I Dated a Pornstar

In the world of online dating, you meet all types of people.  Reading profiles sometimes paints a clear picture, but sometimes it doesn't tell the whole story.

Such was the case with today's Hamster who we'll call "Mary."  Mary's profile listed her as a divorcee who was active, fun, a woman who loved to travel and enjoyed sunsets at the beach.  The same crap that every woman lists.  I mean, really, who doesn't like those things?

After a few emails, we decided to switch to phone calls.  They were always brief because she kept insisting that "if you really want to know, you'll have to meet me."

Fair enough.

Our meeting was set for a little place I knew in Irvine.  She lived in Long Beach and I lived in Ladera, so it wasn't far.  When I arrived, she looked familiar....really familiar.  I couldn't place her, but she seemed pleasant and we walked around the Spectrum for awhile.

When we got to the restaurant, more and more details emerged as I trudged through my roster of questions.  Mary had three little kids at home and the father had ditched her for a younger woman, was not paying child support and he already had two more kids with the younger woman.  Interestingly, they had only been divorced a few months, which means that the father was clearly involved with the other woman prior to them splitting up.

Mary was a very pretty girl, so it makes me wonder what the other woman looked like.  Remembering a famous swap meet t-shirt I once saw, "No Matter How Hot She Is, Somewhere, Someone is sick of Her Shit."  Misogynistic diatribe aside, it does sort of make sense...and should've served as a warning.

The conversation continued and I glazed over for a bit as she told me about her Administrative Assistant position.  A proud graduate of some local Junior College, I was enthralled by her story of how she "put herself through school" while attending to three small children.  I've never been to a Junior College, but it must be hard because my baby brother spent the better part of a decade there earning his AA Degree.

Jokes aside, I'm sure being a parent, maintaining a job and family all at the same time was no easy feat, but she was looking very Hamster-ish at this point.

At the time, I dismissed all of this information as just the plight of a woman who had faced some challenges, made some errors in decision and was moving to better her life.

Still, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I knew her. 

As the date wrapped up, I handed her my card with all my information on it and she handed me hers.  It listed her job as "photographer, model, event planner."  As Hamster-ish as that sounded, it was her last name that caught my eye.  I recognized immediately.

I went home and pulled out a calendar I had that featured pretty girls and hot cars.  There she was, Miss March, 2002.  The pieces started to come together.  She knew my ex wife, another Asian "import model" and I had seen her at many shows because I use to show my cars at events like Hot Import Nights.

Still, in six years, you had to be impressed that she now had three kids, a divorce and an AA degree.

I decided to look her up on the internet.  Bad idea.  I was treated to a bevy of images of her in various states of dress...and undress. Better yet, I was treated to videos of her.

While none of these videos showed her engaged in any sex acts (I'd have to subscribe for a membership to see those), I had certainly seen enough.  It was as if I skipped the next 20 dates and moved right to the intimacy part. Wow...that saved me hundreds of dollars.

What classifies a woman as a porn star?  In my eyes, anytime the girl is nude, it's porn.  But in reality, there are various levels.

Hamsters who are models follow a predictable path to ruin: 

Model at car shows > Calendar Girls > Car magazine Cover models > Implied Nude photo sessions > Full nude sessions > Web cam, fully nude > Soft Porn > Hard porn > Escort > Ruin.

The lucky ones get out somewhere along the way, either reforming, marrying a sugar daddy or simply going back to school and making something of their lives.

Curiosity had me intrigued, so my next phone call to her was investigative in nature.  Turns out she had married a DJ at a young age and had had her first child way back in 2001.  Interestingly, she was still modeling after that so I can only imagine what she told her kids as she was heading off to do some nude modeling but who am I to judge.

I asked her if she knew my ex wife and of course she did, but she didn't recognize me.  Nevertheless, we mused that we probably knew some of the same people...and the same girls.  Probably not, since I don't have a pay subscription to any of the websites that her girlfriends are on.

Taking a bird's eye view, here was a 36 year old woman (at the time) with three kids, a deadbeat dad, an AA degree, a background in "questionable" modeling and a long roster of pictures and videos available online.

I can only imagine introducing her to my mom.  "Hi Mom, this is Mary.  She's a college grad and is very popular online."  My dad would surely already know her, as he can no doubt afford subscriptions to those websites.

Nevertheless, this Hamster wouldn't be right for me. Some men would jump at the chance to date such a woman, assuming she has super human intimacy skills, flexible morality and would be a real prize.  Not this man.  With three kids at home and such a background, she needed what I couldn't offer.

For all I knew, she was still on a downward spiral and might eventually wind up as an escort, or perhaps I was catching her in the middle of her recovery period.  While I admired the fact that she was making a go of it on her own, she really didn't have any choice as her parents had long turned a blind eye to her (which, in an Asian family, is a very big deal.)

The story is familiar, as I've known dozens of models who became Hamsters and the internet is full of great stories (Google "Sasha Singleton v Ben Baller" for an epic tale of one model who followed the path I outlined above...epic read!)

I told her we'd catch up later in the week, as I had to get running.  I never called her back.  I'm sure she figured it out, as I was still on that site for several months after.  I did glance at her profile once more, after she changed her picture to the same one I saw in the calendar I had.  I should've got her autograph, as I probably could've scored a few bucks for it on Ebay.  

In any case, I wish this Hamster well on the wheel of life. 

I Went Gay for a Month

Back in summer of 2002, I found my self in South Beach, Florida on temporary assignment working on the movie "2 Fast 2 Furious."  As the film's Technical Advisor & Script Advisor, my daily routine started at 6AM and ended around 3PM, giving me plenty of time to lounge by the pool.

Universal Pictures had shipped the entire production crew to South Florida and each crew member got a $5000 a month stipend for living expenses.  I took up residence in a brand new high rise luxury building dubbed "The Waverly."  I was one of the only residents in the building, which was languishing with a 10% occupancy rate.

My condo was on the 21st floor and featured an ocean front view looking to the southwest.  A corner unit with a wrap around balcony, it offered stunning view of the pool and Fisher Island.  I promptly rented furniture that looked right at home in an episode of Miami Vice. It became the epitome of a bachelor pad.

Problem was, I wasn't a bachelor.  Back home in California, I had just purchased a home in a sleepy suburb of Orange County and was already occupying it with a wonderful girl we'll call "Jenny Sue."

Jenny Sue was a delightful Texas girl, with wavy blonde her, stunning blue eyes and a positive disposition that was infectious. We had barely been living together a year when I was called away to Florida.

I had never had a bachelor life outside the suburbs but I quickly adapted to luxury high rise living.  After a couple of weeks of my mundane routine, while at the downstairs cafe one morning, I decided to have a little fun with the hostess.  Anyone who knows me knows that I do imitations, or impressions.  This particular morning, when the hostess asked for my drink order, I did my best "gay" voice, "yeth, I'll have a smoothie, something that'th too good to thwallow."  As funny as I thought it was, the giggles behind me were priceless.  As I turned around to investigate, there 5 very pretty girls having their breakfast.

A couple of days later, I saw them again by the pool.  They had plopped down near me and were sunbathing face down, but topless. As one girl turned over, she dropped her top and nervously struggled to cover herself. They caught me looking, as I was already looking in that direction.  One of the other girls proclaimed "it's ok, he's gay."  Looking directly at me now, she asked me point blank, "you are gay, right?"  Naturally, I told the truth, "yeth, ith that a problem?"

Over the next two weeks, we all got to be friends. They were 5 of them....all Brazilian models putting their way through college.  Oh, and as it turns out, they were all in town shooting for a swimwear catalog.

Seeing how there were literally only a handful of residents in the building, I think they were just looking for someone to hang out with.  After work, we'd hang out by the pool, then they'd head for a sunset shoot somewhere.  They all lived on the 16th floor but we often ended up back at my place weekday evenings. I of course kept all this secret from my male friends on the production crew.

After a couple more weeks, my charade had grown to unimaginable proportions.  I kept my place immaculate, had candles burning whenever they came over and at one point, changed my desktop computer screensaver background to a slideshow of shirtless men.  I was getting "mani/pedis" with the girls at the salon once a week.  On one occasion,  one of them even plucked my eyebrows during an innocent sleepover. The illusion was complete.  By this time, they were sunbathing nude on my balcony, showering at my place and dragging me out to clubs and regaling me with stories how all men were pigs.  I almost felt bad....almost. 

I couldn't keep this up forever, though...something had to give, so when Jenny Sue called to advised that she was coming for a visit, I was relieved. At least she knew I was a heterosexual, even as out of practice as I was.

She arrived a few days later and since I was working that day, I couldn't pick her up at the airport.  By 9PM, she was in the hotel lobby and I zipped down to meet her and to retrieve her bags.  We hugged and headed for the elevator.  Just as the door was closing, a long, tanned arm with pink fingernails reached in like a harpoon and the door bounced back.

It was my girl-friends...just back from a photoshoot and wearing little more than a sundress and some dental floss that was supposed to be a bathing suit.  Oh. My. God.  Not good.

The girls were excited to see me, as usual. "Oh, hi, Craig.  What's up for tonight?  Are you cooking again?"  I could feel myself turning whiter.  Jenny Sue went from smiling to frowning to outright scorn, rapidly.  Zero to irate in 10 seconds.  Then one of the girls blurted out "who's your little friend?"  I. Am. Screwed. Without missing a beat, Jenny Sue replied with "I'm his girlfriend from California."  The next few seconds are a blur, but I think I sensed confusion in Spanish.  Or maybe Portuguese. 

Stunned silence ensued from the girls and Jenny Sue.

I focused my eyes up, to the little lights at the top of the elevator that tell you what floors you're passing.  I knew that if I looked down to the left or down to the right, I might end up being pushed off the roof by someone on that elevator.

The 16th floor arrived and the girls exited, never looking back.  The next five floors took about an hour, or so it seemed.

When we arrived at my floor, the walk to the end of the hall seemed like the walk to the electric chair. "Dead Man Walking," I thought to myself.  Not a word was spoken, though.

As I opened the door, Jenny Sue took a look around my cozy little bachelor pad and took inventory...out loud:  "white throw rug.  All glass furniture.  White leather couches.  Mmm...hmm.  Oooh, nice patio.  Complete with four different types of sun screen.  Oh, and women's sandals."

I knew I was a dead man, the only question was, would I jump voluntarily?

Suddenly, Jenny Sue turned into one of those women you see stereotyped on YouTube clips.  With her bobbing and weaving, moving side to side, arms flailing, "oh, you are NOT living up in this mother effer all by yourself, acting a damn fool with all these hoochies with their coochies."

If I jump now, maybe God will forgive me on the way down.

"That's it, I'm quitting my job and moving out here to watch you," she snapped. "But babe, I'm only here for two more months,"  I replied.   "Look how much trouble you got in already!"  She had a point.  And I couldn't keep up the gay voice and cold showers much longer, anyway. 

True to her word, she moved out there with me.  It was very tense for awhile and she reminded me every day of how I'd need to do an awful lot of sucking up to make it up to her.  

Her new Lexus arrived a week before the Premier of "2 Fast, 2 Furious."

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

Burning Rubber

 ****WARNING:  This post contains a brief portion of graphic detail, as the story didn't work without it.  If this is in any way objectionable to you, please skip today's post.****

Back in High School, I had two interests: cars and girls. I really couldn't afford either, but I pursued both with great zeal and enthusiasm.

In my senior year, I was dating this adorable gal we'll call Laura.  She looked like Leah Thompson in "Back to the Future," if that paints a picture.   With feathered hair and skin tight jeans, she was the all American girl.  I was completely infatuated with her. 

As the school year was winding down for the Christmas holiday, we had been an item for more than 9 months.  In teen-years, that's more like a decade.  In any case, even at a young age, I knew that living at home with no money for a weekend getaway really isn't conducive to romantic interludes.


We were both still virgins and not for lack of interest, it was just that we never got time alone.  

One particular week, I was grounded from the car for some infraction (in my teen years, I committed many.)  But a unique opportunity was approaching: Laura's parents were going out for dinner to a location 60 miles away.  This was rare, because her parents didn't trust her alone as they already suspected we were fooling around.

Nevertheless, Laura was reluctant because she had a biology test on Monday. Proclaiming that I was a whiz at biology, I offered to come over to drill her.  Pun intended.  It seemed that the time was right on this particular Friday at 6pm.

I told my folks I had to work that night just so I could get access to the family car.  (My little jalopy was getting the transmission fixed and my dad took his company car to go to work.)  Since my mom was home alone, I knew she'd buy my bevy of BS and she happily turned over the keys.

I threw on my uniform and went to "work."

Her parents left ten minutes before I got there.  Like an idiot, I parked my moms 79 Chrysler LeBaron Town and Country wagon (think family Truckster, straight out of Chevy Chase's "Vacation") in the driveway. I had been itching to get my hands on the wagon for a date with Laura, because I had always thought that under the right circumstances, Laura and I could "get busy" in the back.  To Laura's credit, she wouldn't set foot in my "shaggin wagon."  Instead, she was reserving the "big deed" for a special, classier set up.

That night, I showed up with a single rose, take-out from Lui's kitchen...and condoms.   Yeah...classy.  Anyway, with the parents safely on their way to their dinner, things got steamy quickly.  Within a half an hour,  we adjourned to the bedroom. Clothes were off within seconds.  Asi it turns out, taking off our clothes took longer than the act.  Not more than ten seconds into the throes of passion and heavy breathing, Laura said excitedly "they're coming, they're coming."  I wasn't an expert, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't the right phrase.  Two seconds later, it didn't matter.  I was done and quickly muttered "we're coming?"  She frantically corrected me, "no they're coming!" as she pointed to her bedroom door.

There were strange noises down the hall.  At first, I thought it was $16 worth of bad Chinese food rumbling in my stomach...a few precious seconds ticked by.  Then there were voices in the hallway and light came on, casting a sliver of light from under the door.  I was seconds from sure death. Her parents had sprung a trap for us.

Like a naked Ninja, I gathered most of my clothes and with no way out, I used the bedroom window and literally jumped from the second story window.  More like flew out the bedroom window, actually.   In my carefully planned escaped, I neglected to remove the screen. Fortunately, the Webber grille 10 feet below broke my fall.

Her father, a Baptist minister, lost himself in the moment, shouting "what the f$ck was that?"  When a Baptist minister resorts to profanity, it's time to go.  As her parents raced to the backyard, clothes in hand and bare butt in the breeze, I was in my car within seconds.  One problem: I was blocked in.

Using my brilliant logic, I backed over the fresh, wet lawn, spinning my tires and digging trenches with them.  After what seemed an eternity, I made it to the sidewalk and backed off the 2 foot high, steep concrete curb. Sparks and crushing metal noises ensued, but I made clean getaway.  Or so I thought. 

I raced home, wondering if Laura would crack under the strain of interrogation.  I gambled that she wouldn't. At a stoplight, I tried to regain my composure when I noticed I was still naked from the waist down and I somehow, the condom was coming along for the ride, no pun intended.  I quickly pulled on my jeans...but what to do with the condom?  I surely couldn't toss it out the window.  It was a Friday night on surface streets.  Naturally, I stuck in the ashtray.  Somehow, I must've pressed the cigarette lighter in and within seconds, I smelled smoke.  By the time I stopped for the next red light, the car was filling with smoke.  In a panic, I rolled down the windows and opened the ashtray.  To confused fellow motorists, it must've looked like a Cheech and Chong movie.

I pulled over for a minute and tried to air the car out, but I needed to get home.  I don't know where the condom ended up, but I didn't have time to track it down.  I jumped on the freeway to bypass the surface street traffic and raced home. 

As I exited the freeway trying to beat my dad home from work, I drifted the family car like a true pro.  I bounced into my driveway and told my mom that work let me off early because they weren't busy and retreated to my room.  My dad got home about five minutes after I did. 

I heard my parents arguing for a few minutes, then we all sat down to the family dinner. My dad seemed calm and even started a conversation with me about my day, which was a little odd.

Dad: "So you got called in to work today?"
Me: "Yup."
Dad: "But they let you off early?"
Me: "Ya. Slow night."
Dad: "I bet you hate driving your moms car."
Me: "It's better than nothing."
Dad: "You know, you have to be careful with that thing, it doesn't handle like your little sports car."  Me: "It does just fine." grinning devilishly as if I had just pulled off an escape from Alcatraz.
Dad: "Maybe, but I noticed if you corner too fast, you might lose one of these, " at which time he produced a bent up hubcap that looks a lot like the ones on my mom's car.

At this point, I was like a deer in the headlights.  Turns our that he was pumping gas when I flew around the corner across the street and a hubcap from my car rolled right up into the gas station parking lot where it smashed into a dumpster. 

I knew I was screwed. 

Before he could start into a tirade, the phone rang.  I was sent to my room by my dad while he attended to my moms hysterics.  I tried to catch snippets of the conversation through the air vents but it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher.  After a few minutes, I was promptly summoned to the living room. 

It is here that I learned that Laura's dad had just called...seems he was sure it was me fleeing his house. Before I could put together an excuse that sounded remotely plausible, my dad informed me that Laura's dad even "has my license plate."  

Thinking that this was highly improbable (given my impeccable stunt driving and the fact that it was pretty dark), I then learned that he didn't have the plate number...he had the whole license plate.  It seems that in my getaway, the concrete curb had ripped off the whole front plate and deposited it curbside.

At this point, my mom was giving me the evil eye and I remember feeling embarrassed that my mom knew I was trying to have sex.

After my mom left the room, my dad asked me point blank, in typical Joe Pesci character: "are you putting the screws to this girl?"  I shrugged my shoulders in shame. He then raised his hand...to high five me.  Stunned, I looked him square in the eye with amazement.

He calmly stated "You know what happens next, right?"  A thousand scenarios are running through my head.  Italian fathers have a nasty habit of telling you what they're going to do to you in graphic detail.  One such rant went something like this "I'm gonna pull the ear off the side of your head and stick in your pants so you can hear me kicking your ass down the street."

Instead, he calmly blurts out "You need to go get that license plate back.  And while you're at it, you need to buy mom a new hubcap." It seems as if my dad would forgive far more bad behavior if it somehow involved a woman.  To say I got conflicting parental views on this incident would be an understatement.

I told my dad I'd fix the hubcap, which looked more like a Pringle's potato chip. He demanded that I fix the hubcap tonight.  I did the best I could and an hour later, my parents inspected my work. For whatever reason, my mom decided to snoop around inside the car. Fearful that she'd discover the condom I lost, I stood at the door to the garage, petrified.  My mom got out of the car and asked why the car smelled like burning rubber.  With a look of disgust, she asked me point blank, "Craig were you burning rubber in my car?"   "Not exactly in it," I thought.

I saw Laura once more, when she returned the bent-up license plate. I had a tough time looking her in the eye, as I was ashamed at the trouble I had caused her.

As for the condom?  I never found it, so if you ever find one roadside, let me know.  I would like some closure on this whole incident.
 

Dating for Dummies (aka men like me)

After years of experience dating all sorts of women, I've gotten pretty good at determining what constitutes compatibility insofar as who might be compatible with me.

This took time, but I started early. As a teenager, I wasn't really interested in woman until my father gave me "the talk." 

My father, an old school New York Italian, is a cross between Archie Bunker, Fred Flintsone, Joe Pesci and Robert DeNiro.  With an immense vocabulary and an IQ of 140, his discipline of me usually included words that required extensive research in a Webster's Dictionary.

His sex talk however, was rudimentary at best.  It came in between commercials while the family was watching an episode of All In The Family...the episode were Gloria was announcing her pregnancy. He simply leaned over from his recliner and said "look, you're playing with a load gun now, watch out."  Sitting arm in arm with my mom on the couch, I was mortified. I was 14 and hadn't even seen a woman topless (this was before the Internet and the JC Penney catalog was hardly the best way to cure that problem.)  Thus began my interest in women, because naturally, when a parent tells you not to do something, you want to do it more.  

For awhile, I was the Forrest Gump of dating. I didn't have a problem with charm or chivalry, but I had real problems missing certain signs (as evidenced by many of my preceding blog posts). It took several mistakes, years of dating women who proved incompatible even though, by and large, my serious relationships were pretty good.  None of them were crazy or bad people, but we just didn't work out. But it was the dating periods in between my relationships that made me increasingly astute.  Today, I have a roster of tactics and questions I use to measure compatibility with my love-interests.  At the risk of divulging state secrets, these seem as good as any for me in the 40's:


1) Try the person out for no more than three dates.  Then take a few days to evaluate and if you've identified any red flags (for you), simply state "I'm sorry, I don't think you're what I'm looking for."  Three dates is all you really need in order to get past the initial mutual chemistry evaluation.

2) No kissing on the first date. It sends the wrong message, anyway.

3) No intimacy for three months. My own experiences are that if one breaks this rule, it is because of infatuation, although many if us convince ourselves that it's because we feel a deep connection.

4) Develop a list of "must haves, deal breakers and red flags."  Don't compromise on the red flags. Ever.  The second you get her last name, Google her.

5) After three months, evaluate again.  If things are good, jump in with both feet.  But continue to evaluate.  Look for addictions, bad behavior, signs of abuse, etc.  this is a good time to run a background check.  If you don't, don't get upset that you found something in her past later on. You wouldn't buy a house without an inspection, why would you try to make a home without dying your due diligence? Trust, but verify. 

6) Keep it moving forward.  Re-evaluate at 6 months, 9 months and a year.  If it's not moving forward, it's going nowhere.  Cut your losses and say goodbye. By this time, you should be meeting each other's friends, too.  Take at least one vacation together. 

7) Don't cohabitate for at least a year. You want to truly know someone?  Live with them...at some point.

8) Don't start mixing finances, accounts, or intertwining your lives too much.  This also means that you should NOT add each other to your FB until you've been together for at least a year.  Surveys show that 37% of all breakup a listed FB as a factor. 

9) Prior to getting engaged or moving in, meet each others parents and mix with them a few times...and observe. 

Rules are great, but let's look at how I put it all into practice. 

For starters, I'm not in the business of buying random strangers expensive dinners, so the first meet up is for coffee or cocktails.  I know a quaint, hip coffee shop in Santa Ana that I use called "The Gypsy Den." 

The second date is usually at a local watering hole called "Mesa" for drinks.  If it goes well, we roll right into dinner. 

The third date is something like Charlie Palmer's or Andrei's lounge in Irvine.  

For me, the three date rule ONLY works because I've developed a roster of questions that I work into conversations over the three dates.   Here are some of them:

• Where do you see yourself in 5 years?  10?
• What was the best gift you ever received? I'm looking for something thoughtful, not expensive.
• What are your career goals?  If she has none, that means her goals are to marry money.
• If I were to run into your ex, what would HE say was the reason you broke up?  This is usually very insightful. If she says things like "my demands were too high, he never did anything nice for me," these could be warning signs.
• What was the best date you ever had?  Again, if she says a weekend in Hawaii,  run.
• How is your relationship with your dad? If she's not close to him, that's a bad sign for a myriad of reasons.
• How was your parents marriage? 
• If you never got married, how much would you need to make a year to live comfortably?  Another probing question. 
• If you hit a lottery scratcher for  $10,000, what would do with the money? If she says things like 'payoff bills,' that's another red flag.
• What was the most touching thing an ex ever did for you?  Look for something he did, not how much he spent.
• Which is worse in a marriage?  Cheater (even though no one knows but you).  Financial uncertainly.  He loses his sex drive.
• How many of your married girlfriends still have jobs?  You are the friends that you keep.  If they don't work, you can bet she doesn't want to.
• If your friend were dating a guy that no one found attractive and he offered to pay for all her bills, but her a car., etc if she moved in with him, what would you tell her to do?
• Let's say you loved a guy and he treated you well,  but found out you made more than him, would you still marry him? 
• You've obviously sensed a theme by now. You're looking for character, integrity, a sense of entitlement and whether or not she values money over all else. 
• Your girlfriend decides that she doesn't feel like having sex with her husband anymore.   What do you tell her to do? 

Clearly, I've focused on evaluating her character, integrity and morals to see if we're a match.  I'm not judging them, I'm judging our compatibility.   

From a woman's perspective, there is still a profound sense that men need to be the providers and until there's true wage equality in America, there's some logic to that. I do believe that a man should go in believing that he has ultimate responsibility for providing a certain level of security, but most men today are not looking for a dependent.  From a survey of my male friends, they all agree that they will tend to respect his woman more if she makes a contribution to the household.   


I'm not sure if any of this makes sense to anyone but me, but there it is nonetheless. Will it be helpful to others? I'd love to hear from you if it did help.

But of course I remember that a wise man once said, "if you want good financial advice, get it from a financially secure person,"  so perhaps no one should be taking advice from a guy who dates Hamsters.

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

Genuine Men Only

In this age of "immediate gratification," technology has allowed us to boldly go where no man has gone before.  However, when we refer to online dating, it's more appropriate to say that we can now go where MANY men have gone before.

There are many online dating sites like OKCupid, Zoosk or my personal favorite, Plenty Of Fish.  POF should really be called "Plenty of Freaks" because my experience was that it was like a garage sale for women.  You may be able to score a rare find, but mostly, you were picking up someone's cast offs.  I can only imagine what women experience on sites like that, but I decided to dig a little deeper.

I used to have this friend we'll call "Linda."  She was an online dating pro, having dated 2-3 times a week...for more than 3 years.  I heard tale after tale but she did provide some interesting stats.  She was getting 30-50 emails a week from potential suitors.  Discounting the obvious D-bags with shirtless photos, her emails consisted of everything ranging from young men seeking a Cougar to guys listing their personal assets as attributes.  Of course, there were several propositions for random sex encounters.

She learned quickly that guys who didn't post photos were almost always hiding a relationship, but those she did try out had so many issues, so it was no wonder they were single in their 40's.

Striving to be different, when I posted my profile back in the day, I listed my genuine attributes and of course, added a flair of comedy.  I did mention that I liked fine dining, tropical travel, photography and the usual nonsense.  At first, I wasn't getting many replies.  After I cut my profile down to a more basic description that said something like "financially secure guy seeking active, fun partner for a life of adventure," I even changed my profile picture to the typical douche picture, which was me in a pair of sunglasses giving my best "Blue Steel" pose.  My inbox blew up.

One of the emails I got was in broken English from this fine specimen.

I saved the picture to my phone (thank God for backups, as I found the picture in a file folder I saved to my computer when I started having phone problems over a year ago).

Her headline was "Genuine Men Only."   By this time, I had reviewed dozens of profiles. I'll dig into these deeper in another post, but by and large, many were of narcissistic women with very a inflated assessment of their self-worth.

But this one intrigued me.  Perhaps it was her "natural" beauty (sarcasm, level 10.)  Obviously, this young lady had more plastic surgery than infamous CatWoman  Or perhaps I was intrigued because I always wanted to date someone more than a decade younger (she listed her age as 31.)  Um....yeah.....

Subconsciously, I probably knew that someday I'd be writing a Blog about these topics, but I just had to investigate further.

A brief overview of her cursory description didn't say a whole lot.  Her opening email was "hi, honey.  What do you do for a living?  Where do you like to travel to?" Two first date Gold Digger questions, if I've ever heard one.  I gave epic douche bags responses like "My job is just a distraction to occupy my time, but I enjoy the travel that comes with it.  For vacations, I prefer any place that is secluded, affords me great privacy and 5 star amenities.  The location is almost irrelevant, so long as my needs are met."

The truth was that my company often sent me to crappy cities and a Hampton Inn was the norm.  For vacations, I was certainly not staying at the Ritz and the resorts I did frequent were usually booked through a discount website as part of a package.  And of course, I always flew coach.

Suffice to say, that sucked her in. My typical questions included things like "where do you see yourself in 5 years?" "What was the most thoughtful gift you ever received?"  Such questions are designed to penetrate the psyche (this too, will be covered in an upcoming blog post)

Deciding I could save a few hundred bucks by dating her virtually, rather than actually taking her out, I prodded her with a few questions over an exchange of about a dozen emails.  

After several emails, I probed more deeply and asked what her profession was.  Anyone want to guess?  Correct!  Hairdresser with a capital "H" as in "H-amster."

One of her goals was to open her own salon in Newport Beach offering high end services to her friends (also undoubtedly a group of Hamsters.)   Still another was to go back to school to get a Law Degree.  After that, she wanted to have another child, then be a stay at home mom so she could have time to "travel the world while she was still young."  My reply to that bombshell was "but if your husband is working to provide all these opportunities, with whom would you travel?"  Her answer was "my girlfriends, of course."  Wow, what a great bargain for some lucky man.

Moving along to other topics, I learned that her hobbies included shopping, boating and trips to Vegas.  I asked her if she owned a boat and predictably, she did not, but was happy to partake of a "friends" weekend outings on his yacht.  When I asked about her favorite place to stay in Vegas, names like "Wynn" and "Encore" popped up.  Intrigued by how much vacation she has accrued for trips with any new man, her answer was a stunningly-evasive "I like that I can pick up and go at any time."  Translation?  Unemployed hamster on the last legs of a relationship of her current benefactor.

As for the most thoughtful gift she ever received?  A brand new Mercedes CLK by her former live in boyfriend.  To her, it was thoughtful because she had just moved in with this guy and her last car died.  Wow.  

As the conversation progressed, I asked her why her previous relationships hadn't worked out and what she had learned.  She had only had two, both were about 3 years and those guys cheated on her.  Shocker.  When I probed more deeply, turns out the men had selected younger, hotter women and that's when she decided to "start taking better care of herself," which I interpreted to mean "plastic surgery."

While I'm not opposed to plastic surgery in principle, I am when it is to create the illusion of beauty. To me, it's akin to putting a pretty paint job on a flood damaged car.  There was no way this lady was 31 any more than I was a five star traveler by habit.  In her case, the illusion she was creating was that she was a woman of substance and character.

Her emails to me indicated a pattern of hanging out at all the Cougar dens in Orange County (i.e. 333, Javier's) and her men were a mix of early 30's male Hamsters and mid 50's Hair-Club-for-men entrepreneurs.  Other hints like a list of her favorite places to shop (Rodeo...duh), her wish list of travel destinations (the Maldives) and her dream car (Mercedes S Class) were not red flags by themselves, but in the context of the conversations, indicated a pattern of behavior.

At one point, I remembered that she said she wanted another child, so I asked the question "you had mentioned you wanted another child....tell me about your precious little one."   Her little one wasn't so little.  He was 16...and lived with the dad.  A-ha!  This begged a bevy of follow up questions that revealed that the ex is paying her alimony monthly (she lives in rented condo in Newport, so I'm sure it's a healthy stipend) and that her "true" age was 39.  Sorry...not buying that one, either.  If I were a betting man, I'd say 46 if she's a day.  Being a connoisseur of Asian women, the rule is: pick an age based on how old they look...and add 7 years.  You'll usually be closer.

So, in review, this "beautiful" woman was asking for "Genuine Men Only."  Yet she surely has had plastic surgery including a facelift, augmentation, probably a nose job, she wear's fake eyelashes, has hair extensions and wears high heels.  As an added bonus, she has a child she doesn't have custody of, is older than she claimed, has no formal education and speaks broken English, despite being here since 1980.  What a prize. 

I'm not faulting her for being the way she is.  Perhaps she's a product of her environment.  The men in her life who have enabled this behavior are as guilty as she is for what she's become. For me, it's a pattern I've seen a thousand times. I know men who date...and truly value women like these...and I know a few women who believe that as long as they can "catch" men who will spoil them, why not take advantage of it?

The conversation took a turn for the surreal when I pressed her on the thought of having another child.  According to her doctor, she was running out of time to conceive a child on her own.  Her doctor suggested that she gets pregnant just as soon as is practical, or considers freezing her eggs.  To her, "as soon as practical" meant that she wanted to be pregnant within a few months.  Obviously, I was fascinated by her desire to find a man, build a relationship and get pregnant within 90 days.

My assessment was brutally honest.  I told her that this seemed wildly impractical and that some men might perceive this to mean that she was more focused on getting some security by using the child to ensure that the man is obligated to help take care of her.  Surprisingly, she wasn't offended.  Her response was "at least I'm being honest about it."

Yeah, cause you've been so honest up till now. 

For the record, most men appreciate that a woman takes care of herself.  Hair dye, fake nails and a little nip and tuck here and there is more than acceptable for most men.  But any man should accept her for who she is and how she looks.  If she does these things to feel better about yourself, no harm can come from that.  If she uses it to present a facade of beauty when internally, her moral compass is spinning like a Roulette wheel, it's not healthy..for either party.

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

Women as Depreciating Assets?

***The following story represents the opinion of the author(s). Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.***

Several years ago, there was a woman in New York City that posted about her desire to find a rich guy for marriage.  She proclaimed her beauty as her primary asset and was looking for the exact names of hang outs for rich men.  She alleges that she was marriage minded. 

A successful local stock trader chimed in with this infamous reply:

Your offer, from the perspective  of a guy like me, is plain and simple a crappy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity... in fact, it is very likely that my income will  increase, but it is an absolute certainty that you won't be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a "depreciating asset" and I am an "earning asset." Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain: you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a "trading position," not a "buy and hold". Hence, the rub... marriage.

It doesn't make good business sense to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following:. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful" as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the rich guy hasn't found you, if only  for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way. Classic "pump and dump."
Living in Orange County, Ca., I see this mindset all the time. This concept is as old as prostitution...and it's basically the same thing. Granted, the fellow who penned that pompous reply was probably doing so out of frustration over his inability to find a hot, young girl, despite his receding hairline, diminutive stature or who knows what. Still, it highlights the notion of mutual exploitation by both sexes.

Take the case of a former friend whom I'll call "Thuy."

Thuy was a cupie-doll Asian beauty that looked like she came from an Anime series.  Although she was in her early 30's, she could've passed for 21.  I never saw her leave the house without $1500 Jimmy Choos, $4000 in Prada accessories and make up suitable for a spot on "America's Next Top Model."

She was educated, too, having spent the better part of a decade in school.   All of this was funded by her rich boyfriend, with whom she was living.  She came with a bonus: a 13 year old son and a four year old Scion xB (which would come in handy later.)

This woman had more shoes than Imelda Marcos and when it came to purses, she had more leather than a Ferrari's interior. She was articulate, educated and a great conversationalist.

After several years with the rich boyfriend, who was a rather frumpy looking guy of Chinese or Korean descent, he gave her the boot. This was after years of trotting the globe, on his dime.  Apparently, he grew frustrated with her unwillingness to do anything with her life. I'm sure she had her own frustrations with him...as they say, there's two sides to every story.

Now that I think of it, I only saw them together once, but her Facebook was rife with pictures of her at Vegas clubs with her GF's...and other men. But I had seen her at a Vegas club personally, where she was garnering the attention of many a suitor. She never mentioned her bf, but happily partook of the table and bottle service provided.  On that night she retreated to her room...alone.  In fairness, I never saw her do anything inappropriate and never heard any stories of infidelity.

In any case, her bf finally let her go.  She filled up her boxy Scion xB with hundreds of shoe boxes and got her own place.  For a few months, it seemed as if she was standing more independently.  The bf gave her a monthly stipend, so she was able to "afford" own place and did something she hasn't done in years: she got a job. Her friends breathed a collective sigh of relief, as she seemed to be on track.

It didn't last though, as she soon latched on to another fellow. Within a short time, she quit her job and began another global tour, all funded by the new bf, of course.  Pics of her in Venice, Egypt, Greece and Paris all popped up on her Facebook. This time, there were pictures of her new frumpy guy, who was more like her bell hop than her bf, but she looked deliriously happy. I'm sure he's a good guy in his own right, as Thuy was always good at sniffing out the D-bags.

Nevertheless, I promptly deleted her from my FB.  I simply couldn't watch a friend repeat the same behavior that led to her unhappiness time and time again. In principle, her behavior seemed consistent with everything that I loathed about stereotypical women.  In fairness, if this was a guy friend doing the same thing (dating a hot young girl just because she was hot), I'd have deleted him, too.

Even her closest friends were stunned.  Perhaps a bit out of jealousy, I haven't decided, but perhaps they were just perplexed how she could find not one rich guy, but two, when many of her friends are "doing it the hard way."

I still have high hopes for this young lady. I think she's very intelligent, well educated and seems to be an attentive mom (forgiving the notion that her child doesn't travel with her), so she has all the tools she needs in order to be a strong, independent woman.

She's had a few life challenges...she has a child from a guy that doesn't pay support, but she has primary custody and I'm sure she's dated her fair share of bad men. But she lucked out with an ex bf that paid her way through a school and then gave her a stipend to give her a new start.  She has all the tools to start with an advantage should she choose to a make a life on her own.

Some might argue that it's just as easy to love a rich guy as a poor one. I disagree. I've never understood the mindset of men who are clearly focusing on looks, or women who focus on money.  There's a fine line when a woman equates money with security because invariably, rich, powerful men have options...and absolute power corrupts, absolutely. How does that constant threat offer security?

As for the woman, if her biggest asset is her looks, what happens when her looks fade?  The brutal, honest truth is this: we live in Southern California.  Beautiful women are a dime a dozen.  No matter how hot a woman thinks she is, there's 100 more lined up behind her, ready to pounce and many men are simply too dumb, too narcissistic and too egocentric to resist temptation. To too many men, Hugh Hefner is a role model, not a cautionary tale.

Cynics might argue that her one hope is to marry this guy while he's still delirious over his luck in finding such a pretty girl.  Still others might argue that he's just as guilty of exploitation and that he'll probably never marry this girl. 

It'll be interesting to revisit this in 10 or 15 years to see if she becomes the woman I know she can be...or if she'll become the topic of another post on this Blog.

I'm not sure who is more guilty in this scenario, the "Gold Digger" or the man who exploits the woman based largely on her looks.  Either way, it seems obvious that such relationships are unhealthy, as they are built upon superficial judgments.  

I Dated a Playmate

Some of you may not know that I have background in Film and Television.  In fact, in 2010 and 2011, I filmed, edited, directed and produced an "action sports" show for TV called "Badass."  The show centered around beautiful young ladies partaking of various "manly" adventures, from racing dune buggies to shooting machine guns.

I talked myself into it because as a filmmaker, having "Playboy" on your resume is not a bad thing. When I penned the shows I wanted to do, I always tried to make sure that the ladies came off as articulate, empowered women who rendered the men in the show as buffoons who couldn't believe that pretty girls could do what they did.

Episodes included flying "ultra lights," wrestling with alligators, street racing Ferrari's and Lamborghinis and various other debauchery normally reserved for men.  I'd set up the shoots, pen a script, pick a location and being planning in earnest.

Hiring a crew to film these episodes was easy...I had a LONG list of volunteers who were willing to work for little or no pay (Shocking, right?)    Finding the girls was going to be a challenge.  I simply didn't know any "gorgeous" 21-32 year old women.

Not a problem, as Playboy put out a casting call and opened the doors of their recruitment studio in Los Angeles.  Over the course of five days, I saw 100 women a day "audition."  That's 500 women in a week, for those keeping score...in person, live and 20 feet from me.  I don't think I've seen 500 women naked online and in print, combined, in my entire life.

The audition was supervised by a male and female associate and involved women coming in, then telling us a little bit about themselves, then reading a paragraph from cue cards.  One catch: they were nude.

On paper, it sounds like a dream gig...watching 500 girls parade in front of you nude is something probably every man has fantasized about in his life.  So, suffice to say, I was a bit over the moon with excitement.

The first hour I was there, I was simply trying to maintain my composure.  By midday, I was starting to feel a bit more comfortable.  All the while, I was trying to look and act professional.  For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to look below the models' bust level...I felt dirty, as if I violated them in some way.  It was at this time that I cursed my mom under my breath.  I remember her words to me as I started dating in my teens: 'Remember: that's somebody's daughter, somebody's sister and someday, somebody's mom.'  I'm still in therapy over that warning.

Somehow, I got through day one without making a spectacle of myself.

By day two, the shock had worn off and somehow, I became fixated on thinking about what the AUDIENCE would want, not what I found attractive.  To me, "attractive" is NOT based on what some view as the "perfect" physical specimen....it's a combination of things with personality, attitude, education and other things playing a BIG role.  But I'm not stupid...I know most men will ONLY care about their anatomy.

This is where it got weird.  I started looking much more closely at every nuance of these women's curves, yet rather than focusing on the task at hand, I felt as if I were being watched. I'm not particularly religious, but having been raised a Catholic, I do believe in God.  I've always believed that he's watching me and that I'm somewhat of a "project" for him.  On this this day, I was pretty sure he stamped my file with a great, big "Straight to Hell" mark.

Somehow, I managed to complete the day.  By Wednesday afternoon, I had seen enough.  I asked my colleagues to make the rest of the choices for me and over the next few days, they emailed me a handful of contenders for final selection.  Whew...I made it through it.

Over the next two years, my crew and I maintained the utmost professionalism with the ladies.  For me, these young girls were like my little sisters and I felt it my responsibility to watch over them.

There were a few that were educated, dynamic and above-board who were largely using Playboy fame as a means to an end.  Of course there were others that were clearly not destined for a career in Quantum Mechanics.

On one shoot, with live ammunition and machine guns, one gal spun around with a jammed magazine and aimed a 12 gauge shot gun at  my head.  I was looking through a viewfinder and was wondering why everyone ducked.  A look at other camera angles in post production revealed that I was seconds from death.  I wonder what they would've written on my epitaph.

But I digress.

There were many girls that came and went on set.  While it was always surreal to see them naked one minute, then clothed at dinner a few hours later, I did manage to form a few friendships.

In fact, after developing a special bond with a sweet, educated girl who was 31, I somehow talked myself into asking her out on a date.  We had hung around as friends before on several occasions and I thought she was a stand out in a crowd of stand outs. We'll call her "Diane."

If you're looking for stats and descriptors, I'll spare you the metaphors and analogies, except to say that she was everything you'd expect from a woman of this world, sprinkled with class, sophistication, education and compassion....truly, a cut above.

For our date, she met me at my place and we headed up to SLS in Beverly Hills.  Dressed in a stunning little body dress, she was a head turner to say the least.  She literally turned every man's head in the place.  I felt eyes upon me too, but for a different reason.

I know I'm not Brad Pitt and I'm also not Donald Trump, but I'm sure that assessment was made by others as we strolled through the restaurant. It was even more evident at Drai's later that night.  I didn't care though, because I genuinely enjoyed her company.  We always knew how to make each other laugh and our conversations varied from politics to geography, from poetry to art.

She exposed me to Salsa dancing and during a slow dance, I felt very connected to her.  At one point, our faces separated and there was that long gaze you see in the movies...we were thinking about it, but didn't act on it.  The problem was, I had placed myself in the friend zone.

I felt that I had shared so much with her that I would be violating a trust if I were to attempt to take this a step further.  Both of us knew this was a date, not a hang out.  She even mentioned it to her friends on the phone on the way to the restaurant.  But still, I wasn't sure that I'd ever be able to get past that, as I just didn't view her in that way.  Perhaps she felt the same at the time.

As the night ended, I walked her to her car.  There was that awkward high-school moment where you contemplate going in for the kiss.  Her body language suggested it, but instead, we hugged for what seemed like an eternity.  She drove off and we stayed in touch for awhile, especially during the time her father was gravely ill...she had come to cry on my shoulder numerous times and I gave her some advice that seemed to work out for her.

She was therapeutic for me in that I had just come off my divorce ( about 18 months before) and I wasn't really hunting for a new belle, but her kind, gentle ways and her depth of character and integrity restored my hope in women. In my eyes, her date with me meant that I could draw the attention of someone beautiful on the inside and out.  Most of all, she reminded me that you should never judge a book by it's cover. 

The life lesson I learned was that I could never be that guy who was dating the super hot model, whether or not she was after me for money, because I just felt a certain stigma.  If you've ever seen a super hot woman walking with a wealthy looking guy that looks 15 years her senior, you know what I mean.  We've all cast our judgments through our stares.  We've all done it to someone, but I experienced it from the receiving end.

I fell out of touch with Diane after awhile. She used to be on my Facebook, but my ex fiance had a problem with that, so out of respect, I deleted her.  Now neither of them is on my Facebook. If I do end up in Hell, I'm pretty sure I know which one of these two I'll be seeing again.

Or perhaps the good Lord granted me a stay given my behavior towards Diane.

Girls with Guns

This post comes to us from a small town girl, looking for love in all the wrong places. 

Many moons ago, I used to be a bartender in Southern California, a profession in which I thought I had seen it all. You see all types in a bar setting, from the rich and famous to the old and shameless. For the most part I had built up an immunity to drunks, players and the scandalous, or so I thought.

My small town girl background meant that I had lived a pretty sheltered life and as such, I never really had much experience with men. As a young girl raised in this small town, the pickings were pretty slim when it came to "eligible bachelors."  If you've heard of "beer goggles," then you can appreciate the mindset of having to date from a shallow pool of fish.  

I had seen "Paul" come into the bar occasionally and eventually I befriended him.  We first bonded because he claimed his ex wife said he was passive aggressive and an alcoholic.  At the time, I'd just been dumped by someone I thought loved me too.  Misery loves company, or so they say.  We use to share horror stories on how no one really understood either of us...I'm sure we've all been in a situation where a new "relationship" starts because two people seem bonded by the bad experiences of the previous relationship. 

He was a correctional officer at the local prison not far from where I lived. In MY town, having a Government job was akin to hitting the lottery.  He seemed sweet, honest, secure and was what I thought I needed: an older, wiser guy.

At first, it seemed like it was working out great. I had a steady beau and he spoiled me with presents. I'd never had that before and it was nice. He also liked my daughters and was more than accommodating when it came to taking us all out.

After time though, he became different. One night, I was out at the bar at which I worked, just hanging out and having a drink.  While chatting up one the regulars, Paul called me and I invited him to have a drink with me.  He agreed.  When he walked in the building, he ignored me completely.  Eventually, he plops down two seats away from me, which seemed odd, given that there was an empty seat right next to me.   I looked over at him and asked why didn't he sit next to me. He said "why don't you come sit over here?"

Paul had always been a Type A personality, bordering on issues with control.  One might chalk that up to ego, but I couldn't imagine how he'd have developed such a large ego given the nature of reality.  For starters, a prison guard in a tiny town hardly gives him Donald Trump status, but I suppose status is relative.  In this town, that was a big thing.  Again, this was a Podunk town...I used to muse that only two types of people live in this town: 50% of residents can't sell their houses and the other 50% are part of the Federal Witness Protection Program. The town was so small, that if a tornado came through, the damage would be in hundreds of dollars..we're talking small.

In his head, though, he was King of the Hill.

Over time, he grew more discourteous and disrespectful.  He'd often start arguments over something as simple as having a hard day, then would toss in for good measure statements like "I don't feel appreciated."

On one occasion, he called me repeatedly in the span of a few minutes. It was early in the morning and having come off a late shift, he knew I'd be sleeping.  If it were an emergency, I'd understand, but it turned out that he wanted me to run an errand for him that day.  Why a simple text wouldn't suffice is beyond me, but that was his style, or so I thought.  Deep in my heart, I knew this was toxic, but I convinced myself that deep down, he was a good man and certainly a bit above the local "talent."


Soon thereafter, I decided to join the Army to try and do something with my life outside of my hometown. I kept in touch with Paul, who would occasionally write me, as his letters initially seemed sincere and genuine. After time though, he admitted that he was staying with me simply because he couldn't find anything better. He also made comments about my physical appearance that were derogatory, so our communications quickly faded, but eventually resumed. I guess he eventually figured out that I was a pretty good catch and he had a change of heart.

After I finished Army bootcamp training, I went home to do "home town" recruiting.  One night, we were at his house and I decided to go to bed early, but Paul insisted that he wanted to hang out with his buddies. I was rather peeved because I was about to go to Texas for my new duty assignment and was shocked that he'd rather go do that than curl up with me...espcially since I had already been gone for four months.

Since it was clear that he wasn't ready to go home (we were hanging out at a local establishment),  I decided to have a glass of wine.  At one point, I needed to get something out of his truck.  Rummaging through the center console, I found condoms.  Since we didn't use condoms (we had been exclusive, or so I thought,) this was a giant red flag.  (It could also be the lyrics to any Travis Tritt song..."I found condoms in his truck, I didn't give a f#ck, I kicked him out of my house, cause this guy was a louse, doo wap, doo wah" ~ Craig)

We ended up in a huge argument and the next day I left to go to Texas. Soon after that, I deployed to Iraq. I thought more and more about our toxic relationship and decided right then and there to end it. I emailed him telling him it really was his toxic behavior that influenced me to join the Army and the condom evidence was pretty cut and dry. 

After a period of a few months, I came home on leave. By this time, Paul had knocked up some girl and they were cohabitating.  I ran into them at a local bar where, lo and behold, he was sitting a few seats over from his girlfriend, ignoring her and chatting up a female regular.  I borrowed a condom from my male friend and walked right past Paul to his lady.  He first seemed scared that I was coming over for a confrontation, but I was only interested in talking to his new girl.  Handing her the condom, I said "Here, this is for you," to which she replied "Oh honey, we don't need these anymore."  Without missing a beat, I replied "With Paul, you'll always need one of these."


I heard they broke up soon after my redeployment to Iraq.  I never saw either of them again.

Say Hello to my LITTLE FRIEND!

 This story comes from a fellow we'll call "Max," who hails from a major southern US city. 

When I was in my early twenties, I was involved with racing cars.  I was at an event at Road Atlanta one early morning and this beautiful girl with a wicked grin stood in front of my car after I had just completed a warm up. She had beautiful wavy, brown hair and long legs...a dangerous combo for me.  She also had an appetite for Latin men and I, being of Puerto Rican descent, drew her interest.


I got out of my car and immediately locked eyes with her.  She had apparently known another old girlfriend of mine and was referenced to me for "pleasure," whatever that meant.  I'm from Puerto Rico and apparently dating Latin men was her dream!  Getting referred by an ex for one's alleged sexual prowess is certainly an Ego boost...but it should have been an indication that maybe this girl, who we'll call "Maria" was in this for the wrong reasons.

We hit it off right away.  She was a "car model" that "modeled" at did events for manufacturers.  I scoped her out.  She had sexy lines, purred like a kitten and I bet she was fast as hell.  Sure, I can tell that she had been parked in a few other garages and had a little junk in the trunk, but I was more than happy to take her for a test drive.  She had all the optional equipment, too...the hair, the nails and headlights that drew men in like moths to a flame.

Several weeks past and I found out that she was a studying to be a nurse while putting herself through school as a stripper.  Not a big deal, but she could have told me earlier. Perhaps her time as a stripper would give her time to study the affects of infectious diseases, but I wasn't thinking clearly.  As we men joke, a hard d!ck is a dumb d!ck. 

She became very attached to and very jealous within a month, which was a concern, but I was willing to look the other way.  I was riding high on the ego boost and I loved the attention!  We did a lot of events together through the summer months and seemed to get better as a couple.  I made a huge mistake by accepting a security position at her club.

Just three weeks into working at the club, she had beat up the bartender and another stripper for hanging out with me.  I tried to talk to her in a sensible way, but she couldn't understand me because she had just come from bathroom where she was filling her nose with coke. 

Some time went by, with highs and lows with this girl.  Coke binges that looked like Tony Montana's desk every other night and irrational behavior were the norm.  I changed clubs so that I wouldn't have to be close to her and the drama,  believing that this would be a good way to prevent anymore fits of rage.  The decision to shift gears was not very wise on my part.  She made my life hell with her tornado of emotions.  "I'm sorry, I love you and I don't want anyone to have you!"  That was the comment I received after she blew up one night. This was after a night of drinking where she pretty much destroyed a $1000 of alcohol.  What prompted this fit of rage?  Allegedly, I wasn't paying attention to her when a huge porn star came to our club.

At this point, being young,  I was confused.  She was a car model that was on calendars and magazines and at my age and in my circles, one's reputation is enhanced by such an "achievement." Yes I know that I needed to travel in different circles, if this is the standard by which a man's worth is being judged.  Nevertheless, like a sexy exotic car, even though you not it's a practical long term acquisition, you simply want to slide inside and enjoy the ride as long as possible.    She also spoiled me with gifts because she pretty much made almost $1500 per night.  I thought with my hormones and got hooked!  Come to think of it, I had no idea strippers made that much money per night.  Seems like a lot. 

My world had changed so rapidly from one direction to the next I had no idea what to do.  My heart went back to the first month when I saw her as a charismatic girl with a zest for life.  It was rare to see these qualities in a woman. (No, bro, she had a zest for exhibitionism, craved men's attention and used her assets to control men. ~Craig)

She made me love her and hate her at the same time.  You'd be surprised what men will do to be with a woman so skilled in the bedroom.  Eventually, I recognized that I was hanging with the wrong people and dating the wrong women.  I left her and left the adult entertainment industry for good.  I'm not sure where she is now, but she'll always be a fond memory in my heart. (You mean, in your pants. ~ Craig)

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

The Meat Packer

After a painful breakup from a long term relationship, I took several months off to recover and regroup. Eventually, I turned to online dating, which was new at the time.  After all, I had several friends who had had success there, so I figured it was worth a shot. 

After weeks of screening out unfit matches, I finally focused on one that called herself "Fun, Smart, Lady."  Turns out that she was two of those three things.

Our first meeting was at a coffee shop.  We had great conversation and agreed to meet at her favorite watering hole in Belmont Shore a week later. 

The big night arrives and I meet her at the door where she introduced herself as Tonya.   Dressed in a stunning white dress, she was probably one of the most put together women I had ever seen.  She was a Thai/Cambodian mix and her tanned skinned radiated from her milky white dress. 

She had a few attributes that weren't my cup of tea, like colored contacts an augmentation that could've qualified her for the adult film industry, but she seemed down to Earth during our text exchanges, so I was ok with it.

As we segued into deeper conversation, I noticed she had a habit of trying to use big words that didn't fit in the context of our discussions.  At one point, we were talking about watches and compare our selection of timepieces.  Noting that mine seemed to be off by a few minutes, she suggested that we "synthesize" our watches. At the time, it seemed cute.

I went to the bar to order two more drinks, at which time the bartender said 'what are you having?'  I ordered a double Malibu and he quickly interjected with 'and your LADY is having a Mojito.'   I didn't like the way he said "lady" but I was more impressed that he remembered her drink, since he hadn't served us initially and the place was packed. At the time, I remember thinking that perhaps he was implying that she was a prostitute, because perhaps it seemed odd that this stunning young lady would be out with with a guy like me.  Nevertheless, I glossed over it and eagerly headed back to the table.

After awhile, we left the bar and walked down to the beach where I learned about her exes that didn't "understand her" and could never come to grips with "what kind of woman" she really was. Since she was a CPA/accountant for a meat packing/food processing company, I interpreted that to mean that she was a strong woman working in a man's world. 

As the night progressed, we ended up at one of her favorite Mexican restaurants.

At one point, I went back to the counter to get some lemons for her water.  The busboy noted that he'd bring the lemons and as he walked away, I heard him utter words like "Lalo" and "Manocha" to his cohort.  I had heard the word Lalo before and thought it meant a boy who was the envy of his girlfriend's girlfriends which, again, I interpreted to mean something different...something like 'he was such a nice guy to come up and get her lemons.'   

When the lemons were delivered, the busboy seemed unable to keep his composure.  He seemed almost giddy.  Once again, I missed a signal, as I interpreted this to mean that he was taken aback by my date's stunning beauty.

The evening progressed further and we ended up at a place with live music. By this time, Tonya was getting touchy feely, which was a bit much given my conservative approach to dating and my chivalrous nature.  The date concluded with a hug and an agreement to see each other later that week.

For the next date, I met her at her apartment where I met her roommate, who was a very nice gay guy with a wicked sense of humor. At one point, I excused myself to use her bathroom, which was immaculate. Everything was freshly cleaned.  I noticed that the toilet seat was up, which, at the time, I dismissed to her cleaning regimen of perhaps these two shared a restroom. Another missed signal.

On this night, we ended up at a restaurant by the beach. Again, she was dressed to impress and smelled like a little slice of heaven. During the date, she enjoyed Mojito after Mojito. As she did, she opened up even further...and got even friendlier. The conversation was flowing well and despite her vocabulary challenges, I found her adorable. By midnight, it was time to walk her home. Hand in hand, we strolled back to her place. I marveled at how much we had in common...unlucky in love, but still optimistic, hard working, ambitious, extensive travel experience and a creative streak.

We got to the door and it seemed as if neither of us wanted to say goodbye. She was a bit tipsy, bordering on sloppy.  After rejecting an offer to come inside for a night cap, she professed her admiration for my gentlemanly ways with 'aww, you're such a gentleman.  I'm really liking you right now.'  As she leaned back against the wall, she pulled me close to her as if she was moving in for a kiss.  It was at this time that I could feel how much she really like me.  As in, I really FELT it.

She was clearly aroused.  "Clearly," as in you could see it bulging from her dress.

Shocked back to reality, I pulled back and looked down with stunning surprise. She had one finger in her mouth and coyly stated "that's for you, honey."  I took a minute, composed myself in awkward silence and stated "Im sorry.  I don't think I'm what you're looking for."  She grew angry and stated that 'I thought you knew.'  (I remember waiting for Ashton Kucher to pop out proclaiming that I've been "Punked.")

Um, no I didn't.  I politely said "I read your profile thoroughly and at no point did it state that your were...you know."  'It's called TransGender.  Baby, I'm the best of both worlds, how can you not be into this?'

Switching gears, I tried to find a way to be polite. I told her that "I'm surprised by all this and just need some time to take it all in."  Without missing a beat, she replied with 'Come inside for awhile. You can take it all in there.'

Trying not to laugh at the inference, I politely excused myself and headed home.

On the drive home, I evaluated how I had missed the signs: the toilet seat up. Mexican slang words.  Bartender's odd emphasis on the word "lady."   Realization that a "woman" this stunning being single was too good to be true.  Just for the record, this was the Mona Lisa of Trannies.  She didn't have a deep voice, an Adam's Apple or any other indication (except of course, the bulge in her skirt.)


I'm not casting judgment on Transgender persons or anyone, for that matter.  I can appreciate the notion of trying to "sell yourself" on a dating website wherein you accentuate your qualities, but it's a truth-in-advertising thing for me. You really need to give at least a FAIR representation of what you're offering.  Therein lies the problem with online dating, I surmised.

Obviously (to most), I ditched her phone number.  I saw her again online a few days later, where she had changed her username.  I think she should've changed it to "The Meat Packer,"  which I thought was a clever double entendre, but "TS_Tonya" is just as good, I suppose. 

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

Birds Of A Feather...

This story come from a writer who offers a woman's view about dating a MALE Hamster.   

I know this site appears to be a venting forum for men, but we ladies have encountered our fair share of HAMSTERS, too! You see, I did not date a Hamster, I married one!

I dated this Hamster for nine years. This Hamster had always shown signs of Hamsterness, but somehow, I ignored the signs.  I was very young when we met. I was impressionable and soon became very dependent on him.

My Hamster often lashed out at me, verbally and emotionally. At times, the verbal and emotional abuse seemed worse than physical abuse.  I forgave Hamster over and over again by convincing myself that he was stressed from work.  Mind you, my "adorable" Hamster was on his wheels for hours on end. He provided a very comfortable lifestyle for us.

Before you begin to conclude that I was weak, or that I had low self-esteem, was unattractive or was a gold digger, let me clarify:

I am in my mid 30’s. We met when I was in my early 20’s. Most men would find me attractive. I have a post graduate degree. I own my own home, pay my own bills and care for my parents. While I have plenty of shortcomings (and trust me, we all do), none of them resided in our bedroom. I fully appreciate that some men cheat because the sex is unsatisfactory.  Some cheat just to try something different.  Some simply can't past the "hunter/gatherer" instinct that seems to be so deeply ingrained in some men...not all, but some. Some men are just knuckle-draggers and some women respond to cave men...I get it. 

But I digress.

One day, Hamster proposed to me in front of his best friend and his wife. We will call the best friend "The Parrot" (because he simply followed the lead of his wife)  and the wife, who we'll call  "The Hen." 

Here is a little background on The Parrot and The  Hen:  I dubbed him The Parrot because when he took back his poor-excuse-of-a-wife back after she left him for one of her lovers, he regurgitated her excuses as if they were valid. The Hen came back after her lover realized that she was after his money. I was actually there for The Parrot A (as a friend and confidant) through his tough six months of temporary separation.

Anyhow, I reluctantly said 'yes' to Hamster's awkward proposal, even though I instinctively knew that I was making a huge mistake. I am not the kind of woman that needs to be married to be happy. In my opinion, couples will quarrel, that is a fact of life and life is not perfect, but my life was acceptable, so why not follow conventional wisdom and get married?  After all, by this time, we had been dating for the better part of a decade.  

At first, all was normal.  Our little love nest was all set up and lined with wedding gifts.  After eight months though, my little Hamster was rarely at the nest and instead, was roosting at the The Parrot’s house till the break of dawn. Turns out that The Hen has a sister that I'll call "The Cockatoo," because she's definitely had a Cock (or two).  This little bird has a criminal record for cultivating marijuana in her home.  She insisted that she had no idea they were marijuana and just thought it 'looked pretty.'  I foolishly used my background to help her deal with this mess, at one point. The feds confiscated her property, so she was forced to stay at The Parrot's home. 

Nevertheless, I wasn't really threatened by her and as far as I knew, she was keeping her beak our of my business, so I actually felt sorry for her.  My take was that The Cockatoo was mixed up and I knew she had a few skeletons.  Little did I know that she might as well been living in a graveyard, with all the skeletons she had.

I had no idea what my Hamster would see in her. (Um, maybe his wee-wee? ~ Craig)

After some time, things started to deteriorate back at our little love nest.  In one extreme incident, Hamster's neglect at home along with random, abusive outbursts forced me to leave the home we shared for a couple of days to cool down. After a couple of days, I came home to find my cheating Hamster and The Cockatoo completely naked and doing the act, on one of my favorite red throws, in my own living room! (This was an episode of "Friends," right?  Ross and Rachel?  They were on a break?~ Craig)

My Hamster had the cajones to accuse me of not respecting his privacy. Privacy, in my book, is leaving a man alone with the Victoria Secret catalog in the bathroom.  That does not include giving him space to have intimate relations with a mutual "friend" while we already having problems.

In his view,  I should have warned him that I was coming home to MY HOUSE! I was beside myself. The Cockatoo had a smirk on her face and trust me, I wanted to rip it off, but I just landed a new job for a high profile agency and could not risk losing it through a senseless act of violence. 

The following day, another girlfriend of mine came to my love nest, grabbed my clothes and nothing more. I never went back. The Cockatoo moved in with Hamster the very next day after I cleared out my belongings.

Hamster did call me on the phone shortly thereafter. I was totally ready to hear his apology, an excuse, or an admission of wrong-doing.  I didn't get it.  Instead, he told me that I was TOO YOUNG for him. He needed someone older. Um, that's something you could've mentioned BEFORE THE WEDDING!  (For the record, don't most guys PREFER the younger of the two when in a love triangle? ~ Craig)

The Cockatoo is only five years my senior, but she could have easily passed for my aunt. This is not a bitter woman ranting, it is simple common sense.  If a man is going to cheat, conventional wisdom holds that he's not satisfied at home (which wasn't the case, because our sex was more Rabbit-like than Hamster-like), or that he truly feels a connection with the other party, or that he's "trading up" by going to a younger, hotter chick.  None of these applied. 

Needless to say, three months after the Hamster and The Cockatoo were cohabiting, she started pecking at him for more scratch (money).  Seems she was growing dissatisfied with him, too....or maybe she just chokes on small bones.  No matter to me,  I was happily making my nest elsewhere.

Birds of a feather flock together, as they say, but if you'll pardon the pun, I find them all fowl! 

Opinions expressed are those of the author(s)

No Baloney Strippers

If you want to know what led to my sincere appreciation for Asian women, perhaps this story will give you a clue.  It's about an old friend and her new (at the time) roommate. It involves an Asian stripper. And a white stripper.  Of course, they prefer to be called "entertainers." 

Several years ago, I met this girl who we'll call "Cindy."  I had known her for a few years but fell out of touch with her.  I met her at a car show event and I knew a guy she had dated.  At the time, she was in school and working nights trying to rebound from a bad home life.  I reconnected with her about 5 years later.  Cindy was a white girl, living in Bakersfield and at 24 years old, she was very pretty.  She wasn't all that smart, but I attributed that to a lack of education.  She was sweet and down to Earth and I got the sense she was trying to stay disconnected from the seedy world of dancing, but it was the only night job she could get to make ends meet. (In retrospect, this was my Captain Save A Ho period, where I was determined to be someone's Knight in Shining Armor. )

Cindy had revealed to me that she had been molested by her step dad who was serving time for the crime (shocker...a stripper who had been molested), that she had a sister in rehab (who was around 40 years old) and that all of her exes had cheated on her.  That's quite a history for a 24 year old, but then I remember we're talking about Bakersfield residents.  Of course, the world of strippers was foreign to me.  I had never been in a strip club and I had never met a stripper, so I had no real idea of what was involved in their world.

When I did get reconnected with her, she was about 28, had a 3 year old son by some British "regular" and was driving a BMW that was allegedly paid for by some middle eastern owner of a local BMW dealership.  Word on the street was that she had been passed around the dealership like a copy of Swimsuit Illustrated, but I'm not one to go in for rumors.

When I ran into her (I was in town for a car club event at a local track), we agreed to catch up over dinner.  This led us back to her place where I was introduced to this stunning 20 year old Asian girl who we'll call "Marilyn." For the record, even I have an age limit.  For me, 10-12 years' differentiation is the absolute maximum (now, back then, it was maybe 6-7).  At the time, I was in my early to mid thirties.  In retrospect, if she was about 24-25, I'd have thought differently about the situation.

My first impression of Marilyn was drawn from overhearing a phone conversation between her and some poor sap who was begging for a second chance with her. Over the phone, she screamed things like "well, if you can't f#$k me right, you should be at least paying my bills." Apparently, she seemed dissatisfied with his "performance" but as a consolation, was willing to take his money.  How kind of her.

As the night progressed, the liquor flowed.  Cindy and Marilyn retired to their room on more than one occasion where they shed more clothes each time and partook of a white powdery substance.  I'm guessing it was a dietary aid, as neither girl had an ounce of fat on them.  I'm not a drinker, so I was thinking pretty clearly, despite the loss of blood flow to my brain.

As the clock approached the bewitching hour, it was getting time for me to head home.  It's worth noting that I always viewed Cindy as a friend...I never intended to hook up with her, as I felt that she had trusted me with her thoughts, hopes and fears and who was I to take advantage of a girl in a moment of vulnerability?  I had had several opportunities to make a pass on her, but never felt compelled to.  

Cindy seemed to enjoy my company more than usual that night and she sensed that I was curious about Asian women.  After a little prodding, it became clear that she was open to hooking me up with her roommate.  Not a hook up as in 'take her on a date,' more like 'take her on the floor in front of me.'   To kick things off, the two girls exercised their skills on one another in front of me.  Like stripper Ninjas, they produced some toys to aid in the process.

I was both fascinated and flabbergasted.  The "guy" in me said "jump in...this is a once in a lifetime opportunity."   The logical side of me said "you have no protection and I'm willing to bet there is a bit more risk with these two partners than the girl from my church."  When I expressed this to Cindy, she kindly informed me that it wasn't necessary, because they are both tested regularly.  I should've asked to see the "Whore Fax," but without documentation, I was unwilling to proceed.  It was tempting, though, because in all honesty, something happens to a man when the blood leaves his head and flows to other areas.  All sense of logic is removed.  Time is warped.  Judging distances is impossible...six inches becomes twelve, a 150 mile drive becomes a 50 mile drive.  A million thoughts were running through my head.  Could I satisfy both?  Can I make it home in time for work in the morning?  Who else would find out about this dark chapter in my life? Would I be taking home a souvenir that would only show up on blood tests?

Somehow, in all of this, I thought to myself 'I'm hungry.'   Naturally, I went to her kitchen and made myself a snack, then sat down to watch the show. In true stripper fashion, her refrigerator consisted of bottled milk (for her baby) and baloney sandwich fixings.  I slathered on some highly-suspect Mayo and sat down to enjoy the show.

Despite being offered an opportunity to join on several occasions, I simply replied that I was enjoying watching.  Worth noting is that I had a girlfriend at the time, with whom I was very content, but I ain't gonna lie...this was extremely tempting because I was pretty sure I'd never get caught. In fact, I was 99% sure.


I went home around 2 am, replaying the incident in my head and I realized I felt like a dog who had just pooped on the carpet. I was not sure if I was more ashamed at putting myself in that situation or more disappointed with Cindy's sad life.  I resolved it by saying that this is the life she chose for herself and she seems happy, so who am I to judge? 

When I got home, I was feeling ill.  I had just started seeing a gal (three dates in or so) and I was sure she'd see my guilt on my face, even though I hadn't really done anything.  By lunch, I was puking up my baloney sandwich.  Perhaps God was punishing me, a profound sense of guilt, or maybe it was just the nausea over realizing that apparently, I'm not "threesome guy." But I could have been.