Friday, February 12, 2010

mister muscle.

dudes are so fucking weird.
so yesterday i got an email from this dude i met SIX MONTHS ago. you read that right. six effing months. the time span between the vernal and autumnal equinox elapsed between when i made his acquaintance and the next time he contacted me. *sigh*


he didn't automatically gross me all the way out like most dudes. well...he grossed me out a little. i've already told you how much i love a good nickname, but what i love THE MOST is being called "honey" or "sweetheart" or "darling" or whatever. seriously! maybe it's because i'm such a piece of shit. or because i wasn't loved enough as a child. whatever the case may be, i'm a total sucker for a bitch who calls me "sugar." gooey putty in the hands of a whore who tacks "angel" onto the end of a sentence aimed in my general direction. really, i'll giggle and coo and all that. i fucking love it. the trick is, there's always a goddamned trick with me, a dude can't do it too soon. or too fucking much. because then i get all weird and sketched out and want to punch him and stuff. baby talk is a fucking deal breaker, too. ugh.

so this dude. please, sociologists and relationship experts among us, fucking explain to me what the deal is with big giant ripped-as-shit motherfuckers panting after fat chicks? just like with gym dude (if you do not know to whom that refers, stop fucking reading this RIGHT NOW and search through the archives for a blog entitled "fat fuck!" read the whole thing, and every other piece you've missed, and then come back and join the rest of the class. dismissed!), that mountain of steroid-addled physical perfection, this dude had no neck and those extra shoulder bumps (i'm not a goddamned personal trainer, bitch, i don't know what them shits are called!) and you could trace his pecs/abs/traps/delts/glutes (i have no idea what i am talking about) with your finger through his shirt. rawr.

muscles don't mean shit to me. really, they don't. all they do is serve as a reminder of how out of shape i am, and there are plenty of staircases around that do that job quite nicely on their own thank you. but i get hollered at a ridiculous amount by dudes so into working out that they have barbells next to the bed in case they wake up in the middle of the night with an insatiable urge to tricep curls. (is that a real exercise?) i've stubbed my toe 632 times trying to run and do the after-sex pee and spare myself a UTI. fucking awesome, right? trading antibiotics and orange pee for taped-together toes and a pronounced limp. RAD.

but more often than not the dude sidling up next to me at the bar works out ten times a week and has muscle milk (fuck you dudes, barf) and vitamin water (in the ass this time) lining the shelves in his refrigerator. i'm always mystified at the end of the sleepover, standing barefoot in some asshole's kitchen trying to remember whether or not i had socks on when i got there, staring into the fridge at a bunch of candy-colored "water" (suck it, for reals) and energy bars. where is the container of cake frosting? the half-eaten tube of cookie dough? the leftover pizza? the doggie bag from the cheesecake factory? the 12-pack of diet coke? the brick of cheddar cheese that you peel the cellophane back and nibble from while you sit on the toilet or watch teevee?

where is the fucking FOOD?!

and why can't i find any goddamned paper towels?! jesus christ, men, BUY PAPER TOWELS. i feel like it's too much to ask a single human-type male to have things like hand towels or dish towels or decent sinkside soap, but is a roll of brawny too much of a goddamned commitment? and maybe i'm weird (i'm TOTALLY weird!) but i not only have two different types of dish soap, i have two different kinds of HAND SOAP available, too. i told you dudes, i like options. sometimes i like warm, spicy hands, and sometimes i like fresh, lemony hands. shut up, you. (sur la table makes this amazing lemon verbena business that i am totally in love with. ladies, go get you some.)

i know it's a whole lot to ask, but could you also buy something other than dial or irish spring or axe for the bathroom? how many of you girls have cracked your face into seven million pieces after washing your makeup off in some dude's grody shower? it's bad enough you have to walk around the rest of the day smelling like a leprechaun's taint, but you have to do it with a dry, itchy, tight-ass face.

let's not get too cute. i have a prostitute bag just like everybody else does, but sometimes you have no idea that you'll need it until you're already desperately smearing old spice deodorant under your arms because you have to be at work in fifteen minutes and homeboy lives twenty minutes away from your apartment and you already wasted four precious minutes scrubbing the crotch of your underwear with shampoo because it was the only thing you could find that didn't smell like a bath house and you will be written up YET AGAIN if you show up at work late so there's no time to go home for a fresh pair. i will indulge those of you who want to pretend not to know what a prostitute bag is (or have one, LIARS), and explain exactly what it is.

when you've been hollering at a dude long enough to sleep over at his crib once or twice a week, you have to have a bag OTHER THAN THE ONE YOU USE FOR WORK OR SCHOOL set aside specifically for those nights. it's like a pregnant lady's "oh my god i'm about to shit out this baby!" hospital bag, except WAY SEXIER. mine is a relatively inconspicuous black kate spade tote, full to the brim with underwear, a switchblade, deodorant, aquaphor, spare socks, FACE WASH, and an all-purpose moisturizer. i also keep a novel in there, because most dudes are wack and fucking boring. losers.


no condoms, though. oh, pipe down. here's why. because i cannot EVER have this awkward experience EVER happen to my ass again:
one of my very first boyfriends (i'm dyyyying to say who, damn these ethics) was incredibly cocksure (bwahahaha!) about the size of his johnson. i mean, TOLD ME ABOUT IT OVER DINNER proud of it. so we dated and dated and dated until finally we had the "hey, do you want to just come over and watch a movie?" conversation. of course i did. i'm pretty much all systems go after ten minutes in the presence of a hot piece, and all that formality dating is a total fucking drag. let's get you out of them pants!

so i packed my slut stachel and left dude's address on the message board so my roommate would know where to direct the police in the case of my disappearance, and i filled the ford up with gas (do my long-term bitches remember that car? damn it was amazing! amazingly terrible) and set off on my journey. i detoured to walgreens, that ghetto ass 24-hour one at howard and western that used to sell booze late at night, to get a six pack of honey brown (worst beer ever, but it was dude's JAM) and an economy-sized package of rubbers.

prior to that moment i had never before actually purchased condoms. i'd used them, sucked them, squirted lube on them, and rolled them down bananas, but never actually stood in a drugstore line with them tucked sheepishly under my arm or hidden beneath the november issue of elle in my basket. i never new there were so many different KINDS. and they're all lined up like candy in their multi-colored boxes; the multitude of options and special features was positively overwhelming. what is a reservoir tip? does it need to glow in the dark? is sheepskin made from an actual SHEEP, or is that some sexy euphemism? would my pleasure need ribbing?! how could i possibly know?!?!!

the biggest quandary of all, of course, was: WHAT SIZE DO I GET? are black dudes insulted by regular old trojans? would white dudes balk at a box of magnums? how do you ask without looking like an asshole?!

the truth is there's no way NOT to look like a fucking idiot, at least a little bit, so i did the next best thing. i found a dude about his height, weight, and shoe sze standing in the laundry aisle and asked him to get his dick out. just funnin'. really, i bought eight different types and brands of varying lengths and widths and texture, then shoved them all in my bag and hoped they wouldn't fall out if i ran into anyone i knew in the parking lot.


it was a bonafide cocknucopia.

so i got to his place and we watched motherfucking STATE PROPERTY. i keep trying to tell you how fucking stupid some of my old trade is, and maybe now you'll believe me? you probably just needed to see it in context. do you get that shit now? i know, lovers. HORRIFYING. but how stupid was i, because i still let him nail me after that?! i have the mental capacity of a goddamned fourth grader when it comes to dudes. SERIOUSLY. they are like shiny metal or bright crayons or glittery stickers, TOTAL GIRL KRYPTONITE to me. it's awful.

i just kind of dumped all the boxes on the bed and played it off. "silly me! i couldn't choose! they were all so pretty!" and he picked up the magnums. OF COURSE. and i just sat there smirking when he unzipped his pants and a garden snake tumbled out rather than the anaconda i'd been expecting. i will remind you that i prefer a hot dog to a kielbasa, because that business HURTS and my intestines are jacked up enough as it is. sheesh. but i'd been hearing tale after tale of the swashbuckling king ding-a-ling, and it was comical looking at that little vienna sausage bobbing around. it looked like an infected thumb. or an acorn. it made me giggle.

i laughed for the SAME REASON YOU WOULD if i told you i was going on a shopping spree at forever 21. that shit just doesn't look right. it would be like sticking my big toe in a hot air balloon. condoms aren't supposed to flap. or whistle. two mintues in and it sounded like my ship was at half-mast in choppy water down there. jesus. bon fucking voyage.

and i would never care if he hadn't been all "i'm so huge" and shit. i made him pull out right away and then we sat on the side of the bed and reassessed the appropriate size and shape according to the selection i'd brought. he picked out a nice, normal-sized durex that fit like oj's bloody glove, and i said, "see? isn't that so much better?!" and patted him on top of the head like a child.

a child who could tuck his entire shaft AND BALLS into a big boy condom. fucking TROID.

where the fuck were we again? i run off track too damn much.
ahhhhh, i know. arnold schwarzenigga. okay! let's continue. so i met him and he was great and nice and foxy and not too dumb. that gets you an email address, at the very least. ex-cop, current criminal justice professor, bald head, muscles, blah blah blah. like every other black dude you've ever met. you get it.

the first time he emailed me it sounded like fuck talk. in electronic form. i should have saved the shit, but it fucking embarassed me to read it so i deleted it right away. damn. anyway, it was like: hey samantha baby. how are you, sweetie? are you having a good day, baby? how was work today, baby? are you feeling okay, cutie? do you want to hang out sometime, honey? how's it going, gorgeous? do you like that, baby? when i go slow, sweetie? what about when i speed it up, honey? mmm, you like that, don't you? tell daddy how much you like it. SAY IT. tell me how much you fucking like it. BEG ME FOR IT. whose is it? i said, WHOSE IS IT?! WHAT IS MY MOTHERFUCKING NAME, BITCH?!


i may have embellished that a little bit, but you understand what i mean.

but for serious, every other word was babysweetiehoneycutie. BARF-O-RAMA, dude. i would rather a dude call me, well..."dude." or "bro." or "homie." i mean if we just fucking met. because i'm the most darling bunch of cute honeyness you will ever fucking meet, but shouldn't you get to know that first?! i met this dude at _______________ (i can't tell you, way too embarassing) for a literal thirty-five seconds. no time to establish myself as anybody's BABY. dang! find out my last name, why don't you?

maybe he actually thought it was baby?

my response email was nice and hilarious (i can't help it), yet curt and to the point on the pet name issue: FUCKING STOP IT. because that shit is gross. i like you and everything, but STOP. and he did, man. he totally DID. he stopped emailing me altogether. which didn't bother me. i don't take that shit personally. one more day without a permanent manfriend is one more day i get to eat chunky peanut butter out of the jar with my fingers in peace. one more day i get to make googley eyes at that dreadlocked purple line conductor who drives the 750am that i take to work. one more day to let my pubic hair run wild. (that waxed business grows in QUICK, no?) one more day of taking my birth control whenever it fucking occurs to me. one more day of talking public shit about the dudes i like.

one more day of being free of some lame asshole's b u l l s h i t.

i read that email yesterday and it gave me a chuckle. he offered no explanation for his absence (why would he?), and his tone was as if we'd just met the day before. i figured he was affronted by my distaste for my name change and had written him off after the third day. see ya, bitch!

but there he was, popping up in my inbox with all my facebook notices and potential eharmony matches. i should have said this in that last post, but HOW IN THE FUCK, if they have such specific matching criteria and match you on all of these different levels, do i have 935 (that number is NOT exaggerated) active matches right now? right this very second! i have NINE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE soulmates? IN ILLINOIS?! fucking hogwash. i'm sure i have 1/2 a soulmate, and he's probably reading this shit right now and thinking, "who is this silly bitch? omg, i would NEVER fuck her. what a lame-o."


want to know why i checked it?! because late yesterday afternoon i got an email that i had received a communication, which is what eharmony calls it when some douchebag wants to holler at your sexy ass. and guess who it was from?! A TINY ASIAN DUDE. and that is how you know god is a comedian. because i was JUST BITCHING about how i don't have a taste for fried rice, and then bryan from hanover park dropped me a note that he would love nothing more than to stick his eggroll in my hot buttered corn bread! or whatever soft and squishy thing black people eat. oh, wait, i've got it! in my CATFISH. hehehe i'm so fucking clever. can you even believe it?

what are the odds, right? when i say my life is ridiculous, you should believe me.

i wrote mister muscle back, of course. his email is mrmussle at blahblahblah.com, bitch! (that is HIS misspelling, not mine.) what?!?!!?! is that FUCKING PERFECT or what?! how could i not? and then he wrote me back, and he still sort of seems like an idiot. but how could i judge a man by his musculature? shouldn't i try to get to know the blood and guts underneath?! he asked if i wanted to hang tomorrow (fuck you, it's my birthday) or sunday (FUCK YOU, first date on valentine's day?! getthefuckouttahere), and finally i was just like "come to my party if you want to."

this shit was already going to be bitchlarious, and now EVEN MORE SO. if you were going to skip it YOU FUCKING SHOULDN'T. it's going to be amazing. my squirmy awkward flirtiness alone should be entertainment for hours.

if i don't die of alcohol poisoning first, i will write about the big bag of suck that is that dirty cunt valentine's day next week. i'm also going to write a blog that explains to terrence why i like long balls so much. he's been wondering. really, i am enamored of those swinging sacks!

in seven hours i will be kicking thirty years in its fucking nuts. wish me luck.


WAIT! one more thing! he just emailed me again and referenced, in all seriousness, his "milk chocolate love." this is going to be FUCKING FABULOUS.