The 37-Year-Old Virgin

“I want you right now,” she said in her best attempt at being seductive.

In September of 2010 I wrote about the 36-Year-Old Virgin turning 37 and remaining untapped. I planned on waiting a while (but not 2 years) before revealing the final installment of this epic “Quadogy”. A quadogy is kind of like a trilogy, but has four parts. I just made up that word, but I don’t give a shit.
It’s probably been a while since you read that post (if you ever read it), so I’m gonna throw you the final two paragraphs from that post. That way you can see why this is going in the direction it is.
I drove home and pondered my evening. I left home hopeful that I could have sex with her and didn’t. Her friend wanted to have sex with me, but I couldn’t. In case I wasn’t totally clear earlier, BFF straight up said she wanted to pull over and have sex with me while the Virgin was in the car. Classy, huh?
In case you didn’t figure it out—she became the 37-Year-Old Virgin and if you actually scrolled down to see how this ends—you suck! Now go back and read what you missed. It’s shocking, informative and entertaining.
The day after the 37th birthday bash I received a phone call from the now 37-Year-Old Virgin. She told me she didn’t remember a lot of the night and wanted to know if anything interesting happened. I pondered that thought for a moment. Should I tell her that her BFF wanted me to pull over and screw the shit out of her while the Virgin was in the front seat? That probably wasn’t the best strategy, so I went ahead and lied. “Nah. It was pretty same ‘ol,” I said. “I had fun.”

She thanked me for being such a good boyfriend and said that she was really looking forward to our trip on Friday. I was going to Mexico for seven days and the Virgin was going as my interpreter. I was going to tour the original Dos Equis brewery, which was then known as Tres Equis. Her family was from that small town and I needed someone fluent in Spanish, so it worked out perfectly.
We were going to spend two days in Mexico City, then take a bus to Orizaba for three days, then back to Mexico City for two more. We arrived in Mexico City and as soon as we checked into our hotel on the Zocalo, I was off to get some tacos al pastor (my personal fav) and a Corona.
The first night there she wanted to take me to La Zona Rosa (the pink zone) and she assured me I would have fun. I did have fun, but I have to say that Zona Rosa doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. I’m not sure why they call it the pink zone, because there wasn’t one strip club in the area. The name is kinda misleading, if you ask me.
We came back to the room and I (of course) made an overture towards having intercourse. I was rebuffed as usual. I tried the ‘ol, “We’re in a different country so it doesn’t really count,” line, but she reminded me that God sees everywhere. I hated when she played the God card. Once she does that your response has to include some reference to burning in hell.
The second night in Mexico City we again went out and she once again was
drinking a bit, kinda drunk,
totally hammered. We got back to the room and all she could do was slur something about, “Tonight’s the night, baby. We’re gonna have sex.” You would think I would be thrilled to hear those words come out of her mouth, but I wasn’t. Not that night.
Many probably consider me a full-time pig, but I’m not. That night I told her no. I explained that we weren’t having sex because she was drunk and because I had respect for her virginity. I wanted to take it from her, but I respected her going 36 years without ever slippin it in. I told her that if this is what she really wanted, that I would have sex with her tomorrow, but not tonight.
I, of course, went to sleep frustrated as hell and completely pissed off at myself for having a conscience. The next morning we awoke early and caught our bus to Orizaba. The bus had a TV and played Disney movies, one in English with Spanish subtitles and the other in Spanish with English subtitles. Weird, huh?
Along the way we discussed the previous night’s adventure and she claimed that she knew exactly what she was saying. She reiterated that she felt like she was ready and that she wanted to, “Do this now.” I looked around at the bus full of travelers and asked if she meant, “Right here, right now.” She assured me, she did not mean that.
We got to the hotel just in time to drop our bags and walk across town to see her grandmother. I noticed that people seemed to be staring at me and about the third block down, I asked, “I’m guessing they don’t get a lot of americans around here, do they?” She told me they didn’t and wanted to know why I was asking. “Uh,” I said sarcastically. “Probably has to do with the fact that every person around is staring at me.”
As we walked, I looked at her and asked if she was completely sober. “Of course I am, silly,” she said. “You’ve been with me all day.” I then asked if she was still sure she wanted to be de-virginized, and she said she was sure she was ready. (I probably used a different word at the time, but I don’t remember.) I explained that I wanted to know, because if she was drunk again tonight and wanted to do it, that I was totally going for it. She laughed and said it was fine, but she didn’t plan on being drunk. She wanted to, “Remember this night.” I was pretty sure it would be memorable.
We went out with her grandma, two uncles and two aunts to some local joint specializing in sopes and we ate till we were stuffed. As I was paying the bill, someone asked if we had any big plans for the night. I refrained from explaining that I was planning on taking their niece/granddaughter back to the hotel to experience what many of her all girl Catholic school classmates experienced before they took their drivers test. You shouldn’t tell family that stuff. Your friends? Maybe. But not family.
We strolled back towards the hotel and stopped into a cantina for a couple Mexican car bombs (Dos Equis in a glass with a shot of patron at the bottom) and as we finished our second one, she leaned in and whispered, “Let’s go back to the room.” I walked as fast as I could without seeming too anxious. She seemed excited too and not at all nervous. I was a bit shocked by that.
As we walked, I had a thousand thoughts running through my mind. Was she going to cry and scream the whole time or would she get into it pretty quickly? I planned on pretty much doing all the work, but I wondered how good she would be. I wasn’t expecting much, but I was hopeful. “Fuck it,” I said to myself. “She’s finally giving it up, so stop whining like a pussy.”
She opened the door to the room, sprinted ahead, turned around, and proceeded to rip her shirt off. “I want you right now,” she said in her best attempt at being seductive. What happened after that? It’s not cool to tell. Suffice it to say that I stopped the clock on her virginity that night and that there will never be a story about the 38-Year-Old Virgin. At least not here.

Happy birthday 36-Year-Old Virgin

I totally could have nailed this one if I had wanted to, but out of respect for the Virgin I declined.

On Labor Day, 2010 I sat down at my laptop to knock this post out and became sidetracked, which led to the whole Peabody & Sherman post (which no one has commented on, so I assume it was a huge flop. Oh well…) This is the post I meant to write that afternoon and the one that I now am busting out for you all to read.
This story happened about six years ago. I can’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure Drama Queen was fourteen at the time. Or maybe she was fifteen. Either way, it happened a while ago and it is totally true, fairly shocking and hopefully funny.
In the past I’ve written a couple of posts about the 36-Year-Old Virgin. Yes, she really was a virgin at age 36 and no, it wasn’t because she was hideous. She was cute. And sort of funny. And raised by a Mexican, Catholic mother who put the fear of God into her about having sex before marriage, which kept everything else OUT of her. If you know what I mean.
She was cool to date and as much as I respected her for the virginity, it did bug the crap out of me from time to time—mainly at night when I was horny.
These first few paragraphs were a history lesson for those not knowledgeable in the ways of the Virgin. On to the blog post.
As I drove to her house I knew this would be my last date with the 36-Year-Old Virgin. There was no doubt in my mind. We weren’t breaking up, but tonight was her birthday celebration and tomorrow she turned 37. This night had two possible outcomes—either she would stop being the Virgin or she would soon become the 37-Year-Old Virgin.
I’m not going to tell you right now how it ended and I trust that you have enough restraint to not scroll down to the end before coming back up to read the story. That would be lame and could be considered cheating. I’m just saying.
I headed down the 91 from Redlands to her house in Santa Ana. It was her last night being 36 and we were meeting a bunch of her friends at a place called The Crazy Horse at the Irvine Spectrum.
I never quite understood how The Crazy Horse ended up in Irvine, AKA Uppermiddleclassville. The Crazy Horse was a redneck joint, which for years had been located in neighboring Santa Ana. If you were a fan of country music this was your hot spot.
All the big names of the 70’s and 80’s played there while they were still big names. It was the place to be if you had a big ass belt buckle with your name on it or if you wore a cowboy hat. For some reason it closed and relocated in the Irvine Spectrum—one of the most non-redneck places I know.
The Virgin wanted to hit the Crazy Horse because it was Disco Night and they had a DJ and she loved to dance. She wanted to get her groove on and wanted all her friends to be there. Awesome…
I picked her up and told her that I had her present, but that I would give it to her later. Even after New Years Eve she wasn’t getting the implication there. I truly felt bad for her, but was hoping that she was ready to stop being the Virgin. Fingers crossed.
She gave me a hug and a kiss and said “OK, Bolillo. I can’t wait.” Oh yeah, she called me Bolillo. The word means “white bread” in Spanish. That was her little pet name for me. Nice, huh?
We cruised to the Spectrum and met her friends on the patio at Crazy Horse and began drinking and ordering dinner. It was the typical mid-30’s chick birthday get together, complete with all the drama and some douche who drank his ass off but somehow seemed to have no money when it came time to pay the bill.
It was a good thing the Virgin didn’t suggest I pay his portion because I would have recommended that I beat the $50 out of him in front of his friends, immediately following the meal. Someone else covered him but we had to listen to that story all night long.
The reality is that everyone else had to listen. I tuned out about 90% of the shit that was said that night. I didn’t care and I was determined that the Virgin was going to have a birthday she would never forget. That was the plan. The reality is that it would end up being a birthday she would barely remember.
The Virgin was pounding down the margaritas as we were eating and I tried to get her to slow down a bit, but she kept telling me that it was her birthday and she just wanted to have fun with her friends. I wanted her mostly sober so I could de-virginize her in good conscience before the end of the night.
We started dancing and having a good time. I’m not a big dancer, but I figure that disco is all about getting out there and looking like a dumbass, so I knew I would fit right in. I was driving home and was taking it very easy on the drinking and was trying to get her to do the same but her fucking friends kept pouring shots into her all God damn night long!
These douche bags were ruining my plan and I was getting frustrated about it. As much as dancing wasn’t my thing, I tried to keep her on the dance floor as much as possible, because when she wasn’t dancing she wasn’t drinking and was hopefully sobering up a bit.
Her BFF was one of these whiny bitches that fills her life with drama. About halfway through the night I was informed (not asked. Informed) that we were taking her home because, “the friend that she came with was no friend and she needed us to take her home.”
Come to find out a bit later, the reason the friend was no friend was because he was trying to put the moves on the BFF. Much respect bro. Much respect. I wish I had known that earlier—we could have worked in tandem to achieve our separate goals.
At midnight my girlfriend officially became the 37-Year-Old Virgin and I officially became really ticked off. The Virgin was flat out drunk. Like, hurl in the bushes drunk. Twice. Shortly after midnight I had to get two totally hammered chicks into my Sentra and get them to their separate homes.
The Virgin wanted to lie down in the car and she was completely and totally passed out in the back seat. BFF was not quite as trashed and spent most of the car ride home telling me how cute I was and what a great guy I was. I totally could have nailed this one if I had wanted to, but out of respect for the Virgin I declined.
I eventually found BFF’s home and when I arrived I found her mother and father in the driveway very upset at the condition their daughter was in. Yeah. She still lived with her parents. And was almost 40. Sweet.
I explained to mom and dad that I was not the dude she had her date with and that I had a drunk Virgin in the back seat to take home. “Hasta luego papi,” I said as I climbed back into the car.
As much as I should have been pissed, I was more frustrated and upset. The reality is that there was no way in hell that I could even try to have sex with her. Not when she was in that condition.
Think of me what you will, but I do have some morals. I may be hard on the outside (pun partially intended) but I’m sweet on the inside—like an M & M. Not to be confused with Eminem. That dude’s kind of cool, but a bit whack too. As usual, I digress…
I took the Virgin home and as I pulled into her driveway, her mother came out to meet us. The Virgin owned the house that she grew up in, but her mother still lived there. One would argue that she still lived at home while others would argue that she owned the house and her mom lived with her. I often argued the former, while she argued the latter.
I helped mom get her inside and was thanked many times. This lady LOVED me and totally believed me when I said I tried to keep her from drinking so much (though I wasn’t giving up my reason for limiting the alcohol consumption.)
I drove home and pondered my evening. I left home hopeful that I could have sex with her and didn’t. Her friend wanted to have sex with me, but I couldn’t. In case I wasn’t totally clear earlier, BFF straight up said she wanted to pull over and have sex with me while the Virgin was in the car. Classy, huh?
In case you didn’t figure it out—she became the 37-Year-Old Virgin and if you actually scrolled down to see how this ends—you suck! Now go back and read what you missed. It’s shocking, informative and entertaining.

Skiing with The 36-Year-Old-Virgin

She just smiled and asked, “When are you going to give it to me?”




I loaded the Drama Queen into the Sentra and headed to my friend’s house to get the keys to his cabin in Blue Jay, CA. It was December 30, 2004 and I was going to the mountains with D.Q., The 36-Year-Old-Virgin, my friend The Kings Fan, and his wife Hot Latin Mama, their son G.I. Joe along with Mama’s younger sister, Hermana. Hermana was up from Mexico for the holidays. We were all going skiing/snowboarding in Big Bear on New Years Eve and we stayed at the cabin for a couple of nights.
This place was a cabin in name only. It was bigger and nicer than my house in Redlands and sat on a golf course. My friends bought it in 1996, The cabin was 90 minutes away from home and 45 from the ski areas. For those that think there is no snow in Southern California, there is. Back in the day I would often surf in the morning and go night skiing. Life was pretty sweet.
After getting the keys I went down to The O.C. and picked up The Virgin. She had never skied before and in fact had never even been to the snow, which I guess made her a snow virgin as well. It was kind of funny seeing this Mexican cutie all bundled up in snow pants, a heavy coat, gloves and a beanie when it was 60 degrees out. I told her that we would be in the car and that we would pull right up to the door, in case she waned to throw on some jeans for the car ride up. “That’s OK Bolillo,” she said. “I want to enjoy the experience.” Whatever. (BTW…Bolillo is Spanish for “white bread”)
I threw her bag in the back and we headed out through The 909 (So. Cal’s. meth headquarters, named the 909 because the area code is 909). I pulled into Costco near the base of the mountain and tried not to snicker as the virgin trampled inside in her snow pants and winter boots when many of the other shoppers were in shorts and flip flops.
When the shopping was done we headed up the mountain and arrived shortly before our guests. There were three bedrooms—two with queen beds and one with twin beds plus a huge couch in the living room. I don’t remember the sleeping arrangements but I do remember that The Virgin and I had a room with a queen bed. Sweet.
Dinner that night was good and the girls fixed some authentic Mexican fare. The Virgin was Mexican and The Kings Fan was born in Mexico but raised in L.A. He had recently married Mama and she and G.I. Joe were full-blown Mexican and had only lived in the U.S. for a year or so. I do remember a lot of Corona being consumed that night. Some Patron too.
We got up early the next morning, made breakfast and some sandwiches for lunch and headed up to Bear Mountain Ski Area. We stopped to rent our equipment and Kings Fan laughed at me for renting skis. Everyone else was snowboarding but I reminded him that I was all the way Old School and that I had ripped up both knees and ankles playing soccer (with him as my goalie), so I wanted something that I could eject out of if and when I biffed it big.
We arrived and put the kids in a ski school/daycare thing and went off to have fun. I think that Mama, Hermana and The Virgin took lessons because King and I went off to have some fun. It had been a few years since I had skied but it came back quickly and soon we were heading down some pretty steep terrain. It was snowing a very icy snow that day and was really windy and I remember the snow stinging as it hit my face. Every time I started to get cold I whipped out my flask of Malibu (I guess I was going through a Malibu and Coke phase then). The more I drank, the better I felt. Soon enough my big flask was empty and I was pretty buzzed.
We finished skiing/boarding and headed back to the cabin. (Relax. I don’t drink and drive. I was sober by then.) We arrived and started preparing our big New Years Eve fiesta. I’m pretty rad in the kitchen and I usually cook for my friends, but tonight the chicas were preparing the food and we were all having fun drinking. The Virgin was drinking pretty steadily and the more she drank, the happier she got.
I remember King pulling me aside at one point and saying that I should “tap it tonight.” I wasn’t completely opposed to the idea (we had been dating a couple of months) and I went up to her, whispered in her ear and told her that I had a special surprise for her at midnight. She smiled and said she couldn’t “wait to get it”. This chick was so freakin naïve!
As midnight approached, King kept looking at me and giving me “the nod”. You know what I mean. The one that guys give each other as if to say, “that’s right. It’s all good.” At one point Mama came up to me and said that she was so happy for us. Apparently King had shared the secret. I had to let her know that it was actually not a done deal and that in fact The Virgin had no clue what I was planning. I also had to remind her that although I wasn’t completely fluent in Spanish, I knew enough to know if she tried to tip her off!
At about 11:50 PM The Virgin came up and asked what I had for her. I told her that it was a big surprise and that I was sure that she had never gotten this before. She just smiled and asked, “When are you going to give it to me?” I told her that I would give it to her shortly after midnight when we went to bed.
Midnight came and went and we got the cabin mostly cleaned up and everyone went to bed. She and I went into our room and closed the door. I started kissing her and she asked what I had for her. I (like a guy who had been drinking all day) told her that I thought her New Years resolution should be to experience new things in 2005 and she thought that sounded great. Please keep in mind that she too had been drinking all night. And that she was really naïve.
We continued kissing and as we did I told her that I thought that she should finally experience sex and she looked at me with puppy dog eyes and asked, “Bolillo. Don’t you care about my soul? I mean, what would God say if I had sex outside of marriage?” I told her that I didn’t know, but reminded her that a lot of Catholic school girls were sluts, so I figured that God would cut her some slack for waiting until she was 36. I also asked her how many Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers she thought the priest would give her for “doing it”.
I didn’t get laid that night but the next morning she acted as if the whole thing never happened. She bounced up the steps and into the kitchen with a cheery hello for everyone. Mama looked up at me and came over to hug me and said, “congratulations.” I told her that nothing happened and she gave me one of those “What you talking about Willis?” Looks. Neither Mama nor The Fan could believe that she still wasn’t giving it up. They were both a little disappointed in me and I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed in myself too.
The Virgin turned 37 a few weeks later and I won’t tell you whether or not she became The 37-Year-Old-Virgin. That is another story for another day.

Dating a 36-year-old virgin

“So. How did you manage that?”

I was watching TV Thursday night trying to decide what to write about when I realized that many of my newer readers probably haven’t seen any of my dating posts from the early days of the blog. Back in the day (late 2009-mid 2010) I blogged about some pretty memorable dates and I figured I would pull one out of the vault, touch it up and share it with you. Consider it an early Easter gift. Or Passover, depending on your religious preference.
I haven’t written about any crazy dating stories in quite a while because I’ve got a rad chick in my life (my Muse) and there aren’t crazy dating stories because she lives 3,000 miles away from my Southern California home. I hope you enjoy this totally true story about my first date with a 36-year-old virgin. 

The 36-year-old virgin
She had one of those perma-smiles on her face as she walked into my store for the first time. We met online and chatted a few times before deciding to go out and this was the night. As she sat down in our break room. I had no clue what a memorable evening it would turn out to be. Who knew that I would soon receive a slightly racist nickname as well as the shock of my life!
She’s from The O.C. and during one of our phone conversations asked if we could go to Downtown Disney to walk around, talk and grab some dinner. “Absolutely,” I replied. “Where would you like to meet?” She asked if she could meet me at my store, which was halfway between her place and the Happiest Place on Earth.
We climbed into my Sentra, headed towards Anaheim and grabbed a decent parking spot near the entrance to Downtown Disney. We walked around, bopping in and out of several stores and having typical first date conversation. After a while we decided it was time for dinner but couldn’t figure out where to go. There were a myriad of restaurants to choose from and she asked if I minded going to Tortilla Jo’s Cantina.
“Seriously?” I asked. “Yeah,” she responded. “Why?” I was trying to find a nice way to say what I had to say, but there was no way I could so I just blurted it out. “Well, you’re, uh, Mexican and  I can say with almost absolute certainty that this place will not have real Mexican food.”
“Oh bolillo,” (pronounced bo-LEE-yoh) she exclaimed. “I’m here with you and I want you to go Mexican tonight!” Wow! My expectations for the night just went way, way up. She was cute and I’ll admit that I had already wondered what it would be like to “go Mexican” with her. A couple of times, actually. But as it was a first date and considering I’m generally a pretty nice guy, I hadn’t put too much thought into it. Until now. For the record, “bolillo” means “white bread” in kind of a “yo, crackah” way.
We approached the hostess stand and were seated at a quiet table in the corner. It was a chilly Southern California fall evening (probably all of 50 degrees) and she wanted to avoid the patio and stay inside where it was “toasty”. After ordering a pitcher of margaritas we looked over the menu, trying to decide what looked good. The more I thought about her going Mexican comment the more I decided that she was looking pretty good, but I was still playing it cool and kept my yap shut.
After ordering we munched on chips and salsa and got another pitcher of margaritas while continuing to conversate. Dinner arrived and I honestly have no clue what was said to get her on this next topic because neither sex nor anything sexual was ever brought up. Right after I put a bite of chile relleno in my mouth, as if on cue, my date very casually mentioned that she was a virgin.
I somehow swallowed my food without choking, looked up and said, “No shit?” She looked a bit surprised at my response. I apologized and said, “Let me rephrase that. Seriously?” “Of course,” she said with a giggle. “I told you that I was never married.”
I’m far from a prude, but neither am I a man whore and I was more than a bit shocked at this revelation. I looked over at her with bewilderment and took a long drink of my margarita. Actually I drained the glass and was pouring another as I asked, “So. How did you manage that?”
The Virgin went on to explain that she had never been married, had been in only one serious relationship and that she was Catholic which meant that she knew it was a sin to have sexual relations outside of marriage. I tried my best not to laugh out loud and as I tried to suppress my laughter she asked what was so funny. I told her not to take my question the wrong way, but asked if she knew the reputation that Catholic schoolgirls have. The Virgin told me she had heard that some “engage in relations” before they’re married but didn’t know they had a reputation.
“Some engage in relations?” I asked, completely surprised by her answer. “I went to school near Aquinas high and we used to call them The Ho’s from Aquinas.” I know that I’m gonna sound like an ass when I say this, but the next thing that went through my mind was, “I guess I’m not going Mexican tonight.”
Somehow we managed to change topics and finish our meal. After dinner we walked around a bit more, grabbed some coffee and dessert and found a bench with a good view of the Disneyland fireworks. I was planning my next move when the Virgin reached over and took my hand. As she did I looked over and saw that perma-smile still on her face. I smiled back and after the fireworks were over we walked hand in hand back to my car. I gave her a kiss on the cheek as we departed the parking lot and we decided to go out again a couple nights later.
Back at my store I watched her climb into her Mustang and as I drove home had a hard time coming to terms with this new reality. I knew that statistically there had to be at least a handful of 36-year-old virgins in Southern California, but I never expected one to be cute. Or that I would end up on a date with one of them. I thought about e-mailing Match.com and suggesting they add a box on their profiles for “VIRGIN” but figured it would make me seem like a douche.
After arriving home I jumped online, checked a few e-mails and saw that my friend “The Kings Fan” was online. I shared my amazing tale with my friend and he quickly responded in typical dude fashion. “No shit?” He asked. “So…you gonna try and tap it?”

Fall To Pieces

I keep a journal of memories
I’m feeling lonely, I can’t breathe
Velvet Revolver

Every once in a while someone comes into your life seemingly by accident, yet later on you come to realize that it was no accident. I have someone like that in my life. My Muse has helped me through a lot of tough stuff this past year and I can honestly say she has helped me somehow retain the small bit of sanity I have left.
I wasn’t going to do a Valentines post, but as I crawled into bed at 9:30 on February 13, I donned my headphones and pushed “Shuffle” on my Dope Tunes playlist. This was the first song to play and suddenly I knew I wasn’t going to bed because this was what I wanted to write about.
I can’t tell you how many times in the past 12 months I’ve felt like I’m falling to pieces, but I can tell you that every single time she has been there to either help me up or to offer me the encouragement to help myself. I’ve had a rough five years and I will be the first to admit that I can be a real tool at times; but when there’s someone (metaphorically) standing beside you with encouragement, it makes falling to pieces a whole lot easier to handle.
Look at the lyrics below, watch the video and be assured that when I say I feel like I fall to pieces, I don’t mean in a night club bathroom from a heroin OD. (I leave that to lead singer Scott Weiland.) My Muse has seen me at my worst and I’m looking forward to her being around to see me at my best. Fingers crossed.
It’s tough to keep something going when two people are separated by almost 3,000 miles, but somehow we’ve managed it. My message in this post is simple and its directed to my Muse. Thank you. You have no idea how much you mean to me.
It’s been a long year
Since you’ve been gone
I’ve been alone here
I’ve grown old
I fall to pieces, I’m falling
Fell to pieces and I’m still falling
Every time I’m falling down
All alone I fall to pieces
I keep a journal of memories
I’m feeling lonely, I can’t breathe
I fall to pieces, I’m falling
Fell to pieces and I’m still falling
All the years I’ve tried
With more to go
Will the memories die
I’m waiting
Will I find you
Can I find you
We’re falling down
I’m falling
Every time I’m falling down
All alone I fall to pieces
Every time I’m falling down
All alone I fall to pieces
Every time I’m falling down
All alone I fall to pieces
Every time I’m falling down
All alone I fall to pieces

                                  

Niche dating is ‘wack

Once you’ve got a colostomy bag…


Raise your hand if you’re single and are on Facebook? OK. Thanks. Now raise your hand if you’ve ever tried online dating? Great. One more question. How many single people on Facebook see those bullshit ads on the right side of the page, click the ad yet somehow never see the person in the ad? Yeah. Same here.

If you’ve never seen these ads, they truly are amazing. Facebook was nice enough to take the time to tailor the ad just for me. Apparently there are a lot of large breasted women who are looking for 47-year-old single fathers. I know that Facebook has my back, because until late November the women were looking for 44-year-old’s. Now that I think about it, the year before they were looking for 43-year-old’s. Weird.
When I click on the site (which has pictures of women like the pair above) I see women. Lots of women. Do they look like the girls in the ad? Not a fucking one one them! I call bullshit and false advertising. That’s not cool. Not cool at all.
My favorite ad has to be the one for Christian Mingle. They explain, “If you’re looking for a Christ centered relationship, the next move is yours.” The next move is yours? I didn’t think Christians had “moves”. I thought their purity rings counteracted the urge to put the moves on anyone. Maybe I was wrong.
I’ve tried Match.com with limited success. The same with e-Harmony. I appreciate the effort that old dude and his company are putting in, but the reality is that I end up running into the same train wrecks that I do on the free sites. If I thought I was getting something for the cash, I could see it, but I don’t.
If you’ve ever done any Internet dating, you’ve likely run across PlentyOfFish.com. I will admit that I’ve met some nice people there. When I lived in Canada, I met Teacher on that site. I met The Nurse there as well. However, the overwhelming majority of people have been either crazy, strange, troll-like or a combination of all three.
I’m sure there are lots and lots of wonderful women on POF, but I can say that I have yet to meet more than a couple solid ones. I can’t tell you how many women have a profile that says they’re 42, but you would swear in court that she was 60+.
Let me disclaim this right now and say: I am in no way making fun of anyone’s weight, whether below average, average or above average. Anything I say is meant to illustrate a point and not ridicule. Shit, I need to lose 20, 30, 35, so no way am I cracking on people’s weight. That being said, people need to be realistic about what they look like. I tell people that I’m fat and they typically say that I’m not. “It’s no more weight than most people need to lose,” they tell me. I don’t buy that bullshit, which is why when I was online dating I put, “A few extra pounds” rather than, “Average.”
Just because everyone in your family is 60-80 pounds overweight, that doesn’t make you average. If you’re a little big, then say so. Some people are looking for that and if you’re stuck in, “Average”, you may get overlooked. If you don’t like being in a certain category, make it your goal to get down to the next level.
The beautiful thing is that you don’t have to spend months trolling through the big sites. For example, if you’re Jewish, there are sites for you. If you like crazy chicks, there is a site called Women Behind Bars. You can correspond with an inmate, then let her beat you, rob you and kill you shortly after her release. But not until you’ve bought her some cans and a new wardrobe.
Apparently there’s a dating site for Trekkies. I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid that is. If you’re willing to drop a grand for a lifetime membership, you can join Scientific Match and let DNA testing help determine your match. I don’t think Crazy Blind Date needs any further explanation, nor does Bi-Cupid.
If you’re into Ayn Rand, you can join Atlasphere.com. If World of Warcraft is your thing, then you will want to rush on over to DateCraft.com. As tempting as that may sound, please wait until you’re finished here before you do so. Thanks.
If your junk itches, drips or oozes, you can log onto STD Friends and find people who likewise suffer from chlamydia, gonorrhea or just plain ol’ crabs. My favorite one might just be Ostomate.com. Once you’ve got a colostomy bag, I would imagine that it’s hard to get past those first few dates, ya know?
What did I miss? Are there any more niche sites that I overlooked? Do you have any experience with any of these? Stories that you heard from, “A friend?” Spit ‘em out. Let’s hear them…

The Muse

Inspiration is cool.

I learned a few things in 2011. One of those things is that when I write about girls I’ve dated, am dating or even flirting with, people will either love it or hate it. There seems to be no middle ground.
I’m either The Woomaster or I’m the dude with the shitty mustache. You know the one. The guy in the old black and white flicks who would tie a chick up and put her on the train track. Yeah. Either I’m sweet and cute or I’m that dick.
That’s neither here nor there. That’s because this post isn’t about that. This post is about someone who inspires my writing and inspires me to be a better person. She’s my muse and she’s very off the hook.
I can’t remember when we cyber-met, but it revolved around something meaningless and trivial. We chatted a bit, traded a couple of funny stories and I got hit with an idea for a blog post.
I have no idea where she pulled the idea from, but she steered our conversation towards a new topic by saying, “I wonder if…” She said those three words and straight into a topic I had been thinking about for the blog, but wasn’t quite sure how to present it. When she started asking questions, I knew she had just given me the perfect way to go.
I told her this and she texted, “Thanks…(with a little blushed face next to it).” I was so inspired by this idea, that I sat down and banged out the blog post right away. It was really cool that we seemed to connect on a creative level.
There was no flirting, nor was there any real pressure for any. We continued to discuss our lives, what was happening on Twitter or what either of us was writing about. It was friendly and fun. I continued to get ideas for different things to write about for my different projects and it became a nice friendship.
The Muse knew I was going to be alone for the holidays this year and she made a point to check in a few times on Christmas Eve to see what was going on and she was the first person I had any interaction with on Christmas morning. Once again, the contact was initiated by her.
We chatted over the next few days and I noticed more than once how comfortable I felt talking with her about things and how much we seemed to have in common. I mentioned that she was turning into quite the muse.
She thanked me and I told her, “If you look half as good as Selma Hayek in Dogma, you’re going to really inspire someone very soon.” Throughout this friendship, I had no idea what she looked like.
She responded by sending me a picture and holy crap was she cute. I suddenly felt inspired in a slightly different fashion. Hell. Yeah.
Two days later I wrote a post and in it I explained that I was in the shower when I had the idea for the post. I hopped out of the shower to jot down the idea on paper and as I climbed back in, I grabbed my iPhone to tell her what the idea was. I threw her a couple names and asked if she had any suggestions for other related subject matter.
She replied, “Sadly no. You naked and wet is all I think about.” I laughed at her remark and returned to the shower. I tried to forget the comment, but somehow it had replaced the previous thought and it wouldn’t go away. I didn’t particularly want it to go away.
I was hearing her voice say it. In several different whispers. And with the inflection being delivered at different points. And with her eyes, uh, forget it….Back to the story.
I was thinking about her as I finished my shower, and I texted her again after I dried off. She answered my question of, “Really???” With, “Not all I think about.” But she had thought of it. Well, she inferred that she thought about it. Good enough for me.
The past 10 days or so, I’ve been very low key. My Dr told me I need to cut way down on stress and drama, so I did. I pulled away from several people because I needed to not feel so stressed and connected over things happening in their lives. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I have to chill.
I bring that up, because The Muse is the first person who noticed the unplugging and she checked in to see if anything was wrong. I mentioned to her what the doctor said, and she told me that I did need to relax. She’d noticed it too. She texted from time to time over the week or so before the shower comment, and I was always happy that she did.
Since the shower conversation, we’ve become a little flirtier with each other. Nothing crazy. Just playful and fun. As it should be.
I asked her if she felt she was picturing me realistically and she said she was. I asked because I wanted to know if I had lost my 30 20 pounds in her version. She giggled and said that I was very attractive with or without that extra weight.
Was I stoked to hear her say that? Duh. What dude doesn’t want a cute girl to say he’s appealing? I do. FYI…she can say that shit anytime.
Right now I’m feeling very relaxed and comfortable. I have a good friend who has the possibility of being something more. Beyond that, I’m gonna keep on having fun and if feelings develop further, I’ll continue to go with the flow and let things proceed as they should. Inspiration is cool.

Benjamin

P.S. Selma Hayek played a muse in the movie Dogma. That’s what the reference was about.

Trading a Can of Whoop-Ass for Compassion

The other day I read a comment by a woman on a blog that touched a nerve. She essentially said that many men think with their “little heads” (yeah, those heads) and can’t distinguish between honest communication and a roll in the hay.
As Dad’s House readers may guess, it pissed me off.
Forget the polite use of “many” (I’m not sure who could make that quantification with any sanity or certainty), but a nerve was touched in me. I felt that once again, men were under attack. Just like when blogging single moms say “men suck”, “men are lazy”, “men are idiots”, “men are monsters”. It bugged me.
I responded to this new affront in typical Dad’s House style – I opened a can of whoop-ass in the form of an 800-word blog post defending men. I scheduled the post for 4am publication, then went to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke, feeling differently.
Maybe it was Mama Dharma’s post about feeling compassion rather than anger toward her ex, and how forgiveness flipped rage into understanding. Whatever – I realized I didn’t want to put more dis-ease into the universe. I genuinely feel sad for any women who were so negatively touched by some man, sometime in their life – whether physically, mentally, or emotionally – that they now sometimes take subtle or direct verbal jabs at men. (I’m not saying this commentor did that, though it’s possible they might have.)
I removed my angry rant of a post, went back to sleep, and woke up to a blank screen this morning. And here I write.
As one of the few men who blogs in a female-dominated corner of the blogosphere (check how many single mom vs. single dad bloggers have chosen to be listed at the Facebook Single Parents Connection Group ) – let me just say, it can be positively exhausting. You have no idea how many little slips of the tongue women make and laugh off that can be perceived as demeaning toward men. Or how many times a blogging man offers advice, only to see it ignored until a woman says the same thing. (If you don’t want a man’s perspective, why on earth do you read this blog? Or maybe you just don’t “trust” a man’s perspective…)
I understand all this goes with the territory. There are single mothers who were treated poorly by the man in their life, either when they were together, or simply because he left. And some of these single moms might still be harboring anger, resentment, disappointment, lost hopes, distrust. Believe me, I know the feeling, at least a bit. My own divorce was amicable, but I still sometimes associate painful feelings with the separation.
Perhaps the exhausting part for me in the single parent blogosphere is that I do often take offense when some single moms go off on men. We men aren’t all lazy, stupid, clueless, sex-addicted idiots (at least not all the time). We’re feeling, thinking, desiring, hoping, dreaming, emoting humans, just like you. (Except that we probably don’t process emotions as quickly and smoothly as women. But I hate to generalize.) If you’re rolling your eyes because your ex showed none of these traits, then perhaps you’re simply feeding your pain-body in a steady-state, same as I was doing. We all can choose to react differently.
Peace. Joy. Gratitude.
Now then, wouldn’t a can of whoop-ass have been so much more fun to read?

My Teen Daughter is Dating

My teen daughter recently told me she has a boyfriend. Hooray for her! She’s eighteen, so this is a normal and healthy part of growing up for her, and an inevitable milestone for me as her dad.
She told me a bit about him – smart, athletic, etc. (And close to her age – unlike Miley Cyrus’s boyfriend Justin Gaton, who is twenty. Doh!) I won’t go into more detail for privacy sake. I’ll just say, it sounds like my teenage daughter is making good choices.

[Ed. Note: my daughter and I discussed this post before I wrote it, and I'm not disrespecting her privacy.]

A neighborhood mom recently asked if I’d met the teen boyfriend yet. Um….no, can’t say that I have. Is that a problem? I didn’t think so. I long ago had a father daughter talk about sex and relationships with her, and we’ve had ongoing conversations since. But this mom was concerned that I should be more clued in and involved regarding my daughter’s dating life.

For the record, this mom has met my daughter’s teen boyfriend, and she backs my daughter up on the quality of this young man. So that’s not the issue. The mom simply won’t let her own teenage daughter go on dates with a boy until the mom has met him. She wants to see for herself who her daughter is spending time and getting close with.


On first blush, this makes sense. A parent should care what company their teen keeps. My parents certainly knew the family of the girl I was dating as a teen. So I have no problem with the neighborhood mom’s choice regarding her own daughter.

But looking closer, I’m not so sure my choice is that bad, either.

Mainly because when I have dated, I didn’t have my daughter meet my girlfriend until enough time had passed that I felt things were serious enough to involve them. To this day, my daughter has met two women I’ve dated, and a few more close female friends. Each time, I waited a few months before introducing these women to my daughter.

In other words, my daughter is doing the exact same thing in terms of me meeting her teenage boyfriend that I did with her meeting my adult girlfriends.

I trust my daughter’s judgment. Plus, teens her age tend to date in groups. They hang out together, usually at one parent’s house with a parent home. Just not my house right now. I know at some point I’ll meet my daughter’s boyfriend, hopefully before they’re done being teens.

Can’t wait for my Meet the Fockers moment.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]