Third date last night. It's the most high-stress one for me because the third date is typically the one when I get confirmation of whether or not it's a woman. Clearest indicator tends to be a penis. If they have one, then I'm not interested - already have one of those, and it's not all fireworks and backflips like grandpa said. I know there are some variations of the human species that have both a car and a garage, but that's too much for me to overlook. Plus, Thanksgiving and Christmas would be weird for several years, or until everyone in my family died, but then all I'd have is a girlfriend with a wiener and my dad's spoon collection...
Thanks to online dating, I tend to get caught in the middle of late-teenage shenanigans. In these scenarios, the relationship starts with a cordial online exchange. The web-woman indicates that she likes something that I like, like denim, or making fun of non-profit horticulture, and then I'm hooked by intrigue. We eventually meet somewhere safe, but still romantic-casual, Blimpie's is standard. I'll run through my set of first-date questions that I found online, and if she sticks around after finishing her sub, I'll see if she wants to deal with another date.
On the third date, I typically find a convenient opportunity to ask whether or not we're going to have intercourse. I haven't had a single positive experience in this area. The environment is hot and wet, and smells like steamed cabbage that was cooked in a pot of garlic and melted Right Guard antiperspirant. But, it's a function of existence, and if I don't at least make an effort to reproduce, all I've done in this world is consistently gain weight, overdraft my checking account twice, and overcook a $76 roast in April of 2008.
The teenage trickery usually ensues at this stage in the sequence of events.
Whether I'm attracted or not, in this case, she stuck around through a sub sandwich of marginal quality at best, a canned first-date conversation, and then changed my tire when it blew on the way to the Grass Festival during our second date - which is just a large lawn that you pay $12 to view. If she is apparently still interested in seeing me naked under florescent lighting, I figure, let's see what kind of mess we can make.
I'll typically get naked really quick so that I have time to put on my intercourse-socks before we get started. They're really nice. They're actually golfing socks that my mom got me for Christmas, and are designed to keep your feet cool. Part of me feels bad turning Jesus's birthday present into intercourse-attire, but life is full of tough decisions.
It's immediately post-intercourse-socks-installation that the teenage punk typically removes his wig, snaps a digital photo of me to be later posted on my mom's Facebook wall, and escapes successfully in an all-out sprint down the stairs, through my front door, and away on a moped that was parked along the side of my building. That's been the last six times, anyway.
Long-story short this time around: No penis. It was a real woman. But, still debatable for other reasons.
I've never seen a woman with an unscathed patch of hair on her shoulder. And just one shoulder at that. She had two shoulders total, but just one with a considerable amount of hair on it. It looked like she splashed a tablespoon of rubber cement on her right shoulder, swept her hair over that shoulder for a night, and then yanked on it really hard before bed. But that didn't happen. It was just a patch of up-to-no-good shoulder hair.
It was long enough to style. Spike. Crimp. Perm. Straighten. Feather. Long enough to style.
Her boobs were cocked-eyed. I used to work with a guy that was cock-eyed. You just spend an entire conversation with the guy trying to figure out which eye you're supposed to look at. Looking at her boobs were the same experience: I slightly grimace, physically toggle my head and alternate my focus from one to the other while figuring out which one to look at, ultimately admit defeat, and then shift my attention solely to the navel as a compromise. Typically, there should just be one of those.
She had a shoulder line like a Texas longhorn, and her skull settled deep down within it, way lower than it should have been positioned, like a misaligned mouse trackball.
Knuckles like moose knee caps.
Knee caps like sewer drain lids.
Sewer drain lids like Galapagos turtle shells.
I didn't realize while sitting across the Blimpie's booth how abounding her physique was. I just thought she was bad at sitting. Comical. Not like humorous. Like a colossal villan that you would see in a comic book. Not fat. Just a lot of bones in unexplainable locations.
After exchanging a few glances, we both agreed that absolutely nothing respectable, nor responsible, could have occurred between the two of us physically.
But, no penis.
Her - not me.
Thanks to online dating, I tend to get caught in the middle of late-teenage shenanigans. In these scenarios, the relationship starts with a cordial online exchange. The web-woman indicates that she likes something that I like, like denim, or making fun of non-profit horticulture, and then I'm hooked by intrigue. We eventually meet somewhere safe, but still romantic-casual, Blimpie's is standard. I'll run through my set of first-date questions that I found online, and if she sticks around after finishing her sub, I'll see if she wants to deal with another date.
On the third date, I typically find a convenient opportunity to ask whether or not we're going to have intercourse. I haven't had a single positive experience in this area. The environment is hot and wet, and smells like steamed cabbage that was cooked in a pot of garlic and melted Right Guard antiperspirant. But, it's a function of existence, and if I don't at least make an effort to reproduce, all I've done in this world is consistently gain weight, overdraft my checking account twice, and overcook a $76 roast in April of 2008.
The teenage trickery usually ensues at this stage in the sequence of events.
Whether I'm attracted or not, in this case, she stuck around through a sub sandwich of marginal quality at best, a canned first-date conversation, and then changed my tire when it blew on the way to the Grass Festival during our second date - which is just a large lawn that you pay $12 to view. If she is apparently still interested in seeing me naked under florescent lighting, I figure, let's see what kind of mess we can make.
I'll typically get naked really quick so that I have time to put on my intercourse-socks before we get started. They're really nice. They're actually golfing socks that my mom got me for Christmas, and are designed to keep your feet cool. Part of me feels bad turning Jesus's birthday present into intercourse-attire, but life is full of tough decisions.
It's immediately post-intercourse-socks-installation that the teenage punk typically removes his wig, snaps a digital photo of me to be later posted on my mom's Facebook wall, and escapes successfully in an all-out sprint down the stairs, through my front door, and away on a moped that was parked along the side of my building. That's been the last six times, anyway.
Long-story short this time around: No penis. It was a real woman. But, still debatable for other reasons.
I've never seen a woman with an unscathed patch of hair on her shoulder. And just one shoulder at that. She had two shoulders total, but just one with a considerable amount of hair on it. It looked like she splashed a tablespoon of rubber cement on her right shoulder, swept her hair over that shoulder for a night, and then yanked on it really hard before bed. But that didn't happen. It was just a patch of up-to-no-good shoulder hair.
It was long enough to style. Spike. Crimp. Perm. Straighten. Feather. Long enough to style.
Her boobs were cocked-eyed. I used to work with a guy that was cock-eyed. You just spend an entire conversation with the guy trying to figure out which eye you're supposed to look at. Looking at her boobs were the same experience: I slightly grimace, physically toggle my head and alternate my focus from one to the other while figuring out which one to look at, ultimately admit defeat, and then shift my attention solely to the navel as a compromise. Typically, there should just be one of those.
She had a shoulder line like a Texas longhorn, and her skull settled deep down within it, way lower than it should have been positioned, like a misaligned mouse trackball.
Knuckles like moose knee caps.
Knee caps like sewer drain lids.
Sewer drain lids like Galapagos turtle shells.
I didn't realize while sitting across the Blimpie's booth how abounding her physique was. I just thought she was bad at sitting. Comical. Not like humorous. Like a colossal villan that you would see in a comic book. Not fat. Just a lot of bones in unexplainable locations.
After exchanging a few glances, we both agreed that absolutely nothing respectable, nor responsible, could have occurred between the two of us physically.
But, no penis.
Her - not me.