Hope and bedsprings eternal

There’s a Chris Rock bit where he talks about men talking too damn much and ruining a woman’s desire to fuck them — “You say the wrong thing, them panties are comin’ up mighty fast. A woman wants to fuck you? Shut up, let it happen.”

(I’m QUITE sure this also happens when women talk too much to men — I have most assuredly DONE it, I know my own.)

But I went out tonight to see a friend’s band play at my local townie bar, and immediately wanted to bang one of the singers — hot, glasses, tattoos, super muscle-y arms that could throw me all around… UNF.

But then dude started talking. And during the course of his performance, he said someone had “killed hisself,” and he also dabbled in some light “jokey” homophobia AND as a bonus, mocked his friend for saying something kinda intellectual-like — you know how we hate all that book learnin’.

Also, he swore so much that even *I* was like, “GodDAMN, man. You wanna fuckin’ dial that back?”

So. Alas, tonight was not the night I lured an unsuspecting male back to my lair. But hope springs eternal!

Semi-approval from a porn fiend’s semi

From the Department of Things Normal People Just Know But I Had to Learn by Having My Day Ruined*: Don’t read online comments, SPECIFICALLY the ones on porn featuring women of a similar size/shape to you.

“Not bad for a chubby chick,” says some 45-year-old serial masturbator in his mother’s basement.

If I ever write a book, I want “Not bad for a chubby chick” to be the review blurb on the cover. Wait, actually…yeah, that’ll be the title.

If I may borrow from a Chris Rock bit: “Yeah, I got a gut — there’s some good pussy under this gut.” Can you say the same about your dick, Rando Calrissian?

* Kidding — my day can’t really be ruined by people who comment on porn.

I probably won’t end up naked, though.

I’m certainly not the first to observe this, but going to a job interview is like going on a first date.

Like, “This, right here? The smooth, curled hair and the makeup and the dress and the tights? Yeah, I will NEVER look like this when shit gets real.”

I should be able to interview in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, with wet-from-the-shower hair tossed up in a half-ass ponytail, wearing sunscreen and Chapstick as makeup. That is how I will look if I work for/date you.*

It’s like Chris Rock said: “You can’t get nobody looking like you look, acting like you act, sounding like you sound. When you meet somebody for the first time, you’re not meeting THEM — you’re meeting their representative!”

“Your smile would be even prettier around my dick.”

I’m not trying to be an ass, but I don’t know how men expect me to respond when their first message to me on OKCupid just says “Beautiful,” or “Pretty smile,” and nothing else.

It’s flattering, sure, and thanks, I guess, but…it’s a dating site. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t think I was cute. What else ya got? Show your work.

This isn’t conceit, by any stretch. It’s actually the opposite — I’m just no longer surprised when men find me attractive. Especially the kind of sketchy, monosyllabic fucks from whom these messages generally originate. I’ve been whistled at at the grocery store when I’m rocking dirty hair, baggy jeans, and a giant sweatshirt — some men have different standards of beauty than I do. I’m not hideous or anything; I clean up OK. But yeah, I’m gonna need more than “Beautiful,” and more than a word or two. Anything that focuses solely on appearance always reads to me like that Chris Rock bit about offering dick:

“Beautiful. (Can I offer you some dick?)”
“Pretty smile. (How ’bout some dick?)”

It’s fine, I suppose, if that’s what you’re on the site for, but that’s not why I’m there. (I don’t know WHY I’m there, exactly, other than blog fodder, but I know I’m not there for casual dalliances with the inarticulate.)

(Also, remind me if I ever write a book to title it “Casual Dalliances with the Inarticulate.” That’s some Sedaris shit, right there.)

Aaaand we’re done here.

The “gentlemanly” OKCupid guy made way too big a deal about the fact that I’m looking for “just friends” right now.

First off, jagoff, you saw my profile and started the conversation. You asked me about that part, so it’s not like you didn’t see it. And no, that does not mean “friends with benefits,” and fuck you for even asking during our FIRST conversation. You haven’t even met me — that photo I sent could be from 10 years and 100 lbs ago. (It’s not, I’m adorable, but that’s not the point.)

Second, don’t you know the Chris Rock bit? “You know what a [male] friend is to a woman? It’s like a dick in a glass case. ‘In case of emergency, break open glass.'”

I just need to make sure you’re not a moron, and then maybe, OK? I hate realizing guys are dumb after we get naked, it’s the worst! One time I found out a guy I’d hooked up with REALLY liked Larry the Cable Guy — like so much that he’d paid to see him in concert. I let someone see me naked who had also seen Larry the Cable Guy live. Never again, you guys. Never again.

If you’re smart and funny, know how to treat a lady, and are nice to restaurant servers, do you know how quickly I’ll let you bend me over furniture? (That’s the attitude of a “lady,” right? Don’t answer that…)

Whatever, dude, your loss. I almost pity the fool who’s under me when this tension gets released. You couldn’t handle it, anyway.

Can you also manage my orgasm?

I don’t know what it is about me and managers of grocery stores, but I’m gonna sleep with another one.

I think it’s the fact that, after sex with a grocery manager, there’s a pretty good chance there’ll be food in the house.

Don’t judge — my needs are very simple. In the words of Chris Rock: “Feed me, fuck me, shut the fuck up.”

“Can I offer you some dick?”

An extra post today, because I just got a delightfully random and wholly unsolicited offer of dick, and I wanted to share this video with you.

I’m going to try to re-work some of the details and post them here, but it may be another one of those things that I cannot possibly make funnier than the truth.