30/M
My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” he explained, showing its alleged size with his thumb and index. Since this was a gross overestimate, I remained silent, not sure if I should correct his mistake.
1. The girl who disguises complimenting herself as anger.
“Geez! Just got carded for buying a lottery ticket! WTF! I know I look young for my age but this is ridiculous!”
“Hang out with me at my sister’s place in Silver Lake”, Katie insisted over the phone. I wanted to say no, but I really didn’t have anything else to do. Every time I go out with Katie, a major hottie, everyone assumes I’m her boyfriend; or I have to make small talk with some douchey guy trying to pick her up. “Sure” I said, deciding this was better than meeting my guy friends at T.G.I Friday’s and listening to them drone on about their fantasy football draft picks.
The anti-drug program targeted for kids known as D.A.R.E was purportedly a failure. Bullshit. They always terrified the crap out of me. It wasn’t the…
I’ve decided to jump back into the world of online dating. I joined Match.com in hopes of finding the perfect : fun loving, adventurous, down to earth, easy going, outgoing, passionate about music, loves to go out but also enjoys staying in, sassy and smart, new-to-this-whole-online-dating-thing-and-still-thinks-it-weird-but-thought-she’d-give-it-a-try girl. I chose Match.com over some of the free alternatives like Plenty of Fish because I appreciate the commitment it takes to give out your credit card information and spend 25 bucks a month to find love.
1. The Donated Art Supplies
I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t need the two and a half sticks of compressed charcoal you found while cleaning out your grandma’s closet after she passed away. For $8, I can go down to Michaels and buy all the charcoal I need without worrying about the ghost of Beatrice haunting me in my life drawing class.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the dance floor. A pair of legs kicked in the air, accompanied by a flailing skirt and a half screaming, half laughing sound. Brandy attempted the “dip” but failed the second part of the move where your partner is supposed to bring you back up. She lay with her back flat on the ground and her feet bicycle kicking the air as if she mocked Madonna circa the “Like a Virgin” tour. I followed her heels, down to the back of her thighs, down to her two ass cheeks that jiggled around like an unbroken water balloon dropped on the floor. My friend Ryan and I observed this drunken spectacle from a nearby table with my girlfriend Laci. I looked over to see if she caught me leering, then gave a fake laugh like the time I got my first lap dance and the stripper told me her boobs were too big for her bra.
My kindergarten class was at a daycare center called Children’s World. If you asked the staff they’d say I was well behaved. I participated in sing alongs even though I didn’t know what “eep eep eep eeples and beneneenes” were and why so many people liked to eat them. I raised two fingers in the air and put one over my lips when the counselors said “Signals on”. I marched in the single file line with everyone else. For the most part, with the exception of a few time outs, I was a good kid. That was all until the day I finally crossed the line.
I nodded when my co-worker Jason asked me if I was into partying. “Well, a rave is pretty much the same thing, except with more house music and none of that trendy shit you hear everywhere else,” he explained to me while waiting for his noodles to cool down. Jason was one of the only other high school kids at my job, so we’d become good friends by default. I nodded again to indicate my agreement. “Tony and I are going to one this Saturday night. You should come,” he suggested as he twirled a string of noodles around his plastic fork. I finished my vending machine granola bar and said I was in.
I stared at my hairy stomach spilling over the blue and green sequins one piece I had just wiggled into. On paper, this seemed like a good idea. Now, not so much. I always hated those douchebags that thought they were being funny by dressing up as girls for Halloween and now, here I was, one of them. I put on the long red wig, padded my sea shell bra and squinted at my reflection in the mirror, trying to calculate how many drinks it would take for me to sleep with myself. For a second, I thought about calling the whole thing off and claiming a fever or a stomach flu. “It’s funny,” I told myself, forcing a smile onto my face. “It’s funny because its part of a theme . . it’s funny because you’ll be with other guys doing the same thing . . . it’s funny because . . . its funny.” Just as I had started to convince myself that everything was going to be fine, I caught a glimpse of my backside which set my confidence level back to zero. “If you don’t find it funny, no one is going to find it funny,” I said to myself, annoyed with my own anxiety. “It’s fucking funny dude, now stop looking at yourself and lets go.”
