May-December Mugging-Date

A story from NearSay, swiped (almost verbatim) from The LowDownNY (byline Ed Litvak), reports [and I am just pulling Mr. Litvak's whole article, fully quoted]:

“Police are looking for a man who stole a wallet and iphone from a woman during a blind date on the Lower East Side.  It happened Friday, March 9. The woman, 50, spent some time with her date (who she met online) at Lucky Jack’s on Orchard Street.  She only noticed her personal belongings missing after leaving the man at the 2nd Avenue/East Houston subway station. It’s unclear exactly when and where the theft occurred.
Police believe the suspect is 25-30 years old.  He’s about 6’1″, 165 pounds and went by the name “Hayden.”  If you have any information about this crime, call Crimestoppers at 800-577-tips.”

Okay, I’m not here to comment on the ethics of online journalism. But I would like to point out that the woman was 50 and her iPhone-swiping date was 25-30. I can hear many readers saying, “Cougar bitch got what she deserved! Dating a dude half her age? Pfft!” She’s actually too old to be a cougar (as am I), since the term was coined for 30- to 40-somethings preying upon men fewer than 10 years their junior. Anyway, it is one of the many reasons I’m reluctant to date men who are considerably younger. Aside from the notch in the belt aspect or check that off my who-I’ve-fucked list (Asian chick? Black chick? Older woman? Woman over 50?), both of which fall under the oddities and experiences umbrella, there’s the fear of becoming a victim. Not being paranoid by nature, my mind wouldn’t have gone to “I’ll get robbed!” but, well, here’s real-life evidence that it’s a possibility. And they only had a few drinks together. Imagine if she’d taken him home. He might’ve walked off with even more. And since, well, let’s be honest, the main reason a 50-year-old woman would make a date with a 25-year-old guy would most likely be for an athletic romp between the sheets, the chances of the woman inviting him home weren’t exactly inconceivable.

Obviously any woman (or man) who invites a stranger into their home runs the risk of getting ripped off. It’s yet another peril of blind dating. Add in the whole May-December dynamic and, given that society considers it scandalous — particularly when the May is the man and the  woman,December — and a younger guy may be right in believing he has some sort of upper hand.

I’ve said I don’t want to be some kid’s punch line. I feel there’s less a chance of that happening if I were to meet a younger guy in person: in a bar or at a party. Planning to meet someone from an online dating site when there are a could of decades between us just doesn’t sound…smart. Of course, it’s working for at least one friend of mine. She has her sex delivered, hot and fast, just like a pizza. [wink] And that’s all it is: hot, fast sex. They don’t have much to talk about since, well, what does a 22-year-old have to say to someone twice his age? The few times I’ve wound up in bed with a guy that much younger, I was shitfaced drunk and not much in the mood for conversation. Which leads me back to not being completely opposed to a May-December hook-up of my own. Just not via OKCupid.  It’d be nice to have a young man charm the pants off of me. But you can be sure I’ll keep a close eye on my iPhone!

Cunty

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t been keeping up with my bloggage. However, what little I have had time to post has generated interest…and outrage. Okay, perhaps outrage is an exaggeration. But when I’m busy I don’t spend hours mulling over my responses. I just dash off what initially comes to mind. Which often comes out sounding cunty. It could be said that I am cunty; I do, after all, have the word CUNT tattooed right on my body. Hey, truth in advertising! However, to those who know me, they get my cuntiness right along with my kindness. I can be both, as can most women. It is so very difficult to convey kindness through the ether—or the printed word—as is the conveyance of many emotions.

I’m exhausted. I am over dating people who are so terribly mismatched with me—and me with them. I don’t want to give up, though. Should I? I’m happy to be bartending so I can meet men in what I consider to be my natural habitat, especially while making money instead of spending it. And while they’re drinking and I’m not! I’ve been saying for a while now that meeting guys in bars has been my MO for so many years that it’s really the only process that makes sense to me!

So yeah, the sassy, snarky, cunty responses and the cunty part of my personality that’s been (unfortunately) emerging on many of my recent dates may, indeed, be a valid facet of who I am. Thankfully when I’m behind the bar, my happy and helpful side is what’s shown. Which means if you want to meet the most sincere me, you’ll have to come visit. And order up an Ass Juice! WOOT!

You can find me at Double Down Saloon, 14 Avenue A, Wednesdays and Saturdays from noon till 8pm. And yes, this is a bit of shameless self-promotion. It’s also an open invitation to all my friends, fans and foes to come stalk me or say hello. While you’re free to come and go as you please, I am, quite literally, trapped behind the bar!

Friday’s Cognitive Dissonance

It began at lunch with the last of the married men in my marathon. I was prepared to be underwhelmed, the jaded cynic in me, perhaps. Instead I found myself on the verge of tears more than once, as The Poet posed personal questions. He observed that I was extremely guarded and spent time in pursuit of the “real me.” It was an interesting and emotional conversation.

But back to the dissonance. Here I was having lunch with a lovely man — polite, attractive, successful, engaging — who bragged about his honor student daughter and wonderful wife. But he wasn’t completely perfect. Because if I’d asked him back to my apartment he most likely would’ve agreed in an instant. And instantly become a cheater. Ah, perhaps not so lovely. But I kinda knew the circumstances going in. Which had me puzzling, in between sharing our life stories, whether good people can be bad.

By the time The Poet helped me to my door with an unwieldy package, met by the barking foster dogs, I was in a rush to prepare for my early evening plans. I had less than an hour to get ready, which included changing out of my Garanimals-like afternoon ensemble and into something more suitably punk rock. Once I’d applied heavier eye makeup and shrugged on my motocycle jacket, I dashed out the door to meet my friend Rob and his girlfriend at Joe’s Pub for “DanceNOW [NYC] Presents Alley of the Dolls, This is not a sequel.” The show was a bizarre mélange of performance art and dance, comedy and song, and a poke at show business, all loosely in homage to “Valley of the Dolls.” It had a sassy retro Sixties tang.

When the performance wrapped, we jumped into Rob’s truck and headed to Williamsburg for a chihuahua wedding. You heard right. The “puptials” of Rev. Jen Jr. and Taco took place in the spacious outdoor garden of Lucky Dog bar on Bedford Ave. The proud parents of the bride and groom, Reverend Jen Miller and Holly Waggytail DeRito (yes, the grande dame of the agency I foster dogs for) held the happy couple in their arms and read their dogs’ vows, with Faceboy officiating the ceremony. As one might assume, the festivities were attended by quite a colorful cast of characters, including photographer Alex Colby and his pretty Penthouse Managing Editor wife Christine, comic artist and dessert blogger Abby Denson, Carmen Mofongo, my Balloon Chain co-worker and Lucky Dog bartender Moonshine Shorey, and armloads of adorable dogs. Moonshine had the night off because he was on his way to his gig with Jugger Nut at C Squat. Which was where Rob, his girlfriend and I were headed next!

Approaching the block we knew immediately where the show was; the shitfaced  dirtbag lying on the sidewalk, slurring obscenities, made it a giveaway. I slid in the door and stood aside. Everyone was in an agitated state about the sidewalk scene. A droopy-eyed, stringy-haired hippy was telling the dreadlocked dude running the door, “I don’t know the guy, man. I mean, he’s not a friend of mine. I picked him up in Asheville but I gotta watch his back. He’s my homeboy.” Meanwhile, the guy is still rolling around on the sidewalk with everyone screaming at him to get up, get out, move on.

I paid my five bucks, got my hand Sharpied and waited for Rob and his girlfriend. They slipped in and handed me a 24-ounce PBR. Cracking up, I crowed, “I just became the hottest old broad in the building!” A guy nodded in agreement and said, “Yeah, you did!” We made our way toward the noise, stepping over half-passed out gutterpunks and straggly hangers-on. A small balcony overlooked a basement with walls covered in graffiti. Our timing was perfect; kids were shoving equipment around the stage in anticipation of Jugger Nut.

The room was like a scene from a movie: Sweaty kids were milling around, an old man was perched on a chair, hipsters were photographing each other with the cell phones. It was an impressive collection of nightcrawlers. And because I never go anywhere without running into someone I know, I bumped into Nicola.

Before I’d had a chance to finish my 24-ounce, the band came onstage in a cacophony of keyboards, drums, guitars and feedback. After a bit of ear abuse, the music was actually quite good! People were nodding and dancing or ducking for cover. My friend Moonshine isn’t a musician, he’s an adjunct to the band, a six-foot-plus performance artist of sorts, his painted face and voodoo accoutrements augmented by blood and chicken feet. He stalked into the pit and the parted.

I’m not sure I could ever find the right words to properly describe the scene and how it actually felt. It was like being in a time warp. Like being beamed back to the 80s. The floor was slimy with beer and a bedraggled chick in nothing but boots and a silver sequin miniskirt kept slipping in it. The crowd thrashed in the pit, slamming into each other just like the old days. The whole place smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke and beer. It was fuckin’ awesome!

The show lasted just the right amount of time and as the room cleared I couldn’t contain my excitement. “The underground lives!” I kept saying with a huge smile on my face. I couldn’t believe it! I was so invigorated I couldn’t just go home and go to sleep, so I strolled through Tompkins Square Park to Double Down. It was packed with too many irritating people but I wound up at the far end of the bar chatting with an interesting couple. He was in a heavy metal t-shirt and she looked like she maybe watched too much “Jersey Shore.” But we commiserated about the East Village asshole invasion and, astonishingly, Burning Man! He was leaving the next day for India. Sometimes life is full of surprises!

Anyway, I stumbled to the deli for a turkey sandwich which I didn’t remember eating the next morning as I marveled over my day of dissonance: the enjoyable Poet, dance show at Joe’s Pub, the chihuahua wedding, the C Squat Jugger Nut slamfest and the pleasant company over my nightcap at Double Down. It was an amazing dozen hours!

Nice Guys…

So during my somewhat short-lived Married Man Marathon last week, I’d have to say that everyone I met was very nice. Nice is a strange word. A non-committal sort of word. The one guy I had planned on meeting but didn’t considered himself a “good guy” or whatever, but yet, there he is looking to cheat on his wife. I got into an argument the other night with a friend who called all the men on Ashley Madison douche bags, simply because, well, they’re on Ashley Madison. It’s painting many men, with almost as many motivations, with one pretty sloppy paintbrush. I’ll venture that the larger percentage of men on there are douche bags. A thousand faceless penises can’t be wrong! But there are some guys whose hearts are in the right places, even if they’re looking to put there penises in the wrong ones.

Probably my most enjoyable date was with “Mike,” who traveled a considerable distance to meet me for lunch. We hung out and chatted long after we’d finished eating and he even accompanied me on an errand, eventually helping me to my door, where my two current foster dogs barked up such a storm that he ran off with his tail between his legs. Okay, that’s not quite accurate but it sure rolled off my tongue…er, fingertips!

Seriously, “Mike” had sent me a long series of thoughtful, well written emails, not the least of which contained the tear-inducing poem I’d mentioned a few posts ago. [See below.] Our conversation centered around our motivations for being on the site and “Mike” asked me questions no one else ever has. He wondered what makes me happy, what I’m really looking for, and he genuinely seemed interested. I had a very difficult time answering and I told him, admitting out loud for what may have been the first time ever, that I don’t know what I really want, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid I’ll never get it or I’m afraid to even think about it…either way, I’m never been able to even get in touch with what I really, really want. It was both an intellectually and emotionally stimulating afternoon.

Since that meeting I’ve been asking myself those questions. I’ve also been feeling quite agitated. I’m not sure if the two are related. I certainly hope not. Because if they are, I’d better get in touch with what I want soon before I chase away all my friends!

In the midst of last week’s marathon — and my meals with other male friends — I went on a real date, a date with a single guy, someone I was pretty excited to meet. And I had an amazing time. The afternoon turned into evening, there were beers, his best friend and making out in a bar. Pretty perfect. Good enough to make a second date! He actually made a cameo appearance in my Saturday night; as he put it, he “parachuted in,” and we agreed it didn’t count as a second date. That was Sunday night. A delicious home-cooked meal at his place followed by more conversation and making out. I’ll save my sexual neuroses for another post but I will say I enjoyed myself, even if I kept my clothes on. Our evening ended watching the news of Bin Laden’s death on TV, sharing the historical  moment, before I headed for the subway home.

Oh my…this post is rambling a bit. I told you I was out of sorts! Anyway, what I’ve been trying to tell you about is nice guys. My past 10 days have been blessed with the companionship of — and meals with — nice men. They show me why I could never make a practice of seeing guys for “grocery dates” just as I never was able to pull off being a pro domme. Either I like you or I don’t; if I don’t, I’m pretty terrible at faking it, even for food. Or cash. Which then puts me in the position of thinking a bit harder about my motivations for being on Ashley Madison. Or even OkCupid. I know what I want. And I don’t know that I’ll ever find it online.

Here’s the lovely poem from “Mike”:

The faces of Abby
Are so many they seem
Expressions fantastic
Each costume a scene

The vamp and the pirate
The southwestern lace
In satin and leather
Her lovely tanned face

Celebrations, parades
Shrill sounds and bright lights
They gather and rave
And share her long nights

The promotions and stars
Demands of the game
Pushing new boundaries
Again and again

Words fly from the keyboard
Appointments, deadlines
Her cups brimming full
Overflowing in time

Her spirit grows restless
For a gentleman past
Quiet tears and sweet sorrow
Loving memories last

To delight her young heart
In a life of extremes
She beckons for someone
To fulfill her new dream

One after the other
The suitors they ply
Her attention to hold
Her affections to try

A scientist poet
With a heart to sojourn
Her heart to romance
My passions to burn

Perhaps we will meld
Like lovers embrace
But I hope to at least
Glimpse Abby’s true face

In that mid-marathon lunch meeting, he did get to glimpse my true face. And as I try to focus on the things I really, really do want, well, it just makes me sad.

Married Man Marathon Derailed!

Tonight’s “date” told me he would be in a class til 8:30. He texted me a half-hour earlier and I didn’t check my phone til 8:15. By then he was already on his way home. To be honest, I had totally forgotten about meeting him. Originally we were going to get together before his class. But I have been having a helluva time keeping all these faceless torsos straight!

If this texting exchange doesn’t put you to sleep, you will probably find yourself asking why I bother… [Everything is written as it was texted. No edits.]

7:56pm
Hey – its Sam. Up for that how ya doin beverage – or another night?

8:14pm
Are you done with your class?
I’m not in Chelsea, I’m further north. Where are you?

8:41
Okay then. Guess you went home. You’d said 8:30. Sorry I missed you!

Hey – yeah… Was kinda slowly walking to the train in the rain. I’m sure I just missed you by seconds lol. Oh well – hopefully you’ll give me another shot?!

Maybe!

So you’re sayin there’s a chance!? Oh yeah!

Well I feel a little like you blew me off. But whatever!

9:00pm
No – really. I was just kinda standing there for a good 1/2 hour thinking the same thing…

You told me 8:30. You texted me before 8. I responded before 8:30. So I didn’t blow you off. It’s cool, no worries. You need to get back to a wife and suburbia!

I live on the upper upper east… No suburbia for me lol!

Well what’s your hurry then? You couldn’t give me 15 minutes? Sorry. Go home.

Well just cause its not suburbia doesn’t mean I didn’t have to be home. Its cool – sorry if I peeved you

I forget everyone else is on a tight leash.

Yeah… Its kinda true. Gimme another shot. I’m a good guy (lol!)

Well, no offense, but given the circumstances it’s tough to believe you’re THAT good of a guy. You do realize we connected on a site for people looking to cheat on their spouses. That said, I’m sure you’re a nice guy. But if we schedule another meeting and you text me a half hour early and then head home, well, that won’t really work for me. I was ready to meet up at or after 8:30 as you’d said. Ya know?

9:54
Ok – goooood point on the spouse thing…

10:16
I did say 8:30. Thought I said 8. That is certainly my bad…

No worries. I had said we’d meet up before your class. Which I probably could’ve but I spaced…

11:20pm
Well – where there’s a will there’s a way. We can try again.

We can.

Why Am I On Ashley Madison?

The question has come up a few times now: What’s a single woman doing on Ashley Madison? Sure, there are a few other unfettered folks on there but the site’s tag line is, after all, “Life is short. Have an affair.” It’s a hook-up service for the hitched. I have a few reasons for putting a profile up on this tacky “cheaters’” site and none of them are what I would classify as simple.

Let’s start with the fact that I’ve been single for a year now and mostly unhappy about it. My last boyfriend and I split primarily due to circumstances. He had a job in California, I needed to be in New York. We didn’t really have a “let’s break up” moment. There wasn’t a neat and tidy “end.” Even today, after all this time, I believe I’m still in love with him. And that lingering love has been a serious obstacle in my pursuit of…happiness. Between loving him and moving on. And eventually falling in love with someone else.

Thus I’ve been dabbling in online dating and have experienced the most luck with OkCupid. But it’s been so long since I’ve felt attracted to anyone that I don’t even know what it feels like anymore. And since I’ve never really dated – in the old-fashioned sense of the word, where a woman meets a guy who asks her out on an actual date – I truly don’t know how to conduct myself. So I’m getting some practice. Like going on an interview for a job you don’t want.

It’d be too easy to say that the average attached, Ashley Madison man is taller and better looking than the single losers I’ve been finding online. However, it appears to be true. I could quote all the studies and stats that say married men make more money and it’s not difficult to grasp that if a person experiences success in one aspect of their life, other successful aspects logistically follow. And I certainly don’t want to get into the whole “All the good ones are taken” conversation but, man, sometimes it sure seems like they are. That a man is “taken” does not, in any way, make him more appealing to me. In fact, just the opposite. But some of these guys are pretty damn appealing!

I’ve felt less pressure to find “the one,” mostly because so many of these men are married. I can experiment with finding “chemistry” without all the other crap. On “regular” blind dates (which all online dates, essentially, are) the pressure involved with sitting down across from a stranger and immediately asking “Do I want to fuck/marry this guy?” can be too much. Who can live up to those sort of expectations? Shouldn’t it be more about “Do I enjoy this person?” and have the future be reassuringly amorphous (as it always, realistically, is….) Of course, the obvious drawback would be “clicking” with or, god forbid, falling in love with, someone who’s inconveniently married.

My favorite aspect of being on Ashley Madison is how easily I’m able to be brutal. The guy’s 5’8”? Delete! He doesn’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re”? Delete. His opening salvo is “Hey, baby, wanna play?” Goodbye. He sends me his “private showcase” key, which reveals the dreaded headless naked bathroom mirror self-portrait. DELETE! I feel no obligation to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. He’s just some married dude! Of course, given that there is the odd single guy, I could accidentally delete a potential dream date. But why bother if he doesn’t make the cut? I’m not quite sure why I’m so much less callous on OkCupid. Why I feel a need to be polite on singles’ sites that I don’t feel on Ashley Madison. Being ruthless is sublimely liberating! I can tell him his photos are embarrassing; that he does not, as a matter of fact, look 10 years younger; I have no problem saying, “Yo, dude, that was kind of offensive!” I love not really giving a shit if a guy writes me back, calls me again or blows me off completely. Dirty hair, dirty laundry, who the hell cares? There wasn’t any hope for a future with the guy anyway. The surprising thing is that most of these men seem to actually appreciate the honesty! I guess it’s one more thing that’s been missing in their lives. Which leads me to:

There are hundreds of men on Ashley Madison who have been “imprisoned” by their lives: marriages, wives, kids, jobs, BORING or stagnating or otherwise suffocating existences. I have been living – and continue to live – a pretty wild life by comparison to most and even emailing me – or meeting me for a drink — seems to “satisfy” an “I’m looking for…something” craving these men have. Who knows what will happen next? Maybe I’ll scare the guy back to his wife. Maybe I’ll inspire him to get that inevitable divorce. At the very least I hope to be able to give people a little taste of what their life isn’t, a glimpse of what they may be missing, and what they THINK they want but perhaps don’t, really, in the end.

I’d be guilty of telling only the partial truth if I didn’t admit to being somewhat interested in a few free meals…or free beers. These married dudes have jobs and money, in addition to their wives, and if they’re looking to hang out with someone who might give them a little thrill – be it in bed or a Starbucks — why not make them pay? Honestly, I’m not that much of mercenary. But it does make it easier to rationalize accepting the “charity.”

So you see, my motivations are somewhat complicated. I love to meet new people. I love to help people. Maybe it’s the closeted shrink in me. I’m not sure. I enjoy being enjoyed…appreciate feeling appreciated. In the end, it’s all an ego boost. And then some guy writes me a poem. No one’s ever written me a poem. And I cry. Maybe that’s why I’m Ashley Madison.

Swing Club Blind Date

Last night I went to a swing club with a stranger. I know, you’re probably thinking “WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!” Obviously it was going to be a win-win situation; regardless of how good or bad, disastrous or hilarious the date turned out to be, it would definitely make good blog fodder! And though it wasn’t quite what I expected, it was, indeed, excellent fodder! Dear readers, I give you: Almost the Worst Date Ever!

A bunch of friends and I had been drinking at my apartment for hours, so I was properly prepped when I met “Greg” at a bar a few blocks away. Three of those friends were sitting a few feet from me, my back-up plan if “Greg” was a no-show. He was 15 minutes late, but he did show. And after I slugged back my Stella, we caught a cab uptown to Checkmate.

I bet you think I’ve been to every swing club in the city dozens of times but, in fact, I haven’t. Why pay exorbitant prices to watch strangers screw when you can produce your own orgy and hand-pick the players? So, no, I’d never been to Checkmate. As we hopped out of the cab, scanning buildings for the street address, the Lips doorman took one look at us and asked, “You looking for Checkmate?” Geez, were we that obvious? “Downstairs,” he said, pointing to an anonymous business-ish door. We rode the elevator down and “Greg” paid the $90 cover for himself; apparently women are always free.

The little lobby was bright white, festooned with pastel-colored balloons. As we pushed through the door into the club, a brightly-lit room, all white, white Formica bar, white upholstered couches with hot pink flower throw pillows and a stripper pole surrounded by a pink and white splattered dance floor, the Easter motif continued. The ceiling was thick with the pastel balloons, polka dot paper lanterns and festively curled ribbons. I’m a sucker for a theme but it felt oddly like a baby shower. Or children’s birthday party. With a bit of Russian mobster vibe to it.

I checked my coat while “Greg” gave the barmaid “my” bottle of vodka. He ordered a Diet Coke, warning me ominously, “You don’t want to see me drunk.” Good thing I was already drunk! Looking around, I made a wisecrack about the furnishings. Supposedly they redecorate often. How about immediately? Beyond being blindingly white, there were no other guests to blunt the glare. Yup, “Greg” and I were the only two people in the place.

My date had seated himself a barstool away from me, perhaps to better appreciate my beauty, telling me I was “pretty” and “sexy.” I asked if he’d mind if I moved closer. Since I had warned him in our preliminary emails that the chances of us having sex were absolutely zero, he wasn’t expecting anything, but I thought it might be nice if he were close enough to actually hear my witty repartee.

DJ Batcho (rhymes with macho…and nacho) was spinning some real chestnuts. “Greg” seemed to think he was the best DJ in the world. Oy. Evidently “Greg” is a swing club regular, frequenting not only Checkmate but Le Trapeze and Carousel, mostly back when he was married. I was a little surprised to hear that “Greg” was divorced. Guess I’d missed the “single” on his profile and assumed he was “attached” like just about every other guy on Ashley Madison.

Small talk was strained and sporadic. Not that I had much to say. There wasn’t any chemistry. My date didn’t seem too interested in chatting beyond his desultory flattery. I had more conversation with the sexy 22-year-old Russian barmaid. An hour into the evening there were only three or four more couples. I felt like I was in some special sort of frustrated sex maniac’s hell.

When I told “Greg” I wasn’t sure I could take much more of the excitement, he said if I left he’d have to leave too, so I stuck it out a while longer. I’d had about five vodka crans — on top of the six-pack or so I’d had at home — so I was feelin’ pretty sauced. But eventually even the Easter candy couldn’t hold me and I really had to get out of there, so I grabbed my coat and slipped out the door, jumping into the elevator before “Greg” caught up with me. I hailed a cab as quickly as I could and disappeared into the night. By the time I beat my hasty retreat, there were less than 20 guests in the club and no one had even been making out, much less stripped down or started screwing. Sigh. I guess Good Friday isn’t a big night for swinging. It was huge disappointment.

Perhaps the most hilarious part of the story is that “Greg” emailed me to see if I’d like to go to another swing club with him! WTF?

Cheating Penises

Ashley Madison is providing me with non-stop high hilarity! If it isn’t some shlub in suburbia trying to convince me that he can really show me a good time, it’s yet another unhappily married 20-something charming me with the tired line “age is just a number.” Far-flung frustrated husbands who are planning a trip to New York City “in the future” attempt to book my oh-so-in-demand time months in advance. Illiterate military men and mono-syllabic muscle heads actually believe we have something in common. Guys with screen names like “slowhand,” “loveto69″ and “meontop” let me know that “I have an admirer” in between winks and hearts and virtual emerald necklaces. It’s more amusing than a sitcom!

But probably the best thing about the site is its never-ending parade of penises! They don’t just pop up, unexpected or unannounced. Oh no! You’ve gotta work for them! Most men on AM don’t even post their pathetic, pixelated likenesses. You’ve got to be given cyber-key access to their private albums. Some guys are so shy that clicking on their key brings up…yes, pathetic pixelated shots, usually taken from 50 paces, rendering them…unrecognizable. Guess that’s for the best if their wives suspect they’re trolling the internet for “discreet affairs!”

The bolder guys show you their faces right up front. Their keys might lead you to the dreaded “check out my ripped abs” self portraits. (Or their not-so-ripped abs! Hah!) But the really “ballsy” dudes have additional “rated” photos that require an extra click beyond their secret key. Guess what’s usually in there? That’s right! Hard cock!

Now you, my dear readers, know that I am far from being a prude! You also know that I personally prefer a little mystery. What the hell are these guys thinking? Do they believe that one glimpse of their magical love wands will so enchant me that I won’t be able to resist a rendezvous with them at the first possible moment? That I’ll be on my knees, salivating at the idea of unzipping their flies, mere seconds after we’ve met?

As one might expect, there aren’t too many embarrassing members on display. If you’re less-than-well-endowed, you probably aren’t eager to advertise the fact. (Unless you’re like my new friend Little Dick!) So yes, all these online erections are certainly impressive. And perhaps there are, indeed, women out there who only want to see what might be the eventual “goods.” Though I would also assume that along with their enthusiasm for these guys’ goods, they’re equally eager to get into their wallets. I’ve already heard tales of women who make no “bones” about their desire to be someone’s sugar baby, expressing interest in the regular ol’ quid pro quo arrangement of “You take care of me and I’ll take care of you!” Yeah, you and your GIANT COCK! Hahahahahah!

To prove my point, right in the middle of my writing this post, I checked my inbox and a somewhat homely gentleman whose advances I had gently turned down made his last “stab” with: “You need to be inspired? hmmm…I have a webcam…I think I can inspire you…I look MUCH better than pics…and I have certain qualities I’m confident you wouldn’t dislike too often…
so..you just never know…”

My response? “If you’re saying you have a huge cock, I’m currently blogging about how pathetic that is. It means nothing.
Seriously. Get a grip.
I am inspired by a lot of things. A hard-on isn’t one of them.”

The sad thing about all this is that I bet if these idiots emailed their wives pictures of their hard cocks, of them fervently masturbating in front of the bathroom mirror, it might actually spice up their supposedly dull married sex lives. But what the hell do I know?

I’ll leave you with this brief, blurry, almost flip-book like series of action shots that one gentlemen was thoughtful enough to share with me. Enjoy!

Is It True What They Say…About Ashley Madison Men?

So I’ve been on Ashley Madison for over a week now and the emails have been piling up. They are, quite literally, all over the map: 21-year-olds to 67-year-olds, San Diego to Ontario and everywhere in between. My initial observations still stand: most of the men are married, as one might expect, and most of those married men are both taller and better looking than the motley selection of single dudes on other dating sites. General behavior is markedly more paranoid and evasive, no doubt a symptom of sneaking.

The site goes back and forth on letting me respond to my admirers for free, either cutting me off completely while waiting for my profile to be “approved” or informing me that I need to purchase credits. I’m not sure if the site is buggy or if their tech is just crap. They extended 25 free credits after what I’m assuming was my complimentary grace period yet now I intermittently seem to have more. No notice of when or why I have more, just sometimes when I hit “reply” my message is magically delivered while other times it is sent “collect,” an embarrassing situation I’d prefer to avoid.

I’ve already managed to meet up with two men in person and neither of them are married. Of course, neither is technically single, either. I’ll change their names, to make it all seem more mysterious:

“Dave” is a tall, dark and handsome former professional athlete from suburban Long Island who is going through a divorce. He has a great sense of humor, seemed to be entertained by me and was generous to a fault: he not only treated me to a bunch of yummy purple margaritas, he bought rounds for my friends as well. (The plan was to meet him for a few cocktails before I was meeting my pals and he wound up hanging out. Don’t want anyone to think I invited him to a group gathering expecting him to carry all of us!) He wasn’t in the least bit sad-sack and genuinely enthused, “Abby, you are living!” which cracked me up. Yes, indeed, I am! He eventually bumbled off to dinner with a friend but neglected to follow up with a “nice meeting you” email or anything else. I sent one to him and he responded with a very brief and non-committal communiqué, so I’ll assume that I won’t be seeing him again. Either, upon sober reflection, my “living” life frightened him off or he’s not as deep into that divorce as he said he was. Who knows? I enjoyed his company and didn’t have to pay to get drunk! Huzzah!

“Jim” immediately struck my fancy. His profile listed him as “attached” but he didn’t seem over-eager to jump into bed, sounding more like a businessman stuck in the city in search of someone with whom to share dinner and perhaps a few laughs. Easy enough! We met at a new neighborhood restaurant and he was even better looking in person than he’d been online. Tall, dark, distinguished touch of grey at the temples and great teeth! Fantastic smile, too! His story turned out to be that he’s divorced but seeing someone and they’re both just…bored. Seems to be a common affliction. Surprise! Anyway…at least I wasn’t gonna be cast in the “other woman, dreaded home-wrecker” role… His sexual history was a hoot as well: Catholic schoolboy-cum-college student loses his virginity to a married 40-something Mrs. Robinson and they carry on a torrid four-year affair! She teaches him “things that still work!” Whoa, baby! Sounds good to me!

We immediately fell into an easy and engaging conversation — the perfect balance of banter — and agreed on beers, tapas and just about everything else! He interjected a few suggestive asides but, rather than being off-putting, they were wryly delivered and therefor surprisingly welcomed. He was animated and intelligent and earnestly seemed to find me “really interesting.” When he leaned in for a quick kiss, with the somewhat chestnut-ty “Sorry, I couldn’t resist any longer,” even that was perfectly timed. We had a couple of beers and a lot of laughs — the perfect date — and when he walked me home there were more than a few absolutely amazing kisses. I can’t really explain why I didn’t drag his ass upstairs into my apartment. Sigh. I blamed my reluctance on the messy foster dog situation but maybe the situation itself just felt a bit too…cliché. It’s really a horse I need to get back on and ride, if you’ll forgive the hackneyed phraseology. Next time I’ll force myself! Giddyup! Stay tuned!