk" it...I'm pretty open...Btw, what's your name?

VD: im mostly free @ nite and sumtimes during the wk....and my name is Vick....whats ur name

Me: My name is Melisa. My schedule is fairly open so let me know when you feel like meeting up or giving me a call...

VD: we kan meet up sumtime dis wk......and what is ur number so i kan giv u a kall...

VD: hey Mel...hows ur wk goin..

Me: My week is going along fine. How is yours?

VD: mine is so so ....kant wait until da wkend, so kan we hangout dis wk

Me: Give me a call. My number is 555-1212

I’m going to apologize now because I realize that reading through our email correspondences you may have lost a few brain cells. His writing skills insult my intelligence and make my eyes bleed. I don’t usually respond to grown men that need a tutor but let me tell you that after looking at his pictures and seeing his 6’4” physique shirtless I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Again proving how incredibly shallow I can be.

After dealing with his retard speak I almost didn’t give him my number. Almost. But what can I say? I have no other real prospects in site so I wouldn’t mind adding just one more notch on the bedpost with Mr. 6’4”, 8-pack, 96” bicep stud muffin. Can you really blame me? I’m looking forward to hitting that in a bad way.

Aside from that, I really was quite surprised at how articulate and sensible he sounded over the phone. What I was expecting was some cocky stud with only a slight grasp of his native tongue. English. But what I encountered was somebody that even at 26 seemed to know the playing field. He made sense and not once did I every hear him call me “son” or “you’s”. I was impressed. He was also quite insightful when it came to the way he looked at relationships and dating.

So, even though I don’t see a great whirlwind, soul mate type of romance ahead I do see some good times that I may or may not be busting out the video camera for.

Stay tuned…

The Redheaded Stepchild

The Redheaded Stepchild has the honor of being quite possibly the worst lay in history. At least my history. And that’s saying a lot considering I’ve been around the block a few times.

I didn’t technically meet the RHSC online but I’ve decided to mention him for two reasons. First being that despite having gone to high school with him it wasn’t until we really met “met” through Facebook. So, using that logic, we did sort of meet online. Second, he was the WORST. LAY. EVER. And who can resist talking about that? Certainly, not me.

It was about a year ago that I was first contacted by the redhead. He added me on Facebook and I didn’t think much of it. We weren’t friends in high school but I knew who he was. He later confessed that he didn’t quite remember me from back in the day but that he certainly liked what he saw now. I was not quite as enamored with him but thought he looked like fun. He started instant messaging me here and there insisting on meeting for cocktails and weed. I wasn’t interested in him romantically. Until he told me what he did for a living and posted a picture of the house he lived in, in the Hollywood Hills. Me? Shallow? Abso-fucking-lutely. Looking for love hasn’t been working out so well. Why not try looking for a meal ticket? Keep your judgments to yourself…unless you agree with me, of course.

After a few months of playing hard to get (according to him. Really, he wasn’t high enough on my radar to play anything) we finally decided to meet up for a drink. He was about 6’ tall, chubby and in case you weren’t quite sure, a redhead. Not attracted to him physically, I was definitely attracted to him personality wise. He was a go getter and the life of the party. Anybody that can make me laugh and tell me I’m pretty has a half decent chance of getting to see me naked. We had a lot of fun that first night and I knew I’d be seeing him again.

A few nights later, I went over to his place. He was a little over the top with his wanting to touch and cuddle but throw in a few cocktails and some Family Guy and the good times were beginning to roll. I stayed over that night and thanks to Kettle One I didn’t quite remember him being the atrocious lover that he would turn out to be.

It was a few weeks later that we reconnected and decided to meet up again. This time at my place. Due to my timing (ahem) we weren’t able to have sex but I did get a chance to check out the non-too-impressive goods. Of course I’ve been surprised in the past by “little” men so he wasn’t out for the count by a long shot. I still loved his sense of humor and it didn’t hurt that he looked at me the same way I look at pasta.

A few weeks after that he was due to come back over. As my current job situation had still not improved and my funds were a thing of the past I was definitely looking to see if a little eyelash batting could allow me to borrow enough from him to squeak by for the month. All other resources had been tapped out already and I only needed $135 to keep afloat and my roommate from strangling me in my sleep. I was also starving. 99 cent store bologna and cheese had finally done me in. I wanted some pizza and beer…BAAAAD. I would have gone down on RuPaul had he shown up with Mexican food. While he was in Drag. So, as if RHSC read my mind I got this text: “I have no $ and I already ate. I have lots of beer tho. Am I a loser?” I should have seen that coming. The law no longer belongs to Murphy. It has become mine, all mine. By the time I got his text, he was already on the way. I made myself another bologna and cheese sandwich and braced myself for a night of beer and cuddling. The thought of jumping off my balcony crossed my mind until I remembered my newly acquired law and I was not about to mangle my beautifully sculpted face because Tubs didn’t have any money for me to borrow.

That night we had tragic sex. Things started out okay as I put him to work massaging me. I was still angry with him for being broke. Not his fault I realize but mad at my unfaltering bad luck. I hadn’t even asked him for money…EVER! Yet, when I needed it the most, he just happened to have switched bank accounts over a holiday weekend and hadn’t pulled out enough before getting his new ATM card. JUST. MY. LUCK. The poor guy didn’t even know that deep down I was plotting his death. In my head I’m a really evil woman. This I know and I’m able to mask it but evil none the less. I made sure he hit it from behind because a) I have a great ass for doggy style and b) I was watching TV. However, with him going semi limp it was hard to concentrate on South Park when I felt like he was stabbing my clit with a pencil. Eventually, he finished and I left him to hog the covers and pass out so I could chat it up with a hot cop I had dated a few years back online. A few hours later I came back in to find sleeping beauty taking up ¾ of my bed and not wearing any covers. I was not impressed. Not sure where I get off thinking that I’m the only one allowed to carry a few extra pounds but I do. So fuck it.

Realizing what a bitch I was and still holding on to the fact that the RHSC was really a decent and fun loving guy I decided not to write him off just yet. After all, he had to have access to his funds at some point, right? After a few 3am text messages from him asking me to come over for some “fun” I only felt it right that if he was trying to intentionally bruise my pussy I was going to try and intentionally bruise his wallet. Not sure what it was that made him think I liked having sex with a limp noodle but I must have had him fooled. Sad.

So, officially having entered “survivor mode” I didn’t hesitate long when I got this last 3am text message from the redhead asking me to come over. Without me saying anything he was quick to mention that he would pay for my gas money and add to my scarf fund. He told me that he could make my “money troubles a thing of the past.” I could also have “whatever was in his wallet.” At that, my ears perked up and I became wide awake. If he wanted to be my sugardaddie and all I had to do was moan for a few minutes I was all over it. Playing hooker for my old high school friend was not beneath me at this point. And as I mentioned before, despite the fact that I didn’t feel we were sexually compatible he still really was a nice and fun guy. I was definitely willing to work on making this a mutually beneficial relationship. Please remember, at this point, I still hadn’t so much as asked him for a dime. He was the one doing all the offering.

I got up, got dressed and headed over to Hollywood with my own dreams. Dreams of paying my cable bill. Dreams of making this months rent. Dreams of keeping my cell phone on. Dreams of eating! I got there and I got to work. It was horrible. It was like playing “Deepthroat” with Santa Clause. I also should have known that he’d already had a few beers so him getting off was not going to be easy. And it wasn’t. He kept losing his erection. We’d get on a roll and he’d slip out. All my hard work gone to waste and we’d have to start all over. Do you know how hard it is to get a good pace going with a 4” limp dick? Let me assure you, it isn’t fun. Finally, after I was dried up and sore from the pounding he finally popped. He passed out right away and it took me hours to get to sleep.

That morning I got ready to leave. He slipped some money into my purse saying he didn’t forget he had offered to pay my gas. I left, got into my car and drove away. I opened up my purse expecting to find a little dough and immediately felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach. I couldn’t help but laugh when I noticed the $20 bill sitting in my purse. So typical. I didn’t know if I should feel insulted or if he really forgot offering me financial assistance. Considering I had just put $10 into my car for gas to get there, I basically sold my ass for the other $10. Nice. I think even Hunts Point girls make more than that.

Looks like I won’t be turning Pro anytime soon. It appears as though my negotiating skills leave a lot to be desired…

If I could kick my own ass...

…I would. Twice.

This morning I woke up with the stark realization that I was all alone and there are only two episodes of my beloved “True Blood” left on HBO. I’m not sure which upset me the most. Unfortunately, HBO has yet to consult with me in regards to their show line-up and when they should be allowed to take a hiatus. I seem to have even less control over my downwardly spiraling love life.

Why am I so excruciatingly cheerful today? I’m glad you asked. Let’s backtrack two days…

Wouldn’t it just figure that within hours of deleting Nigeria #2 from my Facebook he would once again intrude into my already desperate life. Considering he has well over 300 friends I hardly thought he would notice. Whether or not he really had remains to be seen. All I know is that this is my life and therefore I’m not entirely surprised at his timing. I just didn’t feel like being constantly updated on his work ventures and all the reasons as to why he just didn’t have time for me.

Minding my own business and enjoying my self induced isolation I turned on a Dateline rerun and busted out my knitting. I can party like a rockstar and fuck like a pornstar but when all is said and done I’m really just a nerd…with a great rack.

My phone buzzed alerting me that I had a new text message. I went to check it and there it was…“What’s up Melissa?” Who knew that such an innocent question could piss me off so much? Never mind that his text was about 2 weeks late and he spelled my name wrong.

Me: Hey N2
N2: What’s up?
Me: Not much. U?
N2: Very busy, took time off this weekend but still worked a bit. I wanna start traveling more,
Me: Traveling is good. Gives u a chance to regroup
N2: How’s dating?
Me: Fine, I guess
N2: I’ve stopped trying to date. I figure things will happen when it happens.
Me: Good for you
N2: Thank you lol

After his last text I didn’t bother responding. He was clearly fishing and I wasn’t biting. Here was a guy that had fucked me twice, told me that my biological clock was about to start ticking and then left me high and dry with the old “I’m just too busy with work” excuse.

The only thing I got out of that experience was a cup of coffee and a bruised ego. He wasn’t even good enough in bed for me to keep as a booty call just for the sake of being local. Listen, if I’m going screw just for the sake of screwing I have plenty of other assholes in my arsenal with bigger cocks to hit up.

It really is such a shame because I could’ve seen myself liking this guy. Despite his knack for telling time he did seem to have a decent head on his shoulders and the most amazing upper body allowed by law. He was complimentary and seemed to be a rising star in his new business venture. He had even indicated that we were looking for the same things in terms of relationship and family. But I fucked him, he fucked up and it was time to move on. Perhaps, if he had just been honest with me from the beginning I would still be interested in keeping him around.

But the story doesn’t end there. Three hours later…

N2: Hey, what you doing tonight?
Me: (NOT seeing you!) I’m not feeling well so I plan on staying in bed.
N2: K. Get better
Me: Thanks.

And the next day:

N2: Wanna come over later?

What was it with this guy? Could he smell my desperation? Am I in heat? That’s the only reason I could see for this dog to come sniffing around again. Did I take the bait? Hell yeah, I did. Hey everybody, look at me! I’m the girl that can talk a lot of shit but what it all boils down to is that sometimes I need to feel wanted.

I dragged my pathetic ass over to his place like a wounded puppy. Once there, we chit chatted for a little bit. None of which held any interest for me. I have also yet to open up to him about my current situation in regards to money and work. In his presence I just want him to shut up and get naked. Funny how I can let this man see me in the buff but I can’t bring myself to let him know how fragile my psyche is at the moment. I’m not about to explain to him how I feel that if I walk too hard my whole world is going to come crashing in on itself.

He finally shut the hell up and we got down to business. I was ready to leave when he started asking me questions. “Are you working?” “Have you thought about going back to school?” “Have you checked Starbucks?” The last time I was there he told me I needed to start thinking about having babies and now he was suggesting I go sling coffee? He started off making suggestions on how I could better my situation like I was some retard that hadn’t thought of them yet myself. For some reason, I didn’t quite feel like explaining myself to him anymore. He started to drift off and I got up and got dressed. When I knelt down beside him on the bed to say I was leaving he looked startled.

N2: You’re leaving? I thought you were going to stay the night?
Me: I never said I was going to stay.
N2: Oh, I see. You just come and use me for sex (smirking). You show up at midnight, sleep with me and then leave. There aren’t that many of us out there.
Me: Oh, there are plenty of you out there.

I locked his door on my way out and headed home. Suddenly more depressed than I was before I got there. When I woke up this morning and realized that I was alone and hadn’t taken him up on his invitation to stay I was devastated. I was somewhat surprised by this feeling as I actually hate sharing my bed. I’ve gotten so used to sleeping alone that when my personal space is impeded upon I get restless and have a hard time sleeping. Or maybe my choice of bedfellows lately hasn’t exactly been worthy of staying over.

I think I’m gonna swear off men for a little while…

Day 1...The Beginning

So, it has been suggested to me by a very near and dear friend (I’d swear she was my Gemini twin if she were also a blonde) to start a blog. It has come to her attention that I seem to have a plethora of things to say on any given subject. With this I’d agree.

Being as this is my first blog entry I’ll start with today, move backwards to give you my history. Then hopefully move on to bigger and better things.

Today sucked. This a game I like to play with above mentioned friend. We compare notes, bitch about the days wrong doings and how much God has come to dislike us. She thinks she was Hitler in a past life. I think I was Judas. See how it works? I won that round.

At this point in the game, I’m 31, just lost my job AGAIN, in desperate need of making this months rent (with was due today), have no significant man in my life and am at home alone watching “Trekkies 2” for the umpteenth time on Showtime. I also had the glorious opportunity to chat with my Indian representative at HSBC Auto Finance after receiving a notice saying they were ready to repossess my lovely ’05 Toyota Corolla. Which, I’m paying entirely too much for because I have an APR of 196% due to my shitty credit.

On a good note, I have a great rack, a ton of blonde hair and amazing eyes. I also have a very active and glorious sex life. All is not lost.

As you can probably imagine, most of my entries will revolve around the male of the species and my interest in acquiring one or more of them for my permanent collection. I don’t mean creepy, chained to the basement kind either. I’d opt for ladies but I have no desire to Dine at the Y. Sorry, but if I “ever change my mind” I’ll be sure to “give you a call”. At this point, my family is seriously getting on my nerves about becoming an old maid and I do get a little lonely from time to time. Sex is awesome but I get bored of having to ask men to leave. “What is your name again?” is not the best way to start the morning.

So, how did I do so far? I’ve either driven you to the brink of desperation (in which case, say “Hi” because chances are I’m standing right next to you) or you are curious to see how I’m going to dig myself out of this mess and end up on top. On top of whom? Not sure yet.

Also, I find it only fair to give you a heads up that I’m a fairly open book and as I long as my dear grandma isn’t reading this I will continue to be so. So, if bad language, graphic descriptions of my many sexual escapades and ridicule of others tripping offend you than you should probably move along.
Cheers!