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

Sunday, August 5, 2012

The Movie Snob: The Big Daddy Rises


I started writing this the Sunday after 'The Dark Knight Rises" came out, but I've been too busy until recently to finish it, sorry for the delay and I hope you didn't see it hoping that I would approve...cause I don't.
 

The Movie Snob:
The Big Daddy Rises
Brought to you by Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment
Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment, we’re as funny as you are ugly!
By Michael Allen Hempen
 

Can you guess what this is?
Ah! Another installment of the Batman franchise and another venture into the mists of dorkilvania! For those of you who haven’t seen The Dark Knight Rises yet, I’m going to give you a spoiler: you’re an asshole for not having seen it yet. However, you’re in luck because like most of my stories this one is more about my movie going experience than it is about ruining your enjoyment of said shitty movie, so here we go.

This past Saturday I met Cous’n Hemp’n and his hetero life-mate ‘Big Daddy’, which is a somewhat inappropriate nick name as it does little to prepare you for the reality of ‘Big Daddy’, at the Woodridge movie theater to see the 11:00PM showing of “The Dark Knight Rises”. I have a fondness for the Woodridge AMC because you could go there to see “The Avengers vs. Batman vs. James Bond” (Oh, it’ll happen) on opening night and there’d be 8 fucking people in the theater (6 of them being Cous'n Hemp'n and Big Daddy (2/4 respectively)). I don’t know how this place stays in business or how much longer they CAN stay in business, but I don’t really give a fuck. I’m simply going to enjoy the fact that I can see first run films on OPENING night without having to hear your wailing bar accidents, your african american people talk and/or scream “OH SNAP!” at every uninteresting plot point, or your fat white women scraping their fat sausage fingers loudly across the bottom of a popcorn box as they scoop up the congealed butter and un-popped kernels and crunch them between their nacho stained teeth so loudly that airports call to complain about the noise.

 
I’ve written about Cous’n Hemp’n many times so you may be familiar with him, but let me writingly introduce you to…Big Daddy. I haven’t seen Big Daddy in many a year mostly because he’s one of those robust gentlemen who is so large that he can’t leave his apartment for fear of having to walk up two steps to reenter it. Now, Cous’n Hemp’n has prepared me somewhat for the largess of Big Daddy, but this is one of those instances where words do little to for-tell the coming of his immaculate bigness.

Cous’n Hemp’n has known Big Daddy since they were children. In fact, the Cuz worked for Big Daddy’s brother until he was recently promoted. After he was promoted, Cous’n Hemp’n hired Big Daddy’s son to work in the warehouse he now runs. It’s amazing to me the people that other people will fuck. I mean, if Big Daddy didn’t have a son to prove he’s been laid at some point in his life, I’d just assume he’s a virgin. But apparently some drunken blind chick let Big Daddy stick his filthy fat pethis inside of her and now that gene pool carries on…God Bless America!

From what I’ve been told, Big Daddy has had many jobs over the years; He’s been a bouncer, a truck driver, and a Race Car Driver, it doesn’t surprise me that all of his jobs have been sitting positions but I find the race car driver gig the most confusing; I mean, wouldn’t you want someone LIGHT driving a race car? You wouldn’t fly a square airplane. Plus, to see the man I have to think that they build the cars around him because this mother fucker ain’t sqeezin’ in no window Dukes of Hazzard style.

My cousin’s hobby of the past several years has been to go to Aruba with Big Daddy, where the two of them bang hookers for a weekend. Apparently going off continent is the only way for either of these men to get laid, but I guess if you’re paying a chick she HAS to put in the effort to find your cock. As disgusting as Cous’n Hemp’n is however, even he is taken aback when he tells me of Big Daddy’s penchant for eating Aruban hooker pussy. The first time he divulged this to me, he puked a little down the front of his shirt. He also told me that these women have STD’s that are SO big you can see them with the naked eye. One time Big Daddy came out of a hotel room with a white crab the size of a fingernail hanging by one claw from his tongue.

I was recalling that last story as I pulled into the movie theater parking lot this past Saturday night, and wondering what a safe distance would be to stay away from Big Daddy. I pulled my car next to Cous’n Hemp’n’s truck and I noticed that his passenger door was open, so I walked over to say hi. When I got up to the car I was greeted with cold air blowing through the opened door. Now, this door wasn’t slightly ajar, it was open a good two inches and the air conditioning in the car must have been set to ‘morgue’ because my eyebrows and hair immediately frosted over when I came close, and it was a good 78 degrees outside. As it turned out, Big Daddy is SO fucking huge that my cousin had to drive to the theater with his passenger door open…ON A TRUCK, because it wouldn’t close. Not only that, but the a/c had to be jacked up as if he were trying to cool a giant panda with a fever.

I greeted them both and tried not to scream and run away like a Japanese man running from Godzilla. My cousin told me to wait there for him as he drove Big Daddy to the entrance of the theater. Now, you can sit there and talk about what an asshole I am all you want, but not only is everything I’m telling you in this story totally true…but this extremely fat fuck right here used to beat the shit out of me when I was a little kid, so fuck his fat ass.

Cous’n Hemp’n came back and we walked inside the theater. He and Big Daddy had already gotten me a ticket earlier in the evening, which was very generous of them, and we started to head to theater 17. Cous’n Hemp’n stopped off to take a leak and Big Daddy and I went on ahead. I walked behind Big Daddy as he lumbered in front of me like a giant stomping gleefully on a village. The back of his head looked like a swollen thumb as his body swayed from side to side like the Stay Puft Marshmellow man in “Ghostbusters”. Seriously people, he is THAT big. He looks like he’s about to burst out of his skin and whereas you and I have maybe a 1-2 inch horizontal sway when we walk, Big Daddy has a 7-12 inch one that’s not only amazing to watch as you fear he’ll tip over with every step, but it’s hauntingly hypnotizing as you can’t take your eyes off of it. As his body leans too far in one direction, his arms swing out in the other in what must be a Darwinian balancing act because Big Daddy is far too oafish to complete this task out of will power. It must be a ‘survival of the fattest’ reflex. Here’s a brief slide show to demonstrate what I saw as I walked down the long isle to theater 17:
Ba-DOOM!
Stomp!

BA-DOOM!
STOMP!
Ba-DOOM!
STOMP!
 Big Daddy is also one of those unfortunate people who has the intellect of, well…most Wal-Mart Americans. He laughs at every unfunny pun (I fucking HATE puns), he reasons out what’s happening on the screen to himself (At one point in the movie he said out loud to nobody in particular “Oh, she’s with THOSE guys”, a fact the rest of us gleaned 40 minutes ago), and he thinks that every preview for every dumb flick is going to be the best flick ever made.



Big Daddy walked down the closest isle to the theater entrance and sat mid way down. Well, ‘SAT’ is a subjective term, more like he let his legs go limp and fell backward into the seat. There was a large THUMP and a groan as the inanimate movie theater seat wondered why it had been sent to “Movie Theater Seat Hell.” There was a good thirty minutes before the show was set to start so I texted my girlfriend as we waited for Cous’n Hemp’n to return. “Who you texting? Yours boyfriend? HoHO HO HO HO HA!” said Big Daddy in an oafish voice. “It is, didn’t Cous’n Hemp’n tell you? I’m all about the cock now.” I figured that if ANYTHING could fit under that tight sausage casing skin of his…that would. Ever notice how fat guys are always republican Christians for some reason? There was silence for a few moments as I ignored Big Daddy and continued texting my girlfriend. You could hear the gears trying to crank out a new insult in his head when he suddenly burst out “Well I better not see’s that phone on when the movies playing or I’ll punches you upside the fucking heads.” Ah, you gotta love dumb guys…they always immediately turn to threats…so I moved down one seat. “Check and mate” I said as I continued texting, he wasn’t getting out of that seat unless a semi drove into it from behind and launched his big ass out of it.

Cous’n Hemp’n came in and sat 1 seat away from Big Daddy on the other side and the two of them homosexually discussed my homosexuality in a stunning bit of gay irony until the movie started. So, let’s bring up the curtain on what I saw as I sat 2 seats away from Big Daddy while he drank a 32oz butter.

First off can we please stop advertising TV shows before the movie starts? I remember last year movie theaters advertised the shit out the show “Missing” which they claimed was a ‘must see’ because it boasted Academy Award Winner Ashley Judd. Is she somehow related to Judd Nelson? Because that’s the only reason I’d want to see her in anything. As I predicted the show tanked after 6 episodes and was not renewed. THIS year I’m being inundated with a show called “Coma”. Well folks, TV has finally done it…a show about a person sleeping. My instinct is to give it 3 episodes, but based on Big Daddies more excited than usual breathing, it’ll probably be a hit.

Then came the previews; “Total Recall”…doesn’t look horrible, but that midget Russell Crowe guy just did another remake called “Fright Night” which may have been the worst movie I saw last year. Then there was “Man of Steel”, which will surely be a wholly pretentious look at Superman and is brought to you by the creators and editors of a bunch of movies you might have liked and actually starring and directed by people you’ve never heard of…meaning it’ll suck ass. I swear it said on the screen at one point “Edited by the guy who edited that expensive movie from last summer…you know the one…with the robots and the transforming!”

Then came the coup de gras…I wanted to kill Big Daddy for his frothing exuberance at what I was being shown on screen, but I figured the odds were in my favor that he’d choke on a milk dud before the movie was over so I didn’t bother; “Oz”. People, what’s my one film rule? What is my one truth that reaches into the heart of all movies? The ONE Hollywood fact that Hollywood just keeps ignoring? “There has never been a bad movie with a midget in it, and there’s never been a GOOD movie with a hot air balloon.” The preview for “Oz” STARTS with James Franco in a hot air balloon and I predict this one will tank as badly for Disney as I predicted “John Carter” would.

Finally the horrible previews ended, the lights went dim, the 4 other people in the theater shut the fuck up, and as the curtains opened all the way exposing the huge screen, I shut off my cell phone. Unfortunately there seemed to be a problem with the movie theater’s HVAC system. A noise cut through the silence and overpowered the Dolby Surround Sound as the feature started. It sounded like someone was sawing a cat in half. It was as if the theater itself were vibrating as the sound gripped all of us and shook the marrow in our bones; a deep throaty grumbling sound permeated the air and rattled our very souls…it was Big Daddy breathing. Jesus Christ, eat an apple you monster.

I’ll try to convey to you the disappointment I felt in Christopher Nolan’s third Batman outing, or as much of it as I could understand through Big Daddy’s awake snoring. My first reaction was “yawn”. It’s a Batman movie without Batman in it for the first 40 fucking minutes. This is the kind of shit that assholes pull when they remake a movie from 4 years ago (thank you spider man). This is an established character in a prominent franchise; do we really need to pull the “I’m retired” shit? I mean this is a character that’s been around since the 30’s. One of the first rules of comic books is that time kind of stands still for them. It felt as if Christian Bale went up to Nolan and said “I don’t feel like there’s enough of ME in these movies….I’d like to dialogue more as Bruce Wayne”, doesn’t that just SOUND like something some Hollywood asshole would say? I’m sure by Avengers 3 Robert Downey Jr. will be wearing a see through Iron Man suit because the red and yellow one doesn’t do justice to his abs.

Next with the fucking monologuing already. It felt like Nolan said “well, this is the last one so let’s everybody speech it up!” Catwoman, Bane, Commissioner Gordon, Alfred, Batman, Bruce Wayne…they all get these unbelievably long monologues throughout the movie that I could have done without. At the end of her FIRST one, Catwoman sais “There’s a storm coming” and I wish she was right so it could have knocked the power off in the movie theater. Just under 3 hours of this shit and the only good parts in the movie didn’t even make sense. Let me explain.

So, Bane wants to continue in Ras Al’Ghouls footsteps and destroy Gotham. Why all these assholes have a hard on for this city is beyond me, Gotham seems like every other boring asshole city in America. But fine, his goal is to take a clean energy fusion reactor that Wayne Enterprises has built and turn it into a hydrogen bomb. So, Bruce Wayne comes out of retirement after 8 years, tells Alfred to fuck off, gets his back broken by Bane, and thrown into a Russian prison. Great. Bane has the bomb now, all he has to do is blow up the city. No opposition. But no, for NO reason, he decides he’s gonna wait 5 months and turn Gotham into a police state, unleashing it’s criminals on it to, what? Throw rich people out of their apartments. Oh, and SURPRISE! 5 months is JUST the right amount of time to recover from a broken back. Batman comes back, Catwoman kills Bane, and they leave the movie open for a sequel that we know will never come. Thank you assholes. A more appropriate, and punny title for this movie would have been “Bat-Man’s Back!”

Then there was the rest; First and foremost, if you’re going to make the movie happen EIGHT fucking years after the last one…make your actors look like they’ve AGED appropriately in that time period. I don’t know if Nolan knows this…but it doesn’t take 8 years to grow a go-t so that’s not an appropriate meter for gauging the passage of time. Next, Bane wears that cute little mask over his mouth because some Russian Prisoners did some horrible unspeakable damage to that 4 square inch area of his face a long time ago. The pain is SO unraveling that he needs to wear that little mask to feed some sort of pain killer into his mouth. My question; Teeth, lips, tongue…if they ripped any of these things out, and they could be the ONLY things causing him so much pain…why does he have the diction of an opera announcer? Next, hasn’t Morgan Freeman ALREADY done a movie about a clean energy fusion reactor in which Keanu Reeves played Batman or something?

Look, Wal-Mart Americans and virginesque geeks across the country are gonna love this movie because it’s shiny and long. People will always confuse quantity with quality when it comes to film. Christopher Nolan figured out what a lot of directors haven’t, and that’s that the longer a movie is, the more confused the audience gets, and since Americans can’t admit they’re confused or don’t understand something, they’ll just say that they love it and keep flocking to the theater. It’s the same way with Big Daddy and food. He’ll just keep shoveling it into his mouth not giving a tinkers cuss what it tastes like or what he looks like as long as some 18 year old Aruban hooker keeps snorkeling under his gunt for that cock of his…even when it’s Cous’n  Hemp’n who’s dressing up like an Aruban hooker.

So all in all I give “The Dark Knight Rises” my NEW form of film judgment…a resounding “Big Daddies head down”





Sunday, June 17, 2012

The Eulogy of Frederick Lipkie


The Eulogy of Frederick Lipkie
By Stephen Lipkie and Michael Allen Hempen


The Mother (Pat), Steve, The Father
(Fred), Trish, and Sue
The word “The” is described in the dictionary as “A definite article used before a noun denoting somebody that is understood by the speaker as distinct from “A’ or “an”” The Lipkie family has taken that word and made it their own and nowhere is it’s use more clear and distinct than when used to describe, not A family member, such as a sister or a brother…but THE family members, like The Mother, The Grandmother, and of course…The Father.

Fred Lipkie, or “The Father”, had a rough road recently.  But he was used to taking punishment even before he met The Wife and was blessed with The Children. Steve told me that when the Father was young he would go out with his the brother George and their friends while his the Mother would lay awake waiting for them to return.  When they would finally stagger home, George would purposely volunteer to go in first so he could duck…allowing Fred to take a “welcome home” shoe to the face.

Fred’s co-workers at Chicago Metallic often told the family what a loyal, hard-working employee he was, but the Father was always a family man first—putting his children and wife before work.  He always stood behind his kid’s dreams and aspirations, never pushing them into something they didn’t want to do and always encouraging them to become productive and positive members of society. He once suggested to Steve that he take up drafting as a college major. Steve went on to take classes in the subject and coupled with the love of nature that the Father instilled in him, he went on to become a Landscape Architect.

With these types of actions, the Father served as a teacher—leading by example and providing subtle direction in life: of learning how to catch a fish, play baseball, and root for the White Sox and whomever the Cubs played that day!!!  (Apparently they’re still in 1st place, Fred!!!)

As for the household, one of the more frequently overheard comments to the Mother was:  “How many times do I have to tell you to buy me a shirt with a pocket!!!”  The Mother would always say about the Father, “The Germans are hard to get going, but they’re also hard to stop once they realize they’re having a good time.”  And that was always true with Fred to the end. The Father could be heard to say recently that these weren’t the golden years that he was promised, to which a friend of his said “That’s because you stopped drinking” 

The Father was always smarter than the kids thought and when they were “know-it-all-teenagers,” they would throw house parties while the parents were away. After laboriously cleaning up the mess that many of us in this room made, they would find out weeks later that the Father knew about the party all along…but he never said anything because he liked having a spotless house when he came home from his trip.

More than anything the Father was a gentle man.  When it comes to child-rearing, parents say “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”  But it was especially true with the Father.  Regardless of how much the family provoked him, he would never lay a hand on them. And as with most men of his time, Fred was not one to express his emotions.  In fact, that’s why he identified with the strong, silent characters in Westerns, like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood.  Steve mentioned recently that the Mother wasn’t always aware of just how much Fred cared for her.  But he did—always.  That was his style—understated but sincere.

“The Father” left behind a legacy of family values that every father should aspire to. Fred was a patient man, a devoted father, and a loving grandfather. So many of us go through life seeking approval and love, but Fred gave them both to his family without them having to search it out. His lack of hesitation in giving all of himself over to his children was the source of which that same support was returned to him a thousand fold by the people who dominated his thoughts daily; Trish, Steve, Sue, their husbands, wives, sons and daughters. Fred’s wife Pat and matriarch of the Lipkie family walked with him through the greatest part of his life and led him by the hand on his journey through inspiring family devotion. It’s Fred’s devotion to the lives he touched that is the legacy he now leaves behind. I’m proud to have known Fred, and I’m proud to know his family. Just being in their presence has made me a better man and in that way Fred has touched all of us…and will live on in our memories and in the actions we take to reach the summits of love that he so effortlessly gave to his everyone around him. This is not the end for Fred…this is the beginning because I know that his name will be on the lips of all the Lipkies’ to come as it has been in the hearts of all the Lipkies there are. Thank you Fred, for letting me into your family, for opening the door in your heart, for leaving behind the legacy of your children…who I’m proud to call MY family.

Steve Lipkie is now the patriarch of the Lipkie Family and where some may see that as a burden, I know Steve will embrace this responsibility with the dignity, honor, and pride with which Fred did. Steve has held many titles in the family: The son, the brother, the cousin, the nephew, and the uncle. And although there can never be a replacement for Fred, he’s smiling down on his family knowing that they’re in good hands as Steve goes from being A father…to being The Father. And thus the legacy of Frederick Lipkie carries on.

Summing up his life, Steve was reminded of the familiar Bible verse from the Corinthians so common in weddings, although not usually at funerals. He asked me to read it to you now…but with a slight twist:

The Father was patient, The Father was kind. He did not envy, he did not boast, he was not proud. He was not rude, he was not self-seeking, he was not easily angered, he kept no record of wrongs. The Father did not delight in evil but rejoiced with the truth. He always protected, always trusted, always hoped, always persevered.

The Father was Love…IS Love…and That Love will persevere.

Friday, May 18, 2012

The Friend Zone Season 3


The Friend Zone
Season 3 (of 3)

(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di)  You unlock this vagina with the key of romance. Beyond it is another dimension; a dimension of joy, a dimension of laughter, a dimension of happy devotion. You’re moving into a land of both substantive beauty and childlike wonder; But then your hope is turned to fear as the relationship rug is pulled out from under you and you realize that the vagina you’ve just crossed over into, resides in…The Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)

By: Michael Allen Hempen

Brought to you by: Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment

Featuring: Rod Serling


Episode 7: A Penis Out of Time

Rod Serling: Submitted for your approval, or at least your analysis; one Michael Allen Hempen; Who at age 38 is the horniest man on Earth. He holds a masturbatory record for the most jism spewed into a two liter mountain dew bottle during the course of a day, and it’s very likely that as of this moment he would have gone through life in precisely this manner. A dull argumentative bigmouth who sets back the art of civil conversation a thousand years. I say he very likely WOULD have except for something that will soon happen to him. A revelation that will considerably alter his existence and ours…in the friend zone.

Part of me hoped Irena would text me during the week, but she didn’t. As my frustration brought on by ANOTHER failed attempt at bedding a woman mounted, I began becoming short with people, misplacing the anger I felt at myself and dumping it on the rest of the world. I started reading ‘women seeking men’ posts on Craigslist and sending scathing retorts to their authors. Here’s an example of one such outburst.

Female Author: “I'm in an unfulfilling long term relationship with a guy. I miss the days of passion and feeling wanted. I'm looking to get to know a nice guy and let them get to know me through texting/email. I don't really want to end the relationship because I feel that I am just in a rut at the moment and I will get over it eventually. Therefore, I'm not looking for sex or even meeting.”

My Response: "You may be the worst person on the planet and I hope a piano falls on your fucking head. So let's get this straight, you want ME to get to know you through text/email JUST on the off chance that you're going to decide to cheat on your boyfriend? This guy must be a retard for not seeing you for the filthy who-er that you are. This idea of yours is TEN times worse than just cheating on him. Not only are you fucking HIM over by concocting this mad scheme, you're trying to fuck over some potential dude who has yet to be determined by offering him a headache and blue balls. How fucking narcissistic are you? Man, I really hope you're hot because it's going to be SO much more satisfying to think of you hitting the wall one day and watching men go from hitting ON you, to just hitting you. You're a bad, bad chick; you go to hell."

And it just got worse from there. It’s been a long time since I’ve let a woman dictate my feelings, but I was genuinely depressed at the thought of not having been able to pull this one off. I mean, hot or not; I really liked Irena and my cavalier attitude towards women and dating, an attitude that I’ve developed over the years because I usually figure things won’t work out any way; came crashing down on top of me.

Playing the role of a clown can take its toll on you. It’s easy to MEET a woman that way, but how do you talk yourself down from the ledge of humor? It’s even harder to give up that comedy crutch when confronted with a beautiful woman. My lack of self confidence in the face of HER strong decisive poise intimidated me, and forced me to joke TOO much. Why should she take me seriously? Even I can’t do that sometimes. It’s hard to let a woman through the thick cemented underground bomb shelter that I’ve encrusted my TRUE self inside of; but in Irena’s case I wanted to throw open the bulky steel door and let the sunlight of her elegance burst into my refuge from above. Alas, I don’t know how to express that wish wordlessly…so talking turns to joking, and joking is the key that turns the lock on the door to…The Friend Zone. (I could LITERALLY come up with a way to end EVERY paragraph like that.)

Then I got the text. “Can we please be going back to the way it was?” I wanted SO desperately to ignore that text, to let sleeping dogs lie and NOT dig my emotions farther into the trench…but I’m weak people…WEAK I tell ya, you gotta help me! I told her to call me and asked her what she meant by that. She did and told me over the phone that SHE didn’t realize Monday night was a booty call, and the only reason she spurned my advance was because she didn’t want me to think she was a slut. “So I still have a chance?” I said, shoving my foot in my mouth until it came out my ass and wiggled its toes at me. “I am very satisfy in my life right now and not looking to be committed into a relationship, but we could be physical and only friend.” Fuck, the Friend Zone is a GLOBAL phenomenon. Hell, it’s probably Universal. I imagine that somewhere out there, Cokulon from the planet Dicktar is sitting back confused and befuddled after having one of his twelve dicks sucked by Clitula from the planet Vaginato, when she said to he/it; “I really like you as a FRIEND Cokulon” (yes, in my imagination Eastern European women have more of an accent than aliens).

Well, anyway…I thought to myself “You’re an adult Mike, people have relationships like this all the time…Can you live with it?” We all know I think too much. I know how the friend zone starts, but I ALWAYS feel I can change things. There are 2 different friend zones as far as I can tell. The one in which the chick WON’T fuck you because she doesn’t see you as a sexual threat, and the one in which she DOES fuck you but her who-erish nature makes her feel the need to fuck other people. “A who-er is someone who fucks everyone, and a bitch is someone who fucks everyone but you” THIS statement sums up the friend zone perfectly.  However, a woman who SAIS she’ll fuck me, but just wants to be my friend gives me hope because I have to think that if I bring the ruckus to that ass…she’ll stick around. It’s a psychological friend zone in which I feel that a woman is more afraid to commit rather than unwilling; and I figure that if I can assuage that fear, I’ll find myself stepping out of The Friend Zone and into…the Relationship Worm Hole…but that’s a title for another series of stories. I mean, if the sex is good; why does she need to fuck someone else? And if we’re exclusive, then we’re dating. Call me a Cro-Magnon, but I would hope a woman I’m fucking wouldn’t fuck someone else during the time that I’M fucking her; that’s ALL I ask. I’m not demanding of a woman’s time, I’m not stalky or overly jealous…all I ask is don’t be a who-er. Unfortunately in 2012, this request is harder for a woman to grant than asking Obama to legalize marijuana. In fact, I would probably do VERY well in the friend zone, as long as there was a sign post in it that read “No fucking other people while in the Friend Zone”.

But what if I’m wrong? What if the chick wants to fuck me, but REALLY just wants to be friends? I’ll be honest with you here, I just don’t know how to fuck a ‘friend’. Here me out; when I fuck a woman, I like to be romantic with the candles and the soft music and the what not. I like to say sweet and engaging things that women want to hear which will moisten them like a baby wipe. A woman’s mind needs to be stimulated as much as her body and I’d feel like an asshole pitching woo to a ‘friend’. When I think of a friend I think of Steve whom I go to baseball games, funerals, and titty bars with. I don’t wanna fuck Steve so why would I wanna fuck a female version of Steve? Men and women were meant to fuck, that’s in NO way a put down on the gay community; that’s a different dynamic within the same genre. But men and women weren’t MEANT to be just friends. I mean hell, Jesus was the friendliest mother fucker EVER according to Catholics, but he wasn’t FRIENDS with Mary Magdolin…he was fucking her.

Plus, if I were to fuck a woman as a friend, I have a fear that as we’re making out in my bedroom and randomly groping each other’s various areas, I’m going to whisper in her ear as I’m kissing her neck “I can’t imagine wanting a woman more than I want you right now”, she’s gonna put her hand on my chest, push me back and say with her brows furrowed “whoa buddy, just friends; remember?” Then, as she’s riding my cock and screaming “DUDE!” and “BRO!”, I’ll be staring up at her with a confused look on my face thinking “shit…Steve calls me ‘Dude’ and ‘Bro’…” Jesus, maybe I DO wanna fuck Steve.

For me, there has to be a modicum of passion and desire when I’m fucking a woman and I can’t get behind (both literally AND figuratively) fucking a ‘friend’. I want her to spend the night, I want her to be as comfortable around me as I am around her, I want to make her breakfast in the morning; in short, I DO want to be her friend but I want to be the ONLY friend she’s fucking. And therefore a JUST friendship with a woman simply can’t work for me. But in this instance? I was gonna try like hell to live with it. I mean, this would be a sexual boon on par with men landing on the moon, the invention of the microchip, or the Berlin wall coming down. This was a moment in vaginal history which would firmly cement my cock in the annals of ugly man greatness. This would be a story that my ugly grandchildren would someday tell THEIR ugly grandchildren and so on throughout the future. Friend Zone? Here I come!

As we talked on into the night, Irena told me that besides not liking condoms, she can no longer get pregnant. Wait, WHAT? If I wasn’t sure before, I was damned well sure now. This woman is TINY, I think I’m being generous when I say 5’2”, which is great because her small hands would make my average dork look like a fucking softball bat, and I gotta admit…that was part of the attraction from the beginning. Couple that with NO condom and the possibility of her pulling me close to her at some point and whispering heavily into my ear “come inside me”, and fuggetaboutit! I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more in my life; but the thing about desire is that it can be wholly selfish, and I often find that in my selfishness; there’s always a cummupence.

Rod Serling: Mr. Michael Hempen, a romantic in a world of fast food sex, a product of a bygone era in which men were men and treating a woman with respect was the honorable thing to do. Mr. Michael Hempen who has found out through trial and error –mostly error- that with all its sexual ambiguity, with all of its devotional deprivation, it may well be that this is as good as it’s going to get. Love notwithstanding, sex has much to offer. Tonight’s case in point…in The Friend Zone.


Episode 8: The Bang-Over

Rod Serling: You’re looking at a tableau of vaginal reality; a woman of substance, of great physical beauty.  29 years old, 5 feet 2 inches tall, 105 pounds, and perfect 32 c breasts that sit perkily above her flat stomach. These features exist and have dimension. Now this is Michael Hempen, age 38; not a grotesque man, but certainly not an aesthetic equal to our previous subject, however he is also real. He has flesh and blood, muscle and mind. But in just a moment we will see how thin a line separates that which we assume is real and that which we manufacture in our thoughts. For in a moment Michael Hempen will be pulled abruptly from a fantasy which he’s cast like a shadow in the light of his own narcissism, he will be pulled from that fantasy and thrown deep into the reality of…The Friend Zone.

I already made plans to go out with Cous’n Hemp’n that Saturday night to see The Avengers and, having read a story of mine about Cous’n Hemp’n, Irena wanted to come along. Because she was closer to the theater than my place, she decided to meet us at a restaurant near it. Cous’n Hemp’n picked me up and I gave him a hundred dollar bill because I knew he’d pay for dinner on his credit card anyway. Normally, Cous’n Hemp’n always pays, but if I have a woman coming out with us, I’ll carry my own weight AND hers; I mean, we have the kind of relationship where I can feel comfortable with him footing the bill for me, but although he probably WOULD do it, I just feel it would be…inappropriate to ask him to pay for my date…or friend…whatever.

How a woman can come up with a different outfit every time I see her that makes her look MORE attractive than the last time, is just fucking beyond me. Irena met Cous’n Hemp’n and I at the restraint, wearing an orange shirt, tight jeans, and a matching orange gypsy scarf on her head…what can I say? The chick digs head gear. She was also wearing super high heels which made her walk like she was floating on air. Cous’n Hemp’n’s jaw nearly hit the floor when she walked in and he later told me that this chick HAS to have a cock; that could be the ONLY explanation for why she was hanging out with me. The three of us talked, ate, and drank and to my surprise, Cous’n Hemp’n didn’t embarrass me at all. Until the bill came. Cous’n Hemp’n made a comment about always having to pay for everything without acknowledging MY contribution. In fact, the bill was only fifty fucking bucks and Irena and I had only had 3 bloody Marys between the two of us. Was this mother fucker hitting on my date…lady friend…whatever the fuck? What was I gonna do? Lean over to her, raise an eyebrow, and say with a sly grin on my face “You know…I paid for that.”, the thought of doing that gave me douchechills…so I let it go.

After dinner, I hopped in Irena’s car as The Cuz followed us to the theater. Cous’n Hemp’n had already gotten us three tickets to the show, and as Irena went to the bathroom, I asked him to give me two of them…and he fucking refused. “Chris, you already made it look like you paid for dinner, now gimme the tickets so I don’t look like a cheap ass” Like a 12 year old he played keep away from me as I grabbed for them, hopping in the air and bouncing around him trying to grab them away like a nerd trying to get his milk money back from a bully.

Just then, Gordon showed up and offered me the distraction I needed to occupy Cous’n Hemp’n as Irena came out of the bathroom. I’m convinced Gordon doesn’t have the ability to show emotion, so he was unfazed by Irena’s beauty. I asked her if she wanted anything from the concession stand, and to be honest I was kinda hoping she’s say that she wanted popcorn because I’ve always wanted to try that popcorn trick from “Diner”. You know the one; you cut a hole in the bottom of the popcorn box, stick your dick through and when she gets to the bottom? You both get a surprise (yes, extra butter).

Although…now that I think about it…you’d have to maintain a hard on the entire time. I mean, what if it took her like an hour to get to the bottom? God forbid she asks for an extra large box, you’d just end up going home with a buttery dick. And then what if she wanted to blow you later? How do explain that your dick tastes like a salt lick? What is she, a horse? Plus, if she DID make it to the bottom IN the theater, after an hour…there’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box. That’s the first thing they teach you at clown college, in fact I think that’s the clown college motto which adorns their hallowed gates on a bronze plaque: “There’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box” – Yukko The Clown.

After the movie, Irena offered to drive me home. We talked the whole way there and she let me in a bit deeper into her life. She also told me that she had to be up early to go to church and it was already 230 in the morning. I was fine with that because to be honest with you, between the uncomfortable seats in the theater, and feeling a bit gassy from the food and booze earlier, I wasn’t up for more rejection anyway. I decided to take the evening for what it was; a nice night filled with good food, a good movie, and great company. There would be time for rejection later.

About a week later to be exact.

Irena and I made tentative plans to go out the next Thursday. I agonized throughout the week as to what we’d do. I wanted to get her flowers and take her someplace nice for our 4th outing; and THIS is why it’s difficult for me to be in the friend zone. I’m ALWAYS looking to, not so much impress a woman, as show her a good time. I want a woman to go out with me and think “shit, I wasn’t expecting THAT.” When I called her on Wednesday to ask her what time she’d like to go out, she told me “This is why I am not having a boyfriend. I don’t like to making plan, I will call you tomorrow when I am ready”

Jeez, wanna throw THAT in my face again? I wasn’t calling to ask her which banquet hall we should have our wedding reception in for fucks sake, I just wanted to know if I should eat dinner after work or would we be going OUT for dinner? Throwing a time stamp on the beginning of our evening would just be a nicety; you know, something a fucking FRIEND might do. After not hearing from her all day on Thursday, I cleaned the apartment and got myself ready for when and IF she would call…although not with NEARLY the amount of enthusiasm I did on previous evenings; but still dancing to the Thong Song as I showered.

Irena called me at 930 and asked if I’d still like to go out. And I said sure, although I should have had my head examined. In my mind, all day, I pictured the two of us going out to dinner; talking, and then coming back to my place to watch a movie, during which I would eventually yawn while stretching and surreptitiously putting my arm around her, waiting patiently for her to reach the bottom of the popcorn box on my lap. Man, do I have an ancient view of what a date should be or what? Next I’ll be asking her to wear my letter and eventually getting us separate beds like Lucy and Ricky.

Anyway, that fantasy was dashed when she told me she wanted to get high and stay in her neighborhood. She told me to meet her at a bar in Elmwood Park. Now, without pulling out and unfolding a map in front of you like a lost tourist, it would be hard to illustrate to you just how far that would be. I mean, it’s easy enough to get to, as It’s right off of Harlem Avenue, which I live 2 blocks away from. The problem is that it’s 40 minutes down Harlem Avenue.

But as I’ve said before, I’m always down to try something new, and although I would be shocked and disappointed at one point in the evening…the evening itself didn’t disappoint at all.

I drove down Harlem and parked near a Latino nightclub on Grand Avenue, where she asked me to meet her. Like last time, I was the only white guy there AND like last time, I went in and had a drink. At this point I just didn’t give a fuck…I NEEDED a drink. I have to say, the place was beautiful but for the life of me I can’t remember the name of it. There were deep black sofa chairs set up in circles around dark mahogany wood tables. The lights were dim and an 8 person salsa band was setting up on a small stage to the right of the entrance. Hispanic men wearing silk shirts and brimmed hats talked with beautiful Hispanic women in tight dresses, ready to dance the night away.

I sat at the bar watching what looked like a Miami nightclub in the ‘50s unfold before me; When Irena came in. I want you to forget, for a moment, ALL of the ass kissing I seem to have done in these tales about Irena. Forget if you will the beauty I’ve described in her body…her face…and how her outfits complimented those features; forget it all and marvel for the first time at what I saw that Thursday night at 10:32 PM at the Club Babaloo or whatever the fuck, in Elmwood Park.

Irena came into the nightclub, hovering elegantly 5 inches above the floor as she walked effortlessly on high heels. She wore the tiniest denim mini skirt I’d ever seen, which was more of a belt than a skirt. Above it, a tight white sleeveless shirt clung to her perfect figure, and a white and purple scarf adorned her neck, wrapped around it several times and hanging low to cover her tits. It was a perfect mixture of shocking exposure and withheld delights. She wore no hat this night, exposing the black roots on her head that flowed down into the most beautiful blonde hair I’ve ever seen. Every eye in the club turned to her, including the band. Is there ANY place I could go with this woman in which she wouldn’t be the most beautiful woman there?

A desire built within me as she walked across the dance floor to meet me at the bar; a desire that threatened to expose itself like an old man, naked but for a trench coat on a subway car. Usually I can curb this feeling, tell myself “it’s only a chick”, but in this case I wanted her so bad that I could feel my stomach doing summersaults, I could hear my heart quickening in my chest as every other sound in the room faded out and Irena came towards me in slow motion; my mind capturing that image to compare all future dates to. Tonight I was going to fuck this woman, obviously she was thinking the same thing; otherwise, why dress like that? I would fuck her in the bathroom of this nightclub if I could, in an alley outside the bar, in my car, hers, I didn’t care…all I knew was that I wanted her in that moment more than I wanted anything in any moment throughout my time on this planet. Friend zone, fuck zone, girlfriend or enemy; tonight I was willing to be that man outside of Exit with a cigarette in his mouth if it meant getting physically closer to Irena.

She sat beside me at the bar, and when she crossed her legs on the bar stool, about 90 percent of her ass was exposed to the dance floor in front of us. Heads snapped as men AND women did double takes, not quite believing the ferocity and boldness in which she carried herself, even while sitting. She was high, which just made it easier to make her laugh; “Joke, joke, self deprecation, joke…COMPLIMENT!” I told myself….”Stick to the formula.”

I ordered her a drink and we laughed for the next hour when the band began to play. These guys were great with the bongos and the cow bell and the what not; and Irena fit in perfectly to the atmosphere and ambiance of the bar. Her laughter filled the air like smoke USED to when you could smoke in a bar. She made sexual overtures to me and at one point even showed me the tiny pink underwear she was wearing just underneath that tiny skirt. People…believe me when I tell you I was ready to fuck her ON the bar. This was in the bag, a sure thing. I just needed to make sure I didn’t fuck it up. I forced myself to say all the right things, to SHOW her how much I was enjoying her company, to not think about being in the friend zone. I stayed IN the moment; future be damned I wanted this woman and tonight I would give her not just the best of me…but ALL of me.

Irena told me that she wanted to go outside and smoke a cigarette. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and asked her to wait for me as I strapped my hulking boner down to my left leg, which forced me to goose step as I came back into the bar like John Cleese in the Institute of Silly Walks. As we smoked outside, Irena moved her body to the sound of the music coming from inside the bar, and I couldn’t help but admire her; not just her beauty but her spirit, her freedom of expression, and as always…her laughter. How much longer must I continue this farce? To pretend my longing to feel her against me wasn’t a lecherous pervert standing between us? My desire to bed this woman threatened to explode like a volcano. Trying to stop objectifying her, I brought myself back down to earth by asking her questions. When we talked on the phone earlier, she told me that she was having a bad day, and as we talked outside the nightclub; my desire nearly bursting through me, I asked her if her day had gotten better.

“This is wonderful Mike” she told me sounding like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle, and then coming close to me, putting her hand on my chest, and balancing herself on one leg with the other playfully kicked back like a nurse kissing a soldier in old post World War II ticker tape parade photo. “My morning was SO bad; I had bang over…” I didn’t really pay attention to what she said after that, as I cocked my head to the side wondering if I heard her correctly. When she stopped talking I asked “Bang-over? Surely you mean HANG over?” Irena laughed again and marijuanaly turned around in a circle, as she came around to face me she said, VERY non-chalantly “No, is bang over. This is where I am fuck stupid the night before” At least that’s how I heard the definition; and then she strutted back towards the bar.

The bouncer opened the door for her and as she walked back in I stood outside with awe rippling across my slack jawed face; I looked up into the unforgiving night sky and screamed “KHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN! (khhaaannn! Khhhhaaan!)” while shaking my fists in the air.

WHY did you have to tell me that? My once proud boner disintegrated and turtled itself up inside of me. Even if she WANTED to fuck me now, I couldn’t do it! I just imagined that her pussy was all red and swollen from the pounding some unibrowed calling card salesman had given her the night before. PLUS she doesn’t like condoms and sperm stays inside of a woman for up to 5 mother fucking days! I wasn’t gonna fuck her using some other guy’s Ukrainian semen as a lubricant. AHHHHHH! My dreams were dashed because let’s face it, there was probably a veiny cock imprint on her vaginal wall like someone thumbed a number two pencil into play dough.

How many times had she USED that term, I kept wondering to myself. And how prolific in her ‘bang overs’ must she be if I’VE never heard of it? I have my OWN dictionary of terms with words like this in it, I’ve researched and travelled the globe to come up with funny and unique sexual plays on common words and in ALL my travels, in all my communications with communist dictators and terror cells TRYING to get them to open up some of their unique brand of sexual humor, I’ve never come across ‘Bang-over’. (By the way, terror cells do not have a good imagination for this, the only entry THEY had for the Hempenary was “The Car Bomb” which is apparently when you cum on a woman’s berka in a car. Entry into the Hempenary was denied. A Jihad was issued against the Hempenary.) The only explanation had to be that she fucked SO much, that she had to coin a term to describe how she felt in the morning. I’d not only been out vocabularized by a foreigner, but outwitted, humiliated, and dejected all in the same moment. 

Part of me was relieved that she told me because if she hadn’t? I might have been down there lapping up sperm like a kitten with a bowl of milk. Part of me was horrified that she told me…because I SO wanted to fuck her…oh God, I SO wanted to…(head hung low in hands sobbing)... somebody, please help me.

Well, we went back inside and I turned off the desire like a light switch, looking upon Irena as just some hot chick in a bar like I would have if I didn’t know her, instead of the hottest chick to ever walk into a bar. I stopped drinking and I walked her to her car at around 1:00. She smiled, flirted, played with her hair, and showed me her underwear again as I made uncomfortable small talk with her. After 5 minutes of pleasantries I said fair well, showed her how to fist bump because frankly; unless I had a gallon of Purell, I didn’t even wanna touch her. Then I went home to beat my dick like it owed me money. 

Irena NEVER said to me that she hadn’t fucked anyone since her husband left, I just assumed that as I tried to interpret her jumbled vocabulary. She was NOTHING if not incredibly honest with me from the beginning about NOT wanting to be in a relationship, and I understood that as my penis frothed at the mouth. Now that I look back on it, what I think she said was “I no longer being the way I was” which must mean that she used to be slutty, but she didn’t want to be slutty anymore…at least with me.

And that’s the problem with the friend zone; when a woman puts you in there, a man will spend hours even days sulking and trying to decipher the meanings behind a woman’s terms and phrases. We’ll try to reason with ourselves that an innocuous statement means more than it actually does or that a meaningful and straight forward statement like “I have bang-over” isn’t as bad as it sounds. We do this even with women who speak perfect English.

On the way home, I deleted Irena’s number from my text and call history. Why bother? Better to put this out of my mind and chalk it up to another funny story for YOU to read about, and another dreadful experience of missed opportunity for ME to live with.

The En…

Oh wait…After I was done writing this story; Irena came over to my apartment on Mother’s day. We went out for coffee, late at night, and then came back to my place where I read her some of the story you just read. We sat on my couch and talked for a while, and she ate some of the dessert I’d made a few days before. We talked openly and frankly about sex, and laughed at the miscommunication between us. Then she dragged my mind through the mud as she told me “I like man who want me VERY badly, who is bold…but when he show interest, I don’t want him anymore.” What does that even MEAN? In ANY language? So a man has to be bold IN his indifference towards her? What do I gotta do,  sternly look away? Git the fuck outta here! Then she said “I like man who is showing NO interest in me.” To which I replied “I can’t imagine wanting to fuck a woman less than I don’t want to fuck you right now.” She wasn’t falling for that.

She was honest and forth coming throughout the evening, telling me that she did indeed have sex the night before we went out and apologizing for bringing it up so cavalierly while we were at the club. (Note that there was no need to apologize for HAVING the sex, as we are JUST friends…) As the time seemed to slip through our fingers, Irena told me that she should get going and walked towards the door. And knowing that she does (or doesn’t?) like bold men, I shut the door and locked it before she could leave. I stood over her, and our bodies touched in the dark of my living room. Her breasts pressed against my stomach and my hard cock rubbed against hers through my pants as she lowered her face while looking up at me with lustful blowjob eyes. I brushed the hair from her neck saying “what if I don’t want you to leave? What if tonight…I want to be bold?” and I leaned in to kiss her…

Sorry folks, that’s all you get. Maybe Irena and I fucked, and maybe we didn’t. Maybe it was the most satisfying sexual experience I’ve ever had, and maybe I jerked off after she left and went to bed, either way I WILL tell you that I came that night…hard. But it doesn’t matter how it ended, what matters is how I learn to deal with that ending, so I’ll let you fill in the blank with YOUR imagination. Suffice to say that I still have a great deal of respect for Irena and I wish her luck; not only in her future endeavors, but in maintaining the happiness and joy she seems to have already found in life.

And isn’t that all one can hope for in a friend?

Rod Serling: A Latino Nightclub, a feeling of desire, a set of improbable circumstances, all combine to probe a mystery, to fathom a depth, to send a facet of light into a dark after region, to be believed or disbelieved depending on your frame of reference. Why was SHE with HIM to begin with? A fact or a fantasy, a substance or a shadow, but all of it very much a part of…The Friend Zone.

Rod Serling off mic to the production crew: Guys, I don’t believe for a SECOND he fucked her, who’s this asshole kidding?


Episode 9: Epilogue

Rod Serling: Quitting time for loneliness. Time for romance now. Time for love. Time for a cool drink on a porch with the object of that love. Time to kiss her under the quiet rustle of leaf-laden trees that screen out the moon. And underneath your newfound devotion, behind the worshipful eyes of passion, hanging invisible over the summer night, is a horror without words. For this is the stillness before storm. This is the eve of the end; and unbeknownst to you…this is The Friend Zone.

The reason why The Friend Zone exists is simple; Women have come to mistake bitter pragmatism for independence. They use the Friend Zone as a crutch to either be slutty or keep their options open. This is the way men USED to think. We were looking for a woman who could take the place of our mother, never outright saying that, but subconsciously projecting that need on prospective lovers. When we realized we couldn’t find that, we just fucked a bunch of chicks to fill that gaping hole in ourselves. NOW, women don’t think they’ll find a good man, so they figure why not fuck a bunch of ‘ok’ men. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, women are the new men; and when you’re one of the last REAL men left? This fact is annoying as fuck.

Women have taken suffrage TOO far. When it was for voting and equal pay, suffrage was a great idea; now it’s used as an excuse for threesomes and ass to mouth experiences. “I just wanted to try it”, yeah? Well now I don’t wanna try YOU Slutticus. There is an order to the universe, a natural way of doing things that comes with evolution. Now don’t take my saying that as a put down, I’m not trying to say that women don’t deserve everything they’ve worked hard for over the years. I’m a firm believer in a woman’s right to choose and when I see a story on the news about a chick making less money than her harebrained male counterpart, I wanna light my fucking bra on fire. All I’m saying is CALM the fuck down, being equal to men doesn’t mean you have to be JUST as big an asshole as we’ve been through history. Move forward as a gender, but MAINTAIN your individuality. BE strong, BE independent, BE intelligent…but also be beautiful, demure, and in demand. With hold vagina until the third date, MAKE a man respect you because THAT’S where your power lies. So take the cock out of your mouth and go try to be the first female president. If Sarah Palin read books instead of sucked dick, she could be in office right now.

The Friend Zone exists because women have forgotten the meaning of romance, and it’s not entirely their fault…because men forgot how to dish it out. In a world where porn is not only accessible, but acceptable, where fathers no longer teach their sons to be men and women don’t teach their daughters to be women, there really aren’t any people WORTH getting to know. These days parents are simply ignorant jailers who use “The Jersey Shore” and “The Real Housewives of” whatever as a babysitter while being less involved with their children than John Voight (look it up). For the life of me, I can’t believe that I live in a world where the producers of “Toddlers and Tiara’s” aren’t shot live on TV in a crowded football stadium along with the parents of those little girls. And they’re ruined as well, may as well just euthanize them now. But with so much shit on TV teaching your children that there are no consequences to being an asshole, how does romance stand a chance?

Let me tell you a hard truth: NO guy wants to be friends with a chick that he HAS banged because he doesn’t wanna hear about them fucking Eckoli, the retarded Italian towel boy at the neighborhood pool (true story), AND we don’t wanna be friends with someone we WANNA bang because we don’t want to watch them bang everyone BUT us. I mean; Why the FUCK would ANY guy want a woman he finds attractive to be his friend? The minute she starts telling him about the veiny pethis of the guy she’s banging, it’s just gonna make him feel ugly by default, cause why isn’t she fucking HIM?

I talk to women ALL the time who say I’m full of shit because they have MANY guy friends and those guy friends have NO interest in fucking and or dating them. “BULLSHIT!” I want to shout in their ear with a fucking mega phone. YOU’RE either dumb and don’t realize what you’re doing to these poor slobs, OR you know EXACTLY what you’re doing and should be in a 12 step narcissism program. YOU are the vagina-triangle and their 7inch47’s are flying STRAIGHT towards you and in some cases they’ll never be seen or heard from again. In a way you ARE fucking them whether you know it or not…MIND fucking.

Although the bad dog owner didn’t give me much of a reason to be her friend, Irena really didn’t do anything wrong. I THINK she was honest with me from the start, but who the fuck knows with that accent. Miscommunication and misinterpretation abounded in the short time I knew her and for that I can no more blame her than I can the position on the globe of her mother’s vagina some 29 years ago. But whether she wanted to be my friend or not, it doesn’t really matter; because hearing about her ‘bang-over’ made my ego drop like a crystal wine glass on a hard wood floor, and therein lies the anguish which hovers over a man in the Friend Zone like flies on shit. I may not be the most self confident man in the world, but I just can’t be that guy. I will never be the second choice or paint my penis to look like a sad clown; because not only am I a man god damnit…but I’m all the man a woman will need; and even though we may or may not have made sex on each other…I can’t be ok with a ‘bang-over’ slip up again.

That being said, I realize that it’s time I grew up, it’s time I started to see that The Friend Zone doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad place. There are wonders there to be sure; the comfort and unique perspective that a woman can lend to your life DOESN’T have to be attached to sex like an Alien face-hugger. There’s room for growth and bonding in The Friend Zone and even love, a love brought on by caring NOT desire, a love forged from giving each other strength NOT giving each other head, a satisfying and emotional love that makes you happy for that woman’s successes with men and NOT jealous, that offers you the comfort of her strength when another woman makes you weak. A friend is a person that you uncondionally care for because in the end, all we have in life are the people we can trust with our secrets, with our identity, with our souls.

So yes, The Friend Zone may not be the optimum place to be, but friendship shouldn’t be distinguished by gender. So although it may pain me, although it may take some getting used to, I’m going to stop looking at The Friend Zone as a frightening torture chamber where love is water boarded and rats in heated cages are placed upside down on the stomach of romance to burrow through its sheer skin and rip through its guts. I’m going to accept The Friend Zone and have occasion to walk its hallowed grounds, but don’t think that means I’m gonna stop looking to be in…The Vagina Zone!

Rod Serling: The best laid plans of mice and men…and Michael Hempen, the large overbearing vulgar asshole who wanted nothing but love. Michael Hempen, now just a part of a smashed landscape on the horizon of wishful thinking, a piece of the rubble in a bombed out building made of good intentions, just a fragment of the man he so delusionally hoped to be. Mr. Michael hempen…in The Friend Zone.


The End?


Dedications and Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Rod Serling for Involuntarily lending his voice to your head from beyond the grave

‘The Friend Zone’ is dedicated to all the men who have walked alone through the doubt, hesitation, and skeptical over thinking within its halls.

“She can kill with her smile, she can wound with her eyes; she can ruin your faith with her casual lies, but she’ll only reveal what she wants you to see…blame it all on yourself ‘cause she’s always a woman to me” – Billy Joel. 

We at Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment (‘We’ meaning ‘just’ me) would also like to dedicate ‘The Friend Zone’ to Irena who greatly inspired it, and who I am proud to call…my friend. Even if she  never talks to me again after reading this. Thank you Irena, for making life more interesting and offering the best....dialogue…I’ve had with a woman in a long time. In another life babe…in another life.


Deleted Scenes and Outtakes

Deleted Scene 1

Irena asked me; “Why do man like when I suck on lollipop?”…Shut the fuck up sister, YOU know why men like it when you suck on your lollipop. The fact that you asked me that question tells me you think I’m just as stupid as they are, not even ‘stupid’ but STOOpid.

Deleted Scene 2
.
There’s nothing quite as disheartening as when a woman tells you “I’m already in love”, “what’s the point of you then?” is my immediate question. Git the fuck outta here.

Deleted Scene 3

Man, desire can be a mother fucker, can’t it? I mean sometimes you want something SO fucking bad that it consumes your very soul, making you blind to everything around you; even to your own hubris. On the other hand, that NEED, that craving can make you feel alive even as it pulls you down to the depths of gluttony, (it’s at this very point in my writing that I had to stop to take a shit)

Outtake

Rod Serling: Witness Mr. Michael Hampton…

Recording Engineer: Eh, sorry Mr. Serling, but it’s pronounced ‘Hempen’

Rod Serling: Ok Tom, let’s take it from the top. Witness Mr. Michael Humpin…

Recording Engineer: ‘Hempen’, Mr. Serling. H-E-M-P-E-N. Sorry sir, shall we take it from the top again?

Rod Serling: Fuck…ok, try it again (clears throat). Witness Mr. Michael Hemphin, a proud member of…Tom, is it HEMPEN or HAMPHEN?

Recording Engineer: Hempen sir, H-E-M as in MAN-P as in PENNY-E as in EMPTY-N as in NANCY. Hempen. Would you like a glass of water sir, take a moment before we…

Rod Serling: No, fuck that. Let’s get it over with. Man, this is SOME fucking name on this guy. (clears throat) Witness Mr. Michael Hempen, a proud mamber…MAMBER? FUCK!  It’s bad enough this guy isn’t paying me jack shit, but I gotta come out of a fucking story about a DOG getting kicked in the face to THIS? And why does this guy have to be so descriptive with the porn talk? “She rubbed his balls with every down stroke”? What kind of pervert is the Hampton, Hemphin, whatever the fuck his name is? This is fucking ponderous man, ponderous. Let’s just pick it up here tomorrow Tom (sound of headphones being thrown down)

Thursday, May 17, 2012

The Friend Zone Season 2


The Friend Zone

Season 2 (of 3)

(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) There is a vaginal dimension beyond that which is known to the penis. It is a dimension as dumbfounding and as senseless as most religious beliefs. It is the middle ground between a man’s happiness and despair, between his hope and hopelessness and it lies between the pit of his fears and the summit of his desperation. This is a dimension of ignorance. It is an area which we call…the Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)



By: Michael Allen Hempen

Brought to you by: Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment

Featuring: Rod Serling



Episode 4: Enough

Rod Serling: Submitted for your approval; Michael Hempen, recently returned from another failed excursion into Vaginatown which lies 2 inches south west (for some reason) of The Gulf of Clitoria. A rustic jungle village set deep in the heart of Twattica, a picturesque delightful little spot onetime known for its scenery; Mr. Hempen as we shall soon perceive, has a vested interest in the ruins of what was once a magical place of wonder. At one time, he enjoyed his excursions into the Vagimazon, as it’s sometimes called; but now his options have dried up like the landscape he once loved to roam and he finds himself walking alone…in The Friend Zone.

After the bad dog owner, I went back on the offensive. Instead of putting up posts on CL to try to garner responses, I went to dating websites like ‘Plenty of Fish’ and ‘Ok Cupid’ to look around at the selections like an old lady at the deli counter. I’ve had profiles up on both of these sites for years, and my luck on them has not been good; I met Tiffany from my blog called “Dominus Nobiscus Hippotmus” and Jane from The Stripper Duology on Plenty of fish, and absolutely NOBODY from OK Cupid. On OK Cupid I’ve responded to 82 women over the years, mostly out of desperation because truth be told; a majority of these bitches are more batshit crazy than Margot Kidder (look her up, I’ll wait…Got it? Good.) So before we move on to the Russian chick I met on Craigslist recently, let me take a moment to give the women on dating websites a bit of advice, which if taken, will make men like me ACTUALLY want to communicate with them.

First of all, WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP?!?!? Oh…my…god…the women on dating websites today have to be the most narcissistic, childish, self absorbed, judgmental, aggrandizing, passive aggressive, unrealistic, TALKY bitches I’ve ever seen. After they’ve droned on and on and on about themselves telling me everything from the color of their first binky to which conditioner they currently use on their hair…what the fuck else is there for us to talk about? Save some for the fucking conversation. I mean let me get to know you a little in person or through texts instead of profiling an auto biography that leaves room for NO questions other than “Why are you such an asshole?” Let me come to the conclusion that you’re IN-FUCKING-SANE after we’ve actually TALKED. Most of these profiles read like doctor’s notes from a mental ward. I half expect that all of you fit in the time to WRITE these profiles in between wearing plastic slippers and playing tic-tac-throw before a group therapy session.

Next, if you wear glasses, ride a bike to the vegetable stand, have 17 cats, and ONLY listen to vinyl? Go fuck some guy who wears Birkenstocks and cargo shorts in the trendy vegetarian coffee bar of the upscale neighborhood you live in. Why are you wasting my time on the internet? These sites are for guys like ME who want to meet women who I ACTUALLY have a shot with. The only way most of you would date me is if I rescued kittens on a unicycle while listening to shitty bands that nobody but YOU has ever heard of on my iPod. I can’t afford an IPod, so go fuck yourself.

I’m sorry, but I DON’T ride a fucking bike…EVER! I’m a grown ass man and drive a car. If you’re over the age of 16 and ride a bike? You’re an asshole. Vegetables are what my food eats, and cats? Fuck your fucking cat.

That’s right, fuck your fucking cat in its pretentious, judgmental, stuck up pink puckered asshole. If you own a cat you are either A.) A fatty or B.) Delusional because you try to fill the gap caused by not having friends with a fucking cat that doesn’t give a shit about you (see A.) If you died in your home TONIGHT, the police would find your cat eating your bloated corpse tomorrow. The only reason it rubs up against your leg is because you feed it. That’s it. Not because it likes you, not because you named it a cute name like Mr. Meowmington or Felix Whiskerpuss, but because it wants to eat. If you didn’t have hands and someone kept you locked up in an apartment all day, you’d rub up against their legs for some processed horse flesh too. Plus, cats don’t even have enough respect for you to shit outside. They shit in a box in your home; why does nobody realize how fucking nasty that is?

Why do I have such mean things to say about cats? It's because I'm SICK and FUCKING tired of having to lie and say that your cat is cute! I HATE YOUR FUCKING CAT! "I want a man who doesn't lie to me and is honest", that's you. Then you shove your cat in my fucking face and say "Isn't he just precious?" and I have to lie to you and say he IS while politely trying to back away so one of its paws that's been stomping around in piss clumps doesn't touch my face, otherwise I won't get any stank on my hang low and BOOM! The relationship starts on a bullshit foot. So my answer to your query is: NO! It's a fucking cat! NO man likes your cat. If a man HONESTLY tells you that he likes your cat? He's gay. That's it, queer as a three dollar bill. I wouldn't be surprised if he's wearing a turtleneck sweater when he tells you how wonderful your cat is, because he's a homosexual. Nobody likes your cat but you and maybe your roommate, but only because she's a delusional fatty as well.

QUIT saying you’re sarcastic. THE number one most common trait I’ve seen in ALL of your profiles is “I like to be sarcastic so you better be able to handle that” No, you DON’T like to be sarcastic. Here’s a test of your sarcasm: If you are not laughing your ass off while reading this? You don’t have a sarcastic bone in your body. THIS is sarcasm and if your face is red from anger right now, you should be editing your profile instead of sending ME scathing retorts about what an asshole I am. I KNOW what an asshole I am.

STOP telling me how different you are from every other woman on the dating website. You ALL think that you're a unique individual snowflake, but you all say the SAME fucking things. You got the 'flake' part down pat though, I'll tell ya that. Other than your job, which is mostly stuff that I'd rather throw myself off of a building than have to walk into each day, you're carbon copies of one another. Sometimes when I read your profiles I feel like I've stumbled into the movie "Multiplicity" starring Michael Keaton; Only it's called Vaginaplicity and it stars YOU (and you and you and you and you). I'll read one profile in which the profiler will say "people say I'm very unique because I listen to Metallica" HOW THE FUCK IS THAT UNIQUE? Metallica's been around since 1985 you dipshit, they've sold hundreds of millions of albums to hundreds of millions of lemmings JUST like you. Follow them off a cliff and get the fuck outta here, will ya? Another profile I read stated: "I'm like a tree and every tree is different..." Yes, they are, but compared to one another there is NOTHING UNIQUE ABOUT A FUCKING TREE! There're a gigidybazillion of them in the world and they're all just oxygen whores. The only way in which you resemble a tree is that you're about as interesting as one.

Another thing I’ve noticed about the women on dating sites is that if I’m not into EVERYTHING they are 100 percent? They want nothing to do with me. I’m sorry, but I’ve never HEARD of ‘Penny Derby Roller Ball Curmdgeoning’ and frankly it sounds silly and ignorant. If a woman meets a guy in a bar and OPENS with that? He’ll tell her to go fuck herself, no matter HOW hot she is.

That being said, the women on dating sites aren’t hot enough to be THIS judgmental. Hot chicks meet guys at bars; and I’m sick of hearing that “I don’t have time to meet a guy at a bar” shit. You’re as delusional as a cat lady if you think I’m buying that. Even if you ARE hot enough to meet a guy in a bar, you have SOME issue that prevents that from happening; whether it’s because you have some right wing agenda, you have trust issues because you were squat humped by the Good Humor man when you were a kid, daddy didn’t love you enough (oh wait, that’s strippers…) you don’t eat meat, you ride a bike, or you own one or more fucking cats (which again…fuck your fucking cat). There’s SOME issue that prevents you from feeling comfortable enough to meet men in the outside world, in a possible dating scenario, so you come on these sites and are just as loathsome a human being as you would be in the real world. Then I come along trying to be sweet, TRYING to start a conversation with you that begins with MORE than just “hi” or “hey”, and you look at my profile pictures which feature a man WITHOUT washboard abs and head for ZE hills. Why should I bother having a profile at all? NONE of you read that shit, you’re like Action Jim staring at pictures in a comic book.

Say something interesting about yourself. I’m GLAD that you like your job and you make more money than Jesus headlining on a cruise ship, but don’t get all judgmental and say I can only respond to you if I like my job. I HATE my fucking job. HATE IT! Most people DO hate their jobs. I’m GLAD that you travelled across the globe by the age of 12, but I could give a shit about your stories of sleeping under the stars outside of the Parthenon. Those stories are for people who are ALREADY dating, when you tell me that up front it makes you sound like an asshole. I’m SO excited for you that you have 12 cats, and I’m SURE they’re ALL really cute…but that’s something you should keep to yourself for now. Let me find that out after I’ve put in the necessary care and effort to get invited to your place. When you tell me that NOW? The first thought that comes to MY mind is “great, her pussy probably smells like ammonia”, and I hate to apologize again, but I’m sorry…I like a pussy to NOT smell of ammonia (fucking cats…)

Look ladies, I’m sure all of your dating website profiles would be great if you were ALL lesbians. I imagine that kind of narcissistic insanity and brain farting is what a woman looks for in another woman. But for those of you looking to meet a man? Tell us why your last boyfriend was a dick, give us a REALISTIC view of what you want from a man, and tell us something just awful and shitty about yourself. You DON’T have to make yourself sound like Mother Theresa for Christ’s sake. Have some humility, we’ve ALL done something shitty in life, to ourselves OR to someone else, but I LIKE it when a woman is self aware enough to, not only REALIZE she did something shitty, but be honest enough with herself AND me to admit it. Guys don’t like a woman who’s having a PERFECT life, not because we’re mean, but because we like to feel that we can contribute or affect your life in a positive way. When you say everything is perfect? There’s nothing for us to fix, and we fix things…that’s what we do.

Don’t be 22 and tell us that Goddard is your favorite director; you’re too young to be that pretentious.

Don’t tell us not to respond if we’re looking for sex…we’re ALL looking for sex. Even you. It’s not something I expect on the first or even the second date, but it IS something that I’d like to have with you, and if you haven’t gotten the memo? IT’S OK TO TALK ABOUT SEX! It’s the 21st century for fucks sake. And speaking of that, quit saying that you don’t want to have sex in big ass capital letters. Here’s an example which was the FIRST line of a woman’s profile I recently saw: ***IM NOT HERE LOOKING FOR SEX, I DON”T NEED THE INTERNET FOR THAT*** next line? I’d like to meet a man who considers my needs and who wants to be in a relationship. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, with the mixed messages? Look, sex is synonymous with being in a relationship and if you don’t need the internet to get laid, then you don’t need it to be in a relationship so get the fuck off of my obstacle Pyle! GET THE FUCK OFF MY OBSTACLE! (You get points if you know what that’s from).

If you’re an alterna-chick type (Goth, punk, emo, whatever), that’s fine; but don’t tell me that you’re evil because you cast spells and have a “Hello Kitty” tattoo. I fucking HATE women who brag that they’re evil or proudly say things like: “You should really watch out because I’m a bitch.” And then there’s nothing in reality that backs up their statement other than they throw a spoon from their ice cream bowl at the TV when they disagree with a ‘baby daddy’ story on “Maury”. And even if there was proof of their bitchery…WHY would I now want to date her after learning that she’s a cunt? Just because nobody likes you doesn’t mean you’re evil. You’re a dumbass, and not even an evil dumbass at that.

There is NOTHING more annoying to me than a profile that is unreadable because you’re too lazy to use spell-check. How are YOU going to tell ME what I have to be like in order to date you when you can't even SPELL ‘well educated’? I saw a profile which stated at one point: “I’m look for man with bicok” I'll assume ‘bicok’, means 'big cock'? 'Bicok' could mean 'serial killer' in Dutch for all we know. If you don't know HOW to ask, how the fuck do I know WHAT you're asking? And here’s a BIG hint ladies. Men don't like women who yell. AND WHEN YOUR ENTIRE PROFILE IS WRITTEN IN CAPS IT SOUNDS LIKE YELLING IN OUR HEADS WHEN WE READ IT. So fuckin’ stoppit.

I don’t mind if you have a kid or 2, but another profile I read recently stated ‘I’m a 22 year old mother of 4, looking for a husband’. WHAT? Are you kidding me? Twenty two? What are the odds that all those kids have the same father? CALM the fuck DOWN Quadromom. What happened to just ‘I’d like to go on a date and see what happens’. When you tell me that you want someone to take care of your caravan of children, what’s my incentive? Basically what you’ve conveyed to me is that some guy got to fuck you at least FOUR times, that we know of, while you were hot, and now you’re looking for someone to deal with your wailing bar accidents. Fuck you. You keep spawning like a tribble and you're gonna break your vagina bone.

Just by that profile, I know everything I need to know about her. She doesn’t have enough self confidence to tell someone to put a Jim hat on. She doesn’t think about consequences, and she doesn’t consider solutions. Not to mention the fact that I don’t want to put my dork in a moist hole that 8 tiny eyeballs have passed through like a watermelon in a mudslide. It's a vagina, not a clown car for chrissake.

Some women on these sites even have profiles like ‘looking for someone to spend my life with’. WHAT? I just want to throw a few burgers down your throat, listen to some music, and maybe make out on my couch for an hour hon, how bout we get through that and we’ll see what happens. Don’t put so much expectation on what could be a generally pleasant experience for the both of us.

And I don’t know if you’re trying to trick me, but don’t have your profile picture be of YOU within a group of women because which one is you? What am I, Kreskin over here? Unless stated otherwise, I'll just ALWAYS assume you're the least attractive one in the group.

And quit taking pictures of yourself in the mirror. Those pics tell men a million things about you that YOU don’t realize you’re telling us. First of all, if you're looking UP into a camera only revealing your face and boobs? You’re a fatty. We KNOW you’re a fatty, so just take a full body shot and be fucking honest. Secondly, you don’t have any friends. You can’t find a friend to take a picture of you? Well then you have the personality of a roof shingle and nobody likes you. Why should we?

Don’t say you want a hot guy who’s funny. That man doesn’t exist. Guys are either fat and funny or hot and dumb. Hot guys don’t have to be funny. You know how funny happens to a man? They got made fun of or beat up as a kid because they were fat and learned to be funny to either compensate or protect themselves…don’t you judge me bitch.

I have nothing against gay people but bisexuals? Fuck you too; pick a vagenis or a pagina for Christ sake. Maybe I’m just bitter, but that shit ain't fair. You’ve widened the playing field UP from a 50 percent fornication chance to a 99 percent chance. Fuck you; I’m still stuck at 50 percent because I don’t want some guy’s hairy balls bouncing off my chin. Shenanigans!

And lastly, don’t tell us you want us to be funny but get all offended when I say that ‘yo mama is so black she leaves fingerprints on coal’. Laugh a little, at others AND yourself. Life’s a joke…sometimes it’s not so bad to be the punch line.

If you consider bowing to my suggestions, I will in turn do the following:

I will not send you pictures of my dork

I will not send you a message that only sais “Hey” or “Hi”

I will try not to misspell easy words in my profile

And I will not say creepy things like “Do you like eggs?”, “I can smell that you’re menstruating”, or “Why don’t pineapples have a peel like bananas?”

On second thought…let’s just ALL delete our profiles on dating sites and meet each other at a bar. Why do these sites exist?

Rod Serling: There is an answer to the Michael’s question. All the OK Cupids must exist. The Ok Cupids, the Match.com’s, the eharmony’s and the Craigslists. They must remain standing because they are a monument to a moment in time when romance was turned into a grave yard by lazy men and desperate women. Into it they shoveled all of their reason, their logic, their passion, but worst of all…their standards and principles. And the moment we forget this, the moment we cease to be haunted by the remembrance of a caring devotion to love…we become the grave diggers. Something to dwell on and remember; not only in The Friend Zone, but wherever love walks unrequited and forgotten. 

Episode 5: From Russia with Indifference

Rod Serling: You walk into this relationship at your own risk, because it leads to the future. Not a future that will be, but one that might be. This is not a new vagina, it’s simply an extension of what began in vaginas past. It has patterned itself after every pussy that has ever planted the ripping imprint of a boot on the neck of man since the beginning of time. It has refinements, pleasures…and a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of a man’s psyche. But like every one of the vaginas that preceded it, it has one iron rule; logic is an enemy and truth is a menace. Any female, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth and dignity of a man’s desire to be in a one dick relationship, that woman is obsolete. A case to be filed under ‘W’ for ‘Who-er’…in The Friend Zone.

Which brings me to my most recent…whatever, from Craigslist. I suppose I can find a problem with anybody, and since I’ve been lucky enough in my life to have only dated hot women, each hot in their own different way of course, I’ve found that good looking women can take things for granted. For instance, most hot women don’t like being told how beautiful they are; which puts a crimp in my romantistick. I’m a wordsmith, that’s kinda what I do; and in the seven kingdoms you’d be hard pressed to find a man who’s better at pitching woo than me. The problem with that is, in order for my woo-isms to be effective; I need a woman who’s receptive to them. And 9 out of 10 hot chicks aren’t because they THINK they’ve heard it all before. Not that they’ve necessarily heard the same things I might say, but they’re used to men trying to get in their pants by any means, and in a weird way they’ve come to expect it.

And it’s not only my words that roll off of them like piss in a rain storm, its actions as well; hot chicks EXPECT you to open doors for them. Hell, in my experience I’ve gone on dates with beautiful women who don’t even reach out their hand to open a door because they’re so used to men doing it for them. Sometimes I have half a mind to not open it, and see if they walk into it like a bird flying into a window. Pull out a chair, light their cigarette, compliment their stunning beauty when they first show up at the restaurant…it all goes unnoticed and unappreciated. So how do I stand out? I be funny, that’s how.

Since I can’t use romance, and manners don’t count for shit, the only tool I have to set me apart from the handsome but dumb football players whom most of these chicks think they deserve…is humor. Just vile, derogatory, invasive, and offensive humor; it throws them off. Of everything they’re expecting, dick jokes is not one. And they love it because someone is talking to them like an adult and not a Faberge egg with a vagina. The problem with using humor to get my foot in the door is that it has to be mixed JUST right with humility and romance. If I just make fun of people all the time, she’s gonna think I’m an asshole, which means I have to throw in some self deprecation, but not TOO much because NO woman digs a guy with low self esteem; it has to be played right so she KNOWS I’m joking. Next, I have to know when to be funny and know when to slam home a compliment. If she doesn’t see it coming, and it’s worded just right, it actually gets through the armor enough to make a dent. The formula is “Joke, Joke,  self deprecation, joke, compliment!” and BOOM! She’s on the ropes. She didn’t see that coming and NOW, I’m a sexual threat. You have to know when and how to stop joking long enough to become a sexual threat, otherwise you end up in that dreaded place…The Friend Zone.

Now much like the bad dog owner from this story, the yoga instructor, and the stripper from stories past, some of the hot chicks I’ve dated have personality flaws that run so deep that the Marianas trench gets queasy looking down on them. Be it narcissism, anger issues, or addictions; my penis doesn’t give a shit HOW hot a woman is because there has to be a mixture of beauty AND humility. Unfortunately some women are so well put together, so intelligent and strong…that they don’t need me as anything other than a fucking court jester. Fuck, this game is such a pain in the ass sometimes.

The second email I got late last month came from a woman who called herself Irene. She’d read something I wrote on Craigslist and asked me: “Why do men feel they need to fix things?”,  and a correspondence erupted between the two of us which told me that she was smart, well thought out, and witty. I was so engrossed in her emails that I never even thought to ask for a picture or to ask her anything about her looks. I was just enjoying…her. However, like all women, after her questions were answered she wrote the typical line at the end of her email: “Good luck with your search!” Fuck that, this one I need to know more about.

We exchanged phone numbers and began texting each other frequently. It was during these texts that I came to learn ‘Irene’ was actually ‘Irena’ and she moved to Chicago from the Ukraine eleven years ago. This revelation presented a problem for me as I’ve never been a fan of accents, especially Eastern European ones. Plus I don’t have a unibrow or own any tracksuits. Anytime I tell a man that I don’t like accents, he thinks I’m fucking crazy because apparently, other dudes find this hot. Well they can deal with it, I just can’t get behind a woman who can neither talk in the correct tense nor use prepositions. “I going to store yesterday”…GIT the fuck outta here with that shit.

I told her of my accent trepidations, and she assured me that her accent wasn’t too bad, after all, she’d been in America for 11 years. However, the text that she told that to me in read like this: “Accent not being bad” Bitch, you TEXT in an accent, don’t tell me your accent isn’t bad. Plus, I hadn’t seen a picture of her yet and I kept imagining one of those big Russian broads with huge titties and a hairy gut who wrestles bears or some shit. That’s just my luck on Craigslist, but as I’ve said; Life is like a post on Craigslist…you never know what you’re gonna get.

As much as women with accents have annoyed me in the past, Irena’s voice was not only comforting, but relaxing as well. It sounded sweet, like a mandolin and her accent made every sentence sound like a slow song. It wasn’t bad at all. On top of that, she was incredibly smart. We talked about Russian history and she told me about the Ukraine as I asked her about the differences between our two countries. Maybe it’s not accents that I don’t like as much as the stupidity that usually comes with them; I admit to having a low tolerance to stupidity, and Irena wasn’t stupid in any way. In fact, as we got to know each other better, or rather as SHE got to know ME better, she began giving me advice which I would normally find super annoying. However, HER advice was poignant, realistic, and informed. I found myself not only NOT being annoyed by it, but asking for more.

I forgot about asking for a picture or even caring what she looked like as I grew to look forward to our conversations over the next week. A mistake to be sure, but one I would not come to regret…for once. Now, it should be noted at this point that Irena, like the bad dog owner a few weeks before, told me that she wasn’t looking to be in a relationship. She told me that she was fulfilled in her life at the moment and didn’t feel that she needed a man to complete her. Once again…The mother fuckin’ god damned Friend Zone.

But that didn’t really matter to me at this point as I wasn’t really thinking of fucking Irena. To be honest, I didn’t know much about her, I was just having fun talking to her, and I was enjoying the shit out of her voice as we did. She didn’t offer up much information about herself, instead she philosophized and talked about my writing while asking questions about me. Now, don’t think me rude, I DID ask her a ton of questions about her, but other than ancillary stuff about getting her nails done and cultural things about the Ukraine…she just wasn’t that forthcoming.

After a week of this, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked her out on a date. She didn’t want to call it a date, but whatever. Again, if you don’t want to go on a DATE with me, then don’t tell me how wonderful you think my stories are. I’m pretty fucking clear in ALL of them that I WANT TO GO ON A FUCKING DATE with a woman who doesn’t make me want to jam a shrimp fork in my eye. Did you get that? I WANT TO GO ON A DATE! Let me give you MY definition of a date so we’re PERFECTLY clear on this point.

A DATE is a function in which the two of us go out somewhere, be it dinner or a bar or cow tipping; whatever, and the POSSABILITY exists for fucking. I don’t expect anything, I don’t even WANT anything, and you’ll never feel pressure from me in that way. BUT, before you leave your house to meet me, you’re of a mind set in which you are open to a relationship and me flopping around on top of you at some point. If you’re saying to yourself “I just got out of a bad relationship and JUST want to fuck”…then we don’t need to go on a date. JUST come over here and fuck me and I’ll leave 20 dollars on the dresser before you leave…because you’re a who-er. I’m sick of wasting my god damned time on women who have their minds made up before they even leave the house. So if you’re reading this right now, you’re laughing your ass off, and you’re thinking “I’ve gotta get to know this guy better”, do it; but understand what I’M looking for, otherwise you won’t be laughing when you read the NEXT chapter of my dating life titled “The Filthy Godless Who-er”. Got it? Good; let’s move on.

So Irena and I went out. She told me to meet her at a Jamaican bar on West Chicago Avenue in the city called “Mr. Browns Lounge”. It’s in the Ukrainian village so I just assumed she lived down there somewhere. When I parked down the street from the bar I couldn’t believe where I was at. No bullshit, the apartment building I parked RIGHT in front of was the SAME one that the stripper from “How I Came to Have My Joint Copped By a Stripper” gave me half a blowjob in front of two years ago. High five to West Chicago Avenue.

Irena wasn’t there yet, so I went into the bar and ordered a Red Stripe. I love trying new things, and this place was awesome. I was the only white guy in the joint, but they had some Reggae rap music playing and the black guys on either side of me were eating Jamaican food that smelled fan-fucking-tastic. It was 930 at night and I hadn’t eaten all day because I didn’t want to be all farty in case the beast with two backs were to make an appearance. Again, I wasn’t expecting sex but I always like to be prepared. Before I left my place I did the manscaping, shaving my balls bear and trimming the cock fro, and I even cleaned the shit out of my apartment to avoid the embarrassment of shit caked on the back side of my toilet JUST in case we went back there later.

After my third beer, I was feeling pretty good. I was talking with a large black gentleman at the bar who was eating a goat leg as grease ran down his chin. His date sat next to him at the bar and I felt bad for ALL of the women there on dates. Every plate of Jamaican food I saw was full of cabbage and beans, not to mention that most of the dishes were ‘curry’ this and ‘curry’ that. I was surprised the bar didn’t smell like one big fart. I wanted to fart just looking at that shit. Dude gave me a piece of his goat leg to try after I told him I’d never had goat, and the shit was fucking delicious. My phone vibrated with a text message, and as Irena entered the bar…my hunger pangs dissipated into a desire I haven’t felt in a long mother fucking time. Which made the ‘nervous farts’ come on regardless of my empty stomach.

Now, Irena later told me that she HATES it when guys tell her how beautiful she is, and I imagine that when a girl looks like that…she get’s A LOT of compliments; knowing this, I try to keep my compliments to a minimum when I first meet a beautiful woman. Plus if you overly compliment any woman she’s just gonna think you’re full of shit. Actions speak louder than words; but although she’s probably gonna read this, fuck her; this is my story.

As she sidled up to me at the bar, the first thing I thought was “Fuck, THIS chick is never going find ME attractive.” This was the HOTTEST woman I’ve ever seen in real life. What I mean by that is; sure, Scarlet Johansson and Beyonce are hotter, but fuck me, this was a level of hotness I’ve never seen up close. Irena stood about 5’2” and she was wearing a little leather coat with a scarf and a Frank Sinatra hat. She couldn’t have weighed more than 105 pounds. I’m a face guy more than anything else, and her face was flawless; blue eyes that drank in the light around us and lips that could make an angel weep. Her hair was dyed blonde with black roots and it came flowing out from under her hat to rest on her shoulders. When she spoke to me, the picture I’ve just painted coupled with the voice I described earlier sent a shiver of desire down my spine as goose bumps formed on my forearms. This…this was too good to be true. 

I offered her a drink and she refused, which took me aback. Why the fuck meet me at a bar if you’re not going to drink? I felt like an ass because I’d ALREADY been drinking. One of my ‘date’ rules is “You never drink more than your date”. It’s just rude and I know from experience that sober people don’t find drunk people as charming as they think they’re being: and I was already half in the bag. After an hour she ordered herself a big ass Jamaican rum drink of some kind and spent the rest of our time at Mr. Browns slowly drinking it. To be fair, the glass it came in was almost as big as she was.

Periodically we’d go outside to smoke which offered us the opportunity to hear each other as we talked. She was great, and she didn’t seem to be as uninterested in me as I thought she would be. At around 1230, I suggested we try another bar and she agreed. Because I had been drinking and she only had the one, she suggested that SHE drive us to “Exit”. I hopped in her BMW and off we went.

Irena had never been to Exit, but since I’m comfortable there I thought she might like it. However, I forgot that it was Thursday night…and Thursday night is “bondage night” at Exit. We went upstairs after going in, where a man was chained to the floor to ceiling chain link fence on the dance floor while his exposed back was being whipped by overweight chicks in leather and chains. Irena didn’t seem to mind, although you could tell she was a bit thrown by the sight. We sat at the bar as I apologized for bringing her there and asked if she wanted to leave. She said that she didn’t mind and I had another drink. We talked for another hour, occasionally bringing the bar tenders into our conversation. Irena laughed and it seemed that we could be engrossed in each other no matter the surroundings. Fuck…her laugh is almost as beautiful as she is.

At one point while at Exit, we went outside to smoke. In front of the building, there was a fat guy in his mid forties being dominated by one of the dominatrix chicks who was also smoking. He was a heavy set man with coke bottle glasses and zits all over his face. I would think he owns cats and every season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. This guy was enamored and beholden to the dom and did everything she told him too as Irena and I watched on. “Get on your knees” she said, barely paying attention to him; and he did. “Smack yourself” she said indifferently; and he did…hard. “Lie on your back between my legs and stick out your tongue”, again; he did as he was bid. With her legs spread above him, the dom squatted down as if to piss on him…and used his mouth as an ashtray for her cigarette. The old dude was LOVING it…I was disgusted.

Look, God bless whatever makes some fat dude in a Foghat concert t-shirt happy outside of a bar. But all I could think about as this beautiful Ukrainian woman stood beside me, was “there, but for the grace of God, go I.” How many more fruitless internet dates will I go on before I become this man? How many years before my search becomes too tiring, before my patience gives out and I fold my loneliness inside a cocoon of desperation? Will my failures force me to give up as this man has obviously done? To become cuckold at the thought of humiliation just to have the attentions of a woman? Have I been doing this all along, although not to this extreme? Just then a homeless man tapped me on the shoulder and brought me back to reality. “Can I have a smoke?” he asked. “GIT the fuck outta here!” I lashed out hiding my fear behind anger. Irena and I went back inside as I tried to shake off the dystopian feeling of dread that the sight of that man lying on his back with a cigarette butt poking out of his mouth, brought on within me. 

Irena and I left Exit at around 2AM and she drove me back to my car. On the way, I told her to pull over and she did, parallel parking on a narrow city street. Maybe it was the fat guy outside of Exit, or maybe it was just her voice and how the street lights reflected off the rearview mirror into her eyes…but I had to kiss her. I couldn’t wait one second more to feel her in my mouth, to touch her face, to peel back the layers of indecision which have always plagued me and reveal the man I want, fuck…NEED to be. This was my stand, and this was the woman I wanted to make that stand with.

To Irena, I’m sure it was just a kiss; another handsy fat guy making a clumsy pass at her on a starless city night. But to me it was more, it was proof that I wasn’t that guy, it was proof that I still had a chance; with her, with ANYBODY. And as she kissed me back, my soul bloomed like a flower. Not out of love or desire, but it was a proud moment of grabbing life by the horns and making it suck my cock. Making ‘Life’ suck my cock by the way…I’m not NEARLY bold enough to have pushed Irena’s head into my lap.

After a while, she drove us back to my car and parked behind it. While we sat there under the city street lights casting their cold lonely glow on empty sidewalks and store fronts, Irena began to reveal to me snippets of her life; never divulging too much information and explaining that away to my frustration as a fear of getting close to someone by letting them too deeply into her life. Unfortunatly…this just made me want her more. I’ll be honest, I was a tad drunk still, but I remembered her telling me that she was married and that her husband had left her, moving back to the Ukraine three years ago. Jesus…what kind of pussy was THIS guy getting that he left HER? As is usually the case, the battle of sleepiness waged on within my body, bringing out a more slap happy and silly Mike. My conversation topics became more bold and the subject of sex soon came up. Irena told me that she’d never fucked an American which actually put a bit of pressure on me as the hopeful future American ambassador to her vagina. Then, after I’d made a joke about condoms…Irena dropped a bomb. “I do not like for man to wear condom”…MARRY ME!

I hate condoms…HATE them. To be honest though, I would have NO issue wearing one if they came in MORE than TWO fucking sizes; ‘slightly above average’ and “AH! GOZIRRA!”. I mean, if 90 percent of men’s dinguses are average, why do ALL condoms overshoot the size ‘medium’? And you know what’s TRULY sad, NONE of us can complain because that would be ADMITTING that we’re average! I call for ALL men to complain, 14 dudes on the planet have a HUGE cock so why am I suffering from LCPS (Loose fitting condom syndrome) just so THEY can fit comfortably into these airport wind testers? It’s embarrassing when every fucking sexual experience I have ends the same way; with me fumbling 3 fingers deep inside her vagina looking for the condom that fell off like I’m trying to find car keys that fell under the couch. My only other option is to wear one of those thumb rubbers that people who sew use. And there’s nothing more awkward than when I have to ask the chick at the Wal-Mart pharmacy while wearing a trench coat, hat and sunglasses and disguising my voice; “Yah…uh, can I get a gross of those Tom Thumb rubbers?” And then she looks at me like I just said “Can I stick my finger in your asshole” and sais “WHAT?” super loud. Then I have to say “Sorry, I mean Magnums, just gimme the Magnums…a gross of them, I’m gonna fuck a lot” Then she smiles and daintily goes to get them while I stand there dreading my next three finger Jacque Cousteau excursion into the cape of lost Trojans. I mean what man can buy anything BUT magnums? They need to either STOP making them, or STOP hiring hot chicks to work the checkout counter at places that sell condoms. Not wanting to wear a condom is why I’ve become SUCH a good bullshitter over the years. I’m like Kurt Russell in Used Cars with birth control. I’m a human ‘the pill’ pamphlet.

That being said, I ALWAYS wear condoms because of a certain event that took place in my life back in ’98. So if you’ll allow me to, I’d like to pause the story of the beautiful Irena for a moment, and share with you this haunting tale of STD’s and loose women, think of it as a flashback if you will.

For those of you who read my six part auto biographical series titled “Heroland”, you’ll remember the tale of Action Jim and Sara A. It was a sordid affair to be sure; one which started because Action Jim took advantage of my indecision…however, there’s a little more to that story. If you’ll recall, I fooled around with Sara A., but never fucked her; opting only for oral stimulation as I tried to decide if I could deal with her as a ‘girlfriend’. Action Jim seized an opportunity to fuck Sara A. after he brought her, uninvited, to a party I was attending. Sara A. got drunk and Action Jim drove her home…making a pit stop at a hotel to bang her; taking the decision of whether or not I could DATE Sara A., out of my hands.

About a week after I learned the truth of their drunken one night stand. Sara A. came to my mother’s condo crying, and told me that she had Chlamydia. She didn’t know if she got it from ME or from Action Jim…so just to be safe, she told me, we should both get tested. I didn’t know what the fuck Chlamydia was, but it sounded nasty. I was pretty sure it was Action Jim because he’d banged more skanks than Scott Baio at a Playboy Bunny party where the hors devours are just roofies. But just to be sure…we both needed to piss into a cup, or so I thought. Man, the things we don’t know in our youth, huh?

I called Action Jim and although he wasn’t any happier about the situation than I was, he agreed to go with me to the Markham courthouse’s free sex clinic. First of all, never go to a ‘FREE’ anything in the basement of a courthouse. Free Hoot-a nanny, free cookie class, free ‘how to make a rainbow come out of your ass’ seminar…It’s ALL bad in the basement of a courthouse. At the free courthouse basement clinic just remember that you’re gonna have your dork out of your pants about 30 feet away from a jail cell holding a man who’s been booked on suspicion of raping a badger.  

When we got there, the FIRST thing they made us do was disrobe. WHY? It’s only my dick you’re interested in, not EVEN my dick, but what comes OUT of my dick. I can’t go into a bathroom and piss into a jar or something? No. We had to take our clothes off. As it turned out, no matter WHAT you’re at the clinic for, you’re getting an A.I.D.S. test. No choice, they’re taking blood. Fine. I went through that.

Then they sent me into another room, past the waiting room in a fucking paper nighty. I had to do a ‘walk of shame’ past some of the meanest black women and scary looking black men I’d ever seen. I got to the door and pushed it open. At a desk a few feet into the room sat a disheveled and disinterested Indian man writing some notes on a pad of paper. I could tell that the ONLY  reason that guy was there was because he was convicted of stealing a police boat or harvesting organs and he could either do community service as the dick doctor at the Markham Courthouse Basement Sex Clinic, or be in a cell next to the badger fucker. Either way, this guy was NOT into his job.

I walked up to the desk, holding the back of my paper nighty closed so the nurse in the room couldn’t see my fat ass, and the Indian doctor told me come closer. He told me in a threatening voice, with a heavy Indian accent, without looking up at me “Don’t just stand there, lift it up.” This is an awkward situation for ANY man to find himself in, but wanting to get it over with, I did as I was told. Now, I had NO fucking clue what was going on here. Nobody told me what an STD test consisted of. I genuinely thought I was just supposed to piss in a cup; and as the doctor took my cock in his cold rubber gloved hand, I assumed he was just going to examine it, maybe laugh at it a little. As he brought his face close to the tip of my dick, he reached over to his side without looking, and grabbed what I thought was a coat rack beside his desk when I first walked in. I started to say “what are you gonna do with….” when he made a concentrated face like a man straining to take a particularly nasty shit, and JAMMED this canoe paddle into my pee hole.

Imagine trying to shit a hot air balloon out. This was the most fearsome pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I let out a scream…silent at first as all the air had rushed out of my lungs. I sounded like Costello when he’s trying to tell Abbot that he saw a ghost (hehpepep-hehpepep-a ghhhhghhhhghhh, a ghhhhghhhhghhhh hehpepep) Then as I inhaled I let out a loud and screechy scream like a thousand twelve year old girls with freshly skinned knees being concentrated into a bull horn that’s hooked up to speakers stacked on top of every sky scraper in New York City. Action Jim told me later that when they heard that scream, half the people in the waiting room threw down their ‘Jet’ magazines, said “Fuck THIS.”, and broke the fuck out of that place.

As I screamed, I grabbed the doctor’s shoulder and clenched with the p.s.i. of an alligator bite. The doctor, in pain himself now, RIPPED the cotton tipped softball bat out of my cock. This was even MORE excruciating. He pulled it out so fast that he gave me a rug burn inside my urethra. I couldn’t piss for 3 days after. I dropped to the ground like someone just took a switchblade to my Achilles tendon. The nurse and a security guard came into the room and dragged me out on my knees as my balls dragged along the cold tiled floor while still clutching my recently skewered cock, through the now half empty waiting room and into the room where I’d disrobed earlier.

I got dressed and sat down to wait for the results. Jim, apparently unfazed by HIS experience, sat next to me after a while. He must have a urethra with a six inch diameter because he seemed positively refreshed. We waited for about an hour when the nurse finally called us back to the examination room. As Jim and I uncomfortably shuffled our feet on the floor, the nurse stood there ignoring us and writing into her notepad. I broke the silence and asked her “so which one of us has it?” She looked up at us, with 50’s style nurse Ratchet glasses, and said “Oh, there’s no way to tell if MEN have Chlamydia, there’re no symptoms in men, they just carry it. So take this pill just in case and you’ll be fine.”

“What the fuck?” I said as Action Jim and I looked at each other in shock. “So I didn’t HAVE to have a baton from ‘American Gladiators’ shoved up my dick hole by Dr. Hindu Giggles in there?” The nurse put her pad down and told us that in order for us to get the pill, we had to be tested. FUCKING State run shit. Is it ever easy? How the fuck can people sleep at night knowing that they’re MAKING a man take a pummel horse up his cock hole for a non narcotic pill that they could gave JUST fucking given him when he walked in?

As it turned out, Sara A. simply had a yeast infection…and she KNEW she only had a yeast infection. But because she was bitter at me for ignoring her advances after she fucked Action Jim, and mad at Action Jim for having fucked her…she concocted a story to get revenge on us both. Crazy bitch. (By the way, if you DIDN’T read about Action Jim and Sara A. in “Heroland”, he didn’t rape her or anything that night, what he did was MIND rape her for the five years they dated soon after this event.)

Anyway, because of that incident, and because I NEVER want be subjected to urethral rape again…I ALWAYS wear a condom, as much as I hate them. But from what I could tell, Irena had only been with ONE man in eleven years…and if she preferred that I didn’t wear a rain coat on my dingus? Well, I’m only a gentleman after all. I have to oblige a lady. 

Rod Serling: One time in a million, a coin will land on its edge, but all it takes to knock it over is a vaginal breeze, a gust of pussy or a trembling blow job. Michael A. hempen, a human coin, on edge for too long…in the Friend zone.

Episode 6: A Whimper; Not a Bang

Rod Serling: You’ve seen them…women too beautiful to talk to; You’ve seen them, but have you thought about them as something other than an image to be stored away in your masturbation rolodex? How do other men approach them? What does it feel like to kiss them? Who are the lucky peni that get to enter their most intimate of intimate areas? Michael Hempen hadn’t thought about them. He put them out of his mind long ago, seeing them now as a passing glimpse into an extraordinary world which he might never be a part of; a mystery never to be solved. But he met one of those women…and rather than sleep alone in the cold terror of the lonely night…he put her pussy on a pedestal when he should have put it out of his mind all together. But he can’t do that now, because whether he knows it or not; his penis has led him right into the capital of...The Friend Zone.

Irena and I texted throughout the weekend and when Monday came I asked if I could see her again. She said she’d love to go out with me and that she really ‘liked’ me. She stressed that, several times “I really like you a lot Michael, do you like me?” First of all, how hot is it when a woman sais your full name like that? And second; Are you fucking kidding me? OF COURSE I like you. She said we could go out later in the week and a smile formed on my face from ear to ear…The Friend Zone indeed; p-shaw!

Now, the first time we went out, I met Irena where she told me to meet her, which is fine; as I said I like trying new things. But this was my opportunity to show HER something new, so I started asking her questions about herself to try to form a better idea of what she might like to do. And the bitch stonewalled me.

I wasn’t asking her anything overtly personal either; it was innocuous shit like “what’s your favorite color?”, “what food to you like?”, and “what’s your favorite movie?” I didn’t present these questions in a way as to make her think I was fishing for personal information, I was just trying to get to know her better. “Why I should tell you these things?” she asked incredulously as we talked on the phone. “Because I want to know you better, why wouldn’t you want to tell me these things? It’s not like I’m asking what’s your favorite scent of douche.” I said jokingly. Irena laughed that perfect laugh of hers and said “I think you know me too much.” What the fuck? “Well if I’m going to take you out, it would be nice to AT LEAST know if you’re a vegetarian before I take you to a steak place, if you were ever molested by a clown before I take you a carnival, or if you’re homophobic before I take you to a play like “Gay Cats” or some shit. Tell me SOMETHING woman.” “I like wherever you will be taking me” she said firmly.

Well, what at first I saw as the playful withholding of information was now kind of pissing me off. I mean, everyone is entitled to their privacy, but I can’t know you’re favorite fucking color? The fuck? So, in a serious tone, not really giving a fuck that she would probably hang up on me and never speak to me again; I said “Well if you’re not gonna let me get to know you…then just come over here and fuck me.” The first second that passed by without a sound made me think she’d hung up; the second made me think she was considering it; by the third she said “What is your address?”

BOIYOYOYOYOYNG! Instant boner. Just the THOUGHT of not satisfying this woman made my dick so hard Albert Einstein couldn’t have figured it out. I gave her my address and she told me she was 20 minutes away. FUCK, I wasn’t prepared for this AT all. I immediately stripped and jumped in the shower. My conditioner takes 10 minutes to set in my hair, and time was of the essence. After lathering up my head while singing along to “The Thong Song” which was blasting on my stereo, I jumped out of the shower; cock still pointing the way like a hunting dog, dripping wet and nekkid and ran to the bedroom. I made the bed, ran to the kitchen, did the dishes and then quickly jumped back in the shower to do some light manscaping. I mean, this was a booty call right?

After shaving a smiley face into my cock fro, which is a lot easier to do with a boner as it pulls all the skin taught,  I brushed my teeth, washed the conditioner out of my hair and dryed off. Then I sprayed a hit of CK One in the air at cock level and walked into it; and just for good measure, I sprayed a hit of it at vagina level for Blu and she BACKED up into it. What? I don’t know what kinda crazy Ukrainian sex this broad is into, don’t you judge me. Next; what to wear? I went with a red smoking jacket with a black lapel and black suede elbow patches, put on some dashing man spanks to slender me up, and dumped tobacco from one of my cigarettes into an old corn cob pipe I got from a Popeye convention that my mom took me to in 1980 at which I THINK Robin Williams fucked my mom, but that’s another story. T-minus ONE minute to pending vagina, all systems on standby.

Now, in reality I didn’t know what to expect. Irena came over looking unbelievably beautiful as ever, she’d lightly curled her hair which made her look like even more of a super star than the first night I met her, and she was wearing a tight white t-shirt that showed off her 32 c’s , which I didn’t really get a good look at before. Let me just tell you something…when put together with the rest of that package? Those may be the MOST spectacular ta-ta’s I’ve ever seen…and I’ve seen a LOT of ta-ta’s. What’s that? Yeah, mostly in porn…man, fuck you. Back to the story.

She came in and asked me to put on a pot of coffee…yes, coffee. Who fucks on coffee? What am I, cheating on my wife at 6AM with the overweight Hispanic maid in a shitty La Quinta Inn in Dover Colorado while on a business trip? Whatever, I made the coffee. She was obviously uncomfortable in my apartment and asked if we could hang out on my balcony. We smoked and drank coffee for an hour as she finally opened up about herself…a bit. Then we went back inside and sat on opposite ends of my couch…and THIS…this is where I could hear the door to the friend zone slowly creaking open.

There’s a point in ANY relationship between a man and a woman, usually at the beginning, where the woman no longer thinks of the man as a sexual threat. Let’s call it ‘Peak Vagina’. You steadily go up a slope towards sex when a critical moment passes by in which you miss an opportunity. Now you may not have KNOWN the opportunity was there, but it was a perceived opportunity given to you by the woman. This is where the study of body language becomes a near necessity in a man’s quest for the lost arch (of her back). Once that opportunity is missed? You’ve plateu'd at Peak Vagina and you now start sloping down…into the friend zone.

For me this usually starts on the phone. The sexual tension I bring about in women on the phone is nearly palpable, but the problem with meeting someone on the internet is sometimes you can talk TOO much before meeting. You build expectations that are ultimately let down upon your hopeful private part congregation. It’s EASY to talk sexually to a stranger on the phone…it’s another thing entirely to do it in person. But once that sexual bottle has been opened on the phone, when you meet, the vagenie just kind of hovers there, not granting any intimate wishes or desires until someone makes a chess move toward the others who-ha. Then later, as you’re driving home at 2 am singing along with Hall and Oates to ‘Your Kiss is on my Lips’ while pissing your unused and unrequited boner away into a McDonalds cup; BOOM! It hits you: I should a made a move; but it’s too late and you’re dick deep in…The Friend Zone!

Irena told me as we sat on my couch that while we sat in her car on Thursday night, I ASKED her if she would have sex with me eventually. This is why I don’t drink anymore. Oofa, I didn’t remember asking that AT all, but if it’s true? I made a HUGE mistake. We all know you don’t ASK a woman for sex, not because it’s rude; I could give a shit about that obviously, but because it takes the spontaneity out of EVERYTHING. Sex should always be spontaneous, sprung upon you both like a Vajack in the box when neither of you are expecting it. When it’s discussed before hand, ESPECIALLY that bluntly? The Vajack stays in the box. Shit.

Not long after this revelation, Irena said she had to leave. I walked her down to her car and made ONE last ditch effort to salvage SOMETHING from the evening. I leaned in to kiss her…and she pulled the dreaded chest push on me. That’s right, she put her hand on my chest and pushed me away saying “I don’t think is such good idea” Oops. “I understand” I said backing away, hands in the air “I’m sorry if I was being presumptuous.”

“Is not you, is something you say to me on Thursday. You tell me I should wait for husband if I truly love him…so I waiting now. Besides, you look for relationship…this is not possible with me” Me and my big fucking mouth. I put my SELF in the mother fucking Friend Zone. I apologized for misreading the moment and told her I don’t take rejection well; like most things in life, you only have to tell me once. So if she ever changed her mind…SHE’D need to make the move.

Irena got into her car and drove off, bringing the best and most satisfying sexual experience I may have ever had with her. Well, thems the breaks. I deleted her phone number, waved goodbye to my boner who’s one eye was drawn down in sadness…or anger I suppose, depending which direction you were looking at it from; and walked up the steps to my apartment with my head hung low and that sad Charlie Brown music playing in the background. As I walked past his door, my neighbor who had a good view of our parting from his window, leaned out and said “DAMN! You got denied…” while shaking his head. Keep walking I told myself…just keep walking.

Rod Serling: On a recently shaved pubis that hides behind a thin layer of denim fabric lies a flaccid fragment of a penis that once stood tall and proud; left to dangle unbidden behind it’s zippered cage. Without use, it will disintegrate from the rejection and humiliation that act upon it; Mr. Hempen’s cock, only to be used for pissing tonight, finds itself obsolete…In The Friend Zone.


To be concluded in The Friend Zone Season 3, premiering 05/18/2012