The Big Ugly Blog is an honest and uncensored collection of anecdotes recounting the madcap shenanigans of a perpetually 39 year old divorcee, as she wades through the mire of the murky online dating pool - ravenously searching (evidently in vain) for the man of her dreams...Keep On Dreaming, Baby!


Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Honesty IS the Best Policy

As feared, my Tuesday night date a couple of weeks ago (the one on which I'd pinned such unrealistically high expectations?) ended up becoming a self-fulfilled prophecy of sorts. You'd think that by now, I'd know better than to speak too soon...of a date with a man about whom I knew so little, going in. But it's my nature to do this - to put a complete stranger on a pedestal without doing adequate investigative work (i.e. asking for a photo of his face before meeting, dur...) and not surprisingly, my hopes oftentimes end up dashed...So I guess the question is - did I literally jinx that Tuesday night date, by gloating beforehand, about how sexually enlightening and blog-inspiring it most certainly would be? Or in neglecting to do my homework, had I simply set myself up to be duped by another bogus schmuck...this one heralding from that quintessentially magical land of make-believe...Twitter...

I want you guys to know that there is still a bright side....cuz no matter the eventual outcome, my date on Tuesday night did at least provide plenty of material with which to get my creative juices flowing. Only bummer is, that I'd hoped to get more than just creative juices flowing...

This is the kind of entry that puts me in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand I want to write as candidly as absolutely possible, touching on every awkward and frustrating detail of my disastrous date. But if I do that, the overall thrust of this post will inevitably galvanize my image as the cold-hearted bitch...the "adult bully" that I'm allegedly becoming. I mean, at the very least, the culprit's ego oughtta suffer a pretty swift blow...the question is though - do I care?

On the other hand, notwithstanding my awkward date-fail with the man in question (who I'd built up to be a veritable god in my mind, thanks to his misrepresentation of himself or perhaps my misinterpretation of him) do I instead gloss over the "bad" for the sake of sparing the feelings of someone who probably doesn't really deserve to be protected, solely for purpose of keeping the peace over on Twitter?

Upon much consideration, and because I am an intransigent proponent of always tellin' da trufe, I have decided to go with the former option. Maybe in taking "The Imposter" to task, he will consider posting an accurate avatar or stop pretending that the one he's got up is actually his likeness...he might also think twice about falsely advertising himself as a revered master in the sexual field of BDSM...because truth be told, the guy didn't come close to delivering the goods...

Twitter can be a funny place. It's often difficult for me to gauge who's "real" (and how real) and who's not. Unlike on Facebook, where there's generally no mistaking exactly who a person truly is, since most "friends" really do know each other - Twitter actually lends itself to fraternization with complete strangers from behind an anonymous facade, if that happens to be your preference. Don't get me wrong, I have met peeps on Twitter who are blatantly honest about who they truly are (which in some instances is remarkably admirable) but more commonly (as in the case of some of my most favorite Twitter buds) folks understandably protect their real identities so that they might enjoy their Twitter time uninhibited and unhindered by the potential threat that their activity there might negatively impact their family lives or their careers. The select few on my top tier of Tweeters do not abuse the privilege of Twitter anonymity, for them it's purely a matter of self-preservation and common sense. They are all without a doubt, very genuine people and I have never questioned their authenticity for one second.

What my run-in with the Imposter did however, was to open my eyes to a trend, where many on the site see in Twitter, an opportunity to create a persona perhaps more favorable or attractive or even just cooler than the person that they really are...and more times than not now, as I track these phonies through their tweets and whatnot, I know better than to put much stock in their bullshit and egocentricity. What's disconcerting to me though, is the fact that sometimes the Tweeters most lacking in substance (and also with the biggest friggin' mouths) are enormously and inconceivably popular, for some reason. I watch with disbelief as adoring devotees hang on every word that these annoying poseurs say...they clammer to suck up to them, praising and ReTweeting their prosaic photos and mediocre blog posts. And because of all the coddling and ego-stroking, these bloated, pretentious blowhards place themselves at the top of an imaginary Twitter hierarchy and parade around the place as if they're Twitter fucking royalty or some me it's just totally retarded.

I don't mean to sound as though I've become disenchanted with Twitter, because I haven't...not in the slightest! I guess all I'm saying is that, thanks to my experience with the Imposter, I am less naive about the legitimacy of some of its inhabitants, while simultaneously learning how to better traverse the site as a less impressionable, more savvy Tweeter...

There are tons of reasons why I enjoy Twitter as much as I do - my daily chats with good friends, tops the list. But as I've said before, I have Twitter to thank for my newfound fascination with the idea of partaking in a dom/sub scenario with a lover. I've already admitted that it's the fabulous imagery that I've come across on Twitter, which is responsible in large part, for putting that bee in my bonnet. But I've also mentioned that it's the written accounts (more than the pics. sometimes) that get me supremely fired up about having certain things done to my body...

I became moderately transfixed with the Imposter, upon reading a lurid blog entry in which he recounted a recent romp he'd enjoyed with a woman whose body he'd essentially stormed with his own. While reading though, my easily distracted eyes were repeatedly drawn from the text to the two photos that he had up on his page. The first pic. (the one that accompanied his latest entry) showed a naked woman - loosely bound...her tush rather flushed...and she appeared to be physically spent. She was laid out across a bed dressed in once crisp, but now rumpled, white hotel linens...and I wanted that to be me...The other photo was presumably of the author himself - the Imposter...his muscular, toned body fully enveloping his prey...a different woman than in the first photo...and I wished I was her...

So, when the Imposter DM'd me out of the blue one day, to say that he would be traveling soon, from his home far away - to a town very close to where I live, and then asked if I'd be interested in meeting up so we could give each other something to write about...I checked my calendar real quick and then without hesitation responded, YES! "Sweet Jesus!" I thought, "This could be my chance to have someone with experience finally show me the ropes!" (so to speak)

As the night of our date approached, I became apprehensive - wondering if the Imposter might not find me attractive enough, or up to the high female standards to which I assumed that he must be accustomed. I worried less about the possibility that I might not be as into the real life "him" as I was with the fantasy version about whom I knew very little...but I'll admit that the thought did cross my mind. Meanwhile, I tried masking my trepidation about the idea that my days as a BDSM virgin could be numbered, by focussing on my excitement to be making the acquaintance of my very first - not-already-a-real-life-friend - Twitter follower.

Before the big night, the Imposter mentioned that while on his trip his days would be occupied exploring the city with his daughter, but that he would be free to hang out during the nighttime. He offered no more explanation than that, and I let my active imagination fill in the blanks. I told myself that he was perhaps visiting a daughter who lived with an ex (the child's mom) out here on my side of the country. I pictured the Imposter staying in a plush hotel room, with a big bed dressed in cool, crisp white cotton sheets (again my fixation with that photo he'd posted) and over the course of our one and only night together, I figured we'd hunker down in his room, and I would give myself over to him completely...

I parked my car in a deck near his hotel and texted to say that I'd arrived sooner than expected and asked if he was free to meet me yet. He said, yes - that was fine. He'd just have to get his daughter tucked in a bit earlier...and that he'd be down to meet me in the hotel lounge in 15 minutes or so............I was like, "Wait...what?" Was his young daughter staying in the room with him? Was he just gonna leave her up there all alone while he and I imbibed and flirted and paved the way to reaching bondage nirvana? And how the hell were all of my sexual perversions to be realized, if there was a child sleeping there in the room...Hmmmm...this wasn't sounding at all like what I had pictured, and I could feel myself beginning to bristle...

I sat at the bar and ordered a drink and then texted to ask how I would know who he was. The Imposter told me that he was wearing a black shirt and had a shaved head...but I didn't worry about it for long, cuz by this point the Imposter had seen plenty of my pics., so the obvious default was that he would recognize me. My problem was, that outside of that scrummy pic. of his naked fit body, fucking the shit out of that woman on his blog, the only other visual I had to go on, was his Twitter avi in which only a swarthy hand was displayed. It had always struck me that the tanned hand seemed dramatically more olive-complected than the skin tone of the naked man pictured on his blog...but instead of dwelling on discrepancies that night, I began to percolate with excitement and dread as I imagined that perfect hand of his - schooling and punishing my person...and just as my nerves were about to get the best of me, I saw a bald guy in a black shirt coming towards me...

Welp folks, that was it...the moment of truth had arrived...and my initial and quick inspection of the Imposter, led me to a couple of conclusions: 1.) he was absolutely not the owner of the hand in the avi, and 2.) he was probably not the man in the blog pic.. At first, I didn't think that this was enough of an offense to permit me tearing him to shreds in my blog. But I've had over a week now, to mull everything over, and rather than granting amnesty for his chicanery, I'm sticking with a "fuck that!" m.o....let 'er rip!

The Imposter and I greeted each other with the obligatory hug (my eyes watered as his cologne punched me square in the nose) and as I pulled back, I began tallying the glaring inconsistencies between my fantasy "Imposter" and the "Imposter" there before me...and Imma be honest, it was a challenge to swallow my chagrin.

Ok, now see? Here is where I perpetuate my reputation as being a nasty fucking bitch. What happens is, the more time that passes between the actual event and when I finally sit my ass down to write about it, the less sympathetic I become to the other person's feelings and next thing you know - I've let my irritation with their dishonesty or whatever, validate my decision to exact my revenge by lambasting them for something they can't always change...their looks.

This was the first time that I'd seen the Imposter's face, so it wasn't a matter of trying to discern if he'd been honest in his photos or not. What I did figure out very quickly however, was that I did not find his face aesthetically pleasing. Literally the moment I laid eyes on him, the needle on the sexy meter plummeted. For starters, I hadn't pictured him the type to wear oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses...and in surveying the rest of his face, I dismissed his nose altogether, since it bore none of the traits that constitute my perfect ideal. I then made my way down to his smile...which produced stained yellow teeth, and a terrifying set of fang-like incisors...Furthermore, the Imposter's protruding belly suggested that even if he did happen to be the guy pictured there on his blog, the photo could not possibly be recent. The man I was with, carried easily 30 more lbs. than the buff specimen featured on his page.

The Imposter's skin tone was quite ruddy, and his puffy, pink hands with plump fingers like uncooked Ball Park Franks, were the very antithesis of the more attractive, compact, tawny hand in his Twitter AV. Two things about the Imposter now stood apparent; he was pretty much completely full of shit, and good hygiene was not a priority. You guys - his fingernails were fucking filthy! Like each nail had mysterious black stuff was unbelievably gross. I wondered if he'd even bothered to shower, before coming down from his room to meet me. I mean seriously! How could he have washed himself, and still ended up with such disgustingly dirty fingernails? I guess he figured, "Eh, why waste time on a good soapy scrubbing, when I can just dump on a crap ton of cologne."

We finished our drinks at the hotel bar...each of us paying for our own, and then we strolled up the street to find someplace different to dine. It bothered me that he kept reaching over to try and hold my hand. Did he actually think that after talking for 20 minutes, we were already to the point of PDA's? Plus seriously, there was something very disconcerting about having those dirty hands of his - touch mine...

I was too poor to buy a meal for myself, but another cocktail (or 5) was definitely in order. He offered to and I let him buy me the drink, but I knew better than to give him leverage to get what he obviously wanted, by allowing him to treat me to an expensive meal.

Over dinner, we conversed openly about all sorts of things, and it wasn't as if I didn't enjoy talking to him...mostly though, I was silently struggling with what to do with him, exactly...and to diffuse my confusion, I cheered myself up by flirting with that adorable Russian know...the painfully young one? The one with the opalescent grey eyes?

My gut was telling me not to give the Imposter any reason to believe that we would end up doing the nasty. But I kept thinking about how I'd led folks to believe that I'd be losing my bondage V-Card to him that night. And even though I was fairly sure that I couldn't go through with it now, I worried that if I didn't - I would look like a big stupid chicken to my friends and readers who were counting on me to finally give it up...

Obviously the biggest issue, was that I was not at all physically attracted to the Imposter, which meant that if I gritted my teeth and went for it with him, our time together would be nothing more than an emotionless tutorial in bondage. But after the Imposter clarified his sleeping arrangements back in the hotel room, I knew that my only option was to go home and report back to my friends that, sadly I had let them all down...It was true, I had whiffed on hooking up with a (fabled) "Twitter icon"...

Here's the deal, turns out the Imposter was sharing the hotel room with not only his young daughter but also his fucking ex-wife...NEAT-O! (rumor has it that he may actually still be married...even better!) He did not see this as a reason to throw in the towel though, so he cunningly suggested that we either get a different hotel room (no) or go fool around out in my car........YES! That's what I said...MY CAR! I was like "Christ man, what the freak grade are we in, anyway?!" Oh and by the way, what happened to the restraints and submission and all that? Did he think that I stowed the necessary paraphernalia in my car, like some roadside emergency kit? I felt like such a chump...the Imposter never intended to pop my bondage cherry, all he wanted was a seedy fucking lay in some brightly lit, hot as hell parking garage. I figured the best way to get the whole thing over with, was to agree to go with the "car" least that way I would be situated to scram.

When we got to my car, I knew I was nearing the finish. I hoped that my body language and my souring attitude would be enough to speed up the whole process. But evidently, he was more clueless than I knew, cuz he reached over, pulled me towards him and then kissed me...with that horrible double espresso-flavored tongue (ever heard of Orbit?) which he swirled around, in tight rigid circles...over and over in the same exact was a very unusual technique. I could almost tolerate the fact that his wire-rimmed glasses jabbed hard into the bridge of my nose, but as soon as his fangs practically punctured my tongue, that was it...I was totally done...he had gotten his one drink's worth outta me.

He was starting to get an inkling that I was not digging the sitch, but it wasn't until I told him, "I'm sorry...I'm just not feelin' it" that he actually officially "got it" and that's when his demeanor swiftly changed.

I did as he asked, and drove him to a bar so he could watch some sporting event on TV. I was a little surprised that he chose doing that, over going back up to the room to be with his wife and his kid, but whatevs...The Imposter and I said goodbye to each other, he hopped out...and I watched somewhat amused, as he hurriedly huffed his way across the street.

I knew that the next humiliating order of business, would be to report back to my friends that my date had been a complete and utter flop...but at that point I did not care one iota. I was just so damned relieved that the perturbing scenario with the Imposter was fully behind me, and that I was heading back home to my bed and my dogs...

In hindsight I realize that if I hadn't had such a vivid image in my mind, of how I thought things would go with the Imposter, I would've probably been far more forgiving of him after the fact. But hindsight my dears, is 20 freaking 20...and there ain't much I can do about that...

I also now acknowledge, that BDSM is not the type of sexual practice to pick up willy nilly...with a total stranger...sight-unseen...(DUH, ya' dumbass!)...aaaand I'm embracing the fact that I AM still a virgin (well, a bondage virgin - but still!)...cuz for the first time in a very long time, I actually feel kind of pure...(Ha!)


  1. What a bummer. Nothing worse than someone who posts pictures online that are not an accurate representation of who they are, whether it's a completely different person or that person before they gained 30 lbs. Happened to me once when this chick showed up and looked about 20-25 lbs heavier than her pic. Just told her straight up that this wasn't what I signed up for and peaced out. Do these people think we won't notice that they're full of shit?!

  2. There you are - I wondered where you went! Yeah, it's a total bummer...I am completely OCD about posting current pics....(or maybe I'm simply a narcissist, haha!) Anyway, I've tweaked this entry since you read and will probably do more tomorrow. So you should maybe check back later, it might be even better. But as always, Thanks so much for reading!

  3. I'm actually afraid to. The picture you painted of this guy was pretty frightening. The only thing I think that could make it worse is if you said he wore nasty, smelly Teva sandals that exposed wretched feet. Oh, and there's nothing worse than a jagged, yellow-stained grill.

  4. Hahaha! Ya...fortunately NO sandals or feet were involved...*shudder*

  5. Dumb question... what is a PDA?

    From "...we were already to the point of PDA's?"

  6. Not dumb at all...PDA = Public Display of Affection...(Thank you so much for checkin' out my trampy blog, btw!)