First of all, I’m never one to give dating advice. Ever. And I’m never one to be all, I hate boys. Vaginas rule. Men are stupid, blabbity blah, females unite bullshit, BUT, when I am subjected to listening to these god awful stories my friends tell me about men around the world making them lose.their.shit, sometimes I just have to vent….
Now back to my title: SWF seeking premature ejaculators, emotional train wrecks and mammas boys.
Seriously, if one of my closest friends in the world was to take out a singles ad, I’d swear that’s what hers said. Or so you’d think. Which really confuses me because she’s a great gal and we’ve only gone over the age old question, “Seriously, WHAT.THE.FUCK.IS.WRONG.WITH.ME???” question a million times now. (Typically after each failed dating escapade)
In the beginning for her, it wasn’t that bad. The behavior on both sides was pretty normal. (Typical idiot male “I’m so into you, then I disappear” behavior. Typical girl drinks vodka, girl takes pants off type behavior.) The usual. But then as she progressed through a few young bucks (we don’t call her Coug for nothing), things got a little bizarre and honestly, I had to tell her that I took a whole night to evaluate what really could be wrong with her.
But then I ran through her list of guys she’s dated since I met her, which are 7 guys in 3 1/2 years. (Dated, dated…not “dated”) First of all, I almost pissed myself as we ran over the details together, briefly pinpointing the level of dysfunction each brought to the table, what was wrong with their penis and bedside manner and how it ended. As she reminded me of things I had blocked out, I alternated between holding my crotch and jotting down notes on the calendar at my desk. And so, to brighten her week and to perhaps reassure all my other gal pals that hey, maybe you’re not the only one dealing with a douche out there, here’s the run down on the Coug’s train wreck seven.
7. Mr. New Zealand. No, he didn’t win any body building contest and he was about my height, which is maybe why he always looked scared of me. That or he was typically sober which really didn’t work out during this phase in our lives (2007). He did play rugby and was kind of a super secret spy of some sort but he also locked himself in furniture less apartment with little lighting so he could carve shit out of wood and draft children’s books. It is said that he was great in the sack so I guess outside of all the weird woodworking and hermit living, we probably liked him the most of the seven. Most meaning for sure.
6. Mr. Plumber. What a fucking douche. This ginger was not only a (the horror) Giants fan but a toilet salesman, which I wasn’t informed of until way too late in the game but either way, he was a dick and he used to look around for other girls while we were all at the bar. And his name was incorrectly spelled in my eyes, not that I’m fucking Webster but Jesus, his mother was obviously a moron. As if all this wasn’t bad enough, he had a dick that hooked AND he was always so amped up or just plain mental that he’d mess all over her before anything got inserted in anything else. Nice effort, champ. Real winner. Ever hear of rubbing one out so that little nightmare doesn’t happen OVER.AND.OVER.AND.OVER.AGAIN?
5. Not so Private Ryan. Here comes another gem—the not so honorably discharged vet turned American Eagle tee-shirt folder. This wonder boy lived with his parents and when he asked me to help him with his resume once; he listed Target at the very top, followed by Coyote Ugly. WTF? Even beyond that he was obsessive about back door loving the way Elton John is AND he would spend hours talking about this stupid little show dog, Joey, they (meaning him and his parents) had at the house that had insurance on it even though it had something wrong with it. Oh no, Joey doesn’t do hikes, Joey doesn’t go outside, Joey doesn’t…whothefuckcaresaboutyourshowdog?? I think his penis was fine from what I remember and he had nice hair but he was a real basket case. His reason for breaking it off was his love for strippers, tattoos and motorcycles and that he was sick of the “nice girls go for bad boys” shenanigans. Not to mention that he broke up with her via an email to me, which I probably still have somewhere. Assclown.
4. Marty McFly. Not that he’s as cool as Marty McFly, but his love for outdated cars is. I actually never met the kid and I was told of all of them, he really isn’t one to talk shit about but mmm, this is MY blog so I will say what I want. It’s not that bad, really. 1. He was “fine” in bed. I’d rather be either horrible or fantastic but guess he’s one that prefers mediocrity for Olympic-esque performances, who knows. 2. He was afraid of vagina. Not her vagina or all vaginas but that notion that once you’re stuck with one vagina for life, your life is over. So not only is he boring, he’s typical. Number 3 is the only reason he even made the list. 3. He drives a blue mustang. And he’s proud of it. Game over.
3 A Christmas Story. No shit, I almost got hit in the streets of Paris when she relayed this horror story to me on the phone. First of all, this pro-golfer is the younger brother of one of her previous roommates and close friend. As if that wasn’t enough of a warning for her to stay away, she really gave the Coug treatment to this young cub. (I like to say he was 22 but I think he’s really 26) Here’s how she described it.
“So I took down X’s younger brother last night. The one with the nice girlfriend that the whole family loved.”
“Holy god, what the hell is wrong with you? Tell me more.” (Anything with “take down” in it is usually going to be epic)
“So he’s giving me the eye at the bar when we’re out with the family and then one thing led to another and he comes in my room late at night and we had drunken sex. I think the headboard was banging and oh yeah, when he walked out to go to the aerobed in the living room, his mother was sitting on the couch and surprised him by saying “were you doing nasty things in there?”
“Oh my god, this is amazing.”
“No one said a word when his parents drove us to the airport (she was flying out for work, he back to DC) and I thought we had gotten away with it. Until we headed to the airport bar and he said “I need to tell you something” and went into the story of how his Mom asked if we had been doing nasty things and that his sister (my roommate) also knew. The whole family knows.”
“Oh dear lord what did your roommate say? Nice work on banging her younger brother, btw. I’d kill you if you banged my brother.”
“Oh, she told me I ruined Christmas.”
Hahahahahha, I have never heard of anyone ruining a whole holiday, let alone Jesus Day, by screwing the younger brother. Truly awesome.
2. Stormin’: Ok, so this is when shit starts to get real (weird). I get this email one day, “Hey, check out the new guy I’m dating….he’s on YouTube and he’s hysterical. She sends me some link to some weirdo jazz handing it to some American Idol Maine contest entry. AMERICAN IDOL IN MAINE. Yeah. She says he’s hysterical but instantly I think, whack job. “He’s a riot,” she says, which to me means he’s committable. I look at this video. His jazz hands are so aggressive that I find nothing about this video experience funny.
“What’s he like in bed?” I ask with full judgment in my tone.
“Well.” Well WHATTHEFUCKCOMESNEXT.
“Weeeellll. He doesn’t stay hard.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about?”
“Well, he has this trick.” There are too many “wells” in one conversation to be good.
“What trick?” I ask. It better be good. Like better than cutting someone in half in a magic show better.
“So, ummm, when we do it he also puts a few in me.”
UMMFUCKINGWHAT. I ask her to elaborate.
“Digits. At the same time.” Oh dear GOD. We are on the streets of Boston on my first night back in the States, a few shots deep, giving ourselves cancer on a sidewalk and my husband nods, like this is acceptable behavior.
“WHAT. IN. THE FUCK.” I am appalled.
“Yeah, so anyway, it’s over. I can’t deal with that.”
Yeah, I think not. We should all aspire to only have one thing at a time in our jage and who in the Christ showed him that trick?
And last, but not least. God help us all.
1. Copperfield: This one is more than a magic trick and he came out of nowhere. I get this call one day.
“This one is normal and we get along really well and I think this could be it. Don’t judge.”
I put my Judge Judy hat on. I will not be tricked. “Why, what and how?” I wanted to know.
“So I met him and this could be the last of my dating problems. “ Oh good for the sake of loving cock GOD.
“He’s a gentleman and he knows what champagne I like and he pays and he’s a normal guy.” I assume he has a small dick.
“What is wrong with his penis and the sex?”
“Nothing, I swear.” Mmmm hmmm.
And so in a matter of ONE WEEK The Magician wines and dines the Coug. Hotels, paid dinners, expensive champagne are involved. There is even a weekend to the Cape in the midst on their second weekend together. I am impressed. I am promised this won’t disappoint. He even friends me on fb, which she knows better than to request if this is some match made in heaven bullshit we’ll all regret. I wait.
Then on day four, he professes his LOVE. Via text.
“Oh my god, is he touched?” She insists it’s cute but I already know I’m planning my next pep talk because no guy that is already getting the sexy time pulls that shit out and lays it on the table.
Two days later.
“How was the Cape?” I ask, thinking I’m going to be the maid of honor.
“He never called.”
“Fuck you.” She’s silent. I carry on. This isn’t good. “What do you mean? Aren’t you in the Cape enjoying sexy bliss?” I’m perplexed. This seemed good.
“After the hotel he never called.” I want to slash his tires myself. After all, we’re practical girls.
“He had limp dick syndrome.” Oh fucking dear Christ.
“What does that mean, outside of the obvious.”
“Well, we were having sex and then he just went limp and then started stammering like he was special and apologized and then never called. Is it me?”
No, sweetheart. Limp dick is never you, unless you’re a sad case or missing a limb, which you’re neither.
And so it goes. The Magician couldn’t even pull his own rabbit out of the hat. Well, well, we can’t all be performers, can we?
So maybe it’s not her fault. Maybe it’s the fault of a generation too proud to use Viagra. Maybe it’s that of men that have umbilical cords that cannot be cut. And maybe it’s not just a, “He’s Just Not That Into You” scenario, but more so a, “Maybe He Just Can’t Get Into You” thing.
I don’t know. I do know one thing, though. I’m so fucking happy I don’t have to date these douche bags. Here’s to you, best friend. Thanks for doing the dirty work for all of us. You’re my hero.