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

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’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

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