You know how sometimes you get the feeling something in your life is missing? Well, I can tell you what isn't missing. A man who pees in my bed.
However, I'm prettttttttty sure he missed that memo, because guess who contacted me tonight? That's right, Sir PEES a lot in the flesh. Seriously. This man peed in my bed, ON ME, while I slept, and he has the cajones even after I dumped his piss soaked ass, to ask to see me again. He said he missed me, which by all accounts, I have to assume means that he hasn't found any bed as nice as mine to piss in. That must be it. Shit, I do have awesome sheets, and this Sterns and Foster mattress is the shizzle.
Bottom line: Pee in your own fucking bed.
You know what, I should invite him over. And make him sleep in the kitchen on a dog bed. Now, now, don't get all offended, I'll even put down a bowl of water, a chew toy (bottle of vodka), and a potty pad. See, I'm so thoughtful. It is a wonder someone hasn't snatched me up yet. Right? Right. lol. I'm a fucking catch. Ask Explode-a-buttinski, he'll tell you (anonymously, like his comments, of course). lol.
So, it has been a while, but don't worry, I was still "dating" (can we really call it that at this point? It's more like self-inflicted torture. One of my fav readers emailed me that I either have the worst luck ever or I am the bravest person he knows. I'm going to go with both. I clearly put out a sonar for every mouthbreathing, capslock writing, dating reject in a 20 mile radius, and then, I go out with them). I think the problem, really, is that I give people a chance--even when I probably shouldn't. I try to find the good in people, and understand that first impressions are often hard due to nerves etc. Dating isn't easy, and I cut the men out there in the world some slack. I'm not perfect, not by a long shot, so I accept them with their faults and give them a shot.
I gotta stop doing that shit.
I mean, so far it's got me harassed, bitched at, peed on, dumped for a bathroom, and bored to tears. Talk about win-win. I think the tampon insult was like the highlight of last week! Awesomeness. My gut is, sadly, always right. Problem is, sometimes I hate what it tells me.
So, that being said, you know there are a few more men who I gave a chance to (against all good judgment), and you know since this is me we are talking about, they didn't disappoint...or, well, they did, but you know, in a my-life-is-a-shitshow kinda way. Get comfy, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.
***The Candidates. . .drum roll please...
Innocence [not] Lost
Now, I mentioned I was introducing a carrot to my date in a past blog. I wasn't kidding. Not even a little. Pick a fruit, a vegetable, a food, almost anything--and I can promise you, fuck that I can guarantee, that this guy hasn't tried it. Sure, not everyone has tried a kumquat, or a lychee, or even a pomegranate. I get that. But an apple? AN APPLE? A FREAKING APPLE???? Who the fuck hasn't tried an apple? Or a carrot? Or lettuce? LETTUCE!!!! Seriously, pick anything--he hasn't had it. I made him try a cherry--he almost puked. Then I forced some lettuce, a cherry tomato (which his face when it squirted was hilarious--but I guess, if you never had a tomato before, how the hell would you know they are juicy inside? RIDICULOUS!!!), and a baby carrot.
He told me this info, and I was speechless (a rarity as you might imagine). I mean, who hasn't had an orange? A grape? How do you even respond to that????? Unbelievable.
So here's the run down. He's a nice guy, a really nice guy. A little awkward, and not very hung (like, not. even. a. little.), and very sheltered (as evidenced by never having a strawberry, EVER). He lives at home, he's my age, and while that isn't terrible, he seems to have gotten himself stuck in a job rut and being at home has created a situation where he is kind of immature emotionally and responsibility-wise. Moving out, paying bills, handling your own life, you know, without mom to do the laundry or have dinner on the table, really makes you grow up. My ex didn't have this growing up experience--which totally explains why he expected me to be his mommy (he would say, why can't we have kids--I was like, newsflash, we have kids--it's you buddy). Anyway, I don't want another ex-man-child, so I don't think there is future potential, but he does have some redeeming qualities, like he is super nice, fun to hang out with, nearby, and oh, he gives great oral. Like, really, really great. Like even though I'm only the second woman he has been with (ever, I know, crazzzzzy), he is great at it. And he loves doing it. Soooo, yeah, keeping him around.
Hey, don't judge. A girl has needs, yo. And shit, why not. And hell, for all the head I've given without reciprocation, I deserve some fun below the belt.
And did I mention he likes it? And he's good?
Fuck apples, eat me instead. haahaaaaaaa. no, seriously.
Keep Your Briefs On, Counselor
Then there is the newest love of my life (um, no). He's a 44 year old attorney, and right off the bat tells me that he is into dating younger women so there is no "baby clock" ticking. Ok, I can understand that. Then he quickly moves the convo along to tell me that in the past he has dated women who were less than enthused about sex (see, frigidbitches), and he wants to make sure I'm not like that. During the first phone conversation. FIRST. PHONE. CONVO. Yeah, ok, and now my gut is light up and blinking "this man wants ass." Sad, because he seems fun. However, if he tells me he is an "Irish Teddy Bear" one more freaking time, I'm going to meet him and tear out all his fluffy stuffing while pouring a Guinness on him. Seriously, I get it, you drink too much and you're a little chubby. It's fine, I'm cool with it. Because, let's be honest, that is exactly what he meant. (I even saw pics to confirm). But, I think a little chub isn't horrible, in fact, could even be cute. I mean, I'm no stick thin bitch. I'm an equal opportunity fuck. Chub, skinny, tall, short, bring it. And shit, I like beer. And redheads, fuck yeah. Yum. (unless they come with an explosive ass, then negatory on the yum).
But alas, every freaking conversation turns to sex, and of course, how he is an Irish teddy bear that, as he put it so eloquently, "worships at the altar of DDDs." Listen up sunshine, I haven't been a DDD since like 9th grade, and I have cleavage for miles. One look at me in person and he's probably start convulsing and tithing his 10% to the church (or to the shop where I buy bras). And don't get me wrong, I like sex. In fact, I love sex. I have a higher libido than most (read: all) of the men I've dated. But I was looking to date someone and have sex in that relationship, not just random sex with an irish teddy bear. Who wants to end up covered in beer with bear stuffing stuck to their ass? No gracias, ya compre.
Either way, I hate that my gut tells me he isn't dating material, but I know he isn't. Right now I'm trying to convince myself that my gut might feel different after meeting in person, but I'm pretty sure all my gut will feel after meeting him is reassured. The rest of me, however, may either be turned on (I do like guinness....) or totally repulsed. Since this is my life we are talking about, smart money's on "repulsed."
Wait, didn't I see this movie already?
The 36 year old Virgin. He's a story for another time. Suffice to say, the name says it all. Unbelievable, for serious. The best part, he wants me to wax his hairy back. Come on, you saw the movie. haahaa. NICE. Hold on to your nips, I'm firing up the wax!!!!