Undateable, or, I’m Even Offending People I Don’t Meet in Person

*commentary by Stoney, as always, in italics

I have turned mhy razor tongue on many a male on this blog, even ones that I like.  Few have escaped my wrath for the slightest wrongdoing.  And for that, I wish I could apologize.  Hahahahaha.  Not really.  Recently, I discovers some harsh truths about myself.  Many, actually.  One truth that I am learning from the men of my city is that I am decidedly Undateable. 

I recently tried (again) a certain Very Popular Dating Site -- let’s say it rhymes with Snatch. I adore this word. Makes me laugh every time.  I wish, Reader (I still hate that she does this!), that I was immune to the need for scintillating male companionship from time to time. But I’m not.  I thought that by joining this particular site, I might have the opportunity to meet a gentleman caller that was employed by someone besides Domino’s, might live outside of his parents’ home, and possibly owns a working car. And really, isn't everyone armed these days with that urban myth that “one of my best friends met his/her girlfriend/boyfriend on Snatch!" For the record, Rita tried to get me to abandon my PlentyofFish ways in favor of Snatch because "If men are on there PAYING to find someone, they're obviously serious about it!" I joined for exactly one, very-painful, 7-day trial.  The only guy I talked to was someone I already knew that just wrote to call me out. Pot or Kettle, sir? Pot. OR. KETTLE! 

I set up a profile and started returning emails. Let me clarify that by saying I returned emails to those who wrote more than “Hi” to me and those that were NOT sent by desperately lonely 60-somethings (apparently my target market, according to my inbox). I forced myself to be open minded about pictures, meaning that if I got some email banter going with someone that I found interesting, I was determined to overlook the fact that they had a face like a football. Because that seemed like the right thing to do. Which is how I ended up having coffee with the Fat Guy. I call these men "Forced-to-be-funny Guys."

The Fat Guy actually had a decent picture – it was a headshot for a promo that he was doing for a local restaurant. He owns his own marketing firm and had that artsy sort of look – if you could call a 40-something former football player who has gone to seed “artsy”. He was a big guy, but tall as well, cute glasses... and funny. You know what funny does to me. So I decided to be open-minded and meet him. The long and short of it was – he WAS fat, but funny, sort of endearing, and we had a really good conversation – I didn’t have to take my “early out”. And that, reader (Ugh!), was that. Never heard from Fat Guy again. Seems like a bad way to kick off the Snatch experience, but I was undeterred.

Guy #2 that I connected via email with seemed cool. We had a lot in common so after a few emails were exchanged he asked for my number and wanted to meet for a drink or coffee. He asked what company I worked for and determined quickly that he knew some guys from my company (he works for one of our clients) and was going to get the scoop on me from one of them he knew well. He actually called me (on the phone - Alexander Graham Bell, BITCHES!) to tease me about getting the scoop on me and we chatted for over an hour, talking, laughing and asking questions, etc. And again – that was that. Nothing else. Not one little itty bitty text, nothing. 

Being a low-grade sadist, I decided to push this aside as well and charged on, determined that there had to be someone out there who would enjoy watching football with me on Sundays and want to get naked with me on a regular basis. The bar is not set high here, truly.  

The third guy that I connected with asked me on an actual date (well, it was via text, but I’m still counting it). He made plans and I met him one evening. He was very talkative - almost to the point of probably needing some kind of ADD meds. But he was fairly interesting and he was a dancer – we were listening to a friend of his play music at a bar and he made me dance with him – he was really good. So we had fun. Now, the evening was slightly marred by the fact that he did a donut in his convertible Viper (small penis) in the parking lot while driving me to my car and almost got arrested. (I wish I were lying about this, but I’m not). But we both handled it gracefully and there wasn’t a drinking and driving issue, so basically the police made him squirm for an hour, then let us go (since you still can’t arrest people for just being a dumbass). He did send me a text the next day to tell me that despite the whole “almost arrested” thing that he had fun with me. And that, as I’m sure you have figured out by this point, was that. Nothing else. It’s been over a week.

So, I have no other choice but to assume that I am Undateable. Not dateable by fat guys, not by guys with a slightly manic personality with a reckless side, not by guys who have been told by people I work with that I am fun and outgoing and attractive (that was the scoop #2 was given). My girlfriends, God love the lot of them, tell me perhaps they were intimidated. That seems like a kind way of saying “you weren’t their cup of tea”. What kind of tea am I? Darjeeling, perhaps? -- the stuff that sounds cool and exotic and interesting, but when you take a sip, you want to spit it out into the nearest planter. I’m turning off my Snatch account. My ego is bruised enough to give up for another year or so.

 - Rita

I have recently been discarded by not one, but three! guys that I had no interest in actually dating. So I am apparently highly fuckable, but not, in the least, someone you want to take into a public forum for a meal and good conversation. So with my ego equally as shattered by the shitty ass dating lap pool in our city, I'm going to go have someone tie me to some floor joists in their basement and do filthy, raunchy sexually gradifying things to me to fill that void.  More on that later...

-Stoney

 

The Hiatus

Dear Readers –

Rita and Stoney disappeared, didn’t we? Well, it wasn’t for lack of blog fodder, rest assured. Men are still out there, walking around in total cluelessness, engaging in asshattery of the highest magnitude. And as far as our extracurricular activities, there have been spreader bars and ex sex, there have been allegations of sex in bathrooms (happily unfounded), there have been run ins with exes in various states of undress and there has been masturbation. So much masturbation. So not a lot has changed at the Gee Spot, actually. We just haven’t been able to put finger to keyboard to write about it. We hope you join us again as we dispense advice – with our own heads firmly planted up our asses most of the time.

Stoney & Rita

The FetGirl Files. Part 1: Meeting My Dom

Rita and I would like to extend the biggest, warmest, wettest welcome to our newest guest blogger, FetGirl! You may remember her from a few posts back: Can't Seem to Stop Fishing


Stoney calls it my “coffee date” and laughs. I call it the hottest three minutes of my life.

I met a dom online, see. I wasn’t looking for that, at least not overtly, and he wasn’t advertising it. But we clicked very well, and quickly our mutual interest in dominance and submission play came up, and then we clicked more decisively. (Or, as he put it, “You realize you’re as good as mine, right?” I said, “We’ll see about that,” but he wasn’t wrong. I did realize.)

We had to meet, but it couldn’t be “some mundane lunch where we talk about our hobbies.” Great.

We arrange to meet at Starbucks. He texts me twenty minutes before, tells me to let him know when I get to the parking lot.

I do.

He texts: “I am in the corner, to the right of the door. White shirt, black coat. Don’t approach me.”

He had told me to wear something that accentuated my ass. I chose very close-fitting cropped black pants, a girly red sleeveless top with a ruffle, and the ridiculously high peep-toe, stiletto Mary Janes that Rita and I both bought during a shoe/wine/porn binge. 

I feel very sexy. But I’m so excited that I’m shaking, and so I worry a little about walking in those heels on the slick Starbucks flooring. Have to, though, because my next text reads, “Walk around the store so that I can see your body from every angle. Get your drink.”

I do as I’m told, never looking in the corner, where I can see peripherally that he’s sitting, his arms on the chair arms, his legs wide.

I can feel him, everywhere. Feel him watching me, feel the power of him reaching out to me.

I walk around, examining stupid Starbucks paraphernalia, picking up napkins. If I had been better in control of my senses, I would have knocked a pound of coffee off the shelf so I could bend over and pick it up. I would have approached someone near my dom, acting as if I recognized her.

Paying is hard, given how powerfully my hands are shaking. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to get my espresso to a table without spilling it. I do. I sit where he can easily see me, at a table probably 15 feet from him. I cross my legs and look straight ahead, to the opposite corner of the store.

A text: “Go into the restroom. Dig two fingers into your cunt. Come out with your wetness on you.”

 Well.

I put my phone in my pocket. I take a drink of my espresso, just to make him wait. I pause as long as I can stand it, letting him eat me up with his eyes, and then—very slowly and deliberately—I get up. I do as I was told.

When I walk out of the restroom, he’s coming toward me. He doesn’t look in my eyes until he’s right in front of me.

He takes my hand and says my name.

He tells me, “You look stunning,” and I thank him.

In heels, I’m his height.

He pulls my hand to him, covers his face with it, and inhales. It’s all I can do to keep standing.

He smiles at me. Still holding my hand, he says, “Nice.”

He lets go.

He says, “I’ll be in touch.” He turns and walks out, his black overcoat billowing behind him. 

-FetGirl

FDIC: The Prelude

So every year for a week, the "World's Largest Firefighters Training Conference" is held in our city.  Rita and I are not dicks and want you all to schedule your vacations to come to our fair town and celebrate the overwhelming onslaught of some 30,000 firefighters (98% male).  During this week, the ratio of men to women is likely somewhere around 50:1. It's a dick farm, in it's grandest form.  As such, during this week of the year, Rita and I embrace not only our role as agriculturists, but also that of The Ambassadors!

As a prelude to our scheduled scavenger hunt later in the week (yes, I actually wrote a scavenger hunt centered around the firemen), Rita convinced me to go out at 10:30PM on a Tuesday night (simply because it was FDIC week). See the conversation that transpired below.  I'm still almost positive we should take our show on the road.

Rita:  Let me be more clear: eat, as in eat at home, if at all. Check. Go home from 7-10:30pm. Check. Instead of languishing doing nothing until of our usual bedtime of 12:30, go downtown. Check.  Social experiment challenge to drink water, cranberry, etc. (this didn't happen by the way - but you knew that already) Check. You stayed up fucking a 22 year old til the wee hours when you had to work the next day - let some gainfully employed adults hit on you  for a couple of hours.

Stoney: You make a valid case. Check. I want to punch you in the face. Check. Before you punch me in mine for being a lazy ass. Check.

Rita: My work here is done.

Stoney: Check.

Before I dive into the next section of our text steam, it should be noted that I have created a game for when Rita and I go out.  We are in the midst of creating 'teams' for one another, the goal being to create the suckiest team possible for your competition.  (Same day at the gym)

Stoney: Check out the orange dude with the Brittney Spears headset on the stair climber. Your team!!!

Rita: Fuck!

Stoney: I bet your team give amazing head bc it sucks so GD hard!

Rita: You team smells like rancid oysters on the half shell.

Stoney: Suck a bag of dicks.

Ok, sorry for the derailment, back to it...Rita and I also started operating under the umbrella question: WWRDD? (What Would Rita Danger Do?)  Since we obviously both use pen names, it's more of an internal struggle to decide whether to be lazy turds or go out and whore around.  So I was being said lazy turd (although as I told her, I managed to wash my twat), when Rita text me: WWRDD?

Stoney: Fuck! You would use that against me!

Rita: It seems apropos here, doesn't it?

Stoney: Fuck you! Stop it! God damn it!  I'll put on some fucking makeup and push my tits into my chin.

Rita:  That's my girl. Twat washing to commence stat.  We need to get our kicks before we have to start using a walker.

Stoney:  I get to punch you in the twat when I get there.  And I get the nice walker.  Pre-dibs.

Rita:  That's ok, I reserved a motorized 3 wheeler with a basket for me.

Stoney: What are you wearing, assface?

Rita:  So enjoying the love here.  Jeans, a blazer and a white tee.

Stoney: You took the 3 wheeler.  Was I supposed to be happy?

Rita:  You are 10 years younger than me and didn't play derby.

Stoney:  I could get hurt tomorrow in a horse barrel competition, you just never know. (I'm not even sure what this consists of)

Rita:  The only danger you're in of getting injured is massive penis impalement or someone running up onto your front porch and beating you up while you're out for a smoke.

Stoney:  You just upgraded from twat punch to a solid shanking. Good work!

Rita: SHANK
Rita: You beautiful yet???

Stoney: I have on socks. So yes.

Rita: Hurry the fuck up!

Stoney:  Suck it you red headed slut.  I'm working on it.

Rita: Tick tock.  If you're this mad at me I must really be doing something right.

Stoney:  Sorry.  Autocorrect.  That was supposed to say 'On my way'
Stoney: Also, I'm wearing a turtleneck.  You're welcome.


And all of that was even before we made it anywhere.  Clearly Firefighter's Week will have to be a 3 part (or more, depending on the weekend) blog.  As we weren't at the first bar but 5 minutes when this happened:

Random Fireman: ...well, you girls clearly have standards.
Stoney:  What gave you that idea?  My tit tattoo?

More to come...

-Stoney

Shitting Where You Eat Part II, or Sometimes I Even Surprise Myself

Faithful readers of this blog may have been wondering what has been going on since my first encounter with Rule Breaker – you know, the married guy that I work with that I started fucking?  Yes, it’s still going on – and in full force.   I wish I could say that I had taken the high road and stopped it before things got complicated. But as I believe I may have mentioned, RB is human kryptonite to me – his mere presence makes my clothes fall off and a simple text from him can cause a full-body reaction.  So no.  I have not done the wise thing; I continue to take the lowest possible road in letting our affair continue.  He is gorgeous and smart and funny and confident and soulful.  I AM NOT MADE OF STONE. 

I am not going to share with you with the details of the weekend he came to stay with me during the Super Bowl. Because frankly, Reader, that weekend is mine.  It was that good. I don’t want to dissect it, because it feels like if I do, the magic will somehow siphon out of it.  So let’s just say, for the first time in a very long time, I let my heart open up all the way, and it was completely reciprocated.  I would not change a minute of that perfect weekend.  Not one.  In those few days, I had an amazing lover, friend, and partner in crime.  There was great fun, much talking, much drinking and hours of sex.  That’s it.  That’s all you get.

So.  

RB came to town recently to take one of our clients out (and to see me, I’d like to think).  He flew in and we, along with my boss and the client, went to a basketball game. I met him outside the bar where we were already posted up when he got to town, and he informs me that his hotel room has floor to ceiling windows that he will be pressing me up against later.  Instantly, I’m wet. FUCK.  We had a few drinks and then walked over to the basketball game.  My boss, who is lovely but a bit of a straight arrow, leaves in the middle of the game to handle a family issue.  This is great news, as the client that we are with is rather like RB and I in his proclivity for extreme fun.  So my boss leaving pretty much sounded the gun as the three of us were released from the gate. 

After some drinks at the game, I suggested, as classy girls do, that we go to a bar called the Tilted Kilt.  If you’re not familiar, this is a slightly upscale version of Hooters wherein the wait staff all wears short kilts and have their tits pushed up to the heavens.  The guys are thrilled by the idea, until they see the clientele – all men, of course.  It is a total dick farm, and if there is anything that you know about Rita and Stoney at this point, it is that we are straight up agriculturalists. 

At the behest of the client, we start to do grape vodka bombs.  This seems like an excellent idea for a Monday at 10:30, right?  We get trashed there, then head to another bar that is too quiet.  So I suggest going to the one strip club downtown – it’s been there since the dawn of time and is sort of quasi-respectable, as it mostly sees a clientele of businessmen from out of town.  And goddamn it if I’m not going to cement my reputation for being just one of the guys.

Of course the two of them appear pleasantly agreeable to this suggestion though I’m sure they want to fist pump and high five me.  The place is comprised of three round stages in the middle of the room, with seats right up against the stages and seats around the periphery of the room.  The guys choose a seat on the periphery and we sit down to watch.  I don’t have to tell you I’m not a prude, so I’m really enjoying myself.  I particularly like watching the men watching the women. 

RB buys me a lap dance, as I was hoping he would.  I choose a very cute girl with great boobs – hey, I have small ones so I’m sort of fascinated by the big ones.  RB and the client watch she and I with great interest.  Then RB gets a dance for himself –as one does at a strip club.  He chooses a girl and she beings to rub on him while I watch.  And suddenly my chest starts to burn, and I can’t breathe.  I am overcome with an intense need to get away from them.  So I stand up and stride to the bathroom, where I pace and stare at myself in the mirror, willing myself to pull it together.  What the fuck is going on here, Rita?  Why are you jealous of a stripper?  I wait a reasonable amount of time to go back out so that they are finished.  “Are you ok?” he asks with the hint of a smile.  “I’m ok.”  I reply.  He knows what just went down.

We are smashed at this point and it’s late, so we walk the client to his hotel and then head to RB’s hotel.  I have a sort of vague recollection of us touching in front of the client at some point during the evening.  Which is stupid as fuck, I realize, but the client works in another state all week and apparently has figured out what is up with RB and I anyway.  Not that it would take a rocket scientist at this point.  And as a pretty much golden rule now, I trust who RB trusts.  But it’s risky, I know – and I don’t have nearly as much to lose here.  RB sometimes slips into a lasseiz-faire attitude about us that I find interesting.  But fuck, I’m powerless to act in any rational way when I’m with this guy, so I get it. 

Per the seed he planted earlier, when we get to his room, I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window.  He turns me around and pushes me against it and starts to undress me.  When I am naked, he yanks my ass toward him and enters me.  Then it gets a little crazy.  It’s intense with him anyway, but this night is even more so – it’s been too long since we’ve fucked.  I let him put his dick pretty much anywhere he wants, and I do things to his ass that most guys wouldn’t probably want me to.  There is a giant mirror on the wall by the bed, so I have the best possible view of us fucking all night - as we did, until the wee hours.  It was dirty and it was amazing. 

The next morning, we have one last round of sex (with me riding him and watching myself in the mirror - you're welcome for the visual). Afterward, he mentions my tantrum at the strip club again with barely concelaed amusement – he says he hadn’t figured me for the jealous type.  I groan and crawl under the covers.  HUGE TACTICAL ERROR.  It feels like I blinked first, showed something that went way more emotional than I intended to go, ever intended to show to him.  Sometimes it's almost physically painful to keep my emotions under wraps when I'm around him, and I couldn't seem to supress it this time. If there’s one thing that I am terrified of, it’s being vulnerable, and I feel constantly vulnerable around him because I'm so ridiculously crazy about him.  He unseats me at every turn.  It makes me want to punch him sometimes.

We go to breakfast and get some things done for work together.  I enjoy doing these things with him just as much as I love his dick in my orifices.

And that, Reader, is that.  For now.  I continue to scheme for legit ways to see him and he makes it happen occasionally.  It’s always a guessing game with RB, but it’s fun and exciting and hot, and I get what I need when I see him.  And he leaves with a sore dick and a head full of things to think about when we’re on conference calls together.  This works for me.  

- Rita

Online Dating: The Real Life Version

A couple of weeks ago I went on two back-to-back dates from seemingly awesome guys from Plenty of Fish. Online they were almost exact opposites: one was a total hippie type that is obviously earthy while the other was an Irish hurling financier.  Again, taking a bullet for those single women out there trolling on any of the various dating sites (you guys can start sending me money any damn time for this painstaking research) I'm dredging through the sea of douchebaggery all in the name of this blog. Well...and in hopes of finding a potential mate or at least entertaining myself in the meantime.

The Breakdown

Date #1: The Bearded Hippie (BH)
So the long and short of our conversation online is that it was pretty damn awesome.  We have a lot in common: love for animals, attachment to family, passion of cooking, we both think I'm awesome. Blah Blah Blah. Listen, this guy is self-admittedly thinking that I am the coolest chick he's met on this stupid site that he doesn't even ask for a picture. And, no, I don't think he's crafty enough to use that as some sort of line.  I offer him one cause let's face it, I'm a shallow bitch and I'm not going to judge if he is too.  If he doesn't find me attractive, 1) he's fucking wrong or blind or 2) I just save myself the time and money involved in making myself all cute and shit and then going out with him.

All the same, he's sees a picture, fawns over me and we plan to meet for drinks a few days later. I go about my daily majestic life and eventually meet BH for a drink at a local brewery.  He's visibly nervous which is fine.  I'm in sales so not only am I good with strangers, I can talk to a fucking wall if need be.  We order some drinks and he starts asking questions about me. Endearing, right? He's curious. We chat for a bit. He pauses and makes a comment about how pretty my eyes are.  We chat for a bit more. He makes a comment about how pretty I am. He seems almost shocked.  We have great conversation and he starts stories with shit like: 'When I was back training dolphins..." and ends them with: "I didn't think that it would make me cry, but seriously? Have you ever seen a baby elephant up close?"  Ok, yea, most women would have run out screaming by now, but I'm a sucker for animal lovers. Whatever.  He suggests we go to dinner so obviously we are getting along great and he thinks so as well. We have dinner, more talk and lots of laughs.  He walks me to my car after a 7 hour first date.

See what fail to mention above is absolutely anything physical outside of the fact that he sports a beard.  BH is the same height as me (the actual version - flatfooted) and about 150lbs. So basically, he's really not a big guy. Some might even say tiny.  But I keep trying not rule out gentleman callers based on height. When I went on a date with a short dude awhile back, one of my friends asked if I was going to wear flats (mind you, outside of tennis shoes, I own exactly one fair of flats).  My response, "Fuck no. Are you serious?  Why would I pretend to be something I'm not? Which is 5'11" in heels."  I can't seem to get passed this with BH and he's nonchalantly asked me out again, but I haven't accepted. Shallow? Yea, probably but if I'm not attracted to him, why waste time...right?

Date #2: The Irish Hurler (IH)

The Irish Hurler is fucking awesome. On paper. He's sarcastic, witty and charming in writing. We exchange a dozen emails online and then he offers his phone number.  By all accounts, he's bad, beefy and well put together. He graduated with a double major in International Business and Finance and a minor in Japanese. (yea, I know, I questioned how he ended up on POF as well.  Especially without a shirtless self portrait taken in his mother's wallpapered bathroom).  So we arrange to meet for drinks.

We walk up to the restaurant, he gives me the once over and we walk in together and he barely says three words. He makes a meticulous decision about where we should sit and then proceeds to examine the menu with such intensity that I'm fairly certain he forgot that I was even there.  So, I start asking him questions (as one tends to do on a first date).  He seems almost off put that I am speaking to him while he is looking at the menu. What the fuck?

The short version is that I ask him a shit ton of questions, make remarks and witty commentary for two hours.  I listen to him drone on about Irish Hurling like it's the most interesting thing I've heard in my life, he talks about bad POF dates he's been on, he talks about his shitty divorce and how awesome he is a jiu jitsu. Two beers and dinner later, the check comes.  I throw down my credit card (which I've already pulled out of my purse because I am ready to bee line it for the door) and he throws his down too, "So you just want to split it then?"

After a couple of hours with me, this narcissistic monotone dicklick couldn't tell you one thing about me. Not one, I guarantee it.  Don't get me wrong here, again, I am in sales. I listen to people talk about themselves all day every day.  The difference is that someone pays me to do that, I'd rather not do it in my free time as well.

Honestly, looking back on the IH date, I'm thinking he knew right when he saw me that he wasn't interested.  He looked me up and down and stopped right on my tattoo.  I think this was a deal breaker for him.  Which is fine, just fucking tell me that before I spend $30 on fucking drinks and dinner over horrible company.  Is that too much to ask?

Needless to say, I hid my POF profile after these dates.  I'm still debating on going out with the hippie again. He was so much fun to hang out with and talk to surely I can get passed the tiny thing, right?

Rita read this and said I sound 'downtrodden.' After looking up what downtrodden meant (subjugated; oppressed. And then looking up what subjugated meant: to bring under control; conquer), I've decided that wasn't the right word to describe my feelings about these dates or this post.  Frankly, I'm just completely exhausted by the men I've been 'dating.' At this point, I feel like I've gone out with emotional clones and I should just expect to be disappointed by these men.  If they don't disappoint, I will then be pleasantly surprised.

In the meantime, I will continue to gather market research subjects elsewhere (read: NOT online dating sites).  And not to worry, all is not lost.  I didn't just sit around waiting for some awesome chain of events to satisfy myself after rewatching Wild Orchid (mmmm, young Mickey Rourke). Pshaw! Stay tuned for my next post: Shitting Where You Eat: The Restaurant Edition. Come to think of it...maybe that one needs a better title.

Additionally, Netflix Wild Orchid and then probably go ahead and put 9 1/2 Weeks in you queue too. You're welcome.

-Stoney.

Stoney Can't Seem to Stop: Fishing Round 3!

I tried.  I really did, but Plenty of Fish (POF) is such a plethora of fucktards I couldn't seem to turn the habit loose.

In true Rita & Stoney fashion, we sucked one of our lovely, brilliant, lady friends into the shitshow that is the 'MEET ME' feature on POF.  If you've never been on the site, allow me to explain.  This is the most shallow (yet awesome) of online dating features.  You basically look at only images of people on the site and click 'Yes,' 'No,' or 'Maybe' to potentially meeting them. That's it. That's the entire concept.  Think HotOrNot.com only you aren't rating them so it's only slightly less shallow.  If you click 'Yes' or 'Maybe,' the  person then receives a message that you would like to meet them.

I explain this concept to our friend, let's call her Fetish Girl (cause it's mysterious and sounds like a super hero, which she pretty much is) and off we go with "Meet Me Roulette".  Fetish Girl (FG) is completely appalled, but like us also sucked in by the asinine pictures that these men post.

I introduce her to game that Rita & I like to play called "Which one is it?" Guys, and girls too I'm sure, like to post pictures where they are posing with their friends. Unfortunately, the guy who has posted said picture is usually the lumpy guy in the back holding up deuces who hasn't shaved in two weeks and still only has patches of hair on his face.  I'm still on the fence about if it's rude to write the author of the profile and ask if the one hot guy in the photo with him is single, straight and looking and, if so, to please pass along my contact information to him.  If you have thoughts on this, please let us know.

So I pulled an example, so that you too may play along. Ready....WHIIIIIIICH ONE IS IT? Please, please be the hot one in the middle with the scarf and smirk!
Womp...no, it's the dude in the football jersey.

And now on with the show!  Please remember that I don't alter these photos in any way, shape or form.  I pull them directly from POF profiles as they appear.

Thank you for showing us your creepy devil tattoo and relentless back hair. Damn, that's hot!

Want to be my second wife? Although I would like to believe this isn't HIS wedding photo that he posted to a dating site, I still see no valid reason to post this photo while looking for a potential mate. In any capacity. 

I'm so confused by this one, I can't even make a smartass comment, Ray J. 

I'm sorry. I can't read your profile past your mustache.

You knew there would be at least one shirtless bathroom self portrait in here. Why? Why do men keep doing this? Women are going to keep doing ducklips until you quit doing this stupid ass pose.

Oh WAIT! Duck lips. Not just for college girls anymore.  I retract the previous negotiation as it is now no longer applicable. 

 Douchecape with matching permanent douche tattoo. WIN!

No seriously! I looked at this dude's profile. He's practicing to be a ninja.  Which as you will see below, is apparently a common theme among 30something men.

He's a Ninja. You know how I know...he reverse suntanned that shit into his back.

Perfect chin strap. Load hair with product. Get in bath tub. Set phone to sultry. Look longingly into camera. SNAP and POST! Thanks, wannabe George Michael, we salute you. Actually the dude from Photo #3 above salutes you.

Please see Question #2 of The Application. Do not post photographic evidence of why we wouldn't want to date (or fuck) you.

But this round's top price goes to this guy who posted a profile complete with up-to-date photos. From his prison cell. Actually, this is the same guy with the devil tattoo from above. Can you believe such a package exists? Me neither! I emailed him. Clearly, I'm not at all into the commitment thing right now so this is a great option for me.

This, folks, is why people pay to be on other dating sites. Although, I'm sure they don't get this kind of quality men on Match.com. 

If you've been doing any online trolling lately, feel free to email us any tasty morsels you run across (ritadangerfox@gmail.com). We'll be sure to add them to Round 4 of our Fishing Series. Yea, that's right, fuck it, it's a series now rather than an addiction. That just sounds better.

-Stoney

Let's Review - Winter 2012 --The Winter of Our Discontent

More tips from Rita and Stoney if you've missed our recent hilarity in the past few months:

Italics indicates commentary by Stoney.

1) You can teach yourself to squirt.  Who knew?  I vote Stoney takes this upon herself to learn and report back to us all. Sounds like a lot of market research (i.e. porn) & masturbation for me. Yea, ok. I will take one for the good of society and report back. 

2) When trying to get a girl to go out on a date please keep in mind the following:

a)       Don't ask a girl to do any activity just a couple of hours before said activity. If we don't actually have plans, we will make some up solely because you are a jacksack for waiting until the last minute to ask. 

b)      Give serious consideration to using the phone and having a grown-up, semi-live conversation in which you actually have to put sentences together and sound coherent without having an hour to think about what to say and how to spell it correctly. When you text all of the time and never call, we think you can't actually carry on a real conversation.  The wonderful thing about texting is that you get to think (a lot) about how to be witty or sweet or smart. Real conversation isn't like that. If you're an idiot, we'll know in 3 sentences or less. 

c)      Have a plan for what you will be doing and when you would like to do it. Read as: Quit fucking saying shit like "I don't care what we do" or "I'll let you decide." We just think you're a lazy, indecisive turd.

d)      Be flexible if she is not available when you are - ask for the next open time she has.  We fill our hours with really fun stuff and you need to be more fun than said stuff if you want to get the coveted time slot that you are asking for. I am in complete and utter agreement with this, but good luck being more fun than our friends. All I have to say is that you're lucky you have a penis.

e)      THIS IS NOT GODDAMN ROCKET SCIENCE. Share with your friends.

3) Religious people are often concealing extreme appetites.  For some reason, when people dedicate themselves to religion, it seems that they are trying to escape or exorcise part of themselves.  This can be intriguing, and slightly terrifying.  And fucking hot.

4) Women, when not in the company of men, tend to talk a LOT about sex.  And get very specific.  If you think otherwise, your female friends and girlfriends are lying their asses off to you. It's girl code.  Sorry. AND HOW! Over a couple of bottles of wine the other night, Rita, myself and another very sexually open-minded friend were downloading sex position apps to our smart phones (even smarter now!).  Download yours today. They're fucking awesome and harvest a ton of laughter. Who has rigid poles securely hung in their bedroom ceiling anyway?

5) We're sorry, guys, for the ladies that don't like to give head.  Truly, deeply sorry.  Rita and Stoney have very strong feelings about said sexual act, and while are not exactly saying that you should reconsider a relationship with someone who doesn't like to wrap their lips around The Wee Man occasionally - wait, that's exactly what we're saying.  RUN. Mmmmm, penis. 

5A) Ladies, see above.  Also note - if you don’t want to suck your man's dong, there is a drunk girl in a bar who will find it piteous that you don't, and will.  Figure out what bothers you about this act and get past it.  Guys like head.  The End. If nothing else, realize that semen is chock full of protein and zinc.  It can cure a cold and bulk you up at the same time.  It's like a Super Food. Swallow, DAMN IT!

5B) People who don't give oral should not be allowed to receive oral.  Ever.  This is Rita's personal rule.  I'm a strident bitch, what can I say.

6) A threesome works very well when you are the person invited in to have fun with a couple who want to have a threesome.  Proceed with caution if you are considering bringing someone else into your relationship for some fun.  What it turns into can be tricky.  No matter how tight (or uncommitted) you two think you are. Having never experienced a dick in any orifice at the same time my face is in some woman's twat, I have no comment on this one. (Truthfully, I just thought this was a good time to write twat on this blog. You're welcome).

6A) People who work in hotels see people going to have threesomes all the time.  I'm going to do a survey to back this up.  Watch for a future post.

7) Stoney, our long-reigning Queen of Co-Dependency, has finally booted the beautiful asshole, Sexyback, to the curb.  Rita couldn't be prouder.  You, too, can kick your bad habit of feeling like if you just try hard enough, people will become the person that you want them to be, instead of the person that they really are.  Rita hopes that you have a friend who will look you in the face and tell you that no matter how good looking he is, he will never give a flying fuck about anything but himself if that's been his Modus Operandi up to this point.  And you will want to kill your friend, but she will be right, and you will feel something akin to dignity when you ignore that guy for once and for all. She's right. I fucking hate it when she's right. It's so damned irritating, but oh well. I'm ok with being wrong (sometimes). Although Sexyback was nice to look at for awhile, he was the King of the Narcissistic Pricks.  Someone send a scepter and crown directly to his condo. Ugh.

Here's to a better Spring for all of us! According to all of the astrological crap I read online (so it must be true), the Vernal Equinox (March 20, 2012 at 7:41PM EST) marks the beginning of the new astrological calendar.  A quick summary of all these websites gave me this: Spring is for new beginnings, both spiritually and physically. It's the best time of year to start new romantic bullshit and endeavors of all kinds. Translation: Go get you some strange to start off the 'New Year' right. Boom! Astrology by Stoney. 

Rita & Stoney

Living with Stoney

I'm pretty sure I solidified my position as the best roommate in the history of the world with this little gem:

It's red velvet, in case you were wondering.  It just seemed appropriate.  I will write more about 'last weekend' soon! So much to share.

-Stoney

Adventures in Texting. SXB: Fin

As Rita keeps reminding me, I haven't written about anything very substantial since November! Well folks, that's because there hasn't been anyone worth writing about in all honesty.  At the end of my last post regarding Sexy Back (SXB), I mentioned LunchMeat. Well, falling in line with all of the fucksticks that came before him, he turned out to be a complete flake.

LunchMeat and I went on 4 awesome dates shared a couple of great kisses (yup, that was it. This guy had real potential). We hit it off amazingly or so I thought.  Then the holidays came.  A busy time for everyone. Especially single men that aren't close to their families, right? One night after our 4th date he called me and we chatted for 15 minutes or so and then he had an "emergency call from work" and said he'd call me right back. We all know what happened next. Nothing. I never heard from him again. I can only assume that he was captured by wolves and is now being raised in some kind of pack system or that he was mauled by the last remaining cougar in the Midwest (and I don't mean Rita).

All the same, with my confidence at a record low, when SXB reached out and wanted to make amends for being the kind of douche that should literally wear a cape and tote a scepter, I regretfully agreed to meet him for dinner.  Long story short, as you might expect, it was horrible.  The food was good, but the company blew ass and the conversation was, to say the least, lacking.  Only after this 'date,' he actually contacted me again.  I ended up watching a movie with him a week later at his place. I'm an idiot. I'm well aware. I left after the movie much to his disappointment and didn't hear from him for about a week. And this has been our communication since.

10 days after being at his house.
SXB: Watching The Recruit. Wanna come over?
Stoney: No thanks. I'm packing.
SXB: No thanks? Where are you going?
Stoney: Um? No, but thank you for asking. Out of town for work.
SXB: Sweet. When you leaving?
Stoney: 6am tomorrow
SXB: When you back? I'm gonna miss you.
Stoney: Um? I haven't seen you in a week and a half...I don't think you'll miss me too much.
SXB: Well where have you been?
Stoney: I threw in the towel.
SXB: You give up to easy.
Stoney: I'm not chasing you.
SXB: Maybe a little chase?
Stoney: I'm not chasing. If I have to chase, you aren't interested.
SXB: A little...
Stoney: Exactly.  You're only a little interested.
SXB: No. Chase a little.
Stoney: I knew what you meant.

8 days later.
SXB: Hello...

10 days later
SXB: Hello...

6 days later
SXB: Hi. How are you?
SXB: Need to talk to you...if you will answer
Stoney: What's up?
SXB: Want to talk to you...
SXB: Want you to be my friend.
Stoney: No you don't
SXB: Yes I do...please let me. Trying to right a wrong.
Stoney: No
SXB: Okay I understand
SXB: But I really do...I'm sorry for my behavior.
Stoney: Thanks.
SXB: Welcome. So you won't be my friend?
Stoney: Why? No.
SXB: Why not? Don't understand...
Stoney: Because that's not actually what you want.  You want someone to come over every other week and give you head.  This is not a friendship.
SXB: I just said trying to make a wrong right...I really do.
Stoney: No.
SXB: Sorry you feel that way Stoney...maybe another time
Stoney: Probably not
SXB: Probably?
Stoney: No. No probably.
SXB: That's not nice...
Stoney: I've been too nice.
SXB: Now you're being mean...
Stoney: Fin
SXB: Fine...I assume.
Stoney: No. Fin. It's french for 'the end.'
SXB: Well thank you...I learned something today
Stoney: Welcome.

And that, my friends, is that.  If texting is the conversational equivalent of a hand job, then this 'relationship' went through a Costco-sized bottle of lotion trying to get the job done and still never got anything accomplished.

Fin
Stoney.

Special Guest Star, or, The Art of the Threesome

I made it a point to do exactly as I pleased when I got divorced.  It was as a result of this deep commitment to doing what felt right in the moment that led me to my first threesome.  When presented with it (practically served up on a silver platter), my first instinct was, "Can I really do this?" To which I promptly responded to myself, "YES THE FUCK YOU CAN." I figured that a threesome falling organically into my lap was just about as sexually serendipitous as you can get, and who was I to deny it? 

My organic threesome developed as such:  I was downtown one night, entertaining friends from out of town.  I went to a sort of touristy bar because I thought it would be fun for said out-of-town friends.  Oddly, I ran into my then-neighbor (a mother of a couple of kids) and she was with a man who was decidedly NOT her husband, because, well, I knew her husband.  And she was all over this guy, despite him being not her husband.  When we ran into each other, she and her man were just as shitfaced as was I, and they pulled up chairs at the table with my friends.  The first thing that she said to her man was "Pauly, this is Rita. You know, RITA." Well, that kind of intro begs for an explanation, so she went on to divulge that when I came home with a guy in the wee hours of the night/morning, she could, 9 times out of 10, hear me getting it on with him in my house, which was right alongside hers.  Not just when I was in the bedroom, which backed up to hers, but when I was in the living room, the porch, the patio (well, duh), the dining room table, etc.  She would wake her husband up (or call her lover, who I came to learn was sharing the table with me that night) and listen to me get it on with the flavor of the evening.  Well, shit!  I had no idea, but I'm not going to lie, I'm pretty proud of the fact that I can draw an audience.  Anywho, that was my intro to her boyfriend.  So Pauly, who had spent more than one evening on the phone with my neighbor (let's call her Boobies) while I was creating home-grown entertainment next door, made the connection about who I was and was intrigued.  Pauly and she met at a conference out of state, and he comes in to see her when her own husband is out of town on business. (Future post - Conference Sex.  Watch for it.)

Let me pause in the lurid details here to mention that I actually really like this woman.  I have sat at her kitchen table and on her porch and drank wine by the boxload.  We've discussed our lives, relationships, fuck ups, and successes.  Our kids play together.  Your lesson here - there are so many layers to people, it's hard to fathom sometimes.  Always remember that everyone that you come into contact with has a deep well of needs and secrets hidden inside them that very few people get to see. 

We chatted for a while and had some more drinks.  My friends were blissfully unaware that my neighbor was with her boy toy and listened to her rapturously describe his prowess in the sack.  He sort of sat back and let the adoration flow over him and tried to make conversation with me.  Boobies went on to say that she wishes other women could sleep with Pauly to know the bliss that she does.  Seriously?  If you have to give a public monologue about this dude, I'm guessing you haven't been laid properly in SOME TIME.  Soon my friends had to head back to their hotel, due to early flights the following morning.  I get up to throw them in a cab and Boobies grabs me and lets me know that she will cab home with me later if I stay with her and Pauly Penis for another drink.  So I return to join them again, marveling at this situation. My neighbor and her lover.  They are looking at me and finally she blurts out that she really wants me to have sex with them.  It is not lost on me that she doesn't say Him, but THEM.  He looks at me, waiting to hear the answer.  And I pause for a moment, thinking, "should I…." and then I just fucking agree.  Because being the guest star in this fantasy seems like the best case scenario for my first threesome. 

I drive them to a hotel (seemed like a good idea at the time to have an escape vehicle) where Pauly is staying downtown.  I remember walking drunkenly through the lobby, but distinctively remember the hotel staff checking us out, going up to a room together.  I'm sure they see this all the time.  They probably write blogs, too.  So we get to their room and we all go in.

I had a brief moment where I wondered what exactly I was going to do with a girl AND a guy, since up to this point my experience was guys only, and not usually in front of an audience (at least not one that I was aware of). But things just sort of started happening.  They sandwiched me, and started kissing me.  I kissed him, I kissed her, she kissed him…clothes were being taken off.  As you may have gathered from her nickname, Boobies has an amazing set.  Very large and completely natural.  I was fascinated.  They were so warm and soft, I understand why men are so obsessed.  And women kiss differently - still with some aggression, but they're much softer.  I guess we're just soft all over ladies.  Herein lies our appeal, apparently.

I know you're wondering at this point, and the answer is no, I did not go down on my neighbor and she did not on me. Pauly went down on both of us, alternating.  Then he fucked her while I watched and kissed and licked them both, let him touch me.  I got on top of him and rode him while she straddled his face. Then I got on top of her and straddled her waist, and he took turns fucking us.  Me while I was on top, doggie style, she while on her back, sucking on my breasts.  It was hot and seemed to go on forever.  What Pauly lacked in the personality department he definitely made up for in stamina.  Finally, he started to fuck me harder and harder, and pulled out, took off his condom, and came all over my ass. 

Boobies was distinctively not pleased about this turn of events.  Apparently she felt that was her prize to earn, and got up and scrambled into the bathroom in a huff.  He followed her, and I could hear conversation pieces like "just sex" and "thought you wanted this" and "how was I supposed to know" coming from Pauly.  I finished dressing and knocked on the door and informed them that I was leaving.  "Ok!" she shouted.  Apparently being walked out is not part of the deal in a threesome, but I was totally fine with that as this point.  I scrambled out of there, and before I got to the elevator started laughing.  Because I knew, with certainty, that I would have felt exactly the same way. I am nothing if not a jealous bitch.  I decided then and there that never would I bring another person into a relationship that I was in.  But being the guest star - that was a great role to play.  Who knew that I would learn such a valuable life lesson from my first threesome? 

This was honestly a really enjoyable experience for me.  And I not only learned that I would never bring someone into my own relationship, but also this: there was a lot going on with the couple I was with, but I was blissfully able to completely enjoy the situation, totally removed from any emotion.  I know a ton of you just asked, "But is that a good thing?"  Not for everyone, I'm sure, but for me - yes.  I actually enjoy sex when it doesn't have to MEAN anything.  It's like eating chicken nuggets - you know you should be eating grilled organic tofu because it's great for you and all, but sometime processed chicken nuggets taste fucking great and you don't want to have to apologize for wanting them.  Sex doesn't have to always be like prom, where you're in your best formal gown, you get your hair done, put on a shit ton of makeup, adorn yourself beautifully and it's the greatest night of your life.  Sex can just be a physical release (guys, you're with me on this, I know) and you feel great and you can just close the door on that shit - no emotion messing with how fucking good an orgasm feels. So if you're one of those girls who wishes you could NOT be in love with the person you're having sex with, I highly recommend a Special Guest Star Threesome.  It will help you learn to get in, get off, and get out. 

Trust Rita. 

-       Rita

Blow Jobs for ALL!!!

Rita and I recently attended a girl's night at a friend of hers' home.  There, I met a myriad of truly lovely women, ranging in age from 23 to 50ish.  Wine was flowing and chatter ensued.  During the normal course of conversation, the talk turns to blow jobs - as so frequently happens in large groups of classy women such as ourselves.  (The conversation goes to either sex or food, take your pick - Rita.)  One ravishing 30-something exclaimed, "Oh GAWD! I hate giving head. I've only done that for my husband like, ONCE."  Rita and I locked widened eyes with each from across the room and our mouths both gaped open in horror.  We silently shook our heads at each other and bit our tongues.  As soon as we walked out the door, we chatted incessantly about how a woman could possibly not enjoy giving head.  We were absolutely baffled. 

 As we drove home we quickly rattled off all of the reasons we LOVE giving a blow job:

1) Authority. Doesn't matter what physical position you are in for said oral escapade, you are in the position of authority.  Let me break it down for you: His. Dick. Is. In. Your. Mouth. That is all.

2) The noises and sounds they make (hopefully) like "OH" "Dear Sweet Baby Jeebus!" "Fuck" "UH!" "Yes!" "Holy FUCK!" "When did you...OH! GOD" "Seriously?" "UH" "No...SERIOUSLY" "SHIT!" and then there's the part where his head (the one on his shoulders) flops back uncontrollably with a sigh and a "Oooohhhhhhhhh."  

3) The compliments. What woman (or man) doesn't want to be complimented? Especially after any kind of sex act. "Seriously! That was the MOST amazing head ever!"  "That thi...thing you did with your tongue and then your, um, hands, you know...JESUS! Are you real? You can't be real?" "Do you want to meet my parents now? Cause I think I want to marry you. Tomorrow." (I would like to add one of my personal favorites "Fuck, you're gifted.")

4) The smell.  I have to qualify this as it's probably the same reason that men like to eat pussy.  For the most part, the musky (sorry, no better way to put it) smell of a man is intoxicating.  I don't mean fresh out of the shower, and I don't mean having sat at a football game in the sun all day.  Maybe...walking in the door from work? Mmmmmm. 

5) The naughtiness factor.  Every bad girl worth her salt (I'm talking to YOU, Reader) has a "move" that seems to get her the kudos that everyone wants to hear.  Let me tell you, ladies - blow jobs always get you the kudos.  They are the naughty move that pretty much every man wants, and thinks is hot.  I'm a big fan of not reinventing the wheel and using best practices.   

And here's what makes a woman good at head, according to most guys - being into it.  You don't have to be an expert, or even extremely good.  No one woman has the perfect technique that works for everyone, there's not a class we've taken or a manual we've read to get good at it.  Just get down to it, do some experimenting, and make an effort. Maybe even ask if something feels good. But for God's sake, don't half-ass it, like you're doing him some huge favor just so he will eventually get you off and you can go eat dark chocolate and watch Mad Men.  Guys know when you're not into it.  They want you to LOVE sucking their dick.  This makes them feel sexy and desired and like you NEED IT.  And frankly, that's hot.  I don't care who you are. 

We would also like to give you less confident ladies some tips on how to improve your technique if you're one of those girls who just doesn't feel confident enough when she's giving head: 

1) Watch porn. - If you aren't doing this already, quit being dumb. It's exciting, and it's instructional.

2) Get a mirror. Stoney has a full wall size mirror in her bedroom (she swears it came with the house). Kneel down with your back to the mirror and suck on some cock. Guys are visual creatures.  Seeing this show from all angles is a crazy huge turn-on. 

3) Use your hands.  Do the old hand-job motion on the shaft while using your mouth on the tip keeps your gag reflex in check.  Rita is lucky enough to not have a hair-trigger gag reflex, but hey, everyone's mouth gets tired at some point. 

5) Swallow. I can't believe I even had to put that on this list.  Don't back up and make a face while he's coming.  Would you want your man to do that after he makes you come?  At the very least, let him come ON you somewhere and watch.  Sexy!  

6) Don't try and kiss him after swallowing.  That's just a dick move (pun intended) -- men are pussies and are completely grossed out by it.  They do, however, like to kiss you after they've eaten  you.  Double standards abound...

7) Two words: Morning Head! Give your man a wake-up call of your mouth on his cock.! Two more words: Mind Blown!

And finally - Give and You Shall Receive! Golden Rule of head, ladies.

You're welcome,

Rita & Stoney