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

 

Adventures in Texting - Odd Kink Edition

So long ago (this past summer) I had an adventurous hook up with a guy that was pretty amazing in bed.  We planned to connect a second time and in anticipation of our next meeting, he was texting me that he wanted me to be in bed in my softest sweats, waiting for him. So I did as he requested (I aim to please, Reader) and he came over.  Unfortunately for he and I, he was extremely nervous when not pumped full of Bud Light, and could not get it up.   Super.  Fail.  It goes without saying that he disappeared after that particular night.  Stoney and I agreed that he had likely unloaded the gun prior to his arrival at my house out of pre-performance anxiety. 

Fast-forward 4 months.  Stoney and I were having a quiet night out, and after listening to me despair over my roster’s complete inability to make something happen in my vagina, Stoney suggested that I reach out to the guy who was great one night and couldn’t get it up the next (She had dubbed him The Experience during our first encounter, but I have since renamed him. See below).  So I did. 2 days or so later, I get the following text:

Couldn’t Get It Up (CGIU): Who is this?

Reader, are there any worse words in the universe to see on a text screen?  Dagger to the nuts, right there.  So I respond:

Rita: Obviously someone you have deleted. 

24 hours later (this guy is clearly rather slow on the uptake), I receive the following:

CGIU: I’d really like to know who this is, I got a new phone so I don’t have old contacts.

Rita: Rita.

CGIU: Where did I meet you? (he’s finally decided to solve the mystery and responds immediately! And clearly doesn’t remember me, which is another dagger, but hey, it was one drunken night and then a night that he probably doesn’t want to remember)

Rita: Name of Bar.  Your friend was hitting on me, but you stealthily got my number.  We hooked up the next night.  But then when I had you over again, you were clearly extremely nervous and nothing happened.  Mystery solved?

CGIU: Ah ha!  Yes! How have you been??

Rita: I feel like I’ve accomplished something today!  Except for finding out that I’m not that memorable.  I’m good.

CGIU: No, honestly my association with your name just wasn’t 100%...sorry

Rita: No offense.  Our time together sober was limited, I admit. How are you?

CGIU: Good, thanks!  I know, sorry about that though.  Typically I’m BETTER sober, not the opposite. So...did you want to try me again?? J

Rita: Well, that’s fun to think about.  I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable in any way.  I was very attracted to you in probably in hindsight was about as subtle as a golden retriever.  And yes, yes I do.

CGIU: I’d like another try. ;)  If you would do your best to entertain my sweatpants and sweatshirt fetish, it would definitely help me relax. 

Rita: I would be happy to indulge you.  Just let me know exactly what you want.

CGIU: Traditional sweatpants and sweatshirts.  The thick fuzzy kind, you in them with nothing underneath.  The more plush the better

(ok, this makes me laugh just typing it again.  WTF? )

Rita: I can do this.

CGIU: I’d like if we both have them on with the crotches torn out

Rita: Maybe you should do the tearing.

CGIU: I’m officially too horny to work now

Rita: I was wondering if that was having effect on you, just thinking about it...

CGIU: It is. I’m contemplating leaving to relieve myself

Rita: Oh my.

CGIU: I know

Rita: Let me know when you want to get together.

CGIU: Do you have the right sweats?

Rita: Do my old sweats with my university across the ass and an old hoodie work?

CGIU: Are they soft and fuzzy inside? If so, now!

Rita:  Now is a little short notice J. I will have to figure something out for you on the sweats situation. 

Rita: OR maybe you should pick out what you want and bring it to me.  I mean, in most of my fantasies that usually involves lingerie, but I am flexible!

CGIU: Okay, I will bring you some! Since you are willing to wear that for me, I’d be happy to wear whatever you want me to

Rita: I would certainly hope so. I don’t have any special requests of you.  But I will keep that in mind...

So there’s that to look forward to, Reader.  I know you probably think we are making this shit up, but really, is that even possible?  So people that are turned on by their partner dressing up as a mascot or large animal are called Furries? What the fuck is someone into plush sweats called?  Plushies? Turns out, no.  Urbandictionary.com (the be-all-end-all of interwebs knowledge) says that is someone sexually aroused by stuffed animals. Ummm? Sweaties? Oh wow. Don’t google that, I’ll save you the trouble:

or 'the sweaties' is a physiological disorder in which an individual (who is often overweight) develops a sweat patch around the axilla (underarm region), mammary gland (man boob/breast region) or back, in an environment in which a person deemed normal would not sweat. These disturbed individuals are often referred to as sweaty fuck tards, or sft’s for short.

And how about fuzzies?  Shit!  Apparently that’s just another way to say Furries.  Well…if you have a suggestion, for the love of god, leave a comment as we are at a loss here.

I’ll let you know how sweatpant sex goes, if it happens. 

- Rita