Author: Dave Glenn

Six years had passed since my break-out Havasu spring break of 2003. If you were to ask my close friends when I “started being sleazy,” they’ll probably say it was on that trip. I bleached my hair and frosted the tips black, which made it look like someone had grabbed me by the ankles and dipped me in oil. Nothing could stop me.

The boats–mostly pontoons and motorboats–connected with each other to create a giant Pangaea of debauchery. I’d hop from boat to boat, one hand holding double-stacked beers, the other holding whipped cream; and I’d spray whipped cream on mouths, breasts, necks, chins, hip bones, and ass cheeks. In total, I hooked up with over forty girls in a three-day span. Sometimes I wouldn’t even need to speak. I’d simply point the whipped cream bottle to her mouth, and if she didn’t move, I’d spray and start kissing her. This adventure was before I really knew how to close, so all those “hook ups” were waist and above, ending the moment I hopped onto the next boat.

I learned two things from that trip: first, girls travel to places like Lake Havasu, Las Vegas, and Cancun for the same reason guys do: to hook up; second, rejection ceases to exist with the right amount of alcohol and an ample supply of women. One of my less confident friends requested I write a blog on “how to handle rejection.” I told him: “Stop giving a shit. Drink more. You are cooler than her; if she disagrees, move on.” Whipped cream helps, too.

I returned to Lake Havasu in summer 2009 for KG’s bachelor party. Since we’d missed spring break by two months, I wasn’t expecting the same boat-to-boat madness of ‘03. But Havasu is a different world. Sex is always drifting somewhere nearby. 

Eleven of us rented an eighty-foot houseboat. The boat had an upper deck that consisted of a wood-finished bar covered by a fly-infested roof. Beyond the overhang at the front were a half dozen patio chairs loosely facing each other. Down below were four sleeping units along with a bar, kitchen, and a pair of bathrooms. The rooms were the size of a walk-in closet, each with a double bed. In total they slept eight. The remaining three slept on the foldout couch.

The houseboat deal came with a motorboat, so we spent the days tubing and wake boarding. The lake had an eerie amount of dead fish floating around. Every fifteen seconds we’d motor past a new rotting floater. At one point we played a game of Fish Drink: if someone saw a new carcass, they’d yell, “Fish!” and we’d all drink. The game didn’t last long once we realized it wasn’t like that song “Roxanne” because at least that song ended. The dead fish were infinite. We later learned that an epidemic of “fish herpes” had taken over the lake. Sucks to be born in Havasu.

That Friday night we went to a local bar a few blocks from the water. The bar was U-shaped with a less-crowded pool/karaoke room on one side of the U, and a dance/table area on the other. Toward the end of the night I began talking to a thirty-nine-year-old brunette woman named Elena, who was sitting behind a table watching the dance floor. “Are you spying on someone?” I asked. She laughed and defended herself. Girls hate being accused of being stalkers. They always get defensive. I noticed she had a heavy accent, so I asked her which country she was from. She gave me an undecipherable answer involving Switzerland, France, and Romania. I nodded my head and acted like I understood, and then I asked her about her fifteen bracelets.

I was disappointed to find out Elena lived in Havasu, since I had yet to meet a respectable girl from the city famous for scuzzy spring breaks, whipped cream, and boat sex. She’d moved to the U.S. about a decade ago to “start over” and run her own pet shop. I didn’t explore the root of her start-over thing, assuming no good could come from that discussion.

When the bar closed down, we had to wait another forty minutes outside with the mob of drunks because Elena was paranoid about getting pulled over by a cop even though she’d had just two drinks. In that time, I was interrupted twice by a Havasu local who approached Elena and asked, “Is everything okay here?” Elena would reply yes. Then he’d ask, “Do you need a walk to your car?” Elena would reply no. “Are you sure?” he would add. Elena again replied no. Both interruptions consisted of the exact same script. I felt sorry for the guy. Apparently, there are guys who actually think they can get laid by offering girls walks to their car at three in the morning.

Later, blacked-out Punchline gave his best salt attempt when he waddled over and sleazily started caressing Elena’s right foot while she sat on a large planter. Luckily a chunky blonde girl he’d been talking to whistled him back.

When I had to take a leak, I called over a drunken KG and Ron to “watch over” Elena. When I returned from the alley, everything was fine, but Ron didn’t leave. He remained and continued to talk with Elena for the next fifteen minutes. I began to worry that the salt factor would be an issue.

KG dragged Ron away when the mob scene began to wane. Elena and I walked to her car, and I asked where she wanted to go. “We can’t go to my place because my pets will probably attack you,” she chuckled.

          “Really? How many pets do you have?” I asked.

          “Seven–two cats, two dogs, a parrot, an iguana, and a fish,” she replied, flicking a strand of hair aside.
          “One fish!” I exclaimed. “Does that even count?”

          “Of course it does!”

          “Doesn’t it get lonely?”

          “No, why would she get lonely? She has the whole aquarium to herself.”

          “I guess,” I said, still confused. “What about the poor parrot? Don’t the cats attack his cage?”

          “No no,” she laughed. “His cage is too high.”

Aside from her ankle high white dress, something was wrong with this girl. But since she had a sweet face, an innocent smile, and a nice set of real tits, I ignored our pet discussion. When we got inside her car, she insisted on waiting another five minutes for the cops to leave. The street was deserted. I suddenly felt an urge creep up on me, and I had to act. We still hadn’t made out or had any physical contact whatsoever. With American girls I could usually tell if we were going to hook up or not. Euro chicks made me anxious. I had to make sure she wasn’t looking for a “friendship.” Losing my patience, I decided to try an unconventional move. While she was talking, I leaned in for a kiss Marty-McFly style. Elena cringed and moved away with a look of absolute fright. “What are you doing!?” she shrieked.

          “Whoa,” I said, pulling back. “Relax. I was just giving you a kiss.” She was seriously scared of me. “Is that okay?”

          “Oh, okay,” she said, sitting up. “You weren’t going to hurt me, right?”

          “No, of course not!” Hurt her? Had I not been eleven beers deep I would have gotten out of the car and run away. Instead, I persisted. “Why would you think that?”

          “Oh, nothing,” she answered, fiddling with her watch. “I guess it’s just a kiss.”

I leaned in again. Success. We made out for a few minutes until I got bored and suggested we go to the houseboat. She jumped at the idea. “Yes! I want to see houseboat!” she said in a stronger European accent. I asked some of my friends the next day about her accent. None of them could place it, so we settled on Euro.

The moment I walked onto the boat–which was docked purposely away from other boats to avoid noise complaints–I knew I had a challenge ahead. Elena was the lone girl; bringing her into a place with ten other horny guys was like leading a sheep through a velociraptor stable.  Even though these were some of my closest friends, Havasu has a way of zombifying men to vagina.

First it was Axe. During a make-out session on the roof, Axe came thundering up the stairs butt naked. He leaned against the corner rail, made an inappropriate face, and pressed his dick upwards to reveal his ball sack. Elena laughed, and made a fake disgusted look even as she continued to look back to get another glimpse of Axe’s sack. Why can’t girls just admit that they want to see guys’ junk? They don’t need to feign disgust to preserve their class. Just laugh and look; you’ll be a lot cooler, and trustworthy. When Axe realized his presentation was getting him nowhere, he retreated to his bed to sleep.

We made our way back down to the bottom deck, and Elena suddenly became inspired to “seize the day.” She stripped naked and jumped in the lake, yelling out “Carpe Diem!” repeatedly. She reminded me of some of my female facebook friends who think their status update is an acceptable and appropriate venue to “change the world” by posting things like, “True love is not finding the perfect person, but finding an imperfect person and seeing them as perfection.. : ).” Or “I think people should take more time to look at the stars! Their beautiful!” Even: “Learn from your mistakes and you’ll get stronger as you grow. Believe you’ll succeed, and then make it so.” These were all taken from actual pages. These girls are inspiring no one. And neither was Elena.

I jumped in the water eventually, but only to increase my chances of sex. Pathetic, I know. When word got out that Elena was naked, nine of my ten friends herded to the back of the boat (Punchline was the tenth, but he was comatose with his head face down on the patio table, so I wouldn’t categorize him as a “herder.”) At one point, KG barged into a sleeping Axe’s room and annouced, “Dude, wake up! There’s a naked chick swimming around outside!” Axe’s body sprang up like a human boner, and he immediately got naked again and ran out back to see for himself.

“Carpe diem! Come on! Jump in the water! You only live once! Carpe diem!” exclaimed the clumsy swimmer I was trying to fuck. My friends huddled at the edge of the boat, frustrated. The dark water was clouding their view of Elena’s body, and it appeared that Elena had a massive Euro bush, which was reportedly swaying everywhere.

After the herd retreated inside, Ron remained. Still under the vagina-zombie spell Havasu had placed on him, he called Elena over to the edge of the boat for a chat. Elena waded over, spouting off nonstop Carpe-diem-like sentences. Idiotically, I was still in the water. I watched helplessly as salty Ron tried to chisel his way into Elena’s attention. After ten minutes of conversing, Elena persuaded Ron to join her. Ron, the dope, jumped in. Elena cheered uproariously since she had obviously changed the world.

Ron’s attempt at seizing the day yielded no results as Elena swam over to me, and Ron dog-paddled around for a bit and then climbed back onto the boat. A few minutes later, after a fake-romantic lake-make-out, Elena and I got out of the water, dried off, and retreated to my empty room–sacrificed to me since I brought back a girl.

Everything was going fine. Her kisses were wet and passionate, her boobs were happily fondled, and my hard-on had evaded whiskey dick. After my attempt at rubbing her crotch was thwarted by her quick-to-close legs, everything started to implode. When I tried to kiss her again, suddenly Elena’s entire complexion changed. She was terrified and sunk away from my kiss and literally whimpered, “Please…don’t…hurt…me.” WHAT THE FUCK? Now I was frightened. I immediately got off her and said, “Whoa, it’s okay. We’ll stop.”

Elena’s emotions were in shambles and she was weeping. She started apologizing and explained how she’d been raped when she was a teenager. “I was only fifteen!” she sobbed, face in her hands. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I had never been with a rape victim before, especially one who’d been harboring the affliction for twenty-four years. So I petted her. After the sobs subsided, she slowly got off the bed and, eyes closed, got onto her knees and started mumbling something while her body lurched back and forth rhythmically, her right arm making some sort of motion. She was chanting. I tried to decipher the sentence she was mumbling, but it wasn’t English. Her body lurched and her right arm went from touching her heart area to waving in the air, similar to what superstitious NBA players do just before a free throw. Except, she was doing it over and over.

After ten minutes of chanting, she had calmed down and got back on the bed. I asked her what just happened. She explained to me something about how a tribe in Africa would do that exact chant to expunge themselves of unhappy thoughts. In other words, Hakuna Mutata.

I lay on the bed, rattled. I looked back at Elena, who was lying on her stomach, her head facing the wall. I turned on my side and tried to fall asleep. Five minutes later, I heard moans. Elena was now lying on her back, fingering herself. No longer horny, I remained facing away from her. She’s a loose cannon, I thought. There’s no way I’m hooking up with her anymore. It wasn’t long, however, before her moans induced an arousal. I turned onto my back. With her eyes closed in ecstasy, it seemed she had forgotten I was in the room.

“Need a hand?” I interrupted. When I was a teenager, I had always fantasized about walking in on a girl masturbating. In my fantasy I’d have a cigarette in my hand–even though I didn’t smoke–and I’d be leaning mysteriously against the wall wearing sunglasses and a trench coat, and then I’d ask if she needed “a hand,” and the girl would say yes, and we’d have wild sex. My opportunity to ask that question had arrived–well, close enough. I took it.

Elena looked up at me, startled. She kissed me violently. Then, using her other hand, she reached through the hole in my boxers, and brought out my cock. A rough handjob ensued. Since she was enjoying her double genital manipulation, I let her carry out her abominable handjob while she played with herself. After a few minutes, enough was enough. I peeled her hand off and quickly jerked off on her thigh and then went to sleep while she continued to play with herself.  

An hour later I was awakened by Elena putting her clothes on. “You leaving?” I asked.

          “Yes. I need to go check on my babies,” she said, slipping into her shoes. I wanted to stay in bed, but I figured walking her to her car would show “what a nice guy” I was, and it would eliminate the tiny chance of her screaming “rape” on me, so that’s what I did.

The next day began with me telling the disturbing story of Elena. McBride, a psychologist, said he’d never heard of anything like Elena. Seriously, though, who chants? I thought chants only happened in movies like Children of the Corn or Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I was wrong: chants really exist.

After another day of water sports and a disappointing trip to a deserted Copper Canyon, we hit the bars. Since it was Saturday we headed to the big club, Kokomos, which was supposedly packed on Saturday nights. It wasn’t exactly packed, but it was good enough for Axe to bring a girl back, and good enough for me to wordlessly hook up with a thirty-two-year-old blonde local. I made eye contact, held my eye contact, approached her, and immediately started making out with her. Then she grabbed my hand, told me, “You’re coming with me,” and led me out of the club with her three friends. I still hadn’t said a word. 

I found out the girl’s name was Cori. Her pornstar-like face, accentuated by blue eye-makeup, was overshadowed by her disgusting muffin top. Every time she leaned over, flab would slosh over her belt. And she was a loudmouth. When she learned of the houseboat, she blabbed the news to her Havasu-bred entourage. As one might guess, we ended up at the houseboat.

Highlights of the night included everyone being flashed by two of Cori’s horny rundown friends. The two girls took a liking to committed guys KG and McBride, who fought them off accordingly. One of the girls would have fucked anyone on the boat, but no one was drunk enough to ignore her mediocre looks, pasty skin, and oatmeal-like acne scars. The third friend, who was just an acquaintance it turned out, was a fifty-something local dude who looked and talked like Gary Busey. We had to kick the guy out for talking too much.

Meanwhile, Axe and I fucked our chicks in opposite rooms and heard each other’s fuck noises through the thin walls–mostly grunts and standard chick moans. After sex I was still horny, so I barged into the bathroom while Cori was peeing, whipped out my dick, and smiled. “Well take a look at this guy,” she said, staring intently at my penis. She proceeded to give me a blowjob while she was mid-trickle. Havasu.

I considered the girls my responsibility, so I had to stay awake and watch them swig an endless bottle of Captain Morgan while they told stories of cheating on their ex husbands–“fuckin’ shit” this and “fuckin’ shit” that. Just before they left, all three of them jumped in the lake fully clothed to validate their stupidity and trashy upbringing. They fluttered around in the water and made out with each other amidst their drunken laughs. They left shortly after their swim–at 6 a.m.

The weekend was a celebration of KG’s final days as a bachelor. Perhaps one day I’ll have a party to celebrate the end of my single days. But on that early Sunday morning, I stood on the boat deck in solitude. And all I saw was the trio of dead fish that had accumulated at the edge of the shore.

             The night I returned from Utah after my disastrous experience with Kenzie, I invited Nancy, 28, over for a “hang out.” I’d been seeing Nancy, a tall brunette with fake knockers, a couple nights a week in the three weeks before Christmas. We’d met on Match.com, and though she was sexy and mysterious at first, she introduced me to her nine-year-old son on our second date, raising 42 different red flags. I continued to see her anyway because she seemed genuine and sweet–and because she was good in bed, a sensual below-the-nutsack licker. Not to mention she had an amazingly yummy vagina–meaning it tasted like nothing. When it comes to pussy, the best flavor is no flavor. My mind can fill in the blank.

              While we’re on the topic, I was curious to find out the correlation of a girl’s hotness and her vagina flavor, so I decided to input data of twenty girls (the first twenty that came to mind) I’ve gone down on. I forced myself to be as objective as possible. Please note: This graph only took into account looks, and even though I’ve hooked up with many more 4s and 5s, they don’t appear here because I was coherent enough that night to do the finger test. Or I’d already come to the understanding that I was hooking up with a beast and knew better (The “1” that appears I choose not to discuss*, and the “2” was the Mr. Rooney chick from my Euro trip when I ate the weed brownie–so the data is likely skewed for her. Because I’m such a lucky guy and things always work out for me, both 9.5s shown had average to below average tasting vaginas–lazy ass chicks couldn’t even douche their ham wallets.). Overall, there wasn’t much correlation in this sample–for you math geeks (me), the r coefficient was about 0.15. Take a look:

            Nancy was all done up, wearing more eyeliner than on our first date, as she walked through my door. I noticed she had some sort of mini duffel bag strapped over her shoulder.

            “What’s in the bag?” I asked.

            “Your Christmas present.”

            “Oh really?”

            Great. It was obviously lingerie, which I haven’t found sexy since the Pamela Anderson/Jenny McCarthy era. Maybe if I’d never seen Nancy naked, it’d be somewhat tantalizing. But an already-banged chick dressed in lingerie excites me about as much as MTV did when they constantly aired “The Grind” in the summer of ‘94–a show that will forever tarnish MTV’s past the same way slavery scars America. When it comes to undergarments, a new G-string is the extent of my arousal.

            I went down on Nancy for a solid ten minutes. Instead of saying standard things like “That feels so good” or “Don’t stop,” she repeatedly said in a childish voice, “You rock,” every time I came up for air. Gross. On paper it may seem cool, but in the heat of passion, it almost made me go limp. Chicks saying things “rock” make me think of Harley Davidson and feathered hair. I’ve had my share of these awkward sex talkers. One said mid-fuck, “I want to swallow your babies.” Another panted, “Alan can go fuck himself.” Who’s Alan!? Another exclaimed mid-blowjob, “Fuck! I forgot to Tevo Real Housewives!” If a girl doesn’t know proper sex talk, then they should shut their damn mouths.

            After we both agreed her time was up, it was my turn. She told me to lay down while she brought out her duffel bag. She removed what appeared to be an ipod and sunglasses from the bag. There had to be more. As she fiddled with the ipod, I couldn’t resist commenting, “Are we going rollerblading?”

            Still fiddling, she snickered and said, “No, it’s Mind Spa.”

            “Huh?”

            “You’ve never heard of it?”

            “Mind Spa? No,” I said, furrowing my brow. “This is my Christmas present?”

            “Trust me. It’s awesome.”

            Considering I was open to letting a girl lick my asshole that first time six years ago (a night I can only describe as “The Revolution”), I had to give this a shot.

            Nancy put the headphones on to check something, then put them on me. She handed me the glasses, but when I put them on something wasn’t right. I was expecting some sort of three-dimensional feature like in National Treasure. Instead, the glasses were flickering light in an epileptic frenzy. “There’s something wrong with these glasses,” I told her.

            “Is it too bright?” she said, ipod in hand. “I can turn the intensity down.”

            “Oh. It’s fine I guess.” Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, I thought.

            With my eyes now entering an intergalactic wormhole, suddenly music started blasting through my ears. I recognized the song immediately. It was that ATB song “Till I come,” one of the pioneering techno songs from the late nineties, where the only lyrics are “Till I come” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RY81QFir2sw).

            I felt my pants being unbuckled and removed. Then kisses on my lower abdomen, finally landing on my dick. I cheated several times on the blowjob, removing the glasses to catch a glimpse of the lips-on-dick image. Then I put the glasses back on, pretended I wasn’t at a rave, and soaked in the new experience–like Sylvester Stallone had to do when he fucked Sandra Bullock via headset in Demolition Man.

            Just before I was about to bust–and have a brain seizure–Nancy stopped sucking, reached into her bag, and took out a condom (I didn’t see it, but I could sense it). Then she rolled the condom on, got on top of me, and started riding. I peeked out through the glasses and saw her smiling at me. “You can take off the glasses now,” she told me. I was still wondering why she hadn’t worn the glasses when I went down on her. What a hypocrite.  

            Having arrived back in Newport Beach, I began screwing Nancy fast and hard. Not surpringly, while on top with her back facing me, she stopped, turned to me and said, “I have an IUD in. It’s not hurting you, is it?” Limp dick.

            I’ve seen Nancy–headset free–a couple more times after that night, mostly for the sex and because I’d forgotten the term “Mind Spa,” which was imperative info in order to write this blog. Nancy explained that the purpose of Mind Spa is to rejuvenate the mind–either in the bath, during a workout, or for a deep relaxation session before bed. And also during blowjobs. Frighteningly, this stuff might be the future of sex and even porn. Would I do it again? Yes, but only with a clearance slip from a doctor. Either way, Judgment Day is nearing.

 *The “1” from the graph was a whale I hooked up with back in college. I haven’t told many people about it because I don’t remember much from that night, and because I was disgusted with myself. It was late after a fraternity party; I was four 40s deep; and she was…there. She refused to give me a blowjob unless I ate her out first. I accepted her proposition but only stayed down there for thirty seconds until I realized there were chewable particles in my mouth. She had pussy chips. The end.

(As you might guess I’ve been terrorizing the online dating world for some time, but I wrote this one a couple years ago after my first date.)

A conversation: 

Him: “Dude, I’m telling you…Match.com and Yahoo Personals is where it’s at.”

Me:   “What? Explain.”

Him: “Dude, no joke, I’ve fucked at least thirty girls from these sites.”

Me: “Bullshit. Really? I mean, I’ve heard stories about this online shit, but nothing like that. Wow!”

Him: “Yep–two or three dates maximum, and you’ll be hittin’ it.”

Like any man with social skills, I had grown up thinking that any guy who had to resort to the Internet to find a date was either a suicidal schizoid or an ex Magic: The Gathering card game champion. And I had convinced myself that no hot girl would ever go to the Internet to find a man. I was wrong. The online dating revolution had started years ago, and I was missing the ride. So, I hopped aboard with the rest of the dating geeks and pierced the wacky realm of online dating.

It started off slowly. I entered the website thinking I was God’s gift to cyberspace. Expecting an overwhelming response, I sent out hundreds of winks to any girl in Orange County who was an eight or above. Only two girls returned my wink: both were girls I almost didn’t wink at. To my dismay, only about twenty percent of the winked-at girls even looked at my profile (There is a sleazy feature that allows you to see who looks at your profile.).

I specifically only went for girls aged twenty-seven to forty-five. Any girl younger than that was considered “Plan B.” I cut off the young girls for two reasons:

            1) They’d probably want a relationship, with feelings.

            2)  It would take at least four dates to fuck them, and they’d want feelings.

Nothing wrong with feelings; I’d just rather use my feelings on a woman who actually understands her own. Even though I’m no stunning intellect, I refuse to tolerate most younger women because of their consistently unattractive traits: self-absorption, disrespect, carelessness, dishonesty, inexperience, naiveté, and materialism. That, and I don’t have the patience to go on a myriad of substance-less dates with a dopey hot chick just to finally attain a few minutes of sexual gratification in exchange for hours upon hours of hearing “Yes/No/Really?” answers and “I know, right?” confirmations and contrived attempts at sincerity. Anyone who does is working too hard for pussy. 
 
At least with most older women, there is no bullshit. They understand what men want, and they give it to them if there’s something in it for them. No games. Less rules. More sex. As long as you are honest and don’t make them out to be a whore, stimulating sexual relationships blossom. This is the beauty of experience and age. Young girls are unable to understand that sex can be fun and meaningless at the same time. If I were to discuss this notion with them, they’d throw a hissy fit, call me an asshole, and say, “Well, I hope you find yourself a nice whore! Goodbye.” Then they’d storm off or slam the proverbial door. Fuck that.

Either way, my winks weren’t working. I adjusted. I only displayed my seven sexiest photos, which ranged from me wearing bathing suits to business suits to club attire in order to portray my pictorial charisma. I changed my cocky profile to something more romantic, writing less about myself and more about “qualities of cool women,” which included girls who “smile,” “laugh for real,” “take risks,” “can handle sleeping bags,” “take adventures,” “care about loved ones,” and “cut losers,” among others. It was amazing how many girls would message me claiming they “have those traits.” I provided more information about my “hot spots,” which did not include Starbucks, and I changed my username from the trendy “OCguy37653422” to something more daring like “adventureguy789.” I ditched the winks and started sending teasing messages about one unique thing about their profile description or pictures. Suddenly, the messages began to pour in.

I heard from a twenty-three-year-old blonde fitness instructor: “Math teacher, huh. I was never any good at math, but I made it through. Just wanted to say hi. Write back!”

“Soooooooo I loved everything you wrote in your profile, but what’s wrong with bustiers?” was from a thirty-one-year-old Hispanic veterinarian.

“Hey there. Got any crazy plans this weekend?” wrote a streaky-haired hairdresser with one too many photos of her cats.

I did get bombarded with a few emails from girls with faces in the shape of a basketball, but there was one girl who distinctly stood out from the riffraff: Wendy, a sexy forty-year-old “searching for a man 26-42.” Her page displayed professional modeling photos of her in seductive positions on chairs, in white rooms, on a king-sized bed, and she was actually smiling in her pictures. After a few short messages back and forth, we agreed to hang out on a Sunday night at a local pool hall–her idea. I really didn’t care. As long as she wasn’t one of those coffee-date girls, I was happy. Just because that coffee place in the sitcom “Friends” looked happy and lighthearted didn’t mean coffeehouses were actually like that. Apparently delusions are acceptable to some girls. (Update: I’ve changed my mind about coffee houses. I’ve been on too many bad dinner dates lately and no longer feel like paying fifty bucks on a dead-end chick when I can be spending $2.50 on a tall frapaccino and ditching her in twenty minutes.)  

I was scared. I had heard the horror stories–hot in her pics, disgusting in person. This would officially be my first online girl ever. And I know myself–I’m not the type to run away; if she turned out to be repulsive, I would have lived with my misfortune and stuck it out for an hour. Sadly, when it comes to non-sexual affairs, I am a follower of the “treat others as you’d want them to treat you” rule. I have my parents to thank for that.

I entered the pool hall and the first thing I noticed about Wendy was her height. Since she had modeling pictures in her profile, I assumed she was probably at least five ten because every model in professional spreads mysteriously appears close to six feet. But when I saw a five-foot-two-inch blonde woman–with heels–in a sundress waving at me from across the bar, I was a bit surprised. Nothing wrong with a short girl, but it’s just strange how my mind skewed her appearance. Nevertheless, she looked just like her pictures: sexy.  

Wendy destroyed me at pool. After a third consecutive thrashing (I tried really hard to beat her after the second loss, but her pool skills were well-refined), we sat down at a table and talked. Even though we were having a stimulating conversation, suddenly I felt strange, as my subconscious reminded me: “Dave, you found this chick on the fucking Internet. She’s probably not that cool.”

Other than that, everything was going well. The conversation sparkled, the questions volleyed back and forth at a fair rate, and she cleverly threw me sexual innuendos. After one shot in which she pocketed two balls, she looked at me, smiled, and said, “I’m good at that.” But I was most impressed by her dating stories. Experience from dating online guys for months by then, she told me she got hundreds of winks and messages a week; she didn’t even read them all. If the guy wasn’t appealing in his photo, she’d skip to the next one. I was flattered when she said, “Yeah, you were hot, and, I don’t know, you seemed confident.” For a moment I felt like I had beaten out all the douchebags. Deep down, however, I knew she had probably fucked dozens of those guys.

As a goodbye, she made out with me. Mid-make-out we briefly discussed our next meeting. She taught grad school on weeknights, so we wouldn’t be able to hang out again until the following weekend.

That night, I went home and masturbated to a milf porno.

The ensuing week, we texted back and forth, making plans for that Saturday. When Saturday arrived, I was all business. There would be no beating around bushes. The situation felt like I was strategizing for a mind-wrenching game of chess. We had already made out, so if there wasn’t any progress, I would be indirectly communicating to her that I wanted something serious. The phone conversation was critical. After talking about our days and settling on a time, I made my move.

               Me: “You want me to pick you up?”

               Her: “Ummmmmm.”

               Me: “It’s no big deal. I don’t mind driving.”

               Her: “Ummmm.”

               Me: “If not, it’s cool.”

               Her: “No, it’s fine.”

               Me: “OK, what’s the address? I’ll MapQuest it.”

               Her: “Can I pick the restaurant?’

               Me: “Sure.”

She can have a bishop, but I’m taking the queen. Picking her up meant we’d end up at her place drinking beer or wine or champagne. She wouldn’t be able to resist me. Sex would surely follow.

Our dinner conversation was abominable. Apparently Wendy had an obsession with boats. She couldn’t stop talking about them: Catamarans, Dinghies, Houseboats, Motorboats, Pirogues, Sailboats, Schooners, Skiffs, Yachts, on and on and on. I tried to be an active listener, nodding my head and keeping eye contact, but my smile had faded. I ate my pasta quick and messy. I had food all over my face, but I didn’t care. Twice she motioned her hand to her face to indicate I had food on my cheek. I wiped it off impatiently. This dinner had to end.

After dinner it got worse. The restaurant was also a bar, and there was a dance floor. They were playing 80s music; she wanted to dance, but I didn’t. I used my favorite excuse, “I can’t dance to this music.” She couldn’t protest, it’s understandable, and I won’t get judged on the-way-a-guy-dances-is-an-indicator-of-how-they-are-in-bed theory, thus preserving my mystique. 

She begged incessantly. Luckily, I ran into an old flag football acquaintance I knew from college. When she asked if it was okay if she danced with him, I exclaimed,“Yeah, of course!” Anything to stop the pleading. Even if it might cost me sex, I’m not dancing to Cyndi Lauper’s “Goonies” song.  
 

I relaxed on a barstool, babysitting the last few sips of my no-longer-cold beer. After two songs, she excitedly ran up to me. “Okay,” she panted, “we can go now.” I smiled, took her hand, and we took off.

Her house had boating paraphernalia everywhere–books, paintings, models. Then came the moment of the night.

 Me: “Do you own a boat?”
 Her: “No.”

There are some things in life I will never understand. This girl was one of them. She had a huge house and six-figure salary, yet wouldn’t indulge in her one true passion. That’s like being obsessed with porn but never jerking off.

             I forgot about her contradictions when she brought us two glasses of champagne, and we made out on the couch.
             I took her top off, exposing her fake breasts, of course.
             I sucked on them.
             We made out more.
             I suggested we go to her room.
             She said, “Do you really want to? I don’t do one-night-stands.”
             “Me neither,” I lied.
             “If you sleep with me once, you have to come back a second time.”
             “Duh,” I lied.
             We went to her room.
             Then we fucked.

              Checkmate.

As we lay in each other’s arms, she admitted that she “knew” I wanted sex. I asked her how she knew. She said, “I knew when you asked to pick me up. It was obvious. But I figured, well, that could be fun.” I love older women.

Despite her positive attitude, there would be no second go-round with this girl. While she was honest with her sexuality, the nautical dinner conversation killed her mental allure.

Engulfed in the online dating world, I am currently sifting through a daily dose of online women, lining up dates when convenient. Wendy was my first, but cyberspace is infinite. I am now officially an online predator.

A couple years back, my struggling buddy Napolean began getting all into pick-up literature. His methods with women weren’t rendering any results, so he hit amazon.com, and he hit it hard. Every new conversation we had brought news of a new book he’d just read and how he was already applying his new methods “in the field.” I’d read a couple books on the topic, but since I was doing fine for myself as a slithery salamander I didn’t feel the need to invest any more time learning about new pick-up techniques. Napolean sent me these audio interviews called “David DeAngelo’s Interviews With Dating Gurus,” so I uploaded them onto my Ipod and played a few during my drives to work, which was better than listening to the Black Eyed Peas-infested radio.

With the exception of a handful of interviewees, every “dating guru” sounded like a total dork, including David DeAngelo (who claims that one time he put an “L” on his forehead and mouthed the words “loser” to a girl, and she found him attractive). What gave these guys “expert” status made no sense to me. I will admit, however, that there was some interesting stuff on there. One of the gurus described a tactic in which he’d program his phone number under the name “Sex God” into girls’ phones. Though it’d been over a year since I heard that particular interview, while talking with a hefty 31-year-old blonde at Woody’s, I applied the technique hoping all that time spent in the car listening to these hopeless bozos would yield some results.

Her name was Pam. She was an inverted Butterface, so instead of having a hot body and ugly face, Pam had a hot face and ugly body. When I asked my buddy Axe if there was a name for that, his response was: “Fat.” Fair enough.

Pam was on her way out as I punched in my plagiarized cell phone name. A half hour later I began texting her:

Sex God: “Where’d you go?”
Pam: “WTF!!! Who is this!!!”
Sex God: “This is the Sex God, duh. Your lame friends just dragged you out of here. We’re gonna need to hang out asap.”
Pam: “HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! I’m at the Blue Beat!!! Come over!!!!!!”
Sex God: “Cool. After I finish my beer.”

I turned in an 0-fer at Woody’s, so I strolled over to Blue Beat sometime after 1 a.m., drunk and horny. I found Pam making movements on the dance floor in a swashbuckling mess, limbs flailing everywhere. I made the mistake of letting her see me while she was dancing, and she stomped over and plucked me like a Jurassic predator. While grinding on me, she planted a wet beer kiss all over the lower hemisphere of my face. Then her friends grabbed her for last call, leaving me standing stupidly on the dance floor, still unmoved since being seized, but now with beer-saliva on my face. I called it a night and went home to masturbate.

I texted Pam the following evening with a basic “Holy crap.” I could tell the “Sex God” thing had already seduced her, so I doubt it really mattered what I texted. Two texts later she invited me over.

It was a five-minute drive to her house, which she owned, yet she’d been unemployed for over a year. I later learned she used to be a scuba instructor or something, but was now spending time “finding herself,” which apparently meant eating KFC everyday and drinking five nights a week.

When I arrived, Pam and one of her unattractive friends were in the kitchen eating chips and salsa. I noticed one of the kitchen walls was a gargantuan painting of a chef. The chef literally was the wall, constantly reminding Pam to keep eating. “So you’re the Sex God?” her friend asked.
I smiled at Pam. “Geez, Pam. You’re such a blabbermouth.”

Pam laughed. “I know. It was just too funny,” she said between bites. “But you know? It probably wasn’t a good idea to say that because now you have a lot to live up to.”

“Oh, I know,” I fired back.

“I mean, you’ve really set yourself up for failure,” Pam continued, her eyes dilated.

“I don’t know about that.” I opened the fridge. “Will you drink a beer with me?”

“Of course.”

Her friend took off moments later, and Pam and I migrated to the couch. After she tried getting to know me and crap, we went upstairs, flopped on the bed, and made out. She’d been drinking earlier that day, so every kiss had a hint of booze in it.

I tried taking her clothes off, but she was being stingy, saying things like, “What about you? You first.” In the end, I was naked and she was in a tank top and soccer shorts. It wasn’t a fair exchange, but I figured only good things could happen if I was naked. As I lay on my back, Pam began caressing me all over. The caressing turned to a barrage of tickles–on my feet, arms, sides, neck, and legs. Because I’m abnormally ticklish, I began squirming like a little girl. My squirming sent Pam into a frenzy, and she began laughing like a maniac. She suggested handcuffs, which I immediately dismissed. As a compromise she put my arms back. With my legs spread, my body was now in a vulnerable X shape, making me look like the Vitruvian Man.

Pam went ballistic, tickling me slow then fast, and laughing normally then crazily. She’d been tickle-torturing me for thirty minutes without ever touching my penis. “I could do this all night,” she told me. “I’m kinda sadistic.” Since the tickling felt good at times, I let her go at it, taking the pain in stride, faking enthusiasm and paying my dues for an eventual copulation.

She finally began stroking my dick, but then returned to the tickling for another five minutes. Back and forth for another hour. I began to wonder if my dick would ever get wet, but then I remembered she was over the age of 25, which kept me at ease. It seemed every squirmy reaction from me made her cream. If anyone knows the sexual term describing the tickle-torture fetish, contact me. Even in all my porn watching, I had yet to see any video that involved tickling.

The tickling intervals eventually became shorter and all her attention focused on my dick–stroking then sucking. Finally. I got her naked and feasted on her triple D fake tits. After I slipped on the condom she said, “Sex God, huh? We’ll see about that.”

Due to her softball-player body size, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to begin plowing. A blowjob with a happy ending would have sufficed, but I guess I had to live up to my name. I slipped my condom-covered hard-on into her moist cave.

Things were going fine at first, but then everything started smelling. Badly. It was as if her pussy had eaten an order of spicy tuna rolls, and then let out The World’s Nastiest Queef. Within seconds, my wiener went soft serve, and I slowed down my thrusts like a puttering ’57 Chevy.

After I’d come to a complete halt, she looked into my eyes, dejected.
I spoke. “Sorry, uh, all that tickling wore me out.”

She looked away. “Yeah.”

I rolled off her and faked a giant sigh as if I was exhausted.
“Long day, huh?” Pam asked.

“Big time,” I said. “I think I’m still hungover from last night.” This was a lie of course, but I had to say something.

After “resting,” I took my condom off, laid in the Vitruvian Man position, and let Pam tickle me again to satisfy her sadism, eventually busting in her mouth. She swallowed because I told her it was “unsexy” for girls to not swallow (which is true). I left shortly after, leaving Pam to ponder the disappointment my Sex Peasant status. Maybe if she douched beforehand, I could have given it to her good. I think girls should meet once a month to inspect each other–make sure it doesn’t smell down there, shave off that patch of hair on their ass, etc. Then I could have been a real Sex God. Instead, all I have is a stinky excuse for going soft.

Epilogue

A month later, while drunk at Woody’s again, I ran into Pam. We said a few words and introduced each other to our friends, and then she took off. After turning in another 0-fer, I texted Pam (plan Z). She’d apparently taken a liking to my buddy Punchline and stealthily offered us a threesome at her place. Punchline took off, and when I told her it was just me coming over, she said, “Oh, OK.” I went over to her place, let her tickle me, and then she sucked me off. She never took her underwear off probably because either she was on her period or because she was self-conscious about the spicy tuna smell.

Since I’d cabbed it there, I spent the night. Sometime around seven in the morning I woke up with a furious case of morning wood. And I had to pee. I went to her bathroom and made a frantic attempt at urinating, but I was lazy with my boner-peeing and pissed all over the place. Because I’m such a great guy, I tried to wipe it up using toilet paper, but I’d put money on it that in 24 hours, yellow-orange crustiness began mysteriously sprouting on the peripheries of Pam’s toilet. I went back to bed for an hour, and then she drove me home. I doubt Pam will be contacting the “Sex God” anytime soon.

I ended a recent blog with “It may be time to cut the bullshit and get a girlfriend. Being single is getting old.” This past month I decided to take the plunge and become an unofficial member of the couple’s world–for a day or two.

I met Kenzie–engaged at the time–three years ago at a bar in Hollywood. After sporadic episodes Facebooking and texting, we finally started dating last month. I was stoked on her. She had a feisty energy, and though blonde and ditzy, she wasn’t one of those mindless bimbos with a mind the size of an almond, whose sole aspiration in life was being as sexy as Halle Berry by age forty. Kenzie worked hard, communicated well, and had long-term goals. She’d made over 70K last summer from sales alone.

We’d fooled around some, but after two dates I still hadn’t pressure-washed the quiver bone in the squish mitten, which meant I was still interested. Some friends had planned a fifteen-person ski trip to Park City, Utah, for New Year’s Eve. Since Kenzie’s family was from Salt Lake City, she was there for the holidays and down to party with us for her final two nights in Utah. Her family was Mormon, but since Kenzie had boozed it up with me on both dates and done some serious pre-marital kissing, she was obviously a bad Mormon, and normal.

I had tingles as our van pulled up to her mom’s pad on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Kenzie was attractive, fun, down to party, and I’ll be honest–I was looking forward to having a couple girlfriendy nights with her. She was wearing a black and white top with black leggings to outline her toned body. She introduced me to her mom as we stood in the doorway to say her goodbyes. To strategically evade any unnecessary small talk, after shaking hands with mom, I quickly asked to help Kenzie with her bags, which were already outside. A breakdown of Kenzie’s “things.”:

-Journey’s bag containing one pair of leather boots

-Giant Macy’s bag containing what appeared to be laundry

-Giant white canvas bag with more clothes

-Snowboard boots (unpacked)

-Snowboard

Apparently Kenzie had never heard of a suitcase. Not to mention she’d brought enough clothes to last her a month. As it was, I tossed all her crap in the backseat as everyone in the van gloated at me in hilarity.

Kenzie had revealed to me on our second date that she had A.D.H.D. and didn’t like taking Adderall despite the protests of her mom. Having worked as a camp counselor in my high school and college years, I’d always had my doubts about “A.D.D.” and “A.D.H.D.” and any medicine that went with it. The diagnosed campers required pills everyday at the same time, yet their volatile behavior never changed in the hours following pill poppage. Since then, I’ve been convinced that all those “conditions” were the parents’ fault for spoiling their kids and treating them like puppies. A.D.D. was simply created by doctors so the parents wouldn’t feel like failures. If my kids ever whine about not buying them that toy at the supermarket, I’m sending them to their room to make them think for an hour.

Since Kenzie had contributed an acceptable 60% to our conversations, I figured she was fine, with maybe a mild chatting disorder. The forty-minute van ride, however, was a different story. Other than a five-minute texting period, Kenzie blabbered on like the Facebook founder on speed, while the rest of the van sat quietly, occasionally nodding and saying, “Yeah.” She’s just excited, I thought–way too early to freak out.

Situated on a bluff overlooking a lake, the three-story cabin was epic. We got greedy on the first-come-first serve room situation and ended up settling for the TV room with its rickety foldout couch after all the good rooms were snagged.

After a few games of flip-cup and a failed rager in the spa (the house manager threatened to kick us out for disturbing the peace), Kenzie and I returned to our room and fucked. Since I’d built up a monstrous amount of horniness from rubbing up on her ass all night, I only lasted about five minutes. Her butt was so bootylicious that I made her do the work while fucking her doggie. Overall however, Kenzie was average in bed. She blew me, but I could tell she was one of those girls who hated giving head, but only did it because it was expected. Girls wonder all the time about what men want in bed. It’s quite simple really: WORSHIP OUR PENISES. Or at least act like it. Tell us things like “I want your cock in my mouth…NOW” or “I love your schlong. OH YES!” or “Mmmm Yummy!” And this isn’t a fetish; it’s Male Sexuality 101. I’ll take the dick-worshipping 6 over the starfish 8 any day.

Sadly, after sex I thought back on the happenings on the last few hours and realized I was already growing sick of Kenzie. Over the course of dinner, flip-cup, and jacuzzi time, her conversation hogging had risen to an unprecedented 90%. I had simply hallucinated myself into tolerating it because I wanted to get laid. Often I just phased her out and answered each blathering pause with a robotic “Uh huh.” In addition, Kenzie was super clingy, insisting on holding hands and spooning at every damn opportunity. While I’m a fan of hand-holding, there’s a time, place, and mood for it. If I’m taking a dump, I do not want to be holding anyone’s hand (long story).

She wanted me to spoon her to sleep, but it’s impossible for me to ever fall asleep spoon-sleeping; I need my freedom. I tactically evaded her demands by insisting that I could only sleep facing the other direction, which was partly true. By the way, I was joking about the dump thing, but I bet she would have been down for a blumpkin. As it was, I eventually drifted off to sleep, untouched.

I awoke in the middle of the night because I had to pee. Before I was able to realize I was completely awake, I felt it. My right ass check and most of my leg was resting in cold wetness. The bed was soaked. I didn’t want to turn on the lights because Kenzie might have woken up and started talking. So I went to the bathroom, placed my palm on my damp ass, and sniffed my hand. It was urine.

Had it not been our first time fucking, I would have ditched the bed and crashed on the couch. But I had to spend the entire next day with Kenzie–and night–and I didn’t want to make her feel insecure, which would have surely amplified her jabbering another six percent. Plus, I’ve slept in worse human waste than urine, so this was nothing for me. I found a dry spot on the bed and passed out.

Kenzie didn’t wake up with a whimper like most chicks. She awoke in a flurry, tossing sheets boisterously aside. Then her sense of touch must have registered as she began to shriek. “What the fuck! Why is everything soaking?”

As I lay on my sliver of dryness, I looked at her. “You tell me.”

She got up and lowered her head to sniff our raft of a bed. “I can’t smell anything. Is it pee?”

“Yep.”

She laughed nervously. “Well it’s not mine! I’ve never wet the bed.”

“Uh. I’m pretty sure it’s yours. You slept in it.”

“Oh my God! I never do that! I promise.” She hesitated a moment, then scurried over to her pile of shit and threw on some clothes. As she retreated past me to make her way to the bathroom, she said again, “I swear this has never happened before.”

We didn’t talk about the incident the rest of the morning. After a quick breakfast, our whole crew got dressed and took the van to the ski resort. Kenzie held my hand for the entire hour-long journey, but I think her bed-wetting had shut her up some; her yappage simmered.

As expected, all my friends ditched us before we even got on the first ski lift. It took us nearly an hour to get on the mountain because I had to take a mammoth-sized shit, and during that time Kenzie had run into an old high school buddy working the resort quickie mart. I was polite at first and lingered around the two acting entertained by their Ohmigod-saturated conversation, but after about three minutes, I ended my act and retreated to a nearby bench to play Angry Birds on my phone.

At this point, Kenzie had lost any mystique she’d ever had. She was more clingy than an eighth grader at the movies, couldn’t shut up, had wet the bed, and was already trying to make plans with me for her trip to Big Bear at the end of February. I’d already started the mental countdown until my freedom–twenty more hours. Boarding with her was fun, except for when we took the lifts up because I had to sit next to her and do more listening. I’d provide examples of her mindless chatter, but I wasn’t paying attention half the time, so it all blends together into one giant blob of “I know, right.”

We left the mountain around four and returned to the cabin. I demanded alone time in the room, so I could nap in peace. Though before doing so, I swindled a twenty-minute back massage out of Kenzie. At first I though it was her thing considering how touchy-feely she was, but ten minutes in she deflated my tranquility by saying, “My turn next.” Crap. Back in Elementary School, every year for Valentine’s Day I was one of those kids who got angry when an envelope wasn’t bulging with heart candies, even though I never gave my classmates anything. Same goes for massages–I’m a huge moocher.

After my massage was over, I wanted nothing but to sleep in peace, so I promised to return the favor “later” (which she predictably forgot about). Kenzie left the room to shower and throw the yellowed sheets in the washer. I slept.

An hour later, everyone decided to bombard our room to utilize the movie theatre. Some of the other girls were curious as to why we were already washing the sheets after one measly night, but Kenzie laughed it off and made up some fib about them smelling.

I was starving at this point, and I whined to Kenzie about my hunger. If she was willing to give me a massage, surely she’d make me food. I was right. There was next to nothing left in the pantry after our carnage from the previous night, but Kenzie was still able to whip me up a quesadilla.

Movie night was a major bust. Us eight men couldn’t even get the system to work, so we tried to watch it in the main living room, but the DVD froze after twenty minutes. To make matters worse, Kenzie had serious gas, unleashing three or four bombs. After each one she’d whiff the air away with her arm and say, “Woo!” At least she owned up to it. One of my peeves is when chicks clearly were the peef culprits but try and pin it on the guys. At least Kenzie had proper fart etiquette.

As I trudged through the stink, I realized the eight Utah beers I’d consumed hadn’t given me even the slightest buzz (Beer in Utah is a pathetic 3.2% because it supposedly helps suppress drunken orgies.). It was approaching midnight, and I was trying to desperately work up some horniness so I could bone again. But I was doomed. After the DVD/farting debacle, we retreated to the room and got ready for bed. When we lay down Kenzie tried to spoon me, and because I’m such a nice guy, I permitted it for a couple minutes. Then I used my sleep-the-other-way lifeline and passed out.

We dropped off Kenzie the next morning on the way to another ski resort. As I sat next to her on that final ride, I was seriously baffled at how in the hell this girl still had any attraction for me. I hadn’t cracked a single joke; I was boring, emitting no energy whatsoever; and I’d acted more needy than Ochocinco at a press conference. Come to think of it, in the last twenty hours I’d barely even said a full sentence to her. I was almost trying to repel Kenzie. Yet there she sat, still holding my hand, busting out her cell phone calendar to discuss future ski trips.

Her uncle lived nearby, so we dropped her off at a 7-11. Her uncle was running late, but Kenzie was cool with us taking off anyway. We left her at the 7-11 curb with her five bags piled up in a titanic heap. I noticed all my friends laughing at us in our picturesque farewell. I gave her a kiss goodbye, made fake plans for kicking it next week, and I drove off.

The rest of the trip was a blast. I took the ski lifts in freedom, partied with my friends, and embraced my last few days of winter break. Maybe Kenzie was a freakish outlier or something, but I’ve decided to retract any statement I made about “needing a girlfriend.”

I really think I’m cursed or something. There’s no other way to explain how every time I get even the slightest aspiration to date a girl, she mutates into a blabbering bed-wetter. Or a psycho cokehead who chases me through streets. Or a needy texter with a fishy past. Or a Vegas girl who puts on fifty pounds in eight months. And on. And on.

Yet the scary part is that in all this mess, there’s always been one common denominator: me. Clearly I’m doing something wrong. Bars, clubs, online dating. I’ve put in hours upon hours into this, and though fun and educational, nothing ever pans out. It might be time to head to the Mojave for a meditation course. Anything to rattle my funk. Back to the drawing board.

         On Christmas day 2006, I headed back to Newport from my parents’ house because I had to wake up early the next morning to coach a frosh-soph basketball game. Vince texted me saying he wanted to go to Malarkey’s that night. I was on Christmas break for two weeks. Why not? Vince, Jett, and Laura met at my house to drink a couple before heading out. Not expecting much, we’d go to any bar that was open. 

          Malarkey’s sucked. There were eight dudes and two chicks sitting on stools. We stayed there twenty minutes before Laura suggested going to Woody’s, which sounded like a much better idea. Woody’s was an upgrade, but nothing too spectacular on this warm Christmas night.
          Just before midnight, Vince approached me on the outside smoking patio, “Hey, Rodman’s here.” This news was nothing special for us considering we’d seen the guy all the time at Sutra. I walked inside to find him chatting with a small group of guys, all appeared to be single and in their late thirties, cigarette boxes in their shirt pockets. Rodman was wearing a loud, black and red 2006-pre-Affliction shirt and tight pants; his bleached hair peeked from under a gray Von Dutch hat. I was tired and on the verge of leaving, but just as I was about to walk out of the door, I saw a Barbie-doll blonde girl with a chipmunk smile standing next to the bathroom door facing the exit, beckoning for someone to talk to her. She looked like a vulnerable deer. I approached her and asked, “Why are you waiting here? The bar’s over there.”

          She replied, “I’m just standing here.” Yeah, no shit.

          I decided to engage her in conversation, but her answers were painfully lame. 

Question: “What’s up with all the bracelets?”

Answer: “I like them.”

Question: “I like your earrings. Why are they so dangly?”

Answer: “I don’t know. I got them at Southcoast.” 
 

Question: “Why are you wearing all white? Did you used to live in Alaska?”

Answer: “No, I grew up here.” (She still hadn’t cracked a smile.)

Question: “Where are you from?” (After I said this, I realized she had just told me. Luckily, it didn’t matter. She was either too dumb or too drunk to notice my poor listening skills.)

Answer: “Orange County.”

Question: “Who are you here with?”

Answer: “My mom.”

         I was getting nowhere–besides her agonizingly dull answers, she hadn’t asked me a single question. Yet, I got the feeling this interchange wasn’t a dead end. Something in this chick’s eyes was screaming for a Christmas fuck. A group of people entered the bar, so I turned around to catch a glimpse of the entourage. When I turned back around, her face was a centimeter in front of mine, landing me a wet kiss. We made out for the next five minutes. She tasted like vodka, but she was hot, and I enjoyed her holiday spirit. Then she took my hand and led me to the other side of the bar because she wanted to introduce me to her mom. 

          Barbie looked like she was twenty-five, and her mom looked like her older sister, maybe thirty-five. I discovered that her mom was with Rodman. When Barbie introduced me to her mom, she faked a smile as she shook my hand. Barbie then introduced me to Rodman, who shook my hand and started squeezing, which he continued to do for the next ten seconds. My smile transformed into a grimace, and I tried to pull away. With a beaming smile on his face, he let go and said, “Nah, I’m just playin,’ man.” He laughed and when he faced me, our eyes locked. “Hey, man, careful, that’s her mom,” he said sternly, motioning with his head to Barbie’s mother. I appreciated his warning, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
          The four of us went out in the alley to drink and make out. Barbie made out with me even though her mom was with Rodman three feet away. I had to pee. So did Rodman. We both felt an urge to act like tough guys, so we pissed over the railing and into the bushes behind it. Maybe it was my fault for allowing myself to feel dwarfed by his superstardom, but my dick felt like a triple-A battery next to his horsecock (I didn’t actually see his wiener, but innocent urinators like myself can assume he’s packing serious volume). I got stage fright and stood there with my dick in my hand, a pathetic display of masculinity. Dennis Rodman didn’t notice my botched attempt at urinating, but a random smoker in the corner did. He laughingly commented, “What’s the matter, pal?” I let out a quick chuckle and meekly replied, “It’s cold.” 

          Moments later, Rodman slapped my chest, “Let’s get out of here. Where can we go?” I suggested we go back to my place, but the girls wanted see Rodman’s pad, so we agreed on that. Just before we left, he bought three bottles of Mondavi for the post party with his American Express card. He flashed his card to me at least two or three times saying, “Money ain’t a problem.” I believed him. This was a man who was experienced with post-parties. He had my trust.
          As we walked through the parking lot, he asked if I wanted to drive his car–a black BMW M5. Even though I’d had a few, I was in the midst of an adventure. I agreed to drive, and off we went.

          It was only a ten-minute drive to his apartment. On the way there, the mom asked which house we were going to. “Well, we can’t go home because my kids are there,” Rodman replied as he directed me to his bachelor pad.

          He fiddled with the CD player and played a new Chili Peppers song, which he set on repeat. He began going berserk in the passenger seat. After he rolled down the window, he waved his arms, moved his upper body like an inflatable punching bag, and sang along as loudly as he could, “Tell me baby, what’s your story…”–that song. Since he was so big, his arms were thrashing everywhere willy nilly–the dashboard, the window, the steering wheel, my head. The guy just flat out didn’t give a fuck. He was his own person and not ashamed of it.

         When we arrived, he handed me the apartment key and whispered, “Don’t worry, man; I’m gonna hook you up. I always hook my boys up.” Barbie and I went inside and made out on the couch while he and Mom stayed outside.
          Eventually, the two of them came inside. He put on the Chili Peppers song from the car, blasting it while he sung along. When I got up to pee, through the door I heard Mom scolding her daughter: “What is the matter with you? First you get drunk off your ass, then you take home this creepy guy!”

          I opened the bathroom door to find Rodman and Mom heading back to his room. She was tipsy but coherent. My chick on the other hand, was a ticking time bomb. It was only a matter of time before she either vomited or passed out.  
          With the living room now to ourselves, Barbie and I hooked up, but she didn’t want to fuck. It was all above-the-waist crap. Her mom had planted a conscience in what little brain she had, cockblocking us both. Barbie got naked but passed out before anything wet ever happened.
          A few blurs later, Rodman popped out of nowhere, turned on that same damn Chili Peppers song, and danced with his shirt off. The mom, having forgotten I was present, staggered into the room completely naked. I saw everything. She immediately walked out, returning dressed in a white robe.  
          Barbie was passed out on the couch, but the party was just beginning for Rodman. In his euphoria, he walked up to me and gave me four fist bumps–one every couple minutes–and continued to sing. I sang along with him, which added to his bliss. Two more fist bumps. Upon approval of my partying skills, he took out a Ziploc bag full of a hundred one-dollar bills and threw them up in the air. He busted out two Vegas craps dice, said, “I fuckin’ love this game,” and asked me repeatedly what number I wanted. My number never hit, and then he offered me a proposition, “If I roll a seven, you owe me a thousand bucks.” I said OK. He crapped out. Mom and I sat in amusement, watching this bizzaro freak show, money everywhere. Rodman was having a blast playing an imaginary craps game with me. I could never figure out if he was simply drunk, on drugs, or just naturally like this. I think it was the latter.
          When I realized it was past 3:30, I remembered I had to wake up in a few hours and announced I had to call a cab. Rodman didn’t even know his own address and kept telling me, “Jamboree and San Joaquin.” The cabbie needed a specific address, so Rodman took my phone and told the cabbie the cross streets five more times until he got frustrated and hung up. He tossed my phone back to me and said, “Just take my car.” 
          I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t smiling. I didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t be serious. “Uhhhh,” I murmured. 
          He flopped onto his loveseat. “Just drop the car off in the morning.” 
          “I’m coaching a basketball game at 9:30. It won’t be over until eleven.”
          “Where’s the game at?”
          “El Modena,” I said. He frowned and pondered other options, retreating to the bathroom.
          When he returned, he motioned for mommy and me to get up. The three of us left the apartment, leaving Barbie on the couch.
          On the walk to the car, he introduced himself and asked my name. I was surprised how cordial he was, definitely not the prick he was made out to be by the media or NBA Commissioners. The flamboyancy, however, was no myth; he was an extreme.
          As we entered the parking garage, Mom, who, up to this point had been starry-eyed and laughed at everything Rodman did, asked me, “Hasn’t it been a surreal night?”
          “I guess,” I replied, suddenly finding myself walking between the two. 
          Angered, she said, “Hey Dennis, he doesn’t think the night has been surreal.”
          “What are you talking about? Surreal?” Rodman responded. 
          “Yeah, surreal?” I shot a confused look at Mom.
          “Well, you were making out with my daughter all night long. And I mean, look at her and look at you,” she pointed out. 
          I laughed. “Oh yeah.” I’ve learned never to argue with chicks like this. They always win.         
          Rodman stepped in. “What are you talking about? He’s a good looking guy.”
          Mom had sounded like an idiot twice in a row, and Rodman had been on my side both times, so she finally shut up, we got in the car, and she drove me home.
          Despite frequently hitting up all Rodman’s favorite weekend hotspots, I never saw him out again after that night. I’m sure, however, that I’ll run into him again somewhere, and though I doubt he’ll remember my name, I’m certain he’ll give me a smiley fist bump. Then I’d request that next time he take the daughter, and I take the mom.