Dont Mince Words

I received a reminder that ex’s are ex’s for a reason. Circus boy called. He’s a guy I dated in New York before I moved to California. His most notable relationship error was leaving me at his family event to go help an ex-girlfriend who was “stranded” on the side of the road. We broke up and he left and joined the circus.

Seriously, the circus. Now you can say you know someone who was dumped for Ringling Brothers. Anyhow, five years later, I still receive random emails and calls from him which I don’t mind because I know he’s always good for material.

Today was no exception.

After the catch-up small talk, he told me he was engaged. This is not the first time in my life an ex- has called to basically say “look someone else likes me and maybe for a long time.” Congratulations. And you are calling me because…????

Because his wife-to-be, who sells cotton candy and concessions for the circus, is getting ready to launch a porn site and they wanted to enlist my marketing expertise. Yeah, I know, WTF?

“You know, I’m focusing on a job search right now and don’t have a lot of time for freelance. My best piece of advice would be to make sure the HTML copy is relevant so that you can pull rankings in organic search,” I said.

But the good times don’t end there. He announced they might be quitting the circus when it gets to Arizona so that they can go and live in Las Vegas. “I think that’s a smart choice for you two,” I said.

Let’s hope what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

I’ve ramped up my Internet dating again. After last week’s happy hour fiasco, I’ve gone back to the horrid 20-minute coffee date. Tonight I added a twist. I brought a dog, or as I will now call him, my “get out of jail free card.”

Tex is an 80-pound American Bulldog I’m fostering and he is probably my new surrogate boyfriend. I brought him with me because I just had a sense I would need distraction to get through the date. By god, my instincts were right. My date was probably around for Eisenhower’s inauguration, not that there’s anything wrong with lying about your age or looking like a craggily dirty hippie wannabe.

As you would expect, it gets better. When I was making shitty 20-minute coffee date small talk, I decided to ask him what he did in his free time.

“Fuck,” he said.

Honest response, but creepy coming from an old man. That’s about the time Tex came to the rescue and began flirting with the passers by. I ended up meeting a lot of nice young men (probably WeHo gay, but I did say YOUNG), who wanted to pet Tex. Gramps was still on a mission to know what my tattoo said. I told him twice it wasn’t funny unless seen in context.

“I’m never going to see it, am I?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

We got up and said our goodbyes. His final words were, “So call me if you are interested in going out again. I’d like to see you all dolled up and get you drunk.”

I smiled and crossed the street. Tex took a massive shit on the other side. I laughed and told him he was a good boy, “Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get out of there either.”

Tonight I realized there’s a magical male age when they can play Jedi mind tricks with their dick and hold a conversation during a date without the fear that blood will be drawn from their brain.

The 31 year-old I was with was obviously the team captain of the cock Special Olympics. He was obsessed with my hair and had to touch it. Then he moved on to my body. I was curvy. I was perfect. I had a great ass. The compliments were nice, but not in the first 15 minutes of meeting me. I did my best to redirect the conversation. Reverse mortgages. Margaret Thatcher. Roger Clemmons. I said anything to distract him and to get some blood going to his brain.

The evening became hopeless when he wanted to guess my cup size. My Olympian guessed correctly. That’s about the time I should have declared game over and gone home, but it was raining harder and I knew he’d just continue to give me material. Two bourbons and four beers later he had a nickname for me and knew what our kids would look like. I think it was pretty safe for me to assume he was an alcoholic looking for the older woman score.

This experience has taught me that I need to raise my minimum entrance requirements. A smart cock in the hand is worth one in the bush another day.