I went out with this guy from a dating site. He said he was in good shape, and well-off (“I got some fuck you money pardon my French,” is what he wrote.) In his pictures he is surfing and teaching Pilates to seniors and in one, he is showing off his “love-making nest,” which is a pile of pillows by a mirror and some little Birthday candles stick into a waffle.
Frank I was drunk as shit when I wrote him and we were sexting, then phone-sexing, a half hour later. He has a deep, really raunchy voice and phew! the things he says. One thing is (I know your ad says no “undue sexual details,”) “O how I want to nurse you while you rub my prostate with an SOS pad.”
OK so I met him and big surprise, he’s an old, yellow-toothed, paunchy bastard.
I paid a fortune on a new dress from Shopgirls (Holla!), a hairdo by Lora at Fringe, nails, waxings: the whole 9.
And the first thing he said when I walked into Happy Times, the scuzziest bar I HAVE EVER SEEN is “I thought you were 40.”
I am 31 years old!
He ordered four Coors with Jack backs for himself and “Whatever grandmaw’s drinkin.”
I paid, because “I left my wallet fighting for your fucking freedom in Bagpipe.”
But here’s the thing. When he touched my arm, reaching for an e-smoke, I felt like I was on fire.
And when he scratched his big balls, I moaned.
“You so horny,” he said and laughed. He then took a call from his “phone,” which was a piece of black cardboard with numbers drawn on it.
He said his monster truck had gone rogue and left me. With his 200 dollar tab.
He won’t return my emails and I’m going crazy.
I know how bad it sounds but the heart wants what it wants, right?
I would like to help, but you sicken me. Go rub one off on a Woody Allen poster and leave me in peace. Maybe one day I’ll be able to forget,