The Lip Biter

The other night, despite my better judgement, I allowed a girlfriend of mine to drag me along to a kegger. That's right... a house full of young, horny students, drinking cheap, flat beer, all trying to pick up the opposite sex likes it's their job. I figured I'm not getting any younger, so it might be one of the last keggers I ever attend. 


I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived, as the crowd was a bit older like myself, and the house not a typical "student house". I even spotted a couple cute guys right off the bat, so I decided to stay.


One hour later, with a stomach full of cheap beer, my friend who brought me, announced that she was ready to leave. "But the party just got staaaaarted!" I slurred. The cute boy that I was nuzzled up with on the couch, nodded like I was some wise guru, sharing a deep philosophical thought. So, my girlfriend decided to leave, and I decided to stay at the party now knowing no one, minus the eye candy on my shoulder. Hey, I was at a kegger... so why not act like it?


Another hour later, I had a great buzz on, and was just about drunk enough to make out with whats-his-face, when he got dragged along on a booze run with some friends. Because there clearly wasn't enough booze in the house already. A bit disappointed, I slumped on the couch, contemplating my next move, when something very odd happened.

A tomboyish girl came up to me and told me to quit being so glum. "Dance with me!" she called over the music. So I did.  I danced one lame techno song with her in the living room and then sat back down. She grabbed my arm and insisted on another dance. I politely declined, so she proceeded to "convince" me by initiating some creepy one-sided tickle fight. At this point I started to clue in that maybe she wasn't just interested in dancing with me. I wriggled myself free of the tickle fight, wrapped myself up in a blanket, and plunked back onto the couch.

And then.... I kid you not... she sat down on top of me, and with the force of the great hulk, kissed (or should I say BIT) me. Hard. On the lips. At this point we became the highlight of the kegger. Everyone was interested in the lesbian action happening on the couch and my red face was quickly turning deep shade of purple. 


"I've been wanting to do that since the moment you walked in," she purred to me. So, I've apparently got irresistible lips- who can blame the girl? I told her I wasn't really comfortable with this, and she took that as her cue to kiss me again. But again, it was more of a bite/ sucking my lips off. It literally took all my strength to de-pry her again. "If you're not comfortable with everyone around, then we could go somewhere more private," she added. I told her, that wasn't the part that was making me uncomfortable.


I swear at this point the rest of the party stopped. Everyone should have gotten popcorn and reclined in their lazyboys. Cause this was top-drawer entertainment. Through my drunken haze, I finally snapped out of it enough to be blunt, cause this girl was not taking a hint. I told her I go one way, and one way only... and that's the penis way (Or something equally as profound). So she got in a huff and stalked away, the party resumed, and cute boy re-entered right on cue. 


I did end up getting my make out with the boy, but my real souvenir from that night was the purple bruise I woke up with the next morning, on my lip, from the ever persistent lip biter.

The Dick

Today, instead of writing about another catastrophic date, I thought I would copy and paste the most unusual message I have received so far in online dating land. It starts out witty, but quickly becomes vulgar, and I thought you could all help me to decipher what this twisted little man's intentions were. Enjoy.

-CQ

I read your profile and learned in the process that you aren’t really a fan of casual dating. I wanted to say from the outset that I am not either I am serious about finding someone for something lasting.

I also read that you are a professional writer which is a little intimidating especially within the context of composing a first contact letter because I know how important every little thing is in the beginning. So with that in mind, I’m not going to try to be witty or cleaver (I enjoy how he spelt 'clever' wrong) and instead I will just come straight to the point and tell you exactly the sort of long term relationship I am looking for.

Okay, seems fairly normal thus far. Read on...

Quite simply, I am desperately poor and I am looking for a woman to support me in style and introduce me into High Society with her Rich Writer Money. While I have no intention of actually getting a job and making a financial contribution to any relationship we may have, I am willing to help out around the around the house by physically threatening any servants you might have. Removing a prosthetic limb during dinner and waving it menacingly at your bus boy while demanding more butter can have an effect on your employees’ moral that has to be seen to be believed. 

Sort of funny, but now it starts to get weird.

Now that I have told you a little about me, I am sure you can imagine the rare find I truly am so it seems appropriate to turn to what I want out of a relationship besides your Rich Writer Money.

I am here because I want to put my penis in your vagina. I am not here because I want you to clean my house as many other women seem to believe. I am a man, I don't care if the house is clean.

I am not here because I want you to help me move to a new apartment and I'm too lazy to do the heavy lifting. It’s really so simple, the only thing I want to see you lift is my penis to your lips to make it hard and ready to be put it in your vagina.

WHAAAAAT?!!?

Money. Ok look: just because I want your Rich Writer Money doesn’t mean that I don’t want to put my penis in your vagina. One is not incompatible with the other.

Penis Penis Penis - Vagina Vagina Vagina. Penis in Vagina. Am I finally making myself clear to you?

Crystal clear, asshole.

Now when I say I want to put my penis in your vagina this isn't some metaphor referring to Bavarian Log Rolling nor do I want you to take me to Calgary so we can go on the luge. I mean it literally.

As a result of being on the internet and looking for vaginas I can put my penis in, I have become painfully aware that “Penis” has a different meaning in Kurdish and that “Vagina” has a different meaning in Swahili than they respectively do in English. First of all, I can assure you that I am using these words in their role as part of English Language. Second of all I don't do that sort of thing to a chicken and even if I did, I already have a brother so I wouldn't need you. I just want to put my penis in your vagina; there is no need to complicate this, randomly change the language you are reading in twice in the middle of the same sentence or over think things.

Okay he rambled on at this point and referenced “putting my penis in your vagina” six more times, each time becoming more explicit than than the previous.

In closing all I can say is that you should give me a chance, put my penis in your vagina and see what happens.
Your Humble and Obedient Servant
N

Really? REALLY!?!

P.S You may also want to read my profile for further background information on what a long term relationship with me would really be like.

Is this him admitting it was all a joke? So NOW I'm supposed to see the “real him” and realize how witty and unique he is ? 

I. DON'T. THINK. SO.

 

The Leprechaun

I'd really like to believe that through this dating process I have learned a thing or two. So, when I was asked out this past weekend, I decided to pass on the long, drawn-out dinner date, and instead opted to go out for coffee. This way I could get in and out as fast as possible if need be. Wham, bam, thank you... sir?


I met up with Jay at a quaint coffee shop on Saturday afternoon. I got there first and was sipping on my scorching hot coffee by the window, when I saw him. He was about a foot shorter than he said on the website, and about half my size. I'm talking teeny, tiny, leprechaun size.

He came and sat down and I soon realized that his miniature stature was the least of my problems. Jay was straight off the boat from Ireland, and I couldn't understand a word he said! After the first eleven times of asking him to repeat himself, I began to feel a bit stupid, so I decided to just do my best to follow the conversation. I figured as long as I could get the gist of the topic, I could guess when were the appropriate times times to laugh, frown, and nod in agreement. I was sorely mistaken.


It seemed that my guessing game was way off, because a few times I laughed and he gave me a quizzical look like, "You think my grandmother's funeral is funny?" So I would quickly change the subject or shake my head and smack it as if I was a crazy person. I kept sipping on my coffee, trying to finish it, along with the date, but somehow it retained it's scorching heat. (New lesson learned: order ICED coffee next time).


The date came to a fairly abrupt halt, when he said something about restaurants, and I tried to contribute to the conversation by saying, "Well you must know all about that having worked in restaurants for so long." The look I got from him told me my Irish translating had reached an all-time low. He quickly corrected me and said he had NEVER worked in a restaurant and I must be thinking of some OTHER date. I couldn't fess up and admit that I thought I heard him say this a few minutes ago, so I decided to play the part of the dating vixen who was dating so many men, I couldn't keep their stories straight. It seemed slightly less embarrassing than telling him I couldn't understand English- my own native language.


So deeming this little leprechaun unlucky, I said goodbye, and I continue searching for my pot of gold elsewhere...

Zoolander

Despite my recent string of bad dates, I decided to put myself out there once again. Why? I don't know. Maybe I'm a masochist.

I met Mike at a local pub crowded by high school people I wished to never see again. I waited for him to arrive, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone around me, and praying that it wasn't as painfully obvious that I was on a blind date as I imagined. I'm sure it was though.

My initial thought when I met Mike was "Oh my God- I need to introduce him to Mike!" (My best gay guy friend). Not only would their matching names be adorable, but they were both well-dressed, super handsome, and super gay. Weren't they?

I soon learned that even though my date's pants were practically painted on, his walk more of a prance, and his hand flailing worse than me telling stories, he was in fact entirely straight. He kept repeatedly telling me how sexy I looked and how he loved my "luscious lips" and wanted to kiss them.

So, since I haven't gotten any in longer than I care to admit, I decided to go in for a flamboyant kiss. Hey, no sense denying the poor guy of my pretty pouter. But before our lips even touched, he pursed his mouth in a grotesque Zoolander "Blue Steel" fashion. He ended up looking more like a baby guppy than a grown man. I tried to close my eyes and commit to the kiss, but the image of his pursed pucker was burned in my mind. Our lips barely grazed when I erupted into a fit of giggles, which I tried to mask as a coughing fit. 

Mike retained the Blue Steel pose, in hopes that I might compose myself and we could begin our make out sesh. But the damage was done. I made a quick getaway, giggling the whole way home. Once again, all may not be lost though. I might pass his number along to my gay friend Mike, because if this guy wasn't gay before, my rude outburst might have just been the final straw of stripping away his manhood... Ah well. C'est la vie.

The Porcupine

Well it's safe to say that I have officially been on my worst blind date yet. The date began at 7:30pm and by 7:34pm I found myself awkwardly glancing down at my watch, trying to determine how long I would have to stay without being rude- was four minutes long enough?


My first red flag was the bottle of hair gel that my date had dumped into his hair and then proceeded to comb straight up into perfect little porcupine spikes. It was difficult to even listen to what he was saying as these glistening spikes kept hypnotizing me every time he moved his head. 


But I know that beauty also lies on the inside so I turned my attention to his conversation. It was then that I realized that under his rock-hard coif lay a tiny, little porcupine brain also. I mean this guy was dumb with a capital 'D'. He kept trying to tell me jokes that were so unfunny that he'd have to repeat them three times for me to even get what he was trying to say. I tried politely to laugh, which was entirely unnecessary as he was already laughing like a maniac at his own pathetic little joke muttering, "Ahhh, that's the best. The BEST!" So I guzzled our pitcher of beer and inhaled my meal, in an attempt to bring this one-man show to an end as fast as humanly possible.


Three excruciating hours later and I finally managed to make an excuse to leave- hey, who says 10:30pm on a Friday night isn't past my bedtime? I said goodbye and was just about to get onto the subway home when I felt my iPhone buzzing in my purse. And there it was. The final gem from my little porcupine. A short text reading: "Tewwy sad. No more Cwystal!" If TERRY thought that baby talk could redeem the terry-ble night(yes I went there), than his hair gel had seeped further into his brain than I thought. So another one bites the dust and another Friday night almost wasted if it weren't for the great writing material I gained. Hey, like I've said before- I can't make this shit up.

The Ugly Cryer

So I thought things were starting to look up in the old dating scene. I began chatting with a guy online and he seemed totally normal. We had some good witty banter going back and forth so I decided to take it to the next level: the meet up.

When we met up in a loud, crowded bar, I was surprised. This guy was actually cute. I mean cuter than his pictures even. (In online dating land I have learned this doesn't happen. Ever.) So I was pleasantly surprised. We spent the night dancing and yelling mumbo jumbo at each other over the blaring beats of Kanye. Ahh, romance at its best. And when we left the dark bar and hit streetlight I was reassured that even with my drunk goggles, he was still cute. Thus leading us to date number two.

Date number two took place at a much quieter location at a hip lounge. We were sipping on martinis and I was revelling in how well the date was going, when it happened. He brought up the dreaded ex-factor. I quickly learned that his most recent break-up occurred three days prior. I thought that was strange, considering we'd been talking online for weeks at this point. I was about to question him on this time overlap when I was faced with the most horrifying display from a grown man. The ugly cry. I'm not talking about one lonely tear trickling down his cheek. I'm talking big, loud, wet, sobs combined with full body convulsions and head thrashing.

Other people in the lounge started to stare and I honestly didn't know what to do. I awkwardly tried consoling him with an arm pat, nodding my head empathetically like some mother duck caring for her wounded duckling. The ugly cry lasted a solid ten minutes. People moved to the other side of the bar. And I sat there wondering how the hell I ended up consoling my blind date.

We said goodbye and I told him that I was sure things would work out with his ex. They'd better, cause there aren't many girls who would put up with an ugly cryer like this one. I started to wonder if maybe this was the cause of his break-up, and now he would be caught in a vicious ugly cry cycle for eternity.

Anyway, I'm fairly sensitive, but I'm not looking for some broken-hearted, two-timing cry baby.

So, once again.... back to the old drawing board.

The Potty Mouth

Okay, so I did it.

No, not that perv... I went on a blind date. And it was all that I could have hoped for and more. As a writer that is, because there will never be a second date with this guy. For sake of privacy (for all the guys who I encounter) I will change his name. So let's call him Kyle.

Kyle suggested that we meet up for our first date at a Mexican restaurant in between where we both live. I agreed, as I'm a big fan of spicy food and this place is known for some epic guac.

We sat, we did the pleasantries, I noticed he was 10 lbs heavier than the photo I'd seen, and he hadn't had a haircut probably since that picture had been taken four years ago. I decided to stay for the guac.

After I'd ordered myself a fishbowl margarita and some chicken burrito thing I asked him where his favorite place in the world was. He said it was his cottage and I was thrilled- I also have a cottage and it's my favorite place too! Yay, bonding.

But as I dug a teeny bit deeper, he literally dug a lot deeper and told me in great lengths about how he and his father took on a project of building an outhouse for their cottage. I tried to smile politely through my mouthful of refried beans.

Okay, cut to 45 minutes later, my food was mostly uneaten (as it now reminded me of the bottom of an outhouse), and I was three fishbowl margarita's deep. I kept desperately trying to change the subject.... the weather, the Blue Jays, anything really other than outhouses, but this guy was passionate about poop.

When I finally realized that another stinky story or ounce of tequila was going to make me yak, I not-so-convincingly faked a migraine and booked it.

He's texted me a few times to set up another date, but I've told him I'm a lady, and I didn't appreciate the dirty talk.