What a Crop of SHIT!

If you asked me to, I couldn't even begin to remember when it was that the Crop of Shit first said, "Hello" to me on OkCupid. We talked a bit at first, but because he was a good deal older than I, as well as married (although allegedly in an "open" relationship), I didn't feel the need to invest a lot of time in getting to know him any better. And after sending a few lackluster emails back and forth, we eventually quit communicating altogether...until...right about the time fucking Matchstick Man started wreaking havoc on pretty much every aspect of my online activities.

Here I had Matchstick Man, popping up constantly soliciting me to chat, while also giving me a ration of shit for always writing about young guys, in his thinly-veiled ploy to coax me into giving him a chance to "rise to the challenge" a la My Marine (dream on)...and then outta the woodwork comes the Crop of Shit (like Matchstick Man, also 52) heart-in-hand...hoping for another shot at establishing a "friendship" with me. I remember thinking, "Jesus Christ...what is this? Fucking - Old Guy Week or something?"

The Crop of Shit has been following my blog since we first spoke months ago, and although completely cognizant of how red-faced he could become upon reading whatever I might eventually write about him (should we ever decide to meet) it did not dissuade him from taking that chance.

I was already knee-deep in one old guy's sheize (in the midst of writing my first unfavorable blog post about Matchstick Man) and I was in no particular hurry to risk adding ancillary old dude drama to the already ample pile. Not to mention, at the moment I was singularly focussed on my upcoming second visit with My Marine, Yip! But, the notion that something blog worthy could transpire - always emblazoned on the back of my mind - I politely tolerated the Crop of Shit's emails and responded to them accordingly.

As is commonplace in my online correspondences...with each subsequent email, the Crop of Shit and I revealed more and more about ourselves. And after reading an epic message that he sent one day, I began to change my tune a bit, about the naughty old codger.

He recounted in elaborate detail, a recent tryst that he'd had with a woman - a weekend-long sextravaganza, so to speak - complete with hand-picked green willow switches for flogging, which amplified his manipulation of her mind and her body, and culminated in repeated sexual rewards for both parties (or...so he claimed) His tale resonated with my recent urgency to be dominated by a lover skilled in that particular field of expertise, and since now - he was so much more appealing to me - I did agree to meet him for drinks.

In the last email that he sent before we were to meet, the Crop of Shit put the finishing touches on my growing desire to experiment with him, when he told me that he was bringing something along on our date...a beautiful...new...bought-with-just-me-in-mind...pristine red and black...riding crop.........Looked like things could get pretty spicy...*gulp*...and because of that, I was ecstatic...as well as pretty fucking terrified!

The Crop of Shit had beaten me to the restaurant and when I got there, I saw him, but walked right past him thinking, "Ok, well I know that's not him." Maybe it was the shock of thinning white hair, I dunno...but when the hostess saw me looking around the place, she came over to me and led me to the table where the Crop of Shit sat, correctly assuming that I was the girl for whom he'd mentioned he was waiting. I sized him up quickly - not bad looking, but not at all my type, either. I guess I've just been so spoiled (having enjoyed such a nice, long run with my much younger men) that it definitely took me a second to adjust to his, well...his age.

No matter what topic we discussed (kids, work, the usual) my mind stayed fixed on the thought of that red and black riding crop...and although the Crop of Shit didn't fall under the confines of my physical ideal, he was good enough for me to picture him back at my house teaching me all sorts of new tricks...(we just might have to add blindfolding to the day's repertoire, that's all) And then after one hour, no more - the Crop of Shit asked our waitress for the check and apologized for needing to leave so suddenly..................

I was stunned. Like seriously fucking confounded, man. Weren't we going to pop my bondage cherry and put a little flogging on top?!

He settled the bill (which was greatly appreciated since it spared me having to spend the twenty that I'd borrowed from my child's piggy bank) and almost acted as if I should have somehow known that he'd be expected home shortly to perform his husbandly duties - firing up the grill for Sunday dinner and all that. He then followed me out to my car...(and let's not forget - it was only like 5 in the evening, so still completely broad daylight outside) The Crop of Shit kissed me...and lifting my shirt, he reached under my bra to grab at my very expensive, perky little tits. I knew that everyone out there on the patio had to be enjoying the show (happy to oblige) and I thought for a minute that he might change his mind, since he was clearly aroused by our passionate, public display. I hoped that in pinching and twisting my nipples - that fucking hard - he was segueing into our original plan, and that we might indeed go back to my house to do - god only knows what else. But the ultimate outcome was a definite - no dice. He insisted that he had to go home. He leant to give me one last kiss, but I pulled away to instead chastise him for being such a TEASE - cuz he WAS! And then I watched him walk over to get into his Prius (not the black BMW M5 I'd imagined) and like a good little boy, he drove up the road that would lead him back home to mommy...

To say that I was miffed would be an understatement...I was 100% raging pissed off! What in the world had that fucktard been thinking, when he allotted one puny hour - for our date? And what was all that crap about the crop, anyway? Like, why'd he even brought that shit up? I for one, had never mistaken this to be a polite "get-to-know-you" first date, the kind where you don't wanna wreck your chances of ever seeing the guy again by screwing him the first time you meet - this was absolutely not that. I had made my intentions very clear - that my interest in him was of a purely sexual nature, and I was even willing to overlook his average appearance in order to redeem his original offer to school me on things previously foreign to me...I'm talkin' - on our date...that very day!

The Crop of Shit knew right away he'd fucked up. I couldn't believe how quickly he was falling all over himself to apologize. Had to have been literally the minute he got home, that he composed and sent an email, in which he stated something to the effect of - having learned so much about me from reading my blog, he was convinced that in person I'd prove to be a "callow, superficial, mindless harpy" (and yet he was the one pursuing me!) But he confessed that, upon meeting me, he'd found me to be, "witty, charming, smart and so fucking hot that I would have gladly taken you to the gazebo, bent you over the rail, and fucked you in whatever hole that I happened to hit..." My question is, "Well then why didn't you? Did Poppa forget his Viagra...hmmm?"...and he threw in that, on his way home, he'd purchased a riding crop from a saddlery...which had my name on it...and that if I was willing to give him another try, he'd be very willing to use it...

I thought about ignoring him entirely, but wound up breaking my brief silence with this,

"I came to meet you yesterday, fully prepared to live up to our flirtation, should we find that we shared a mutual interest in one another. And I think it was fairly evident that I was willing to see the whole fantasy come to fruition. You on the other hand a.) misled me into believing that you'd already purchased a crop which you would have in your possession and would be eager to implement and b.) didn't even allot enough time to do so, should we be so inclined...

I dunno...I'm a pretty impetuous girl, I tend to fly by the seat of my pants. And the fact that you chose not to strike while the iron was hot - after you yourself masterminded the whole plan - was I thought, not only somewhat rude , but also caused me to lose steam over the whole thing. I'm not even sure why you bothered creating such tension at all, if you were never really serious about seeing things through.

I guess the long and short of it is, that it was very nice to have met you, but I'm 'fraid that you've just blown your one chance...

Best,

~Lauralyn"

His mood changed dramatically after receiving my response, and was of a decidedly less-apologetic nature,

"Sorry, a mismatch of expectations. I guess I should've known better after reading your blog. But I never expected it would be drop my pants and do it in the parking lot of a horse country pub..."

Oh, how quickly they forget (comes with the age, perhaps) Had he not just written in his email before, that he wanted to do me on the gazebo? Parking lot, gazebo - the fuck is the difference?!

And furthermore - what is it with these last two old fucks, who came on so strong...praising me for my blog and brazen wantonness...but then as as soon as I lay down the hammer of rejection, they turn everything completely around. It's just embarrassing for them both, really...tsk, tsk, tsk...

My conversation with the Crop of Shit miraculously came to an abrupt halt, after I gave him my final two cents. And one thing I'll say about his hasty retreat, is at least he displayed more dignity than Matchstick Man, who I expect will continue to be an ass...

"Ok Big Man, if writing something so ludicrous as your last note, makes you feel better about your lack of prowess as well as your laughably false air of chaste...then so be it. But you know as well as I, that doing it in the parking lot was never my intention and incidentally, let's not forget who grabbed up whom...and had the raging hard-on to boot...

And just for the record...reading my blog was precisely the reason you were so hot to trot, you ole horndog..."

P.S. Twitter, I Love You...

Like so many people in the great big wide world, nowadays - I too have become more than just a leetle preoccupied with foolin' around on Facebook. I was a comparatively late arrival to FB actually, and even after finally setting up my profile (only a couple of years ago) I remained somewhat retarded in my Facebook growth for a good while. By now though, I've definitely gotten the hang of it and some days (and nights) I spend ridiculous amounts of time, poking around on the site - shocking...I know...

My very most favorite thing about Facebook (and the reason that I rarely ever utter a single unkind word about it) is the fact that because of FB, I have been given the chance to become (sometimes even better) friends - again - with people from my distant past...acquaintances with whom I otherwise would've lost touch completely. It is entirely Facebook's fault that I've been able to reconnect with the now grown-up kids from my childhood and the artists and musicians from back in my crazy party days as a young adult living in my hometown of Richmond, Va.. And...although it may sound somewhat hackneyed, I'm not exaggerating a bit when I say in all seriousness - that my extended Facebook family, has consistently been there for me - to celebrate the good times, and lift me up during the bad - while my "real" family (save my four, dear, sweet children, of course) neglects to be supportive or even an entity at all in my life - and for this newfound familial bond, I feel enormously fortunate and grateful.

I wile away many happy hours, nosing around on my friends' profiles, staying abreast of what all they've been up to, but most especially - I dig how easy it is for me to keep them present in my life by simply thumbing through their photos or making quick comments on their status updates and posts. Historically, I've been horrible at corresponding, which would explain why so many of my old friendships faded into oblivion (pre-Facebook)...and so I'm stoked that FB facilitates keeping these friendships current, hopefully for a very long time.

Now, about the whole Twitter thing...

Ok so, I signed up on Twitter even more recently than when I followed the herd and finally got going on FB, and immediately after hesitantly boarding the Twitter train and tweeting maybe...mmmmm...a total of once(?) - it became clear that I had no clue how to properly and effectively tap into all that (I now realize) Twitter does have to offer (still learning, in fact). In my timidity and intimidation, instead of just futzing around with it a bit, I chose to let my account go dormant...until just very recently. I'm not even sure what gave me the kick in the pants to tinker with it this time, but once I got the gumption to examine Twitter a little more closely, I quickly began to appreciate the wealth of benefits that regular tweeting could potentially afford me...particularly as a blogger hoping to increase my visibility on the web.

I have been slow on both sites, to amass "friends" and "followers" and yet even having so few - I've noticed a distinct difference in the social dynamic between my friends on Facebook and my followers on Twitter. Again, the majority of my FB friends are people that I have known for a number of years, with only a smattering of online guys and friends of friends - rounding out the bunch. My Twitter peeps, on the other hand are - by and large - complete strangers, hailing from all across the globe, and brought into my world because of some common interest. Even cooler still, is the fact that I feel a growing bond - a genuine friendship forming between me and a handful of my Twitter followers. And these are folks, that were it not for Twitter, I never would even have met. To me, that shit is totally badass!

I talk with my Twitter friends frequently, despite the sometimes crazy differences in time zones. And I tend to talk to my FB buds, most commonly by commenting on their walls and through my tweets, which automatically appear on my FB as status updates. Twitter for me, is about actively conversing, where Facebook is more about speaking my mind to an oftentimes uncomfortably silent audience.

One of the things that I love about Twitter, is the camaraderie I feel with certain of my like-minded "followers". I feel a kinship to these people even though we've never met in person, and chances are better than good...that we never will. Their nurture and encouragement has not only brought me to feel that I am amongst true friends (though literally strangers), but has also helped me to embrace and define the person (or the alter-ego, as it were) best suited to represent my Big Ugly Blog, because lord knows that most everything I do anymore, is for the unapologetic promotion of my silly, trashy blog.

Before Twitter, I tentatively tried to mold and shape my Big Ugly identity. Since Twitter, I've been able to speed up that process, thanks in large part to the support base I've found in my new friends there. I would never have made the decision to post my weekly #H(alf) N(ekkid) T(hursday) pics., had it not been for the expert and tender guidance of one particular follower, who metaphorically held my hand all the way up to the point when I finally found the courage to post my first semi-nude pic...on the internet...for the whole world to potentially see...until the end of time. But where Twitter has helped me shed reservations about becoming the person that I now feel I was always meant to be, Facebook keeps me from going too far over the top, since every single thing that I do on Twitter, automatically winds up on my Facebook...and FB is slightly less tolerant of the overly-risque.

I've admitted in prior blog entries, that I am far from being what one might call, "book-smart". My formal education was abruptly arrested after I flunked out of the 10th grade, and because of that - you won't catch me claiming to know shit about much. But in daily life, if a specific subject captures my attention, I do try to learn as much as possible about it, so in that regard, I'm in this sort of perpetual state of learning - through living. I am constantly reminded though, that no matter how much I experience or think I might know, there's always some new and compelling topic to spellbind me...and during my brief tenure as a Tweeter, I have been turned on to some pretty bitchin' shit. It's almost embarrassing to admit to how truly sheltered I must be, having not known at all about some of the stuff to which I've just recently been introduced on Twitter. I am however, not too proud to fess up to my ignorance.

Luckily, a large percentage of my Twitter pals are folks of a very forward-thinking, open-minded sexual persuasion, perhaps entering my Twitterverse because of the adult(ish) content in my blog, or having found something in my tweets germane to their own points of view, or even more simply because they were curious about my ever-changing AV's. And I gotta tell ya', the more time I spend (sometimes voyeuristically) getting to know this diverse group of people, the more it becomes clear to me, that I've still got a helluva lot to learn.

Although age-wise, I am old as the hills, I sometimes feel like the awkward Twitter newbie, trying to hang tight with the cool kids. I am constantly blown away by exquisitely written accounts of eye-opening sexual encounters and musings. But being inherently visual, it's the posts and reposts of delectable images urging the viewer to contemplate whether the subject matter is art...or is porn...that keep me inextricably entranced.

I guess it wouldn't be too out of line to say that I've had my fair share of sex...straight-up, good ole-fashioned S.E.X., but my new friends on Twitter have brought to light - a whole new world of sexual practices and in doing so, it's become quite apparent to me what a lightweight I am, in comparison. Rather than hanging my head in shame for being so apparently delayed in my sexual growth though, I am excited to be creating a bucket list of sorts, of the many intriguing disciplines in which I hope to dabble with a lover, some day.

(Gawd, I talk a LOT!)

There is a specific category in this infinite catalog of yummy, erotic pics. that consistently has me creaming my pants. Picture this: a tight-angle, black and white image of a stunningly beautiful woman working some guy's cock the way she might slowly savor a popsicle on the hottest day of summer...spurs in my mind a lovely vignette of her...methodically carrying every sweet, sticky drip with her rapacious tongue, from the bottom along the entire length...repeatedly...making sure she's not missed a trace...and then gently she slips the pop deep inside of her mouth, her lips loosely surrounding the base. Now applying more pressure, she sucks her way to the tip...errrr...top...her eyes closing as she purses her lips gingerly against the swiftly softening treat, swirling every melted, tasty drop - in her mouth for a sec. before reluctantly releasing all that heavenly goodness, the rest of the way down her throat....mmmm...fucking good...And although this is one example of how these still photographs can make my imagination run wild and my hand reach for my toy, it is not the thing that really gets me going - nope, nada, huh uh...

There's a genre of imagery that stirs a desire in me, that I've only recently discovered exists (another approving *nod* to dear Twitter, Cheers!) And I'm here to tell ya', the instant my eyes locked on that very first image, of the intricate and elaborate rope-work evidently implemented in certain forms of bondage...I became irrefutably obsessed. Have you guys seen this stuff? I mean seriously...I never had. (check out: http://maxkatana.tumblr.com/) I respected the labor-intensive effort involved in what I found to be an amazing art form, but what really spoke to me was the implication of what would eventually go down between the woman who was bound, and her lover...and it occurred to me that my submissive nature would coalesce beautifully with a paramour skilled in the art of control...ropes or not.

I realize that the master craftsmen who weave such spectacularly gorgeous yet effective restraints, must no doubt be few and far between, and so I don't even kid myself by thinking that I might ever find out firsthand, how they go about working their magic. But what those photographs have done, is awakened in me, a previously unrecognized, deep-seated proclivity to want to be seriously dominated...

Sticks and Stones

There's something undeniably thrilling to me, whenever I publish a blog post rich with scandal and the potential to ruffle some feathers. It's like I kinda get off on the nervous excitement that accompanies sharing my more lurid stories...and the anxious anticipation I feel while I wait to find out if there'll be fires to put out. I'm always my most agitated, during those first 24 hours immediately following posting a controversial entry...wondering who all I've pissed off or freaked out, and what the possible repercussions might be. Yet it never ceases to amaze me that after getting myself all worked up over the threat (or the promise) of collateral fall-out, the typical response is nearly always either positive remarks (preesh!) or complete and utter silence. I'll be there thinking, "Woah...how can everyone really be cool with this piece?" I guess it could be that most of my readers are too shy to tell me what they really think...

So, when Matchstick Man's initial reaction to my last blog entry (which - in case you haven't read it - I devoted entirely to ripping the poor guy to shreds) - was one of acceptance and resignation - the residual side effect was this sort of blah combination of vague disappointment mixed with not-so-welcome relief. Here I'd been apprehensively awaiting whatever backlash would presumably ensue...but instead, what I got was a big ole goose egg, since for the most part, he claimed to be copacetic with pretty much every aspect of my evaluation of him...and he expressed his deference to my harsh opinion, in a comment that he submitted to the blog:

"I KNEW I could make it to the blog - one way or another! (p.s. not the least bit insulted) Signed, the Matchstick Man"

huh...so that's it?...how very far removed from what I'd expected...The whole thing was just too damned anti-climactic...I mean like, how could the guy be that fine with my scathing assessment of every aspect of his character? I had (for all intents and purposes) chopped him down to stumps, had I not?

Stranger still, he continued to dole out his unconditional and enthusiastic approval of what I'd written about him, by stating in an overtly desperate DM:

(subject) "Very well writen..." (and No, that is not a Big Ugly typo)

"Dear Larualyn (interesting spelling...and yes, my cover is blown. Contrary to prior blog entries, my name is not actually Isobel. There, finally got that outta the way...moving on)

I apologize in advance if this message is redundant - sent it IM off line also. I LOVE your blog! Little harsh on the descriptives, but that's artistic license. I can take the heat, and don't offend easily but in all seriousness, if you don't like me and don't want to chat (much less do anything else) why not just say so? I am a grown man and have been shot down plenty of times. It's really not a big deal. Otherwise, a dinner date is still an open offer (how big of a boob can he be?) - you can bring your girlfriend who thinks I'm the Axe Murderer too. My treat. I might translate better in person than on-line. (seriously...like - has. he. no. pride.)

Still your FB friend,

Matchstick Man"

A little while later, I was roused from my bewilderment, when I received an email notification that another person had commented on my blog. Upon reading this most recent submission, a devilish grin slowly crept 'cross mah face...and I began mentally battening down the hatches for the slight chance of a shit storm, now in the updated forecast. This new comment (I hoped) might be just the thing - to help Matchstick Man grow some fucking balls, and respond accordingly (like any self-respecting man should) to my unrestrained annihilation of his person. And if that were to happen, I just might get a taste of that tumult that so often...I crave:

"Great entry - love the blog! Stick with the young guys! You pretty much eviscerated The Matchstick Man. I don't know how he could not be insulted. He must have no self-respect!

P.S. - You are smokin' hot!"

I knew there was no way in hell, that even a suck-up little weenie like Matchstick Man, could completely ignore the guy's insult...I myself, winced with embarrassment for him, the first time that I read the thing through. I had no way of knowing just how he'd react, but I felt certain that the stranger's comment indeed had the potential to trigger, if not a ground-swell of hostile retaliation - at the very least - a retraction of Matchstick Man's knee-jerk benevolence...

When he finally got the nerve to man-up and defend himself, I thought, "Ok, now this is more like it!" My assumption was that we'd go toe-to-toe in the ring...two fierce opponents eager to duke this mess out. But my hopes for a fair fight were irreversibly dashed, the more closely I inspected his tenuous attempt to berate me. The guy didn't stand a shred of a chance...

My original plan was either to bury it altogether (to spare him further humiliation) or to wait...and feature Matchstick Man's visceral (3rd) response to my last blog post - in my newest entry, which was easily several days away from being ready to publish. But after urgently daring me to clear his good name, by insisting, "If you post the rebuttal, you will have shown decency and courage missing in your blog. I never figured you for the cheapshot coward."...along with, "that's what a 'friend' would do" - I decided to table my current entry and write and post this one, instead (once again, entirely in Matchstick Man's honor) The way I saw it, his feeble attempt to back me into a corner, was the equivalent of giving me implicit permission to drag his sorry ass though the mud...

His "rebuttal" arrived mere hours after he'd sent that first wave of glowing remarks. It appeared in my regular email inbox - as typo-ridden, meandering, pseudo-intellectual drivel, and all I could think, the more that I read was, "You wanna play, old man? All right then - Game On!"

And without any further ado - I give you the long-awaited, official Matchstick Man "rebuttal" (with heckling from the peanut gallery in parentheses, for good measure):

"Yes, Laurlalyn (again with the screwy spelling) I am a big boy (subject to debate) Now let us see how big of a girl you are (big? no. tight? quite. but alas, something you'll never know) I have had the day to digest what you have posted about me. It's quite well written and funny - as always, but mean-spirited and sad (oh, pumpkin...why the long face?) Though I am honored that you dedicated an entire blog post to me and that you spend so much time and energy looking at my profile photos and whatnot (true story - I have invested less than one minute of my whole entire life, looking at your pics.. however, I did expend a fair amount of energy running away from them in absolute horror) I detect a direct cause and effect here (aaaaaand the "cause and effect" is what, exactly?) Do you have the courage to post this rebuttal on BigUgly to some of the statements you made about me? (absofuckinglutely) Some how I doubt it (oh ye, of so little faith)

With regard to the woman I was with (lies) who I told you may have forced herself to vomit after a meal we shared (ew?) I should never made that allegation to you or anyone else (to just how many people have you advertised this slander?)

because I had no proof (dude, we got it...we know the girl doesn't exist) After further consideration I think I was wrong about that I have seen no further evidence that she may be bulimic. She does like to spend a bit of time in the bathroom but that may be for other reasons - she simply likes to be fresh! (ok, even if she was real - there's something decidedly gross about needing to spend LOTS of time in the loo keeping "fresh") Moreover, I should also have known that any conversations that transpired between us that I took to be confidential could be outed on BigUgly (duh) After all, many FB 'friends' are not really 'friends' in the real sense, only photos and message (blasphemy!) It's so much easier to be abusive to people who live far away and who you don't really know (sounds as though you speak from experience) Several layers of computer anonymity facilitate trash-talking and low-brow cheap shots (fucking deep, man) You have proven this in spades (oooooh...ouch) By taking information that was heretofore private and making it public, you have shown a lot of class - all of it low (not just smart...but witty, too!) Revealing anything of a personal nature to you was a mistake I won't repeat (does this mean that we're no longer speaking?)

With regard to my Matchstick Man body, yes, I am 'skinny' by todays standards of male dough-boy oafishness. I am 6' 4" tall and around 190 lbs. In my life lean = fast and I like fast (no idea what that even means) If you and your girlfriend find me unattractive, there is really not much I can or care to do about it (outside of inviting us both out to dinner, your treat) But, the fact that you gave me you phone number and chatted with me extensively prior to my commenting negatively on your writing would indicate that there was at least a passing fancy and some point (simply put - you are fucking delusional) You took offense to my critique of your last blog entry (au contraire! I merely capitalized on your lapse in good judgment) Let's be clear: I criticized its content (exactly) I said it was repetitive (no shit) The fact that you would find such a private comment (what's so private about it?) so offensive as to send you off a-writing ("a-writing"? what tha hell is that?) a huge, scurrilous, personal attack (...and I quote, "I LOVE your blog!") is unsettling (one man's discomfort, is our entertainment) It's your blog, you are free to do as you like (thanks for the green light there, buddy) Really if you lose one of your dozen followers (correction! that's 15 followers - thank you very much) who cares? My critique was offered privately and in good faith (nooooo...it was offered as yet another lame attempt to try and get down my pants) You have chosen to respond publicly and viciously (cuz that's just the way that I iz, and you know that) Again, that's your prerogative (but he did spell "prerogative" correctly - 17 Scrabble points for that one!) More often than not we reap what we sow (amen) Maybe one of you Cubs will turn on you and trash you on the internet (a girl can dream, can't she?)

Do I think you are hot? (absolutely) Absolutely - you have a stupendous body. Your chosen current path is one of sexual risk-taking which you hope to parlay into some sort of writing career (and this - coming from a man whose career ambitions include suckling on the unemployment tit, indefinitely) But the audience for middle-aged females hooking up is small and not particularly fresh or new (what are you saying?...the audience isn't fresh or new? I'm lost)

Like I told you privately, I don't think there is anything wrong with sex for sex's sake (and maybe someday, you might have some) And, there is nothing wrong with having sex with younger men (awww...thanks, dad) - to a point (oh) But you have to ask yourself - is it really satisfying? (hells YEAH - it is!) How young is too young? (mmmmm...) You are sleeping with twenty-something's now (yep) how about teenagers? (18 is legal, so theoretically I could) Will you be doing the same thing when you are fifty? (dear lord please yes) There is an undercurrent of pedophilia in your behavior (please tell me you're not REALLY this stupid. last time I checked, 22 = legal consenting adult) You state that I am jealous of the Cubs you have sex with (that's because clearly, you are) but in reality I find them rather pathetic (studly as shit) They can't get (choose not to have) a date with a girl (brainless twit) their own age so the resorts to trysts with a woman close to their mom's age (close to perfection) Or, maybe you are third or fourth on their list of the weekend possible (maybe so, but I'm still getting laid) and if they strike out on the top tier, they give you a call (but even if I wound up with no dates at all, I still wouldn't go out with you) Your young Marine guy should be shagging a half-dozen chicks his own age (would rather hang out with an older gal who really knows how to give head) Jesus women, I get more pussy than your cubs do! (show of hands from everyone who believes that Matchstick Man gets more nookie than...well...anyone)

Thankfully, as far as I can tell, my two twenty-something sons of ("of"? it's "have" ya' dumbass) not stooped to MILFing (oh, but they will) In the end what you wrote about me is more of a reflection of you (really? how so...) Yes, it's big (and I am rawther huge) and yes it's ugly. But the ugliness is all yours (you know how to cut to the core of me, Baxter)

The Matchstick Man

My only question for Matchstick Man, after reading his rambling rebuttal, is - you've known all of this stuff about me since day one, am I right? So why then - all of a sudden - do you find me and my behavior to be so unattractive? None of anything that I've ever told you about myself (and I have always been brutally honest) ever negatively impacted your opinion of me before. Nor did it hinder your big push to meet me, despite knowing I've fucked all those guys - curiously that is - until I made it very clear (in my blog) what a parasite I find you to be...funny how that works...

You know, my tiff with Matchstick Man is not the first one I've had with douchebag guys who I've met online. And each of these spats has been exactly just that - an easily diffused minor squabble - nothing more. The fact that not one of these altercations has ever escalated beyond more than a few terse emails and texts, leaves me feeling more than a little let down. Like - that's limp. wtf! Where's the challenge in that? It's almost as if I'm longing for the day when push comes to shove with a man who can take it and dish it out. A guy who approaches confrontation with gusto or who impresses me by giving me what for...An intimidating man possessing unsurpassed mettle and commanding the utmost respect...*sigh*

No doubt, I'm an antagonist and I do tend to egg people on, from time to time. But I may be that way partially because I feel that I am more than adequately equipped to defend myself as well as my actions. Like, "Bring it the fuck on!" I mean seriously, what can anyone possibly throw at me, that I haven't already said about myself? Through the honest, uncensored stories in my blog, I have essentially beaten everyone to the punch...and because of that I feel I am somewhat impervious to whatever personal attacks I might encounter...

I dunno...maybe this whole fiasco with Matchstick Man isn't over yet, but I honestly hope that it is. Mostly because I've grown so terribly bored with him and all of his shit, which has long since ceased inciting any passion. Knowing him, he'll continue to flail in a last ditch effort to try and save face - but I hope for his sake that he bows out gracefully, rather than becoming a full-blown pariah after falling short putting me in my place...

Strike Anywhere Matchstick Man

By now it's pretty much common knowledge that I rarely stick to anything for very long...relationships, jobs, art projects, quitting smoking, relationships, not smoking...but there is one thing that I have remained steadfastly devoted to (outside of being a mommy, of course) and that is - diligently travailing (heh) at the grueling field work - necessary to provide the juicy fodder...with which to spend umpteen resplendent hours...updating my Big Ugly Blog.dot.dot.dot.

Yes, for sure...there have been times over the last two years, when I've been too bogged down by some shitty job, or insanely busy with my kids, or simply lacking compelling material - to post as regularly as I consider optimum. But contrary to my intrinsically slacker-esque disposition, I've somehow managed to never completely drop the Big Ugly ball - and for that - I am implicitly grateful. (thank you, self!)

Along the way, I've not come remotely close to finding true love with any man (and that's cool) but what I have fallen in love with - is consistently putting myself in a multitude of milieus with myriad men - after which - giddily plunking my arse in the chair, right here at my trusty ole Mac. And then jotting down deets in my Big Ugly Blog, for you - my beloved, dear readers.

I've become hopelessly addicted to the entire agenda, which although time-consuming, is in no way a burden. I am motivated to continually put myself out there, thanks to my preoccupation with meeting new men, as well as staying au courant in my writing. I feel lucky in that I've rarely run into the same thing twice, and that - I believe - has helped to keep my Big Ugly stories at least somewhat original and fresh.

Sooooo...for me to get word from one devoted follower, that in his opinion - my recent obsession with having and writing about sex with young men, is wearing thin (someone sounds jea...lous...) and because of that - I was potentially at risk of boring the shit out of my audience...I took heed...for about a millisecond. At which point I saw his grievance for what it truly was...a flimsy new artifice and meager attempt to coax me into breaking my cub streak by finally saying "Yes" to his repeated nagging to get me to go out with his old ass. I mean seriously, what did he expect me to say, "Oh golly, ya' think? Maybe I should swear off bumpin' uglies with hot, tight young bucks and give crusty old coots like YOU a chance..."...GREAT IDEA!...

Now before I set about chewin' the poor guy a new one, let me first petition you, my other readers...by asking (purely out of my own curiosity) "Is my stuff really getting stale?"...I want you to tell me - and be honest, I can take it! I'll just say this - (and I am not at all trying to sway your opinion on the matter) sure, most of my recent posts have been recounting a fairly consistent run of an arguably puerile predilection - but I still can't believe that the stories within the entries are anywhere near verging on redundant...Could be that I am in total denial and that everyone who reads the Big Ugly is like, *snore*...and if so? I need to fix that. And even though that guy's opinion don't mean jack to me, yours undeniably does...so don't hesitate to tell me what you think...

And now...for that fucking roundhouse kick to the face!

Matchstick Man (named as such - for being frighteningly tall and thin, and for thinking that he could swindle his way to a date with me) initiated his offensive to meet me, absolutely ages ago...all right, so maybe it has only been a few months - but it feels like I've been fielding his persistence for an eternity.

He emailed and IM'd me relentlessly, before I fiiiinally gave in and responded. I had resisted wasting his time and mine, knowing straight away (just from looking at the tiny image posted on his profile and his age - 52) that I was not at all interested in talking to, much less dating the guy. But after caving to his constant badgering, I found that he was nice enough (or something) and I kept him around reasoning that, even though he was clearly not a good match for me, I might could maybe play matchmaker with him and my "old" friend Francis.

The next time that Frances stopped by my house, I opened OkCupid and pulled up Matchstick Man's profile, since I myself hadn't so much as peeked at his stats, not to mention the rest of his photos. Plus I'd mentioned a little about him to Frances and I was curious to see if she'd think he was cute. Cute? No, not cute...somehow "cute" doesn't seem a very fitting word to describe most 52 y/o men..."Distinctive"? Yeah, that's better.

Frances and I got to Matchstick Man's page and started immediately clicking around on his pics.......when in unison we both gasped, "OH!"s and "Oh No!"'s and "Huh UH..."'s and I apologized, "Ok, sorry......nevermind..."...I hurriedly closed out his page, and as we scampered away (slightly traumatized) she made me promise to never mention him again...

In the few pics. that we'd seen (not including his AV, which wasn't great but was not nearly as bad) Matchstick Man had effected this sort of wild-eyed, deranged persona...a serial killer craziness in his eyes and his smile. The one specific picture that got to us (*shudder*) was a close-up...of his face and bare shoulders. He was standing up against a wall, awash in unflattering flourescent lighting, having made the unfortunate decision to sport some ridiculously goofy fuckin' hat...any semblance of carefree silliness negated, by the terrifying grimace contorting his face. This could easily have passed for a police station mug shot...taken immediately following his arrest after being apprehended while running ripshod through suburbia...recklessly weaving in and out of children riding bikes...unabashedly flashing mothers chatting with neighbors in between yards...and wearing nothing more than a dime store sombrero.........Oh god! NOW I have the creeps again...I gotta focus on something pleaseant for a sec...like ice cream...or...Heather Brooke and the World's Best Blow Jo............K, now I'm good.

After begrudginly allowing Matchstick Man into my virtual world, he quickly assumed the likeness of a pesky old fly...forever buzzing around me no matter how many times I swatted at him to go the fuck away. He was virtually omnipresent...I couldn't login to OkC without him pestering me to chat. Every time my IM window popped open, I felt that flutter of anxious anticipation that precedes discovering which new or favorite boy has come to chat. But before any of those guys could get a word in edgewise, good ole Matchstick Man had already cut in. Each time, my initial disappointment quickly morphed into rabid irritation. "For godssakes man!" I'd think..."Give it a rest!"

I have no earthly clue why I continued to answer his emails and IM requests...could be I was simply being polite (or maybe felt sorry for him?) I dunno. I mean it's not even that he's that bad of a guy or anything, but I have signed myself up on all of these dating sites for the primary purpose of meeting men...that I WANT to date...and Matchstick Man was monopolizing my valuable time.

I'll never forget the night that he pulled the whole, "send me some pics." bit. Which I countered by saying, "You first!" And I have to say that, even having him ask me for pictures was just awkward and definitely not a natural fit. To me he just comes across as kind of rigid and straight, although he'd have me believe that he's this wild partying sex machine...which I ain't buyin' for a minute...sorry buddy.

When his photo appeared in my inbox, you wanna know the truth? I laughed. I really did! Like out loud. The image that he'd sent was so pathetically lame, that I wondered if he might be pulling a prank. I mean seriously dude...is that really all the better you can do? Lemme put it to you this way, "provocative" is not in this guy's vocabulary, and "sultry" is a language he don't speak.

I immediately replied and said, "Oh come ON, man! My public profile pics. are racier than that!" But the thing of it was, that the photo he'd sent - shirtless from his head down to almost his bellybutton...in a brightly lit bathroom...the shower head in the background, easily stealing his thunder...and again with the psychotic face - this time a way too eager-to-please expression that looked incredibly immature per his years...was all - way more than enough...I did not feel the need to see others (which ain't like me) and he certainly hadn't earned the privilege of seeing mine.

You gotta remember...I get tons of supremely hot photographs sent to my phone and my email...all the time. Like seriously hot! (well, to me at least) For example, one recent addition to my gallery of hard body/hard cock shots, boasts a wiener that was clearly an elephant's trunk in its last life...You know, like when an elephant has his trunk raised up real high and is about to spray water on its back? Fucking long and curly, I tell you...most impressive. And it's that type of photo that I feel should be rewarded with something hand-picked from outta my vault...heh, heh, heh...

In comparing Matchstick Man's pathetic submission to the ones that I happen to consider cherry, I became further convinced that we are simply very different people situated at opposite corners of the online dating game of chance, and the combination of him being older yet so green, only cemented my lack of interest in ever meeting him. In fact at this point, it wasn't even so much about his age anymore. Hell, I'd be completely down with letting a dominant, confident, experienced older man - teach me a thing or two...but Matchstick Man wasn't that guy...

Before too long, Matchstick Man found and friended me on Facebook, and at that point he kicked his efforts to woo me into a stalker-like overdrive...IM'ing me incessantly, commenting on nearly every word that I wrote on my wall, as well as practically every single photo that I posted...sheesh...

See, thing is - anytime I goof off online, I always keep several tabs open, so that I can hop back and forth to all of my favorite sites. And when things become quiet or slow on my dating sites, or Twitter or FB, I entertain myself by working on my blog. And seems lately, at that precise moment when I get "in the zone" and begin making real headway on the blog...fucking Matchstick Man pings me on Facebook. I'll be chugging along at a nice little clip, when his IM - like a goddamned penny on the track - derails my long train of thought...I grumble and fuss as I make my way over to see what it is that he could possibly want this time...and then hurry back to my blog before forgetting that brilliant series of words that I'd finally arranged perfectly in my mind...but Matchstick Man's interruption, leaves me with nothing more than a mangled and tangled-up wreck...He might allow enough time between messages, for me to get a sentence or maybe two writ - and then, "bloop", there he is - IM'ing me again...about his date the night before that ended at 1, and how the sex was good, but he was concerned cuz she'd puked up her dinner, which really ticked him off because he'd spent like $35 on sushi (are you for real?) Of course all I can think is, "Ewww? And just how was kissing her after that?...oh and btw...if the date was so great and you didn't leave her place til 1...then what in the world were you doing logged onto FB at 11:30...huh? Explain that!"

You know? I honestly don't consider myself to be a bad person. Naughty? Yes. But bad? I really hope not. But, I do have to admit that I am feeling a teensy bit badly about being such a meanie to poor Matchstick Man (especially after he confessed such a tender sweet thing to me just, last night, *ugh* Which...just so he knows...had zero effect on my staunch wish to keep things platonic!) Cuz for whatever reason, the guy has kind of endeared himself to me, mostly because his unerring determination to meet me does happen to be a bit flattering (if not completely fucking aggravating) He's become almost synonymous with an annoying little brother that you love...but who bugs you to pieces.

What I've been thinking is this...If after reading this new post, Matchstick Man does decide to keep me on his FB friends list (or even to talk to me at all - as pen-pals only, mind you) for me, that would really be fine. But he's gonna have to accept that while I'm writing my blog or chattin' it up with other guys...I'm apt to keep completely mum, or how 'bout - I IM him, "HUA!" That way he'll know that I know that he's there, but now's not a good time...cuz I'm BUSY!!!

When you think about it tough - Matchstick Man got exactly what he had coming to him. His "constructive criticism" arrived at the exact moment that I was preparing to go full steam ahead into what would have ended up to - be an entirely different blog post. I give him every bit of the credit for providing the material with which to circumvent my original story. And I hope that he's happy, now that I took his valuable advice and wrote this entire piece with nary a whisper about any one cub...

Now, if you guys will kindly excuse me - there's a young Marine out there - who I might just need to..."call in"...

Apples to Oranges

The Apple Blossom Festival and Parade (long......deep......sigh......) is an annual, couple days-long (annoying as fuck) event, that takes place in a town just a stone's throw away from my quiet, quaint community. During the festivities, this neighboring city is decked out, top to bottom, in the vomitrocious theme colors - pink and green - which in and of itself provides adequate reason to detest the whole shebang - kit and caboodle. But wait...there is more to loathe...

Over the course of this (debatably) convivial weekend, the Old Town walking mall and practically every thoroughfare, are rendered virtually unnavigable...car traffic rerouted to make way for the parade...narrow sidewalks made hopelessly impassable, diminished by tight rows of spectator seating, and otherwise mobbed by every toothless out-of-town redneck and his sister cum wife - accompanied by their legions of inbred children and strollers and coolers and heaps of superfluous carnival crap...fucking cotton candy and bloomin' onion and Polish sausage stands - staking their claim on every square inch of once vacant real estate...

Part of my problem with Apple Blossom is that, even though I do like some people a tremendous lot - most - I can totally live without. And so to have to tolerate THAT MANY humans (and such a stellar assemblage, no less) jammed into a ridiculously limited amount of space - gives me a terrific case of the heebie-jeebies...

The local folk however, wholeheartedly relish this yearly tradition...oh how they revel in it! And those affluent enough to live on the parade route (or its environs) host elaborate, parties (invitation only, please) for two straight days - ducking into which, does offer a bit of respite from the droves of slow, slovenly, lazy Americans, who have literally no common sense when it comes to sharing the bloody sidewalk. These select few townspeople are fortunate in that they enjoy a commanding view of the parade and incomparable people-watching, safely situated behind strategically-placed barriers of snow-fencing and the like, temporarily erected as a deterrent for potential riff-raff party-crashers (and who can blame them) Honestly, the only way to even remotely tolerate the parade and Apple Blossom at all (far as I'm concerned) is to be so lucky as to attend one such fete. But even that comes at a cost - having to make the trek on foot from one's car, parked a mile or so away, through the hoards of tourists and carnies...and at a snail's pace, besides - just to get there.

As the several successive days of celebrating wend ever on, even the upper crust (after consuming enough alcohol to tranquilize an elephant) are apt to get a little nutty, and just for shits and gigs, might even willfully venture into the multiple blocks long and wide - street party, to mingle with the other - other half.

God I sound like such a fucking SNOB! (and maybe I am) but lemme 'splain sumpin'. Much as I despise most every aspect of Apple Blossom...my main problem lies within the social dynamic of the whole thing. Safe to say that I don't fit in with the local higher-than-thou's (my ex's peeps) and although I am closer in the food chain to the dregs of society in attendance, the sheer number of them conflagrates my anxiety...simply put, it's just not my crowd...and such an enormous one at that...hence my method of dealing with Apple Blossom most years - to avoid it like an STD.

What in the world does any of this have to do with online dating and sex and all that good stuff, you may be puzzling...Well, aside from Apple Blossom marking the anniversary of the first sex that I ever had, post-separation from my husband...there is something else...and I'll get to it...be patient, my leetle leiblings...

This past Apple Blossom (just a couple of weeks ago) signified the third time in my life, that there would be no avoiding the A.B. bedlam. As her older sisters before her, my youngest daughter was to be one of the Queen's seven little maids, her job requirements to include - being the Bearer of the Pillow during the coronation, riding on a float with Queen Shenandoah LXXXIII and her Court during the parade, and attending a gajillion parties and luncheons leading up the the big day. I seriously considered bagging out on the entire weekend and leaving the responsibility of accompanying her to every flipping engagement - completely up to her dad, a native son and lover of all things Apple Blossom. But I knew to do so would be selfish and reprehensible...so I did the "good mom" thing and joined her at every necessary function...(can you hear me sputtering expletives under my breath?)

(Yeah, yeah...I realize that this was an awful lot of perhaps unnecessary build-up just to get you to the good stuff...but damn if it didn't feel good to vent about my disdain for Apple Blossom. Pray thee, forgive my excessive self-indulgence)

Now...just so you don't think me completely cross, I will admit that there is one teensy thing about Apple Blossom that I do like, and which only effects a person if they are directly involved (or indirectly because of a child's involvement in the whole clambake) with the Queen and her Court...and that my friends - is the presence of the...Marines...

Yep, it's true...every year, a handful of strapping, young Marines are invited to attend the "Bloom" (as Apple Blossom is colloquially tagged) to walk alongside the Queen's float and to escort all of the princesses (the older girls who make up the Queen's Court) to each party and event. Before I had fully ascertained my penchant for younger men (and even while I was still married, come to think of it) I was utterly captivated by the poise and chivalry (and the smokin' hot bods) that these young men display (not to mention - I do have that thing about men in uniform, let us not fo'get)

I have never had the gall to try and seduce one of these dutiful squires away from their dates (especially with my ex and my children in tow) but let it be known, that to do so has always been a fantasy of mine...

And so what a bonus, that I should chance to meet a Marine of my very own-ness, the Friday night before the Apple Blossom Parade...YIP!

My Marine (who I met on CougarLife) walked out onto the patio at my favorite meeting spot for my online dates (I'd like to give shout-out to the Blackthorne Inn, in Upperville, Va. for all that they've done for me - unbeknownst to them, of course) and I have to say, he definitely looked better in person than he did in the only face shot that he had posted on his profile. He was, how do I put this...delectable...goodness me...with those azure eyes of his and his completely shaved head of an enviably superlative shape...and his broad shoulders and chest...he was like a gift from the dating gods...sent to me, special...perhaps, I thought - my reward for enduring all of that Apple Blossom nonsense...

My Marine had driven quite a good distance to come and see me, and after eating his dinner and having one beer, he coyly mentioned that he wouldn't mind drinking some more, but not if he had to drive...in other words, "let's go back to your place and get hammered"...and so we did.

The time that My Marine and I spent together, was very amusing, all lighthearted good fun - it was really nice to laugh so much and so hard, at completely idiotic shit (like "the Cervix" shooter that we invented) And it was definitely fun to fool around with him in a hot bath and stuff...but check this out - My Marine never kissed me, not once. And what was even weirder than that, was how long it took me to realize that he hadn't. Our interaction with one another was rich with juvenile humor and belly-laughter, but conspicuously bereft of heady passion. When it did finally dawn on me that we had yet to smooch, instead of just going in for the kiss myself, I hesitated...I just had this feeling that he had some hang-up about it or something, and so I asked him what was up. He fed me some ludicrous line about how Marines are trained to not kiss so as not to get too attached to anyone in specific...in the event that some unspeakable tragedy should occur in the line of duty...the veracity of which has since be debunked by another Marine friend of mine...who looked at me like I had 10 heads when I mentioned it.

What came straight to my mind - was Julia Robert's prostitute character in the movie Pretty Woman. Didn't she adhere to some policy of not kissing her johns? Maybe My Marine was viewing our thing (a textbook, sleazy hook-up) as somewhat in line with hiring a pro. Main difference being that he never asked for any money and he certainly didn't leave any for me on the nightstand...

Needless to say, when My Marine left the next morning, I had no preconceived notions that I would ever see him again, and I was fine with that. I would certainly enjoy another romp with him, should the opportunity arise, but my feelings would not be hurt if he drifted off into the sunset.

Although it may be inappropriate to compare the date with My Marine to the two that I had with VelveTongue, I am hard-pressed not to juxtapose the dramatically different evenings spent with the two men. And this is precisely why dating guys who read my blog could get a little dicey...

The fling with My Marine was a classic example of good ole-fashioned fun...and if you know me at all, you know that I am totally down with finding my fun. Conversely, my thing with VelveTongue was a romantic thrill-ride, offering more substance and on a higher thinking plane. I was more mentally challenged by VelveTongue as well as more physically compensated.

I realize that reading about each other could be the kiss of death, as far as future rendez-vous are concerned, and yes - it would kinda suck if both men told me unequivocally to get fucked, but I would manage. One thing's for sure, neither of them can claim that they weren't given ample warning...they both new exactly what they were getting themselves into...And who's to say...could be that neither guy ever had any intention of doing anything other than witnessing firsthand, the Big Ugly spectacle that has become my freak show...

On the upside of all that, I am becoming remarkably adept at letting things roll off my back without incident. Back in the day, I foolishly believed that every guy that I met and screwed, had the potential to become my bf, and I would experience varying degrees of disappointment if things didn't end up working out that way. This same sentiment applies to my daily life, when dealing with acquaintances who give me the cold shoulder or nasty fucking attitude. I no longer experience that wave of crippling mortification that used to shoot down my middle, any time someone snubbed me in public. And although effectively deflecting arrows of contempt is a handy new defense mechanism in my coping repertoire, it does give me pause. Could it be that I am becoming emotionally null and void...I can't help but wonder...

The way I look at it, with the throngs of online thousands that I could theoretically meet, befriend, fuck, piss off and drive away - what's the use in getting hung up on any particular one, or getting my feelings hurt if I lose a couple along the way, am I right? Seems to me that only a man with an inordinately high pain threshold could be adequately equipped to even approach tolerating me and all of my idiosyncrasies...and a man such as this might even have what it takes to prove to be the forbidden fruit...that intangible apple of my eye...