: d ng g l-b r :

In a sea of yellow faces, she was the only one with cute plastic framed glasses. So I met her, bought her (and her 9 friends) a drink and fingered her. There we stood by the bar, conversing with her friends, my left hand holding my drink, my right hand up the back of her skirt gliding gently up and down her wetness.

She was young. The kind of young that merits a messenger alias with weird punctuation and unexplored keyboard characters L*kE tH^s!

Via AIM, we met up for drinks a week later on a Wednesday night. She lived an hour south but I figured if pussy awaits, who am I to not oblige. Over dinner she shared a lengthy list of her passions, all which were rooted in the need to rebel against her parents – hidden tattoos behind her ears, dropping out of school, running away to the big city. At that point in the date, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she put on a retainer half way through dinner. She was young but my penis was willing to overlook the colored braces and the potential jail time.

We went back to her “place”, nicely situated above her parents garage. It was cozy. A single bed with a small tv on the side. Elegantly decorated with flat helium balloons and posters of Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony and Hello Kitty. I was at the Toys R Us hideaway. We sat on the bed and after checking her MySpace page, she proceeded to pull her 3 foot bong out of the closet. My Dingleberry, she proudly proclaimed, pointing to the monkey sticker on the tube. She pulled out a big baggie and proceeded to ready her tool for action. With my limited smoking experience, I followed her lead and watched in equal parts of awe and amusement as she opened wide, wrapped her lips around the top and sucked so hard the water bubbled like the jets from a spa. I followed and took my hits like a seasoned 420 friendly pro and after a few tokes I was ready to replace the bong with a more suitable device. We kissed and when I moved in for more, she responded with a, “I hardly know you, I don’t do that?” I was baffled. Didn’t we do “that” in the middle of a crowed bar?

So with that I got up and left, got in my car and drove home senses enhanced, lights blurring slightly, brain trying to figure out what the fuck a Dingleberry was. I laughed so hard the next day when I looked it up.

din·gle·ber·ry ( P ) Pronunciation Key (d ng g l-b r )n. Vulgar Slang

- A piece of dried feces caught in the hair around the anus.

: Ritual :

I have a horrible disability. When a girl gives me her number, I call it. I call it pretty much immediately. I try and hold back. Really I do. I’ve heard the warnings about calling too soon. Horror stories. All of them end with the main character getting disembowled by a chainsaw. 3 days, 1 week, 1 year...I’m told by friends, my dentist, the characters in 40-Year Old Virgin. I’m confused. They all seem to disagree on the right approach.

But in that moment of “what if”, whether fueled by boredom, drunkenness, loneliness, eagerness to be loved, or misdialing, the power of suggestion is overpowering. My rational self loses a battle to my hands. It happens everytime. A landslide. Hands 76 – Rational Self 0
I know I shouldn’t be calling and I can almost guarantee that they won’t answer. In fact, they rarely do leaving me with a moment of sheer panic where I need to decide whether to do the following:

1) Hang up and hope they don’t catch the number
2) Leave a voicemail

Usually I suck it up and do #2. No matter how witty or interesting I try and sound in my voicemail, it’s always a nerve-wracking experience knowing that they can save it, send it to others. I foresee the phone being placed on speaker at the bar, friends gathered around laughing and holding up scorecards.

I always try and say something memorable but more often than not I fumble through my improvisation and it comes out sounding like cats fucking in the alley. Not pretty. I try again with the pound button but that only works on some mobile services so when the pound button doesn't work (which on the other end sounds like a long beep followed by the sound of a oh shit), in desperate fashion, I fumble through the immediate push of the red button to end the call. I am left with shame and hope and then more shame.

This lasts for about a day or until I’m drunk next, whichever comes first, and then the ritual begins again.

: Identity :
I was trying to find an appropriate photo for my new blog. First of all, can you even put a photo on your profile? Am I an idiot cause i certainly can't find that button to save my life.

I'm keeping this post anonymous so searching for a picture that doesn't have my mug in it was a challenge. Plus no one gives a shit about a picture of my car or my apartment so I went with this picture.

What a face.

In all modesty (ha) I am a good looking guy, but this dog chewing a cinnamon stick is a stud. I took a picture of him at an internet cafe in Bangkok. Thank you dog for letting me steal your identity.

Of course he knew it at the time but he and I are in fact very similar. While others oodle over us, we do our own thing. I gots me a cinnamon stick, back off. We could care less. Feed us, pet us but fuck with us and we're all teeth. I think he embodies all the goodness in my little heart. Of course I can't lick my own crotch but if I could...

: Broken :

What a day.

I spent my Friday night and Saturday at the office on the other end of an ass kicking from my client. I rallied the team and marched us off the cliff. We will complete this project but the relationship has been strained, so perhaps our efforts were in vain.

I was really looking forward to meeting with Yvette last night. We had the date set. I picked out the restaurant, flossed, cleaned my place and even shaved my nuts. But a few hours before, she texted me and asked for a raincheck. Stomach ache. WTF? I've had worse excuses but that really was the icing on such a shitty week. It drove me to drink by myself again at the bar and of course, more drunken text messages and phone calls to girls i knew would never call me back. But in my state of depression, i really needed some love.

So i called a girl i just met through a friend a few weeks back. Asian, not really my type but she was really a lot of fun when we hung out. I met her at her place. She fed me, gave me wine, picked up the plates, hugs. She was nothing short of wonderful. I wasn't really planning on having a go with her and she certainly wasn't either considering she had thought i was gay when we first met (i told her friend that to get her off me). But after a couple glasses of wine, things took a sexual turn. She told me stories of college lesbian experiences, showed me her nurse outfit and a giant blue vibrator with rabbit ears she hid in her drawers, and explained her love of doggie style and reach-arounds. We were supposed to go out to a club but the Issey she sprayed on (which I have a weakness for) was the last straw.

She gave me one of the most enthusiastic blow jobs I've ever had. I came on her face and she licked it up. Mortified, satisfied, tired, I went straight to sleep.

What a day.

: For Goodness Sake :

...where did i go wrong?
...who have i become?

: The Night of the Moon, Mariachi, and the Midget :

I answered the phone half awake and on the other end was Yvette, the halfie from Chinatown. It took me a second to get over the surprise that she had called. I had plans already but I put them aside to meet her for dinner. The second time that day, I drove out to the Echo park area. By the end of the weekend, I would get to know that route well.

She was gorgeous. She made me nervous and insecure. I couldn’t stop looking at her and found myself at times over dinner trying too hard to be funny, working my wit beyond its limits, trying to be bigger than who I actually was. She taught yoga. She made her own music. She did commercials. She had more passions than I could name and I was enamored, eyes wide open, sucking up everything I could.

It started a little uncertain but a couple of margaritas later and we were laughing naturally. Her kisses were amazing. Soft. She smelled sweet like clean pillows and her skin felt like a girl I once knew in NY. We sang in the car on the way over to the bar. She danced on my lap and I was intoxicated in so many ways. And then when the bar was closing, the night took a surreal turn all over a spilled drink. “There, now we’re even” she had said to the girl. While I was clearing up my tab, my sassy girl had gotten her ass kicked. The night ended early and I went home feeling guilty that I wasn't there.

I know I'm supposed to be alone, but I can’t stop thinking about her.

: Fields of Gold :

She lay down on her stomach and I took it as my cue to make my move. As I lowered my face to her neck, I couldn’t help but notice the small blonde hairs that flowed like fields of gold down the line of her back. Much like the same hairs that had bristled off the side of her cheeks and caught the sunlight ever so slightly while she scooped Pad Thai in her mouth over lunch. But that’s ok, I thought. No chin, no lips and a waist wider than mine could all be dismissed for what I was about to do.

I was determined to have sex with my first white girl. The tall blonde from Riverside didn’t count given she was a crackerjack and I released my boys prematurely partly out of tiredness but mostly because I was nervous. God forbid how quickly I would have come if her vagina wasn’t so deep. My hotdog didn’t stand a chance in that hallway. She never returned my messages after that. Bitch.

But Margaret Thatcher was a revenge fuck. A single act of standing up for our people having lost so many of our daughters and sisters to the white man’s plague. I vowed I would avenge my brethren and through this one act of penetration, inspire our kind to gather, put down our fancy cars and superior math skills and fight back one snow white princess at a time.

This selfless act alone could ignite a revolution.

I made a mental list of my scars: Illyana, the professional hair coloring girl who subtly touched my arm while laughing at all my jokes at the bar. Lindsay, the account executive whom I had interrupted for her number in the middle of her client schmoozing meeting. Amy, the hot halfie lawyer who gave me her real number and then proceeded to let some guy (her boyfriend probably) take a message for her when I called. And then Yvette, the yoga instructor who had looked me up and down at the club and then paid me no attention and gave up no number when I finally summoned up the courage to talk to her. All had started promising with witty banter and disarming smiles. But no messages were left, no emails written. I was a product of their diversity training, a non-descript supporting character in the background of their beer commercial, a means of fulfilling their affirmative action policy. But these wounds meant nothing now. In fact, they had toughened me up and sweetened the taste of inevitable victory.

But victory never came. I got as far as seeing her left boob when she pulled her crop top up and covered her face to wipe away her tears. I’m sorry she said. Buts it’s just, she was not over this guy…3 years…she loved him so much…why did he have to leave her. And as certain as I was five minutes ago that it was going to happen, in that strange twist of events I became as certain that it wasn’t.

So with that, I sat up, took off my contacts went to bed…defeated. The revolution will have to wait another night.