My attempt at online dating has opened me up to a world of different types of men that I never knew existed. Here are some of my favorites:

Low Self Esteem Guy - He’s reasonably attractive, hardworking with a good job and a sweet personality. He enjoys all of the low key things that I do including fishing (anyone who knows me understands how much I long to meet someone who will humor my love of early morning road trips that end with us sitting on a rock on the water fishing while I get in a tan and use Doritos instead of worms cuz’ I’m afraid of them).Our conversations seem to flow really well– so well that I consider him to be an excellent candidate for a real date and hopefully more. Then, during a conversation about our love of car sandwiches and truck stops and roadside sex on a long drive he throws in that he “probably isn’t any good in bed anyway at least not compared to me or the guys I have had”. What the f%ck?? The topper is when children come up and he informs me that he doesn’t want kids. I think “Great!” cuz I don’t either. He them tells me that the reason is because “you gotta love yourself before you can love a child properly”. And when I ask “don’t you love yourself??” he replied with a long pause and “not really”.

Next is The Boobie Man - This guy is incredibly good looking, well dressed and has a profile that could charm the most bitter of old maids. You find yourself waiting with baited breath for his reply and are immediately overcome with visions of your perfect date, in your perfect dress at the most perfect lounge a top the city on a perfectly beautiful and clear night. You imagine him to be articulate with great manners and a naughty side that peeks through only to those worthy… like yourself. When you finally hook up on msn to chat, the first question he asks is “Can I see your boobs?” You laugh it off as a joke or his silly little way of breaking the ice and go on to ask him about himself. In place of a witty response, you are instead bombarded with a series of boobie related questions and demands: How big are your boobs? Can I see your boobs? Do you have any pics of your boobs? Seriously, show me your boobs! *sigh*

There is also the I Think He’s Married Guy - This guy is sweet, sexy, unusually charming and in spite of his hectic work schedule seems to be up for regular visit s– during certain hours only of course. He chalks it up to work and responsibilities and swears that he is single. he even gives you his telephone number as a sign of good faith — his cell number that is — the one that is turned off every evening and weekend. This guy is great for your ego with impromptu calls to say “I have a little free time right now and would love to see you”, but if you are unable to drop everything to meet him right then, well, the moment passes and you lose your chance because he is “just so busy” of course. This guy seems to be very open and gives you all kinds of details about his life and is super caring — between 10am and 6pm only though. Even the most man savvy gal has trouble knowing what to make of him. You think he may be married cuz’ it sure does seem that way, but on the other hand he really could just be a great, sexy guy with poor time management skills or an anal way of approaching each day.

You’ve also got Married. Period. Guy - He is stupid enough to post his picture on his profile and state that he is married and looking for a little nookie on the side. I think it’s great that someone would be up front about being married if he is wanting just sex from you, but when the profile emphasizes several times that discretion is a must, you gotta wonder why the f%ck he would post his pic if he wants to keep his extramarital affairs on the down-lo! Stupid? Crazy? Both??

Finally, one that I keep encountering is one that I have spoken of before: the Only Dates Fat Chicks Guy. I am clear about the fact that I am NOT a small girl in my profile and while I don’t use the word fat; I do refer to myself as “big”, “curvy” and “fuller-figured”. My reasoning is that too many people are vague or just blatantly lie about their size and while we would all love to believe that size and looks don’t matter, the reality is that they do. So why mislead someone or even set yourself up for a rude experience by claiming to be something that you are not and cannot hide no matter how much black you wear?! Anyhow, this type of guy seems great and loves how open you are about your love of french fries and milkshakes and your acceptance of your size. Then, when you meet this guy in person the first thing he points out is that you’re “not big at all”. He even seems disappointed in spite of telling you how beautiful your face is and how sexy you are. My question still stands: Not big enough FOR WHAT??? For the record, the right clothing and the way you carry yourself can spare you the appearance of about ten pounds, but it’s when I’m naked that you’d really get to see me in all of my Boticelli-esque glory complete with all of my soft and magnificent rolls. But alas, you are so concerned that I may not be big enough for… well I dunno what, that you decide to move on in search of something more obviously dumpy and frumpy.

My experience with online dating as of late has been more like online shopping and met with the same approach as buying a dress on eBay. I cruise what’s out there and hope it fits, but deep down am skeptical of what I’m really getting and finding myself wondering why I even bother, only to do it again the next day.

I’ve been homesick recently. Summer in the city always does it to me. I love summer and sun and everything about hot and heat. Summer reminds me of Georgia because there it’s pretty much summer from March to November. Winter is a New York season but summer I think about home and this morning I started thinking about my little brother.

My brother is 22 and one of those people who will be good looking his whole life. He eats cake batter and cookie dough raw, smokes green like it’s going out of style, and never works out yet manages to maintain a physique that rivals that of an Olympic sprinter.

I was three when he was born and I remember seeing him in the hospital nursery. A little fat yellow butterball with curly hair and a scrunched up face. My grandmother and aunts there, pointing and laughing, “He’s so cute.”

“I don’t like that one,” I told them. “Let’s not take that one home.”

But we did. And he’s been there ever since. As a child I was amazed at how dumb my little brother could be . My dad was adamant about us finishing all of our food at the dinner table. I learned early on about the chew-and-spit-into-a-paper-towel method of deceit. My brother was never that canny and always got in trouble because he’d leave the remnants of his chicken nuggets right on top of all the trash in the kitchen trash can.

My parents were very overprotective from elementary school to high school, my brother was my only companion since it was rare that I could go and hang out at a friend’s house without a special reason or occasion.

When he was three, we were playing on the back of my dad’s truck. My brother decided to bite down on side rail. I grabbed his legs and gave a yank. He fell back into me and his right front tooth fell to the ground. My brother was missing that tooth from age three til the permanent one grew in after he turned 10.

When he was seven, he was crawling around on the floor in the den covered with a blanket, pretending to be a monster. I was trying to watch Family Matters and was getting increasingly more annoyed that he was making noise. Suddenly he let out a yelp. I got up from the couch and gave him a good knock in the head with my hand letting him know that it was time to shut the fuck up. My mother then intervened and that’s when we discovered that he was crying not because I hit him but because he had crawled over a needle I’d carelessly left on the floor after finishing up with my newest hobby: sewing.

That’s right–he had my needle stuck in his knee and the next day we went to the hospital and they had to surgically remove it. The kid was stuck on crutches for a month.

Somewhere between me graduating from high school and going to college, my little brother grew up. Suddenly I couldn’t cheat him in Uno anymore. Promises of favors ceased to hold sway. He grew a foot and was taller than me. My little brother was turning into a man. We didn’t watch wrestling on pay per view together anymore. We stopped spending our New Years Eves with musicals on the Disney Channel. He had forgotten that we used to spend summers glued to the TV at our aunt’s house with Bo and Hope from Days Of Our Lives.

Sometimes when I go home to Georgia, my brother drives his shiny-rimmed, loud speakered, pimped out ‘89 Chevy Caprice to pick me up at the airport. He likes to put in the fake gold and diamond studded teeth piece my mom bought him in a moment of weakness. He plays his music too loud and the way he smokes his Newport cigarettes is laughable. But he’s my brother and no matter how much he’s changed and I’ve changed, he’ll always be the cute little boy who was afraid to sleep in his top bunk because it was beside the window and he thought he’d wake up and someone would be looking in. The little boy who shares my love for meals that consist of pizza and french fries. The little boy whose room I used to sleep in whenever I was scared or he was scared. And to this day he’s the only person who really gets my sense of humor sometimes.

One half year together is now over
No wind is as elated as my heart.
Even though we are familiar lovers,
How beautiful to play with practiced art!
An intimacy mines the deepest gold,
Loving more as labyrinths unfold,
Full, then more full, as we’ll soon discover.
-someone not me

Oh beautiful Girlspoke. I can’t believe how the time has flown. It’s just 5 days shy of our 6 month anniversary together. I knew you wouldn’t forget.

Over the months we’ve shared so many intimate details and I feel I know you like I know my best friend a sister a distant cousin. You’ve allowed me to fully expose myself, sinful faux pas and all. You’ve given me the gift of countless masturbation opportunities. And you’ve sparked at least one idiot critic, who shall remain nameless for the sake of karma because I know you peeps would have my back and pounce on said idiot critic like white on rice in a free-for-all porn spam-athon.

The point is, Girlspoke, you’ve been there for me. Okay, it’s true that sometimes your presence was subtle. Week after week some of my entries sat alone with nary a response. But that’s okay. I never held it against you Girlspoke because I know deep down, you’ve learned to tolerate me. And that’s more than I can say for most of the people I meet (who are sober). You’ve been there, most importantly, for my weekly debauchery thirst. And I give you props for taking in a foul-mouthed southern underachiever in a sea of classy talented women. I certainly don’t fit the “mold” of the average G.S. contributor (trust me, that’s to their advantage) and I stand by my notion that Meme was two sheets to the wind, and then some, when she invited me aboard.

I’m not sure how much longer our love will last, with contributors dropping out like flies and all, but know that for the past 6 months of my life you’ve given me more than just a reason to stay up past 10pm on Wednesday nights. You’ve given me a home away from home to speak freely of love and karma and pussy rings and periods and dildos.
::le sigh::
They just don’t make relationships like that anymore.

Thank you to the friendly triage nurse who didn’t forget how much pain ovaries can actually cause and for seeing past my fake smile and nervous laugh to the excrutiating pain that I was trying to hide in fear of looking weak, or even worse–not pretty. It was nice to be placed in priority for this insane pain when other nurses have been too self invoved in the past to take notice of these things.

Thank you cranky lady at the cafeteria (which was really just a Tim Horton’s kiosk) for taking a sec to stop stuffing your sour face long enough to serve me my much needed coffee. Much like a junkie in a need of a fix; I will be grateful to my pusher no matter how horrible a person you are. That coffee nursed me through the next 2 hours and gave me what I needed to keep from slapping the jackass in front of me who was talking loudly and acting like a turd with no respect for the sick people around him.

Thank you most of all to the good looking doctor who made my exam worthwhile without even trying. I was dying of embarrassement inside because I much prefer a female or unattractive male doctor for this sort of thing, but you were so sweet and kind and professional (even though deep down I was already playing “dirty doctor” with you in the depths of my mind and aching loins and hoping that you’d wanna play too) Thank you even more for managing to distract me from the horrific pain as you undid my jeans for me while I just laid there watching you with my face turning a hundred shades of pink. It gave me somethin’ sexy to play back in my mind while I was being butchered by the cow who took my blood moments later.

I will even thank said cow, because even though you somehow managed to drip my blood on my upper arm, the sheets and the floor as well as leave a bruise the size of an orange–you were also the same person who gave me Percocet. Yummy, yummy Percocet. Mind you; you made fun of me for asking if the pill would knock me out as I had not eaten in almost 48 hours and laughed my question off as though I was an idiot, yet my words were slurring by the time I arrived home and within minutes I fell asleep sitting up on the sofa with a coffee in hand. Even in spite of all of that, I still thank you for doing the job that you do… even if you do lack bedside manner and basic coordination that might have made for a smoother blood-sucking experience.

Thank you to everyone at the hospital I spent Tuesday morning at. I won’t name it in fear of this being held against me when I go in for my ultra sound today, but you know who you are.

Possession is 9/10ths of the law.

I don’t have boyfriends.

Okay. I HAVE had boyfriends. But generally I tire of men after a couple of weeks and I’m ready to move on. I don’t play games. I’m very upfront. And, of course, I am still a lady. I’m not a long term kind of gal since there’s always another guy around the corner.

I’ve always been selfish. I hate to share. It’s only recently (i.e. since college) that I’ve been able to lend people things or not get completely pissed if I come in and my roommate is watching my television. I’m very much a MY kind of girl and I’m working on trying to not be like this anymore.

But there is a steadfast rule that I hold to no matter what the situation. It epitomizes my selfish tendencies to the max. There are no exceptions, and if this rule is broken, friendships could be compromised and/or lost forever.

If I see him first, he’s mine.

That’s right. It doesn’t matter if a man and I only exhcanged the briefest of glances in a crowded elevator or if he’s all over me at a club. It doesn’t matter if I have a huge crush or I only love him from afar. If I’m the first to say he’s cute, I have marked my territory. I have “peed on him”. He’s mine.

This seems to be a well known fact among women. If you’re out with your girls and one of them brings a guy along, even if you’ve never heard her mention him before, HE’S HERS. So you don’t see her flirting with him? Be a good friend and ask before you attempt to get your groove on with him. Or you will have a very pissed off gal pal in your midst.

So while I’m always jumping from one guy to the next, possession is 9/1oths of the law and as long as he’s with me, hands off.

It’s funny–I’m usually so laidback and ready to chill. But the minute I sense someone up in my space, “on my man,” the claws come out and I get very passively aggressively ready to fight. I guess it’s the part of me that always wanted to be on Jerry Springer shining through.

Well, I did it again. Dammit to hell.
I opened my big fat mouth in pursuit of honesty. Only this time, rather than cause emotional damage to an unsuspecting receiver, I caused damage in the form of self inflicted sabotage.
Karma, you little bitch.

For well over a year my best gal pal and I have been hankering for a girls weekend. For one, we’re both mothers and deserve, at the very least, a two day vacation from the chaos of home and kids. Secondly, neither of us has ever had a girls weekend. And third, and subsequently, most importantly, it would finally give us the opportunity to carouse wildly and then fuck wildly. Oh yes, I know. We’re evil hell bound sluts who should not, especially as mothers and married women, be flirting with such debauchery. Shame on us, blah, blah, blah. Truth is, we’ve already done both, but the latter is something we’ve missed greatly. Besides, we both have the same fantasy of using a double headed dildo and the girls weekend would provide us the perfect chance to make that fantasy a reality. Or at least it would have been.

My husband knows my love of women and he hasn’t always been accepting. But over the years he’s come to realize what a fucking beautiful opportunity he has in being married to me. And one steamy night many moons ago he saw that beautiful opportunity unfold before him and he was a happy, happy man. So now, he’s cool. What he’s not cool with is anything he’s not privy to. Meaning, I cannot under any circumstance partake in sexual acts with a woman unless he has either consented or is there. Well, for whatever reason, the man was completely naive about our girls weekend intentions. In fact, he was a main supporter in our having one because we “deserved it”. I really don’t believe for a second that he ever gave thought to what we might actually do together. He’s absolutely an intelligent man, but when it comes to matters of immorality or sex it seems that his logic meter shuts down and he doesn’t always see the obvious. Basically he really really trusts me and trusts himself. In one way, this is a blessing because he could never be the type of man to have an affair or lie to me about anything. It’s simply not in him. In another way, it gives me carte blanche to be a conniving little bitch. Only, that’s not me. As much as I talk about doing this or that, I’m an extremely honest person and talk to him about everything, almost to a fault as I recently learned.

So back to the girls weekend rendezvous. I don’t know how the subject matter came up this weekend but I began talking about our girls weekend when out of the blue I just told him what we had planned with the dildo. Deep down I thought he had to have suspicions. There was no way he couldn’t. This is ME, we’re talking about. But to my amazement he was, in fact, floored. “WHAT?! Seriously?” And although he said it with a smile on his face he made it clear that the girls weekend was definitely off. In true idiot savant fashion I asked him why and he said, “because I wouldn’t be there and you’re not doing that without me”. Well fuckity fuck. Or in this case, not. His reasonings might very well be founded in his own self gratification, but still, I owe him at least that all things considered.

Thing is, I tried to be conniving. My friend and I have known this whole time that that’s what the girls weekend was really about. And we sure as hell weren’t going to tell our husbands even though they both know we’ve dilly-dallied in some girl on girl action. The reality is we knew they wouldn’t be fine and dandy with our having a sex filled weekend with each other, so it was decided that we would never tell. But guilt always finds it way to me, bloody hell. I began probing a couple weeks ago about what he thought about a married woman being with another woman. Is it cheating? Does it equate to the same immorality that a married woman sleeping with another man does? Because a lot of people don’t think so. “It’s different”, seems to be the consensus for many men and bi-women. Only, not my man. To him, it is cheating either way. It doesn’t matter that it’s with a woman and bordering on the greatest fantasy ever, it’s still cheating if he hasn’t given the okay. And deep in down in the confines of my righteous self I knew he’d feel that way. Thus began my acquisition of honesty.

So the new agenda is going to be getting him to give the “okay”. I jokingly (not really) offered to video tape it for him because he’s always joked “as long as I get photos.” But he wasn’t having it. “No. Not unless I’m there.” Either he really is a complete idiot or he’s a brilliant fiend. Either way I’m on a mission and now that you, dear reader, have been acquainted with the situation you can join me on that mission should you choose to accept it: how do I convince a faithful husband to allow me to embark on a lesbian inspired weekend without his being present?
A better person might forget the sexually motivated & selfish indulgence altogether and instead focus on my husbands rights to not only me, but fidelity. But like I stated before, this is ME we’re talking about. So spare the deprecating lectures.

Last week I got to do what every unmarried woman in her thirties dreams of: go shopping for an engagement ring.

We walked into the swanky diamond mega-boutique and to the counter where a ring he had picked out was waiting for my approval. He was so sweet with his trembling hands and “I’m- about-to-hurl-cuz-I’m-so-nervous” expression as he opened the little velvet box. Inside was the ring of my dreams. It was white gold, with little diamonds around the band leading to the center diamond. It sparkled and twinkled like a shiny new star, yet it looked antique as though pulled from a hope chest in your great grandma’s attic and oozing with some romantic history. It was even the tiny size that I have always longed for my nubby finger to be!

The only problem: THE RING WAS NOT FOR ME!!!

I was enlisted to help my future “cousin-in-law” pick the ideal ring for my cousin/best friend/love of my life Nat. Seeing as how we have identical taste, he knew that I’d steer him in the right direction.

There have been very few times in my life where I have been painfully aware of my age and last Thursday was definitely one of them. I am certainly in no rush t get married (much to the disappointment and disgust of my grandmother), but staring your dream ring in the face has a way of making you re-think things.

At the exact moment that Nat was getting a box with a ring in it; I was opening my inbox to find a pic of a penis in it. Hmmm. The universe has quite a sense of humor.

Congrats to Nat and Dave!! I love you guys!!

A few nights ago I went out on the town with an old friend of mine and a friend of his. It was a kind of slow Thursday night and our East Village wanderings brought us to one of my favorite city bars, Uncle Mings on Avenue B. Usually this place is wall to wall hopping but on this night it was pretty empty. There was some good reggae on and plenty of space–the perfect place to chill. My two friends, let’s call them “Micah” and “Ben” and myself grab some drinks and settle in for some relaxing NYC bar time.

I should mention now that Ben is a very good-looking guy. So naturally as soon as we walk in one of the two girls at the bar comes right up to him and asks to dance. Ben politely declines and Micah and I crack up.

Cut to fifteen minutes later.

We’re laughing and enjoying frosty Miller Lites and the girl comes back up to Ben. This time I get a good look at her. Pretty but nondescript face and she’s wearing pleated high rise khakis with a belt. She basically looked like an ad for Casual Corner or Petite Sophisticate. But I could see that she probably got a lot of guys who saw her as a mousy librarian with an inner Wild Child. But anyway.

I could also tell that she was quite drunk from the way she was clinging to Ben to stay upright. So she’s talking to Ben and Micah and I are snickering and then I hear her slur:

“What are your friends laughing about?”

Ben replies, “Oh, they’re both comedians.”

So she comes over and the scent of vodka and cranberry is strong as she says what everyone says when they find out you’re a comedian: “If you guys are so funny, then tell me a joke.”

So Micah tells her a joke and it goes like this:

Micah: “So what do you get when you put a baby in a blender?”:
Girl: “What”
Micah: “An erection.”

And folks, I kid you not: this girl narrowed her eyes, looked straight at Micah and said,

“Well I’ve had an abortion AND anorexia, so I don’t think that’s very funny.”

And she walked away.

I nearly fell off my barstool laughing. Never in my life has such an appropriate response come at the best possible moment. I don’t know what abortions and anorexia have to do with babies, blenders, and erections–I mean unless you’re anorexic because you made yourself stop jacking off while drinking baby shakes made from your own aborted fetus.

But this is not the point. The point is that of the things she could have said in the face of a pretty retarded joke, she said THE BEST ONE.

Ah……babies and blenders. One for the books, one for the books.

It’s been a swell handful of years. Or months. Whichever.

So, yes, I’m saying Au Revoir. Me and Meme have embraced our love for the snatch and are starting a LezBot camp in Upstate New York. In our off time, we’ll be following Akon’s tourbus, hoping to be dry humped or hurled into the audience for fame.

It’s been swell, and I’ll miss you all. Well, most of you. Er, some.

Ta-ta.

xo
Jenna

PS…please tell me how much you’ll miss me below. If you don’t post, I’ll just interpret that as, “I’m crying too hard to see my keyboard, and since I failed keyboarding class in high school, I can’t hunt-and-peck to sing your praises electronically.”

I’ve been sick.
Not just a summer cold sick, but the death virus climbed up in me and grabbed hold of my soul sick. Worse than that, my children have been sick, too. Then the husband. Suffice to say, it has sucked ginormous donkey balls. Being the first week of summer vacation and being immobilized by pain and spewing from both ends is fucked up all by itself, but not being able to really take care of those around you who are suffering the same pains only compounds the whole fucked up situation.
That’s been my week. As such, it’s safe to say that I haven’t given much thought to entertaining a Girlspoke post this week. Sue me.

I will, however, offer up a musical intermission until next week. It’s a little something I’m working on for my break out role on You Tube. For the tune you’ll have to reach way back into your 1992 musical nostalgia and rekindle the butt-bumpin burn of Sir Mix-A-Lots “Baby Got Back”. It’s my little tribute to real women with realass.

I gotta big butt and I can not lie
You skinny girls can’t deny
That when I walk by with my big big ass
Your pancake romp cannot surpass
You get jealous, wanna pull out my hair
‘Cause you notice that bounce in my derrière
Down in the size 10 jeans I’m wearin’
Them boys in the ‘hood just can’t stop starin’
Oh girl please, ain’t no use in cryin’
Brazilian implants you’ll have to be buyin’
My ass is certified southern home grown
When I bend over make the grown men moan
White girls got some back? Damn straight!
What? Do I want fries with my shake?
Hell yah, matter of fact I do
That’s what makes me different than you

You’ll see me eatin’
The macaroni’s heatin’
Jeans fittin’ nice and snug,
Got it goin’ like a ‘VW bug
I’m tired of Hollywood
Sayin’ bubble butts are no good
Screw your flat ass game
I ain’t got no shame!

So, hell yeah, hell Yeah!
I’ve gotta big ass! (hell yeah!)
I’m gonna shake it! (shake it!) shake it! (shake it!)
Shake my big ol ass!
Momma got back!
-JB version, 2007

Peace out.