...Tomorrow Could Be Hell To Pay

I am delighted to announce, that it took me no time at all to bounce back from being churlishly slighted by the Nail-Biter and his phantom penis problems, a few weeks ago. In fact, if I hadn't blogged our story just the other day, I am quite sure that he would be completely (well, mostly) erased from my memory, by now. And I feel that I must give credit for my speedy recovery...to online dating as a whole.

See, people can bad-mouth internet dating all they want, but I personally have found (most of) my dating sites to be as comfy and welcoming as a beloved neighborhood pub (only here, there's no need to tip your server) Online dating provides a sanctuary of sorts, for tens of thousands of other desperate singles like myself, who count on the camaraderie that can be found in what (for me) has become a place of refuge. By now I know, that whenever the chips are down, I'm better off skipping the disappointing bar scene altogether, and instead, bellying up to my trusty ole Mac, which I can count on (pretty much without fail, anymore) to lead me straight into temptation and deliver me to evil, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever...Amen.

And since I've been even more aggressively combing the waters of the online dating pool lately, I have adopted a new m.o., which is to come clean with guys about the blog, right away - and my reason for doing so is trifold.

First off, I have been on an aggressive blog promotion campaign recently, and so aside from boosting the Big Ugly's presence via more frequent tweets and my semi-nude contributions to Twitter's #HNT, I figured what better way to plug it, than to post the link on my dating site profiles, whereby putting my blog directly in the hot little hands of gawking would-be suitors and desirable prospects, as well.

What's funny to me though, is that I automatically assumed that any man who reads my blog, will run in the complete opposite direction, terrified of potentially forfeiting his dignity in exchange for a few hearty yucks. And I'm sure that there have been plenty of good ones who have done just that (pity). It's not such a radical concept - that for me to advertise on a dating site, that I write about and spare little detail of every blog-worthy encounter - could easily be committing social suicide. On the contrary however, what I've noticed is this sort of "cream rising to the top" effect, ever since instituting my new plan. What I mean by that is, seems most guys who read my blog (and who don't make strange, afterwards) possess a few of the qualities that are not only de rigueur for dealing with me and my bloggage, but are also traits that I find extremely attractive...most commonly, a sigh-inducing blend of self-confidence and courage...which I must admit - really zips my fly...or whatever...

Other times (as I've mentioned before) I attempt to use the horror stories featured in my blog, as a means by which to frighten off certain men. And remarkably, I can think of only one instance where I know that I've been successful at using the Big Ugly to 86 a dolt.

It shocks me to think that any man could actually dig reading the stories that I so callously disclose about them and their distant "brothers". I mean - I can understand why women would enjoy the Big Ugly...in a kind of "been there done that" sorta way. But I would think that it could easily enrage some men, or at the very least - turn them against me. And yet I hear it firsthand, that most men approve of it (and even get a stiffy while reading certain entries...so there is that)

And finally, the third reason for my newfound straightforwardness is this...Ok, let's say that I have written to (which is rare) and luckily gotten a response from someone who at first glance, makes my squishmitten tingle. As tempting as it might be to keep mum (especially if I'm surprised that such a gem would even respond in the first place) I know that if this is someone who I should ever chance to git wit, he would feel entrapped and betrayed, if after we'd met and did whatever...I wrote all about it in the blog without his knowledge. And like I said, I've made the link virtually impossible to miss on my profiles, so even if I kept it zipped - he could easily come across it himself, anytime after the fact (a la Babyarm)

Again, by doing this, I'm at risk of scaring off a good candidate...which would sting even more, if I'd allowed myself to get excited about him already. But I think that he would be just as likely to flee and in more of a huff, if he read that I'd written about him after we'd spent some time together, which would be especially tragic if we did hit it off....and that could make me sad (So see? I might still have feelings, after all!) Needless to say, nowadays - before I let things proceed, every guy is given fair warning, after which - the decision is his...whether to beg off or stay put. The former would def. be a bummer...but not nearly as much as it would, if it happened after I'd already started to really like the man. You following me?

VelveTongue is the most recent in the short line-up of chaps that I've met in person, who had full knowledge of my blog, beforehand. I met him on CougarLife - so yes - he's very young...25 to be exact, but I am not exaggerating even a little, when I say that he is hands down, the most mature 25 year old that I have ever had the pleasure of...ummm...meeting. Right..."mature 25 y/o"...kind of an oxymoron...but I'm tellin' ya', VelveTongue intimidates me! He makes me feel like the inexperienced half of the pair. He's just so goddamned smart...and has his shit so totally together, professionally as well as personally. The icing on the cake is that he also has mad skills in bed. VelveTongue is a man who knows who he is, what it is that he wants...and exactly what needs to be done in order to get it. All of which has me admiring him from this sort of puppy dog state of reverence.

It doesn't hurt either, that he's fucking GOR-GEE-OUS! You just have no idea...I'm still trying to decide which I like more...his nose or his hands. Each of which represents in more general terms...his face and his body. He's one of the few who've been two for two on the whole nose/hands thing, and you all know how much that silly shit matters to me. But that's just for starters...VelveTongue's got the entire physical package working in congruous conjunction with his incandescent charisma. (Plus, I LOVE his teeth...and he smells really good!)

One of the key components of his very able anatomy is, you guessed it - that multitalented tongue of his...I still haven't quite figured out how to tune my ears to his unique verbal frequency. The couple of times that we've been together, I have found myself leaning in to him and repeatedly asking..."'Scuse me?"..."What?"..."HUH?!"...because his utterances come out strung tightly together like pearls on a strand of silk thread...minimal inflection, few breaks between words and at an almost inaudibly low decibel...the nuance of which, is somewhat hypnotic, despite being virtually indiscernible...Who cares, that this novel language of his, leaves his lips like a lullaby, the lyrics literally lost to the melody...the very sound and quality of his voice...fully does me in.

Not to mention, I am this close to awarding VelveTongue the high honor as Best Kisser Ever, since he's got that whole thing going on in spades. Which I 'spose could perhaps be attributed to a God-given gift, but to me also illustrates yet another facet of his enigmatic maturity.

When we first started talking, and I informed VelveTongue of the premise of my blog, he said something which indicated to me, that impressing me, was a bit of a personal challenge for him. He seemed to think that a bigger insult than being written about unfavorably, would be for me to consider him "un-blog-worthy". I liked that he wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by the likelihood that I might find fault with him and write about it accordingly, and instead - he seemed amply prepared to rise to the occasion...and honey, let me tell ya' something...that he did...that he did!

I hate to even think about counting how many penises I've seen over the course of the last two years...not so much because I hate thinking about penises (cuz I'm actually pretty fond of the little buggers!) but more because it reminds me of what a fucking tart I've become...but that's neither here nor there...The point that I really wanna make is, that after having sampled so many, many specimens, I have become fascinated with how different they all are...not just in how they look, but also in how they fit. Enter VelveTongue...literally...

On top of all of his other charming and irresistible qualities, VelveTongue's junk was to my stuff - like a rack is to a pinion...we operated like a fine-tuned machine which handled just beautifully.................................

Sorry...trailed off there for a second............

Ok, so because of ALL of this - I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and suggest that VelveTongue is my favorite cub to date, barring virtually none. But here is where him knowing about the blog is a good thing (no big surprises later to potentially send him packing) as well as a potentially detrimental one (big surprises later, to potentially send him packing)

If it weren't for my recent push to ramp up Big Ugly business by putting myself out there more than ever, which is only compounded by my newfound contentment with staying single, I think that I could easily fall for the young stud. Fortunately, I know better than to do something quite so foolish as that, and so for now, I shall be satisfied with seeing and being with him, whenever I can. Problem is, although we have never come close to broaching the subject of being "mutually exclusive" or anything like that, I can't help but wonder if my compulsion to seek and find fresh fodder, and to then report about it in my blog - could quickly put an end to the naissance of our friendship.

You and I both know, that when left to my own devices...I am apt to get into some kind of trouble...and who's to say?...At this point, I might already have...

A Real Nail-Biter

Not to spoil what could've been the surprise ending or anything, but I'm just dying to get something off my chest. Ok, so check this out...a few weeks ago, I went on not one but TWO dates, with a guy, who I actually found attractive and interesting...and believe it or not...I did not fuck him...or rather, I should say...he did not fuck ME...

Now, upon reviewing my pretty consistent track record lately, of screwing pretty much anything that moves, one might think that for me to grind my girl parts, deeply and mercilessly into some guy's kielbasa, through my jeans and his trousers, during a couple of separate, hours-long snog sessions...but to NOT do the dirty - should earn me some bragging rights, correct? So why is it then, that I interpret all of this as total date fail?...and definitely not some significant accomplishment...

Clearly the way that I define the basic concepts of what's "good" and what's "bad" and what's "right" and what's "wrong", these days - is a mite bit skewed. Cuz after my (comparatively speaking) decorous dates with the guy in question, I initially viewed the absence of premature, gnarly sex, as indicative of some sort of inadequacy on my part. Like, what was it about me, that had him slamming on the brakes just before getting all the way down my pants, and then adding insult to injury by sleeping next to me, fully clad? (Of course, the thought never crossed my mind, that he might just wanna take things slowly...)

But listen, before we delve ever deeper into that whole discussion, let's first examine another area where my perceptions have gone a bit awry, recently.

It has become glaringly apparent to me, that I should seriously consider having my age gauge calibrated. I mean...when I hear myself claim in all seriousness - that a man 7 years my junior, is actually an age-appropriate target, I know that something is definitely outta kilter.

Way back when Jimmy and I were first dating, I was admittedly hung up on the fact that he's 10 years younger than I am. He was, let us not forget, my first real (albeit accidental) stab at the cougar/cub relationship, and the stigma therein (among other things) took a little getting used to. To be perfectly honest - before Jimmy - my natural inclination had always been to gravitate towards older guys. My first (post-divorce) boyfriend of a year and a half, (who, incidentally I did ditch for Jimmy) - was 10 years my senior. And most every other guy that I dated before I was married, was substantially older than I.

It has in no way been an intentional effort on my part (over the last solid year) to stalk and be stalked by a veritable litter(?) of cubs...I swear! My sensible head tells me that it can't be instinctual, for a woman to adapt to such an unconventional form of dating (my body on the other hand, tells me something completely different) But I must say...so far - this strange evolutionary process in which I've found myself naturally selecting absurdly young men - has worked out exquisitely, in more ways than one so far. The thing that I find kind of interesting though, is that 30 (Jimmy's age for part of the time that we were together) used to feel soooo dreadfully YOUNG to me...but now (years later) whenever I find myself chatting it up online with an early 30-something feller, I'm there like, "Ahhhh...FINALLY! Someone in my age range!"

No doubt, 30's is undeniably a whole lot older than the recent, average age of my escorts - which is something more in the neighborhood of 22 - 25. But per my own age of 39 (plus a few undisclosed extra years), early 30's is still realistically, for the most part...too young for me.

So...a few weeks ago, after making arrangements to meet an independent filmmaker with an appealing offbeat sense of style - I proudly announced to Willow - that I had a date lined up with a lad who wasn't too young, for once. "Well, how old is he?" she inquired skeptically. "HE'S 34!" I exclaimed........."Wuuull...yeah..." she weakly replied, "that is better I suppose...but it's still awfully young...for you...dontcha think?" "Oh, pshaw", I defended. "That's way better than my usual, you should be happy!"...and I flippantly skipped off to go get myself gussied up for a night on the town with...the Nail-Biter.

As I strode down the Old Town Mall, heading towards the bar where we'd decided to meet, I could hear the footsteps of someone walking not too terribly far behind me, and I just had this feeling that it was the Nail-Biter...but I did not turn around to look. I stopped at the door of the bar, and produced my i.d. for the bouncer, who very sweetly (but not so convincingly) feigned needing proof that I was of age, before he could let me enter the building...the dear thing. By this time, the person directly behind me in line had moved squarely into my personal space, and as I turned around to spy the encroacher, I was relieved to discover that it was my MAN for the night, the Nail-Biter...and yes, he had been the guy walking so closely behind me down the Mall.

I don't think that I've ever broken this down for you all before, but just so you know - there are 4 types of guys that I generally dig:

1.) the extreme athlete

2.) the man in uniform

3.) the intellectual/higher thinker and

4.) the artsy/rocker (or any combination thereof)

The Nail-Biter was the first fella that I've met out in a really long time, who fell within the artsy/rocker category. And I was all over that shit. He had a thick silver hoop in each ear, a spiky mess of dark hair, and an absolutely ambrosial visage with dark, riveting eyes set amid perfectly clear, creamy skin. He was tall and trim and I liked the unconventional (for this area) way that he dressed...sort of refined vintage. I immediately found him to be practically perfect, in every way.........uuuunTIIIIL...he reached for that glass of Cabernet as the waitress handed it to him (K for starters, what man drinks red wine at the bar on a Friday night?) and I noticed something that made me recoil and which simultaneously obliterated that stirrin' in my groin.......The man's fingernails were so badly gnawed that they actually looked like they hurt...I shit you not, the dude had self-mutilated his nails into virtual oblivion. I stifled the urge to gasp, "Ooh!...oh GOD!" and all I could think was, "How positively GROSS!"...

By now you guys know how I am about hands anyway...and so the thought of those jagged nubs caressing my delicate skin (ha!) was so dreadfully unappealing, that it was almost more than I could bear. But I put all that aside cuz I figured - "Eh, so his idea of partying is drinking red wine...and he's got some of the worst hands I've ever seen. But if these are his only real flaws...well then certainly I can find a way to manage, right? Cuz I mean the rest of him seems pretty good."

The problem with these mostly insignificant physical imperfections that I observe in my romantic interests though, is that I can ignore them for so long...but oftentimes - they become inexplicably magnified and can even develop into the very thing that (I sometimes let) rot the fruits of our passion. I can see it now...the Nail-Biter and I, several months deep - in a serious* and comfortable* relationship (*both of these I must admit, are qualities that can trigger my wandering eye...consider yourselves warned) are sitting down to dinner together, when he lifts his (situationally appropriate, this time) glass of red wine to meet his lips...but those nails...oh, how they SCREAM at me...and as a means of avoidance, my eyes go blank while my mind trails off to my dating days of yore...and suddenly, I find myself plotting my escape...

This sounds so cruel and insensitive, I KNOW! And lord knows I'm not proud of being such a superficial bitch. After all, I myself, have plenty wrong with the way that I look. The main difference though, is that the Nail-Biter's problem is the direct result of a nasty habit, which theoretically - he should be able to alter. It's not like some unfortunate malady with which he was born, and about which he can do literally nothing. His problem is the side effect of a choice...and knowing this makes me feel slightly less evil about my abrupt consternation and lingering hypercriticism...brought about by those hideous hands...

All right, moving on...So, after many a drink and a couple of bars, but before last call - the Nail-Biter and I decided to call it a night. We walked to my car and I drove him to his, but instead of saying "good-bye", we fucking made-out for like 3 hours in the cramped front seat of my cute little Datsun...I was on him like a turtle shell......that had somehow slipped from the back to the front. I dozed off once, and awoke in a sloppy pool of drool - my cheek fairly well glued to his shoulder...(way to go, dork)

Over the course of our hot and heavy suck-face fest (so very reminiscent of my early days of promiscuity) I had thrown it out as an option, that he was welcome to follow me back to my place, if that's what he wanted...OR not. And so after weighing the pros and cons of hooking-up or not, we finally concluded that to wait...would be better. We kissed goodnight, and as I drove home alone, I realized that I wasn't bummed at all that we'd behaved. I was kind of proud of myself and I couldn't WAIT to tell Willow that I had been a good girl...

The next afternoon, the Nail-Biter and I touched base with each other (yea!) and after deciding that he would join me and my friends over at my house, for drinks and an outdoor fire, he said that he had something to tell me...oh boy...

I was like, "Okaaaaay...?" He said, "So, I had this weird accident yesterday, before you and I went out, and it might make it difficult for us to "do it", tonight as we'd mentioned we might." I said, "Really? Go on..." and he proceeded to spew some wanky story about how he'd been playing on the trampoline with his nieces and nephews and that somehow he'd skidded out on the thing while they were playing "lion" or some shit, and he'd scuffed up his dick pretty bad............

I told him, "Oh, that's fine...no rush on the sex thing (lies)...but Jesus! You ok?" He told me that yeah, he was fine...but "it" was maybe too tender to put "it" through anything too rigorous.

And then it hit me, "Oh my god! Was I like KILLING you last night, that whole time I was on top of you?!"

He admitted, "A little, but it was fine"

Now, I have to say, that after some time had passed, his story just wasn't sitting right with me. I mean, why hadn't he said anything about it the night before, while I was relentlessly digging my crotch into his allegedly ailing loins...FOR HOURS?! And why did he even entertain the idea of coming back to my house with me, that night? Naturally, I first became paranoid that it had something to do with him not being fully attracted to me. But I had CLEARLY felt his attraction (if you know what I mean) for pretty much the entire three hours that I'd been riding him...I'm sorry, but to me - it was definitely sounding like some weird, weak excuse...and I wanted to get to the bottom of it...but I was too chicken to interrogate him, so instead I just went along with it.

Despite his unusual revelation, we did somehow manage to enjoy another night together (although there was this part of me that kept thinking, "What's the point in him being here, if we can't even have sex?"......I KNOW! Ain't I just AWFUL?!) This time though, our surroundings were far more comfortable than some dumb, downtown bar...the fire crackled, the cocktails flowed freely and the conversation amongst old friends and new, was quite spirited. And so sex or no sex, I was still glad that he'd stopped in...(that's the polite thing to say, right?)

After our other guest left, and Willow and M.C. Ginger scuttled off to go to bed over in my studio, the Nail-Biter motioned for me to come perch atop him again, as he reclined in a comfy outdoor chair. I mounted him gingerly, not wanting to exascerbate his injury(?) and we kissed...and other stuff...for awhile...

At first I was very mindful of his mystery wound, but as things heated up - my body overrode my brain and amnesia caused me to totally forget about being careful. Next thing I knew, I was working his joint with my stuff, in a manner that felt eerily similar to that ole "tying a knot in a cherry stem" trick...

And then, "Ding!" I remembered his fragile condition...and I realized that he was in no way showing signs of experiencing pain...

I asked him if I was hurting him, he said, "No" and so we resumed cornering the market of 1st and 2nd base...which does get old after awhile, hate to say. Cuz seriously, what's the point in heavy petting at all that, if you have no intentions of closing the deal, am I right? I guess because he seemed to have made such a miraculous recovery, I became hopeful that maybe...possibly...he was enough on the mend to finally cattle prod my ham wallet (props to Jimmy for that one)

We called it a night and retired to my bedroom, where I waited anxiously for him to make a move. But instead he rolled over...and we just lay there...on top of the covers...each still in our clothes...until we both finally fell asleep...*snore*

The next morning, Willow, M.C. Ginger, the Nail-Biter and I - sat out on my front porch, swilling coffee and tea - as we greeted a gloriously unseasonable, warm Spring day. Before very long, the Nail-Biter split, and it was THEN that I laid everything out for Willow and M.C. Ginger, so that they might help me to solve the riddle.

Obviously, I wasn't particularly stoked (although Willow was!) that for the second night in a row, the Nail-Biter and I had kept things to a bare physical minimum, especially since all indications were that there was nothing really wrong with his cock. I actually took offense to the fact that he was seemingly so disinterested in dipping his wick, damnit! Why was it ok for him to earnestly kiss and to ardently paw me, but then that was as far as he'd go? The three of us put our heads together and bandied a few theories about - but in the end, we were all left perplexed.

We considered the notion that maybe he wasn't all that well-endowed. But it sure had FELT like he was fine...down there...from what I could to tell. Someone suggested that he could've been gay. Yeah but...(unless it was a case of him not fully knowing it yet) why would he have bothered to join a hetorosexual dating site...or even gone out with a girl, for that matter? They were stumped...but I had another thought. I was hesitant to bring it up at first. Why? It maybe sounded mean? Hard to say...But I did eventually throw out the possibility that perhaps he was suffering from an outbreak of herpes, or had gonorrhea, or something - I don't know!

Honestly, convincing myself of such a (far-fetched?) idea was the perfect solution for taking the focus off of whatever problem the Nail-Biter might've actually had with me, thus effectively bandaging my damaged pride.

But you know what? As I read over what I've written here, a couple of things stand out as a little bit queer to me (beyond the whole weird weiner thing, which goes without saying) For one, a couple of days later when I purposely let his call go to voicemail, I knew right then that the thing with the Nail-Biter was officially dead in the water. And remarkably, after all of that drama over his hands, my loss of interest wound up having nothing to do with those horrific hooks which I'd originally predicted would be the sure ruin of us...nope - not at all. Instead I was pointing the finger of blame for our hastily terminated flirtation - on some mysterious part of his body...that had actually rejected me...

And second, it does kind of startle me to realize that I've become programmed to think, that if a guy doesn't fuck me on the first or at the very least - the second date, well then, he either isn't into me at all in that way (and why tha hell not?!) or else there is something physically wrong with him. When in all actuality, it is entirely possible that the Nail-Biter for example, is simply a gentleman and I should be grateful that he displayed such good manners. You'd think that NOT having sex on the first and second dates would've been a much needed feather in my cap...and not the thorn in my side that it became...

$45,000.00 Baby...

Lately, it's been suggested (by more than one overwhelmed reader) that my Big Ugly Blog entries are faaaaar too long...prohibitively so, in fact. I've been told that in order to better my arguably slim chances of ever even appealing to the masses, it might behoove me to be more concise as well as more frequent in my posting. And although I'm not sure if I'm even capable of altering my traditional method of posting chapters vs. snippets, I am willing to give it a try.

I've also had folks recommend, that in order to provide a bit of (evidently - much needed) visual interest, I might consider including photos on my blog page......photos, huh......of what exactly?.........liiiike...of all the hot cocks clogging up my inbox and my phone? That could work! But wait...I can't do that. Can I? No, I really think that I can't. If I betrayed the trust of any of the many men, who have so generously donated their most intimate snapshots for my entertainment - by sharing the wealth with you guys...could I not be in jeopardy of having serious legal action taken against me? Not to mention...it would probably be a pretty shitty thing to do. K...not goin' there...

I reckon I could post the slutty shots of myself, that I use as my profile pics. (on certain dating sites) as well as those that I contribute to #HNT on Twitter, thus utilizing my blog as yet another springboard off of which to further propel my innate exhibitionism. Facilitating even considering the idea of putting a face (and a bod) with the blog, is the fact that I am completely over giving a shit about protecting my identity, anymore. In the beginning of course, I was terrified that I might risk having my already tenuous reputation, deteriorate dramatically - should folks ever catch wind of the blog (silly me) By now though, the Big Ugly is old news, here in my microscopic community, and because of that, I never ignore any opportunity to shamelessly plug it...and this has slowly begun to pay off.

People approach me now, at say - Sheetz or my kids' athletic events (my dentist even asked me about the blog the other day) and they hit me up for the deets about recent or pending entries, or to offer their opinions and advice regarding certain events which might've caused them particular concern. My ex-husband even congratulated me the other day, on having finally found a hobby which has captivated me beyond my usual two week allotment of enthusiasm. But in the same breath, he chastised me for my choice of content..."What happens when the kids read it...because eventually - they will read it" (shit and double shit) All of this indicated to me that he'd either seen it for himself, or he'd heard Big Ugly stories through the grapevine, which was more than a little creepy and frankly, I didn't wanna know how much he knew...nor did I care to face the grim reality that my children will someday read my blog. Could be a year from now...maybe 15...regardless, the Big Ugly has been branded on the internets from now til eternity, so whenever they do decide to check the thing out...it will be there waiting for them. *cringe*

I dunno...I guess I really just can't see posting a bunch of photos of myself on my blog. Not only would it get monotonous for you guys, rawther quickly - but it would most certainly fuel the whole "self-absorption" fire, and we can't have that now, can we?............hmmmm, on second thought...maybe I will post just one.

Something you won't catch me doing these days, is bitching about being bored. The recent swell in my social schedule has me optimistic, that the cyclical ebb of my oscillating dating opportunities, may well be surrendering to the flow...and I like it! And filling the gap between going on real live dates and hooking up with ex-boyfriends and things like that, is the steady stream of online introductions and the occasional peculiar interaction...one of which took place a few weekends ago.

It was early on a Saturday morning, and as usual I was messing around a bit on my trusty ole Mac, before my kids got awake. I was savoring my pre-dawn routine of reading new mail and clicking one site after another to see who'd viewed and contacted me during the night, when I was interrupted by an IM from a 26 y/o, reasonably attractive (judging solely by his photo) young man from OkCupid. The first thing that he said to me was, "May I ask you something hypothetical?" and so I answered, "Sure"

I yawned and waited for the standard, "I love dominant older women...if we were ever together, would you punish me for being a bad boy?" or something equally as original...and charming

But what I got instead, kinda threw me for a loop...

Him: "Could I borrow your uterus and one of your eggs, and pay you for the favor accordingly?"

Me: (long pause...)

Me: "Are you being serious?"

Him: "Yes, completely. I would pay you $45,000 - five grand for each month you were pregnant, assuming you carry the baby to term. You would have to be willing to "try" as many times as it takes, until we end up with a viable pregnancy. You'd have to also agree to be with no other men during that time"

Me: "Well, I could definitely use the money, haha!"

Him: "If you think you deserve more for your time and trouble, name your price"

Me: "Jesus...Ok..."

Me: "So, are you planning on raising this baby as a single guy...all by yourself? Like, what if it's a girl? Would you be cool with that?

Him: "Yes, Yes and Yes"

Me: "Ok well...I have to say - this is just an awful lot to digest, this early in the morning. I'm gonna need to think about it, all right?"

Him: "Take your time"

...the weird thing was...that I actually DID think about it (pretty seriously in fact) over the next several days...because for one thing - I am POOR! And I mean shit - having babies was always a cinch for me. I'm fertile as hell...and so "trying" to conceive was never an issue (my four dear children are between the ages of 8 and 13...you do the math) plus it doesn't hurt that I always loved being preggers. And...childbirth and recovery were really no big deal for me. Seriously...what's nine months outta the whole rest of my life, right? I could suspend my partying and fucking around for a measly nine months, if it meant collecting a cool 45 G...couldn't I?

I even went so far as to plead my case to my kids...three of which rolled their eyes and shook their heads as they turned, mid-sentence, to walk away from me and my insanity. The fourth one though, (my 12 year old daughter) said, "Mom! If you do that, you will be frowned upon by everyone, for the rest of your life!" I found her extemporaneous disapproval amusing and chuckled, "What? Why?! What's the big deal? Women get paid all the time to be surrogate mothers!" and without wasting her breath to even bother to argue her point, she rolled her eyes...and turned to follow her sibs...

After a few days, the novelty of this bizarre request and my unrealistic excitement over finding a quick(ish) fix for (some of) my financial distress...gave way to logic.

First of all, I realized that the whole thing could've actually been just some stupid hoax...some online guy, bored out of his gourd, entertaining himself by fucking with a worn out old gal. Or what if he - at such a tender young age - somehow knew that he was physiologically incapable of procreating, and he was merely trying to trick me into fucking him indefinitely, knowing that I would never get pregnant. (Far-fetched I know - but you've been warned about my wild imagination...) Maybe he was serious...Yeah, but what 26 y/o guy in his right mind, (also) has enough cheddar to pay a middle-aged woman to incubate his seed, so that he can be a single father in the prime of his young adulthood?...Maybe he was already in a relationship and he and his significant other weren't able to conceive. What if his lover was a man, and this was the only way that they could think, to get the baby that they'd always wanted.

To do it for someone who would truly appreciate it, made me almost reconsider...but not quite...cuz the truth of the matter is - I don't think there's any amount of money that would be tempting enough to convince me to have another baby...ever...'deed not (maybe) Think about it. I'm older than dirt, I like to party way too hard and the thought of making a baby for that guy or anyone else, while in an age-related, high risk category - for catastrophic neonatal health issues...was definitely less than appealing, to say the least (I'm not so sure $45,000.00 would be enough for me to have an amniocentesis! Have you seen the size of that needle?!) I should also throw in that I'm VAINER 'N FUCK! (as if you didn't already know that) Like what if I got pregnant, and gained more than 12 pounds?! That sounds terrible, I know...but is it any worse than accepting cash to have a complete stranger's baby?

What ultimately had the most impact though, was that thing at which I'd snickered at first...and something that I still don't believe could even happen. My 12 year old daughter however, did believe that if I had that young man's baby for money, I would be "frowned upon for the rest of my life"...more specifically, frowned upon by her, I presumed.

Just knowing how dead set she was against it, convinced me that I could never actually go through with something like this (I'm pretty sure) Because even though I don't get particularly bunched up about how other folks perceive me, my kids' opinions of me, really do matter.

The best part though, is that after all that time spent weighing the balance between: padding my pockets...and scaling moral high ground - my would-be sperm donor was the one who decided that all bets were off...by never bothering to contact me again...So see? There ya' go...the joke really was on me...pfft!

This is Only a Test...

This is a test...A test to see if those closest to me are paying any attention at all...cuz if they are, well then - I dare say, that before this entry reaches its bitter conclusion - the shit juuuustmight hit the fan...

Ok, so here's some little known personal trivia: sequels of any sort...or remakes, that type of thing - have never really moved me at all. If I do happen to like the original, it isn't uncommon for me to become somewhat obsessed with it, to the point where I might watch a particular movie say...like every night for a solid week or two? But as a general rule, I tend to take an "if it ain't broke don't fix it" approach, and try to avoid certain disappointment by rarely ever giving predictably weak follow-ups a chance.

Not surprisingly, the same thing applies to my relationships. There have been times in my life when I've had to part ways with a lover (whether by my own choice or theirs) and it might not have been the thing that I wanted at the time - but I just had to suck it up and get over it. Occasionally - after a little time had passed - the other person involved, decided that they wanted to give it another shot with me, and although my feelings had changed by that point, a few times I did attempt a second go-around (don't ask me why). And each and every time, I found myself consistently rewarded with calculably negligible results. I don't know if it's that I was at that proverbial "different place" by that time or if it was almost a revenge thing like, "Yeah, I'll let ya' have a little taste of whatchu been missin', but then I'm gonna be the one who walks away from the goddamned thing...with my emotions still quite in check, thank you very much" No matter what the reason, fact is, that every second attempt at resuscitating an old romance, has proved futile.

(I'm afraid these posts are becoming far too heavily laden with my belabored attempts at philosophizing, and are conspicuously lacking in grit...Imma switch it up)

I'll cut right to the quick here, I hooked up with my miserable ex-beau, Jimmy. Yep, after all of that shit-talking I've done about him, I finally caved to his recent, repeated texts and invitations to get together...and I fucked him, just like old times. Only better. Cuz you see, this time, I didn't hand myself over to him so completely. I greedily savored our warm, physical reunion...but I handily managed to keep my chilled heart on ice.

I know, how stupid can I be, right? All of that periodic ranting that I've been doing in his honor since the Big Ugly's inception, and now this? Why on earth would I rescind all of those heartfelt, harsh remarks that I've repeatedly spat about him - just for a meaningless scrump? I guess the answer is somewhat multi-layered. For one, I had nothing else going on the night that I gave in, but was still a bit reluctant to give up a childless evening and valuable computer time to take him up on his offer to buy me dinner...which he not so surprisingly tried to back out of by instead inviting me to come hang out with him at his house...to which I texted, "You are meeting me at the restaurant and you will buy me dinner, or game over. You probably don't even have vodka at your house" He did actually buy me dinner (which marks maybe the third time since I've known him that he treated me to a meal) and although I refused to follow him back to his place afterwards, he insisted on coming over to mine...for a nightcap...and of course - sex.

(Willow's gonna kill me, just so you know...)

I have to say, there was that fleeting moment during which, I did consider the possibility that Jimmy could prove to be my elusive happy ending. How cool would that be, if the very cause of the Big Ugly turned out to not only be the catalyst that essentially spurred it on, but also the panacea for it and all of my dating disappointments. Like I say though...the thought was fleeting. There was no way in hell, that I could ever get back together with Jimmy. Sadly, there were no butterflies tickling my tummy, no lightening bolts down my middle. But besides that - my friends and more importantly, my four devoted children wouldn't stand for such a thing. Jimmy would never be welcomed back into my life by any of the patient peeps who had endured my chronic crying jags and recurring melt-downs, brought about by his habitually atrocious mistreatment of me.

I've told you guys before, about how the sex with Jimmy was consistently the best...of my whole life...despite the fact that he was the most selfish lover with whom I've ever been. He rarely went down on me, but was more than willing to let me service all of his needs. Stranger still, he seldom ever used his hands to explore my body. As he did with his gf before me, he would've omitted kissing entirely...but I didn't let him, because kissing is practically my favorite...and Jimmy is a terribly good kisser. (So in that regard - I guess you could say that I was the selfish one) The two of us were never emotionally on the same plane, ever...but our bodies were always completely in love with each other, and because of this inexplicable, intoxicating chemistry, I masochistically reconciled with him time after time.

I kinda look at it like this: matter can be neither created nor destroyed, am I right? Ok. Well, I also believe that the same thing holds true in regards to the physical chemistry that occurs (or does not) between two individuals. Jimmy and I had a shitty fucking relationship but the killer sex was the glue that held us together for so long...On the flip side, my ex-husband and I had a good rapport with one another over our 10 years of marriage, but the sex? Not so good...which was def. a contributing factor in the demise of our marriage...and I quickly discovered that no amount of marital counseling or sex therapy could ever produce something that never existed in the first place.

Anyway, so the other night when Jimmy wound up back in my bed, for the first time in ages, I did not look that gift horse in the mouth - after all, what could be the harm in engaging in a bit of guaranteed physical fun, especially since I was in no way feeling tempted to make things official with him again (as he was hinting around that he might be...*gulp*)

Over the entire 15 agonizing months that we were together...and apart...and back together again, I had practically begged Jimmy to love me, and that asshole had dug in his heels, and flat out refused. And now that he was trying to wriggle his way back into my good graces, clad in this uncharacteristically polite and accommodating persona, and even dropping the "L" word (and this is gonna sound crazy to say, but) all I really wanted was for him to revert back to that asshole that I'd known and loved before...he does not wear chivalry well...

After he'd initiated his recent push for us to get together, I had used - not wanting to get caught up in his nightmare, again - as my excuse for having literally no desire to see him...and that truly was a big part of it. That and - with so many other men to thumb through in my ever-expanding dating rolodex, why on earth would I settle for something that hadn't even worked out the first time? Nevertheless, I caved. And after hanging out with Jimmy twice, I wasn't all that surprised that I really just wasn't feeling it for him...at all. Yes, our bodies still fit together as neatly as ever, tremors and all...but because of my emotional disconnect, none of it was nearly earthshattering enough to warrant making a habit of it.

The third night, Jimmy texted to say that he had made some thingy which he thought he could use to fix my broken bed, and that he could deliver it that night, but that he couldn't stay for long this time because he needed to get some sleep...I neglected to reply. Staying silent was the best way that I could think, to keep us both safe from perpetuating something utterly pointless...I did have Jimmy in mind, as well as myself. Because, although he doesn't really deserve my benevolence, I do believe that in a sense I was trying to spare him from becoming yet another casualty in my nightmare.

...And so after all of this, my theory still solidly stands...that the "sequel" is NEVER as powerful as the original...physical chemistry and all.