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...

...Tomorrow Could Be Hell To Pay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Real Nail-Biter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.) the extreme athlete

2.) the man in uniform

3.) the intellectual/higher thinker and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

$45,000.00 Baby...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: (long pause...)

Me: "Are you being serious?"

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

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

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

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

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

Him: "Yes, Yes and Yes"

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

Him: "Take your time"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is Only a Test...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not to Worry...

'Twas indeed a bit puzzling to learn that several of my wonderful readers had felt this sort of "sadness" while reading my last Big Ugly post. (Sadness? Y'all serious?) One concerned pal even went so far as to describe the last entry as being "heartbreaking", sheesh - are you kidding me? I was a little taken aback, because that was definitely not the atmosphere that I'd aimed to evoke. Quite the contrary really. As a matter of fact, I had kind of hoped that I'd expressed contentment with my current situation...by brandishing what I considered to be a healthy mindset resultant of my relief to be putting less pressure on myself to find a mate, as well as near jubilation from having rid my life of certain people who I've only recently come to realize, have been strip-mining my naive willingness to always be at their beck and call. In exchange for shelving my traditionally insatiable push to find a man, and bending over backwards for "friends" who take shameful advantage of me, I was focussing on appreciating and enjoying the true friends who I still hold dear. While also recognizing, that as long as I always have my dear sweet chillin's in my world, if for some reason I do end up totally friendless, I could actually be ok with that. I consider it a good thing, that since my horrific break-up with Jimmy (more than two years ago) I have learned to love my freedom and independence and periodic, self-mandated isolation from others. Which is a far cry better than when I relied on my poor friends to prop me back up, each of the innumerable times that I made my crippling bouts of loneliness (post Jimmy) my friends' problem, as well...There's nothing so sad about any of that now...is there?

Maybe though, my concerned readers weren't feeling a sympathetic sadness at all. Perhaps it was more like, "woah...now that's a sad existence"...that for an individual to display such a savage cynicism and a lack of humanity...was really just a "sad" frame of mind for any human to ever affectionately embrace.

What I'm doing now though, is operating from this strange state of sunny doom and gloom, if that makes any sense. For the moment, I'm not gonna burden myself with the pressure of finding something long term with a man, because right this minute, I question the veracity of the very concept. But it's not as though I have totally given up on love and romance and all of that. It's just that I'm not entirely convinced that any relationship can last forever, that's all. And if I go at all of this, expecting very little, then if true love ever does find me, wouldn't that be a most pleasant surprise.

Yooz guys don't need to worry about me, good lord knows...Yes, I play the poor, poor pitiful me card, ad infinitum...and I can come across as nasty as hell and bitter as sin at times - but overall I'm good...just know that. Great, in fact...

Three Simple Words: "Four"..."Date"..."Limit"

A few months ago, a Facebook friend posted this as his status update:

"I believe that it is possible to find a soul mate with whom a mutual connection completes body, mind and soul...without any trace of codependent low self-esteem"................

...............All right, so tell me if you would please...how reading this horse shit makes you feel. Chances are, if you are in an established relationship, you might concur, with varying degrees of accord - depending on how fresh or stale your own current state of affairs. But I wonder if you single folks out there can relate at all, to how reading this comment sent me fairly well through the roof!

My knee-jerk reaction was to take it out on my poor, innocent computer screen by wagging my finger frantically and shouting through it at the perpetrator, "OH!...how DARE you! You...you...you SELF-RIGHTEOUS PRICK!" Now this might sound a touch extreme, per the man's assumed intended goodwill...but allow me to explain why it registered in the retinas of this perennially single gal, as egregiously patronizing...and yes, I can admit that it did have something to do with the fact that after aaaaallllll this time searching for my forever lover, I can never seem to find my happiness with any one man beyond that brief, initial period of phony amorous bliss.

But my irritation with the FB friend's post, stemmed mostly from my knowledge that, after a long time searching in his own right for a mate, he had written this vainglorious drivel only after having made it nauseatingly clear via Facebook - that he had finally found his true love...

Naturally, it's a very easy thing to shout from your soap box that "Soul mates DO exist!"...when you're actually IN a committed relationship, duh! So, to hear him make such a declaration, while knowing that he was newly - IN LOVE - was nothing short of infuriating! But I wonder if this cat who ate the canary would’ve so easily barfed this blasphemy on all of us single slobs, if he himself was still milling aimlessly about, with the rest of us who endlessly traverse the barren dating wasteland...somehow, me thinks not. And I seriously doubt that this braggart will be sitting atop his high horse, preaching the same rhetoric, after the sickeningly sweet situation with his new honey - sours...or at the very least, becomes bland - as inevitably - it will...

I have let what the FB friend said, bother me ever since I first read it on my news feed and I have copied and pasted the quote into every subsequent blog entry since then, itching to find the perfect way to highlight it in whatever post I was working on at the time. But it wasn't until I started getting my thoughts sorted out for this entry, that I finally found it to be a good fit...

I can admit that my initial and lingering hostility was driven to a degree, by a modest dose of jealousy combined with an unhealthy helping of bitter resentment. It perturbed me that this person who had found his alleged unyielding happiness with another, would so blatantly ram his own good fortune down the throats of me and all of his other solo FB friends…I actually took it somewhat personally...like literally. But lemme also say this - Facebook does mess with my mind on occasion. There are times when I convince myself that (certain specific) Facebook friends, in response to my oftentimes racy pics. and questionable wall posts, use FB to air their grievances with my behavior, by posting timely, cryptic but relevant comments on their own walls, instead of manning up and sticking 'em on mine...I know, it makes me sound totally paranoid and narcissistic...and even a little mental...but that's just the way that I is...In the case of the above mentioned FB friend's post (who presumably is privy to my dating strife, since I promote the Big Ugly relentlessly on FB) in hindsight, I feel that perhaps he could have possibly written the "soul mate" bit as words of encouragement, or hope or comfort...but at the time, that is definitely not how I interpreted it.

Anyway...enough of all this for a moment…Let's move on, shall we?

So, at the tail-end of my last post, I confessed to having shrugged off any remote semblance of common sense, by making arrangements to meet up with that cute 25 year (oh so very) young man from CougarLife...the beautiful brown-eyed baby boy (who for obvious reasons, I'll simply dub..."B") B had so graciously offered to make the 2 and 1/2 hour drive from his house up to where I live, on a Friday afternoon - mere days after we'd first introduced ourselves to each other online. I was well aware of the implications concurrent with inviting a guy who lived that far away, to drive such a great distance and arrive at my house in the late afternoon for our first date. It was never discussed, but understood (by me at least) that he would more than likely be staying the night (whether I wound up wanting him to or not) simply because it would be inconvenient and somewhat rude of me (I thought) to make him turn right around and drive back home again, should things not work out. I was hopeful that B and I would click...nevertheless, I prepared accordingly by dressing the guest bed with clean linens...just in case...

The morning of the big Friday afternoon date, I dropped the kids off at school, and returned home to distract myself from an otherwise guaranteed case of the jitters by cleaning my filthy-ass house. I worked diligently until about an hour before B was to make his arrival...and even though the house wasn't quite to the level of immaculate for which I'd planned...it would simply have to do because I still needed to get myself cleaned up and presentable.

About 30 minutes before his e.t.a., I received a text from B which alerted me to his close proximity to my humble abode...and at that point, my nerves did finally kick in...I have to say, there is something so exhilarating about that adrenalized anxiety that precedes certain first dates, partly I think - because it reminds me that I have not become so disillusioned with all of this nonsense, to be completely incapable of experiencing the sensation of, well...feeling. Anyway, so while I was making some last minute adjustments to the house and my appearance, Willow called to see what I had lined up for the weekend. I gave her the skinny on my plans for the afternoon, and while we were talking I saw a slow moving vehicle turn onto my road and towards my driveway...I frantically shouted at Willow, "Uh, uh...I gotta go! He's pulling up to the house right now! I'll call you tomorrow and let you know how things went"

I met B out at his truck and hugged him hello. He was really very cute, with a trim athletic build and a sweet face. My dogs decided that he was someone who could be trusted and because of that, I did too. I invited him to come into the house, but before following me indoors, he reached into the back seat of his truck and pulled out an overnight bag. Yep, looked like he'd planned for that undiscussed overnight, as well.

B and I made ourselves comfortable at the counter in my kitchen, and set about chewing the fat, without benefit of the prerequisite cocktail (I broke tradition and followed his lead to abstain, after he confessed that he was taking a break from drinking for a spell). Once, when something I said or did made him smile, I saw a slight tremor in his cheek near the corner of his mouth, which gave me a hint that he was maybe just a teensy bit nervous, as well. And for some reason, realizing this - totally diffused my own agitation...I'm guessing it was a shift in power kinda thing or something - who knows, the important thing was, that suddenly I was more at ease with the situation, and I now sorta felt like the one in charge. But not for long, because after about 30 short minutes of introductory chit chat, B stood up from his stool and motioned for me to do the same. He reached for my hand and pulled me towards him...and then he kissed me. I found this to be a very confident maneuver, and yet his underlying apprehension was still palpable. We stood there in my kitchen and made out for a few minutes and then just like that, he asked if I thought we should go upstairs...rut roh...

I begrudgingly led him up the stairs and to my boudoir, the whole time whining and moaning about what a bad idea it was to be doing this so soon...so fast. But B assured me that it was fine (well, of COURSE he did!) and as we negotiated this sudden turn of events I realized something, and that was - that I actually really wanted to do it. It wasn't like with Hair Gel, where I'd felt this sort of guilty sense of duty to have do it. Plus, I was aware of the fact that even if I talked my way out of it in the short term, there would be no getting out of it entirely. Let's face it, the guy was there at my house, 2 1/2 hours away from where he lives, with his duffel strategically set on the kitchen floor...there to remind me that he wasn't goin’ anywhere...anytime soon. So it was pretty much inevitable that we would eventually screw, and since I was attracted to him, I figured..."Eh...no time like the present"...(right?)

I mean c'mon people...tha hell is wrong with me?! Sure, we all know that I'm guilty of having more than my fair share of sex on the first (oftentimes "only") date...but sex within the first 30 minutes? Now this was something completely unprecedented...undeniably a landmark achievement...and definitely NOT one about which to gloat...

Anyway, once B and I gilded the lily post impromptu romp, by luxuriating together in a nice, hot shower for a spell...we realized that we were dying of thirst AND hunger. We assessed the current state of my bedroom as we got dressed, and although we were already well aware that we'd demolished my bed (this? again? really?) we now realized that it had also been scooted many feet away from its usual position against the wall and had come to rest in the middle of the room. It was kind of funny to both of us, that we hadn’t noticed til then.

We jury-rigged the bed so that we could sleep or do whatever in it, later on, and then descended the stairs back down to the kitchen to grab a bite and a non-alcoholic beverage (couldn't believe that I wasn't jonesin' harder for a cocktail) The clock, told us that it was 8:30 p.m....more than four hours had passed - from afternoon, through evening and into nighttime - since he'd followed me up to my cougar den that first time...neither one of us could believe how much time we'd spent, fucking around in there.

We also marveled over the realization, that we did not have alcohol to blame for our hasty hook-up, it was a conscious mutual decision. But besides that...we noticed that we were both now quite comfortable with each other, with nary a hint of nervousness to speak of. It seemed almost a good thing that we'd gone ahead and gotten the fucking out of the way early on.

Almost immediately following B's departure, early the next morning, I found myself yearning to see and be with him again...and the good news was that he expressed the identical urgency.

So......I drove down to B's place a couple of days later, after work, and stayed through the next day and night, then got up super early the following morning, in order to be to work (sort of) on time. My brief stay with B had been just as nice as I had expected, startlingly romantic, if you will. And I left feeling energized about the prospect of carrying on a meaningful relationship with the little guy. He made me feel appreciated and wanted, and surprisingly - all of his genuine enthusiasm and the sincere intent to try and make something happen between us, did not make me wanna flee...just yet...

Being that I'm getting older, faster then ever these days - I try to resist the natural inclination to sometimes try and hurry through any one day or days even - in order to get on to a more appealing one. But since B's and my crazy schedules dictated that the soonest that we would be able to get together again, wasn't until 10 days later, (which seemed too brutally loooong) I found myself kind of wishing away the days in between, in an attempt to fast-forward to our next conjugal visit. I did take it as a good sign however, that I was missing him so much, especially factoring in his unwavering dedication to keep my enthusiasm from waning by sending sweet texts and messages and calling me for long-distance pillow-talk, late at night. Sometimes that type of sweetness can come across to me as saccharine, and has a tendency to really turn me off. But I lapped up his heartfelt correspondences and enjoyed reciprocating, and in the process, I found myself looking ahead longingly to our possible future together. I hid a couple of my dating profiles and replaced the slutty pics. with more respectable (boring) photos on the sites that I did keep active, and basically desisted communicating with other previous romantic hopefuls.

Now here's where things got predictably sticky...

Much as I enjoyed my next, long weekend with B, I returned home a little bit earlier than we'd planned and was nowhere near ready to make our deal Facebook official (as he had indicated that he was) Instead...I hate to say it, but I'd mentally scooted much further away from all that. You see, there was this thing that occurred while we were doing the dirty right after I arrived at his house, and I have no idea where it came from, or why...but it was definitely a fly in the ointment...

Right in the middle of having (good) sex, something happened. I had no control over it, suddenly it was just there. It was like this little birdy flew in through the window, lit on the sill and peeped, "This is not the person who will rescue you from yourself" and I was like, "Now wait just a minute...where the hell did you come from...and who asked you, anyway?!" But the little birdy had branded his observation on my brain...and as the weekend moved forth, I began to backpedal.

Here's what I think...I think that I've gotta find some way to curb my early onset enthusiasm...to put a metaphorical governor on it or something...and here's why...As much fun as it is to get all excited about a new person and the prospect of finding a potentially fulfilling romance, the chances of me actually hanging up my dating hat and slipping into a comfortable relationship, are not real promising at this point in time...and this is not something that I'm proud to admit. I love the thrill of the newness of courtship, but as soon as I feel like I may be about to sacrifice my independence and my freedom (which I have grown to cherish so) I freak. And complicating all of this, is the fact that it's become way too easy for me to go from gung ho to ho hum in a jiff. Even more disconcerting, is my cold-blooded ability to totally ignore the likelihood that the person from whom I'm preparing to run, may end up hurt by my abrupt departure...Friends tell me that I simply have not met the right person yet...I have yet to meet that remarkable man who will quell my ravenous appetite to hop from guy to guy and inspire me to stick with just him, whereby, encouraging me to retire my Big Ugly persona...for good.

It's like this, I am not entirely opposed to the idea of having a bf. There is almost nothing in the world that I love as much as being in love...but I can't force it, even if the guy is sweet, and considerate, and good in bed and attractive...the instant that even a minor tremor of doubt taints (haha...funny word) my enthusiasm...it's almost certainly doomed...especially when it happens within the first few weeks. And so...the dreaded four date curse rears its ugly head...once more...

I noticed as I drove away from B's house and towards my own, that I began feeling a trifle downhearted, which was kinda confounding. I wondered, "Why am I so blue?" Was I possibly (hopefully?) missing B or something? Huh...maybe. But that would have been totally inconsistent with how that little birdy'd made me feel. Perhaps after such a whirlwind weekend, the idea of being all alone in my empty house was woefully anticlimactic. But I'd chosen to leave B's house early, so that I might have a minute of solitude before another workweek was upon me. And then it struck me...my melancholy might in all actuality, be the byproduct of shrouded regret, for having unintentionally misled B into believing that we were an item...

As soon as I was home again, I doled out lotsa good lovin' on my lonely pups and then scampered out to my studio...to dust off my neglected dating sites, and get back to my old tricks...

I always tell people, when talking about the blog and the guys that I meet, that I try to protect the "good ones"…and I will adhere to that credo in regards to B. I have nothing cross to say about him. I did have a wee tiny complex over the fact that my arms are bigger than his…but it wasn’t a deal-breaker by any means. He is a remarkable, hard-working, determined young man and he will be fine. He’s just not the guy meant to take me away from all of this stuff that I have grown to love…my freedom, my independence and researching and writing my blog…

I was almost too chicken shit to come clean with B about my change of heart. But I needed to get this new blog entry posted and if I would've slithered away without approaching B (who does read the blog) about the matter beforehand, this would've marked the first time that I've ended something with an online guy, via the blog…again, nothing about which to be very proud…So, I did the slightly less wimpy thing by sucking it up and sending him a "Dear John" email...There, now I was all set to get this derned thing posted...worry-free...

I've gone over this before, I know...but it's pertinent to the story...so it bears repeating. Too often, I treat people in general as if they are expendable. By and large, it is frighteningly easy for me to sever ties...this goes for men that I meet and/or date, my family with whom I have virtually no contact anymore (save my four dear children) and even close friends. I've seen some previously tight friendships wind up in the shitter and that is largely due to my policy of refusing to let folks who are supposed to be my allies, mistreat, betray and exploit me. But where I should feel some sort of residual effect, either remorse, or sorrow or a void where their once valuable friendship used to be, I instead find relief and solace. At the rate that I'm going, I'm apt to wind up totally friendless, the thought of which - curiously - causes very little distress. The only positive constant for me in regards to relationships, is my unconditional devotion to my kids, lord knows I couldn't fathom their absence from my life...I've always said that I wanted to live on an island someday...maybe I'll just end up becoming one, instead...

My rancorous sentiment towards the aforementioned FB friend's post remained resolute, until upon further consideration, I had a change of heart.

After aligning my own experiences to the FB friend's philosophy, I realized that I should not actually let myself be threatened by what he'd said. Although it admittedly touched a nerve at first, I no longer gave credence to any of that garbage that he espoused. The best way that I can think to illustrate my enlightened take on his nonsense is this: In general, I do not let things in which I do not believe, bother me. For example: all of that business about Heaven and Hell is utter poppycock to me. Ending up in either place has never frightened nor intrigued me, simply by virtue the fact that I don't believe that either place even exists. Similarly, after spending my entire adult life either single, manically searching for love, or in relationships that neglected to garner a "soul mate", I have come to the conclusion that the chances of actually finding a captivating, lifelong love - are slim to none. And since this is my newly adopted conviction, I am no longer worrying ceaselessly about ever finding mine...because I don't necessarily think that anything so perfect is waiting in the wings for me or anyone else, for that matter...

And so, "I believe that it is possible to find a soul mate with whom a mutual connection completes body, mind and soul...without any trace of codependent low self-esteem" doesn't rub me the wrong way, anymore. I see it as a trite series of words, which I now view to be a meager attempt by its delusional author to convince himself that the thing that he has found, is actually golden...the poor misguided soul…