Once upon a time, in a little grove far off in the Big Woods, lived a pine tree. His name was Piney, and he lived among his friends and family, including Coney, Sprucey, Tree-y, Cedary, and Needles. Life was happy in the Big Woods, if uneventful. Being a tree, Piney had no use for calendars,…
If you’re single like me -and I know I am- you’ve probably flirted with dating sites like OKCupid etc. a few times, and eventually walked away. They are, in my opinion, the absolute worst, boiling down to a series of job interviews that may or may not get you laid. I know other people have had some success, but my experience was that I met one truly cool person during my OKC days, and she wound up moving out west to reconnect with her ex-boyfriend. Everyone else was neurotic, hung-up, or otherwise undatable. Plus, sites like that inevitably made me depressed, wondering why the algorithm wasn’t working for me. As soon as I got off that miserable site, I started meeting women the old-fashioned way: by talking to them, in person, and making a real connection.
But if OKC etc. sucked for me, it sucks far worse for women, because apparently many of the men on dating sites have all the nuance of a great white shark in the middle of a feeding frenzy. I mean, it’s one thing to be up front and confident, but asking a woman you just met via email to fuck you in the ass with a strap-on is a little much. You think I’m kidding? A woman I know on Facebook via one of several running groups I belong to has been posting screenshots of some of the more insane messages she’s received. Like this one:
Or this one:
Or THIS one:
Now, many women have written about the harassment they get on dating sites and online in general. It’s all part and parcel of the relative anonymity we like to think we have on the Internets thanks to the pseudonyms and usernames we relay on. Most people -even most men- don’t act like this in actual interpersonal transactions. So I began to wonder how this would play out in reality.
The setting: a housewarming party for Kristin and Jake. Our dramatis personae, Jeff and Suzanne, have met for the first time and are enjoying a few drinks on the roof deck. They are both young and good-looking professionals. There is clearly romance in the air.
Jeff: This is an awesome party. Kristen and Jake have a GREAT place. I mean, just look at the view of the city from this amazing roof deck.
Suzanne: Seriously, the view is INCREDIBLE! And did you see the Picasso in the hallway? That’s REAL. I don’t know HOW they can afford a place this nice. So, how do you know Jake and Kristen? I know her from work, and she’s been with Jake for as long as I’ve known her.
Jeff: Oh, we went to college together. Jake and I lived in the same dorm, and he met her at a frat party. Say, you’re awfully pretty. How’s about we get outta here, and you fuck me in the ass with this dildo? [pulls strap-on out of his jacket pocket.]
Suzanne: What?? Ewww, no! I– I don’t even KNOW you!
Jeff: No? Well, you need to know I’m REALLY well-hung. Like, my cock looks like a baby’s arm clutching an apple. Uncut too. Wanna see? [begins unbuckling his belt.]
Suzanne: NO! Stop, put that away! No one wants to look at that.
Jeff: Well, how about I dance for you? I used to be a male stripper -it’s how I put myself through college- and then maybe I can suck on your clit? I have an oral fixation, so I’m REALLY good at eating pussy.
Suzanne: I think this conversation has gone far enough. I’m going to go talk to… well to ANYONE except you. You’re really freaking me out, so please: just leave me alone. [puts down her drink, turns and walks away.]
Jeff, angrily: OH SO THAT’S HOW IT IS??? YOU FUCKING BITCH, YOU THINK YOU’RE SO FUCKING GREAT, YOU STUPID WHORE. WHAT’S NOT TO LIKE, I’VE GOT A HUGE DICK, ISN’T THAT ENOUGH? [Suzanne disappears into the crowd.] Ahhh, nuts. They’re all like that. Fuckin’ bitches. I wonder if anyone’s on Tinder tonight? I really need someone to shove this dildo up my butt.
Seriously guys, knock this shit off. You’re making the rest of us look bad.
Those of you who know me personally know my capacity for making up stories on the spot. Most of them I forget quickly thereafter, but there are some that stick: I have long-running jokes with my son about how I’m Santa Claus and how Mr. Softee was a real person whose head really WAS a giant ice cream cone. Stuff like this is always boiling away in my brain.
The reason for this long-winded introduction is that while looking around the vault, I found a great piece I never published before, and which is pretty different from the typical political and occasionally personal stuff you’ll see here. It’s called “After the Money Shot”, and it’s a brief exploration of… well, I don’t want to ruin it.
Play this for maximum effect:
After the Money Shot
“Well, um… there we are, I guess,” said Sharon Abramowicz, turning away from Larry Tiernan, who lay in the bed next to her in a blissful post-orgasmic stupor. She looked down, bored, at her breasts, where Larry’s spunk was rapidly drying into itchy white flakes.
“Yup,” Larry sighed. He too was aware of the pointlessness of the past half hour, and the uncomfortable silence between himself and his customer. He desperately needed to fart.
“I guess I should take a shower,” Sharon began, and then rolled her eyes skyward and frowned as she remembered that was what had led to this mess to begin with. There was a problem with the hot water this morning, and she’d had to call the plumber. That would be Larry. “Do you mind, um, getting to work?” The flakes of semen were really beginning to irritate her skin.
Sharon glanced over at the naked man in bed next to her. He was an ugly specimen: she had no idea why she’d suddenly been driven crazy with desire to copulate with a hairy, mullet-headed, subliterate ape, but “there we are, I guess”. The minute he said “I’m here to lay some pipe”, something had snapped in Sharon’s mind. Good lord, they wouldn’t have known each other if they’d passed on the street a day earlier. Now, they’d fucked their way through a variety of orifices, positions, and angles all over the house, before Larry finally ejaculated all over her bosom. I’m a financial analyst, for Chrissake. What the hell am I doing acting like a drunk college student?
“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Larry mumbled. He rolled out of the bed and pulled on his dirty work pants. As he bent over to pick up his shirt, Sharon saw the crack of Larry’s ass slide over the waist of his pants. Could you BE more of a stereotype, she wondered, shaking her head. She reached over for her bathrobe. It was blue terrycloth. This day couldn’t be over soon enough.
She’s probably staring at my ass crack, Larry thought. I KNEW I shoulda worn the 36″ waist. How the fuck had this happened? He caught Sharon’s reflection in the mirror. Larry was pushing 50, and it kind of showed: why a 25 year old blonde had jumped on him with such animal sexuality eluded him entirely. He’d read about this kind of thing in the letters to girlie magazines, but he never suspected it would happen to him.
“So, um… can you show me to the basement?” he asked. Larry couldn’t meet her eyes, he barely knew this woman. Now they’d seen each other naked, and he was embarrassed at his slovenly beer gut, which was peeking out over his pants.
Sharon couldn’t look at him either. Not only was she abjectly disgusted with herself, but Larry’s stench was overpowering: when he got nervous he began to sweat a lot, which made him smell like dirty gym socks. “This way,” she said, pushing past Larry as fast as she could, leading him through the kitchen to the basement doorway. Ohmigod he smells like a derelict, I think I’m going to be sick.
About fifteen minutes later he emerged, sweatier and dusty. “It looks like the thermocouple,” he said. “It’s an easy repair. I’ll have your water back in just a few.” He kept his head down. God this was uncomfortable.
“Oh good,” Sharon replied, also looking away. “Um… can I pay with a check?”
“Oh, we’ll just send you an invoice,” he said. He coughed, a little bit too loudly, and then coughed again. “Yeah, I’d better get that done for you.”
Larry Tiernan tromped out to his van to get his tools. Sharon Abromowicz decided it wasn’t too early in the day for a drink after all.