The Clarity

I’ve realized that my neurosis and obsessions these past few months/year are a direct correlation between my lack of sexual fulfillment.  Instead of delicious cramped sweaty back-seat sex … I then focused on organizing my closet by color.  Instead of being pressed up against my floor-to-ceiling windows… I focused on making sure that all my fitted sheets were folded perfectly.  Instead of sneaking to the back row of a movie theater to give/receive some head… I would complete entire series of shows on Netflix.  Instead of having lazy, lay in bed all day and have marathon sex… I focused on going shopping for items to flip on Poshmark.

Yes, this used to be my life. I used to have that unapologetic rough sex.  The sex that would leave the images burned into my mind, and the bruises on my legs as badges of honor. The romantic marathon sex that would result in mini naps throughout the day to replenish my energy enough to go again.  The sex that would result in multiple orgasms that every neighbor would hear and curse me with envy.  God, how much I miss all of that.  I became half of a cracked fortune cookie that spent weekends at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  I’m not sure when the passion disappeared.  Come to think of it, I’m curious if there was any actual passion between #whiteboy and I.

All I know is that there has been an itch that has been left to fester and borough inside of me.  Who knew all it would take is a photo of a sexy man and a dick pic to bring this beast back to all of it’s blazing glory.   FuqBoi is sexy and has a fashion sense that turns me on more than his 7-inch dick. As we exchange a barrage of dirty texts and pics, we finally agree to meet. I take notice that he didn’t ask me anything about myself, and neither did I.  Focus was on the ultimate goal here:  Mo needs to get laid.

As our meeting time comes closer, I begin my prep work.  Shave legs and of course the Star of the Show.  I look into my carefully curated closet for the proper ‘fit that will say, “She’s sexy, fashionable, cool and looks effortlessly put together”.  I begin to feel the flutter of a butterfly’s wing that I haven’t felt in about a year since Cub came to visit me. And just like that… the insecurities of my failed romantic relationships spill out in front of me.  Do I dress well enough to be matched for this young-fashionisto who’s #OOTD leave me drooling.  Will this young babe think I look much older in person?  Will his chiseled abs be disgusted by my body and will be unable to keep his dick hard?  As with all things that stress me out, I try to shake it off, practice some ujjayi breakthing, and of course… frantic texts gets sent to the indestructable group chat where I can embody the strength of 5 other brilliant and gorgeous women.  I chill the fuck out, slap on another coat of mascara, recheck my hair, call a Lyft and dash out the door.

We agree to meet at my new favorite local lounge/bar which I chose because it looks a little shady (like me), plays the Sunday jam sessions that was mastered by Art Laboe, and has a good happy hour menu.  I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t getting catfished by a disgusting pervert who just happens to have numerous dick pics and who now has my address. So what’s the harm in at least having a cocktail before the festivities commence, right?  During the 3 minute ride that it takes to get there, the flutter of a butterfly wing has now multiplied to an entire swarm that is now making my hands and legs shake. Shit.  What did I do?  Did I really commit to having a fuck session with some random guy I met on Tinder?  Shit. Is it too late to turn around and leave this guy hanging?  The “what-if’s” leave my head and enter the group chat.  Which I’m sure are coming in rapid-fire and in a flurry of desperation.

FuqBoi finally be-bops into the bar about 15 minutes late saying that he couldn’t find any parking spots.  However by this time, I’ve already shown my entire deck of cards of insecurities to my girls, the jitters are in full swing, and sweat is pooling onto the inside of my palms.  What is it about these boys on these dating apps, they always seem so cool and collected when they walk in the door.  How do I also gain the same level of composure? They are able to chit chat about whatever without the slightest stutter and speak effectively.  While I sit on this stool and can only focus on, “Shit, these jeans are digging into my stomach, I should’ve eaten a salad today.”

I realize I’m zoning out on the ramblings going on inside of my head instead of focusing on how cute he is IRL, and there’s no way that this guy is 30.  He looks like he could be my age, easily.  Unfortunately, now that I’m paying attention to what he’s actually saying, I’m thinking, “Yeah… you’re definitely 30.  Maybe 25. God, he’s a complete imbecile”.  He just sounds so uneducated, as he just rambles random thoughts that entire his head. So I ask myself one question:  Would you still get naked with this guy?  And the answer is, “Abso-fucking-lutely”.

Me:  I’m ready to go, are you?

FuqBoi: Yup!

We finish off our drinks and make our way back to my apartment where my roommate just so happens to have people over.  Great. Now I have to introduce this guy to people? I literally herd my one-night-stand to my room and thank god he got the clue that we’re not here to make friends.  I love when a guy with big thick lips knows how to use them instead of just shoving his tongue down my throat as if he’s trying to taste what I ate for dinner.  Thanks God that although this guy doesn’t know how to form a normal sentence at least knows what say when no words are necessary.

After 3 rounds of saying absolutely nothing to one another except for direction and demands, it’s time for this FuqBoi to leave my apartment.  Thankfully he had to go to work to do …???  Honestly, I don’t really remember, nor do I care.  He tried to say that he wanted to stay here and spend the night so we could continue this in the morning. Which actually, I was honestly considering.  But to think that I would have to listen to this idiot for a few more hours, no thanks. I began to wonder if this is what some guys go through when they take a gorgeous girl home, and their answers are “Uh-huh” with a empty glaze in their eyes.  I walk FuqBoi out to his car, he hugs me and palms my ass to bring me up to wrap my legs around his waist, and tells me that he’ll give me a ring tomorrow.

Me: Uh-huh.

Lying back in bed, with the smell of sex hugging me close, I feel this sense of ultimate release.  Finally all the clouds have lifted, the stress that I’ve been botox-ing out of my forehead has gone on vacation, and my work goals have become crystal clear.  The anxiety that I was facing each morning as I started my day seems like years ago.  Who knew that all I needed was some good ole’-fashioned (Enter Favorite Food Emoji Here).

 

 

 

Releasing The Floodgates

Apparently, I’m completely full of shit.  Here I was few days ago talking about how ridiculous it is that men just send half nudes and dick pics like, “WTF is wrong with these guys?  Do they think this actually works?”  Well, yes girl. It does work.  It did work.

This entire week I’ve been feeling pretty insecure.  Thinking back on all my ex-boyfriends, ex-guys I used to date, ex-fucks and I wonder what I’ve done that have made it all go wrong.  And the carousel of thoughts make their way through my rose-colored confidence. I am not sexy enough. I am not smart enough.  I don’t cater to their needs enough. Maybe I’m too boring. How about maybe I’m the fucking problem… and as EasyBreezy says, “You’re just a bad picker, dude.”  Yes, I get that I’m a bad picker, but the realization of this doesn’t stop me from obsessing about my most recent interaction with FuckYeah, how did it all go wrong so quickly?  And I started to create scenarios of how I could arrange a future sexual encounter, and what I could do to try to get us back on track.

And it was in that moment, that I realized that this is why no one, let me say this again, but louder… NO ONE, should ever go this long without having sex.  It’s just not normal. It’s no wonder that I was obsessing over FuckYeah,  as he was my first physical contact I’ve had since #whiteboy.

No matter the amount of times someone masturbates and watches porn, there’s nothing like the sweet delicious feeling of laying naked with another person.  There is something intoxicating about sex.  Obviously the entire dirty deed and the grand finale is what we think of most.  But what I crave about the experience, is the body contact; feeling the weight of someone on top of you; the careful choreography that’s created while you each try to figure out the steps; it’s someone else’s body heat rubbing up on you and making you sweat even more; it’s the aroma of their pheromones that make you willing to please and do more than you thought you would be okay with it.  All of it. I. Love. It.  This forced celibacy that I’ve had over the past 11 months makes me wonder how did I ever survive this hell?

Which leads me to this weekend and all I could think of is I need to have sex.  I don’t even care with who.

Okay, that’s a lie.  Obviously I’m not going to sleep with the guy at my apartment complex who always flirts with me, who looks like Jorge from 90-Day Fiance.  But you know what I mean.  I went crazy on Tinder and just aimless swiped right on anyone who was a low 7.  Pathetic. Desperate. Horny. Acceptable. Yes, I came to grips with my situation and have accepted the fact that this is what Tinder is good for.  These moments when you just need to release the floodgates.

And enter state right: FuqBoi

 

Gun Shy & Self- Sabotage

I have an early morning.

I need to wash my hair.

I’m pretty tired tonight.

I didn’t see your call/text/tweet/snap/pigeon/smoke signal.

What is wrong with me?  Girl, get your shit together!  I sit here complaining that I’m lonely, bored, horny. And when the opportunity for semi-decent prospect arises to lift me up from this misery… I make up an excuse to keep me in my stained grey pajamas bottoms and flannel shirt as I sit and watch yet another episode on Netflix.  YES, Netflix… I’m still watching Grey’s Anatomy!

So the question that comes to mind is, Am I ready to start dating again? Or are my prospects on the annoying Lé Tinder, just hopeless.  But honestly, what do I really think is going to happen? That this 6’2″ Arabian prince from Germany is going to fall madly in love with me after our first round of drinks?  That the 5-foot-something man who has his own eBay store will be enamored by my sense of style and I will forever be his muse? That the DJ I’ve had a little crush on, will realize that I’m not as cool as he thought I was, and will leave me standing in the middle of a dance floor alone? Or how about the French photographer who is visiting for a few months will start to capture my ridiculous #ootd posts and can highlight all my good angles, chiseled jawline and flawless skin… so much that I’ll want to keep him around as my Instagram husband?

Exactly, none of these scenarios are actually going to happen.  So bite the bullet, girlfriend.  Just do something.

Dick Pics, the Modern Day Serenade

Okay, okay.  So I wasn’t really back the last time. But this time… I’m back.  I swear. The ex is now out of the apartment and living somewhere else.  And of course still on that pull-out sofa.  Do I feel bad about it, sure.  Bad enough to stay?  Hell no.

So what’s happened in the past year?  Let’s see, Cub came to visit… and wow I forgot how amazing it was to play with a younger pup.  And wow, I forgot how annoying it is to play with a younger pup.  Luckily that fiasco lasted all of 4 days.  Boy Bye.

#whiteboy and I tried to rekindle whatever flicks of affection remained, like trying to spoon for the last bit of Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch. But like every bursted star, they diminish into the sky with just the memory of its tail to hold on to.  And  I am here again, alone.

This time feeling like a seasoned player, I rejoin the masses to online dating scene.  But damn…. it feels like it’s been too long.  Filling out stupid dating questions: What do you like to do in your spare time? What’s your favorite book?  What’s your blah-blah-blah-bleh? Am I ready for the mindless conversation that feels like you’re interviewing for a spot on the Saturday roster.  I don’t think I am, but I’m just so bored.

A few connections come through all looking fairly attractive.  So I pass off my phone number and texting commences.  Juggling again between a few different boys, all casual conversation.  And then a picture is sent… excited to see the possibility of a selfie, or something that they’re doing.  And instead, it’s a dick pic.  Great. Since when did this become an appropriate message to send without being prompted?  And it’s not like this is just a one time thing, from one random guy.  I’m talking… they all are sending them.  In all forms.  In bed holding it like a trophy; in a public restroom as they take a belfie; the pants slightly unzipped with just the tip out.  Do they not realize that these pictures will obviously be sent to my 3 separate group chats of where at least 10 different girls will begin to laugh and criticize their stout statues?

What happened to talking to a girl and asking her out for drinks with the hopes that it all goes well, or at least well enough for the one-night stand.  How pathetic has online dating become… we hope it goes well for a one-night stand!  I think I’ll hold out for someone to actually make some considerable effort and plan out an evening.

Ripping off the Band-Aid

I thought this time around with this new wave of single-dom, I would reconnect with every girlfriend I’ve thoughtlessly neglected… and would be out on the town every night.  And instead, quite the opposite has taken place.  Solace.  

Is it because I’m older?  Is it because my ex is still in my apartment sleeping on a pull-out sofa?  Or is it because I know that Single Maureen can tend to be very expensive?  Trading in the comfy sweats on Friday night… to sky high stilettos and a too-tight dress. Ugh.

One of the things I’ve complained about the whole time I was with #whiteboy, was that I never got the attention or affection that I craved. So what’s the hold up?  It’s probably because since I’ve moved to LA, I’ve never been able to recreate my same group of solid girlfriends to dash around town.  Mental Note: 1. Find new girlfriends in the city 2. Find a local bartender to remember you 3. Get out of the house.

While there have been no prospects for me in the the City of Angels… my little Cub from the Emerald City has been kept in contact since our brief rendezvous.  Innocent… and not so innocent flirtatious words have been exchanged, slowly laying down each yellow brick.   Through the back & forth… I suddenly get a text from him at 3am telling me that he has booked a flight to LA to come and see me.  Finally!  Some material for these desperate blank blog pages.  

Another Ones Bites the Dust.

Well.  Here we are again.

Another man. Another breakup.  Another excuse to get the feverish tapping on the keyboard.

I’m not too sure what is it about break-ups that start the I-want-to-get-fit-and-eat-kale lifestyle.  Or the I-want-to-be-a-slut-and-swipe-right-on-every-decent-looking-boy lifestyle.  Or the I’m-going-to-become-zen-and-not-shave-my-armpits lifestyle.  Who thinks of this stupid shit?  I dunno… but here’s mine:  I’m-going-to-blog-away-my-feelings lifestyle.  Welcome me back home bitches… Of Mo and Men is back in business.

So what exactly is the tipping point of an unhappy 3 1/2 year relationship?  I’ll tell you what… an incredibly adorable Cub with curly hair to pay attention to you, when your boyfriend hasn’t looked at you in over 6 months.  Its amazing what just a little attention can make you pause, and think, “Wow… this boy isn’t even that cute…. but I’m diggin’ it!”

I’ll choose to leave out the part of whether or not anything was done with said Cub.  Which, I know… is not my style.  I’m a kiss-a-boy-and-tell kinda girl.  But there’s something about the mysteriousness of Cub to which I’ll leave out.  For now.

This feels good to be home.  Be kind as I get the cobwebs off my neglected keyboard.  The only thing left to be said at this moment is Single Mo is back from her hiatus.

Bring on the Darkness, Part 2

What the hell is this guy doing at my bar?  At that moment, my personal quartet that constantly plays my theme song everywhere I walk cries out DOM-DOM-DOOOOOM.  I knew it would be just a matter of time when something like this would happen.  It’s bound to happen, right?  There are thousands of on-line profiles, with a small percentage of images get emailed on a daily basis, others that are searched for.  I wonder how many people have seen me and recognized me from this site.  Kinda scary.

Anyway, Darkness.  Damn, he’s tall.  Didn’t realize how tall.  He looks good behind the shadows of a dimly light bar.  Pretty weirded out, but I try to make the most of an uncomfortable situation and create small talk.  I even leave the comforts of my bar and give him a hug hello after the ball of new year’s drops.

I probably should’ve taken the fact that Darkness randomly showed up at work as a sign.  Most people would’ve said No Way and stopped communication with this person.  But I figured, what do I have to lose?  Granted it was dark in the bar, and saw him 5 shots deep into the Cazadores bottle, I didn’t really get a chance to really see him.  Regardless of all of that, I cave and agree to a dinner with him in the next week.

Just as any other work day for me, it’s filled with non-stop chit chatter with my customers.  I rush to the gym then try to savor the moments of Zen I feel after an intense work out.  I glance at the clock, and it’s 30 minutes past the time we are supposed to meet.  OOPS!!  Not too sure why I’m even going on this date with Darkness, I’m obviously not too excited about going.  Normally I mull over what my outfit will be, or what shoes I’m going to wear.  And at this point, I kind of don’t even want to take a shower!  Whatever, I hurry and get dressed, out the door in 20 minutes.  Record breaking time, if I say so myself.  I let him know I’m running late but would be at the restaurant shortly.

Getting to the restaurant, I notice that he’s already sitting at a booth near the bar, drinking a Stella.  Well, at least he’s drinking to keep himself occupied.  Again, standing to greet me to give me a hug, I’m shocked by the height of him.  Feeling a bit on the softer side, not the firm bodies I’m accustomed to hugging.  Then taking a better look at his face in a brighter-lit establishment, I realize he is in that grouping that I needed to be more cautious of.  He doesn’t really look like any of his pictures.  Almost as if all of his facial features are cramped into the middle of his face.  Not quite like The Predator, but something very reminiscent of it, you know, minus the dreads and body armor.  Great. I am secretly wishing for the actual darkness of a bar to return so I won’t have to stare at his face for the rest of the night.  I sit and order myself a glass of wine, hoping his conversation skills will at least shine.

Over dinner we talk about family, work, what we do in our spare times, etc.  All the usual “Get-To-Know-Each-Other-Topics”.  And I start to realize that his profile is bullshit.

His pictures:  Good angles of his smashed up face.

Where he grew up: Says he’s from Georgia.  He grew up in Orange County.  Lived in Georgia for two years.

Interests:  Music, museums, being outdoors.  False!!  He hates “getting dirty”.  Says he likes to be spontaneous.  Though his conversation tonight, he said he prefers to stay in and watch tv and movies.  Doesn’t get out of the house much.

Physical activity Level:  5 times or more per week.  False.  He says he plays basketball with his boys, once a month!

Almost as if he created a profile according to the man he “wants to be”, instead of the “man he actually is”.  Jesus.  What a waste of my time.  I guess I really didn’t need to take a shower.  At this point, I’m just annoyed that I wasted a night to go out with him, instead of watching another episode of Man Men on Netflix.  So I mention that it’s a bit creepy that he showed up at my bar on New Year’s Eve, and that his profile is a bunch of lies.  I mean, really… at this point, it’s not like I’m going to want to see this guy again, I might as well be brutally upfront and honest.  He says it was purely coincidence that he showed up at my bar, blah-blah-blah.  Then the rest of our evening is spent with us bickering  and discussing the tales of his on-line profile.

Time to glance down at my cell phone to check the time.  Wow.  I’ve only been here with him for about an hour.  Why does it seem like I’ve been here for hours.  I tell him I’m exhausted from my workout, have an early day at work and want to go home.  He pays the bill, and we walk out.  I tell him good night and give a hug goodbye.  I laugh to myself on my drive home, and ask myself, “What was that?!”  How can someone lie that much about themselves then continue to defend the lies? It makes me think, “Maybe this is why he’s on a dating site!”  But then it makes me look back in the mirror and ask, “Well, then what’s wrong with me?”

Over the next few weeks Darkness continues to text me to hang out, of course I ignore all the texts.  After they finally stop, I receive another message on Match from Darkness informing me that he has deleted my number from his phone.  But would like to know what went wrong?  He had a great time and wanted to know how it went for me.  I don’t know which is more strange.  The fact that he had to actually delete my number off his is contact list.  Or the fact that because he deleted my number, he had to contact me again on Match to ask me more questions.

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