I’m very disappointed in you. I’m disappointed that you haven’t put forth any effort in continuing our communications. Have you forgotten how to use a phone? I imagine the men you date are quite accustomed to disappointment. I thought we had a connection. I am not alone in this. Multiple sites find us to be compatible.
We had lots of eye contact during our first date. From a per-minute basis, I’ve never had as much eye contact during a date as I did with you. If you didn’t find me physically attractive, then why did you go out with me in the first place? Maybe it was my fault and I was staring at a train wreck I couldn’t take my eyes off of.
You are so much the existential mess I breathe every day. It amazes me you have the forethought to tie your shoe laces, that’s probably why you wear those hooker shoes all the time, no laces. I think you’re witty as hell but nowhere near my level of intelligence. I am Einstein and you are a rock. That is what I can offer you. I could raise you up so high, you would be surprised you were ever this lax in your mental abilities. Finding mental stimulation is like finding a flower among the bricks. I thought I had found such a flower, but fungus can be pretty at first glance too.
If you don’t want to go out again, then I request that you call me and make a sincere apology for leading me on (i.e., giving me mixed signals). I know I held your attention quite well through the night, unless you were lost in thoughts of make-up, clothing, and just being a whore that you were looking through me. I find it hard to believe that you will be able to find such a match as myself. You know as well as I, that it would be in your best interest to contact me for another date. Please do yourself a favor and reconsider the egregious decision you have made, you are only hurting your own future by not pursuing someone such as myself who can only stand to make you look better.
What is that noise? It’s the sound of your opinion crushing my soul into a thousand pieces? Thing is opinions are like orgasms…. mine matters most and I don’t really give a fuck if you have one.
Perhaps I can break things down for you in a more simple manner. When you are dead you don’t know you are dead. It is only difficult for the others that knew you. It’s the same when you’re a jackhole. You see sweetness, I can’t date you because I already have your jackhole type in my collection. Now if you were a douchebag or wackadoo we could talk, but right now I am up to my armpits in dickless jackholes. So please understand that at this time your personality is as useful to me as your nonexistent penis. While it may seem somewhat crude to break down our magical connection into such a simple binary, the mere thought of being in your malignant company again makes me want to take a Hazmat bath. Nothing personal, of course.
Please pardon me. I must go and get back to my busy day of whoring and grinding. No dick will go unhumped. There’s no point in the women of Cleveland twisting their boyfriend’s dicks like a pretzel and putting a padlock on it. Nope. My Cloverpussy can bust through chains. I can pick a lock with my clit and untie a knot with my labia lips. I got mad skills dawg. I do hope, however, this email serves as some type of apology to you. Hayden, I am truly sorry.
I must have misplaced the fuck I was supposed to give.
Best regards (sorta),
Not to give a jackhole too much credit, but I’m sure 90% of the dicks in the Cleveland area have had my DNA on them at one point or another. Does it make me a whore? Not exactly. But if dicks could fly, the FAA would have insisted on airport authority over my anus years ago.
I don’t see a man’s desire to have sex with me – at any point in the dating process – as a statement of how he feels about me. People have sex because they want to. I am well aware of other women who dangle sex as a carrot to get what they want (i.e. relationship, ring, favors, control, etc.). Dating advice panders to that audience. Often the message is, “You’re the prize, ladies. Make him earn it.” Rarely does it consider what a gal is bringing to the relationship table or offer both sides. Nobody tells women they’ll probably have to extend themselves beyond their fairytale notions to get that more desirable gent to commit. All that is said to them is that there’s this unicorn of a man who will wait for them.
Dating sites assume that if you’ve got a guy’s inside-leg measurement, compatibility percentage, BMI index, now you’re all set. But it ain’t that easy. Most of the men that women ages 35+ are pursuing have already been married so now they choose to date arm charm (gals 26-35). Or they’ve never married by choice. So, naturally, those guys are going to be more difficult to get. They have options. A lot of ‘em. These men need to see something really special in a woman to make them want to give all that up. Especially if sex isn’t on the table. You may come with a pussy bedazzled in diamonds and a ruby-encrusted anus, but he STILL IS GOING TO LEAVE YOUR ASS AND NOT PLAY INTO YOUR VAGINA GAMES!
Want to know what gets me feeling like a 3 day old wet pretzel? Most men on dating sites set their search engine cutoff at age 43. They don’t even consider viewing anything older. Your profile may suggest you don’t look your age, but in the online dating world you should be dead by now. It is online dating’s friendly knee to the groin, hinting we’re all one step closer to snorting Benefiber lines off of each other’s prune-y ass cheeks in the “old sluts” wing in Shady Pines.
For me, age 43 suggests that Shady Pines is just around the corner. How many times have I shared my fear of dying alone in my own vomit with you all? This fear beats inside me like a second heartbeat. I can’t help but feel the pressure to hog tie a man (any man) and drag him back to my lair. Until of course I become a Shar-pei mess and he waits to cash me in for a younger model.
If nothing else, its life. It’s real, and sometimes it fuckin’ hurts, but it’s sort of all we have. No one wants to feel like a fossil. No one wants to feel unworthy or unattractive but one must resist the urge to get desperate. It isn’t that I think I am settling with Ryker. I am quite wild about him. There are even times I think the powers above are trying to communicate that he may be the one. Like the other night when his balls were slapping my face they looked like an upside down heart. But with my online dating age window narrowing, it does make concentrating on one dick a bit more precarious. One has more to lose with time against them. If I choose incorrectly, I might find myself back online trolling for dick as an unmarketable version of my former self.
Enter Garret….the kind of guy anal beads are made for.
Garret is your typical “bad boy” complete with a perma-scowl, leather, tats, well-shaped skull and a jaded soul. Sometimes brooding, wounded by his general aloofness and nonchalant apathy, he can still pump out orgasms like he is drilling for oil. Sexual chemistry with him is always a Kinder Egg of surprise.
First time we met we sat across from each other in a coffee shop and within an hour and half he was back at my apartment working his way up my spiral staircase, as his cock worked up my skirt. We did things on that staircase that I think still needs Lysol.
Stop. I haven’t fucked Garret yet because my vagina kinda feels like it is under contract with Ryker. This saddle riding thing I spoke of was 2 years ago, just before my stint with gnome dick Duncan. During the gnome dick regime Garret and I kind of lost touch until recently bumping into him at Roxy’s bar.
He spoke of picking up where we left off but that would complicate things with Ryker. Why does life happen when you are busy doing other things? This is going to get messy. How will I explain a new cock in the hen house to Ryker? “Oh Ryker, I slipped and fell over onto his cock, I swear. Over and over again, I just couldn’t get my balance, and oh, it was a nightmare!”
In every doomed relationship, there comes what I like to call “The uh-oh moment”. When a certain little something happens, and you know you’ve just witnessed the beginning of the end. And suddenly you stop and you think, “Uh-oh, iceberg ahead”. And that ice-berg is called Snarky Snatch. Let us not forget that Ryker has no idea about this blog or my performing life. And there is no better way to test a relationship’s juice than by blogging about it.
Love causes insecurities. Love causes attachments. Love causes you to be overbearing and protective. What has being in a relationship gotten me so far except years of suffering and a blown-out sphincter from too much anal?
Building walls in real life is really hard. But those emotional walls, the invisible walls, well those are far easier. I’ve seen a flicker of this emotional faucet in Ryker. If I say something he doesn’t like, he seems to go cold and throw up a wall. He tends to open up and reveal his complexity slowly, like a good wine. I see the passion he has, his brain is enough to saturate two Sham-Wows and Vince Shlomi, but how will he take to this other seedy life I wear like a second skin? That’s why Garret is here. Garret has no scruples. He would bang a hooker who just sucked the dicks of 100 truck drivers behind a rusty dumpster and get off on it. So he would have zero issue with my naughty over share on stage or in a blog.
Distractions can be a good thing. They can provide a heart some hurt immunity. Besides, how is my bull dozer vagina going to destroy the lives of men if I got a b-b-b-b-b-b-boyfriend under my roof?! Ryker blog issue aside… what is the deal with a handsome stable dude who seems inexorably drawn to a woman who should send him running for his life? And why invest so much if I stand to lose so much again? I know my vagina can handle the wear and tear, but I’m not sure the same goes for what little sanity I have left after trolling the dark corners of the inter-webs.
Does your love for someone burn stronger than a urinary tract infection? Then join my snatch on Facebook and tell me about it. You will find my snatch warm and inviting…. like floating in a sac of amniotic fluid.