Dont Mince Words

When you haven’t had good sex in a very long time, you hit that point where you become OK without it. You get used to it. Or you get a dog to keep your mind off it. But there is that fear, like a diabetic having a small slice of cake, that when you do finally have sex, you are going to crave the whole cake all the time.

It had been a long time for GC as well, so I don’t think either one of us were in a hurry to go there. When we did, it was exactly as I suspected it would be: great and, damn it, great. The sweat wasn’t dry yet and I was the proverbial addict slapping my wrist looking for a vein. I was ready for round two and his eyes were still rolled to the back of his head.

Several days later, he paid me the ultimate compliment. “You have the sex drive of a small latin country.” Not bad considering my primary source of pleasure has been walking my dog. Now I can obsess about the next time I get “walked.”

In order to cope at work, a friend has decided to channel her strong inner black woman. I now jokingly call her “Nay Nay” which is short for Shanaynay, a character created by Martin Lawrence. Today, after receiving two loser reconnects in one day, I decided I needed to go black too.

Joker #1 called to see if I was available to go out “soon.” Of course, it took me a while to place the voice. Ironically, I had deleted him from my phone last week because I thought it was safe to write him off. No, more than six months after meeting and one call after that, he was calling to ask me out.

“Seriously? I met you six months ago and gave you my card and NOW you are ready to ask me out? Are you joking?” I asked.

He stuttered and realized my offer expired and quickly got off the phone.

Joker #2 left me an offline instant message. We had one date more than two years ago. He drank too many margaritas and wasn’t able to drive, so he spent the night on my couch barfing into my trash can. Needless to say, I didn’t see him again. But tonight he decided to leave me a message letting me know that he was thinking of me and he’d like to see me again.

It wasn’t hard to find my strong inner black woman to respond to this message.

“Seriously? You are contacting me two years post-puke? Really?”

Is it time to adopt a second dog? I’m not sure if I can survive any more LA-induced Post Traumatic Dating Disorders.

Today I salute you. Mr. Keep Calling Back.
(Mr. Keep Calling Back)
Armed with a cell phone, Marna’s number saved, you keep dialing.
(She’s not calling back)
Two months later, you are sure she’s still busy.
(Maybe she has a new job)
The first date was great.
(But she didn’t have a second beer)
The second date was better. You gave her a margarita and told her you couldn’t believe you were with her.
(She left to walk the dog)
A man can wait a long time for the right woman. A smart woman saves the phone number of the wrong man.
(You’re IDed dood)
So crack open an ice cold beer, Touchtone. ‘Cause we all know, you’ll never be #1 on her speed dial. She’s not calling back.
(Mr. Keep Calling Back)