date machine : date machine

Date Machine: Bed

airheadgenius — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 03:09:00 GMT

I worked really hard all day on my latest business venture.

Then picked the kids up from the bus and helped with homework.

My friend brought his sons over to play.

I cooked dinner and ate with five males. Four of them aged seven and under.

I've cleaned the kitchen and done the laundry and am now contemplating a website I am supposed to be building for another project.

So, just another normal day, but I am exhausted and wondering why on earth I even bother to date, much less write about it. Some days, it just seems like yet another thing that needs to be done, like a chore, to add to my already very long list of things that need to be done.

I've got a few single mother friends and only one of them dates. The others just can't muster up the energy.

At this point, my dream date would be spending a day in bed. An entire, complete, uninterrupted day in bed. By myself.

Here are some I made earlier:
Where do these losers come from?
How many sexual partners have you had?
The time I dated Zeitgeisty
F*ck off yer ol git
It's not funny being single
The V Word
The taste of kitty

Date Machine: Blogger Doodles - Amboabe's New Girlfriend...

zeitgeisty — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 00:57:00 GMT

Blog-a-doodle - doo

Date Machine: The road less travelled

airheadgenius — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:56:00 GMT

This is a quickie. I am in the midst of packing for my trip home for the holidays. Which got me to thinking about travel and then some of the people I've dated over the years...

I am by no means well travelled, but have notched up maybe 15 countries. I've been to France probably 20 times, Spain about the same, Italy at least 10.

All of my trips have been in Europe with the obvious exception of America and an extravagant long weekend in Aruba for my 40th.

I've dated a few American men that had never left the country. One guy didn't have a passport until he accompanied me to England. My mind boggles at that and I can't imagine a young English person not leaving their country. (Although unfortunately a fair few have only been to the Costa del Sol)

Travel broadens the mind. There's no doubt about that. And I can't imagine dating anyone that hasn't at least left the safety of their own homeland. A lot of my frustrations with the greater American public is that they just don't seem to understand much about the rest of the world. THERE IS A REST OF THE WORLD PEOPLE!

Maybe you are travelling in your own country, given that it's pretty big, but Australia's big also and those fuckers travel like no ones business.

There are of course the travel obsessed who've been to each and every continent and wear their journeys like a badge of honour. More power to them, except my days for doing that are temporarily numbered - unless we win the lottery. Slumming it with children isn't a look I am going for.

Anyways, my question of the day:

Do you travel oh beautiful Date Machine readers? And how do you feel about thems that do and thems that don't?

(We leave at 5am. Apparently it's best to pack some time in advance. How old fashioned)

Here is my daily (door) knob. How bloody marvelous is this???

Here are some I made earlier:

Stupid computers Stupid internet
Sexy Ass
How do you feel about penetration
I suck at internet dating
Zeitgeistys Missing Man
Politics of Contraception
Turning into Zeitgeisty
Feeling my age
The real deal profile

Date Machine: The politics of contraception

airheadgenius — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 16:03:00 GMT

So, PO made an annoying comment over on spjv's post about condoms, so I thought I'd roll out an oldie that caused a bit of a hoo-ha back in the day on my previous blog. Anyone remember that? Ooo, doesn't fishnets call her punani a hoo ha, or did I just make that up??

Let me preface it by saying that I hate condoms. They smell, they burn, they look stupid, but I hate the following attitudes more...

I had an annoying conversation with my brother about a young woman with 3 kids - all in care due to neglect and about to have another. His opinion was that she should 'get her tubes tied". Well, maybe so, but the bit that gets me is - what about the fathers? Although in this case, the title of father seems to be a little grand.

Why is it usually a woman's 'job' to either take care of contraception or persuade a man to do so? Every safe method a female can elect to use is either physically invasive or chemically invasive, whereas the male just has to be accessorized.

Maybe I should be writing girls and boys rather than men or women, because I haven't encountered a guy like this in decades. I just wish teenage boys could be taught to be responsible - that it is as much their job as their girlfriends....

This conversation happened in England where the teen pregnancy rate is the highest in Europe. America's teen pregnancy rate is the highest in the industrialized world. Two countries led, at least until recently in England, by religious idiots. Preaching abstinence clearly is not working.

Sex education should be mandatory in schools and contraception should be free to everyone, regardless of age or income. Although the 'free' bit isn't working so well back home.

Please people, educate your sons so that no-one has to hear that 'she got pregnant on purpose" bullshit.

Ooo - just thought of a new line 'you can't get trapped if it's wrapped'. Maybe I will start a campaign.......

And gentlemen, before you start bitching about condoms and your poor poor encased penii, just give a thought to having to deal with periods every month, cramps and bleeding and buying expensive products to manage that and possibly having to deal with an unexpected pregnancy and deciding whether to terminate or having a planned pregnancy and labour and child birth and breastfeeding and then, when you've got a little bit more of a clue, shut the fuck up!

I like this photo because it's ages since I've seen a man walking around shirtless. Made me kinda nostalgic.

Jared Leto. He'd be a good pick to mow my lawn. This is not a euphemism. I am talking about the back yard. That is not a euphemism either.

Here are some I made earlier:
Turning into Zeitgeisty
Feeling my age
The real deal profile
In my bedroom one will find
Biggin it up
The facial hair pubic hair conundrum
The trouble with rich men
5 Things I am Thankful for
British Personal Ads
How do you like to be dumped?
Not much to do with dating
Duh!
Do you date aliens"
Man's Best Friend

Looking at Looks

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 15:45:00 GMT

I get off on men paying for my time and skills. It seems like an appropriate fetish to have as a native New Yorker. ("Oh yeah. That's right. Compensate me fairly. Get that overpriced rent paid. Mmmm.") It is part of what makes being a Professional Dominatrix a worthwhile pursuit for me.

The downside? It's the same story for every sex worker: I worry about my looks. How to enhance them. When will I lose them? Should I try to lie about my age? Oh my God, is my ass really that big... and should I try to capitalize on that?

Looks aren't absolutely everything, but they play a role. When I first started out, I knew diddly squat about how to tie a proper knot. I didn't know a thing about medical play. Basically, I had no real marketable skills as a Dominatrix. But I had an authentic schoolgirl uniform (one day, I will tell you my creepy stories) an assortment of lingerie, and a penchant for being borderline underweight, so that was enough for plenty of people. Even now, when I can actually bind a man with speed and finesse, looks matter. (I doubt anyone would contact me without seeing photos, anyway.) And it does something to your head when you think about it: I have made more money in a profession that does not require so much as a High School diploma than anywhere else.

I am worth more in a catsuit than I am in an office, in some J.Crew knits.
The idea is hot. Yet infuriating. And sometimes, tinged with half-hearted regret, because maybe if someone had told me back then that you can't make a living off of a love of books and writing, I wouldn't have all these stupid student loans. Someone could have told me to quit it with the poetry, at the very least.

Anyway, I was thinking about how inordinately vain being a sex worker has made me, and I realized that a lot of the same dynamics come into play when dating. I once had an online dating profile in which I exposed my personality flaws. It said that I mope alot. I'm irritable in the morning. I will never offer to pay for dinner: not so much as a fake purse reach. My sex drive operates in fits. But there was a (tasteful!) photo of me in a bikini, so nobody cared if I was a basketcase.

So, at the conclusion of this rambling post, my shamefully heteronormative question for the men: How important are looks when you're looking to date a woman? And for the ladies: How important do you think/feel looks are to men?

Date Machine: Feeling my age

airheadgenius — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 03:19:00 GMT

Yesterday, the afro peeps and I were travelling home on the bus when a woman said to me "your grand kids are beautiful". I gave her this kinda half smile and she said "Oh MY God, you're the mom. I'm so sorry. They are beautiful. It wasn't me who said it. It was my twin. Ignore her. They are beautiful".

It was funny. But a little bit upsetting nonetheless.

The woman that said it was about 50 or 55. Maybe she had grand kids of her own older than my children and so that's her frame of reference. Let's face it, I could've had my children at 17 and they could've had kids at 17 and so my kids could conceivably be my grands.

But they ain't.

Before kids, I used to look young for my age, but since having them I don't get enough sleep for that phenomenon to continue. But I don't look older than my real age either. The circles that I move in, most of my friends are mid 30s to late 40s all with kids under 10. To us, this is normal. But, according to the 2006 census, the average age of a woman giving birth to her first child is 25.2. That makes me just shy of a decade late.

It's almost impossible to imagine having kids any younger. To have missed out on all the things I did before they arrived. It's also hard to think of being 41 and middle aged, or thereabouts.

One confession resonated very strongly with me:

When I glance over profiles of men in their 40s, my overwhelming feeling is that they look like old farts. And I've no desire to date them, much less see them naked. But then I look at profiles of men younger than me and they make me feel exhausted. Maybe I'm an old fart too?

On that happy note, I am going to try to go to bed early. See if I can't sleep off a wrinkle or two...

Zeitgeisty is almost bound to draw a picture of me as an old lady tomorrow. Save it four-eyes, I'm one step ahead of you :)

Hot old fart (you do him though - he's much too old for me)

Here are some I made earlier:
The real deal profile
In my bedroom one will find
Biggin it up
The facial hair pubic hair conundrum
The trouble with rich men
5 Things I am Thankful for
British Personal Ads
How do you like to be dumped?
Not much to do with dating

Date Machine: The trouble with rich men

airheadgenius — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 02:40:00 GMT

(Yeah, so it's a re-run. Bite me, I've got a hangover)

I was talking to a friend of mine in France the other day about the latest round of shenanigans in my dating life.
She asked if I'd found a rich man yet.
I said not yet.
She said "ah well, never mind, you can only get one or the other"
One or the other of what I asked?

Pots of money or a big dick.

And, having cast my mind over the 1 or 2 (maybe more) dicks I've encountered, I've gotta say that she's onto something there.

Which got me to thinking...
Why is it that a big dick and a big wallet are so often mutually exclusive?
And here's what I came up with--

Teenage boys spend a lot of time in the locker room showers and so get to see each other's equipment. They also spend an inordinate amount of time looking at porn.
So, by the time they are thinking about college, they know full well whether they are packing a big one or a little bit genitally challenged right?

AND THAT DICTATES (hehe dick-tates) THEIR CAREER CHOICE!

The guys with the little ones think "man, I'd better get me some money otherwise I'll never get laid" and they take the lawyer or day trader career path, f'rinstance.
The guys with the bigs ones hear "You are smart. You could be a lawyer you know, you don't have to be a struggling musician" and they think to themselves "fuck that noise, I've got me a big dick. I can be a struggling artist and still get laid"

Seems like a pretty sound theory to me.
Whatcha think?

I gotta say, this pretty much epitomizes *conflicted* for me.

Chris Evans. Not to be confused with the other Chris Evans

Here are some I made earlier:
5 Things I am Thankful for
British Personal Ads
How do you like to be dumped?
Not much to do with dating
Duh!
Do you date aliens"
Man's Best Friend
How do you like your foreskin?
Why do men love breasts?
Who pays?
What if?
Have you ever been experienced?
Surprise! I'm Pregnant!
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour

Date Machine: 5 things I am thankful for, plus knobbage

airheadgenius — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 23:36:00 GMT

I may as well jump on to this particular band wagon.

I am thankful for:

1) My children. Of course. Because they are really really funny, exceptionally beautiful (fa reals) and they smell nice.

2) My family because they want the best for me even though we drive each other crazy. If I am going to laugh until I cry, it's usually with my mum and dad. Oh and I'll include my best friends in here too so as not to use up three numbers on sappiness.

3) A metabolism that can, almost, keep up with my greed. I eat more than a farm boy yet manage not to be as big as a barn.

4) A fairly constant stream of bright ideas that continue to keep me and the gorgeous boys afloat, the mortgage company happy and the wolf from the door.

5) Masturbation. With the dating pool in New York being full of self-obsessed men in danger of disappearing up their own arseholes, I am thankful that my orgasm remains very attainable.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING beautiful date machine people!

I would be thankful if this man could swing by tomorrow and sort me out

Here are some I made earlier:
British Personal Ads
How do you like to be dumped?
Not much to do with dating
Duh!
Do you date aliens"
Man's Best Friend
How do you like your foreskin?
Why do men love breasts?
Who pays?
What if?
Have you ever been experienced?
Surprise! I'm Pregnant!
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour

Fuckin' The Man

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 18:47:00 GMT

I fuck The Man.
No, I'm not talking about at work.

I have always thought of myself as anti-establishment. Growing up in Brownsville will do that to a girl. (Incidentally, I grew up in the housing project pictured on the Wikipedia page. Shoutout to Tilden houses!) I don't trust the government. Or banks (and I was RIGHT!) I have been known to ask dealers on the corner for directions in unfamiliar neighborhoods, even after having passed several police officers.

And yet... I grew up to date The Man. Habitually. I don't even just mean "men with jobs." I mean, sometimes millionaires. Suits. Hell, even when I was a naive co-ed dating a coke dealer, he had a broker.

My boyfriend matter-of-factly referred to us as "bourgeois" the other day, and I snorted. He might be, I responded, wearing his three piece to the office. But I am a sex worker and general woman of the people. Need I remind him that I have ducked bullets and carried hammers/butcher knives in my purse for protection? That Nine to Five ain't nothing but a Dolly Parton song to me?

"Uh.. but you date me. And you went to [overpriced private liberal arts school]. You're bourgeois."

Of course, he's wrong.

But that made me wonder: what exactly does the person you date say about you? And do the implications ever baffle you?

Dating Experiment Update

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 18:56:00 GMT

Thank you to everyone who has written an e-mail asking to take part in the dating experiment: a subject has been chosen and things are underway.

So, stay tuned!

Date Machine: How do you like to be dumped?

airheadgenius — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 19:19:00 GMT

There are many varied and nuanced ways to be dumped:
There's the classic "it's not you, it's me" or the much more amusing for the orator "it's not me, it's you".

Then of course there are the let you down gently ones:
"you're nice, but..."
"it's a bad time right now"
"I'm not ready to settle down"

And then there's the brutal truth ones:
"I can't stand you!"
"I hate the way you breathe"
"you are soooooo bad in bed"

Or the time old cruel, but fair
"you make me feel bad about myself"
"you remind me of my father/mother"
"you are too much/not enough like my old boy/girlfriend"

Many many people claim to prefer honesty, but do they really though?
And how much reality do these people actually want?

For example, there's a world of difference between "I don't think we're sexually compatible" and "I've been screwing this other guy at the same time as you. He's got a bigger dick plus he goes down on me better".

or "I don't think we have the same goals" versus "you only make $25K sucker"

frinstance.

Apparently this Nerve confessor didn't really like the way his "see ya" went down:

So tell me, beautiful date machine people, how do you like to be dumped? and/or what's the worst way that you've been dumped or dumped someone?

C'mon peeps, no one likes to work on a Monday afternoon...

p.s the psycho fuck that wrote the quote at the top should be avoided by everyone at all costs. That's a serial killing spree just waiting to happen.

Paul Sculfor

Here are some I made earlier:
Not much to do with dating
Duh!
Do you date aliens"
Man's Best Friend
How do you like your foreskin?
Why do men love breasts?
Who pays?
What if?
Have you ever been experienced?
Surprise! I'm Pregnant!
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour

A Modest Proposal: The Looooooove Doctor

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 23:38:00 GMT

OK, so I want to put it out there: I'm awesome at getting boyfriends. It's not that I'm so wonderful or gorgeous or anything... it's just an odd gift. Give me two weeks, and I'll give you my new LTR.

Which made me wonder: can I do the same for someone else?

So, this is an open call to all Nerve daters (bloggers included!) If you're chronically single, I will do my best to change that. All you have to do is hand yourself (or... your profile and messages) over to me.

Any takers?
Email me at MistressEliza@gmail.com. Link your profile and tell me why you need help. (When was your last relationship? Been on any dates lately? Etc.)

If someone actually lets me do this, I shall keep a running blog of the process and results.

Date night: Who pays?

airheadgenius — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 21:42:00 GMT

Yesterday. my friend came to hang out with me and the kids for the rainy afternoon.
We drank tea and talked whilst the kids buzzed around and then I cooked dinner - I am a domestic goddess after all.
My friend didn't plan to stay, even though it was roast chicken and starting to smell delicious, but as time marched on and she hadn't heard from her date for the night, she decided to stay.

We talked about flaky friends and flaky dates. We talked about dating in general.

She said "why don't you go out tonight? I'll put the kids to bed".

Now I am not traditionally very good at accepting help. Favors. Whatever you want to call it. But in these trying financial times and with the cost of babysitters being what it is, it was an offer too good to refuse. She popped home to get her laptop so she could work and I cleaned up the kitchen and got my glad rags on.

Which brings me to the topic of my blogversation
The cost of dating.

It's come up a couple times before, but here it is again...

WHO PAYS ON A DATE??

Years ago, in 1999 when I was last dating, I would pretty much pay halves for dinner, or go alternate rounds for drinks. Once in a while, the guy would pay, but it was mostly a shared expense. But that was back in the day when I earned a lot more money and had way less expenses. Now, post kids, I can surely see the benefits of an "old fashioned" man. Going out for a drink - a chemistry experiment if you will - costs me a minimum of $45 in babysitting fees. Sometimes as much as $90. Now of course that's my responsibility, but if I am also going to go dutch on the check, my dates get expensive pretty quickly. And, once in a while, they are a giant waste of money.

letigre1974 - bless his little Canadian socks posted on my old blog more than once that peeps should show up with babysitting money. Hell no! Not even a mention. Now I am not saying for a moment that anyone should pay the babysitter on my behalf, and even if they offered, I can't imagine taking the money, but in my experience at least, letigre is a one off.

But, I appreciate it when my date picks up the check because I have usually already made a financial investment in the evening. (Wanted to use "chemistry experiment" again to be honest as I am so damn pleased with it!) And I don't much appreciate it if my date doesn't even have enough money to pay his share. That really blows.

So, dear reader, I am not going to ask who *should* pay because I don't have a judgement on it, but I am curious to know ladies and gentlemen, parents and non-parents alike...

Who would you LIKE to pay for the date and WHY?

It occurs to me that a long date could cost me $90 in babysitting dues, plus dinner and drinks. At that point, I'm looking at a couple hundred dollars for the chance to get laid. If I am dropping that kinda cash, I may as well hire a professional.

Colin Firth. I feel confident that he wouldn't even let me reach for my wallet, much less let me pay.

The obligatory back catalogue:
What if?
Have you ever been experienced?
Surprise! I'm Pregnant!
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

Date Machine: What if?

airheadgenius — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 19:13:00 GMT

This morning at my kid's school I ran into a man I haven't seen in at least a decade. It was a total surprise and strangely emotional.
He is the best friend of an ex of mine and now, by weird coincidence, his son is in the kindergarten class across the hall from my youngest son.

I have had two really major love relationships in my life. My kids dad and this guy.

It was an incredible love affair, but an emotionally devastating relationship and I am very much better off out of it, yet I think about him all the time. Yep, as often as that.

And so to have a tangible reminder of him this morning was unsettling to say the least.

He has a wife and child and now lives in Paris, I learned.

My immediate thought was that he must be doing great. A fashion design job in Paris? A wife and child! And it made me feel an inch tall. For no good reason, because it's not as if I am a crashing failure, but it did all the same.

I called my friend who helped me through that break up. He was actually the reason I managed to finally get out of it because "you don't need to be treated this way". At the time, I needed someone else to point that out to me.

The man had a rare, but no less significant for that, tendency to be violent. In real life, and in contrast to my blogging persona, I am a bleeding heart. I forgave him back then because he'd been an abused child and had more than his own share of pain. My friend said "call the fucking police".

I finally asked him to move out.

Today, as I spoke with my friend about the feelings that were stirred up I mentioned that he was doing well. Much better than he was back then with me. His response "We don't know that he isn't still fucked up. Being married and having children is hardly a reason to think someone is stable. I mean, look at you! You should hear the way I talk about you behind your back".

Ha ha. This is why I am friends with this guy.

He went on to say "I am so proud of you. Look at all the things you've achieved! You have two beautiful kids, a gorgeous house, a career. Yes you can choose to think that you're single and he isn't, but so what? Why are you even going there?"

Why am I going there?

Everyone has "that one" right? The one that just won't die in the imagination. In some cases the hurt is big and sometimes small or sometimes it's just an intangible wistfulness for how life might've been, if only things had been different.

And that man is mine.
My "what if?"

Jake Gyllenhaal

The obligatory back catalogue:
Have you ever been experienced?
Surprise! I'm Pregnant!
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

Always Date Democrat

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 15:37:00 GMT

He wore a white tee and slacks to the hotel bar we'd agreed upon as a meeting place. I was informed that said tee was Armani. In size extra-small, "to accentuate the physique." If he didn't have hair plugs, he was wearing way too much product, as he had that porcupine quill look going on. He waxed on about the possible genetic superiority of tall, thin people (neither of us cracked five-foot-six, so I don't get that.) He dropped names I didn't give a shit about and put a hand on the small of my back. In retrospect, maybe he was trying that Pickup Artist crap.

It was like spending the evening with Patrick Bateman, without the good looks and eventual mercy killing. And he was ten years older than his profile stated.

I amused myself by ordering old-fashioned drinks that I knew the names of. Sidecars are pretty tasty.

Afterwards, I said I didn't want to see him again. With a bit of prodding, I admitted to thinking he was a bit of a pompous asshole. I might have mentioned the hair.

Naturally, what I thought or wanted didn't matter.

He wanted to give it another go. Try again. Fuckin' Republicans.

Don't give them another do-over. Don't let them even get started.

More importantly, don't meet them for drinks.

Date Machine: Surprise!!! I'm pregnant!

airheadgenius — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 14:29:00 GMT

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I remember countless times waiting nervously for my period. Safe-ish sex being the cause for worry. And then I became a serial monogamist and I didn't worry about it too much for the next decade or so. The pill has many drawbacks, but anxiety about pregnancy isn't one of them.

These days I really really really don't want to be pregnant. But the super safe contraceptive methods aren't an option for me. The pill has some serious side effects for chicks my age - for example, deep vein thrombosis isn't a look I am going for this winter. And anything with hormones makes me crazy (er) anyway.
But condoms are just not that reassuring to me. Every month I anxiously await my period, like I did 20 years ago. And I don't like the feeling.

Back then, I *knew* that I would terminate an unwanted pregnancy. Luckily I never had to make that decision or have my personal philosophy tested.
Since then I've had 2 pregnancies and 2 kids and now my feelings about a termination aren't quite the same.

I guess I am in that grey area where it's highly unlikely that I will have more kids, but I can't bring myself to go the tubal ligation route. I mean, what if I fall madly in love in 2009 and just have to have another child??? Hey, anything is possible. Chances are, I am not very fertile - I am 41 after all - but in February of 2003, I got pregnant by having sex once. The odds of my ex and I being in the same bed at the same time that I was ovulating were pretty slim, but sometimes fate takes a hand it seems. It would be fabulous if one could have sex 97 times and then take extra care that last 3, but life ain't like that huh?

So that's me and my fertility.
And now here's the bit I want thoughts on...

What if???
What if you are in a STR or a friends with benefits situation and you/she gets pregnant. What would you do?
I mean, what do you THINK you'd do?
Offer to fund the termination?
Agree to raise the child jointly, but separately?
Agree that one or the other of you would raise the child solely?
Run like hell???
Is anyone hoping for a happy accident?
(will anyone publicly post their thoughts on this???)

Does anyone "do the right thing" these days? By that, I mean does anyone get married and make a relationship happen because there's a child involved?
Would you? (Disclaimer: this is not a commentary as to whether this is "the right thing". I am just using what used to be an accepted term for the practise)

The obligatory back catalogue:
Dogs and Dating
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

So I like the way young men look. Get over it.

Lewis Hamilton

Date Machine: Dogs and Dating

airheadgenius — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 18:40:00 GMT

Last night, I stayed at my brother's house. He and his family had gone overnight to an amusement park and they needed someone to look after their dog.

Said dog and I took an early morning constitutional and it occurred to me that I hadn't walked a dog by myself for about 20 years – since the last time I owned one.

The day was bright and sunny and cold. The dog and I – a chocolate lab for those of you into that kind of thing – wandered along the country lanes and then I let her off her leash in an enormous field. She ran and ran until she was a speck in the distance. I whistled loud and, luckily for me, she came back. My brother wouldn't have been best pleased if I'd lost her.

As I was standing in this field, surrounded by Suffolk's beautiful countryside, I realized that I couldn't hear a sound. Well, at least I couldn't hear people. Or cars. Or machinery. Just birds chirping.

My house in Brooklyn is quiet, but when the calm is interrupted, it's usually by a siren's wail. Or, if I am in the garden, by the barking of a cooped up dog. Probably a rottweiler or a pitbull.

"It's a dog's life". But what a world of difference between the life of a Brooklyn dog and a Suffolk dog.

And what of the humans?

I've written about this before – the differences between the dating life of the lesser spotted New Yorker versus the dating life of the greater spotted rural dweller.

In the countryside, you are surrounded by space. If a couple of other dog walkers had arrived at my field, it would have felt like a party. But of course, they didn't arrive because the next dog probably lived a field or two away.

The dog run at any park in the city is over populated and the dogs scurry around in circles because there isn't enough room to run in a straight line, sniffing as many arses as they can.

Not unlike dating really.

Dating in New York is frighteningly similar to the dog run at Union Square. The animals in question have a recognized pedigree, are groomed just so and have all the trappings of dogdom. There is no particular allegiance to one dog in the run and it's a given that the sniffing will take place. With an abundance of arses to sniff, it's almost impossible for a red-blooded animal to limit themselves to just one and consequently long term commitments are never formed. How can one choose when the choice is endless?

I spent my first 20 years in the countryside. The most populated of my habitats was the small market town of Bury St Edmunds. From then I went on to bigger places: Leicester and London, LA and New York and, on arriving in the big city, I felt like I"d been a city girl all along.

But even though the pace of city life agreed with me, I found the dating scene very odd. The juggling of several beaus never did sit well with me and, for the most part, I didn't do it. But with my latest escapades into the world of internet dating, it seems hard not to do the juggling thing. Unless one meets someone "perfect", the profile remains open and the emails continue to fly.

But I prefer the way dogs behave in the countryside.

The obligatory back catalogue:
Erectile Dysfunction
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

Reynaldo Gianecchini. No extra info required.

Date Machine: Erectile Dysfunction

airheadgenius — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 21:41:00 GMT

I started writing on this subject a few weeks ago, but hadn't had occasion to post it, until Amboabe recently broached the subject.

Back when I was a teenager, right through into my early twenties, erections were very easy to come by. All you had to do was smile at a boy the right way and watch the result.

I remember the days when we would slow dance at the local disco (yeah, I know you are too young to remember such things. Bite me) One particular incidence sticks in my mind – a boyfriend from back when I was about 20 couldn't make it through a slow song without getting a massive hard on. As the song would come to a close, he'd say "don't you dare step away from me" – what with those peg topped pants so popular in the 80's and his rather ample appendage, it was like erecting a tent.

All through my 20s and most of my 30s, erectile dysfunction was something that I read about as headlines in magazine advertisements or saw on TV commercials, but not something I'd ever encountered in the flesh.

There was one exception to this rule, as there invariably is, a friend with benefits from my home town. He was a serious drug user though and it was a given that he couldn't rise to the occasion. He was an incredibly passionate lover and a cunning linguist and he never seemed to be remotely bothered that he didn't get it up. Oooo – maybe he was a lesbian trapped in a man's body. Just a thought.

I've never dated older men (contrary to the ''norm'' suggested by fishnets I've never remotely been attracted to them) so prior to the demise of my relationship with my kid's dad, the oldest man I'd ever had sex with was 34.

Young penii always did what was culturally expected of them – they stood proud, hard and tall (well some were a little more diminutive, but hard nonetheless)

After the baby daddy and I broke up, I spent a couple years without even attempting to meet anyone – breastfeeding a newborn, raising a 2 year old and working full time kind of takes the edge off ones desire to date. But when I got back in the game, my new lover was 36.

This man could get a hard on. Instantly. And he could maintain it for ages, but what he couldn't do was orgasm. He managed to come with me only once although we had sex many many times and he claimed to have never orgasmed in his previous relationship. He said that he hadn't been able to come with any regularity for years, regardless of partner. Interestingly, to me at least, he claimed to never have masturbated. Which makes him a mysterious beast, but I've no idea if it impacted on his inability to orgasm.

It seems, like "high risk childbirth" kicking in at 35, this age is the one where the rot sets in for men. Although that turning point for having kids is grossly over stated and in fact many women happily produce without drama in their late 30s and early 40s, the 35 watershed for erectile dysfunction really does appear to be grounded in reality.

Every woman I know sleeping with a 35+ has the same lament - from the hot to the homely. Maybe it's always, maybe very infrequently, but at some point the male member fails to rear it's head.

Whilst my (Thank you God even though I am an atheist) experience with the phenomenon is very limited, it has been suggested that the root cause is stress. And it makes sense that a man approaching middle age probably has bigger and fancier stresses than a manboy of 25, but I wonder if it runs deeper even than that.

I wonder if in fact it's a control thing. Girls learn from the beginning of their sexual experience that making a boy cum is like falling off a log. It really couldn't be any easier. Making a girl orgasm - especially a young not-so-sure-of-herself one - can take time and effort. Maybe men get tired of being the ones who are culturally expected to be easy. Maybe the 35+ man wants a little bit more consideration and so, consciously or not, he makes his female work that little bit harder.

What beats me though is the historical fact that a large percentage of men go for younger women. Once they reach the mid life crisis point, the age gap widens considerably. This is also the time where they are statistically most likely to have problems getting it up. Perhaps they think that some young hottie will increase their chances, but it seems that hotness doesn't have all that much to do with it.

No wonder some bright spark invented Viagra.

I know that if I'd met erectile dysfunction in my 20's, I would have taken it personally. These days, I'd rather not encounter it and am unfazed and supportive when I do, but it doesn't upset my ego. ''Honey, it's not me, it's you''.

The obligatory back catalogue:
Daddy's Girl
I need a Frenchman
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

His face is nothing to write home about, but I still wouldn't mind him naked in my kitchen. Jamie Oliver.

Olda Boys

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 19:43:00 GMT

I have actually never dated anyone who was between the ages of 21 and 24. Ever. When I was 20, my boyfriend was 25. Then 33. Then 45. It would be easy to chalk this trend up to Daddy Issues, but it seems that nearly everyone has that particular problem. I mean, most fathers kind of suck, right? So, while 90% of the population is still waiting for Pop to finally play catch with them or bust up their mother's marriage and save them from a horrible stepparent, most people do not end up dating someone significantly older than themselves. 

Honestly, I think it was a practical decision. And maybe there was just a kernel of truth to the old stereotype that girls mature more quickly than boys. At 16, the selection was, shall we say, extremely limited. There's just something fundamentally unsexy about adolescent boys. They're all sweaty gym socks and sticky-paged Maxims stuffed under the mattress. By comparison, the stench of weed and pretension wafting from college boys was far more appealing... until I achieved co-ed status. 

The 25 year old had his own apartment. Not a dorm. Not his old bedroom at mom's. His own place. For the first time, getting naked with a guy was not a furtive listening-for-the-sound-of-the-front-door-being-unlocked affair. And I could crash there whenever I liked. There's just no going back after that. 

I liked the straightforwardness of things: he didn't try to schmooze his way into my pants. My experience with the 25+ crowd has been that they're past the ridiculous judgments and sex bargaining. If I had just wanted to regularly fuck a 19 year old with no strings, it would have been a mess. 

That's not to say that there was never any drama with older guys... 
More on that, tomorrow.

Date Machine: I need a Frenchman

airheadgenius — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 19:08:00 GMT

So, I've exchanged a bunch of emails and had a conversation with a day trader turned academic.

And exchanged a bunch of emails with an academic turned lawyer. (The latter being 5 years younger than me - he says - with a face as fresh as a daisy.)

Between their schedules and my schedule, we have yet to actually meet. To be fair, my life is less hectic, but a single mother's spontaneity requires 24 hours notice. Ha freakin ha.

But it gets me to thinking.... as so many things do - that New Yawkers HAVE to be busy. It's kind of an unwritten law. Part of the contractual obligation of living here. Even if you're sitting home with your thumb up your arse, you have to SAY you have plans.

Then again, maybe internet daters are by definition busier than 'real life' daters. Maybe the reason we are on here in the first place is because we don't have time to engage with the real world beyond our jobs or family obligations. Maybe.

In any case, I am tired of the overscheduled under satisfied New Yawkers. I need to find myself an Englishman. Surely one of my own would have plenty of time for a beer, that being our own cultural requirement. Unless said Englishman had succombed to the pressure of the city and was working late rather than drinking in an approximation of a pub.

Here's a plan - I need a Frenchman. Yep -that's my new strategy. They ALWAYS have the time for alcohol.

If you are French, dear reader, please drop me a line.

The obligatory back catalogue:
What I want
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

Olivier Martinez. If only all Frenchmen looked like this...

Date Machine: What I want

airheadgenius — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 17:12:00 GMT

(This clip is worth a look. Great ad on the benefits of smoking and how to do so in moderation!)

A date from a few weeks back asked me what I was looking to get out of dating on Nerve.
He said "clearly you like having sex, but what else do you want".

That's the $64,000 question.

Dunno really.

I described one of the things that would be cool. Having someone to do things with (other than friends I already have of course)
Like, and here's one of my big "things I want to do" items:

Buy a Design Within Reach custom edition Airstream (check out this baby, it is mighty fine) and tour around Europe in it.
I described this adventure in reasonable depth with, as anyone that knows me will attest to, childlike glee. (Apparently if I am into something, I get all sparkly)

Anyways, my date says "that sounds awful!".
His version of it was the same trip in luxury hotels.
It was actually a pretty entertaining moment in the date, but needless to say we've not been out again.

(In reality, being in a very enclosed space with 2 little boys might be like hell on earth, but the fun is in the imagining sometimes and having someone to imagine with is half the battle won)

And here's where we get to the tricky bit:
What I want in my imagination and what I can have when I actually try and fit it into my life are two dramatically different things.

I broke up with my kid's father in 2003, half way through my pregnancy with our second child. Since then, I've had some short term things, a couple friends with benefits, but never a "serious" relationship. No one has ever met my kids. No one has spent the night (there have been some 6am throw outs, but I've not let anyone be there in the morning)

Yesterday morning, I woke up at 4am and got ready to leave my house to go to the airport. Today, I am writing this in Suffolk, England.
Wednesday night, as I put my children to bed, they were crying inconsolably. They wanted to come with me. They didn't want me to leave. With the exception of a long weekend in Aruba for my 40th birthday, we've not been apart. As I kissed their sleeping heads goodbye at 5am on Thursday morning, I couldn't stop crying.

I don't like being 3000 miles away from my children, but this trip is going to be difficult (I am here because my dad is having major surgery as part of his cancer treatment) and it just wasn't appropriate to bring them.

What I am really trying to write about here is love. Or the capacity for love maybe.

I love my children. They love me. I cannot imagine an actual real world relationship that accommodates them. To find someone who loves them as much as I do and as much as their dad does. Is that even possible? And if it isn't possible, then I don't have the capacity for a relationship that doesn't add to their lives.

I need someone to have sex with, but all the other bases seem to be covered. I am not lonely. I am not bored. Or sad. I have good people in my life and my children have given me this enormous capcity to love that is healthy and powerful. There's no games, no bullshit, just love.

Which is probably why the FWB scenario is the one I keep coming back to.

This isn't very coherent. My brain is a little addled under the circumstances. And this is probably not Date Machine fare, but it's on my mind so I'm throwing it out there.

Have a good American Day. I am off to the swimming pool to clear my head...

The obligatory back catalogue:
The Fart Edition
Fisting and small snatches
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

A little on the young side, but I had to have someone English for tody's Daily Knob: Ashley Walters aka Asher D

Date Machine: Fisting, small snatches and Vagina Anxiety

airheadgenius — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 13:35:00 GMT

This is a tiny pussy. I daren't post anything more explicit!

I always thought that it was desirable to have a small tight compact snatch. (Interior I mean - I am aware of the fat punani lover)
From teenage on, I heard derisive comments made about girls with supposedly loose snatches...
"like throwing a sausage up a close" to coin the phrase of a Scot I know.

Baggy snatches were not de rigeur it seemed.

And this notion has stayed with me through adulthood.

A friend of mine described the birth of her first child. The baby was 10 1/2 pounds and my friend delivered naturally, without pain killers, episiotomy or stitches. She was bursting with pride about the lack of medical intervention, as well she might be, but the inclusion of the details about nary a tear or a stitch was, to me at least, like admitted she had a c*nt like a bucket. If that'd been my birth experience, I'd have kept schtum or at least claimed that my punani was torn to shreds.

Many men claim that they prefer the sensation of anal sex because the orifice is tighter. So it appears to be culturally advantageous to have a trim quim.

Which kinda brings me on to a couple confessions (admittedly from a few weeks back. I've been busy)

Again, isn't this like confessing that the puss in question is spacious? A desirable quality in an apartment for sure, but I'd hate my nether regions to be described as roomy. (Mine is, in fact, blissfully compact and bijou, like a European hotel room, errr but smaller)

How the hell does a fist fit? And all the way up to the elbow?? That's way too James Herriot for me.

Is it that some chicks just have larger capacity, or is it an art form that must be practised, like origami or yoga?
I've never been fisted and, quite frankly, I am entirely comfortable with that.

In my experience, if one is being penetrated by a large dick or a large object, the desire for that impossibly stretched sensation increases the closer one gets to orgasm. But, immediately after having it, the exquisite pain is replaced by common or garden pain and the thought "what the fuck was I thinking???" But maybe that's just me.

Questions for you fisting aficionados: clearly vaginas stretch considerably to accommodate a baby's descent and, after a period of time, they go back to their "normal" size. (This is second hand information in my case given that my baby's heads were bigger than my pelvis and they had to be wrenched out of a 4" incision, but that's another story...) Are some vaginas immediately fistable whilst others have to be cajoled? And do they snap back the minute the object has been removed?

As you can see, I feel no shame in being naive on this subject.

Anyway, date machiners, what do you think...
Big snatches, yay or nay?

Lastly, Amboabe once wrote something about there being no such things as small penises, only big vaginas. (As I recall, it was not his opinion. I will link to it when I find the post) which leads me to my final question: Do women experience vagina anxiety? (Or maybe roomy chicks just get into fisting??)

The end.

(Lots of questions in bold. I'd love some answers)

The obligatory back catalogue:
How bloggers date
Did he die?
Je t'adore
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

I've dated a couple guys with hard bodies like this. I don't drink skinny lattes, or skinny mochas for that matter. Why would I when the real thing is available?

Taye Diggs

Date Machine: Je t'adore

airheadgenius — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 23:56:00 GMT

I go through phases of dating and phases where I just can't be bothered with it.
But when I am in one of those "meet 6 people in a short period of time" moods, I tend to come up with more precise realisations about what I can deal with in a relationship. Not superficial characteristics like hair color or cynical ones like a base line salary (although there is always the minimum package size requirement, but we've been there already, hehe) it's more about their attitudes and how that might reflect on me.

And that's how I came up with today's new rule:

I need to be adored!

I've got a reasonably healthy self esteem. I am extremely confident about my intelligence and mental capability, reasonably at one with my personality and, for the most part content with my appearance. As a mother of two, I hanker back to the pre-kid-more-sleep days and wonder what on earth I was worried about back then, but when I look in the mirror, I am fine with my reflection. I am not a beauty, nor will I win pageants, but I am a good looking woman.

But I am not content with my lover, FWB or partner thinking that I am simply reasonably attractive. Nope. My lover has to think that I am the most gorgeous thing he's seen. The proverbial "best thing since sliced bread". Luckily for me, I've dated, bedded and lived with men who genuinely loved my appearance.

Yes, it's self esteem, not my-lover-makes-me-feel-better esteem. But it isn't about someone else validating me entirely, just that in my case, doubt sets in if I am not sure that the man is physically completely into me.

I am in no way shape or form a princess. I've been the breadwinner throughout my pregnancies and whilst raising my kids, I am a landlord and self sufficient financially. I lift heavy stuff. I put up shelves, paint, tile, change light bulbs, remove mice from mousetraps (although thank fuck that those days are over) and was the one that ploughed through the sewer leak in the cellar (what an awful time to discover that ones rubber boots were not waterproof).

I also don't seem to mind if my man thinks I've done something stupid, or made a bad judgement call. That aspect of my self esteem is sturdy and robust. This adoration requirement only seems to manifest in the physical.

So, if we've met and you think I am gorgeous, then please continue to be in touch. If we've met and you think I am just ok, then by all means keep it movin'.
This chick needs adoration.
Thank you.

(It doesn't take Freud to tell you that I wasn't complimented much as a kid. Must go and tell my children they are beautiful...)

The obligatory back catalogue:
Zeitgeisty's Behaviour
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

I used to have a giant crush on Dave Wakeling from The Beat (errr, they weren't called the English Beat ya know). I prolly would've done Ranking Roger a serious favour too.

Date Machine: An explanation for Zeitgeisty's behaviour

airheadgenius — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 05:19:00 GMT

So Zeitgeisty and me had a couple little fights.

But we worked it out. Sorta. Agree to differ and all that.

But then he drew the worst cartoon of me ever, making my sweet little visage look all bitchy and deranged and mean.

So I kinda sorta hadta draw one of him...

Mwahhh Z! All good clean fun huh?

Are we besties or frenemies??? It's hard to keep up!!!

The obligatory back catalogue:
Rate my Profile
My kink is better than your kink
The good the bad and the ugly
I am a whore
First Date sex?
Small Juicy Ones
The Perfect Blowjob
What is a boyfriend
Friends with Benefits
Real Women
Another quick pull out
Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

My Daily Knob is the inimitable Jools Holland. If you're a piano fan, it will make perfect sense.

Date Night: Another quick pull out

airheadgenius — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 22:10:00 GMT

Amboabe just posted a story about his 45 minute date, which reminded me of one of my recent ones.

Here's mine back atcha Amb...

I called my friend T on the way to my date. We'd not spoken for a couple days and so we were just catching up. I told her about the guy I was meeting.

I really don't have a type as far as physical appearance goes, although most of my lovers have been tall, but they generally fall into the creative mould one way or another. Fashion/graphic/costume/product designers being a theme. A few professors and academics thrown in for good measure. A musician or two. But never a banker or a lawyer or a doctor.

But, I've become disillusioned with the struggling artist or designer hipster in recent years, so was trying things out of my comfort zone.

Hence going out on a date with this guy. A banker. He was the one that contacted me. His emails were succinct, complimentary and interesting enough that I agreed to a date. He was a single parent also, which is kinda rare for Nerve and so I thought "why not?".

I hung up with T as I approached the bar. It was 8.02 pm. I checked my watch as I walked in.

I saw him at the bar. He beamed at me, which was great and a bit of a relief. The last thing anyone wants to see is disappointment shadowing someone's face as they greet you. I'd made the mistake of giving his pictures the benefit of the doubt though. There were four posted and, of those, I only found one attractive. I'd foolishly imagined him to be the most like the one that I liked, even though I've learned from experience that this is not a wise plan.

We ordered drinks and set about a conversation. Actually, scratch "conversation" and replace with "interview".

How old are your kids?
What school do they go to?
Is their dad involved?
How often does he see them?
Do they stay with him at weekends?
What about holidays?
Does he pay child support?

It was awful! I answered honestly, but was not so into the idea of being interviewed for the position of his girlfriend. I wanted to tell him that this was all moot because I didn't find him remotely attractive and wouldn't be accepting the position even if it came with health insurance. He was tall and skinny, which I like, but with appalling posture. He couldn't hold his own body up straight and was slumped over the bar. I couldn't see him being very athletic in bed. He also kept complaining about allergies and picking at his nose. Plus there was these questions questions questions.

And he didn't like the answers. I could tell from his demeanour that I was responsible for my children just a little too much of the time. He'd had a 10 year marriage and the routine of it apparently didn't sit well with him.

He told me that he'd never been to Brooklyn. That he dates in Manhattan. That most of his dates were younger than him. He told me that it was a nightmare having his kids over every other weekend. It was SO MUCH WORK. He complained about his ex wife.

I felt like a synchronized swimmer with a fake smile plastered on my face. I needed Vaseline to stop my lips from drying out. Finally, I could stand it no longer and stopped smiling. He slumped a bit more.

I finished my cocktail. He gestured to my glass. "Nah, I don't need another" I said. "I think I'm gonna head home"
"Yeah, me too".
"Thanks for the drink".
"Sure".

We walked out together and he asked me for directions to the train. It was the way I needed to walk and there wasn't a good alternative, so we endured a three block very-small talk stroll to the subway. He gave me an awkward bear hug.

I looked at my watch: 8.52 pm. I walked a few blocks and called T - she said "Oh my God, what happened?? Did you get stood up?"

If only.

My shortest and worst date ever.

(Post your worst date stories here if you'd care to share)

By all accounts a Merchant Banker in real life, playing a Merchant on the TV, but he sho looks purty. Justin Chambers.

The obligatory back catalogue:

Lesbian Lovers Come Out
Digits
Asymmetrical Knobbage
Cunning Linguist
Cunnilingus
Fabulous at 40
Winehouse Reveals
The Chick Facial File
Mirrors
Confession plus Daily Knob!
Abusive?
Celebrity Confessions: Boy George
Dick Trilogy Part 3
MORE dicks in my inbox
Dicks in your inbox
Read my Sodding Profile!
Nerve Confessions: Herpes
The Queen Confesses
The Arse Man Cometh
The Ass Play Chronicles
The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection
Bangin Ass
Deformed Dicks
Did I really dream that?
Why I don't date Celebrities
Fashionably late or just a slacker

Date Night: The 45-Minute Walkout

amboabe — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 14:16:00 GMT

So the other night I met a woman for drinks and after 45 minutes of terse chitchat she got up and walked away. "You know what, I think I'm just going to leave," she said as she looked from me to her empty wine glass and back again. My first clue that things weren't going to go well came when she vetoed my idea of going to a peach-colored yuppie bar to play Stranger Chicken (in which you take turns giving your companion dares to approach strangers and perform goofy tasks—bum a cigarette, grab an ass, convince them you're an astronaut…). Both the bar in question and the activity aren't to everyone's taste, but I thought it would be a fun way to spend a Friday night, whether or not we hit it off. Veto.

We agreed on meeting in some hipster alcove where conversation can be subconsciously guided by the Pavement song playing on the jukebox. I was less than enthused about the prospect of a "conversation" date, but went along for the ride. Nobody knows anything, after all. Especially when meeting strangers from the internet for a drink. I got to the bar a little early and, as instructed in her email, waited outside for her to arrive. I eavesdropped on three grad students talking about professors while smoking cigarettes. I debated for a minute about asking for a cigarette. K came riding up on a bicycle a few minutes later. I recognized her as she pulled up and gave her smile. "How are you?"

This was the next bad sign. She raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement and didn't say anything, instead walking her bike a few feet past me to lock it up. This tells me two things: I am less interesting than sticking a key in a U-lock; and I am not worth stepping out of K's comfort zone on a first date. Once K arranges her bike we walk inside. I'm already thinking things have to get better. There's got to be a rebound coming at some point. I am being over-analytical. There are probably dozens of reasons why our first impressions are going so badly, none of which need be personal.

Inside we stood at the bar deliberating on drinks in relative silence. K did not want to drink chardonnay or Budweiser. She settled on pinot grigio. I ordered a Manhattan. She got her wine first and headed back to the booth we had claimed on entering. I stood at the bar for another two minutes waiting for my drink to be made. This was strike 3. As I turned and started walking towards the booth I could almost see the ghostly letters strung out in neon above our table, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…"

As we started talking it seemed like K was offended by everything I said. I told her that Japantown creeped me out because it felt too white-bred. "But it's filled with Japanese people," she informed me. It wasn't a literal presence of white people that made my toes squirm, I elaborated, more the upscale hygienic flair the neighborhood had. The wide streets, clean restaurants with A ratings. The conspicuous absence of homeless people.

K wondered if I liked homeless people shooting up on my doorstep or passed out on the sidewalk in my neighborhood. I do, in fact. It's not that poverty is such a great thing, but it's an inevitable face of humanity that should necessarily be a part of any urban area. We are stupid and fallible creatures. Homeless people are a reminder that there isn't a net beneath us, should we fall.

As I went through all of this, boring myself, K kept taking big gulps of wine every time it looked like she was about to say something. I laughed at her. "You don't like any of this, do you?" I said.

Then we landed on poetry. She asked me where I was from. "Fresno," I said. She arched her eyebrows and took another gulp of wine. If you're unfamiliar, the central valley is to San Francisco what New Jersey is to New York; an execrable backwater. After inoculating herself against what I might come up with next, she asked me what growing up in Fresno was like. "It was okay," I said. There were bad parts, but good ones too. There is, and has been, a rooted poetry scene there for decades (Phil Levine, David St. John, Larry Levis, Gary Soto…).

I told her that poetry is a dead medium. I love it, have given huge chunks of my life to it, keep in close communication with those last few poets still burning the flame here and there. And still, the flame is dying, there's nothing left to say in poetry that will ever matter to more than a handful of people. Things have moved on to film (on its way out too), TV, music, online communities. This went over even less well than the bit about the homeless people. Apparently she still has friends who go to poetry slams and have plenty of interesting things left to say with the medium.

Okay.

"I feel like you're talking at me, not to me," she finally said after running out of wine. Hmmm. Here we go then, the end is near. I'm sure everything I was saying was about as interesting as comparing wood chip prices in a Home Depot. I had lost interest myself almost before I opened my mouth. And still, I didn't want to retreat. She had asked me questions, and I wanted to answer them completely, and honestly. Few people want honesty on a first date. Honesty a pretty idea, but an ugly thing in reality. We all have our own little kingdoms of truth and nobody likes to be confronted with their own walls in the first hour of having met a person.

K looked at her empty glass. There was nothing left to say. I didn't have any questions for her. She seemed to have a mountain of words for me, but none that she wanted to let loose for fear of instigating a confrontation.

And so got up, thanked me for the drink, and walked out the door.

Previous Posts:

Date Night Redux: H's Version of Our Night Out

Celebrity Confession: Who is Lauren Cohan and Why is She Hitting on Me?

Sex Machine: My First Muff Dive

Crying in Public: Remember the Cheerleaders

Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down

Date Night: Two Women in One Night

Date Machine: Kissing on the First Date

Nerve Confessions: Rate My Penis Size

Date Night: The Wine Bar as the End of Civilization

Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train

Love machine: How I Date On The Internet

Sex Machine: Zeitgeisty's Ass Bangin'

Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs

Crying in Public: My Cubicle

Date Night Redux: H's Version of Our Night Out

amboabe — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 14:18:00 GMT

The other day I wrote about a date I had with H. It can be difficult writing publicly about people you're seeing. H eventually found the post I had written about her and, though I'm loath to put words in her mouth, she seemed unhappy with what I had written. I asked H if she would be willing to share what her experience of our time together was so that I could post it here. She accepted the offer and what follows is her recounting of our date. In case you're curious, I was born in Kenya. I am not South African, nor have I ever been to South Africa.

Now H's story:

"As I walk into Dolores Park to meet South Africa man, he sends a text to let me know he’s wearing a purple shirt and is sitting beneath a baby palm tree. Purple shirt guy might be boring, might be rude, might need intensive therapy, might be gorgeous, and might be fun. Half expecting that he’ll be awful; I’m stoked that cocktails will be involved. He promised to bring wine. I have plans afterward with a girlfriend, so either way I’ll have a fun evening. I’m new to San Francisco, and making new friends is far more important to me than finding myself involved in a romantic relationship. That said, I’m completely emotionally available and am open to meeting someone extraordinary, otherwise I wouldn’t even be here.

I round the palm and see him. He’s beautiful, but I decide that I am more beautiful and I find comfort in knowing that I have an edge here in the balance of power. Beautiful South Africa man stands and we exchange a hug and kiss. He pours wine into two animal print coffee cups. I choose the cheetah print and he teases me about being a fast girl. He’s casually dressed in cute jeans, a faded purple shirt that says hang loose, striped blue socks and bright lemon colored shoes. It sounds like a bad combination, but he completely pulls off the look and I like it. I compliment his shoes. “They are yellow,” he says. “I know my colors,” I say. He comments that he likes mine as well. Unless he paid close attention while I slipped them off, I know he cannot see them. My shoes are behind me and out of his view. I ask him what kind of shoes I am wearing. He laughs and owns up to not knowing.

He shares his hatred for feet and we both agree that it’s weird that his coworkers tend to walk around at the office in white tube socks. He asks me a work question and then apologizes immediately. He hates talking about work. Perfect, because so do I. “Tell me a story,” he says. I share a story that I had just discussed that morning involving a girlfriends bombed Valentines Day earlier this year. Her boyfriend broke up with her on Valentines Day. Fabulous girl that she is, she put on her sexy new lingerie, and drank an excessive amount of champagne while feasting on crab and oysters that she had planned to share with the boyfriend. While cracking open one of the oyster shells, the knife slipped and she had to be taken to the hospital in her lingerie for stitches in her hand and wrist which without explanation appeared to be a suicide attempt. Beautiful South Africa guy shares that he’s never had a great Valentines Day. He asks if I have and I just say “yes.” Sharing a hot Valentines Day story about a previous boyfriend doesn’t seem appropriate ten minutes into a first date.

He leans in and kisses me. It’s perfect. It’s soft and sweet. He pulls away and shares that he “just wanted to try it out.” He leans in again and we kiss for a few more minutes. I love kissing and we kiss well together. I’m also aware that we are in a public park and try my best to fight back a bit of laughter. I usually require a bit more alcohol to engage in PDA with a stranger. While I wasn’t necessarily ready to kiss South Africa, I completely indulge myself in a fabulous make out session. He shares that he’s been in the city for almost a year and we banter about how he could spend his little anniversary with the city. I suggest the Kabuki Spa having just been for the first time after a day of surfing. It’s such a relaxing and lovely way to spend an afternoon or evening on oneself.

He asks me if I smoke. I do. He asks if I mind giving him a cigarette. We’ve been drinking wine for about an hour and I was just planning on having one myself. We spend the next few hours kissing in the park. The sun is setting and we have a gorgeous view of the city. I realize that I don’t really know anything more about South Africa than I knew before walking into the park. I know that he dislikes co-workers cruising around the office in their socks. I know that he was born in Africa, but not South Africa. I forget where exactly but still continue to refer to him as South Africa merely because I like how it sounds. I know that he buys striped socks. I know that he has amazing hair which feels incredibly hot to run my fingers through. I know his name and I know that he is an amazing kisser. For a first date, that’s good enough for me.

We both have plans later in the evening. I’m meeting a girlfriend for drinks around 10:00 and he has a friend coming over around 9:30. He invites me over to meet his man friend and for us to have a cocktail before we each go out. I agree. Nothing says serial killer or sexual sadist about beautiful South Africa man. Maybe it’s his expensive and fashionable glasses or his bright yellow shoes. We walk hand in hand and intermittently stop to kiss along the way and in the elevator on our way up to his apartment. Beautiful South Africa’s man friend is fantastic, and mixes all sorts of random and delicious drinks for us. I’m certain to have a hang over.

Man friend asks whether I have seen South Africa’s photographs from when he was in the Peace Corps. I have not. He insists that I see them. Did I know that beautiful South Africa man is making a film and is the director? Have I seen his fantastic pair of pink shoes? It’s all so cute. Man friend is trying to make beautiful South Africa seem very cool for what I perceive to be my benefit. I ask for a few embarrassing stories, he doesn’t give any up. He’s a loyal man friend. After viewing the Peace Corps photos, I realize that beautiful South Africa has only recently grown into his adult hotness. He’s “new hot” and I find that attractive. I’ve never been a huge fan of guys who know they are good looking as the knowing of one’s hotness generally corresponds with a certain level of arrogance that I find unattractive. I step out to the terrace and call Tara who is lounging around in her panties and her bra and who is now contemplating staying in. I hadn’t realized the time and am late to meet her. She needs a few minutes to pull it together so I have a few more sips of man friend’s drink concoctions.

Beautiful South Africa is attentive and affectionate with me in front of his man friend. He holds my hand, kisses me and wraps his arms around me intermittently while we chat and share drinks. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and return to find beautiful South Africa and man friend setting up wii golf. Do I want to play? Man friend hands me a remote and I decide it is time to go for sure. I feel like something shifted in the mood. Man friend is visiting from out of town, my girlfriend is waiting for me and I think video games are silly. When I share that I am leaving, I find it funny when beautiful South Africa man asks if it’s because they are playing videogames. Funny “ish” because I slightly feel that he is gauging whether setting up video games is a sure way to get a girl to leave one’s apartment. Given his behavior throughout the evening, I hadn’t considered that he might actually want me to leave.

He offers to walk with me to my girlfriend Tara’s apartment which is a few blocks away. We walk hand in hand. When we arrive, he shares that he will be busy filming all next week and weekend, but that he would like to see me again the week afterward. He also suggests that I call him earlier if I’m available. I’m not a ‘call first kind of girl’ and explain that while I’d love to see him again, he should call me. He calls me old fashion before we share an amazing kiss goodbye. I climb the stairs to Tara’s apartment with a huge smile on my face and am excited to share all the details of my date.

I’m a complete girly girl and gush over my date’s gorgeous hair, that I think his glasses are sexy, how well we kiss together, and how he’s easy to talk to. I again realize that I don’t really know anything more about him, but don’t really care. I assume that I’ll see him again. Tara throws on a gorgeous new dress and we walk to a nearby bar. We have an entertaining conversation about beautiful South Africa man, her new love interest, dating in general, and then of course go back to her apartment and have a pillow fight in our bra and panties. The week passes and I’m secretly a little bummed that beautiful South Africa man hasn’t called. I never considered that he wasn’t interested in seeing me again. Not because I’m arrogant, but because of the level of affection he showed throughout our date. I generally think I’m a good judge of a man’s interest in me. The confidence in this skill has recently disappeared.

The following Sunday, I find myself leisurely playing online and decide to check out the nerve magazine site which is generally entertaining enough. I click on the date machine which I had not noticed before. I see beautiful South Africa man’s photo alongside other photos and various articles. I assume that he must have upgraded his membership and has a highlighted profile. I skim various articles and come to a catchy article title about two women in the same night written by some guy who once sported a mullet. It takes me a few paragraphs to realize that I am reading an article written by beautiful South Africa man about our date. I have been reviewed and it’s not good.

I call Tara. I call Katie. I call Rachel. I read the key phrases in the article to each of them which note that he thought I was “boring”, how he kissed me so that I “wouldn’t start talking again”, how he “laughed lots to cover up his boredom”, and that he had “little interest” in me. I’m both injured and amused. He’s really not into me? I have a fairly healthy ego and I decide it will be funny to print the article and put it on my refrigerator. I own a copy of ‘He’s Just Not That into You.’ My friends and I don’t need this book to guide our love lives. We think it’s ridiculous that women need someone to point out that if a man is not calling you, or is married, or is not having sex with you, then he’s probably not interested. There is not however a chapter cautioning women that a man may not being interested in you if he spends the evening kissing you, holding your hand, laughing attentively while you share stories and inviting you to his apartment to meet one of his friends followed up by a decoded man version explanation that kissing may be his way of quieting you and that his laughter covers boredom.

While this is the first time to my knowledge that anyone has ever called my boring, I obsess over the next few days. I overanalyze my fun level and charm and am annoyed that a few paragraphs written by a man I hardly know have had such an effect on me. Dating can absolutely suck. It can be expensive, disappointing and a humbling experience. It can also be wildly romantic and allow ourselves to explore new interests and places with amazing new people. After a few days, I finally stop obsessing and I realize that we are all reviewed by the people we encounter in our lives. And in the end, the only reviews that really matter are the ones we give ourselves. Beautiful South Africa man does not need to think I am fun nor interesting because I think I am just fabulous!"

Previous Posts:

Celebrity Confession: Who is Lauren Cohan and Why is She Hitting on Me?

Sex Machine: My First Muff Dive

Crying in Public: Remember the Cheerleaders

Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down

Date Night: Two Women in One Night

Date Machine: Kissing on the First Date

Nerve Confessions: Rate My Penis Size

Date Night: The Wine Bar as the End of Civilization

Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train

Love machine: How I Date On The Internet

Sex Machine: Zeitgeisty's Ass Bangin'

Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs

Crying in Public: My Cubicle

Date Night: Do you need digits?

airheadgenius — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 01:46:00 GMT

I had a date last night.
I almost cancelled at the last minute.
Why I hear you cry? (Even if it's you, singular and I know who you are)
Because the man in question seemed reluctant to furnish me with his phone number.

We've been exchanged emails for a while. He contacted me at the beginning of the summer right when I was about to embark on an 8 week vacation, so I said I'd be in touch on my return.

Emails ensued when I got back state side and we arranged to meet. Now I am not one to talk on the phone with a potential suitor so didn't need to call him, but getting to a place on time is no mean feat and sometimes I just can't manage it. Before you start with me on the passive aggressive nature of lateness, let me assure you that I know all about it. And then some. Getting out of one's home on time when one is just one is like falling off a log. Getting out of the house when there's a babysitter and two little children involved is hardly an exact science.

So, "please text me your number" was my plea. But a text came there not. I asked again to no avail. Once we finalised the destination, I asked a third time for his number, with the assurance that I was not the stalking type in case that was his concern. But again, nothing. It occurred to me that I'd actually asked for it three times and so I started to get a bit anxious that there was a sinister plot behind his refusal to give up the digits.

You peeps don't know me from a bar of soap, but suffice it to say that I am not the anxious type. I've taken on many a "nerves of steel" type project without so much as a missed night of sleep, but this little episode was bringing out the paranoid in me.

See, I've heard of tales of Internet dates when one party walks into the bar, takes a shufty at their date and promptly turns on their heel and walks out. Luckily, this has never happened to me, but just in case I always call as I am nearing the venue to check that my date has arrived. I've developed this habit of calling as I walk into the bar. My date is then on the phone and more easily identifiable. It saves me scanning the bar for a man that's not there with the feeling that I've got a dirty great "I'm on a blind date" sign on my back. Plus, once in a while I keep talking on the phone even as I am standing next to the man in question because I'm juvenile like that.

And beyond that, as mentioned, there's always the possibility that I am 15 minutes late and I like to give my date a heads up, just in case he's the nervous type.

My day yesterday was hectic. I worked in the morning, did all kinds of house maintenance projects in the afternoon (the perils of being a landlord) and then cooked dinner for my kids. By the time I started contemplating getting ready, I was exhausted and had this weird feeling that I was going to get stood up. I just didn't have the energy for what could've been my first "I've been stood up" ever, so I wrote one last border-line snippy email saying something like "I am really not comfortable meeting you without getting your phone number first. Please text me or I am going to have to cancel". It was kind of formal and not "me" at all.

30 minutes later a call came in: "Sorry I didn't send it earlier. Completely slipped my mind. See you at 7.30".
I felt like a chump.

Very nice chap too.

Anyway Date Machine divas and dudes, how do you feel about meeting someone without a phone number and have you ever been stood up?

So, he's not always my cup of tea, but Brad Pitt in Fight Club is pretty spectacular. There's that scene when he's at a cosmetics counter and his pants are sitting really low, showing his hip bones...

The obligatory back catalogue:

Asymmetrical Knobbage

Cunning Linguist Cunnilingus

Fabulous at 40

Winehouse Reveals

The Chick Facial File

Mirrors

Confession plus Daily Knob!

Abusive?

Celebrity Confessions: Boy George

Dick Trilogy Part 3

MORE dicks in my inbox

Dicks in your inbox

Read my Sodding Profile!

Nerve Confessions: Herpes

The Queen Confesses

The Arse Man Cometh

The Ass Play Chronicles

The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection

Bangin Ass

Deformed Dicks

Did I really dream that?

Why I don't date Celebrities

Fashionably late or just a slacker

Celebrity Confessions: Amy Winehouse & Blake Fielder-Civil

airheadgenius — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 02:35:00 GMT

Sort of a Celebrity Confession, but more of a Celebrity reveals all.

Our own (err, if you're from Blighty) Amy Winehouse, that sweet National train wreck, almost got to be re-united with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil today as he was due to be released on parole from the nick. But, he chose to stay in because a condition of his parole was that he wear an electronic tag and stay at his Mum's in Nottingham with a 7pm curfew.

Not desperately Rock n Roll is it?

What's a drug taking wild boy to do, but stay in the clink. So he did. But that's not the reveal. Oh no. The best is yet to come. Apparently there's been much speculation as to why Amy stays with this loser. He's not talented. He's mean. They've been seen in fist fights. He films her off her face and leaks videos to the press. Not exactly husband of the year material.

But, his one saving grace as exposed to the UK this very morning (by way of some new full-frontal photos on Amy's facebook page and The Sun) is that Mr Fielder-Civil is hung like the proverbial brewers horse.

And a big penis can go a very long way. To maintain a relationship I mean.

I never met a small penis until I moved to America in '94. Before then, they had all been in the 6-8'' range. Since living here, I've encountered several 5" ones and that just doesn't cut it for me.

Now, I've tried to back up my empirical evidence with statistical findings, but have come up short. Hehe. According to statistics, there is a certain amount of truth to the claim that one ethnic group swings bigger than average and another ethnic group tends to dangle smaller, but even that is not across the board.

My largest one to date was of the accepted shade for big ones, but the tiniest one ever was attached to a 6'5" man who, presumably, had been born into the wrong skin. Incongruous doesn't even begin to describe it.

So, ethnicity can sometimes, but not always, be a determining factor, but nationality apparently not. At least no one has studied it. Well, except me that is. And, to substantiate my claim, the aforementioned biggest one was English born and bred.

I have a theory about circumcision and penis size. You see, I'd also never met a cut one until I graced these shores. The ones I'd toyed with prior to '94 were all blissfully intact - just the way I like them. My medical opinion is that American members are so traumatised at having their protective covering cut off that they never meet their growth potential. My findings are being published in The Lancet any day now.

So there you have it beautiful people, English men have big penii. I hear Virgin Atlantic has a special if anyone wants to book a ticket.

And thus, aptly enough, on to my daily knob:

By all accounts he's not very bright, but I wouldn't exactly want him for his conversation. The talented and packing Mr David Beckham. I hear he can bend it.

The obligatory back catalogue:

The one that got away The Chick Facial File

Mirrors Confession plus Daily Knob!

Abusive?

Celebrity Confessions: Boy George Dick Trilogy Part 3

MORE dicks in my inbox

Dicks in your inbox

Read my Sodding Profile!

Nerve Confessions: Herpes

The Queen Confesses

The Arse Man Cometh

The Ass Play Chronicles

The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection

Bangin Ass

Deformed Dicks

Did I really dream that?

Why I don't date Celebrities

Fashionably late or just a slacker

Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down

amboabe — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 06:15:00 GMT

One night when I was 13 I orgasmed eight times while watching Maria Conchita Alonso being interviewed on the Arsenio Hall Show. It was a bad idea, looking back. It was a terrible session of teenage masturbation that spiraled out of control, with every ejaculation becoming less and less intense until I could barely feel anything and my whole nervous system was in frazzled disarray. All of which is to say that I used to jack off like a monkey. Which isn't all that unique, but the inevitable slackening of that once fervent sex drive as I get older makes me wonder.

These days I usually masturbate only a few times a week, sometimes just once. I work too much, and I've got lots of side projects so when I get home from work, there's usually more work waiting for me. Most of my days end not with satisfaction at having completed a full day, but with an accounting of all the things I didn't get around to which will need to be taken care of later. I've also grown tired of those teenage sessions of whack-attack in my pants. When I masturbate I like to spread out and indulge myself. I like to take my time, and not use any kind of sexual propaganda.

Porn is an easy way to get an erection without having to think about it, but I don't generally use it anymore. It's too distracting and I forget what the point of it all was as soon as I get close to coming. It makes masturbation thoughtless and fast for me. Like zeitgeisty, I was always struck by the Woody Allen line about masturbating being sex with someone you love. Judging by the habits of the average male, masturbation is more akin to prison sex than love-making with your one true constant in life. Just think of all the euphemisms for the act that nervous men have constructed for that embarrassing act: beating off, whacking it, pulling the pud, milking it.

There's a bizarre incongruity in imagining the act itself, a frenzied few minutes of knee-buckling friction, and the altar of some airbrushed media construct before which it's generally done. It's like a colony of spider monkeys taking up residence in Versailles and calling it their own.

Since I've forgone the use of porn, my masturbating has become much more focused on positioning. When you're sitting in a chair in front of your computer there's an in-set limit to how creative you can get before you fall over backwards and crack your head on the floor. It's also much easier to think about your whole body when you don't have to fixate on the texture of razor burn and the conspicuous cropping of feet that always pops up in porn. The last time I masturbated I wound up on my bed. With porn I'd have an erection in less than a minute, but lying alone in bed in the middle of the day, with the sound of traffic and the people in the park across the street, it took much longer.

This extra time is a great boon because it frees up a lot of time to focus on parts of your body that aren't penile. The penis is the obvious point of sexual pleasure, but it's far from an exclusive one and it's a great waste to skip straight to it without enjoying the other ninety-nine percent of the nerve endings in your body on the way into the sub-naval regions. In the process of enjoying the rest of my body the other night, I somehow got into a headstand position on my bed, my feet keeping balance against the wall. This puts a good deal of pressure on the neck and shoulders, but there was something about the rush of blood to the brain in combination with the full body flex I had to maintain to keel over.

I stayed in the position for two or three minutes. I had never wound up like that before. It felt great. And then I realized I was going to come much sooner than I had thought. I was suddenly in the direct line of fire of my own ejaculate. I had a few seconds to think about what was happening and get into a different position, but I was too taken with the newness of the experience. Then down came the sperm, raining onto my shoulder and comforter, avoiding my face by a lucky few inches.

Another round goes to the spider monkeys.

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Date Night: Two Women in One Night

Date Machine: Kissing on the First Date

Nerve Confessions: Rate My Penis Size

Celebrity Confession: Tom Brady's Love Handles

Date Night: The Wine Bar as the End of Civilization

Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train

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Sex Machine: Zeitgeisty's Ass Bangin'

Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs

Crying in Public: My Cubicle