Penis, looking for vagina.

Drinking in the U-District sure is fun, isn’t it! You can end up doing the craziest things!

Such as getting drunk, and stumbling home with an equally drunk coed.

Oh my God, I was so wasted. I don’t remember meeting you. I don’t remember taking the bus with you. I assume we took the bus, as neither of us were in any position to drive, and my apartment is a good five miles from where we drank, which would be far too long a walk when sober. I do remember briefly talking in the bar (although I don’t know what about). I remember us naked in my living room. I hope we kept our clothes on until we entered my apartment.

We drank some more at my place. I think. Everything is very hazy. You were hot, and a senior from a sorority. That’s great. I think that made the sex better, somehow. Because I don’t remember much, but I think we had amazing (albeit sloppy) sex, for a long while. May I take a second here to congratulate myself on staying hard despite so much alcohol. You did well, too. It was fun.

Then we fell asleep. I woke up with a massive headache and an inability to recall the previous night. You were gone when I woke up, all traces of you vanished. I was merely a one night stand for you. I don’t regret it, though. I just have two questions.

What’s your name? And, can I please have my wallet back?

• Location: Seattle
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

As much as I appreciate the zombie Mr. T you sketched (that is hung on our refrigerator, by the way), there are a few things we need to set straight. I had reservations about you from the beginning; I thought you might suffer from a chronic case of Cool Kid Syndrome.

Despite my feminine appearance, I have a long history of having dated nerds/geeks. Some of them played table top RPGs, some were programmers, most of them were socially awkward. I am a nerd. I have mad nerd pride. I learn things for no good reason, think science is the coolest thing EVAR, sometimes snort when I laugh, and get the XKCD jokes. Perhaps it was the black-framed glasses and my state of well-groomedness, but you had somehow mistaken me for a Reg. And then you DISPARAGED MY PEOPLE.

This is unforgivable. Nerds have long suffered at the hands of jocks and at the jabs of hipsters like yourself. I don’t tolerate that shit. Weighing in at around 145 pounds and spending your days flipping through vinyls and sketching in your Moleskin leads me to believe that I can totally take you in a fist fight. Or simply mess up your faux hawk and send you packing on your fixed-gear, singing My Chemical Romance to yourself through the tears leaking out under your aviator sunglasses.

From that moment on, I refused to talk to you. I stopped calling you by your name and, instead, began referring to you as “Toolbox.”

My roommate, who was desperate for attention, wanted to be friends with you. She scoffed at my suggestion that you were only hanging around to get in her pants. Her dating life has been not-so-great since we moved to Austin. She either skipped, or was asleep during, the life lesson on humility. That’s fine for dudes because she has big knockers, but women have been less receptive, and I suspect that it has something to do with all conversations being steered towards her. As she is new to the whole “lesbian thing” I can forgive her for falling of the cootch wagon and sleeping with a guy or two along the trail. But why, oh sweet Jesus why, did it have to be you?

After that one time you did my lesbian roommate, you didn’t come a callin’. I sometimes lie awake at night and speculate… Was it just for the thrill of the lesbian conquest? Cock beats all? Or was it because she did the pretty girl I’m-going-to-lay-here-like-a-dead-fish-while-you-do-me thing? I accept that correlation does not necessarily indicate causation but I’m highly suspicious of your intentions, sir. Either way, she has instead chosen to blame me for your recent attendance record.

Even if that were the case, your fear of me was only powerful enough to keep you away after you dipped it in my vag gnoshing roommie. Thank you for making domestic relations difficult.

This interaction has only reinforced the judgments I pass on people in skinny jeans.

• Location: North

Memo to Female Readers –

Date: 2010-02-17, 3:26PM EST

Gentlemen,

Here are some words of semi-wisdom from a real live 30-something woman on how to up your chances that a real, live woman will respond to your post.

1. She probably won’t. That’s right – women really do rule the roost here. Respond to her post. But…

2. If you are up for a challenge and can write funny (you know who you are), then you definitely have an advantage.

3. If you’re not sure whether or not you can write funny, you can’t. See points below.

4. Stop whining about getting spam. You are a man posting on CL. You will get spam. Deal.

5. Put your age in your ad.

6. If you’re a man 25 years or younger, go to a bar and get rejected in person. It builds character.

7. Unless a woman asks you to send you a picture of your penis, refrain from emailing or putting this type of picture in your post. I believe there is this thing called “internet porn” (perhaps you have heard about it) where I can look at all the penises I want to.

8. The “I wonder if he is a serial killer” photo. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. The photo shot of your bare torso in the mirror sans head. Id rather see no picture at all because all I can think about is “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again” from The Silence of the Lambs. But if you are looking to give off the serial killer vibe, then you’re on the right track!

9. HEADLINES IN ALL CAPS will only get you noticed because its fucking annoying. Lets look at an example. FACE DOWN ,ASS Up and let me HANDLE it. Oh, yes, Im all over that. It made me really hot that you apparently dont know where a comma should go. Oh yeah baby.

10. For all you $$ generous guys out there your prices are way too low, especially if you want that hot college coed. $2000/month for up for 4-5 times a month is a good market value price to begin with. And, no, I am not a pro.

11. Speaking of non-pro only did I miss the day where people stopped using the word hooker or is that just a sly enough euphemism so that your post wont get removed? Does this mean that us non-pros are not pros in the bedroom because youre not paying for sex?

8. You write defensively and are mad as hell and are not going to take it anymore. Example: “I’m a hot guy with really high standards. I make a lot of money. What is up with all the fat chicks here? Im so sick of this shit. If you email me, send my your stats AND a picture. I mean, I’m a hot guy.” And blah, blah blah…
Gee, I like nothing more than going out with someone who is angry, defensive and who is incredibly sexually frustrated. Good times!

If you are that bent out of shape, call a hooker. Nothing wrong with that, as long as you’re safe. I’ll save the “non-pro only” commentary for another time.

9. Run spell check, use apostrophes (e.g., “ur” instead of “your or you’re”) and there’s this thing called a space bar that should have come with your computer – use it.

10. Women will most likely not list their weight in a post. Swap photos in the first or second email exchange. If she’s reluctant to send a picture, this could be a red flag or she may not know how to use any basic computer program where she can send a photo showing her body type without her face. Come to think of it, this could be a red flag as well.

11. There are no real 18-22 year old women who post here. I know this comes as a shock. Take a couple of deep breaths. It will be okay.

12. Avoid the use of the following phrases and words: Asian pearl (are you kidding me?!) and Yearning for Asian poontang (even if I was Asian, I would want you as far away from my poontang as possible).

Happy hunting!

Location: Hampton Roads
it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

I hope you realize that my perving was directed at you and only you, and absolutely no part of it was meant for your young daughter (niece? juvenile jogging companion?).

As implied, I enjoy the perks of jogging at Audubon, and one of those is a bit of ogling on the sly. It helps me forget that it’s been too long since I was jogging regularly, and I usually wear sunglasses to keep my baser proclivities to myself. You are stacked, I like redheads, my sunglasses were missing…you see where this is going.

Anyway, I must congratulate you on getting your young companion to to run completely concealed behind you, only to emerge at what was, for me, the worst possible time. Do you practice that? It must be the best ogle-stopper in the business. I swear, when she popped out from behind you, my libido panicked and imploded in about a nanosecond, and it took effort not to loose a cry of “Dirty pool!” Well played, MILF.

Date: 2009-12-15, 7:26PM CST

Memo to Female Readers –

I’m just curious if you know this — guys will do pretty much anything in order to play with your boobs. You know this already, right? Sometimes I wonder, given all the emotional and logistical acrobatics you go through.

In fact, if you end your MC posts with …”oh, and you can play with my boobs, too,” you’ll most likely find what you’re looking for. That’s when the real misery and disappointment begins, however, but that’s outside the scope of this quick, heartfelt, holiday memo.

Okay. Carry on.

Love,

Michael

I’ve spent thousands of words in the space of this column talking about all the things that irritate or confuse or annoy me when it comes to dating.

On top of my general gripes with what is Wrong with dating, dates and the whole dating scene, I’ve thoroughly plumbed the depths of my own depravity, trying to suss out what is perhaps Wrong with me, and fully explored what is Wrong with you.

Based on my columns and your comments and emails, we’re all a bunch of sauce donkeys who like kinky sex and assplay!

But today I’m going to paint a picture of the perfect date.

I don’t want perfection, nor do I strive for it, but I think it could be a helpful exercise to look at what I would deem an ideal situation, from how we meet to our first date. Perhaps we’ll find out I’m hopeless or unrealistic or simple in my desires and tastes.

I’ve never really thought about exactly what I’m looking for, I’ve only known when I haven’t found it.

But I think this is what it looks like …

How We Meet
Let’s start out with how we don’t meet, and that’s online. This is not a knock on anyone who uses Match.com or eHarmony or Nerve or the Onion or J-Date or FarmerLove or Robots-Seeking-Robots or any other site out there. I’ve briefly perused those two-dimensional police lineups. It’s not for me. I get why it could be for someone else, but in a perfect situation, we don’t meet that way.

We meet at the grocery store. Or maybe a bookstore. Or, knowing me, a bar. But it’s face to face, a moment of shared laughter, both of us agreeing the cashier in aisle nine is tweaking on meth, or we both reach for the same book (obscure-but-awesome “We,” or oh my God are you reaching for “Blood Meridian” you violence-loving freak!), or we meet at that glorious glowing oracle the juke box, where starting conversation is as easy as mocking or agreeing with what’s being chosen. (Billy Joel’s “Allentown”? Well, OK, strange lady, ruin the night for everyone ha ha, just joking, hi my name’s [Redacted], let me buy you a shot of musical taste, kidding again, how’s a Pabst sound?)

The Setup
The point is we met out there, in the world, in a moment of luck and randomness, a chance encounter between two people who, had they done one thing differently during the course of the day, might never have met. An answered phone call, a missed subway, an extra 10 minutes for pube maintenance. The point is, no matter how mundane the circumstance of this meeting, the miracle is that it happened at all.

I say I’m going to call you after we exchange numbers, but why create the extra step? I ask you out then and there. We find a day that works, and I suggest a spot it turns out we both like. (It was a gamble on my part, but you were game.) We agree to meet there, on that date and at that time, as if cell phones and emails didn’t exist. You like the old-fashioned idea of making a plan and simply meeting there without all the electronic hubbub.

The Date
I’m nervous. I wait for you at the bar. You get there — a few minutes past the time we had settled on — and I ask you what you want. Whatever it is, it’s not a vodka tonic.

The conversation is a wide-ranging, willy-nilly free-for-all that keeps us both laughing. We tackle topics based on the natural current of context and circumstance; maybe there was a subway situation that held you up involving a sick mariachi player that triggers a double helix of narratives between us. Maybe our saddest mariachi stories. I tell you about the time I was alone at a restaurant in Mexico and some mariachis went from table to table, smiling and laughing, until they got to my table, saw the place setting for one, and swept right passed me. You laugh. You have a good laugh. This is typically when I get super-nervous, speed drink, and tell you I’m Trouble, but not tonight.

I ask if you want to just eat here, they have a menu after all. You say why not. That’s sort of your First Date war cry: Why not? We sit down, and the waitress comes over. You’re sweet to her. Do we want appetizers? Why not? The waitress recommends the olive tapenade. You choose a bread-and-cheese plate and ask if I’d like to split a bottle of white wine. You’re killing it, just killing it.

The Girl
What are you like? You’re open and relaxed and have perspective. You are not building this up like some super-important moment; therefore, even if you’re slightly disappointed with me in some way, you’re not showing it. You’re happy to be enjoying some wine and food.

I think this is a key thing here: You’re happy.

It has nothing to do with me or our date. You’re the type of person who realizes, Hey, I actually have it pretty good in life, and you enjoy yourself. There’s always going to be some subconscious calculations going on — it’s a natural human instinct to draw quick conclusions and make personality outlines of the people we meet, but this isn’t about my being the perfect guy for you. This is about being out and having fun, period. I am not everything you ever dreamed of, and you are not a quadri-lingual French-Creole demigoddess with green eyes who shares an extensive pot addiction with me. But you are great, and being with you is fun.

Dessert? You say we really shouldn’t, but … ha ha why not? We order the pot de crème. The check comes and you say we’re splitting it. I say it’s not necessary. You say no, we’re splitting it. I relent.

The Aftermath
I walk you to the subway / your apartment / your next stop on the evening. We walk slowly and have already begun finding our conversational grooves. It comes easy. Everything feels really good. We exchange a chaste kiss. When I look back after 10 paces or so, do I catch you looking back, too? Nope. This isn’t a movie. But your hair is swaying and I can somehow tell that you’re smiling.

Do I email or text or call you? I mull this for an hour or so and decide I’ll call. A few days later I do.

You don’t pick up.

I never hear from you again.

It was the perfect date, for me. Sometimes, however, even that’s not enough.

But at the moment that I realize, I’m never going to see this girl again, do I regret one moment of our date? Nope. I may not have been what you were looking for, but you were pretty close to what it is I want.

At this moment, I know that all I have to do is find the You who likes me, too.

I meet my friends at a bar.

Now I don’t mind a fat girl, in the privacy of my own home, but that bald guy that you’re probably crushing under your weight has some serious balls. He’s a proud fatty fucker. The worst part was seeing those underwear. God knows ive seen a pair of white, elastic waistbanded fat girl underpants on my bedroom floor after way too many cocktails before. There’s something about them, fat girl underpants, something unmistakably and unspeakably shameful.

Anyhow if you’re single hit me up.

5’11” Tall drink of water with a unmeasurable amount of sexapeal, seeking a sexy valentine. THING I LIKE IN A LADY….. Has a sexy pair of eyes. Doesn’t mind if things get a little weird. Enjoys sweaty love making. Can handle 4 min riding this bucking bronco. THINGS ABOUT MYSELF…. Big things don’t always come in small packages. My favorite movie is The Notebook. I sometimes cry after sex. And I’ll spoon you all night long ,till the break of dawn……………..No Pic No Reply.