Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

How I Came to Have My Joint Copped by a Stripper on Sweetest Day

I wrote this story a year ago, but as I just spent the weekend with this woman I'm writing a new blog about that experience. I've never posted this one here so I wanted you all to have a frame of reference for the story that's about to come...

I got my bell rung on Sweetest Day this past week, and I gotta tell ya, it may have been the best date I’ve been on in years. Not because I got my crotch pillow fluffed necessarily, although that definitely has something to do with the swagger in my step I’ve been rockin’ all week, but more because of the overall good time we both shared. Although many of my recent exploits with the fairer sex have been the romantic equivalent of 9-11, this one left me with a new found hope and a desire that I hadn’t felt in quite some time. However, because of my neurosis and Sherlock Holmes like ability to deduce a situations outcome, I have a feeling that I will soon be taking a svitz in another vaginal deprivation chamber. Before I get into the details of my latest stumble down relationship lane, let’s start with some exposition, shal l we?

Most of my family has worked in law enforcement in some capacity over the years. My Aunt was an administrator for the Orland Park PD, my uncle worked for the Cook County Sherriff, and my father was an Illinois State Trooper stationed at the State Police Headquarters in Romeoville, right across the street from The Statesville Penitentiary. Some of you may remember Statesville from the opening scene in ‘The Blues Brothers’. While Elwood is waiting outside of the prison, a large gate slides open to reveal Jake standing there with the sun behind him as ‘She Caught the Katy’ begins to play for the title sequence. THAT’S at Statesville. Two prisons were actually used to shoot both interior and exterior scenes for the prison in the movie, but the gate was filmed about 25 yards from where my father worked. I know all of this because, when we were in our early 20’s, my buddy Rich and I used to sit in my car and get high while parked in the SAME spot that Elwood was outside of that gate. They don’t use it anymore, but it’s still there.

While my father was at the ISPHQ (Illinois State Police Headquarters, although I don’t know why I bothered with the acronym if I was just going to enunciate it anyway) he met a young woman who worked as a dispatcher in the station house. As legend has it, I was conceived in the library of that building. My father married my mother soon before I was born. After he left us a few years later, as cop dads will OFTEN do, my mother became a guard at Cook County Jail and eventually a cop working part time in various suburbs. Because of my parent’s long term connections with law enforcement, by the time I was in my twenties…they were both fairly well known within the policing community’s of the Chicago land area. it seemed that I could get away with damn near anything. And believe me I tried, hence the ‘sitting in my car and smoking weed RIGHT outside of a prison’

My mother eventually got her Master’s Degree in some sort of social work, and became a drug counselor. Eventually she earned a job as the head administrator of Chicago’s H.R.D.I. program. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t remember what THAT acronym stands for, but these were basically a series of homes set up to help people get off drugs, both voluntarily…AND court appointed. Because I was such a selfish mother fucker in my youth, I didn’t realize until I was at my mother’s funeral…just how much of an impact she had on people’s lives. Hundreds of ex junkies were in attendance, all of them more upset at the passing of the woman they called ‘St. Hempen’ than I could ever be. I never knew her as the savior they described, but I wish that I had.

Anyway, for years I would often visit my mother at work, and sometimes she would have ex-addicts over to our house once they passed through the program. I got to know quite a few of them and I loved hearing their stories and warnings about what they did in furtherance of their habits. I don’t care what it’s about…I love a good fucking story. After my mother passed, I decided that perhaps I would take up her cause of helping people help themselves, so I read every book she had on drugs, drug laws, the psychology of users, and how to counsel them. My own selfish needs ended up getting in the way of my helping ANYBODY in life, including the simple task of helping my customers at work, but hell…I like to read anyway.  

My point is that I know all the stories. I know all the angles. I can tell when someone is high, and I can usually tell what they’re on by looking at them. My mother taught me two important lessons that I’ve tried to live by for a long time…never judge someone who takes drugs, and you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. Being an alcoholic herself during my entire youth, she was familiar with both of these lessons all too well. In fact, it was her time spent with AA that became the impetus for her getting a degree so late in life.

So because of my non educated walks down habitual user lane, people who use drugs have never bothered me much. Sure, when some pot addled asshole starts telling me how if you put a hat and glasses on a dog and taught him to drive a truck, it would look really cool…THAT mother fucker needs to die. But overall I understand the human need to feel as little as possible. Life can be a mother fucker, and sometimes suicide just isn’t an option, at least that’s what that Jesus dude said. So, when I met a woman on the internet last week who told me that she used to be an addict, I didn’t flinch. Seriously, who am I to judge anybody? I’ve been down that road myself.

Unfortunately, because we are ALL doomed to repeat our parent’s mistakes, I became a WONDERFUL alcoholic in my own right…until I got a DUI a few years ago. I’d driven drunk for nearly 15 years, and to be honest with you? I became quite good at it. Hands at 2 and 10, eyes on the fucking road, no more than 5 over the speed limit. Hell, my SOBER friends would call me up for rides and ask me to have a few drinks BEFORE I picked them up. I was always the designated drunk driver. Was it right? Fuck no. Now that I’m older I’m aware of the moral implications of driving while intoxicated. I’m not an idiot, I know this was a stupid thing to do, and unlike people out there with 3 to 7 DUI’s…I only needed to be told once.

I got away with some horrendous shit, some because of my family connections, but most out of pure dumb luck. There were a few times when I got pulled over drunk off my ass, and the cop would simply follow me home to make sure I got there alright. One time I ran over a guy’s foot while leaving a bar downtown and although he got my license number and I was called into court a few months later…he never showed up so the case was tossed. Another time I got into a screaming match with an off duty cop that almost led to blows while I was driving drunk down a side street. The only thing that kept me out of jail THAT time was the fact that the cop I got into it with was drunk off HIS ass as well. His chief decided to call it a draw and rather than embarrass the department, I was let go. 

One lesson I DID learn was that I should NEVER mix beer and pot. This combination seems to turn me into an asshole Superman with absolutely NO inhabitions. One night, a friend and I went to a club in the city. Because we got there relatively early, we were the first ones in the parking lot. We sat in the car and got baked before we went in. Later in the evening, when we left, we saw that my car was boxed in. There were eight cars surrounding it; three on the left, three on the right, one in front and one in back. I did not execute sound judgment in dealing with that situation. I turned the parking lot into a smash up derby and fucked up every car that was surrounding me out of anger, spite, and a claustrophobic need to escape like an animal gnawing off its own foot when caught in a trap. Apparently nobody noticed, but for months after I was FREAKED out waiting for SOMEONE to come forward because I had the most recognizable car with the dumbest and easiest vanity plates to remember. I never smoked pot and drank again.

After my mom died, I spiraled further down the drain of alcoholism and changed my drink of choice from beer to whiskey. Oofa. That’s a WHOLE other kind of drunk driving. One night while only a block away from my apartment, I passed out behind the wheel and slammed into someone’s parked car. I mean SLAMMED. I quickly backed up, taking his bumper off the car with me, and sped off to my home which was RIGHT down the street. That was the beginning of the end of my purple Lincoln Continental. Again, luckily nobody saw what I did, but the next day as I was walking my dog, I took her past the scene. Obviously the guy whose car I hit hadn’t come out yet, because everything was exactly as I left it the night before. The car I hit was white, and I left paint from MY car all over the back of his. You’d have to be an idiot not to know who did it because to this day, I’ve never seen a car that is the color purple that my Lincoln was. After that I started parking the car about a mile away from my apartment so this guy wouldn’t see it.

SO, as you can see, I’ve done some stupid things while driving drunk and gotten away with them, the IRONY of my DUI is that it was completely uncalled for.

I got pulled over for going 47 in a 40. This cop was MAYBE 21. I realized JUST how old I was at that moment when I told him of my connections and he looked at me like I was an asshole. He didn’t know ONE mother fucker that I mentioned, and he couldn’t have given less of a shit.

Long story short, I ended up blowing a .081…the legal limit is .08. My friend Mike bailed me out that night and paid for the cab ride home. When I paid the 500 bucks to get my car from the impound, everything I had in it was stolen. 70 bucks that was in my glove compartment, a gold ring, and my watch. Because I have NO record, the judge decided to make an example out of me and gave me the maximum fine of 2000 dollars…for blowing a .081. She was all fire and brimstone, banging her gavel like John Henry’s fucking hammer. You’d have thought I got caught fucking kids or something.

I wasn’t really familiar with DUI’s, but I guess that the courts and the cops just expect you to be, because NOBODY told me that whether you’re convicted or not, whether you go to all of your court dates or not…your license is automatically suspended 30 days from the day you get pulled over. Does that even make sense? Why not suspend your license on the DAY you get pulled over if it’s going to happen anyway? No shit, 31 days after that fateful night, I got pulled over on my way home from work. Same thing. I was arrested and my car was impounded. When I went to court for that one? The judge decided that although the USUAL penalty for driving on a suspended license is community service…she’s gonna teach me ANOTHER lesson and send my ass to Cook County Jail…where my mother was a guard for nearly 30 years.

I begged and pleaded with the judge; I tried to reason with her and told her that I HONESTLY didn’t know my license was suspended. I’d GONE to all my court dates for the DUI, I was paying the fine monthly on time, and if she threw me in jail I’d lose my job, I’d lose my home, I wouldn’t be able to pay my fines anymore “FOR CHRISSAKE, YOUR HONOR, IT WAS ONLY .081!!!!” I screamed at her while the cops hauled me out of the room to be processed for jail.

Between the fines, the court dates, the jail time, the house arrest, the prison rape, the alcohol victim panels, AND the community service…this DUI cost me 2 years of my fucking life. It seems that I was made to pay for all my past alcohol related transgressions. Did I deserve it? Well, hindsight tells me that I did. And like I said before, you only need to tell me things ONCE. After that, I never TOUCHED a beer if I was going to have to drive in the same fucking day. Hell, that whole ordeal made me so fucking jittery, I won’t even eat a potato before I drive. Instead of going out all the time, I started throwing parties at my apartment on Saturday nights. Fuck drinking and driving. I don’t mean that as a public service announcement, but as something a jaded lover might say to an ex who cheated on him.

It’s not that I understand the hazards of drunk driving, because believe me…I don’t. It’s just that I’m scared to death that I’ll get caught. Do people get hit by drunk drivers? Of course they do and that’s a terrible tragedy. But I just saw a woman buy her kid a fucking 104 ounce slurpy at a 7-11 the other day. Her kid is WAY more likely to have his fat ass foot amputated from diabetes than he is to get hit by me driving home drunk on empty expressways at 3 o’clock in the morning. PLUS, if some 95 pound college chick has a beer, and MY fat 300 pound ass has a beer…which one of us is drunk? A .081 for HER doesn’t mean the same as it does for me. 

So…here’s the rub: my forced respect for the law makes it hard to date. I find myself uncomfortable in my own skin when meeting a woman for the first time and the only way to jump this hurdle is by having a drinky poo or two to calm my nerves and make me a more relaxed potential ex boyfriend. But when I met this woman on the internet last week who, it seemed, was a female version of me…an extremely HOT female version of me? Well, sometimes you have to put potential ass in front of respect for the law. Fuck moral imperatives.

After the chick with those fucking teeth, I was kind of ‘put off’ of the whole ‘Craig’s List’ thing. Let’s be honest here, Craig’s list is to internet dating, what ‘carnies’ are to the entertainment industry. So, I updated my profile on a dating service that I haven’t used in several years…Plenty of Fish. I won’t PAY for a dating website because I may as well admit that I’ve given up at that point.

I’m not looking to get married right now, so if I’m going to pay a faceless domain on the internet to get me laid, I may as well get a hooker. Besides…pimps are WAY cooler than websites. Those mother fuckers need to hire Don Draper and start putting up billboards to get some of that hook up money.

Anyway, my narcissistic need to NOT pay someone to ‘hook me up’ is the main reason why I’ve used CL for the past two years, even though I have to say that I meet women on the same website where I can buy a pair of plum smugglers autographed by Stevie from ‘Eastbound and Down’. POF is a free site that’s exclusive to dating. The reason that I stopped using it was because I met ONE chick on there…and she lied about damned near everything including her looks. She put a picture on her profile of her friend to lure men to her like a fucking peacock spreading its plumage. Well it worked, until we met and I found out that I’d been duped by a fucking woolly Mammoth.

As I was perusing the profile pictures on POF last week like a WWII vet at the buffet table of a VFW, I came across a very interesting one attached to an even more interesting profile. This girl was beautiful in a way that I hadn’t even thought about yet. Y’know how you’ll see a chick and you’ll be like: “she looks like this girl” or “She looks like that girl”?  There’s a beauty comparison flow chart out there, and this chick had no equals on it. She was short, with long hair and her brunette bangs fell down into her eyes. It was something beautiful covering up something even MORE beautiful…like chocolate cake icing spread over a full moon. (Sorry folks…this COULD get sappy, but she MAY be reading this and I haven’t fucked her yet…so bare with me)

When she finally responded to my initial contact email, I was (almost) stunned at how forthcoming she was about herself. It reminded me a great deal of me. She pulled no punches, she took every joke I had, and gave some right back to me. I learned that she was from Pittsburgh, that she was a stripper, and that she used to be a junkie…used to be. FINALLY, a woman not good enough for ME!

But seriously, these are ALL things that I can live with. I’ve talked, ad nausea about the women that I’ve dated who had things that I COULDN’T live with, but this girls list of flaws only made her seem more interesting to me. As I explained in the beginning of this article, drug addicts are NO turn off to me. It’s like Dennis Miller said: “you could take away ALL the drugs in the world, and people will spin around on their front lawn until they fall down and see god. You can’t take away the human need for release through chemical euphoria.” Personally, I’ve never dated a current drug addict simply because I can’t get behind a woman who wants the drugs more than she wants the dick. I need a woman who wants the dick. So the fact that she said ‘ex’ was in the plus column.

She told me about a life full of heartache that I won’t reveal, tragedy that I wouldn’t wish on anybody, and sadness that I would never patronize by saying some jag off thing like “I understand”. Yet, at 29 she still has that smart ass, fun loving, why hide it, playful spirit with JUST enough vulnerability thrown in to make me want to know way more. However, I’m not stupid, I know when a person is THAT forthcoming about the horrible shit that life has thrown at them, and in a way that’s humorous…they’re hiding a deep pain. I know this because I know myself.   

After getting to know her better through IM, I was intrigued. I told her how horribly unattractive I was and asked her to ‘friend’ me on the face book for a photo exchange. I figured that because she was a stripper? Once she saw my photo’s she’d head for ZE hills, but to my surprise she wasn’t as superficial as I am. Her POF profile only had one photo of her standing in front of a bar, but when I saw what was doin’ on her Face book page? Like Glenn Fry said: The H is fucking O!

She told me that she was Sicilian, Greek, Irish, and Columbian…that’s FOUR nationalities people…FOUR! Chicks with four nationalities are ALWAYS hot. Two? Not so much, but FOUR? If I HAD to, and I mean HAD to compare her to ANYONE…it would be Pat Benatar or Joan Jett circa 1982 when they were hot. This girl was a fucking rock star stripper and because she wasn’t from Chicago? Her attitude was actually as attractive as her looks. Let me fucking find OUT.

I asked her if she’d like to go out with me on Saturday night, and she agreed. The next thing I learned about her was her living arrangement. It seems that she moved here FROM Pittsburgh several months ago, and is now living in an apartment in the city with her friend and her friend’s boyfriend who is the junkie son of a millionaire fashion designer. What am I gonna do? NOT believe her? She doesn’t drive, and she told me that she rolls her own cigarettes…obviously this means that she doesn’t have a job. Well, let’s Sir Arthur Conan Doyle this shit.

She doesn’t have a job, BUT she told me that she just paid her share of a 1600 dollar rent. She also told me that she sometimes sings on the sidewalk for money. Well, unless you can hypnotize people with your voice, I’m pretty sure that you ain’t coming up with 533 bucks from flexin’ yer pipes on Damon. Frankly, I don’t know enough about her at this point to speculate where her funds come from, and even I have enough tact not to ask how she gets money. But, regardless of her income situation, I run things on a date. You go out with me? You better NOT bring any cash. I GOT this shit.

There seems to have been some debate over the date of Sweetest Day this year, and I still don’t know which day if fell on. Some websites say that it’s the 3rd Saturday of October, and some say that it’s the 17th, which would have made it Sunday. Either way I didn’t want to come off as ‘creepy’ and ‘desperate’ so I didn’t want to bring her a ton of flowers. Plus…that’s kinda gay anyway. I try to be a bit more thoughtful when giving gifts. I learned a long time ago to actually LISTEN to women, and NOT just wait to talk. Guys? If you pay attention, WORDS might be coming out of her mouth. Words are kind of important, ok?

During our conversations, she told me that she was a big ‘Dark Tower’ fan, like me. For the uninitiated, ‘The Dark Tower’ is a series of 7 novels written by Stephen King. There’s going to be a movie coming out this Christmas, so I’ll let you find out what they’re about then, but I WILL tell you that one of the main themes of The Dark Tower is a single perfect red rose. This rose stands in a deserted parking lot behind a fence in New York City and represents the Dark Tower in another reality. She told me that she had never read the final book of the Dark Tower Series because her ex boyfriend burned all of her belongings. LET THE DRAMA BEGIN!

Well, because I listen, and because I’m just SO fucking awesome, I ran out before our date and bought that last book in The Dark Tower series. The cover of the book has a rose on it with the Dark Tower standing in the background beneath a brilliant red sky. I went to the florist and bought a single red rose. I cut the stem about halfway up, put it in the book with the rose poking out of the top and then tossed it all in a gift bag. Doesn’t say ‘what a desperate creep’, but it DOES say ‘this guy actually listens’. Uh-oh, Mikesgonnagetsomepussy!

Every man has a pre-date ritual. Some guys go get their hair cut, some kiss the cross they wear around their neck, and some put their Johnson in a sock. Me? Fuggetaboutit. I have a WHOLE thing. I NEVER go into a date thinking that I’m gonna get some. But I ALWAYS want to be prepared, just in case. We were going to meet up at 9PM. After I got out of work at 5, I ran out to get the book and the rose; I grabbed a new pair of kicks from the Shoe Carnival, and went home to get ready.

First? Clean the shit out of my apartment. I NEVER expect a date, especially a FIRST date to come over to my place, but it’s been known to happen. I don’t want her coming over to a fucking pig sty. Plus, IF someone comes over, they’re gonna have to piss at some point in the evening, so I always clean the shit out of the toilet…literally. I made the bed, and cued up the potential ‘fuck songs’ on my computer.

Next? Me. I cleaned the hair and used the GOOD conditioner, made sure to wash the back of my neck, inside and behind the ears, and then it was on to the undercarriage work…the manscaping. Again, I NEVER expect to get my joint copped on a date…but it HAS been known to happen. I shaved my balls completely, and trimmed my penile crotch brow down to a manageable Eddie Murphy fro, instead of the Richard Roundtree fro I had been workin’. I then squatted down in the shower and cleaned out my asshole and pubes with the same good smelling conditioner that I use on my hair. I was coifed and ready for this girl to hate me.

Well, enough exposition, let’s get to the good stuff. As she was blowing me in my…wait…did I skip too far ahead? Let’s back up.

So, I get to this bar which is called ‘Rainbo’. Yeah, I know. My buddy Mike said the same thing. “If she’s this hot stripper, why is she having you meet her at a gay bar? I think you’re gonna get rolled by a pimp or something”. Thanks for your concern Mike, but it wasn’t a gay bar at all. In fact, it was something of a hipster bar for good looking white kids in their late 20’s and early 30’s who had nothing better to do in life than be the punch line to MANY of my societal jibes. These people were fucking extras in a play about disenfranchised youth and unfulfilled goals. It was like seeing a sculpture of James Dean made out of dog shit.

But none of that really mattered…because sitting across from me in the booth we snatched up when we walked in, was this amazing woman who looked like a 70’s rock album cover painted by Michelangelo. She wore a black outfit with a black leather coat, and as she sat across the table from me, I found it hard to stop looking at her lips. She mentioned them, and told me that they were ‘uneven’ or some crap, but all I could think was how they would feel lightly brushing against mine with a hint of moisture followed by a passionate exhale. Great, first date and I’m already imagining a zurburt.

Our conversation was NEVER boring from the moment we sat down. I made self deprecating jokes, as I often do, and instead of just retorting with quips about how good looking SHE is, as often happens, she dismissed my lack of confidence by telling me that she DID find me attractive. She told me that she could see that I was uncomfortable with my weight, and that I wasn’t fat at all. Then she may have went too far…she told me, she LITERALLY told me, that she finds a man with a gap in his teeth sexy.

Ok. Let’s dive into my neurosis at this point. I like strippers. I do. I’ve been known to frequent quite a few strip clubs in my time. Usually I go with Cous’n Hemp’n because HE pays for everything. He doesn’t have a lot of friends, so when he wants to see some titties? He gives me a call and as long as he pays, I don’t mind going. My PROBLEM with strip clubs is that I don’t have the ability to envelope the fantasy. This has NOTHING to do with the strippers. BUT, I KNOW that these chicks aren’t going to fuck me, and I know that they have scripts that help them say the right thing to get my money. Because I KNOW that I have a better chance of getting laid in a morgue, whenever Cous’n Hemp’n pays a lady to take me back for a private dance? I end up feeling like an asshole because I can’t get a hard on. It’s like watching a porno from the SET as it’s being filmed…how can I jack off while the porn star is staring back at me? Frankly I find the whole experience unnerving.

I KNOW that there are guys out there who can fool themselves into believing that they have a shot in hell with these chicks, but hell, a lot of them are good looking and actually DO have a shot. I have a friend who not only SAID, but BELIEVED, when he came back from a private dance once “That chick was REALLY into me, she wants me”. We all laughed for a good 20 minutes, and when we told the girl who danced for him in the private room? She joined us in our laugher.

So, when the stripper I was on a date with said things to me that I REALLY wanted to believe? Things that no chick had ever said to me? I had to assume that I was getting the stripper hustle. BUT, on the other side of that assumption: what’s she hustling me for? It ain’t like my money is long. So maybe her compliments were genuine, and if that was the case? I wanted more. Round one to her.

(I gotta tell ya…I’m SO fucked in the head.)

After we had a few drinks, she told me that she wanted to get something out of the way so that it wasn’t hanging over our heads all night…and she came over to my side of the booth and kissed me. Round fucking TWO to her. And might I add…well played.

I ended up driving us to another bar on Milwaukee Avenue. More like a street FULL of bars. After searching for a parking spot for 30 minutes, my bladder decided that it was time to catch a fucking valet. I nearly ran over a guy in a red jacket, tossed him my keys and made my way into the basement bathroom of the bar closest to me. I must have pissed the length of the Golden Gate Bridge down there. I checked out my cash arrangement after I washed my hands, and headed back upstairs to the bar.

This place was a bit more swank than Rainbo, and apparently my date ALSO had to use the restroom. The ladies room door stood open in an angled hallway, and from where I was standing near the dance floor, I could see her from behind in the mirror just inside the door. She was lightly dancing to the beat of the music while fixing her hair and makeup. I could see why she was a stripper. She had an amazing body on a small frame, and she knew how to move it like a samurai knows how to wield a sword. This completely innocuous gesture was hypnotizing. And I don’t hypnotize easily.

She was in the bathroom for a good 20 minutes which made me feel like I was on a date with a real woman. When she came out, she confessed that she was putting on eyeliner…something she doesn’t usually do for her dates. She brushed the long bangs from in front of them and revealed…those fucking eyes. Even with the deep, relaxing buzz I was feeling, those eyes froze me like a deer in headlights. I mean, I’d SEEN them throughout the night, but never outlined and with the hair brushed away from them. It was like looking into passion. Fuck, I sound like a god damned perfume add.

I have to say; I was a bit reticent of going to downtown bars because it’s been so long since I’ve done so, but I was surprised at how easy it was to fall back into that lifestyle. I was down there every weekend in my twenties, and I was at the swank clubs spending the small fortune that my mother had left me a few years ago. However, because of my D.U.I., I hadn’t been to nearly ANY bars in a long time.

But, through HER flirtations and MY awesome ‘Sons of Anarchy’ t-shirt, we didn’t pay a cover at ANY bar we haunted. I’m tellin’ ya, this ‘SOA’ t-shirt I bought for 8 bucks at the fucking flea market, has opened more doors for me than a Harvard education. We bullshitted with bouncers, we talked to college kids about concerts they had been to earlier in the night, we were let into exclusive parts of clubs while others had to stand in a line or were turned away, and we even tried convincing a guy with a guitar to play while the stripper sang on the sidewalk. She was impulsive and had no fear of P.D.A.’s. We made out at various bars, and at one point I even dragged her into the men’s room with me. She was just as outrageous as I like to be, and also like me, she easily approached random people that she didn’t know. It was seriously like being on a date with a WAY hot she-Mike.

But, as it always does…the evening had to come to an end. We stopped at one of those hookah tobacco joints and she asked me to buy her roommate a pack of cigarettes. She told me that she was hungry so on the way back to her place I stopped and got her McDonalds. While waiting for her order, she called her roommate and then asked me if I would mind getting her and her bf some food too. What am I gonna say? No?

I drove her home and parked at the curb outside of her building. We talked about what a great time we had and agreed that we’d like to see each other again. When I went in to kiss her, she was more than receptive. The awkward ‘side kiss’ of a driver side/passenger side make out session, soon turned into her climbing on my lap with her back against the steering wheel. It was amazing. THIS was the spark I’ve been looking for. It didn’t feel like I was just kissing some girl, it felt like a beginning. This was the undeniable passion that I wanted and I memorized every second of that embrace. Her long hair surrounded our heads like a sheet pulled closed on a photo booth, offering that fake feeling of privacy. Occasionally she’d shift her position on my lap, and when she moved her head back to do so, our eyes would lock. I’d never wanted to fuck someone more in my life.

But because of the stories she told me earlier in the evening of the assholes she’d been involved with and the unexplainable things that men had done to her, I told her that we shouldn’t take it any farther. I wanted to see this woman again…and again. I didn’t want her to feel like I was just another asshole out for the booty juice. PLUS, I had just spent like 40 bucks on her friends and I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to ‘pay me back’.

She told me that her ‘friend’ was in town anyway, but continued to ignore my resistance by rubbing her ass against my Rogers and Hammerstein. Look, I TRY to be a nice guy, I really do, but in the end? I’m just a man. She pulled up her shirt to reveal her perfect breasts, and then put my hand on them as she continued to take it off completely. Oh, I was DYING! I HAD to have her. I don’t remember what she said, but she was whispering to me in that sexy voice while she unbuckled my belt. I pulled my pants down, and then she did the MOST amazing thing a woman has EVER done…

Now, I make a lot of jokes about my dingus. It’s not that big AND I watch a lot of porn which gives me a complex. It’s also not SO small that a woman has ever pointed and laughed at it before making pinky gestures at me. But, I always try to give chicks a ‘heads up’. You may be able to use it as a toothpick, but it’s NOT gonna choke you if that’s the kind of dick you want in your mouth. But, on this occasion I was feeling pretty good about my package, because I knew it was so well maintained at the moment.

Well, while looking me in the eyes, she licked her palm and put it on my double oh seven. Yeah, I call my dick James fucking Bond because he likes his pussy shaken…not stirred. AND he looks amazing in a tuxedo. As she gently stroked it she leaned in and whispered in my ear: “oooooh, it’s perfect”. OH MAN! Although I’ve never been laughed out of bed…NOBODY had ever said something so fucking hot to me EVER. Made me wanna MARRY a nigga.

Finally, I reached down and lay the seat all the way back; I’m WAY into this whole scene. There’s kissing, there’s groping, there’s wonderful breasts, and I can feel the cool night breeze blowing into my car. Then it gets even better. She climbs off of me and gets back into the passenger seat where she proceeds to lean over and take care a the kid. My god people, I know I say this EVERY time…but this was the best blow job I’ve ever gotten.

As she’s blowing me and doing JUST amazing things to my dork with her tongue, people are walking by on the street. Aaaaaand I’m pretty sure EVERY one of them could see that I was getting blown. I felt like Harvey Keitel in ‘The Bad Lieutenant’. I’m drunk, getting a blowjob from a stripper in my car at 3 o’clock in the morning after buying hamburgers for the junkie son of a millionaire fashion designer. By the way? I have to say that that is the most AWSOME sentence that I’ve ever written. Even better than ‘Getcher pussy off my foot’.  

Now that she was not on top of me, I had a clear view of the street and sidewalk though my windshield. I could SEE people walking by and turning their heads to look in my car as they passed. She stopped blowing me long enough to tell me that she thought it was kind of hot that other people were watching…apparently my dick didn’t mind either. Until ONE asshole had to ruin it.

I’m watching two guys walk past my car, and the one closest to us kept looking back over his shoulder as he went. He got about 20 feet in front of us, still looking back, and then turned and lightly fag jogged up to my passenger window which was half way open. The WHOLE time I’m watching this guy, I’m thinking, shit…what if this is a cop? I was drunk, so I forgot how little a Chicago cop would give a shit. Anyway, this guy puts his hands on the window, pokes his head in my truck and said: “can…can I get some of that?”

Seriously? Because I had the music going in the car and her head was down by the speaker, she didn’t hear this. I frantically and silently shooed him away with my hand, but he drunkenly persisted: “please? Wh-whe-when you’re done?”. “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE DICKNUGGET!” I shouted angrily at him as my patience with this asshole waned. While he ran away, the stripper sat up suddenly and put her head out of the window screaming after him.

My Rock of Ages diminished into a pebble and I put my hand on her shoulder and brought her back into the car. I had such a lovely evening with her that I didn’t want it to end with my hard on deflating and her mad on inflating. I told her to calm down. In reality, the guy wasn’t being an ass. He was just drunk and walked past a parked car with a guy getting his nut washed in it.  He probably thought you were a hooker. I might have done the same thing in his position. She found that flattering. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that this guy was probably a homasexule (yeah, I spell it that way) and wanted MY dick, not HER mouth. After all, he was wearing a v-neck sweater. Not ALL queers wear v-neck sweaters…but ONLY queers wear v-neck sweaters. To be honest…I was a bit flattered myself.

Well, she told me that she DEFINATLY wanted to see me the next day and we made tentative plans to hit a zoo or something on Sunday. I was feeling REALLY good about this one and while thinking of her, I drove home with my pants around my ankles, went upstairs, and beat my dick like it owed me money. Like fireworks in the summer sky I shot my ropes high into the air like those joke snake cans where you turn the lid and they jump out at ya, signaling the end of a perfect evening. 

And then, as is ALWAYS the case…the possibility bubble burst.

I stared at my phone all day on Sunday waiting for a call that wouldn’t come. Not out of desperation, but out of anticipation. I was eager to foster our mutual adoration. I didn’t want to call HER because I’m NOBODIES stalker. That evening, I went and had a lovely steak with Cous’n Hemp’n, after which we went to see ‘Wall Street 2’. After the movie, I went to my car and checked my phone. Yes, I’m the ONLY asshole on the planet that doesn’t bring his phone into the theatre. Still nothing. Strike one.

I went to bed that night making up excuses FOR her. “Ah, something probably came up”, or “Maybe a family member passed away”, or “she’s probably blowing that dickhead in the v-neck sweater!” But the next day when I woke up, my fears were put to rest. She had sent me a text late in the night saying that her roommate had brought someone home, and she just felt like staying in. But MONDAY night, she totally wanted to go out. Cool, I went to work that morning with that joy in my step that everyone could see. My employee’s kept saying “you MET someone, I can tell because you’re not a complete asshole today”.

After work, I called her with the intention of taking her out to a fine restaurant, and then maybe a movie back at my place. She said that she had just woken up, and wanted to get ready. She’d call me when she was done. Like I had done on Sunday, I got home and went overboard on the grooming. I was thinking about taking a nap, but I didn’t want to fuck up my hair, so I sat up on my bed watching TV and waited…and waited…and waited. Nothing. Finally, at 11 I got undressed and went to bed, not frustrated so much…but disappointed. Strike 2.

While I slept…she once again sent me a text late in the night…”My roommates junkie boyfriends asshole was bleeding, lot of drama at home today. I PROMICE we’ll go out tomorrow”. I called her on Tuesday afternoon and again, she had just woken up. She apologized for the previous evenings and told me that she would get ready and call me in a bit. “Are you SURE?” I asked her. “If you want, we can just make plans for later in the week…I’m off on Friday, so we can go out on Thursday night if you want.” Then she dropped the bomb.

“I’m going back to Pittsburgh on Thursday for a doctor’s appointment”.

Well, I didn’t quite know what to say to that, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to come up with anything because that night? She stood me up again.

Ok, I’ve ignored the fact that she’s apparently up ALL night EVERY night. I’ve ignored the fact she stood me up for her roommate’s boyfriends bleeding asshole. I’ve even ignored the fact that she told me her roommate brought someone home and then SHE stayed up all night. Her roommate has a boyfriend who lives there…so, WHO the fuck did she bring home? But now, with no job, no car, and NO money…she’s going to a doctor’s appointment in Pittsburgh? What am I? Wearing an ‘I’m an asshole’ t-shirt?

Strike fucking three, YOU’RE OUTTA HERE! I was starting to think that maybe ‘ex’ junkie wasn’t quite the correct version of junkie that she was. But look, it was one fucking date, an awesome date to be sure, but I’m not going to speculate as to her reasons for bullshitting me, IF she was bullshitting me at all. The fact is that my ego is way too fragile to be stood up THREE nights in a row.

Her stories have been filled with more holes than fucking Pinhead from ‘Hellraisor’s pillow. But, in her defense, she COULD very well be telling me the truth. My past relationships with women have been filled with more secrets and lies than my Uncle Jim’s dairy farm, and my failure to believe some things is purely an act of MY mistrust. NOT necessarily HER version of the truth. After all, trust isn’t born, it’s raised. I didn’t know her long enough to foster a trust with her.

In the end though, it really doesn’t matter does it? She’s either lied to me about moving away, OR she really did. Either way, it’s over. Another road not taken. I guess it’s for the best, because even if everything she said was true, she seems like the kind of woman who would always be JUST out of reach. Like that cookie jar that your mom kept on top of the fridge when you were a kid. You’d bring the chair over climb on it, reaching up with your arm stretched to the max on your tippy toes. When that didn’t work, you’d put the milk crate on the chair, and climb up to try again. When THAT didn’t work, you’d stack a few of your moms ‘Black Dick’s Shooting Ropes’ magazines on top of the milk crate and try again, then you’d put a bucket upside down on top of that and you’d keep reaching until you found yourself teetering on top of the pile you made before you woke up flat on your back with the wind knocked out of your lungs and cartoon stars dancing in front of your eyes.

Whatever the truth though, I have to thank her because she put gas into the tank of a car that was running seriously low on fuel. I was really on the verge of giving up my search for a decent woman because every girl I’ve met over the past year was like a fucked up talky version of Jodie Foster in ‘Nell’. But now I know that there are STILL women out there who can make me feel. No analogy…the stripper just made me ‘feel’ and for that I thank her from the bottom of my heart.

So even though I was never really gone, I’m back. I’m not looking for a perfect girl, quite the opposite. Perfection breeds intimidation. But I don’t want you to think that I’m ONLY into girls that are fucked up strippers either. I try to take women as they come. We ALL have problems and if we were to have a ‘who has the WORST problem’ contest with everyone in the world? The LAST mother fucker would win because each person’s issues are a bit more fucked than the last. So, I’ll put up with your shit, if you’re willing to put up with mine. I’ve realized recently that I’m not only looking for a meaningful and passionate relationship, but a responsible one as well. We have to be respectful of the shit we’ve BOTH been through, and if you’re out there…you can tell me anything. I won’t say that ‘I understand’ and I won’t make you feel like your problems don’t matter, what I will do is listen.

Wow, that made me sound really old. You’ve all just been witness to a major story arc in a bio movie of self discovery, and I gotta tell ya…I don’t like the actors; I’m disappointed in the editing, and I HATE the fucking director. This movie sucks.



  1. You know, this is the second post of yours where you attempt to explain why a woman would put up with (fill in blank) and you've said, "because he's hot", and "because he has a big cock". You are so wrong. Women put up with shit if a man appears to be able to take care of her. Men go for physical attributes...clear skin, red lips, wide hips, small waist, shiny hair, white teeth that suggest her health and youth...women are attracted to (we're talking potential life partners, not someone to just enjoy for brief spans) men who make her feel as if he will protect her, and men who make her feel as if they can take care of her, financially and physically.

    Of course there are exceptions, there always are, yet I truly believe this is fairly universal and related to evolution.

  2. Oh, I know how evolution is supposed to work and I've even USED the EVOLUTION argument on women whom I've found to be cheating. I've observed cheaters and been cheated on and it ALL comes down to a big cock. When you consider that the world has changed SIGNIFICANTLY in ONLY the past 150 years you have to consider that the options and ideals of evolution are changing as well. Men STILL need women who look good, but women no longer need a man to 'provide' for them. Hence my 'big cock' theory...(damn that's good, I'm like a 21st century Darwin)

  3. That's freaking awesome dude! I have had some sweet(no really) Plenty Of Fish, AND stripper stories, POF is the Pennysaver of Internet dating.

    Check my blog out..
    there may be some stuff that will give you ideas for
    your book. Good luck. I like your writing style.

    1. Thanks James, I will check out your blog...make sure you read the sequel to this called "How I Came to Get Punched in the Face by a Stripper".