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men

No one wants to have sex with me and that’s okay I swear

April 19, 2011

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

 

*We follow each other on Twitter

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Don’t hate the player, hate the people who lurk in Barnes & Noble

April 21, 2010

I went to Barnes & Noble a few days ago because sometimes I buy books and sometimes I even read them. The one near me is one of those fancy ones with an escalator and is surprisingly without a King James Bible display table. So I felt a bit intimidated going in with greasy hair that the rain outside had somehow exacerbated and clothes that I’d been wearing for the better part of that week.

But right as I walked in, someone asked me where the Photography section was. I stood there pulling back the hood of my jacket since it kind of made me look more homeless and stared at him, hoping that if I remained still enough, he would lose interest and find someone else to make uncomfortable. I seriously couldn’t believe he thought I worked there, or anywhere for that matter. He finally asked if I did, in fact, work there and, thinking I had already given him the answer with my ‘can’t talk now, thinking about how awesome Orgazmo would be in 3D,” I was only able to force out a barely audible “Whuu.” Eventually he gave up on me and I joined him for the worst escalator ride ever, you know, aside from the ones that involve people actually getting caught in them.

In my haste to get away from this guy, I skipped my usual perusal of the Self Help section to check if there was a book that could teach me how to quit biting my nails while offering tips on how to stop having dreams where I’m forced to jerk off Robin Williams dressed as a priest, and headed straight for the Writing/Reference section. I soon noticed that, unless I wanted four different versions of Webster’s Dictionary, I wasn’t going to find anything useful. But seconds prior to this realization and just minutes after my first run-in, someone shuffled up beside me and uttered three words that almost always guarantee a chill down my spine. How’s it going.

In my experience, asking How’s it going means that I’m about to be forced into banal small talk or I’m about to be hit with a gem like, “I study acupuncture.” Right as I noticed this guy’s Alpaca wool beanie, I knew this wasn’t going to end without a vow to myself that I wouldn’t leave the house again for at least one week.

But despite the fact that he might’ve been on LSD at the time, his skills were pretty sharp. After I responded to his perfunctory question with a curt, “good”, he baited me by asking the name of the style manual typically used in high school English classes. I immediately thought to myself, The Elements of Style, and as if it were a vegan hot dog, the words flew right out of my mouth.  Because of the LSD, he didn’t really absorb what I said, so I had to repeat it for him no less than three times, while offering some useless trivia about how, “Its street name, Strunk & White, if you can believe it, is actually the last name of each of the authors. Heh. Heh.” It’s like he knew I spent most of my junior year eating lunch in the library, having nothing better to do than catalog most of the fiction and reference section. And if he didn’t, I was doing a great job at proving it.

He still seemed a bit confused, so I pointed at it with my foot on the bottom shelf. He picked it up, muttering something about buying it for his Chinese friend but not today, and then handed me his card. It named the place where he studied acupuncture. I was thankful for it because it gave me something to focus on since I certainly didn’t dare to make eye contact, hoping that he would pick up on the hint that I was fresh out of pussy so he should look elsewhere. He never did, so once his back was turned, I hustled to the Science Fiction section to hide out until he left.

After a few minutes, I began to make my way to the escalator. What was previously a monument to the grand achievements of the West that was only sometimes fatal was now an obstacle course that I needed to complete quickly, without hurting myself, and most important, without getting trapped on it with Mr. Hemp Pants. I made it out of the store unscathed, but not before spotting him near the magazine section, reading something with a red car on the cover.

I think it’s safe to say I dodged a bullet. Or at the very least, life in a commune.

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As if anyone is brilliant enough to manufacture a sex doll that pisses itself

January 1, 2010

A few weeks ago, I found a new hobby. For an hour or so every night, I would collect a handful of the most illiterate and horrifying Craigslist personal ads imaginable. Then, I would send the links to my boyfriend and before bed, he would read them to me as phonetically as possible in order to really emphasize the I am so fucking desperate I can’t be bothered to spell-check this well and mostly because my internet access at the library is about to expire quality of each ad. As bedtime stories go they had everything – a fallen hero (or more realistically, someone who never got up in the first place), usually some sort of infidelity that required a clandestine meeting, and of course, the deeply disillusioned idea that their dick was worthy of a honey baked ham, much less a woman with an equally savory, but somewhat less edible, vagina.

Like many of my hobbies, it was short lived and able to be done from the couch. There are really only so many times you can laugh at the fact that an alarming number of people don’t know that there is a difference between ‘woman’ and ‘women.’ Oh, and not surprisingly, seeing the cock and balls of men who seemingly traded in all of their potential for extra hair on their taints can put a damper on your sex life.

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Let’s talk about what’s been on ALF’s face for the last 23 years

September 21, 2009

The other day, I was at Red Robin for what was at least the fifth time this month because I can’t just kill myself in one afternoon like everyone else, I have to do it as slowly and with as much ranch dressing as possible. While trying to pretend my turkey burger was something more than a feeble attempt to offer the illusion that I’m health conscious as long as there’s cheese, I was told that I should start writing about gender misconceptions but…in a way that’s funny.

I chewed on it, but couldn’t get excited about it. Mostly because repeating patriarchy over and over again or spelling ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ is never funny or even remotely enlightening. The last time I boarded that ship, I tried convincing my ex’s best friend that women are equal to men, but the response I got was something along the lines of, “Yeah, but that doesn’t apply in the real world.” I shrugged it off, because since this was coming from someone in their fourth year of community college, their concept of the real world was not one I was concerned with. But then I started thinking about what I could get excited about, and that, of course, is uncircumcised cock.

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Somehow these commercials strip adult diapers of their good name

June 3, 2009

Kimberly-Clarke, manufacturers of Depends adult diapers, have recently added to the pot of men vs women, dogs vs cats, bacon vs tampons bullshit with a new ad campaign for their line of adult diapers specifically designed for women and men. Since I’m not quite kinky enough to claim that I’ve ever used adult diapers, I assume that this is good news for those who do. However, the commercials possess a Miss Arizona-esque brand of what the fuck. While I realize that they probably came to life with some consideration of the audience they’re targeting, it’s insulting to assume that everyone over 60 has this idea that women are only good for making Apple Brown Betty and men are good for drinking Cognac and talking about WWII.

So far, there’s one commercial featuring white people, and one featuring…everyone else, or “coloreds”, if I’m to assume Kimberly-Clarke’s stance on how people over 60 think. One focuses on who rules the world, the other, driving. They both share this strand of totally wacky and endearing banter between one self assured man and one expectedly passive woman and you’re just like, “Aww, old people…is there anything they won’t say?” It’s really not even necessary for me to sum them up based on the embarrassingly predictable topics, but it suffices to say that the men are adamant that men rule the world and are better drivers while the women are kind of loosely committed to the idea of anything not involving grandchildren.

depends2 Somehow, these subjects exceed at being both painfully irrelevant and socially damaging. It’s kind of like when Billy Baldwin is allowed on TV–no one really cares, but you know it can’t be good.

It’s possible, however, that I’m over thinking things and missing the point that it doesn’t really matter if men or women rule the world or know how to effectively merge, as long as whoever is in charge is wearing a cable knit sweater. Regardless, why am I going to take the opinion of someone who can’t even keep their urine under control? Talk to me when you have tips on how to blame your soaked crotch on faulty plumbing.

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