A moral dilemma

Hai ladies!
So - question for you. What do you do if you get a DIRTY punkoff from a dude but he specifically asks you not to blog about it? Does the unofficial moral code of blogging that you don't write about people who don't want to be written about stand? Or does the fact that you're still picking your face up off the floor from his HARD kick cancel any obligation you might have had to him?

Good question. Post me a comment and let me know what you think. Most popular opinion wins...

The Little Engine that Could

This is an oldie but goodie.


So...many years ago I went on a date with this guy. The date was so unspectacular that I literally cannot remember anything about it – I don’t know where we went, what I wore, what he said, nothing at all except that I parked my car in a green P lot near Yonge & College. Actually – that’s one thing I remember – he didn’t drive. And y’all know how I feel about that right??

I wasn’t feeling this guy at all. He was a singer and male singers tend to annoy me. They just think they’re so NICE. Even when they look like the bottom of my shoe. This guy wasn’t that horrid but he definitely thought he was destined for superstardom and that I should count myself lucky that I was given an audience with him.

Sidebar: A few years after our date this guy ended up as a finalist on Canadian Idol (and no, Mansa it’s not Gary Beals!). So I'm sure his swagger has multiplied exponentially since then. Let’s hope some other things have as well, but we’ll get to that later.

Anyway. Like I said, I wasn’t feeling this guy. And in my younger years I had this tactic that worked like a charm to get rid of guys: just fuck them. Literally, not figuratively. If you go on one date with a guy and you never want to see him again, sleep with him and chances are he’ll disappear from the face of the earth. Also, that way you get sex. And you know what they say right? Sex is like pizza – even when it’s bad it’s still pretty good. I don’t do this anymore because it’s kinda nasty but back then I had slightly looser morals.

So I brought him home with me. (He was younger and lived at home in some G-d forsaken place like Ajax or something). The foreplay must have been weak sauce because I don’t remember it at all. What I do remember is the histrionics that ensued. Once I ascertained that he was inside me (and trust me I had to do an extremity-count because I couldn’t feel much) I was absolutely astounded by the caterwauling that went on. He was bucking and weaving, moaning and panting and sweating. And sweating. There was so much sweat I have to say it twice. This dude sweated out alllllll my edges. It was about 10,000,000 kilowatts of energy to light a 40-watt bulb. You know what I'm saying? I was completely flabbergasted. And thank G-d for that because if not I would have fallen asleep, it was that bad. I just laid there, watching this bead of sweat collecting at the tip of his chin and thinking “yes work that little dick boy”. And if you know me at all you know I don’t talk like that ever so trust me when I tell you it was so crazy it gave me multiple personalities.

Anyway, to add insult to injury the shit didn’t go on very long either. No length, no girth, no stamina. Poor child. I feel sorry for his wife. It was over, he was wack, I was sleepy (and obviously needed a shower). He left, promising to call me the next day.

You know the rest right?
And then…and THEN…
And then he never called me!

p.s. I saw him a few months later and some party or another. He made the mistake of trying to speak to me. I gazed at him coolly over the tip of my cigarette and said “anything you have to say to me you should have said when you called me the day after you fucked me. Oh – wait, you didn’t. So please don’t speak to me.”

Was that rude??