Two Guys, a Girl, and a Really Bad Gaydar

7:56: I'm at a bar, waiting for a blind date. Match date, whatever. I'm not looking forward to it. The bar is pretty empty, save a guy on a barstool to my left talking to the bartender, who barely glances in my direction when I walk in.
8:02: I'm still at the bar, I've taken two careful sips of my drink (I'm trying to nurse it so I'm not on my third gin and tonic when he gets here.)
8:04: A big guffaw comes from the bar. Are they laughing at me? I lean to my left, pretending I have a sudden inner-ear infection as I strain to listen. They're talking about...a restaurant....in West Hollywood. Apparently, they make a killer pesto sauce. I furtively check him out. Very well dressed, smells like expensive cologne, beautiful italian leather shoes. His hair is coiffed to perfection, with a careful distribution of product. He and the bartender act like there's no one else in the room - was that a wink? OK, so they obviously have a thing for each other. How nice. I mindlessly slurp the last of my drink. Dammit. I interrupt the lovebirds and order another.
8:12: I'm just about to order my third drink when my date wallks in. I can tell it's him, because, a.) he's looking for someone, and b.) he looks like his pictures, except 30 pounds heavier and much older. Fuck.
8:13: I'm considering throwing myself over the bar and hiding among the CO2 tanks when he spots me. "Ariel?"
8:14: Polite, strained conversation ensues.
8:22: He's ordered a shot, and---wow, time for another. I got a real rock star on my hands.
8:26: He's invading my personal space. I casually move my stool to the left, closer to nicely-dressed gay guy. I overshoot and accidentally bump his stool. I turn and apologetically smile. He smiles back.
8:37: Match dude is really invading my personal space. He keeps making bad jokes and poking me with his stubby finger like a perverted uncle. I inch back, bumping elbows with gay guy. "Oh jeez, I'm sorry!" I apologize. "No worries." He smiles at me again. Wait, was that a wink? Nah, I must be getting drunk. Thank God.
8:52: Awright, I've had about enough of this. I casually turn away from stupidassmatch date and face the bar, eyes forward. I'm going to pay my bill and call it a night. Man, is he STILL talking about adultcon?
8:54: The bartender is ignoring me. Gay guy sees my plight. He squeezes my arm. "I'll call him over for you." Aww! "Thank you, you are an angel!" I affectionately squeeze his arm back. We're like old buds!
8:55: Ha ha, stupidassmatch date just dropped his drink. If that's not a sign I don't know what is. I don't even bother to help clean up, I'm waiting for the bartender to ring up my tab.
8:56: "You have a beautiful smile," Gay guy whispers in my ear. "Uh...thanks." What the hell?
8:56: Dumbassmatch date squeezes my knee. "So, wanna blow this taco stand and go somewhere else?" Ugh. I don't think so, chief. His hand's still on my knee. No, wait, it's my left knee, he's massaging my left knee--it's not match dude, it's--gay guy?!?!? Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.
8:56: I am completely paralyzed. My brain has officially left the building.
?:??: I think my face is melting. I've got two hands on my two knees, the bartender seems to be calcuating his deductions for next year's taxes on my fucking bar tab, and all I can think is, "my Gaydar is BROKEN."

Yes, That Is A Banana, And I'm Happy To Be Here

As I've noted in the past on this site, I've long viewed public transportation as a cheap feel paradise. For a mere buck twenty-five, Boston's subway line offers ordinary jerks like me the chance to get packed against pretty businesswomen in their tight blouses and big, round-ass skirts.

Typically, if I'm sitting down, I offer up my seat to a lass or old timer. But today, my foot hurt like all hell, so I settled in for the long haul, hoping some BU chick would plant her ass in front of my face for the ride. Instead, I see get this laborer-type guy, hardhat and all, who's standing over me reading the Herald. And he's one of those guys who has mastered the fine art of standing up without holding on to anything, simply pressing himself against the seat railing to stay up.

Then I notice a businesswoman -- cute, probably in her mid 40s -- putting her hand on the same railing that said laborer is using. Ostensibly, she's just looking for a place to anchor herself. But to clever perverts like myself, it really seemed like she was gunning for a cheap feel, seeing as how the guy was basically pressing his package against the railing to stay upright. As I sit there, trying not to notice, she seemed to be edging her hand closer, as if hoping the guy would rub against her knuckles at a sharp turn. And, yeah, I know the trick because I use it myself, trying to get justcloseenough to some hottie in the chance that her ass meets my crotch/arm/face during a close stop.

So, yeah. Women going for the cheap feel as well. Fucking awesome!

Will Date For...Coffee?

My Starbucks barista is totally hot. He's from Brazil or Argentina or some shit, probably goes to auditions before his work shift or rocks some club with his hard core salsa band in the evenings. He just has that look, y'know? That clearly the green apron (which brings out his eyes) is just a temporary pit stop on his white-hot trip to greatness.
This is all in my head, BTW. I've never said more than "Ha, uh, hi..." and "double shot light foam, thanks, heh heh *cough*." This is what I dream up whilst he whips up my order. Would I ever dare to make a move? Of course not. One, because I'm a pussy. Two, because I'm a stuck up bitch that has a problem with his job. I would be ashamed to tell my friends, "Yeah, he's gorgeous, smart, funny--and he makes the meanest Nonfat Vanilla Latte this side of the Mississippi!" Now, if he was a bartender, I'd be OK with that. Why does the addition of one ingredient suddenly make him acceptable?
Anyway, as IF he'd give me the time of day, my boring, Admin Assistant, Banana Republic sale rack suit with Payless shoes and massive credit card debt...

Will Date For Food

Good morning. I thought I'd interrupt your usual Monday morning routine of placing your tongue in the automatic stapler with this mating dilemma: who pays? Indeed, traditional values dictated that it was the man's responsibility to pony up the cash as the beneficiary of her free meal enjoyed the mint-flavored toothpicks; however, in this post-modern, bitch-you-make-twice-as-much-as-I-do world, those rules no longer automatically apply. In LA, I certainly have dated many a Ramen-eating, up and coming actor/model/musician/Koo-Koo Roo Chicken (sorry, "street performance artist") who is only too glad to have me pick up the check...and pay his gas bill. So, three cheers for gender equality (????). But that still doesn't answer the question. Does it therefore hinge on who asked who out? Who made the first move? Or perhaps, whose parents still send cash every month?

The floor's open. Just clean up after yourselves.

Faraway So Close

There needs to be an official rule for guys in bars. And that rule needs to be as follows: The Hot Chick Bartender is Not Going to Fuck You.

Seriously.

And I'm the worst offender. Seven "black and tans" and I'm drooling over the lassie behind the bar, telling her for the umpteenth time that I'm mad crazy about her and want to start a family with her or at the very least, bury my head between her legs for a good half hour. And when I stop to take a sip or breathe or vomit, there are six other guys who chime in with the same platitudes.

See, the bartender is the only woman in the bar who has to talk to us guys. At least, she has to acknowledge us. No one else has any such obligation. So the bartender hears it. And if she's ridiculously hot, like our friend in the photo above, she hears it non-stop, start of the shift right up to last call. Drunken buffoons in our Banana Republic shirts, thinking we can score the hottie who's working the tap. Or that we're the first guy in the world who's told her that joke or complimented her on her ridiculously tight, round ass. Or that we're the only dude she's ever shown that tattoo.

But in the end, it's always the same. Her Levi's get stuffed with tips. I walk out with nothin' but a headache. And a raging hard-on. And it's go home, puke, take the intravenous Vitamin C, H2O and aspirin exlixir, then come back again tomorrow.

Because I'm sure she'll eventually cave.

Project Envy

Hey folks,
just wanted to introduce you to my latest girl-crush: The Klum. I wasn't really a big fan of the Germans until she came along, with her damn perky "Auf Veeder-Stain" and sweet, double-sided kisses to the latest reality-show failures who probably haven't bathed in months. I barely pass muster with a large t-shirt and this genetic anomaly is going to have her third child and probably wears that outfit to run errands. What I also find endearing is that no matter how beautiful you are, you're still attracted to the butt-ugly assholes. Did you see the father of her first child? He makes Albert Einstein look like America's Top Model. And he CHEATED on her.


OK, so I've been watching way too much E!. What of it?

You Can Be With This, or You Can Be With That

There's a girl at my office with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

They are, for lack of better terminology, ginormous boobs.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every guy in the mailroom knows "Sarah with the boobs." Christ, the vending machine that spits out our coffee and candy bars knows it.

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So the other day, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local "TGIFridays" -- where the good times are incessant! -- for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties, the birthday lunch. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose." And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, hon. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former Kennette who had a model-quality arse [how I let that one slip away... is still a sore subject], but was convinced her impossibly curly blonde hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Countless hours in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll tell you that it's really the fact that I always pick up the bar tab.

Suddenly... Not So Annoying

You know how there can be someone you just. Can't. Stand. They just get under your skin to the point that you wanna sandpaper yourself down? The very sound of their voice causes you to cringe and convulse?

And then, as if by magic, they do something that totally spins your brain in the other direction. Maybe they just saved a puppy's life or helped stamp out Communism in your hometown or displayed an otherwordly tongue technique while doing a blow job shot. Whatever the case, you suddenly find yourself thinking of them with birdsongs in your heart and lust in your eyes.

That's kinda what happened to me when I saw Fergie in these shorts in her London Bridge video.

Homeless But Well-Laid

So the other day me and my man Sully are hanging out at a bar near Kenmore Square. And there's this skeevy looking dude sitting all by himself at a corner table. The dude seriously looked, by all accounts, like a goddam homeless fella, with a tattered Herald under his arm, one of those hand-held transistor radios they stopped making around the time of the Carter administration, and hair like he'd just brushed it with a pillow. Sully and I started wondering aloud how long it would be until a waitress or bouncer kicked him out.

About four beers later, this cute, professional-looking woman walks in: long brown hair, tight skirt, killer ass. And as Sully and I suck in our chests and start involuntarily flexing our biceps, she passes us and beelines for the hobo. Gives him a kiss on the cheek. Runs her hand through his impossibly scroungy hair. And I'm thinking this has gotta be a joke, A B.U. sorority chick "let's tease the homeless dude" thing. But as they're talking, he places his unkempt hand on the spectacular curve of her derriere. And it stays there. Until she kisses him again and joins him in the booth.

So Sully and I start doing the math. A hand on her ass. Kisses on the mouth. It's not her dad [and if it was... ewwwww]. Not a brother. Might be a cousin, but... who the fuck feels up their cousin's ass? No, we figured. These two must be romantically involved. And as they sat there, her perfume covering the dirt fumes rising off his scalp, you could see that she was actually enjoying his company. Christ almighty, she was there by choice!

And it gets us thinking... how do guys like that [and you see the photo above, folks? Not that far off.] score premium trim like her? It's the one thing that always blows my mind when I see a guy who by all accounts is either destitute or filthy with some hygiene-related disease or barking madly at a wall in a Heineken-inspired haze and he's got a fucking hottie on his arm.

What is it, ladies? Do these scumbags have money? Huge cocks? Real estate in Miami?

Things That Rock

1. Girls kissing. Bonus points if they're particularly pretty girls, but I've reached the stage where the thought of Bea Arthur snuggling "Alice" from the Brady Bunch gets me steamed.

2. Older women with tattoos on the small of their backs. These days, every female receives one of these on her sixteenth birthday. But there's something kinda freaky and awesome about a fortysomething [or, dare I think it, fiftysomething] woman with one. Fortysomething women with tattoos all over their arms, on the other hand, only want to smash your car windows and hit you with frozen meat. At least in my experience.

3. Paz Vega.

4. Girls who drink shitloads of beer. Don't get me wrong, I've dated/banged/wasted my time chasing unattainable girls who drink wine, Jack and shots of Jaeger off an ice slide while being held upside-down by their ankles. But there's something about a chick who can tear through a 12-pack of Bud Light quicker than me that starts me longing.

5. These. If you're a woman, and you're wearing these right now, thank you.

6. Camo Girl. She knows why.

The Greatest Thirty Second Clip Ever

I'm officially addicted to this goddam thing. Who is this woman? And was she put on this Earth for any reason other than tormenting my hot Irish mind?

Back To School

Kids, as we put away our g-string bikinis and scrub down the walls of our in-house Mystic Tan booths, it's time to start thinking about bettering ourselves in the pursuit of learning. In what areas are we lacking? Perhaps it's finances. Cooking. Finally learning that darn Electric Slide for cousin Erma's wedding next month. Me, I'm going to thumb through my dog-eared free copy of The Learning Annex, that bastion of continuing education, to see where life should take me.

"Cat Therapist Finds Your Neutered Cat's Sensuality"....uh, is that some sort of covert op for chicks with hysterectomies?..."Tantric Sex For Dummies"...nah, too mainstream. Ooh, here's one: "Ladies Lapdancing Class, taught by Arthur Murray". And there's a 10% off coupon!

The Turning Point

The other day, I was trying to calculate exactly how many of my prior relationships went awry when I asked if I could stick my tongue up her ass.

The count stands at eleven.

Next Position Please

Call me crass, but I've always been a firm believer in the one night stand. So much easier. No bullshit. No "where the fuck are my waffles?" the next morning. No worrying about whether your breath was minty fresh or if his mom will like you or if your kids will inherit your blue eyes or his brown eyes. It's all "You're here. I'm here. Let's screw." And we need more of that in our lives. We need those human airbags we can throw ourselves against to work out the angst and frustrations and finally get over him/her/it. You don't need to go all Gene Simmons over it... you just need to experience one or two before you settle down or die or hit that point where black socks with shorts sounds like a good idea.

Heatseeker!

Holy christ, did I wake up with wood this morning. Ever have one of those days when you feel so goddamed hot and bothered that you'd crawl on your lips through busted glass for a little action? That you know you're going to head to the office and find yourself fantasizing about grabbing every female who walks past you [yes, even Madge from HR] and bending her over the copy machine? That you actually fear for the girl who hands you your change and Dunkin' Donuts, as you may well jump over the counter, ease her polyester slacks off, and start tonguing her? That you may well break your all-time record for jacking off in a single day [which currently stands at 42]?

Dudettes, today I'm having one of those days. So unless you want to be picked up, thrown over my shoulder and subjected to a brutal round of oral, steer clear.