Ah, back to the Cheerleader. After our night, I went home with a smile and marks all over my body. The universal signs of a good time! I flirted with disaster and disaster flirted back, and then took me for a ride.
When one has a tryst of the nature the Cheerleader and I had, you have to perk up and realize that none of this is likely real. However, the situation still begs to know if the guy should call. Most women would jump up and say, “Of course you should call!” It’s not that simple. For a guy, you don’t want to catch feelings, especially if this girl was just using you because she was lonely, out for a good time, forgetting and old boyfriend, or using you as an experiment. Sorry, ladies, but whether or not you want to own up to it, some of you can be pretty cruel in the game of love. Add to this confusion the fact that some women love to use lines like, “I don’t need a man”, “I’m not looking for a relationship right now,” “I’m just out for a good time,” “I’m really busy, gosh sooo busy, it’s hard for me to call people back *hint hint*” and so on and so forth, we never know what to think. Heck some girls talk incessantly about other guys they think or hot or they are dating or flirting with. Perhaps its to get a rise out of us or to make you look in demand? Who knows? At times we do the craziest thing possible and take you at your word when you really wanted us to read between the lines. Either way, it’s all far too complicated, and way too messy.
I liked the way we connected so at the very least I wanted to see where things would go. I called. You can all applaud now, while I stand up and take a bow. Okay, good. Thank you. Moving on… I called and she was kind of dry, but still seemed receptive, and enough so that I asked to drop by since I was in the neighborhood. She seemed somewhat eager. She’s hard to read. I figure it’s the meds.
When I get there, she is in sweats, but looking quite good. The vibe is definitely different than last time, and kind of familiar, like two old friends hanging out. Not sure what to think of this. We sit on the couch and watch some TV. We cuddle a little. I kiss her. She kisses me back. Hmmmmm. She’s shivering. It’s not cold, but she says she feels cold. Girls are always cold. What’s up with that?
She shivers more. It’s turning into the DT’s. This is getting weird. She tells me something is wrong and she can’t figure it out. I ask her if we can call her doctor. We call her doctor, and her doctor pretty much acts as if she is malingering. No help at all. I could tell you now how worthless most doctors are, but that would be a whole other blog in and of itself! We call her brother, and I sit while she argues on speakerphone that she needs him to come over, something is wrong. No dice. No one has any interest in this poor girl. I am not about to leave her alone. I hold her tight. She is worried. I ask if there is any med she takes for this. She says she has never gone through this before. She’s not sure what’s going on. 40 minutes later the shaking gets worse. It’s out of control. She starts screaming. She begs me to call 911.
If you know me, you’d know I stay incredibly calm in moments like these. I was aware of one thing. She was screaming, and it didn’t look good. It was loud, and harsh. It sounded like someone was getting murdered. I calmly open the front door to the apartment and walk into the courtyard, while her voice echoed through the place. Neighbors rushed out. This is where it pays to be calm. It not only keeps other people calm, but it also prevents people from jumping to conclusions. They are less likely to freak out and make assumptions, and more likely to help. I say, “Listen, I need you to stay calm and listen to me. My friend is in there and I think she is very sick. Please come with me and assist me.” They follow me and see she is sitting on the couch, with her muscles tensed up, and she is shaking severely and begging for 911 saying she’s sick. I’ve already called 911 and they are on their way. Poor girl and poor me, this is messy! I flirted with disaster alright!
The paramedics arrive with a gurney. By now she has spent the last minute screaming, “Make it stop! Make it stop! Somebody kill me now! Kill me now!” This was scary. I didn’t react, but inside, I have to admit, it was scary. I am sure she was pretty scared. Poor thing. The paramedics subdued her, as she was getting pretty hard to contain both physically and verbally. They loaded her onto the gurney and tied the restraints down tight and wheeled her off.
Two minutes later LAPD wanders in. They are cool and collected but they want to know what happened. I tell them calmly that we don’t know. They look suspicious. Wow this is stress added to stress! I take them around the place. They can see everything is in order. I tell them she might have had a reaction to one of her medications. I pull them into the kitchen and show them the cupboard of prescription meds. I open it, and bottles come pouring out. They give me a nod, “Ahhhhhh now we get it!” Case closed. I thank them for their help, shake hands, and go on my way. Before I leave, I pick up The Cheerleaders cell phone and look for an entry labeled “Mom”. Everyone has one. I call it, and leave the most awkward voicemail ever. I use my professional speaking voice. “Hi, you don’t know me but I am a friend of the Cheerleader…” and I go on to tell her there has been a situation, to please contact the hospital, and I leave my contact in case she needs to talk to me. The Mom calls me 20 minutes later and I calmly clue her in on everything that’s happened. The brother calls me too. He says, “Thank God you stayed with her. I feel like shit for not coming when she called me. You are a God send!”
This is a night I will never forget. I flirted with disaster and disaster flirted back.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Is there a Doctor in the House?
Ever had a friend that was like House, MD? If you haven’t seen the show, it’s about an insanely observant doctor who figures out puzzles by way of solving medical mysteries. What makes House fascinating is that he solves medical mysteries not simply by diagnosing symptoms, but by breaking down everything about a person through plain observation. He figures the people out based on personality, speech patterns, the way they walk, the way they dress, their occupation, and anything you can imagine down to the coffee stain on their shirt. He uses this information to deduce things about the person they cannot merely diagnose in a hospital setting, thus inching them closer and closer to the answer to their medical mysteries.
In our group of friends we have The Doc. Kinda fits the bill of House, only he is handsome, muscular, young, and far from crotchety like the character in the TV show. Doc, on the other hand, is an admitted sociopath. I think he’s proud of it.
The Doc has a great job, and he is equally great with the ladies. Yet, the game, the chase, whatever you want to call it, fails to entertain him in its natural state. Therefore he loves to up the ante. Everything from creating alter egos, complete with fake business cards to match, all the way to sleeping with women with whom he works. It gets worse, but he’s actually one of my protagonists, so I want you to like him. Obviously, no matter what ruse he runs, it’s his charm, quick wit, and intelligence that make it all happen.
When you sit at a bar with The Doc, like House, MD, he will have everything figured out about a woman. “See the way that girl has her purse on the bar top, set at an angle? That’s because she’s shy about her big breasts, and the angling is because she doesn’t want people to see her from her left side. She doesn’t like the way she looks, because she’s a little asymmetrical. That’s the side you should approach her from. Play up her insecurities. If she moves the purse out of the way, it means you made her comfortable, and you’re in!” Bullshit! What is he talking about? Determined to prove it, he saunters over to her with an opening he had already told us was “money”, and it’s on! She’s smiling, playing with her hair, leaning into him. The purse comes off the bar top 5 minutes later. 45 minutes later they are leaving together.
How does he do it?
When you’re that slick, getting a thrill or a rush gets really tough to come by. Doc has a girl he’s really into. Now, all you “Tiger Woods is a Cheater” fanatics will chime in, “He can’t love this girl if he cheats on her left and right!” Well, I submit to you, that some men (re: most men) can separate sex and love, and look at the girls they keep on the side. These aren’t class acts! They are kinda trashy and wild, while the good girl is the one he falls for, gives his heart and home to, and has every intention of keeping for the long haul. Yeah, I know, some of you, especially the women, want to toss your laptop out the window in a rage, but trust me this is the truth.
Doc can’t get his thrills with a normal flirtation or pickup. What’s left? How about picking up women in your girlfriend’s apartment complex and sleeping with them in the hopes the two worlds never collide? That’s what’s left!
I don’t know how he did it but he did it. He meets a hottie blonde in the same apartment building and gets things going. Of course the blonde never gets his real name or occupation. In fact she gets a business card for one of his alter egos. I query that surely he must know this is just a cry to get caught in the act. He disagrees on the basis that they live on opposite sides of the same, small complex, but as a result choose to use the east and west wings respectively. Also, he has worked out a schedule and timing with the blonde, such that, when coupled with their exiting habits and positioning in the building, two worlds will never meet. Once again, I say this is bullshit, but he is pulling it off. Obviously, this is thrill seeking at its extreme, or a desperate cry to get caught. Either way, the boy is nuts.
Oh, and for you girls that are worried that some guy is pulling one of these “Alter ego, sleep with a girl in your same building” scams, I say to you that 99.9% of men aren’t The Doc, nor do they have his skills. No need to worry.
In our group of friends we have The Doc. Kinda fits the bill of House, only he is handsome, muscular, young, and far from crotchety like the character in the TV show. Doc, on the other hand, is an admitted sociopath. I think he’s proud of it.
The Doc has a great job, and he is equally great with the ladies. Yet, the game, the chase, whatever you want to call it, fails to entertain him in its natural state. Therefore he loves to up the ante. Everything from creating alter egos, complete with fake business cards to match, all the way to sleeping with women with whom he works. It gets worse, but he’s actually one of my protagonists, so I want you to like him. Obviously, no matter what ruse he runs, it’s his charm, quick wit, and intelligence that make it all happen.
When you sit at a bar with The Doc, like House, MD, he will have everything figured out about a woman. “See the way that girl has her purse on the bar top, set at an angle? That’s because she’s shy about her big breasts, and the angling is because she doesn’t want people to see her from her left side. She doesn’t like the way she looks, because she’s a little asymmetrical. That’s the side you should approach her from. Play up her insecurities. If she moves the purse out of the way, it means you made her comfortable, and you’re in!” Bullshit! What is he talking about? Determined to prove it, he saunters over to her with an opening he had already told us was “money”, and it’s on! She’s smiling, playing with her hair, leaning into him. The purse comes off the bar top 5 minutes later. 45 minutes later they are leaving together.
How does he do it?
When you’re that slick, getting a thrill or a rush gets really tough to come by. Doc has a girl he’s really into. Now, all you “Tiger Woods is a Cheater” fanatics will chime in, “He can’t love this girl if he cheats on her left and right!” Well, I submit to you, that some men (re: most men) can separate sex and love, and look at the girls they keep on the side. These aren’t class acts! They are kinda trashy and wild, while the good girl is the one he falls for, gives his heart and home to, and has every intention of keeping for the long haul. Yeah, I know, some of you, especially the women, want to toss your laptop out the window in a rage, but trust me this is the truth.
Doc can’t get his thrills with a normal flirtation or pickup. What’s left? How about picking up women in your girlfriend’s apartment complex and sleeping with them in the hopes the two worlds never collide? That’s what’s left!
I don’t know how he did it but he did it. He meets a hottie blonde in the same apartment building and gets things going. Of course the blonde never gets his real name or occupation. In fact she gets a business card for one of his alter egos. I query that surely he must know this is just a cry to get caught in the act. He disagrees on the basis that they live on opposite sides of the same, small complex, but as a result choose to use the east and west wings respectively. Also, he has worked out a schedule and timing with the blonde, such that, when coupled with their exiting habits and positioning in the building, two worlds will never meet. Once again, I say this is bullshit, but he is pulling it off. Obviously, this is thrill seeking at its extreme, or a desperate cry to get caught. Either way, the boy is nuts.
Oh, and for you girls that are worried that some guy is pulling one of these “Alter ego, sleep with a girl in your same building” scams, I say to you that 99.9% of men aren’t The Doc, nor do they have his skills. No need to worry.
The Other Side of Facebook
Here’s an exercise in irony. I started a random flirtation with a girl recently. I didn’t recognize her to save my life. Well, guess what? Turns out she was a cheerleader I knew in high school. Better yet, she was at one of my childhood birthday parties. You gotta be kidding me! I didn’t realize it ‘til she asked me, “Do you remember me? You don’t do you.” It took me a second, and then it hit my. OMG! Yup, it was the cheerleader. I’m bad with faces, what can I say?
Back in the day, she was the biatch that everyone hated in high school. Maybe it was her bad ass Jersey Chick attitude, or hmmm I dunno. Self-inflicted, deserved or not, she had a stigma that probably raised her stock, but left her on an island all the same. She was a “Rich Girl”, a “Daddy’s Girl”, but I’d lost touch with her after junior high, and I never really paid attention to the TMZ type of rumors people like to spread. She was kinda a stranger to me, but why lie? The “Cheerleader from Back in the Day” thing was hot. I’m a guy, sue me!
We kept in touch, and a little emailing ensued. Our main medium of connection became Facebook. The Facebook thing is dangerous, but in a good way. Its voyeurism mixed with a healthy dose of reconnecting, along with one part staying connected, and two parts flirtation. The back and forth was sweet. We mixed in the occasional Instant Message, and a Text and a Phone call was the cherry on top.
Things went swimmingly such that I asked her out to coffee. That’s the next logical step. Starbucks here we come! We meet, and it’s her, in the flesh. Well, a lot more flesh, and silicone, and a little botox. Very porn star, but nobody was complaining. Nope, no complaints here. Crazy!
The connection was instant and the conversation flowing, like a glass of cheap Zinfandel. Yeah, I invoked the Zinfandel imagery. Kinda sets the tone. Okay, I’m kidding it wasn’t that bad. It was actually pretty good, until she hit me with something I wasn’t expecting. “You know, there must be something so special about you, because I remember you.” I thought to myself, “Awww how sweet,” until she chimed in, “No, you don’t understand. I don’t remember a lot of things anymore.”
Here’s where she laid some heavy stuff on me. Turns out she had undergone ECT aka Electroconvulsive Therapy. That’s when they basically hook a car battery up to your head and buzz you with 10,000 volts. Pretty messed up, and wildly aggressive “therapy”. I am not sure how many people it helps, but surely it’s a last resort for most people and practitioners alike.
Now I am in an interesting moment. I am both flattered and weirded out. Not sure which one I want to go with in this instance. Nevertheless, we continued to connect. I told her how she always looked distant, but she wanted someone to talk to her back in high school. I wish I had gone over and said something. No, these weren’t lines. It breaks my heart to know how much she had been through.
We venture out into the parking lot to say our goodbyes, but the conversation continues up close and personal, until finally she kisses me. I won’t say it was spectacular, but there were sparks, enough such that any nearby gasoline canisters would have lit on fire. She asked me what I was doing after this. I said I wasn’t too sure. Mind you, that’s the open ended answer you give while you give a girl the opening to see where this is headed. She asks me if I want to come back to her place. I won’t waste your time asking what you think I did next.
We are at her place. It’s fancy as you can imagine. A huge apartment wish gorgeous crown moldings, wood floors throughout, big screen, fireplace, and a bed fit for a queen. I’m impressed, and I usually don’t impress easily. She offers me a drink. I kindly oblige. She then rifles through a pharmacy worth of prescription drug bottles on her kitchen counter top. Not a common occurrence, but a disturbing sign nonetheless. I ask her if everything is okay. She nods yes. She serves me drinks in the living room, but asks me to give her a second while she takes her medications. Hey, ECT was enough of a shocker (yes, I am being ironic), but meds are to be expected. Still, I wasn’t sure how to react. I have dated enough girls that were trouble. I make no judgements, but this was a lot coming at me like a freight train.
She looks troubled. She tells me she is missing some medication, that needs to be picked up from the pharmacy a block away. She asks, and I agree to pickup the meds. However, before I go, she has one more question for me. “Come here!” She pulls me into her bedroom and leads me to the walk in closet. “Pick out an outfit you want to see me in.”
Flashback to Facebook for a second. Every girl on Facebook wants to show her fun, party side. It’s not as bad as the self-aggrandizing days of Myspace, but every girl has some choice moments she likes to show off. As we know from the news, it’s gotten many people in trouble, and probably cost a few jobs. I digress. The point I was getting at was that I had seen an outfit or two that had put my jaw on the ground.
“I’d love to see you in this, with these heels.” She was impressed. “You know I was wearing this same dress to a party recently. You have good taste.” She sent me off, and told me to hurry back. Always eager to follow instructions, I did as I was told.
When I got back, she called me to the bedroom. She was there, leaning against the bed post, and I nearly lost my mind. “Wow!” That’s about all I could muster. She replied, “Well? Are you going to do something about this?” Let’s say she lived up to her wilder side. My God, the things that came out of her mouth. She was cruel to the point I wasn’t sure if it was a game or now. She was definitely the finger nails down the back kind. I got marked up pretty bad. Once again, I won’t complain.
Believe it or not, she transformed afterwards into a girl in sweats, who wanted to watch TV, hang out, and talk. It was confusing, but in a good way. From buck wild to simple and sweet. Very unexpected.
Back in the day, she was the biatch that everyone hated in high school. Maybe it was her bad ass Jersey Chick attitude, or hmmm I dunno. Self-inflicted, deserved or not, she had a stigma that probably raised her stock, but left her on an island all the same. She was a “Rich Girl”, a “Daddy’s Girl”, but I’d lost touch with her after junior high, and I never really paid attention to the TMZ type of rumors people like to spread. She was kinda a stranger to me, but why lie? The “Cheerleader from Back in the Day” thing was hot. I’m a guy, sue me!
We kept in touch, and a little emailing ensued. Our main medium of connection became Facebook. The Facebook thing is dangerous, but in a good way. Its voyeurism mixed with a healthy dose of reconnecting, along with one part staying connected, and two parts flirtation. The back and forth was sweet. We mixed in the occasional Instant Message, and a Text and a Phone call was the cherry on top.
Things went swimmingly such that I asked her out to coffee. That’s the next logical step. Starbucks here we come! We meet, and it’s her, in the flesh. Well, a lot more flesh, and silicone, and a little botox. Very porn star, but nobody was complaining. Nope, no complaints here. Crazy!
The connection was instant and the conversation flowing, like a glass of cheap Zinfandel. Yeah, I invoked the Zinfandel imagery. Kinda sets the tone. Okay, I’m kidding it wasn’t that bad. It was actually pretty good, until she hit me with something I wasn’t expecting. “You know, there must be something so special about you, because I remember you.” I thought to myself, “Awww how sweet,” until she chimed in, “No, you don’t understand. I don’t remember a lot of things anymore.”
Here’s where she laid some heavy stuff on me. Turns out she had undergone ECT aka Electroconvulsive Therapy. That’s when they basically hook a car battery up to your head and buzz you with 10,000 volts. Pretty messed up, and wildly aggressive “therapy”. I am not sure how many people it helps, but surely it’s a last resort for most people and practitioners alike.
Now I am in an interesting moment. I am both flattered and weirded out. Not sure which one I want to go with in this instance. Nevertheless, we continued to connect. I told her how she always looked distant, but she wanted someone to talk to her back in high school. I wish I had gone over and said something. No, these weren’t lines. It breaks my heart to know how much she had been through.
We venture out into the parking lot to say our goodbyes, but the conversation continues up close and personal, until finally she kisses me. I won’t say it was spectacular, but there were sparks, enough such that any nearby gasoline canisters would have lit on fire. She asked me what I was doing after this. I said I wasn’t too sure. Mind you, that’s the open ended answer you give while you give a girl the opening to see where this is headed. She asks me if I want to come back to her place. I won’t waste your time asking what you think I did next.
We are at her place. It’s fancy as you can imagine. A huge apartment wish gorgeous crown moldings, wood floors throughout, big screen, fireplace, and a bed fit for a queen. I’m impressed, and I usually don’t impress easily. She offers me a drink. I kindly oblige. She then rifles through a pharmacy worth of prescription drug bottles on her kitchen counter top. Not a common occurrence, but a disturbing sign nonetheless. I ask her if everything is okay. She nods yes. She serves me drinks in the living room, but asks me to give her a second while she takes her medications. Hey, ECT was enough of a shocker (yes, I am being ironic), but meds are to be expected. Still, I wasn’t sure how to react. I have dated enough girls that were trouble. I make no judgements, but this was a lot coming at me like a freight train.
She looks troubled. She tells me she is missing some medication, that needs to be picked up from the pharmacy a block away. She asks, and I agree to pickup the meds. However, before I go, she has one more question for me. “Come here!” She pulls me into her bedroom and leads me to the walk in closet. “Pick out an outfit you want to see me in.”
Flashback to Facebook for a second. Every girl on Facebook wants to show her fun, party side. It’s not as bad as the self-aggrandizing days of Myspace, but every girl has some choice moments she likes to show off. As we know from the news, it’s gotten many people in trouble, and probably cost a few jobs. I digress. The point I was getting at was that I had seen an outfit or two that had put my jaw on the ground.
“I’d love to see you in this, with these heels.” She was impressed. “You know I was wearing this same dress to a party recently. You have good taste.” She sent me off, and told me to hurry back. Always eager to follow instructions, I did as I was told.
When I got back, she called me to the bedroom. She was there, leaning against the bed post, and I nearly lost my mind. “Wow!” That’s about all I could muster. She replied, “Well? Are you going to do something about this?” Let’s say she lived up to her wilder side. My God, the things that came out of her mouth. She was cruel to the point I wasn’t sure if it was a game or now. She was definitely the finger nails down the back kind. I got marked up pretty bad. Once again, I won’t complain.
Believe it or not, she transformed afterwards into a girl in sweats, who wanted to watch TV, hang out, and talk. It was confusing, but in a good way. From buck wild to simple and sweet. Very unexpected.
Be Careful What You Wish For.
I think I coined a new phrase, “I feel blessed to not be wanted” or “How beautiful it is to get rejected!” What does it mean? Hmmmm.
I think I have finally entered an age where I have some kind of hindsight from which to operate. We all wish for a perfect romance, but I have gotten to see personally and vicariously the evil fruits of actually getting what you want. The classic “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” Here I thought that was just a Pussycat Dolls number lol.
The past few weeks of Mental Mindfucking have taught me a few things:
1) Let sleeping dogs lie. Chances are if you saw red flags in the past with someone whom you found very intriguing, your primal instincts were correct. Roll with it! Don’t second guess.
2) Don’t look at the past through “Rose Colored Lenses”. In other words, nostalgia can be a killer. It’s a treacherous path to follow when you look back on someone or somethingn you wish you had and forget very quickly that the Universe put you where it needs you to be for a second. Let the plan unfold. If you are like me, you tend to fight it hard. Sometimes you have to just sit back and watch, the best part of your own personal script is about to unfold. I liken to watching Fight Club or the Sixth Sense. If you quit on those movies about 2/3 of the way through, you miss the twist that defines the entire drama.
3) I look at the times I wished and prayed so hard for something only to get what I asked for and realize it wasn’t nearly as great as I wanted. Often it was something for which I would rather do without.
I realize that #3 is very confusing, because our wants and desires are hard to deny. However, I think of King Solomon in these moments. Don’t worry, I am not a “Bible Thumper”, if you couldn’t tell already! What I mean to say is, when people are told to make a wish they easily revert to the obvious such as, “I wish I was the richest person alive”, “I wish I was famous”, or “I wish ______ (insert name) would fall in love with me.”
When King Solomon was presented with this same dilemma he wished for wisdom. Solomon realized that great cunning and a quick wit were the tools by which he could build great power, but they would also access wealth, fame, and everything else a person could ever desire, both right and wrong.
You can’t build without a tool kit. Why not wish for the means to reach your desires? Look at ourselves and ask what we need to better ourselves.
I wish to be:
1) Loving so much so that I attract someone equally loving
2) Focused and Driven as to always have my eyes on the prize
3) Passionate so that I live every moment with depth and devotion
4) Thankful for the things I have. I mean truly thankful, since we rarely manage it.
5) Learning to truly be happy. This is the big one.
6) Be real. That’s the nouveau way of saying “To Thine Own Self Be True”.
This is when I entered a period of reconnecting with people from my past. Relationships got awry, “Houston, we have a problem” relationships that never launched, and the most common one – flirtatious flakes that never materialize into anything. The latter coming in abundance, because this is L.A. aka Dating Purgatory for crying out loud! Things fizzle simply because people in this town are always looking for something better, or they are desperate to be in the scene with all the wrong people, and then they have to audaciousness to wonder why they can’t meet Mister or Miss Right! HA!
The Kid a’int no flake, nor a Scenester, but the Kid does let a pretty face throw him for a loop. WTF? Hey, the truth hurts. Trust me, I put personality pretty high on the list. In a town full of beautiful, I have to keep my sanity by enjoying conversation. If the game was just about telling lies and getting laid, there would be no passion or joy. Remember, my wishes include to be loving and to be real.
Well, I should know a disaster in the making when I see one, yet somehow I walk around blind. Lady Justice is supposed to be blind (though she rarely is), but a Blind Dater in LA is just asking for a whooping. Welcome to my newest experiment. Farming through old contacts, Facebook, etc etc to reconnect with the past.
It’s here that I want to touch on a concept. Be thankful for the things you don’t have. Remember that job you wished you had gotten? Well, you were probably gonna be underpaid while working for the boss from hell. Remember that trip to the Bahamas you wish you had taken? All your friends lived it up! Had you gone, you would have had a tryst with someone you met at the resort and come back with home with an STD. Remember that person you wished from afar would see you for all your glory and fall madly in love with you? They would’ve ruined your life, left you in debt, and slept with your best friend. LOL I am NOT being negative. I am simply saying, be thankful for what you have, and KNOW that the Universe had your back every time it denied you all the things you foolishly thought you wanted or needed. Perhaps the Universe knows more than we know. Accept it!
Conversely, this is the point where I tempt fate by reaching into the past. I’d love to leave you in suspense, but there wouldn’t be much to this blog if this experiment were to work out. We’d be finished within 5 posts, and that’s simply no fun. Off to the races!
I think I have finally entered an age where I have some kind of hindsight from which to operate. We all wish for a perfect romance, but I have gotten to see personally and vicariously the evil fruits of actually getting what you want. The classic “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” Here I thought that was just a Pussycat Dolls number lol.
The past few weeks of Mental Mindfucking have taught me a few things:
1) Let sleeping dogs lie. Chances are if you saw red flags in the past with someone whom you found very intriguing, your primal instincts were correct. Roll with it! Don’t second guess.
2) Don’t look at the past through “Rose Colored Lenses”. In other words, nostalgia can be a killer. It’s a treacherous path to follow when you look back on someone or somethingn you wish you had and forget very quickly that the Universe put you where it needs you to be for a second. Let the plan unfold. If you are like me, you tend to fight it hard. Sometimes you have to just sit back and watch, the best part of your own personal script is about to unfold. I liken to watching Fight Club or the Sixth Sense. If you quit on those movies about 2/3 of the way through, you miss the twist that defines the entire drama.
3) I look at the times I wished and prayed so hard for something only to get what I asked for and realize it wasn’t nearly as great as I wanted. Often it was something for which I would rather do without.
I realize that #3 is very confusing, because our wants and desires are hard to deny. However, I think of King Solomon in these moments. Don’t worry, I am not a “Bible Thumper”, if you couldn’t tell already! What I mean to say is, when people are told to make a wish they easily revert to the obvious such as, “I wish I was the richest person alive”, “I wish I was famous”, or “I wish ______ (insert name) would fall in love with me.”
When King Solomon was presented with this same dilemma he wished for wisdom. Solomon realized that great cunning and a quick wit were the tools by which he could build great power, but they would also access wealth, fame, and everything else a person could ever desire, both right and wrong.
You can’t build without a tool kit. Why not wish for the means to reach your desires? Look at ourselves and ask what we need to better ourselves.
I wish to be:
1) Loving so much so that I attract someone equally loving
2) Focused and Driven as to always have my eyes on the prize
3) Passionate so that I live every moment with depth and devotion
4) Thankful for the things I have. I mean truly thankful, since we rarely manage it.
5) Learning to truly be happy. This is the big one.
6) Be real. That’s the nouveau way of saying “To Thine Own Self Be True”.
This is when I entered a period of reconnecting with people from my past. Relationships got awry, “Houston, we have a problem” relationships that never launched, and the most common one – flirtatious flakes that never materialize into anything. The latter coming in abundance, because this is L.A. aka Dating Purgatory for crying out loud! Things fizzle simply because people in this town are always looking for something better, or they are desperate to be in the scene with all the wrong people, and then they have to audaciousness to wonder why they can’t meet Mister or Miss Right! HA!
The Kid a’int no flake, nor a Scenester, but the Kid does let a pretty face throw him for a loop. WTF? Hey, the truth hurts. Trust me, I put personality pretty high on the list. In a town full of beautiful, I have to keep my sanity by enjoying conversation. If the game was just about telling lies and getting laid, there would be no passion or joy. Remember, my wishes include to be loving and to be real.
Well, I should know a disaster in the making when I see one, yet somehow I walk around blind. Lady Justice is supposed to be blind (though she rarely is), but a Blind Dater in LA is just asking for a whooping. Welcome to my newest experiment. Farming through old contacts, Facebook, etc etc to reconnect with the past.
It’s here that I want to touch on a concept. Be thankful for the things you don’t have. Remember that job you wished you had gotten? Well, you were probably gonna be underpaid while working for the boss from hell. Remember that trip to the Bahamas you wish you had taken? All your friends lived it up! Had you gone, you would have had a tryst with someone you met at the resort and come back with home with an STD. Remember that person you wished from afar would see you for all your glory and fall madly in love with you? They would’ve ruined your life, left you in debt, and slept with your best friend. LOL I am NOT being negative. I am simply saying, be thankful for what you have, and KNOW that the Universe had your back every time it denied you all the things you foolishly thought you wanted or needed. Perhaps the Universe knows more than we know. Accept it!
Conversely, this is the point where I tempt fate by reaching into the past. I’d love to leave you in suspense, but there wouldn’t be much to this blog if this experiment were to work out. We’d be finished within 5 posts, and that’s simply no fun. Off to the races!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Don’t speak to soon!
“Don’t speak to soon, Man.” Those are the words Tripps, my Texan Longhorn buddy, threw at me today. He uttered this warning following a flighty moment where I expressed that as much as I wasn’t searching for a relationship, Samantha was so cool, I’d be open to the idea. I was crystal clear that I was not about to get ahead of myself. Seriously, I wasn’t ahead of myself at all.
The last few nights were magic. I’d go out and party with friends and there would be a warm, sweet text saying, “Hey what are you up to?” followed by, “Well, come over and crash here when you’re done.” No pressure. I’d go over and it was sweet comfort and pure passion. Sometimes she’d have her friends over, but I was immediately made to feel at home. A couple of times I came by and I was greeted by her and her girlfriends who wanted to give me their seal of approval. Usually these are moments that get under my skin. I really don’t want to be put under any microscopes, nor do I do that to anyone else using my friends. I can honestly say, they were just cool and easy going. I’m sure the weed they smoked helped, but I let that slide.
The passion was great, the “mornings after” were sweet. They involved coffee and conversation, lying around in bed and the kind of cuddling that felt relationship-y. Yes, I said it. What? Fine. I’m a cheeseball! Deal with it! It felt good. There are different types of guys in this world. Big Boy’s last relationship incinerated in the inferno of blazing fights his crazy woman would start. However it also bares mentioning, that Big Boy, by his own admission, can come home, open a book, and shut everyone and everything out for the rest of the night. Every woman has the right to a reasonable amount of attention. Please underline the word “reasonable” as aforementioned. I theorize all women are a little psycho and crazy in their own way, but shutting someone out who loves you is bound to set loose the hounds of hell. Then you have The Kid. I like the cuddling and sappy stuff, as long as it doesn’t totally kill my manhood. I’m not trying to get whipped here.
Samantha and I hung out last night. It started out well enough. Dinner and drinks, her treat. Can’t complain on that one! From there she wanted to head out to a party one of her girlfriends was having. Sounded like good times. Why not? Sure!
Racing down the freeway together, I neglected the low drone of orchestral strings playing the theme from Jaws in the background. We should all have such a soundtrack, and take heed as it warns us of the impending doom. This is when the barrage of questions started rolling in, and me without my bulletproof vest.
“What do your parents do? Where do they live? What were you like as a kid? Where did you grow up? Do you have brothers and sisters?” This is when I considered jumping out of the car and doing a tuck & roll. Unfortunately it dawned on me that it was my car that we were driving in, I was going 60 mph, and I might die getting splattered on the LA freeway. Meanwhile the theme to “Jaws” played louder and louder, nearly drowning her out in the distance.
I tried the diplomatic tact, doing my best to wiggle myself out of this. Still, no dice! Finally I was left with saying, “Listen, I’m not great with talking about myself. Tell me more about you. You’re far more interesting.” Perhaps it was my delivery. Cheesy, I know. Hey, I tried. She wasn’t buying it. She wanted the goods and she wanted it now. My female friends have always warned that if sleep with a girl too soon and she feels like she has showed you her soul. At the same time, a girl’s femme friends will be harassing her, “Is he into you? Are you guys a couple now? Is he sleeping with anyone else? Have you been to his place yet? What do his parents do? Does he have brothers and sisters? How much do you know about this guy?” You can see the trickle down effect, where the pressure and harassment gets to her, culminating in the torture I was about to endure.
Understand this is dating in 2009. It’s also dating in L.A. Everyone’s a flake, and everyone is out to selfishly fulfill their own needs first. In our case, we were both in moment of need and had out fun, and now we found we might like each other. I’ve gotten “sprung” before. That mistake that occurs when you have a few good dates, maybe sleep with a person, and realize you might like them and want something more. Maybe a relationship, perhaps? Dare I say it? Nonetheless, if you get excited and move too fast you scare people off. Especially in a city as jaded as LA. Move to slow, you lose the person for seeming disinterested. You begin to fear making any moves at all. Slowly, the realization dawns that the entire game is a losing proposition, kind of like playing a real life version of Tic Tac Toe. No one really wins.
Dating in 2009 defies description. Hell, you can’t even call it “dating”. I’m serious! Define yourself as dating and you might hear back, “Hey! Slow down! We are just “seeing” each other.” “Seeing” can also be replaced by “Talking”, “Hanging Out”, “Sleeping with”, “Partying with” and a host of others that are so ill defined, and written with such vagueness, a lawyer surely had to have designed the entire dating process. Any way you put it, I wasn’t ready to tell my whole life’s story to this girl. I barely came to the realization earlier in the day that I might possibly like her for anything beyond filling the role of “fun girl with whom I have an attraction”. Only a few hours earlier had I decided I wanted to remotely pursue things much further than they had gone. It had only been a few days.
This is when she upped the ante. Cue the “emotional terrorism” tactics. Emotional Terrorism, it is what it sounds like. Remember all those crazy terrorists that you see on CNN? They wear masks, and threaten to destroy you if you don’t believe what they say. They live off of threats. They take hostages and ramble on about their fanatical beliefs, 99% of which don’t make sense to sane human beings. There is no low to which they won’t sink. Well it’s not much different, except it happens in your ordinary dating life, and CNN isn’t there.
You’ve had it done to you. Trust me, you have! You’ve had your relationship taken hostage, where your significant other figuratively holds a gun to the relationship’s head and says, “Do as I say or the relationship dies!” You’ve seen the random crying, screaming fits. You’ve heard the nonsensical ramblings, followed by the best moments of your life being hijacked by these Emotional Terrorists.
My choices were clear. I could go to this party with a psychopath ready to explode at me in front of a bunch of random people I didn’t know. Been there, done that! Or I could take it here and now, like a man. I choose the latter. I see it coming. She starts by leaning against the window, staring off blankly, and then pouting. I try some defensive maneuvers. I turn up some dance music, and say, “Hey, c’mon. Let’s have fun tonight. It’s so beautiful out. I bet this party is going to be great!” You know the routine. No luck. Remember the mantra, “You can’t negotiate with terrorists”, especially emotional terrorists.
Now cue the crying, then followed by the screaming. Some mumbojumbo about “her needs”, “love”, “loss of identity”. Loss of identity? WTF? Now comes the classic, “Pull over the car and let me out now!”
Eddie Murphy has a great bit about the 1950s versus dating today. He said in the 1950’s a girl would scream, “Pull over, let me out!” to which the cheesy 50s guy would respond, “Now, now! We’ll have none of that!” as he drives her home. Eddie says, “This is 1987! Now the dude just pulls over and says, ‘Well, get the fuck out!’” 1987 was 22 years ago. In 2009, things haven’t changed.
I tried diplomacy again. Of course, this is diplomacy with an Emotional Terrorist. I remind her that we are in a rough part of Downtown. I tell her, I’d rather drive her home. She won’t relent. I remind her that if she really wants me to drop her off I will because she is free to go at any time. Hey, this is 2009, whatever a woman says goes! She now pulls the silent treatment. I start pulling off the freeway into Downtown saying, “Okay, the silent treatment. Well, I’d rather not drop you off in Downtown, but I will do as you ask.” Boom! The crying tantrum begins again. Something about me being unreasonable and not doing her “her way”. At this point I think I have officially been taken hostage, in my own car!
She tells me she doesn’t want to go. I say that’s fine, I can take her home. The tantrum erupts again. Ladies and Gentleman, I am not thick in the skull. I get it. She wants to break me. She wants me to admit I was wrong, tell her I am sorry, console her, and eventually have her night with me and go to this party or what not. This was going to end one of two ways – 1) I break down, apologize for nothing I did wrong while being yelled and screamed at, and do everything her way, when I’ve only known her 5 days. 2) I stand my ground and realize I barely know this girl and it’s not worth it. Any suggestion that I am ending the evening or dropping her off at home results in horrible outbursts. I get her game. Do you really think I want to hang out with a girl who is pulling this shit? In the first 5 days? C’mon now!
I have been through so much emotional terrorism that I should be assigned to one of those crack Special Forces Anti-Terror Units. I could sense the “perfect storm” about to unleash, and all I could do is brace myself.
The argument continues a while longer, wherein I finally turn to her and tell her out and out, “You are an emotional terrorist! I don’t even know what we are arguing about or how we got to this point. Actually, it’s not even an argument. She cries and screams something nonsensical, and I try decipher her code, while I drive confused, trying not to crash.
But tears? Really? Screaming? Do you really think I want to continue this evening like this?” Now I’ve done it! The yelling gets worse. I’ve only known this girl 5 days! Holy Shit! I am having flash forwards of the horrors of how a relationship with her would turn out. There was no negotiating with an Emotional Terrorist. Everything starts with screaming and crying, and only spirals downward from there. I value peace of mind. This moment definitely shows me there is no peace to be had here.
When we finally get to Beverly Hills, I pull over by a restaurant and let her out. The area looks safe, and I am good for a getaway. She gets out of the car, ready to have the last word. I refuse to give it to her. I pull the door shut and pull away. She wanted out, she was granted her screaming, psycho wish…lol. Hey, I tried really hard to talk her out of it. It was her way or the highway. As much as I would have liked her to destroy my ego and pride while she screamed and cried and played the victim, and I was reluctantly cast as the heavy, I had to decline the opportunity. Thanks anyway!
Thus ended my wonderful night.
Lesson learned: Never speak to soon! Lest the whole thing blow up in your face. Oh, and, you can’t negotiate with emotional terrorists.
The last few nights were magic. I’d go out and party with friends and there would be a warm, sweet text saying, “Hey what are you up to?” followed by, “Well, come over and crash here when you’re done.” No pressure. I’d go over and it was sweet comfort and pure passion. Sometimes she’d have her friends over, but I was immediately made to feel at home. A couple of times I came by and I was greeted by her and her girlfriends who wanted to give me their seal of approval. Usually these are moments that get under my skin. I really don’t want to be put under any microscopes, nor do I do that to anyone else using my friends. I can honestly say, they were just cool and easy going. I’m sure the weed they smoked helped, but I let that slide.
The passion was great, the “mornings after” were sweet. They involved coffee and conversation, lying around in bed and the kind of cuddling that felt relationship-y. Yes, I said it. What? Fine. I’m a cheeseball! Deal with it! It felt good. There are different types of guys in this world. Big Boy’s last relationship incinerated in the inferno of blazing fights his crazy woman would start. However it also bares mentioning, that Big Boy, by his own admission, can come home, open a book, and shut everyone and everything out for the rest of the night. Every woman has the right to a reasonable amount of attention. Please underline the word “reasonable” as aforementioned. I theorize all women are a little psycho and crazy in their own way, but shutting someone out who loves you is bound to set loose the hounds of hell. Then you have The Kid. I like the cuddling and sappy stuff, as long as it doesn’t totally kill my manhood. I’m not trying to get whipped here.
Samantha and I hung out last night. It started out well enough. Dinner and drinks, her treat. Can’t complain on that one! From there she wanted to head out to a party one of her girlfriends was having. Sounded like good times. Why not? Sure!
Racing down the freeway together, I neglected the low drone of orchestral strings playing the theme from Jaws in the background. We should all have such a soundtrack, and take heed as it warns us of the impending doom. This is when the barrage of questions started rolling in, and me without my bulletproof vest.
“What do your parents do? Where do they live? What were you like as a kid? Where did you grow up? Do you have brothers and sisters?” This is when I considered jumping out of the car and doing a tuck & roll. Unfortunately it dawned on me that it was my car that we were driving in, I was going 60 mph, and I might die getting splattered on the LA freeway. Meanwhile the theme to “Jaws” played louder and louder, nearly drowning her out in the distance.
I tried the diplomatic tact, doing my best to wiggle myself out of this. Still, no dice! Finally I was left with saying, “Listen, I’m not great with talking about myself. Tell me more about you. You’re far more interesting.” Perhaps it was my delivery. Cheesy, I know. Hey, I tried. She wasn’t buying it. She wanted the goods and she wanted it now. My female friends have always warned that if sleep with a girl too soon and she feels like she has showed you her soul. At the same time, a girl’s femme friends will be harassing her, “Is he into you? Are you guys a couple now? Is he sleeping with anyone else? Have you been to his place yet? What do his parents do? Does he have brothers and sisters? How much do you know about this guy?” You can see the trickle down effect, where the pressure and harassment gets to her, culminating in the torture I was about to endure.
Understand this is dating in 2009. It’s also dating in L.A. Everyone’s a flake, and everyone is out to selfishly fulfill their own needs first. In our case, we were both in moment of need and had out fun, and now we found we might like each other. I’ve gotten “sprung” before. That mistake that occurs when you have a few good dates, maybe sleep with a person, and realize you might like them and want something more. Maybe a relationship, perhaps? Dare I say it? Nonetheless, if you get excited and move too fast you scare people off. Especially in a city as jaded as LA. Move to slow, you lose the person for seeming disinterested. You begin to fear making any moves at all. Slowly, the realization dawns that the entire game is a losing proposition, kind of like playing a real life version of Tic Tac Toe. No one really wins.
Dating in 2009 defies description. Hell, you can’t even call it “dating”. I’m serious! Define yourself as dating and you might hear back, “Hey! Slow down! We are just “seeing” each other.” “Seeing” can also be replaced by “Talking”, “Hanging Out”, “Sleeping with”, “Partying with” and a host of others that are so ill defined, and written with such vagueness, a lawyer surely had to have designed the entire dating process. Any way you put it, I wasn’t ready to tell my whole life’s story to this girl. I barely came to the realization earlier in the day that I might possibly like her for anything beyond filling the role of “fun girl with whom I have an attraction”. Only a few hours earlier had I decided I wanted to remotely pursue things much further than they had gone. It had only been a few days.
This is when she upped the ante. Cue the “emotional terrorism” tactics. Emotional Terrorism, it is what it sounds like. Remember all those crazy terrorists that you see on CNN? They wear masks, and threaten to destroy you if you don’t believe what they say. They live off of threats. They take hostages and ramble on about their fanatical beliefs, 99% of which don’t make sense to sane human beings. There is no low to which they won’t sink. Well it’s not much different, except it happens in your ordinary dating life, and CNN isn’t there.
You’ve had it done to you. Trust me, you have! You’ve had your relationship taken hostage, where your significant other figuratively holds a gun to the relationship’s head and says, “Do as I say or the relationship dies!” You’ve seen the random crying, screaming fits. You’ve heard the nonsensical ramblings, followed by the best moments of your life being hijacked by these Emotional Terrorists.
My choices were clear. I could go to this party with a psychopath ready to explode at me in front of a bunch of random people I didn’t know. Been there, done that! Or I could take it here and now, like a man. I choose the latter. I see it coming. She starts by leaning against the window, staring off blankly, and then pouting. I try some defensive maneuvers. I turn up some dance music, and say, “Hey, c’mon. Let’s have fun tonight. It’s so beautiful out. I bet this party is going to be great!” You know the routine. No luck. Remember the mantra, “You can’t negotiate with terrorists”, especially emotional terrorists.
Now cue the crying, then followed by the screaming. Some mumbojumbo about “her needs”, “love”, “loss of identity”. Loss of identity? WTF? Now comes the classic, “Pull over the car and let me out now!”
Eddie Murphy has a great bit about the 1950s versus dating today. He said in the 1950’s a girl would scream, “Pull over, let me out!” to which the cheesy 50s guy would respond, “Now, now! We’ll have none of that!” as he drives her home. Eddie says, “This is 1987! Now the dude just pulls over and says, ‘Well, get the fuck out!’” 1987 was 22 years ago. In 2009, things haven’t changed.
I tried diplomacy again. Of course, this is diplomacy with an Emotional Terrorist. I remind her that we are in a rough part of Downtown. I tell her, I’d rather drive her home. She won’t relent. I remind her that if she really wants me to drop her off I will because she is free to go at any time. Hey, this is 2009, whatever a woman says goes! She now pulls the silent treatment. I start pulling off the freeway into Downtown saying, “Okay, the silent treatment. Well, I’d rather not drop you off in Downtown, but I will do as you ask.” Boom! The crying tantrum begins again. Something about me being unreasonable and not doing her “her way”. At this point I think I have officially been taken hostage, in my own car!
She tells me she doesn’t want to go. I say that’s fine, I can take her home. The tantrum erupts again. Ladies and Gentleman, I am not thick in the skull. I get it. She wants to break me. She wants me to admit I was wrong, tell her I am sorry, console her, and eventually have her night with me and go to this party or what not. This was going to end one of two ways – 1) I break down, apologize for nothing I did wrong while being yelled and screamed at, and do everything her way, when I’ve only known her 5 days. 2) I stand my ground and realize I barely know this girl and it’s not worth it. Any suggestion that I am ending the evening or dropping her off at home results in horrible outbursts. I get her game. Do you really think I want to hang out with a girl who is pulling this shit? In the first 5 days? C’mon now!
I have been through so much emotional terrorism that I should be assigned to one of those crack Special Forces Anti-Terror Units. I could sense the “perfect storm” about to unleash, and all I could do is brace myself.
The argument continues a while longer, wherein I finally turn to her and tell her out and out, “You are an emotional terrorist! I don’t even know what we are arguing about or how we got to this point. Actually, it’s not even an argument. She cries and screams something nonsensical, and I try decipher her code, while I drive confused, trying not to crash.
But tears? Really? Screaming? Do you really think I want to continue this evening like this?” Now I’ve done it! The yelling gets worse. I’ve only known this girl 5 days! Holy Shit! I am having flash forwards of the horrors of how a relationship with her would turn out. There was no negotiating with an Emotional Terrorist. Everything starts with screaming and crying, and only spirals downward from there. I value peace of mind. This moment definitely shows me there is no peace to be had here.
When we finally get to Beverly Hills, I pull over by a restaurant and let her out. The area looks safe, and I am good for a getaway. She gets out of the car, ready to have the last word. I refuse to give it to her. I pull the door shut and pull away. She wanted out, she was granted her screaming, psycho wish…lol. Hey, I tried really hard to talk her out of it. It was her way or the highway. As much as I would have liked her to destroy my ego and pride while she screamed and cried and played the victim, and I was reluctantly cast as the heavy, I had to decline the opportunity. Thanks anyway!
Thus ended my wonderful night.
Lesson learned: Never speak to soon! Lest the whole thing blow up in your face. Oh, and, you can’t negotiate with emotional terrorists.
Friday, July 24, 2009
There isn’t an Asian girl in the world…
…That’s attracted to me.
At least that what I always believed. Mind you, I am one of the few males on the planet that does not have an Asian fetish of any kind. If I find someone attractive, then that’s the deal. I don’t chase women based on race or some sociological pressure to fit into any mold. Ladies, when reading this remember, most males do indeed have an Asian fetish, which must really suck if you are a tall and curvaceous White, Hispanic, Black, etc (you get the picture) girl and your boyfriend is downloading porn of skinny, petite Asian girls at this very moment. If you are petite, Olsen Twins slender, and non-Asian, then feel even more horrified that he might be fantasizing you are a tiny little Asian girl as you make love. Okay, just kidding. Just messin’ with your heads.
Somehow my last little tryst at the bar got my confidence up a little. I decided to try my luck online. I posted myself on a popular internet site with a couple of photos and a few paragraphs about yours truly. I got a few responses. A few I had no attraction towards, and another few I had some interest, and then there was this intriguing post from Samantha, a very cute, witty, and athletic Asian girl.
Here is where I think to myself, if I truly want to be back in business, why not break my mold entirely and see what I am truly made of? I write her a short paragraph or two. The next day, I get a few paragraphs in return. Back and forth we go for three days. This feels good. I realize I get kind of excited to check my mail. I have that school boy anticipation again. Today arrives and she emails me her phone number.
On the phone she is a little dry, but easy going with a decent sense of humor. When you are as campy as I am, you will laugh at just about anything. Anyways, the better looking you are, the more a woman will fight to make you look and feel like you are witty. I have yet to figure out how good looking I am but she cracked a smile or two I am sure. I hint that I feel like getting a bite at Jerry’s since its open late. She tells me to pick her up and she will go with me.
I arrive in front of her apartment. She looks exactly as I expected. Tall, long hair, slender, and pretty headed towards sexy if she dawned makeup and the right set of heels. She is dressed casually, and her personality still comes off dry. Our conversation flows freely as we share a plate of breakfast-y food. (By the way, sharing a plate is usually a good sign, esp when a girl is into it on a first date!) Check time arrives and she makes the rock star move and reaches for her wallet. I say, “What are you doing? Your money’s no good here.” She double checks to see that I am sure about this – another rock star move, else she is a great actress and I fell for her act … lol.
We head back to drop her off and she asks me if I want to hang out, maybe smoke a bowl. I oblige, though I don’t really smoke. I cough a lot if that counts as smoking? Slowly it’s 2am and somehow we end up on her bed falling asleep. I wake up about an hour later and without missing a beat I begin to kiss her. She kisses me back. The heat builds and next thing, clothes come off. We make love, or whatever you want to call it. It’s good, she is slender and athletic, and we fit well together. We connect, and the rest is wonderful. We are off to an awfully fast start, but this doesn’t worry a guy who is barely getting himself back together.
Oh, and apparently there is an Asian girl in the world that’s attracted to me. Is that bonus points?
At least that what I always believed. Mind you, I am one of the few males on the planet that does not have an Asian fetish of any kind. If I find someone attractive, then that’s the deal. I don’t chase women based on race or some sociological pressure to fit into any mold. Ladies, when reading this remember, most males do indeed have an Asian fetish, which must really suck if you are a tall and curvaceous White, Hispanic, Black, etc (you get the picture) girl and your boyfriend is downloading porn of skinny, petite Asian girls at this very moment. If you are petite, Olsen Twins slender, and non-Asian, then feel even more horrified that he might be fantasizing you are a tiny little Asian girl as you make love. Okay, just kidding. Just messin’ with your heads.
Somehow my last little tryst at the bar got my confidence up a little. I decided to try my luck online. I posted myself on a popular internet site with a couple of photos and a few paragraphs about yours truly. I got a few responses. A few I had no attraction towards, and another few I had some interest, and then there was this intriguing post from Samantha, a very cute, witty, and athletic Asian girl.
Here is where I think to myself, if I truly want to be back in business, why not break my mold entirely and see what I am truly made of? I write her a short paragraph or two. The next day, I get a few paragraphs in return. Back and forth we go for three days. This feels good. I realize I get kind of excited to check my mail. I have that school boy anticipation again. Today arrives and she emails me her phone number.
On the phone she is a little dry, but easy going with a decent sense of humor. When you are as campy as I am, you will laugh at just about anything. Anyways, the better looking you are, the more a woman will fight to make you look and feel like you are witty. I have yet to figure out how good looking I am but she cracked a smile or two I am sure. I hint that I feel like getting a bite at Jerry’s since its open late. She tells me to pick her up and she will go with me.
I arrive in front of her apartment. She looks exactly as I expected. Tall, long hair, slender, and pretty headed towards sexy if she dawned makeup and the right set of heels. She is dressed casually, and her personality still comes off dry. Our conversation flows freely as we share a plate of breakfast-y food. (By the way, sharing a plate is usually a good sign, esp when a girl is into it on a first date!) Check time arrives and she makes the rock star move and reaches for her wallet. I say, “What are you doing? Your money’s no good here.” She double checks to see that I am sure about this – another rock star move, else she is a great actress and I fell for her act … lol.
We head back to drop her off and she asks me if I want to hang out, maybe smoke a bowl. I oblige, though I don’t really smoke. I cough a lot if that counts as smoking? Slowly it’s 2am and somehow we end up on her bed falling asleep. I wake up about an hour later and without missing a beat I begin to kiss her. She kisses me back. The heat builds and next thing, clothes come off. We make love, or whatever you want to call it. It’s good, she is slender and athletic, and we fit well together. We connect, and the rest is wonderful. We are off to an awfully fast start, but this doesn’t worry a guy who is barely getting himself back together.
Oh, and apparently there is an Asian girl in the world that’s attracted to me. Is that bonus points?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Dearly beloved we are gathered here today...
… to get through this thing called life. You know the line. Apparently I am 80s obsessed and couldn’t think of my own original blog name. The title is appropriate. Allow me to introduce myself, I am The Kid, and yes, that’s what they called Prince in the Movie. I coulda gone with Fight Club, and maybe I should have. I digress.
Where do I start? It starts with a breakup. Every good story should start with a breakup. That and it should skip the beginning. Yeah, who needs beginnings? They make for good flashbacks as LOST has proven.
Breakups should never happen near or around national holidays or big events, yet for some fucked up cosmic circumstance they do anyway. Mine did and I was wrecked. I played it off. I lied to people and said she was on vacation or was busy working, etc. Eventually I owned up to it, after spending at least a month crying my eyes out every night. Add two parts bad economy and another 3 parts stress to the breakup and 4 parts emotional terrorism I endured and I had a nice Molotov built to ruin me. Yup, I was that close to the edge. Closer than anyone who knows me will ever want to see again, according to my friends.
Here I am, a few months later. We go to a bar that I love in Hollywood right off Vine. We are crowded around the lounge, myself (The Kid), Hipster, Big Boy and The Doc. Pause one moment as I must explain I will spare real names to save anyone the embarrassment of ending up written about in these pages. In walk these two girls. I won’t give them nicknames because I really don’t remember their names to be honest. One was cute but obviously doesn’t own a gym membership, and the other was the same build but lacking the face.
We somehow end up talking. I’m sure I said something stupid and flirty to start things off, but I am not sure what I said. Regardless, they wouldn’t have sat down beside us if they were totally repulsed. Right? Well, let’s assume. Fifteen minutes pass and I decide to spread the love, and pull Hipster into the conversation. He gravitates to the cuter one pretty darn fast. It doesn’t matter, since I owe him. Usually when guys pick up on girls, there is at least one in the group that is a cock block of the greatest magnitude. She is often very unattractive and incredibly annoying. We call these girls “Grenades”, after the old war movies where a member of a platoon would jump on a grenade and sacrifice himself to save his comrades. Hipster has willingly jumped on many grenades for me, the least I can do is take one for the team for a change.
Things seem to be moving well, and then a group of lame tools come in. You could say that’s just my opinion, but you’d agree if you saw them. They are friends of these two girls and pull them away. *Shrug* Oh, it happens. Ten minutes later, the less cute of the two comes over and says, “Hey, those guys are our friends so we can’t ignore them, but we are gonna find an excuse to come back over here and hang out with you.” Ah, back in business.
I am normally not this lame or not this much of a loser to get excited that a girl talked to me. Let’s be real now. It must be my aura or something, but I have had no game for months and I imagine the scars from my last relationship follow me everywhere to the point I can’t seem to get it right with women. I think I have found a new profession as a Turn Off. Okay, I am being a drama queen here. Enough!
Amazing! The two ladies return. Flirtation continues and I subtly resent being stuck with a girl I find pretty unattractive. I mean, her laugh, her teeth, her face, all turn me off. She isn’t ugly or anything, just not my type on every level, so I feel like “Why am I trying?” On the other hand, I feel a spark of my flow and confidence coming back. Its about damn time! What’s there to resent? There’s no pressure when there is no attraction. Isn’t that the best part? It is! Indeed! This is so liberating! I can’t begin to describe!
Finally, the moment of truth arrives as I ask for her number. She turns me down saying she doesn’t want any stalkers. I tell her I don’t have time to stalk anyone but I fully understand. She laughs, 2 minutes more of banter and she offers her number. On the way to another bar I text her something flirty, she flirts back, and that’s a good thing. Hipster insists I tell her that he thinks her friend is cute. Are we in High School? I shouldn’t have done it but I relented. She texts back kinda pissy, and I don’t blame her. She wants to be flirted with, not to hear that her friend is cute. Hipster should speak for himself damn it.
Note to Guys: Don’t have anyone do your dirty work, its lame!
Note to girls: Sure you get away with sending your friends to do your dirty work, but in the end cool guys don’t like lame girls, and you are being lame!
Oh, and the point of this story, if I finally think I am back in business!
Where do I start? It starts with a breakup. Every good story should start with a breakup. That and it should skip the beginning. Yeah, who needs beginnings? They make for good flashbacks as LOST has proven.
Breakups should never happen near or around national holidays or big events, yet for some fucked up cosmic circumstance they do anyway. Mine did and I was wrecked. I played it off. I lied to people and said she was on vacation or was busy working, etc. Eventually I owned up to it, after spending at least a month crying my eyes out every night. Add two parts bad economy and another 3 parts stress to the breakup and 4 parts emotional terrorism I endured and I had a nice Molotov built to ruin me. Yup, I was that close to the edge. Closer than anyone who knows me will ever want to see again, according to my friends.
Here I am, a few months later. We go to a bar that I love in Hollywood right off Vine. We are crowded around the lounge, myself (The Kid), Hipster, Big Boy and The Doc. Pause one moment as I must explain I will spare real names to save anyone the embarrassment of ending up written about in these pages. In walk these two girls. I won’t give them nicknames because I really don’t remember their names to be honest. One was cute but obviously doesn’t own a gym membership, and the other was the same build but lacking the face.
We somehow end up talking. I’m sure I said something stupid and flirty to start things off, but I am not sure what I said. Regardless, they wouldn’t have sat down beside us if they were totally repulsed. Right? Well, let’s assume. Fifteen minutes pass and I decide to spread the love, and pull Hipster into the conversation. He gravitates to the cuter one pretty darn fast. It doesn’t matter, since I owe him. Usually when guys pick up on girls, there is at least one in the group that is a cock block of the greatest magnitude. She is often very unattractive and incredibly annoying. We call these girls “Grenades”, after the old war movies where a member of a platoon would jump on a grenade and sacrifice himself to save his comrades. Hipster has willingly jumped on many grenades for me, the least I can do is take one for the team for a change.
Things seem to be moving well, and then a group of lame tools come in. You could say that’s just my opinion, but you’d agree if you saw them. They are friends of these two girls and pull them away. *Shrug* Oh, it happens. Ten minutes later, the less cute of the two comes over and says, “Hey, those guys are our friends so we can’t ignore them, but we are gonna find an excuse to come back over here and hang out with you.” Ah, back in business.
I am normally not this lame or not this much of a loser to get excited that a girl talked to me. Let’s be real now. It must be my aura or something, but I have had no game for months and I imagine the scars from my last relationship follow me everywhere to the point I can’t seem to get it right with women. I think I have found a new profession as a Turn Off. Okay, I am being a drama queen here. Enough!
Amazing! The two ladies return. Flirtation continues and I subtly resent being stuck with a girl I find pretty unattractive. I mean, her laugh, her teeth, her face, all turn me off. She isn’t ugly or anything, just not my type on every level, so I feel like “Why am I trying?” On the other hand, I feel a spark of my flow and confidence coming back. Its about damn time! What’s there to resent? There’s no pressure when there is no attraction. Isn’t that the best part? It is! Indeed! This is so liberating! I can’t begin to describe!
Finally, the moment of truth arrives as I ask for her number. She turns me down saying she doesn’t want any stalkers. I tell her I don’t have time to stalk anyone but I fully understand. She laughs, 2 minutes more of banter and she offers her number. On the way to another bar I text her something flirty, she flirts back, and that’s a good thing. Hipster insists I tell her that he thinks her friend is cute. Are we in High School? I shouldn’t have done it but I relented. She texts back kinda pissy, and I don’t blame her. She wants to be flirted with, not to hear that her friend is cute. Hipster should speak for himself damn it.
Note to Guys: Don’t have anyone do your dirty work, its lame!
Note to girls: Sure you get away with sending your friends to do your dirty work, but in the end cool guys don’t like lame girls, and you are being lame!
Oh, and the point of this story, if I finally think I am back in business!
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