After a substantial dating hiatus, I’ve recently re-entered the vile, reprehensible, obviously-created-by-the-devil world of online dating. After being away for so long, I somehow forgot that not long ago I proclaimed I would rather have my face ripped off by a chimp than participate in online dating again. But clearly, the early onset of Alzheimer’s has led me to believe that it could in fact be a fruitful endeavor.
It’s a never-ending cycle of shit, really. And it has dawned on me that surely I am not the only one who repeatedly torments herself in this manner. Allow me to walk you through the six stages of the online dating cycle.
Stage 1: Optimism
During Stage 1, you are giddy at the possibilities. You log in and marvel at the million-man smorgasbord at your fingertips. You craft a Pulitzer-worthy profile and upload six sexy – yet tasteful – photos. After browsing the buffet thoroughly, you narrow your selection and send messages to three seemingly attractive, sensitive, witty, intelligent, moob-free specimens. The following day, you log back in and are delighted to find you’ve received 51 messages! Oh my goodness, plenty of fish indeed! However will I choose just one?!
Stage 2: Mild chagrin
After sifting through your e-mails you try to come to grips with the sad reality that of these messages, 16 were octogenarians, 14 led to profiles that were no longer active and 21 were nothing but dick pics. None of the men you contacted responded. WTF?!
You reevaluate your profile and decide it needs some tweaking. You upload a cleavage-filled selfie and add snowboarding, camping and volleyball to your hobbies because, I mean, you’ve been meaning to try them. You dip into your “B” list and send messages five more guys.
Stage 3: Disillusion
After a month you finally give someone a try and go on a date with Tech Dork Timmy who forgot his wallet and derided you for thinking Big Data was a band. In the next few weeks, you try to remain hopeful and go out on three more dates with Halitosis Hank, Ear Hair Earl and Rapey Ralph. You leave each of them indignant that you missed that evening’s Seinfeld re-run.
After revising your profile for the fourth time and going out on 13 more first-and-last dates, your options have now been reduced to Widower Willy and Crossdresser Kris. You meet them both and learn than Kris only wanted full access to your wardrobe and Willy began sobbing uncontrollably into his Bud Light during your second date at Chili’s.
Stage 4: Bitter disgust
Sick and tired, you rewrite your profile one last time. You change your screen name to PenisBiter666. Under Activities/Hobbies you include “poking voodoo dolls of ex-boyfriends,” “taking dumps with the door open,” “Xtreme nagging” and “eating kittens for breakfast.” At first glance, this appears to be an attempt at reverse psychology but in reality is an accurate depiction of your current state of mind.
Check inbox and receive 12 more dick pics.
You immediately call your doctor beseeching the maximum allowable dosage of Zoloft, invest in a top-of-the-line vibrator and swear off online dating FOREVER.
Stage 5: Refractory period
Now that your date prospects are nil and there are clearly no decent men in the greater Los Angeles metro area (or wherever you are), you stop shaving your pits, watch HGTV every night and engage in some of the most meaningful conversations of your life with your new vibrator, whom you have named Justin Timberlake. Your sofa is covered with Dorito droppings and you only wash your hair on special occasions, except there are no special occasions. For the first time in months you feel, in fact, free! That is, until…
Stage 6: Bored/Lonely/Horny
Six months pass. You can recite every episode of Cupcake Wars verbatim. You yearn longingly for a warm penis and someone to replace the chain in the toilet tank.
Just to break the monotony, you log into OKCupid. It doesn’t hurt to look, right? Right off the bat, you find three very worthy specimens who actually seem kinda perfect! Damn, if only these guys were online before!
It’ll be different this time around, you think. You’ll think positive this time. I mean, it’s really just a numbers game. One of those guys honestly could be Mr. Right. You really didn’t give it a chance if you think about it.
And suddenly, you find yourself back at Stage 1.
Repeat cycle… With maybe 10% less optimism.
LA peeps! Want to watch a funny ass show about online dating? Check out Undateable at the Second City Hollywood - totally true accounts of what ensued when 38 fake profiles of weirdos were created on OKCupid. Through Dec. 13. You WILL laugh.
I think you all know what I’m talking about.
Am I right or am I right or am I right? Like if you agree. New post coming soon, lovelies. There, I said it. So now I’ve gotta make it happen.
It’s play time, children! Today we’re talking sex toys, and joining me is the chief head Chowderhead himself, Chowderhead. This was all his idea, so you have him to thank for what’s to come (snicker), and be sure to check out his side-splitting blog.
Truth be told, although I’ve always been completely fascinated by sex toys, I’m not much of a consumer of them myself. In fact, my starter vibe hasn’t seen any action since before we knew what a Kardashian was (good times… sigh). But today we bring you the freakiest of the freaky, the kinkiest of the kinky, the Single Girl Blogging Sex Toy Extravaganza! (Or, Weird Sex Toys That Will Never See My Junk.) Kick us off, Chowderhead!
CH: It’s a damn good thing the power is out, because that dead flashlight you think you’re waving around in the dark is actually your pocket pussy that you left on the counter last night, genius. Seriously, who came up with the bright idea of disguising a rubber vagina as a flashlight? Was the intent so that you wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of burying it in the bottom of your sock drawer? Just throw it on the garage shelf, between the socket set and tire iron. And five gallon bucket of lube.
SG: Aw, come on, Chowder! When I first saw the Fleshlight I wished I had a penis so bad that I could stick in this thing. Although I will say the labia are a mite disturbing. There’s a version for gay men that instead has teeny tiny asscheeks. So you could pretend you’re fucking Stuart Little or Tom Cruise or something.
Glitter Glam Triple Play Vibrator
You really have to watch this shiz in action. Seriously.
SG: Has your pallid little pocket rocket left you feeling a little dry? Nothing will spark up your self-love sessions like the Glitter Glam Triple Play. Ladies, this is not a vibrator, it is a three-ring circus. After a few seconds I expected a midget in a tutu to pop out and start tap dancing. This monstrosity has got more bells and whistles than Lindsay Lohan’s ankle monitor. With a rotating penis head, three rows of swirling G-spot beads, a pulsating clit stimulator and an anal tickler – the Triple Play is so intimidating, the first time I saw it my hymen grew back.
CH: At first glance I thought this was some kind of white supremacy propaganda, but it turns out that some chicks enjoy having an arm injected into their love donut. Sheesh. I guess there’s more than one avenue for carrying out a tonsillectomy?
SG: Silly boy, The Fist is for butt donuts. Although it does seem a bit superfluous, as most humans already have two fists of their own. Perhaps a paraplegic’s best friend?
SG: In an ambitious attempt to replicate the act of cunnilingus, the folks at Lovehoney bring us the Sqweel: a series of silicone tongues on a motorized wheel that goes round and round to pleasure your nethers. And it might in fact do just that, but I’ll never know it because that thing ain’t coming anywhere near my vag. This looks like something out of a 1960s horror film, and I personally don’t want 10 severed tongues jabbing at my lady bits. Last night I had a nightmare it was chasing me around the house trying to lick me to death. I’d rather slap peanut butter on my clit and let the neighbor’s pug do the job.
CH: Eat your heart out Gene Simmons. Your gross llama-tongue ain’t got nothing on this enthusiastic contraption. It seems logical to assume that there is a direct correlation between technological advancement and males soon becoming a defunct bedroom requirement. But, on the bright side, we may finally be able to close out the question of how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center… Shwing!
CH: While some people are stocking up on key chain mace and honing their jujitsu take-downs, others are role-playing scenarios that the members of group A are trying to prevent. What in god’s name is wrong with missionary sex, people?! I have a hard enough time producing a stiffy after a couple of beers, let alone when my arms and legs are hogtied to a bed frame. Lastly, sex, along with every other activity here on earth, requires breathing — something that is difficult to do with a black garbage bag wrapped around your pie hole.
SG: Hold up, Chowder. Can’t you see this thing is BRILLIANT?! We’ve finally found the perfect way to bang a butterface!
Happy Ride Vibrating Bicycle Seat
SG: Someone call Al Gore, because I think we’ve just found the solution to global warming. Why the hell didn’t Greenpeace think of this? If you want to get citizens on bikes, you have to get them off. I myself have refused to ride a bicycle here in the City of Angels for fear of getting steamrolled by angst-filled LA drivers. But it just may be worth the risk for this Happy Ride – and if I end up as roadkill, at least I’ll die happy.
CH: I don’t think they sell this model outside of Amsterdam, yo.
SG: Now this one I get. Penetration and a tongue job simultaneously? Lesbianism, here I come! Or of course, your man could just attach a mini Sqweel above his johnson for a similar effect.
And the bad assiest motherfucking freakarrific big daddy sex accoutrement of them all…
Strap-on Urinal Gag
Warning: contains puns.
SG: Gee whiz! (See what I did there?) I have seen some crazy sex toys in my day, but this one takes the cake (and there?). Has your partner been really, really baaaad? Then seize this golden opportunity to chow down some asparagus, chug a forty and make ‘em your own personal urinal. And if they still misbehave, I’m afraid you’ll have to resort to plan Number Two.
CH: Oh my. I just don’t understand this fetish. I think I’d rather get lost on a Safari jungle tour and rot from the inside out due to malaria and dehydration then get eaten by tarantulas and cannibals before I drink someone else’s pee. I don’t even like using public urinals, yet alone becoming one…
SG: On the flip side, this could come in handy during long road trips.
A big shout out to Joe and my friends at the world-famous Pleasure Chest for allowing me to explore your toys. From sexy underthings to, well, strap-on urinals, these guys will help you get your kink on whatever your pleasure. Be safe, y’all.
What the holy motherfucking lord of what? Somehow, by the grace of something, I’ve been nominated for Best Sex Blog in the LA Weekly Web Awards 2013! I feel extra honored because LA Weekly is a pretty cool alternative weekly rag that people actually read. I’m giddier than a Japanese businessman at a Girl Scout convention!
And guess what else? I was recently named one of the 10 Best Funny Dating Blogs by DatingAdvice.com. Squee! Am I a dating blog? Am I a funny blog? Am I a sex blog? Oh, the labels are killing me. I suppose I’m a bit of all three. I don’t care — I’ll gladly take the adulation where I can get it since love and life has so furiously shit on my face then pointed and laughed and slapped its knee (womp-womp).
Enough yacking. Please vote for me by July 19.
Oh, you want a button? Fine. So difficult.
Thank you! Virtual tongue kisses to all!
Hello everyone! I know I disappeared for a spell but I’m back and I’ve got my fancy thong on. And by fancy I mean there are no holes in it. In this post I’d like to give a great, big shake of the boobies to one of my favorite comics of all time, Joan Rivers. This woman is a comedic genius who made it in comedy in the 60s, when women were a rarity in the genre.
I watch her every week on Fashion Police*, less for the color blocking tips and more to just hear the crazy shit that comes out of her mouth. And at 79 years old, she hasn’t lost her touch. I’ve recently read her latest book, I Hate Everyone… Starting with Me, and her quips on these pages made me laugh so hard I nearly burst an ovary. Now, I’ve been called raunchy, but Joan makes me sound cleaner than Jessica Simpson’s dessert plate after the Weight Watchers deal ended.
Here are just a few of her gems, excerpted from the book:
I hate “dry” weddings where they don’t serve alcohol. If I want dry, I’ll spend time in the Mojave Desert or take pictures of my vagina.
I hate faking orgasm with an old man. You work and you work and then the whole thing’s a total waste of time because you forget to moan in his good ear. And finally, the only good thing about old sex is you never have to suffer the humiliation of a one-night stand, because there’s no such thing. Just to get him out of the car, into the house, up the stairs, on the bed, on you, off of you, down the stairs, rediapered, and back into the car… minimum, four days. That’s not a quickie, that’s a relationship.
I hate women who feel compelled to have vaginal reconstructive surgery “for their man.” Just because your lips are loose and your vagina’s become a small cabin, why should you have to slice and dice your moneymaker? I say: Let him get a bigger dick.
As an homage to Joan, I am presenting my own list of stuff I hate, SGB style. I know I could never even dream to compare to this comic messiah, but all the same, here’s to you, Joan Rivers.
I hate men on online dating sites who say they are looking for “a woman who is just as comfortable in heels and a cocktail dress as they are in jeans and sneakers.” Guess what, less attractive Don Draper, no one is comfortable in heels and a cocktail dress, okay? And if you don’t believe me, why don’t you squeeze into some Spanx and a pair of five inchers then trip the light fantastic? Within a couple hours your feet will bear a striking resemblance to Courtney Love’s vagina – all beat up and covered with blisters. And then I don’t want to hear it when we get home and you say you’re too tired for fisting.
I hate men who include a photo of their motorcycle in their profile. When I said I was interested in seeing that supreme machine between your legs, I wasn’t referring to your Kawasaki Ninja 300. And speaking of bad online dating photos…
I hate when guys post a bathroom mirror-style selfie. What gives? Did your morning dump incite such glee it inspired you to capture the moment on digital? Most modern day cameras have a self-timer, and better yet, most men I’d want to date have a friend who can take a photo of them. When I see a grainy, toilet-adjacent self-portrait, I suspect you are lazy and uncreative – and I can only assume this applies to your tongue, too.
I hate when men expect me to go halvsies on a first date. Yes, I realize it’s 2013 and blah, blah. But considering the funds dropped on makeup, haircuts, hair color, waxing, clothing, shoes and assjazzling (that’s a thing now, right?) just to look good for you – I think we’re ahead of you when it comes to the cash investment. And don’t get me started on the time factor. It takes you what, 10, 15 minutes to get ready? Maybe 30 if you’re Robert Pattinson? Yeah, I’ll need at least an hour and a half. And don’t tell me I don’t need all that time – yes, I do. Unless you want to sit across the table from Ugly Betty — before the makeover. So just pay for my damn wine and quit squawking about how I should at least do a fake wallet reach.
I hate the new-fangled cardio machines at the gym. I have to answer the equivalent of an eHarmony questionnaire just to get the damn thing started. Can’t there just be a simple ON/OFF switch? The damn thing asks me for my age, height, weight, target heart rate, time, mode, speed, incline, zodiac sign and the first day of my last menstrual period. By the time I’m finished pushing all the buttons I’m too fucking exhausted to work out.
I hate people who fart at the gym. Trust me, there are more than enough offensive odors wafting around that place without a contribution from your butt.
I hate guys who won’t go down on you. Okay, in a way, I sympathize with them. It doesn’t sound terribly appealing to me either and truth be told, it is the primary reason that’s holding me back from lesbianism. But if you want me to enjoy our lovemaking (translation: if you ever want to see my coochie again), you better start licking, bub. It ain’t like your junk tastes like a fruit tart.
I hate men who pull my hair during sex. You not Tarzan and me not Jane. Just wait till the day you do this to a black girl. You’ll have a weave shoved so far up your ass you’ll have to make an emergency appointment with Dr. Stravinovich, proctologist-at-large.
I hate men who want me to call them “Daddy” in the bedroom. How and when did men get the impression that we wanted to shag our dads? Do I look like Soon Yi Previn? If I wanted to fuck my father, I’d blackmail Jon Hamm into adopting me.
I hate people who take my blog too seriously. Within the past five minutes, someone reading this has become offended by something I have written.
I could make a joke about toe fungus and some killjoy would curse me, crying out that toe fungus is a serious condition affecting millions of people and is no laughing matter. I once made a joke about herpes; someone got mad that I didn’t mention syphilis. Another reader took offense to my mocking of Victoria Beckham. Please, if there is one person alive that we can collectively agree to poke fun at, isn’t Miss Pissy Face a safe choice? Is nothing unsacred?
I think the Joker’s father said it best: “Why so serious?” Pay no mind to the fact that he is psychotic and also fictitious. We all need to laugh, and on occasion a subject that’s personal to you is going to be the butt of the joke. So for the love of Joan, take a muscle relaxer, pull Kim Jong-un out of your ass and lighten up already!
*After I wrote this post, I learned that the very talented and funny writers of Fashion Police are on strike, asking to be paid for uncompensated regular and overtime hours. This bums me out immensely because as much as I love watching the show, as a writer I fully support them. However, I’d already written this damn piece and I hadn’t written anything in a million eons so, you know, fuck it. But support the writers.
Listen, I’m sure Momma means well and everything, but she’s seeing you through her extremely biased mom glasses and is generally just blowing sunshine up your ass.
The truth is, the sooner you learn and accept those seven words up there in the title, the easier time you will have at dating and the inevitable truth that goes with it: rejection.
It took one wise bartender (and more than a couple of vodkas) to make me see this. I was bummed out about some dude, lamenting over why, why, WHY didn’t he call me? I’m cute! I’m smart! I’m independent! I’m funny! Whatever did I do???
Wise bartender simply said, “Well, not everyone is going to like you.”
It’s so simple, and so obvious. Not everybody wants the same thing. And thank goodness – if we did, we’d all be after the same people.
Example: My girlfriend Gabby likes stocky blond yuppies who golf and discuss crown molding over supper. This type of guy makes me want to blow chunks. Not that there’s anything wrong with stocky, golfing, crown molding-obsessed yupsters, they just don’t happen to tickle my fancy, personally. But clearly, they tickle other fancies. Gabby’s, for one.
Sorry, Ryan Gosling
No one is exempt from this rule. Not even Ryan Gosling. I know it seems like every woman and gay man alive are creaming their jeans for Ryan Gosling, but guess what? He doesn’t do it for me. Sorry, Ryan. Not everyone is going to like you.
Maybe you’re a tall blonde and he likes petite brunettes. Maybe you’re a left-winged intellectual and she wants a conservative handyman. Maybe you’re outgoing and gregarious and he wants a quiet, submissive girl. (Or vice-versa, in all of these cases.)
What are you going to do? Dye your hair or change your political views or alter your personality just to attract this person? I certainly hope not. Because sooner or later, the real you is going to come out and your partner is going to see it. And you’ll be pissed off that you ever changed for someone else in the first place.
So the next time someone ignores your e-mail or fails to call you after the first date, don’t call yourself a loser and stick your head in the microwave. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. They just don’t like you. Because not everyone is going to. And that’s okay – someone will, eventually. I promise.
Unless, of course, you’re a total asshole.
I originally wrote this post for Singles Warehouse last May, but I think it’s probably the best tidbit of advice I could give to anyone dating, even though we all know how I feel about dating advice. Sorry I disappeared for a bit. I’ve been super busy not dating and not getting laid. But seriously, I have been busy doing something, I just can’t tell you what. Isn’t that just so mysterious? Oooooooooh. Don’t you like me more now? Hehehe, all part of my master plan.
Holy crap, VD is back. And this time, I’m not referring to the burning sensation in my nether regions.
No sir, it’s Valentine’s Day, the most shittyful time of the year if you’re single. So to commemorate the occasion, I’ve written a guest post for my good friend Adam over at My Right to Bitch. I never thought I’d find someone who likes to bitch as much as I do, then lo and behold, I discover this beautiful creature who dedicated his whole blog title to the concept. I think I’ve found my soul mate. Of course, it will never work out because we’ll always be out-bitching each other. (I shall prevail.)
Whatever. I know everyone loves to get those candy hearts on V-day, so I’ve created some new ones just for you, people of the Internet. But don’t tell the print folks. They’ll just get jealous.
Go read it here. And take care of that VD.
Note: After this posting Adam has since changed his blog title to Chowderhead. I’m pretty sure he still likes to bitch, though. In case you got confused.