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Posts Tagged ‘sex’

A friend of mine found my rantings about trying to find a date amusing.  I hope you do too.  I suffer for my art!

Perhaps you could create a new blog to chronicle your robust nightlife. Cruising for blondes but settling for the [Pittsburgh] Penguins is excellent commentary on the mating dance of the middle-aged single professional in Central Pennsylvania, which resonates well with the milieu. Your photojournalistic [Rutgers] game post simply begs for a spin-off!

Creating a whole new blog is just too much work.  It’s not really.  But I am that lazy.

Do you remember The Dating Game?

the-dating-game-set

Things were much simpler then.  Everything was black and white!

A contestant, male or female, would ask a series of questions to three members of the opposite sex and at the end of the show, he/she would pick one of the unseen wooers and they would go on a date.

The potential mates were hidden from view, so you only got to pick based on voice and responses.  No one knows how any of that turned out.  Maybe they never even went on a date.

Have we come much further since then?

The Bachelor or The Bachelorette?  A rose is a rose is a rose.  By any other name.  It’s still a game.

But now the contestant can see what the other person looks like.

I am over 50.  Divorced after 25 years of marriage.  My “rebound” relationship lasted three years, which I’m told is pretty good, until I got the “it’s me not you” speech as she was headed out the door, already having signed a lease to live elsewhere.

It’s funny . . . I would not choose to be where I am right now, but strangely enough, it is my choices that have led me here.

So I find myself back on the dating scene.  This is not a torrid sex scene from Debbie Does Dallas.  This is not a romantic scene from a Meg Ryan movie.  It’s not even close to a rom-com.

No.  This is a crime scene.  An accident scene, horrific, but you just can’t help but look.  This is a scene in a macabre mystery, that even Columbo or Agatha Christie cannot fathom.

I joined a few dating sites.

Why?

I am apparently insane.  Lonely.  Desperate.  Surely misery loves company.

I am an eye surgeon who predominately does cataract surgery–hence the Eye Life.  Get it?  High Life?  Eye Life?  (There’s probably a reason I am alone.)

Anyway, in the course of most days, the average age of the women I meet is probably in the eighties.  I am a real hit with the over 85 crowd.  If they can still see, they love my dimples.  If they don’t see well, apparently macular degeneration makes me look more attractive than I really am.  They want to hug me.  One gives me a back rub when I turn to face the computer.  One woman came up to me–I was wearing scrubs without an undershirt on–and rubbed my chest hair, while saying “I just had to do that!”

I’m not really looking for an older woman–at least not twenty years older.  I may be over 50 but I still feel like I’m 39.  Apparently 39 isn’t what it used to be.  But I have a job, and my own car and house.  I am reasonably attractive (I think), in good health (I take no medications), I run almost five miles a day, and I have all my own teeth (I was told by a local woman who is also in the dating scene–who wouldn’t go out with me– that that is a rare thing in Central PA.)  I also don’t need a blue pill to have fun.

I’m not looking for a happily ever after to fit a glass slipper.  I would like someone who looks good in running tights or yoga pants though.  With the Internet at my fingertips, I should have no trouble finding an attractive woman, closer to my age, but preferably a little younger.

Perhaps that is where I went wrong in my thought process.  I thought the Internet would solve the problems I had with dating in high school and college.

One site actually lets you know when people you “liked” are on-line.  There is an option to instant message them.

“Hi!  Bachelorette #1!  If you were an animal what would you be?   Would you like to chat?”

The profile disappears.  They are not on line anymore.  Just one click that quick.  It’s like some kind of freakish super power.  I can make attractive women disappear just like that.  Tired of your girlfriend or spouse?  I can take care of that for you.  One click that quick.

On this same site, a woman wrote in her profile:  Not looking to date but to find someone to do outdoor fun!

Have you tried a dog?

This is a dating site.  When you google it, it actually says:  the world’s largest online dating site for runners, cyclists, triathletes, bodybuilders, or any type of active singles.

I wonder if she’s even single?!?

Another site let’s you swipe left or right like Tinder–which I have not tried yet–but once you reach out to that person, they disappear from your list of likes.  You don’t know if they ever saw the message–they will be notified of your message when they like you back.  How am I supposed to wear these women down if I only get ONE shot?

I might as well be throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean.

Who designed this game show?

Why do we have to make something that is already uncomfortable for most people that much more complicated and uncomfortable?

One woman–a very attractive one I might add, as in OUT OF MY LEAGUE and probably not only not in the same ball park, but we’re probably not even talking the same sport here like horse racing versus soccer but I digress–did actually message me back.

My intro made her laugh.  I joked about only seeing older women because of my work and how I am a hit with the over 80 women, and then I complimented her on her eyes.  She has gorgeous eyes!

So, you’re popular with the older ladies, huh? Lol Your message made me laugh. 🙂 I’m more popular with my little Yorkies. They just can’t stop giving me kisses. I do feel pretty special getting an eye compliment from you! Lol

OK.  Now I am like a dog chasing cars here.  I am running around with my tongue hanging out like a madman salivating all over the keyboard, but I never expected to catch one.

Now what the hell do I do?

Instead of carefully thinking this over, maybe checking with some guy friends about what they think, collecting data, and crafting a witty reply, I whipped off an answer that probably was too truthful, but expressing how happy I was she responded.  Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that a lot of others hadn’t responded.  It’s the truth, but goddammit, the truth has no place in human relationships apparently.  I might also have mentioned I was alone on New Years.

Send.

I am a desperate loser.  I didn’t type that per se but I might as well have. In capital letters.

Regret immediately washed over me drowning my soul.

Crickets chirping.  Tuesday became Wednesday.  Wednesday becomes Thursday.

I blew it.  Or maybe I didn’t.  Who the hell knows?!?  Where is host Jim Lange when you need him?  My rose is going to die before I can even give it to her!

I had to do something!

Don’t do it.  Don’t look desperate even though I am desperate.  She’s so beautiful.  I’d give my left arm to get a date with her.  (I need my right arm for bowling.  And surgery.)  Of course, with my luck, she wouldn’t date a one-armed man.

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all . . . gloom, despair and agony on me.

So I sent her another text.

I can’t believe I’m jealous of a Yorkie!

I thought that was pretty good.  She mentioned her Yorkies giving her kisses.  I do want to be that Yorkie!  That should have been the first and only reply.  But I didn’t think of it fast enough.  I’m under a lot of pressure here!

An hour and 23 minutes later, the longest hour and 23 minutes of my life–she responds!

Hi Todd. Thanks for the messages. Life has been crazy the last couple days while readjusting to work life. It’s tough when you get off your regular schedule for two weeks. 🙂 I hope you have a good night.

wth

What.  The.  Hell.

You are killing me here.  I’m dying.  Myocardial cells will not be replaced.  I am going crazy (and it is a very damned short trip!) and my neurons aren’t going to be replaced either.

Does she like me?  She’s still responding, so that’s a good sign, right?  An “Indicator of Interest”?

She doesn’t know how to tell you to hit the pavement without being rude about it.  She’s nice.  She just isn’t into you.

She gave me a smiley face.  She’s happy, right?  About going back to work, or texting me?  I don’t know.  I wouldn’t be wasting my time writing this blog if I freaking knew.

Maybe she really was busy.

She didn’t actually respond to anything in my messages.  I got a fucking form letter.

Back when you had to actually walk up to a girl, ask her for her number, and then call her on a phone attached by a cord to a wall, if she said she was busy washing her hair, then you could pretty much figure she was too busy to ever, under any circumstance or fantasy, ever go out with you.  Ever.

Is this the millennial equivalent of “you’re a nice guy, but I already have plans Saturday night.  And next Saturday night.  In fact, I have plans every night until Armageddon comes.  Sorry.”?

Have a good night.

Have a good life.

Please don’t include me.

So what should I do.  I’m defeated.  Humiliated.  I’m on a site with women who want to date (or are looking for a dog to go hiking with) and one who actually responded, sort of in a very non-committal kind of Charlie Brown wishy-washy way, and it would appear she has ended the conversation.  Say Good night, Dick.

goodnight

“Say Goodnight, Dick”

Game over.  Game.  Set.  Match.  There are no parting gifts.  Do not pass Go; Do not collect a date.  I am the weakest link, Good bye!  Forget this ever happened.  This was not the date I was looking for.

never

So I sent another message.  Something about acknowledging how the holidays can be busy and it’s probably temporary insanity.  I’m thinking humor is a better option than my unrugged good looks at this point.  Just pretend the other texts never happened.  She’s busy–she probably will forget them, right?

I asked her if she runs–her profile says she does–and I say that I would suggest a run date if the weather in Central PA were more conducive to running this time of year.  And I joke that I’m probably going to get wet tomorrow as rain is in the forecast.  I allude to asking for a date without actually asking for a date, and she has the opportunity to respond to said query without actually agreeing to a date.  Am I brilliant?

Send.

The crickets are still chirping.  Three days.  The site puts a little green dot next to the profile picture to indicate if people are on-line.  Her dot has been green.  A lot.  I know because I’ve been checking the damned site every half hour like a god damned monkey on crack.  I wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and I check before getting back in bed.  That doesn’t mean she has read my message.  She probably has a billion messages.  From other guys who are just as desperate as I am but SMART enough to not come across as desperate.  Did I mention she was gorgeous?

When I first messaged her on New Years Eve–not sure what I was thinking–she was so far out of my league.  But something inside me said just do it.  Maybe it was her smile. Her eyes.  Maybe it was a Nike commercial in my head.  When she responded . . . such a bright beacon.  “So shines a good deed in a weary world.”  But the spark faded quickly, like a falling star.  Plummeting to earth to become mere rock.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  “For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been’.”

I was a fool and you would think by this point in my life I would be smarter. There’s no fool like an old fool and I play the part well.

The gorgeous lady has sung.  It’s over now, the music of the night.  The game is over and in the books.   I didn’t even know the rules.  I presumably broke them.  Or I didn’t get the hidden power up.  Maybe there is a Gamer magazine with codes to navigate through this morass.

But if I don’t figure out how to get through this morass, I’m never going to get any more ass.

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You might be a redneck in Pennsylvania if . . . .

You go to the bathroom and see . . .

Gunshow

Gun Show Advertisement

Fishing

Beer Advertisement

Your beer advertisement also has a handy fishing season schedule, since those two things (drinkin’ and fishin’) go together like peanut butter and jelly.  And last (but certainly NOT LEAST!) your:

Dispenser

Condom Dispenser

You got your guns, beer and sex.  It’s like a farmersonly commercial.  What more could you need?

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I don’t normal take those on-line quizzes . . . You know the ones I’m talking about.

What Disney character are you most like?

What Rock and Roll Band are you most like?

Which Harry Potter character are you?

Which superhero are you?

What Olympian God/Goddess are you most like?

What animal are you?

What color are you?

Seriously?  What color am I?  Do I not have a mirror?

But if you have ever ventured into the vast wasteland of Facebook, these quizzes are rampant.  But for some reason, one of them caught my eye recently.  Maybe it was because of this eye image that accompanied the advertisement:

EyeQuiz

What is your subconscious obsessed with?

I thought I already knew the answer to this one.  SEX.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  I think about it nearly all the time.  I don’t know why.  I’ve always assumed that this was normal.  And the people who are not obsessed with it–they are what we call liars.  So I was ready to test this scientific assessment to see if it came up with the correct answer.

So I clicked on a series of pictures they displayed before me–and I tried to be as honest as possible since none of them really reminded me of sex anyway–even those inkblots don’t look like anything to me except evidence that your pen is leaking and you need a new pen–and the end result was that my subconscious is apparently obsessed with . . .

NATURE.

 

Nature

Whoa.

The only time I really commune with nature is when I run–and I do love to run outside, braving the worst of elements to avoid the dreadmill or elliptical.  We do have two dogs, but getting the dogs was not my idea.  In fact, I went on record saying I didn’t want even one dog, let alone two.  I put my foot down–right into a pile of puppy poop.  It’s not that I don’t like my dogs–I do.  But I am not obsessed with them.  I hate cats.  I loathe cats.  Truth be told, I am deathly allergic to cats and have almost ended up in the hospital unable to breathe thanks to these itchy, scratchy, wheezy little varmints.  The only good cat is a dead one, and sometimes I have to back over them nine times to make sure I get all their lives.

I do like cows.  Hamburgers and steaks are my favorite.  And pigs.  I love me some bacon.  So maybe I am an animal person after all.

Camping?  Please.  If there isn’t indoor plumbing, heat and a/c, and a bed to sleep on, I’ll pass.  If there’s cable TV, I’m there.  No Wifi?  No thank you.

Hiking?  Is that running up hill at a slow pace?  OK, maybe.

Makes me think about nature while doing grocery shopping, cooking . . . okay let’s just stop right there.  I don’t grocery shop and I do not cook.  I have trouble making grilled cheese sandwiches.

Where did I go wrong?  How could I be obsessing about nature, when I’m so busy obsessing about sex?

Then it hit me.  My obsession with sex was conscious.  Subconsciously, I might be obsessing about nature.  Maybe having sex outdoors, getting au naturel, or something like that.

What color am I?  Maybe I should take that test too. . . .could be any one of fifty shades of grey.

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Candy Isn’t Better Than Sex

Golfing on Friday, one of our foursome told this joke:

Not polite to stare, ladies . . .

A man was out golfing and sliced his ball into the woods, where it hit a leprechaun and knocked him out.  The man resuscitated the poor creature who was so happy that he promised to grant the man three wishes.

“I don’t need any wishes,” protested the man.  “I’m sorry my ball hit you.”

He then retrieved his ball and went back to his game.

Well the leprechaun decided he was going to give the man three wishes anyway, so he wished for the man a great golf game, a lot of money, and a great sex life.

Several months passed, and by quirk of circumstances, the golfer sliced into the woods again.  The leprechaun peeked out from a tree and greeted the man as he found his ball.

“So, sir,” asked the leprechaun, “how’s your golf game lately?”

The man answered, “aside from this errant shot, it’s actually been pretty good.  I’m playing better than I ever have.”

“That’s great,” replied the leprechaun.  “And how’s your financial situation?”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s any of your business, but now that you mention it, things have been going very well lately.”

The leprechaun nodded knowingly.  “And I don’t want to seem like I’m prying or anything, but how’s your sex life lately?”

The man was taken aback by the forward little leprechaun, but after thinking about it a moment, he said, “Now that you make me think about it, things have been great.  I have sex once, sometimes twice a week.”

“You call that great?,” asked the leprechaun, somewhat astonished by the answer.

“Well, I’m a priest in a rather small parish, so that’s actually pretty great.”

Now you’re probably wondering about the candy part.  The problem is, though this joke is funny, it is not appropriate to be retold in an audience with small children.  So it has to be altered somewhat . . .

A man was out golfing and sliced his ball into the woods, where it hit a leprechaun and knocked him out.  The man resuscitated the poor creature who was so happy that he promised to grant the man three wishes.

“I don’t need any wishes,” protested the man.  “I’m sorry my ball hit you.”

He then retrieved his ball and went back to his game.

Well the leprechaun decided he was going to give the man three wishes anyway, so he wished for the man a great golf game, a lot of money, and a lot of candy.

Several months passed, and by quirk of circumstances, the golfer sliced into the woods again.  The leprechaun peeked out from a tree and greeted the man as he found his ball.

“So, sir,” asked the leprechaun, “how’s your golf game lately?”

The man answered, “aside from this errant shot, it’s actually been pretty good.  I’m playing better than I ever have.”

“That’s great,” replied the leprechaun.  “And how’s your financial situation?”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s any of your business, but now that you mention it, things have been going very well lately.”

The leprechaun nodded knowingly.  “And I don’t want to seem like I’m prying or anything, but have you been eating a lot of candy lately?”

The man was taken aback by the forward little leprechaun, but after thinking about it a moment, he said, “Now that you make me think about it, things have been great.  I have candy once, sometimes twice a week.”

“You call that great?,” asked the leprechaun, somewhat astonished by the answer.

“Well, I’m a a diabetic with bad blood sugars, so that’s actually pretty great.”

See?  It’s just not the same!

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Science never ceases to amaze me.

A study conducted by researchers at the University of Rochester and the University of Innsbruck have determined that red is sexy.

Richard Gray, Science Corespondent, writes:

It seems men really do prefer the lady in red.

A new study has found that men are more attracted to women wearing red compared to other colours because they believe they are less likely to be rejected.

Psychologists behind the research claim the colour red carries subtle but powerful messages about how receptive a woman might be to romantic advances and so men find it more alluring.

The researchers found that men who were shown photographs of women wearing a red shirt found them more attractive compared to when they saw the same women wearing green or white garments.

The study, which tested 96 men from the United States and Austria, also found that the men felt the women would respond positively to their advances.

This man would not be smiling if she were wearing green!

Now, ordinarily, this would not have drawn my attention, other than the fact that someone, somewhere–and it probably involves unsuspecting taxpayers–paid for this study.  But as the father of a 17-year-old daughter, who will be going to school in the fall at St. Francis University (“our colours colors are white and RED!”) this really caught my attention.

My God!  She’s going to be a Red Flash!

She may think she is just representing her school, wearing a red sweatshirt, but this study suggests that she is sending out a clear message to all the men on campus . . . look at me!  I’m sexy.  And I want you!

I don’t want my daughter doing that.

It is rather late in the process to decide she should go elsewhere, like Penn State, where blue is a much more acceptable color, so we are going to have to make sure that all her college apparel is in the more appropriate WHITE color.

Otherwise, she may have her dad seeing red.

If you wear the bad color, or even think that about my daughter that way
I WILL HAUNT YOU DOWN!

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