Just apologize and skip to the makeup sex.

For some ungodly reason, I have a lot of male friends.  They inexplicably turn to me for girl advice, probably out of desperation more than anything, but I try to humor them...at least until they realize what a goddamn train wreck I am and abandon me to find someone better to bleach the filth of their dirty laundry. 

Old Friend/Coincidentally Ex-Boyfriend:  "My current girlfriend is having a meltdown.  I think I somehow caused it, but I don't know what I did, or how I should respond."

Me:  "The fact that you are at my apartment and I'm drinking does not bode well for this conversation."

Him:  "I don't understand women at all."

Me:  "Ew, stop feeling sorry for yourself.  That is not going to butter up your woman's snatch.  Listen--you are fighting a losing battle trying to figure out where you went wrong.  If you want to have a successful relationship, just accept that sometimes, you will have to apologize for things that you don't know or understand.  If you validate her meltdown, she can get over it faster.  In fact, you
should not be here.  You should be with her.  Probably having makeup sex by now."

Him:  "You had meltdowns when we were together."

Me:  "I'm a woman, meltdowns are part and parcel, darling.  The thing you should know is that if a woman is having a meltdown and she doesn't have any girlfriends to vent to, she will inevitably call up her male friends or ex-boyfriends to meltdown to them, and maybe one of them will come over with a six-pack and a dimebag and intentions of getting his dick wet, and they'll get supremely fucked up and end up having sex..."

Him:  (shock and horror)

Me:  "...but it won't even be good sex, because how the hell did you get so close to that guy without knowing he was so lousy in bed, and why the fuck is he sweating SO much on top of you?  And then you're just stoned as shit and you wanna pass out but halfway through him drilling you, he's taking the time to tell you--WHILE he is still inside of you--that this sexual mistake doesn't mean he wants to have you as a girlfriend, it doesn't mean anything, not that you're not worth it or anything, but he doesn't want to ruin the friendship, and you're just like, "This was ruined because you were such a terrible lay, not because I wanted to be your girlfriend," and then after it's all over, he shows up on your doorstep after you've been avoiding his calls for two months and he's crying like a bitch because he suddenly thinks he's in love with you and that he had been sooo wrong and how could he not see that you could be so great together?!  But you just look at him, disgusted, and decide you're better off with a one-night stand or a vibrator."

Him:  "Oh my God... I have to get home.  I'll text you later."

Me:  "Bring her flowers.  Or wine.  Or if you really want to make it work, diamonds."

Him:  (pausing at the door) "Did...did that happen when we were together?"

Me:  "Actually, that was right after we broke up.  You might wanna make sure your girl doesn't have your friend Greg's number."

Your shoes, babe.

So I'm out with Gwen and Wes, our most fabulous of fabulous gay friends, and Wes whispers to me that there's some adorable dish eyeing me from across the bar.  I casually look up over the rim of my dirty dirty martini and see that indeed, there is a lovely specimen of man giving me a shy smile.  I'm sizing him up immediately (as I'm sure he's doing to me) and have yet to find anything deterring me from the approach.

Well groomed hair, nice button up shirt, perfect teeth, either whiskey or scotch on the rocks and--are those--dimples?!  I'm a lost cause at this point.

I grab my clutch and drain my 'tini and head in the direction of the bathroom to powder my nose (with the pretense of going in for the kill on my way back), and then I see them.

Below his well-pressed slacks (crease and all), his feet rest beneath his stool encased in dirty, beat up cross-trainers.

Ugh.  There goes my hard on.  I get into the bathroom to fix my makeup and tell myself that all is not lost.  He could be on his way to or from the gym.  He could have been walking to work or on his way to pick up his shoes from the cobbler (do people still go to those?!) and I'm making excuses for him before I even met him.  You may think it's judgmental, but quick judgments are an evolutionary tool that we've developed to avoid wasting our time with those less than worthy.  But I've talked myself into giving him a chance by now because of those fucking dimples, and am determined to figure out those ghastly shoes along the way.

When I leave the bathroom, he's paying his bill.  He turns to me and gives me a little wave, and walks out the door.  I get back to my seat between Gwen and Wes, and the bartender comes over to hand me a business card.

"The guy left this for you," he says.  Underneath his name, it reads Life Coach.


"Is this a joke?"  I ask the bartender.  I can't tell if it's flattering that he gave me his number or a dig that I need some kind of life coaching help.  Therapy, yes, probably, but life coaching?  Gwen and Wes are dying of laughter.  The bartender shrugs.  I toss the business card in the trash.

Wes pays for my next dirty dirty martini and takes my hands.  "You don't need a life coach," he says.  "You need to get poked.  And not by some "life coach" in bad shoes."

Switching birth controls is making my hormones batshit crazy.

Due to a brief mix-up with my health insurance, I've gone off of my beloved NuvaRing for the month and I'm suddenly thrown back into having the libido of a 14-year-old boy and wanting to drink a bottle of wine and cry because I'm single and unlaid.  On the other hand, I don't have to put makeup on every morning, worry about any flirtatious conquests having sexually transmitted infections, or share said wine with anyone else.  And you know what?  I've got stacks of horror movies and free streaming porn, so fuck it.

Take that, NuvaRing.

A Letter for a Fuckbag

Dear Sir Whom I Am No Longer Fucking,

Remember how I ended things so coolly--smiled icily at you when I came by to pick up my stuff from your condo and said that I bore you no ill will?

Well, I fucking lied and you are a dirty, rotten scumbag.  Here's what I was gritting my teeth to avoid saying to you, you worthless dumbass.

When we started dating, I was all for keeping things mellow.  Look, bitch, I am the fucking Queen of Gray Area relationships.  We don't have to define this yet, just yet.  Let's just enjoy this, whatever it is.  Let's kiss some more and I'll show you what an excellent bedfellow I can be.

But, no.  You had to know where it was going and what I wanted.  You said you were a relationship person and that was what you sought.  I said that was fine.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I'd know when I had it.

And then, you romanced me.  You said things that I didn't believe at first.  Then, you said I should believe them.  I told my mother--she said not to believe those things you said, so I did.  I finally gave in when I knew I shouldn't have, and oh... I loved it.  I didn't love you, per se, but I loved those things you said.  Until for no reason at all, you... just... stopped.

"I'm capricious," you said to me.  "I'm just not sure to what extent I want to be involved in a relationship with you."

Well, let me make this very easy for you:  you will not be involved with me AT ALL.  For all of your transparent behavior, you've hidden one of two things from me:  one, you are lying to me to avoid hurting me, or two, you are unsure about me.  I do not prize dishonesty or uncertainty in my friends, let alone my lovers.

So then when you ended up in a relationship so soon after I stopped having any discourse with you, well, fuck you.  To even things out, here are some things that I hid from you while we were dating:  I never stopped talking to my ex.  Sometimes I thought of him when we were having sex.  No, I've never had that problem with a guy before, so it was obviously your problem.  Your oddly-shaped ribcage actually turned me off.  I faked it.  You have terrible taste in music.  Yes, I am a blogger and I *will* write about you and everything you did wrong, even in the bedroom.  That is my fucking MO, bitch.  Even if you are intelligent and have a good job, the fact that you have a fucking marijuana nursery makes me want to smash your face into a brick wall.  Grow the fuck up, hippie.  Your dick was too small and your spunk tasted awful and you couldn't find a clit with a headlamp and two air traffic controllers.  You need to go back to school and learn when to use "your" and "you're" and you can stop being pretentious any fucking day now.  Honestly, sweetheart, you're lucky I didn't pour liquid nitrogen in your lap and shatter your balls with a baseball bat.

But, I'm above that, and I'm above you, so go settle down with your mediocre ball and chain and stay off the market, so that it's easier for the rest of us above average single jewels to find that special thing for which we all search.  You just did not meet expectations and I'm actually pretty irritated that I let you put your dick in me.  Like, way irritated, actually.

So here we are.  You can go on, blissfully unaware that given the chance, I would run you over with my car and think that everything is fine.  I did smile at you when things ended, after all.  And I was cool about it... to your face.  I said I understood and wasn't interested in being friends.  You don't have it in you to be a good friend and frankly, you weren't thrilling enough for me to keep around.

Cheers, motherfucker.

--Smashy

Gwen and The Satanist

First of all, consider me *so glad* that tattoos are more socially acceptable nowadays.  As a minxy lady with a fair amount of ink myself, it's much less trouble if and when I forget to cover up some of my own tattoos and go strolling about in some public, conservative place.  People are just used to them now, I guess.  We're all using the same tools to claim we're independent and different from society, but let's face it - we're all only slightly different versions of all of the sameness in our own generation.

Did that make sense?  Whatthefuckever.  I'm two glasses of wine down and that soapbox isn't even worth standing on right now and it isn't my point.

My point is that, holy fuck, I have seen some stupid tattoos and they have been on some stupid men.  My absolute favorite, though?  My best friend since birth, Gwen, briefly dated a Satanist who had portraits of serial killers tattooed on his arm.  "Seriously?!"  I can practically hear you saying incredulously to me.  Yes, damn, relax and I will tell you the story.

Gwen had just gotten out of a relationship and was in the midst of exploring her options, and met this young piercing apprentice.  Though not unfortunate looking, the gentleman clearly had some white trash in him.  I met this guy when I was out with Gwen at a bar--she called him to come out and he rolled up in all his trucker hat'd glory.

He straddled the barstool next to me and I glimpsed the black and white faces sprawled across his arm.  Almost immediately, I recognized Charles Manson's warped grimace scowling at me from the crook of his elbow.

"Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me," I said loudly to Gwen.  "What the shit is this?"  I said to the Satanist.

"This one," he said, pointing to a dark, goatee'd fellow, "is Anton LaVey.  I'm a follower of the Church of Satan."

"Frankly," I muttered to Gwen, "I would be impressed if this fool could *spell* 'Satan'."

But The Satanist was dead-as-fuck serious and proceeded to lecture me on what he felt the true Satanist believed and obviously, got it completely wrong.  Now, I am no Satanist, but I know my way around them and their belief system.  Yes, I've fooled around with other subscribers of this belief.  Yes, I was friendly and partied on occasion with the lovely Szandora LaVey, Anton's now ex-daughter-in-law.  Yes, I've rolled around in the sheets of the seedy underbelly of perhaps undesirable and lost souls, but I've never pretended to be a leader on the subject.  Until, of course, some fuckbag popped up and tried to date my way-too-good-for-him best friend and still got his shit wrong.  And you know what?  He drank like a pussy.  Sorry, but so inexcusable.

So, I schooled him.  I ripped holes in his theories.  I called him a coward for trying to believe in something that directed one's moral compass to exclusive hedonism.  I essentially forced him into a corner where he found himself incapable of defending his own beliefs and then, I kicked him when he was down.

"And?  Your tattoos are fucking shitty.  If I were you and I was still trying to "save money" by living in Mommy's basement, I'd take what I was saving and get them removed so you don't end up with some fucking Kathy Bates psycho straight outta "Misery" because Lord knows that shit you have scribbled on your arm is just for show.  If you believed any of the principles that those men held on to, you would not be in a bar stuttering to me to defend something that you know nothing about, just so that I'll give my friend--the girl you want to fuck--the go ahead to let your dumb, loser ass spill your fucking less-than-worthy DNA all over her.  You would be holed up in some cabin in the woods, duct taping C4 to PVC pipes and threatening to bring your judgment down upon the establishment.  Sack up, buttercup, or ship the fuck out."

He, of course, tried to laugh all of this off.  Maybe I was harsh, but I don't regret a goddamn second of it.  Gwen never saw him again.

So like I said, I love that tattoos are acceptable now.  I just don't love that people think that means that bad tattoos are acceptable.  Additionally, getting tattoos does not make you unique or clever or smart or even worth my time, unless you have something sitting in your skull to back it up.  Ink doesn't change the fact that you're still a loser, loser.

--Smashy

Remembering Pieces of Dates

So, because I have terrible luck, my conquest didn't end up working out last week.  He is determined to be a wimpy, sexting tease, and I am determined to not care about this bizarre situation anymore.

Randomly today, I found one of my early college crushes on Facebook.  I asked him out once, and we ended up sitting on a cliff by the ocean for our "date" - we played a game where we sang bits of songs to each other and had to guess the band.  Later, he broke down in tears while telling me how he was heterosexually raped by a girl.  "Is that possible?  Can that actually happen?"  I had asked him.  He called me insensitive, but made out with me fifteen minutes later.  I don't remember how our date ended, exactly.  I vaguely recall it was when I still had morals (so like, way early in college) and I told him I wasn't going to have sex with him unless we dated.  Obviously, we didn't date, and I don't remember much else about him.

It's possible that I drank much of my memories away, or that he was generally one of those forgettable crushes.

These days, he's married now (like everyone else) and I remembered that I crushed on him because he looked like one of the guys in The Strokes.  College me was shallow, but loathe to admit it.

God, I miss those days.

It doesn't count as a date, so why is it already awkward?

A boy that I have been trying to seduce for the better part of a year is coming over later to "hang out" because we have been talking about hooking up for some time.  There is a lot more to this story, but at this point in time, it does not matter so much, suffice it to say that he is the most confusing man I have ever met.

He sexts me incessantly, which would be fine except for the fact that he said we would need to hang out a few times before having sex.  That would be fine, too, if it wasn't for the fact that I am moving out of the city and I have made it clear that we are not anywhere near the dating arena.  This will be physical, and we are running out of time to enjoy that part of this.

Oh, hot confusing man, why are you so perplexing?  Are you trying to appear chivalrous?  Will this rule go out the window when we are messing around and I want to go further?  We shall see.

I really need to stop having sober, no-strings flings and attempt to find someone worth dating.  I will, too.  After this one.  (Maybe.)