Smoke 'Em if Ya' Got 'Em...

I couldn't tell you exactly how long it's been since the last time I pressed myself up against a man...I mean, if I had to guess - I'd say it's been close to a month, although it's likely been longer than that. But even more disconcerting than the sudden downturn in my once dependable string of liaisons, is the fact that I haven't been bothered at all, by my recent sexual drought...(and I do have a pulse, cuz I checked)

In the past, I would've seen - not getting laid for such an exasperatingly long period of time - as indicative of an indefinite cessation of my once active social life, the harrowing side-effects of which could portend the untimely demise of my beloved blog...which historically would've caused me to panic. But for some strange reason, I haven't been the slightest bit unnerved by my solitude...in fact, I've been rawther productive in the interim. The irony is - it's by my own doing that these last few weeks have been uncharacteristically quiet, namely because I've passed on multiple opportunities to fool around with two guys in specific...both of whom have put a significant amount of pressure on me to spend time with them...(*sigh*)...UH-gin. I do indeed have a sexual history (spanning varying lengths of time) with both men, but neither has me terribly motivated to wanna add to the annals of said histories. In this entry I'll explain what caused my eventual torpor in regards to the first of the two men...

A few weeks ago, following the disappointing Imposter debacle, I broke one of my cardinal rules when I agreed to go out with a (young) man who lives within close proximity to my home. I normally try to avoid dating guys from around here, for obvious reasons including: eliminating the potential for the "pop-in" and/or stalking, as well as the awkwardness that accompanies bumping into an old fling on the street, or at the store, especially if things happened to have ended badly. Against my better judgement, and partially out of boredom, plus financial woes and car troubles having suspended the luxury of leaving town for a date - I decided to pencil the Marlboro Man into what would've otherwise been, another empty Monday Night Date slot. I opted - helter-skelter - for a quick and easy date fix, over the sensible alternative of politely regretting a local fella's invitation to meet up...

Yes, young Marlboro Man and I had a pleasant enough time and yes, we hooked up - BIG surprise. But I skipped writing about him immediately following our date, because at the time I was still heavily embroiled in fleshing out the deets of the Imposter entry...plus, there really wasn't that much to tell...just that we met at a nearby bar, he's got interesting taste in music, I liked that he drinks and he smokes, we went back to my place, guzzled one final cocktail, and used up all of the condoms he'd brought...c'est tout...

So the next Monday, when he texted to see if I was busy and if I wasn't did I want to hang out, I was less than enthusiastic for a whole host of reasons. First off, there would be no thrilling element of surprise...I'd already learned as much as I needed to know about him. Additionally, I was completely up to my neck with my writing and my weekly self-portrait assignment, not to mention I was dealing with those painful injuries to my foot and my leg...like seriously - how the hell was I gonna be worth a good goddamn, with a freshly broken fibula and heel? Perhaps most damning of all though, was something the Marlboro Man had said at the end of our first date....which had me nervous that he might be in the market for a long term(ish) romance...uh oh...

As we lay in bed recovering from the morning installment of our premier stab at carnal knowledge with one another, the Marlboro Man shattered the silence with, "Mmmm...this is gonna be a FUN Summer ;)" Now to the naked ear, that might sound sorta sweet...not a threatening statement at all, right? But to someone like me - who these days recoils from anything remotely resembling a relationship - it screeched in my head like fuckin' nails on a chalkboard. In all honesty, it kinda freaked me out. I hadn't pictured us together any further into the future than up until he left to go home...

While on that first date with the Marlboro Man, I did the courteous thing by coming clean about my blog, and as I explained the general gist of what I write, I expected him to want to know more. But he asked me nothing...just kinda stared at me blankly, and so it was no skin off my back to drop the subject altogether. I did not however, cut corners when emphatically stressing that I had zero interest in striking up anything long term, with him or anyone else - which was why I was so startled by his nod to the notion that - now that we'd found each other - Summer would be so...much...more...FUN! I was there thinking, "Dude, don't even think about pinning that shit on me. I did not sign up to be your activities coordinator." (Lord knows I'm spread thin, as it is)

After waffling back and forth over whether to let the Marlboro Man come over again or not, a bevy of factors cast the swing vote...One: he had offered to bring a bunch of cd's that he thought I might like to hear (cool)...Two: despite my bum leg I figured, "Eh, how badly could it hurt to have sex?"...Three: seemed sorta mean to refuse him, with no real scheduling conflict to blame...and Four: even though I would've preferred to spend the evening fondling my computer keyboard, I reminded myself that if I kept up with all of the silly shut-in nonsense, I would eventually run out of stories to tell. My ambivalence towards the Marlboro Man had me nowhere near desirous of another visit, and yet I said he could come over anyway...

I think part of my problem is that I've become so insatiably addicted to habitually craving a taste of the unfamiliar, that if I have even an inkling that the best I can expect is a homogenous version of the first so-so date, then (in the absence of anyone new on the horizon) I'd rather spend my time all alone, doing something that I'm certain I'll enjoy...such as writing or wanking or working on my pics.. So when I caved and gave the Marlboro Man a second chance to visit, and it turned out to be a near carbon copy of the first, I was completely convinced that it would also be his last...and then he did something to set that in stone.

Immediately upon waking up in the morn, the Marlboro Man jumped out of bed with a start. Without explanation he threw on some clothes, frantically flew down the stairs and then returning to my room after maybe 10 minutes, he disrobed and lay down on top of me. Now it made sense, I could smell it on his breath. He'd gone outside (before sex, mind) to have a smoke - at 7 goddamn 30 in the morning...WTF?!

The whole time he kissed me I was completely grossed out by the lingering stench of that early morning cigarette, as it seeped out of his mouth and his nose, which - coming from a smoker, might sound hypocritical - but I mean come ON! Even I don't crave a ciggy when there's still sleep in my eyes. Furthermore, I always take a pull off the Listerine bottle before kissing a lover in the morning. I couldn't even imagine brazenly belching cigarette pollution directly into his mouth, first thing. What do you think? I mean, is it just me? Or is that shit seriously fucking weird...weird AND rude...weird and rude and disgusting! I'm here to tell ya', I was so repulsed by the whole ordeal that I vowed to quit smoking then and there...and I did! Of course that only lasted for about 24 hours...but still, you get what I'm sayin'.

It gets better though, see - after the deed was done, we went downstairs to set a spell before saying goodbye and all that. I made a pot of coffee, asked if he'd like a cup and he said, "Nah, I might just have a beer instead...that ok?"...that's right, he wanted - a beer...at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning, neato.........I told him, "You're an adult, you can do as you please. You don't have to ask me for permission" Meanwhile I thought, "Just don't expect to be invited back..." Ok, so by this point I'd decided to not only quit smoking, but to also quit drinking, as well...

As the Marlboro Man hugged me goodbye (for what I knew would be the very last time) I reminded him that he'd left his cd's upstairs. "Oh right, no biggie. I'll just grab 'em when I come back the next time"...ah yes, the old collateral trick...a most effective strategy for ensuring at least one more future visit...I picked up on his transparent scheme right away, but was in such a big hurry for him to beat feet on outta there, that I decided I'd deal with it later.

After enduring several subsequent weeks of the Marlboro Man's increasingly urgent texts, all but pleading with me to see him again (that kind of desperation, in case you didn't know - does literally nothing to help a guy's cause) I finally stopped coming up with excuses for why I couldn't, and suggested he go check out my blog. I told him he'd learn all he needed to know about the way that I operate these days and went on to confess that I rarely stick with any one man for long, since I'm compulsively driven to inject my life and my blog with an infusion of new men and the ensuing experiences. Consequently, I now accept if after meeting a guy, I find I'm anything but completely blown away, it would be silly to bother with repeat engagements solely for the sake of decent sex. And lemme tell ya', over those four idle weeks (post Marlboro Man) I was perfectly content to cozy up with my Mac, to the exclusion of everyone else.....

Not knowing him well, and therefore - how he'd react to my decision to stub our (brief) thing out, along with his knowledge of as well as easy access to where I live, I'll admit that I did fret over how easy it would be for him to make my life living Hell, should he choose. But he's respected my privacy and kept to himself...even though his cd's are still here...

Soooo...one man down, and another to go...but after THAT Ima get to the good schtuff...Oh cuz see, since extinguishing the thing with the Marlboro Man, and after 30 days of self-sanctioned celibacy, but before I got around to completing this entry - I've seen a substantial rise in the number of warm bodies around here.........and all is right once again, in my Big Ugly World.........

From a Chip on My Shoulder to Chipped Bones

I can totally see, how someone from the outside looking in at my happy-go-lucky life, might consider me the epitome of a lazy sack of shit...a good-time-Charlie (Charlene?)...and a loser. I know for a fact that my ex-husband thinks me the very definition of a loser. I am the model he uses when emphasizing to our children, that for them going to college is not elective. Perish the thought they be unqualified to do anything other than shit jobs in this life, and become useless good-for-nothings...like their mother. The thing of it is though, that guy's opinion don't mean doodly to me. Any person born into a guaranteed, lucrative career, having never had a "regular" job - waiting tables or painting houses or working retail (like the rest of us) can come straight over here and kiss mama's ass. I don't wanna hear about how a lack of education locks a person in to a lifetime of hardship and a pointless existence, especially from someone who's had everything handed to him and has never experienced financial strife. Furthermore, I am not lazy. I actually stay ridiculously busy and am generally very "productive". It's just that at the moment, I don't happen to generate large quantities of money (well...any money, really) doing what it is that I do, that's all...

I liken my current status to the proverbial "starving artist" scenario, since I am irrevocably driven to follow my creative urges to the willful neglect of monetary stability...despite being fully cognizant of the fact that my chances of realizing any sort of "greatness" are about as likely as getting struck by lightening...or winning the lottery...or playing on an NBA team.

It is a bit frustrating though, because even as a half-assed visual artist producing drawings and paintings, at least I did end up with a tangible good to peddle. But it's a little more tricky to make money off your craft when your passion is blogging, and you've no real ware to try and sell...And in further contrasting "painting" to "writing"...why is it that the starving visual artist is perceived to be somehow more admirable or romantic or legit - than the starving blogger who happens to be just as devoted and sometimes even more so - to their particular chosen field...food for thought...

I've always suspected that it was likely, that any number of my closest friends might find me and my unorthodox lifestyle, equally as lame and self-indulgent as my ex does. But it wasn't until just the other week that one of my gf's finally got up in my face about it...and Oh Golly! Quel Surprise!

My lower lip trembled and my chin quivered a bit, as I drove away from the bank. I'd just discovered that my checking account balance was a little more than $1800 in the hole (like, who besides me even does that shit?)...I went next door to the post office, hoping I might've received notice that I'd won a million dollar sweepstakes or something...(and whaddya know. I did not) and that's when I ran into my good girlfriend, who was also there checking her mail. The instant I opened my mouth to speak to her, the flood gates were breached and I suffered a complete emotional meltdown over this recent dismal turn of events...right there in front of my friend and everyone else at the post office. The shocker was, that instead of giving me a comforting hug and lying to me that it would all be OK (as any good friend should do) my dear friend fairly well read me the riot act. Raising her voice, she firmly urged me to hang up the dating and the writing and all that. She insisted that none of any of that was ever gonna help to improve my gloomy financial picture and that what I needed was to get a "real" job (the heck you say, woman?!) Which I guess in theory is all well and good except for the fact that it's Summer now...and during the summertime - my kids and sometimes some of my friends' kids - are here at home with me, during every weekday except one. Being available to work only one day a week, does not exactly make me desirably hirable...

Airing her obvious pent-up resentment of me, she continued her tongue-lashing, by citing - writing should be my hobby, that's it! Not the all-consuming addiction it has become. She saw my undying desire to become a successful, well-known blogger - as a pathetic and delusional pipe-dream, "I hate to break it to you, but you're never gonna go far with your writing...it just doesn't happen that way for people very often. You need to get over it and move the hell on" She then proceeded to contradict herself by pulling the whole "Why don't you go back to doing your dog portraits..."-card, which to this day still has me stymied. She knows as well as I do, that I never made much money when I was drawing and painting for a "living". Plus, money and success aside, I do feel that there's value in the fact that I absolutely LOVE to write...as much and as often as I can. Back when I was painting, I never felt even a shred of the same compulsion that now draws me to my studio to write...

After riding out my friend's diatribe, I was seriously like, "Calm the freak down!" (only I didn't have the nerve to actually say it) I mean her rancor towards my "life of leisure" was palpable, and quite honestly I drove away from her tirade feeling far more pissed off than distraught (the good news was, I'd stopped bawling at least) All I could think was, "Oh, yeah? Well, just watch me honey. I'm still gonna date and write and I'll prove it to ya'...I'm not doing all of this in vain"

I don't know if people realize that this shit that I do - farting around on dating sites trying to line up whatever next date, and the actual dating itself...along with the excessive amount of time that I spend writing about everything that happens - takes a veritable coon's age, thank you very much. On top of all that I've now added to the line-up - taking my weekly Twitter #HNT pictures. It can take anywhere from 2 - 4 hours, staging and snapping sometimes upwards of 200 photos, and on top of that then spending many more hours downloading and editing the pics...I would venture to say that I devote as much or more time - researching, writing and promoting my blog, than most people do at their normal jobs. I've had days where I've written for 17 hours straight, with only a few spoonfuls of peanut butter to help keep me nourished. But since I make no money (so far) doing all of this stuff, it means to many that what I'm doing - is worthless...I beg to differ.

I honestly believe that blogging about my experiences with men, is the thing that I'm supposed to be doing. Additionally, I am perfectly situated to advertise my Big Ugly Blog, by posting racy pics. in its honor on the internet, while simultaneously pushing my Twitter and FB to their absolute limits...why? Because it's not like I'm some kid who's online indiscretions will impact whether or not I get into the college of my choice. And I will never have a high profile career where my boss might end up slapping me on the wrist (or worse) for my questionable antics on the web. That being said, I always keep my kids in the forefront of my mind, whenever deciding which nakey pics. to upload. I always ask myself before I click "post" "How would the kids feel if they saw this one day?" And so far I've not put one single photo on the internet, that I wouldn't willingly show them right now............eh, on second thought - scratch that last part...

And one last thought before I quit venting - I'm sure that many of you out there, get paid by someone else to work on a computer all day, am I right? Does the fact that I'm working possibly just as hard, but without generating income - make my deal that much less honorable? Cuz honestly, my unwavering enthusiasm for the entire Big Ugly project, I would guess might make me more efficient and productive than lots of peeps working a desk job that they could give a flyin' flip about...so there's that. I bet not many of you clock in for the man, genuinely happy to get crackin' at 6:30 in the a.m.. And I bet fewer still, don't get up to go home til as late as 12:30 or 1:00 at night...but I do that, quite often in fact - and I don't get paid overtime, or time and a half or even paid at all, for that matter.

I'm not tryin' to bust on people for the jobs that they do or their level of devotion to their careers, I just want folks to understand that the effort I put into my Big Ugly Blog, isn't (hopefully?) as frivolous as they might think...

(Woah...when did I get this big honkin' chip on my shoulder?)

So anyway, as my last childless weekend swiftly approached, I had no plans to play with any of my old stand-by's...the Marine has been scarce, the hot lawyer from the big city was a no-show (again) and all I really wanted was for the online guy who lives 6 hrs away and who wore me out having text sex (or...sext...) all week long, to come here and fuck me for real - like he promised! But just like he's done each time before, he went mysteriously missing at the very last minute. SO! I committed to hunkering down in my studio to spend the bulk of the next three days - writing...even though Willow and MC Ginger had asked if they could crash at my place for the weekend...I mean, I knew that we'd enjoy a few cocktails together, but I was hellbent on skipping the weekend long party that Pierre (my friend up the road) would be hosting and that Willow and MC Ginger planned on attending.

That Thursday night before Pierre's 3 day-long bacchanalia, I invited him over to help bake some naughty confections that I might contribute to the spread in my stead. While Pierre and I toiled in my kitchen, baking chocolate penis and vanilla boob cakes to just die for, we spent most of our time together talking shop about men (my dear friend is gay, thus the boy-heavy convo) I was delighted but not surprised when Pierre took all that I said and concluded that I would make the perfect gay guy. But what did startle me was to hear it come out of my mouth, that I wasn't bothered a bit, to have no dates lined up...at all. Normally by the Thursday before a childless weekend, I'm on a mad frantic rampage to schedule men into every open slot, but for whatever reason, this particular Thursday, I'd resigned myself to just laying low. Pierre agreed that forgetting about men for a bit, might not necessarily be a bad thing...but rather than turn into some crazy recluse inextricably attached to my computer, he suggested that I indulge in some lighthearted funtime with friends. He asserted that carefree merrymaking with a bunch of good buds, might offer a completely different slant to my blog...which would be tantamount to my goal of keeping my blog ever fresh (he's a damned good salesman, that one!)

By the time opening night of Pierre's weekend-long "Adult Summer Camp" arrived - I relented, and tagged along with Willow and MC Ginger to the party...the anatomically correct boob and dick cakes in my hands.

It had been one of this summer's most sweltering days, so by the time that we'd all had a ridiculously large quantity of alcohol, we decided that we needed to get our hot little bodies into some water somewhere...and fast! We drove to the pool that was the obvious choice, hopped the fence and a few of us shimmied out of our clothes. I found it odd that so few in the group went swimming, and that even fewer decided to skinny dip. There was me (the oldest "camper" by far - at almost twice the age of the other participants, ugh) along with Willow, Pierre and Pierre's ADORABLE friend...mmmm...lllllet's just call him Adonis.

Right, so the whole scene - frolicking with abandon, naked and surrounded by so many young people, harkened back to my own days of wild youth - doing exactly the same silly shit...*sigh* Needless to say, I quickly became wrapped up in the moment and after one brave soul did a flip off of the lifeguard stand, it took no coaxing for me to try it too. I climbed up the ladder and perched for a second and then did a perfect (best I remember) flip into the pool...and as soon as I hit the water...I knew that I'd totally fucked up. My foot hit the bottom of the pool with such force that I felt a sharp pain in my heel and my knee. I swam to the side and struggled to climb out and fighting tears, asked Willow and MC Ginger if we could go home...

The whole way home, I cried like a baby, not so much from the pain but more from the thought of a potential new string of medical expenses. Jesus Christ - had I not just finished paying off my broken thumb? And now this?! Willow tenderly tucked me into bed. She gave me water and Advil, and placed a bag of frozen peas under my foot as well as a bag of frozen corn on my knee. It was funny to me that my 25 year old friend, effortlessly assumed the mature, motherly role...while I played the incorrigible child...brilliantly...

When I woke in the morning I was hopeful that I actually might be a-ok. My leg didn't hurt at all at first, but when I stepped out of bed, the pain was so severe that I fell to the floor with a thud. I hobbled through the house and out to my car and drove myself to the E.R. at 6:30 a.m.. When I finally left the hospital (4 hours later...grrr...) I had a brace and crutches (no cast, thank god) and two broken bones in my leg...sheesh...

I swear...out of all those times that I've intentionally hurled myself down loooong flights of stairs, the worst injury I ever suffered was a little rug burn. But try to do one harmless flip into the pool and the next thing I know, I'm a gimp.

So, you may be wondering...did I learn anything after spending a Friday night with friends, instead of tangled up with a date or tete a tete with my trusty ole Mac? Why yes...yes indeedy, I most certainly did...

I learned that although I love them all madly, it doesn't matter to me what my friends think. Agreed, it may not be the most practical, advantageous or profitable pastime, but evidently online dating and writing (it seems) - for me is undeniably the safest...so there!