Man #33, As Promised, Part 3

Technically, in Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 2, I didn’t promise anything in the way of kittens, but given that I took the blog beyond its normal boundaries yesterday, I feel I need to bring things down a notch and make it up to my more squeamish readers.

I am not a cat or kitten lover. I am a dog person. However, this is the one cat I like. Plus, I’m a big fan of foreign films. Enjoy.

Introducing Henri, Le Chat Noir

Henri’s second film is my favorite.

And Henri’s third film was just released in June. I love the end of this one.

Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 2

So, if you were here yesterday and you read Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1, you should have a pretty good idea that we will be covering some delicate territory today, and by delicate territory I mean where your poop comes out. I would like to warn my readers that today we’re going to be moving into an NC-17 rated or maybe even X-rated topic just because I think what happened on my date with Man #33 needs some discussion…

…and I need a cocktail.

I don’t care what you say. Part of the reason I have a blog is so I don’t have to deal with this shit alone. You should go mix yourself a cocktail too.

I’ll take a break here while people get their drinks and anyone who hasn’t read Man #33, Part 1 goes and gets up to speed. After reading Part 1, you have a choice. You can either continue reading at your own risk, or you can opt out until tomorrow when I will be posting pictures of kittens.

Not!

So, where were we?

Oh, yes. Man #33 and I were conversing at Starbuck’s when he suddenly asked me if I would be willing to stick a finger in his ass.

Then I promptly shot chai out of my nose. You might say I was unprepared for the question.

And this, THIS, male readers, THIS is why I hate being asked on a coffee date. It’s not because I’m some prissy bitch who thinks a man needs to spend a bunch of money on dinner. It’s because this is the kind of shit that happens on coffee dates. Coffee dates are for freaky, little men who put as little effort as possible into trying to get laid. They’re for men who are not interested in a relationship and who can’t be bothered trying to impress a woman with dinner, because these men really just want to get fucked in some odd fashion.

I have had several girlfriends tell me they were propositioned for sex in the most inappropriate, why-don’t-you-just-go-pay-a -prostitute way, after merely having coffee with a guy. Even from my own dating chronicles I’ve had two coffee dates now that have turned almost immediately inappropriate, Man #26, The “Masseur” and Man #33, Sphincter Probing Guy. I can understand that dating can be rough on men’s wallets, but the coffee date just reeks of a cheap creep who has some freaky thing he wants to ask for or do and just doesn’t give a shit.

And guys, don’t get all pissy with me for despising the coffee date. Get pissed at your stupid brethren with no game who have fucked up the coffee date for the rest of you. It’s their fault, not mine.

Whew! Ok. Now that I have that off my chest, you might be wondering how I responded to Man #33.

Well, first, I wiped chai from my nose, and since shooting hot chai into the upper regions of my nasal cavity made my eyes water a little, I had to dry my eyes too. Then, with my usual sarcasm sort of stunned out of me, but still inappropriately laughing on the inside, I dryly said, “No, I can’t do that for you,” while trying not to laugh because that would have forced more chai up my nose.

“Ok,” he said, “I had to ask.”

It was strange. He looked so normal. I scrunched up my brow, looked at him quizzically for a second, and asked, “Does this usually work for you?”

“Not usually, but sometimes,” he said.

And there you have it. The fact that occasionally Man #33 will find a woman who is willing to stick a finger in his ass has given him the “confidence” (I’m not sure that’s the right word) to go out on coffee dates and ask women to probe him.

My friend, Sam, asked if he was German.

“He seems very efficient,” she said, “if it’s something he has to have, it’s probably better to ask right away than get 6 dates in and find out the woman won’t do it.”

True enough.

After my date with Man #33, I got to thinking about this ass probing thing. Obviously, this is something that is so important to Man #33 that he has dropped any sense of social decorum, and while, publicly, most heterosexual men act all bravado and jittery about having things stuck up their asses, privately, I am hearing about men wanting this more and more.

I also have enough gay friends to know that the male g-spot can best be accessed via the anus, and stimulating it when a man is about to cum can give him one powerful orgasm.

If I actually chose to wield that kind of power, I might scare myself. (Sorry. That was my inside voice.)

At this point, I’m not saying I’m pro or con to sticking a finger in a man’s ass. I have to think this through. Come along with me on my thought process, please, and bring your cocktail. You’re going to need it.

So, going back to what I know from my gay friends, I know enough to know that a prostate or male g-spot orgasm is supposed to be the best. It’s supposed to make a man’s orgasm stronger and more intense. However, what I have also heard is that in the midst of male-on-male lovemaking things can start to smell…well…a little shitty.

Now, again, from conversations with my gay friends, I know there are some preparatory things that can be done to make everything a little more presentable and pleasant, maybe a shower, maybe some waxing or a shave, maybe some anal bleaching, maybe an enema…maybe you don’t eat the frijoles at the Mexican restaurant. You see what I mean, right?

And here’s my problem. Half the time heterosexual men can’t even be trusted to shower their sweaty ball sack before asking for a blow job. How the hell can we expect that they will wipe their ass, let alone have an enema, before asking you to stick a finger up their butt?

And, I realize that not all homosexual men take these steps either, but I do know that they tend to pay a lot more attention to making the ass presentable than their hetero counterparts.

It’s all about hygiene, people…and orgasms…, which brings me to another thought. What is the best way to stick a finger in a man’s ass when having sex without sacrificing your own orgasm? Like, let’s say you’re in missionary position…do you reach over the back or under the balls to access the man’s ass? I don’t think my arms are that long. Or, what if you’re on top of him and you try to reach back to stick your finger in his ass? That not only seems somewhat acrobatic, but it would also cause you to lean back, taking friction off of you clit, and again, you might be sacrificing your own orgasm to give him his.

I consulted the Kama Sutra on this and none of the positions are shown with a finger in the man’s ass. I think a sideways, kind of scissor position might work, and make it easy to digitize the sphincter, but then what about my clit? Is it going to get what it needs?

You see, I may not be a prissy bitch, but when it comes to my orgasm, I am a selfish bitch.

And I did a little internet research…if you are reading this at work, I don’t recommend searching for “male g-spot orgasm” or “male prostate massage” and opening any links right now. You could get in big trouble.

But I searched the internet, for how a woman could give a man a g-spot orgasm, and as I suspected, most of what I found were images and videos of men on all fours, hairy ass in the air, junk hanging down, with a woman standing behind them with a huge butt plug and some lube.

See what I mean? Where would my clit be in all of this? Standing behind a man dressed as a dominatrix perhaps.

Hmm.

Not really my thing. That’s not going to be sexy or romantic for me. In fact, standing there, looking at my man (when I finally find one) in such a vulnerable position is probably going to be a huge turn off for me.

Ok, but there are supposedly health reasons for “milking” the prostate.” This is something else you should not Google while at work. Apparently, regular milking of the prostate has benefits that keep the prostate healthy and prevent prostate disease by regularly emptying the contents of the prostate gland. As it turns out, your standard lovemaking ejaculation doesn’t get everything emptied out, but a prostate milking does.

Huh. Well, you want your man to be healthy, right? So is this something you want him to do on his own or do you want to be involved?

So, then I had to give this some thought. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that you are in a relationship where your man is a very giving lover. He goes down on you regularly, and is just as interested in your orgasm as you are. What if you want to return the favor by helping him get a male g-spot orgasm?

So, that question led me to a website called Mangasm. This company sells a wide variety of male sex toys, including prostate stimulators. Now, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I watched a couple of the videos, but, I think, a man could insert one of these gadgets before having sex, do all the things needed to get his girl off, and still get his g-spot orgasm too.

A fucking win-win.

So here’s the bottom line. Asking someone to stick a finger up your ass on a first date is WRONG. However, what two consenting adults choose to do to bring each other pleasure in the privacy of their bedroom is not for me to judge, and obviously there are tools out there to make it happen and still preserve your manicure.

Finally, I feel I need to apologize to my more squeamish readers. Did you know that you can kill a tree using copper nails?

It’s true. Given that copper can kill a whole tree, it’s quite possible that the two weeks that copper penny sat in close proximity to my brain as a toddler has caused some irreparable damage. This may account for the twisted way in which my brain works.

However, a couple of years ago, I took the Myers Briggs Personality Assessment. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before. It turns out I am an INTJ. This is what the description of my personality type says:

“INTJ Have original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance – for themselves and others.”

I guess this explains why dual orgasms are so important to me, but it also helps explain why my mind ran through all of these different mangasm possibilities. Wikipedia also has a nice article on the INTJ personality. I’ll just apologize again for how my mind works.

Basically, if we were all sitting around a conference room, trying to decide whether or not to put a finger in a man’s ass, I would be the person, at the last minute, just as everyone else decides to go for it, who will slowly raise a hand and say, “We should get some latex gloves…

…I…have

…a hangnail.”

Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1

Anyone who has been a parent, and especially the parent of a pre-schooler, knows that at a young age humans start to explore the various orifices of the body.

I, for example, at the young age of 3, decided to put a penny up my nose.

Then, I went to my mom.

“I have a penny in my nose,” I said.

“A what? Where? You put a penny in your nose?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

She tipped my head back, peering into my nostrils. “No you didn’t,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “You put a penny in your nose?”

“I know I have a penny in my nose cuz I put it there,” I said.

“Did you REALLY put a penny in your nose?”

“Nope,” I said definitively.

See that? Changed my story. I figured I would get in trouble, so instead of coming clean and telling my mother I had stuffed a penny up my nose, I lied and let it stay there.

It stayed there for a couple of weeks during which time I had a…”cold.” My mother was concerned because I had the sniffles. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe until one day I let out a big sneeze and the penny flew out of my nose and across the room. Honest to God.

My mother looked at me in shock and disbelief and said, “You DID put a penny up your nose!”

To which I responded, “I told you I did!”

My mother loves telling that story, especially when she’s trying to embarass me. It’s one of her favorites.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and I heard my eldest son, about 5 years old at the time, crying in his room. It wasn’t an “I’m dying. Come save me” cry. It was more like a “I’m so fucked. I’m going to get in trouble” kind of wimper. I opened the door to his bedroom and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I have a rock in my no-o-o-se,” he said in this pathetic, crying sound.

“How did you get a rock in your nose?”

“It was on my be-e-e-e-eddddd,” he said, sobbing.

This is the kind of fucked up shit kids will say when they realize they have done something really stupid, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it. It was the rock’s fault.

“A rock can’t jump from your bed to your nose. Did YOU put a rock in your nose?”

“Uh huuuuuh.”

Let me just say that any park designer who specifies pea gravel as a playground surfacing material needs to be strung up and pelted with said surfacing material until bloodied. You get pea gravel in shoes and then in the house. Kids are constantly throwing pea gravel at each other, and then they go and stick the shit up their noses.

I started muttering obscenities under my breath. Let’s be honest. I’ve never been good at the nurturing mom role. My boys love me; I know they do. Thank God I had boys. They know I love them, but they also know I’m better launching into action in a crisis than I am in minor kissing boo boo scenarios. We have all just come to terms that someday they will need therapy, and it will be all my fault.

“Ok, come on. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I said.

My son got up and followed me, wimpering, into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, I tried to assess the situation. By feeling the outside of his nose, I could tell he had pushed the rock all the way up to the nasal bone. There was no way for me to apply downward pressure to get the thing out. I was silently freaking out, and the last thing I wanted to do was take him to the emergency room. It wasn’t that I was worried about the expense. It was because he did this about a week after his little brother was born. This was one of those regressive kinds of things older siblings do to get attention when the younger, new baby sibling comes home. The last thing I wanted to do was bundle the baby up and haul all of us over to the emergency room.

Luckily, I have a creative mind, I’ve always been a tinkerer, and I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I also grew up in Eastern Montana, out where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. I remembered how the men on the ranch would blow their noses without a handkerchief.

For any of you squeamish folks, I apologize for what is about to follow.

You see, out on the prairie, you just hold one side of your nose, bend over a little at the waist, and blow. The big glob of snot that results is easily flicked off into the wind. So, you see, I brought this prairie wisdom to my situation in the bathroom with my son that day.

“Ok, hold still. I’m going to plug this side of your nose, and I want you to blow as hard as you can. Understand?”

My son nodded at me, still crying, but more calm because Mom had a plan.

“Ok, here we go. BLOW!”

Pfft!

The snotty rock shot out of his nose and pinged around the bathroom. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Success! Fucking amazing!

Now, believe it or not, ALL of my boys have put things in their noses, every single one of them. I don’t know if we all have a gene that predisposes us to stuffing shit up our noses, but every single one of us has done it and ever since this first incident, I have handled the situation the same every time. I have become an expert in the projectile blowing of things from the nose.

I think it’s fair to say that we have established that I’m good in a foreign object in an orifice situation, right?

OK. Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

My date with Man #33 started with the usual email volley on OkCupid, and after a few emails we decided we would meet for coffee. I was again putting my Starbuck’s gold card to good use, and while I know some of my male readers are offended by the fact that I think a coffee date is cheap, I have my reasons for despising the coffee date.

I met my date at one of the many Starbuck’s locations at the University Village Mall. We placed our separate orders, and found a comfortable place to sit outside. We made light conversation. He asked me about my job. I asked him about his. We were in the middle of this conversation, everything was going along normally when suddenly my date said, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

No. I shit you not. That’s what he said. Seriously. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat the subject like The “Masseur” by telling me that he liked massages…

…massages of his lower intestine that is.

And, for all you squeamish people, I apologize for not warning you like I did above about the snot rocket, but I wanted you to receive the information just like I did, suddenly, caught totally off-guard, kind of like a drive by shooting, an assault on the brain.

It’s called a shocker for a reason, people.

He was just out with it with, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

And, I…well, I coughed and tried to hold it together as chai started to shoot from my nose…

To be continued…

Photo from here.

Considering The Possibilities

Time seemed to move slowly while I was waiting for the lawyer to read my blog and deliver his verdict. We kept up our email communication, but we did not see each other while he was digesting the information here on My Dating Prescription.

In the meantime, I had a distraction as my communication with My Stalker/Super Fan increased. Although I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was, he didn’t frighten me, so the stalker label didn’t exactly seem fair. However, unlike my other readers, to my knowledge, he never commented directly on the blog, and opted instead for sending me emails. They were slightly dirty-minded emails just funny enough or well written enough to skate the edge between sexy and creepy, but this alone seemed reason enough to let him retain the stalker label for the time being.

Regarding his identity, all I had to go on was a name, a zip code, and a bunch of emails that made me laugh out load, and not LOL, but REALLY laugh out load. My Stalker/Super Fan is hilarious. That’s one thing I do know about him for sure.

As I mentioned in Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan and Therapy Thursday, as our emails increased I found myself more and more intrigued by him. I wanted to find out more, but because he seemed to like playing this mystery game with me, I found it difficult to ask the questions I wanted answered. And yet, there were times when he provided tangential personal information while still remaining anonymous.

For example, there was the time I questioned whether or not he was using his real name, and he scolded me for questioning him.

“I can’t believe you have the cojones to call me out on my name. I accept your nom de plume and your anonymity. My Mom’s name is …, [and he included her phone number] if you have any questions about her Dear Son…”

I’m sure he was bluffing. He knew there was no way I was going to call his mother. What would I say?

“Yes, hello Mother Stalker. My name is Wilma, and I’m calling because your son, My Stalker/Super Fan, gave me your number so I could call and ask you questions about him. You don’t know me yet, but you will, because in a couple of years when I finally finish dating 100 men on this prescription that my crazy therapist gave me, your son has hatched an elaborate plan to make me fall in madly in love with him.

Yes, uh huh. That’s what he said,…madly in love yes. I wouldn’t make that up. No. I see. He’s always had an active imagination? Ok.

Well, he gave me your phone number, and I was wondering if you could please confirm some information for me. No,…no, ma’am, I’m not a telemarketer. No, I can’t actually take your number off of the Do Not Call List, because I don’t have the list…No ma’am. I would never ask for his social security number. I was thinking more along the lines of how old he is and what he does for a living. Is he a good son? Does he call you regularly? …What’s that?

He has other people call you?

Strange women named things like Wilma…I see. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good day. Yeah, you too. Ok. Ba bye now.”

Yeah,…no.

He knew I wouldn’t call her. I did, however, do a reverse look up of the number on 411.com and confirmed that the person living at that number had the same last name as My Stalker/Super Fan.

See. Tangential. I think he totally expected me to do a little research. Apparently, if I want to know who he is I will have to work for it.

I started to consider all of the possible scenarios. You can get an email address for any name you want these days, and identity theft runs rampant. Once he had the email address, he could just look up a phone number for people with the same last name on the internet.

As the information we shared via email became more personal, however, I started to worry more about the fact that My Stalker/Super Fan could be anyone. What if he was someone I had already dated who was trying to mess with me? What if he was one of my classmates from my MBA program? Or worse. What if he was one of my professors? He could even be a husband of one of my married friends, and I might never know. The point is, I don’t know who he is, but I started running through all of the possibilities.

Over a year ago, I had tried to inquire about his age, and the only information I got was,

“I am older than you, and can teach you much if you are willing to listen Grasshopper. I’m number 100. Boys first, men last.”

See, funny, but the mystery is frustrating to say the least.

Recently, I asked him his age again, and he finally told me he is 63 and old enough to be my father. However, he added that I didn’t need to call him Daddy.

Great. Thanks.

He is actually several months older than my mom. To be fair, my mother was pretty young when she had me. I am 44.

I’m less concerned about chronological age and more interested to know about his health and joie de vivre. As some of my recent dates have proven, while one man can be my age and seem like a grumpy old man another could be active and a lot of fun. I tried to ask My Stalker/Super Fan for more information on this, but he seemed annoyed by it, and replied,

“Have I given you reason to question my cognition? I do 45 minutes of cardio daily at a heart rate of 85% of max for 30 year old. Perhaps if your questions were more specific. Like…CAN YOU STILL GET IT UP?”

I explained that, yes, besides the fact that I had dated some men younger than him who were fuddie duddies lately, I was also very interested to know, when date #100 finally came, if I would be able to ride him like a pony without giving him a heart attack.

I mean, just because I haven’t had any sex lately doesn’t mean I don’t like sex. I’m just picky about who I have sex with. In fact, at this point, I have a lot of pent up energy, A LOT of pent up energy. I could seriously hurt someone, especially an old man with a shoddy ticker.

His response,

“Fuddy duddy? I’m strong, fit, and tan. You can do chin ups on my hard on. I don’t need Viagra. Besides, do you have any idea what that shit’s made of? It’s half Miracle Grow and half Fix-A-Flat.”

See. Funny, but it also put an end to my inquiry.

One of my friends was mortified when I told her his age, and said, “He should be dating women my mom’s age, but my mom says all the guys her age want women our age. The 80 year old men are the ones interested her, and she says all they want is a purse or a nurse.”

My mom and stepdad were less concerned and cited successful relationships they knew where a similar age difference existed.

Sam and Really Really Nice Guy had opinions too.

“Tell her about your stepmom,” Sam said.

“She’s 57 and my dad is 75. They’ve been together for about ten years,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “but now my dad has Alzheimer’s.”

“So she’s taking care of him,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, My Stalker/Super Fan told me he’s really fit,” I said, and I told them what he said about his exercise routine.

“Well, my dad was really fit too,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “he ran every day, and every morning he ate oatmeal. He’d make his bowl of oatmeal, line up thirty different vitamins on the counter, and put lecithin on his cereal. Now, look at him. He doesn’t even know who his wife is.”

“Wow,” I said, “So, what are you saying? That even if My Stalker/Super Fan has the endurance to stick around to be Man #100, I’ve only got 10 to 15 good years with him tops?”

“Yep, probably,” Sam said.

I had to think about that.

I want to know what you think.

Man #32, Ye Olde Bachelor

After the emotional roller coaster I put myself through over Man #31, I still had the problem of telling him about the blog and getting his reaction to reading it before proceeding with a second date. Reasons 11 and 12 of my 13 reasons for Man #31 not to date me were:

11.   After my husband left, I started writing a blog called My Dating Prescription of which I doubt you would approve.

12.   I use profanity liberally, not so much on a daily basis in the way I speak, but in the writing of the above blog.  I also get the impression that you would want a woman who is a little more lady-like.

So, after Man #31 read my 13 reasons not to date me and said he would still like to go out with me again, I insisted that he take a look at the blog and try to get a sense of what exactly he would be getting himself into. These days, it takes a little while to get through the blog. I’ve written 127 blog posts and most of my posts are between 800 and 1200 words. That’s anywhere from 100,000 and 150,000 words. Let’s face it. This dating prescription is starting to feel like a dating epic.

Anyway, while I waited for Man #31′s reaction and questions, I continued on my dating journey.

I had received an email from a man who said he was an active 47-year-old engineer. He was an avid cyclist, so the tale I recount on my online dating profile of my bicycle crash on Lake Washington Boulevard a few years ago had caught his attention. He had apparently had a similar crash, but, rather than landing on his head like I had done, he landed on his hip and broke it.

And, no, landing on my head does not account for my mental state. I’ve always been a little twisted. This isn’t something recent.

Anyway, Man #32 could sympathize with my extended physical therapy experience, and after we talked bikes, he asked me out on a date.

Even through his emails, however, I got a vibe that he was not very adventurous, maybe even a little OCD. He had never been married nor had any children, and it felt like he liked things a certain way, probably a little too uptight for me. Regardless, it was just a date, right?

His desire for control revealed itself more when we started to plan where we were going to go on our date. Although he asked for my suggestions, which I supplied, he promptly vetoed them and decided he wanted to meet at Latona Pub. He did not live in Seattle, but he had gone to Latona Pub before, and apparently, felt comfortable there. I’m willing to go just about anywhere as long as a man isn’t asking me to go eat glorified fast food, like Red Robin or Azteca, so I agreed.

We were supposed to meet at 6 p.m., and I arrived before Man #32. The pub was crowded, so I had to sit at the bar between two handsome men in their thirties. Poor me. While deciding on my beer, I struck up a conversation with both of them. They both recommended the stout, and although I don’t usually drink stouts in the summertime, I went ahead and followed their recommendations.

Man #32 arrived and instead of looking 47 he looked 57. He was wearing a brown silk t-shirt, a tan blazer, and khaki pants. His fiery red hair, although mostly missing on the top, had been sculpted up to a height of about an inch and a half above his scalp and then combed back to cover what was a very large bald spot. The whole thing was sort of see-through, and yet, with the light behind him, it glowed, like a fiery orange halo.

Since Ye Olde Bachelor had arrived, we were able to get a table. I said goodbye to my thirty-something companions. They sort of looked at the two of us as if they could tell we were on a first date, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Even after we were seated, I noticed people looking at us, like maybe they were wondering what brought the two of us together. I typically get comments that I look 8 years younger than my age, and he clearly looked much older than most 47 year olds.

I always wonder how much men lie about their age.

When we started to order food, Ye Olde Bachelor commented on the restrictive diet he follows, and I started to wonder if that was the reason why his skin looked so old. He made me feel uncomfortable about choosing what I wanted from the menu. He wanted to share something, but then, he was restricted on what he was willing it eat.

It was a fucking pain in the ass if you want to know the truth.

Now, it’s not that I have to have my way all the time. I really don’t, but I started thinking that if a man can’t even give up enough control on a first date to let a woman order what she wants off a bar menu, what would a relationship with him be like? I’ve had experiences where a man ordered my meal for me and it was wonderful. When I was in Rome, for example, I had dinner with a handsome Italian man, and letting him order for me, so I could experience things I didn’t know, was fabulous.

However, Ye Olde Bachelor ordered the chicken quesadilla.

Oh yey!

Throughout the date I made polite conversation, but I was never able to relax. His mannerisms and questions just seemed very uptight and judgemental, and quite frankly, I was not attracted to him at all what with the orange halo and all.

As we left the bar, he walked me towards my car and asked if he could have my email address. He wanted to stay in touch. This is where I did that thing guys do when they say, “I’ll call you.”

I said, “I’ll email it to you.”

“Ok,” he said.

I walked away, got in my car, and drove home. Later than night, I sent Ye Olde Bachelor an email through OkCupid thanking him for the date. I did not include my personal email address.

The next day, I received an email from him. He said,

“I guess since you did not give your email address and/or phone number you don’t want to pursue it further. It’s OK, I thought you were nice but not a strong vibe, huh?”

Rather than just leave him hanging in silence, I responded,

“I had a nice time, but with further thought, felt there were some areas where we differ enough that it would difficult to pursue a relationship.  Thanks for meeting me though.  I had a nice evening and I enjoyed our conversation.”

Onward.

Photo here.

You Want to Interview Me?

Online dating sucks, and, yet, I keep doing it. It remains the easiest way for a woman my age to meet men. However, sometimes I just have to shake my head and wonder.  Where do these winners come from?

Actually, this guy said he was from Brooklyn, New York. It is my belief that he is employing a method I like to call “spray and pray.” Basically, he sends out the same email to hundreds of different women and waits to see who bites. This is the email I received from him through OkCupid yesterday, and because it made me laugh, I decided to share it.

“I saw your profile and was captivating and begin to ask my self what an angel in disguise….lol… well for ur information am writing an essay on beautiful things….so u need to interviewed by me……I Must Confess That You Are An Appealing Sight To See….Could I Have The Honor Of Knowing You if you dont mind?? We could get to chat and get to know eachother more better.”

I don’t know. Something tells me he’s not really a writer, but maybe my readers know more better than I. What do you think?

Are You Trying to Make Me Like You?

Over the past year and a half, I’ve recounted my dating adventures, but I haven’t written much about the hundreds of emails I have exchanged with men in order to set up these dates. It’s kind of ridiculous. I would have a panic attack if I actually started tracking the numbers on the emails and texts needed just to set up one date.

It’s like when you’re in sales. You need 200 prospects a week, 60 contacts, which might result in 10 appointments, and hopefully, if all goes well, 2 sales.

It’s fucking exhausting is what it is.

Then you get these guys who want to send a hundred one-sentence emails or texts, and it starts to feel less like dating and more like work.

Case in point:

The Characters:

Short, Italian Man (SIM) - a real Italian, from Italy, not one of those Jersey Italians who don’t even pronounce their Italian surnames with the correct Italian pronunciation. (Yes, I’m talking to you, Teresa Giudice.)

Tall, Buxom Woman (ME) - a Viking, blogger, and mom, short on time and patience and long on sarcasm and expletives.

The Scenario:

SIM originally started sending me messages in April, but because I was mostly unavailable due to my MBA coursework, I put him off until after graduation. Then, with summer activities, work, and time that I wanted to spend with my kids, I put him off some more. I have to give him credit for perseverance.

A couple of months ago, he emailed me and asked me for my phone number so we could text. I sent him a message and said,

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I don’t like giving my number out to men I haven’t met yet, and texting is the fastest way to piss me off.”

Yes, this is how straightforward I have become. Rather than let these men fuck it up on their own I like to give them a warning. I’m a busy woman, and I don’t have time to play with my phone all day long, and when men can spend all day texting, it makes me wonder if they have a job.

Fast forward to the other day and SIM asked me for my phone number again, so we could “flirt” through texting. This is apparently his idea of fun. I wasn’t too excited by this idea at all since the last Italian who flirted with me through texting made a surprise reference to his c&%k, but since SIM and I have finally scheduled our first date for Wednesday next week, I figured it was time to exchange phone numbers.

I like to get a guy’s phone number just ahead of a date in case one of us is running late or can’t find the other at our meeting place.

I felt the need to warn him a second time about my impatience with texting. I basically said I don’t like it so don’t abuse it.

The Result:

Last night I received a text while I was meeting with my wine club (I mean book club.)

SIM: and this is my number. ciao

This morning…

ME: Ok. Thanks. I didn’t see your text until really late last night. I didn’t think you would want me texting you at 11:30 p.m.

This afternoon…

SIM: yep. it s you…sorry your number was not iny phone, and didn’t memorize it …

ME: That’s ok. My phone doesn’t know who you are yet either.

SIM: then i guess we are two strangers

ME: As far as our phones are concerned, yes.

SIM: is this Wilma?

(WTF? Who the fuck did he think he was texting? Apparently, I am one of many…and so is he. He has no idea. Mwah ha ha. )

ME: As tempted as I am to fuck with you and say no…yes, this is Wilma.

SIM: lol…(I hate when men use lol. Actually, I hate when anyone uses lol. What are you? Twelve?)

SIM: listen to you so innocent looking with hot legs and using the f word

(Oh god, just stab me in the eyeball with a sharp stick, please.)

ME: You just don’t know me yet.

SIM: sweet and naughty is a good mix (Insert Beavis and Butthead laugh here.)

ME: Does dropping an f-bomb make me naughty? I thought it just made me foul-mouthed.

SIM: you got a point …let me hope lol

(Ok dude, enough with the fucking smiley faces already.)

ME: You can hope, but you should never assume.

SIM: well assuming is ok when you hope to bw proven wrong

ME: So you’re hoping I’m not naughty?

SIM: no! i am hoping you are

ME: Then wouldn’t you hope to be proven right?

SIM: i can see you have been paying attention!

ME: I”m very detail-oriented and it’s hard to not pay attention when my phone keeps beeping at me.

SIM: i should stop …you specifically asked me not to flood your phone

ME: Yeah, I can understand the excitement, given that is has taken over four months for us to get to the first date but it would be a shame to mess it up now.

SIM: yep. ok, i will be mindful don’t worry. enjoy the weekend

ME: You too.

I’m supposed to meet him next Wednesday. Is it wrong of me to feel intellectually superior at this point? I’m a little worried that he was beating off while telling me he hopes I’m a naughty girl.