Em's story

Y’all remember Auntie Em, my sweet cool punk rock friend, the one who's going to hell for assaulting a handicapped person? She called me last night to tell me the good news, that she’s probably getting married. She’s flying out to NZ next month (that’s friggin New Zealand!) to meet her intended, whom she met on MySpace.

She told me a little about this bloke, he sounds perfect for her. She said he’s got kind of a wild past. For instance, he shagged a midget, just for the novelty of it.

The two lovebirds had their first big fight last week. As always, Em had me squealing with laughter as she told me about it.

In the course of conversation, her kiwi fella happened to mention that there’s a limit to the amount of sexual experience he’d accept in a woman. Literally, there’s a specific number in his head—if she’s had any more sex partners in her past than this number, she’s just too slutty for him and he could never be in a relationship with her.

With some trepidation, she asked, “What number?”

“20”

Well she thought about it for a week. And then she bucked up and did the courageous thing.

“Uh, baby, you remember when you said...” and she went on to confess that at the age of 30, having been in a punk rock band in the Pacific Northwest, and being adventurous enough in her soul to travel halfway around the world to meet him—she’d certainly had more than 20 sex partners in her past. If this was a deal-breaker for him, she wanted him to know it now.

We discussed this at length—a very interesting question. Should she have told him? He had not specifically asked her how many she’d been with, she certainly could have simply never brought it up again and saved herself the drama. But, she decided, if her future husband considers her a slut based on the number of men she’d been with before she met him, then she wanted to know this and wanted him to know it as well. So she bravely went forth into the breach.

They had the whole preliminary, “Uh, so the number’s bigger than 20? How much bigger?” conversation, which progressed to the “Oh my god, you whore!” stage and culminated in him actually vomiting (with her on the phone) in total distress and repulsion. He hung up on her. And then called back 20 minutes later to apologize.

Em’s mother said, a man is very open-minded about a woman he doesn’t want to marry.

As she told me about their argument, I asked her, “What did you say?”

She said: “I said, ‘Excuse me! Fucked a midget!’ You exploited a little person! And you’re going to judge me?”

This had us rolling on the floor laughing for several minutes. We decided, this is her trump card. During any argument they may ever have, all she ever needs to do is say, “Fucked a midget!” and the argument is over.

Ladies, this is the secret to arguing with a man. Find your trump card and use it wisely.

No More Moles, Warts, or Skin Tags. Yay!

I like to use odd things for divination. Today, I turned to my Spam Folder in my email. I guess this would be Spamomancy. I will attempt to divine deep spiritual insight from the spam in my junk folder.

My Past:

Be a Champion in the Bedroom. Hmm, yes, I vaguely recall something like this in my distant past. Introducing the Stronger, Longer-Lasting male enhancement system. Increase her satisfaction. Vivid virility. Yeah, okay, this is the Relentless Tease. Combine this with a handful of spam about easy-credit short-term loans, and I understand that all that satisfaction and vivid virility came with a hefty interest rate. Paid that sucker off, and I'll be stashing away my goodies until I have enough saved up for another Champion in the Bedroom.

My Present:

I'm ready for a change - how about you? Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Mate1 Intimate Dating: You should sign up, it takes only 5 secs. Only 5 secs to Intimate Dating, huh? Cool. Combined with the next spam in the list: She's looking for you, I'm thinking the "change" I'm ready for may be more drastic than I thought. Hmm, she's looking for me. I wonder what she looks like. Nice soft belly, sweet lips. Blue eyes. Note to self: find out if there's some kind of form that has to be filed in order to officially become a lesbian.

My Future:

Can you be like a man? Well shoot, if I'm gunna start shagging women, I guess I can be like a man in some kinda way. C1alls Soft Tabs is the new impotence treatment drug that everyone is talking about. You need only 15 minutes till you feel the effect. Fifteen minutes and I can be like a man. Damn. Do I have to be exactly like a man? Can I just be strong and unfeeling like a man, yet still be smart and intuitive and feminine like a woman?

No more Moles, Warts or Skin Tags. Oh, thank God. I don't think I could survive another Wart. I'll be happy enough if all the moles, warts and skin tags could just stay right the hell away from me from now on. Watch your moles and warts disappear! Well, yeah, they do that. No more burning, freezing or products that don't work. But, you know, I might miss the burning just a little bit. Learn about the quick, painless way people are removing moles, warts and skin tags. And it's a bright outlook for my future. I will learn how to get rid of those pesky Warts quickly and painlessly next time.

Sweet Silver Angels Over the Sea

Ship's Log, Day 1
Thursday, Aug. 31, 2006
We were four hours on the Party Bus to Galveston drinking mimosas with a guy named Tim who promised to "take care of us." Sissy brought seasickness wristbands to keep us from getting sick. They're little black bands for each wrist with a white bump in the middle for an accupressure point on the inner wrist. I took mine off the first night, but she's still wearing hers.

We got leis'd as we got off the bus, then we were herded through the checkin/boarding process. I watched very closely, reader, and I did not see a single pirate among the passengers. Only redneck families with children, couples in love (aww!!) and juvenile college guys wearing bachelor party tee shirts.

After learning how to work our life preservers, we were all set to party. Bring me that horizon. Sissy went off to find a dancefloor and I went off to discover that the "hot tub" is really more of a "bubbly water tub." I long for warmth, please, some warm place to submerge myself. Inside, the ship is as cold as a meat locker. Out on deck at night, the air is crisp to my delicate skin. I'd give anything for a parka.

What kind of an idiot goes on a cruise and forgets to pack condoms?!? Oh well, it would appear that the ship is filled with people I wouldn't shag anyway, so it's just as well I have no condoms. It would be depressing if I'd packed them and then brought them home unused.

At dinner, we were assigned seats. Sissy, myself, and four other women looked around dubiously at each other before one of them called a waiter over to ask "Why am I seated at the wallflower table?" The waiter, I think his name was Julio, did not appear to speak English. He said "Yes, ma'am," and walked away. It all made more sense when George, the president of the group we're with, came to take his seat at our table. I assume he made the seating assignments since he's the only man lucky enough to be assigned to a table with six women and no other men.
When I returned to our cabin after the hot tub, our beds were turned down, with mints on our pillows, and someone built a sculpture of an elephant out of towels on our window sill. Good night. /tess

Ship's Log, Day 2
Friday, Sept. 1, 2006
Sometime during the night our ship, the Ecstasy, was boarded by pirates. Stealthy they came, their ship crept up in the night and lay against our cruiser like a malevolent shadow. They must have changed clothes in the Skallywag Lounge, for they were dressed in proper clothes when I first spotted them by the pool. They were cleverly disguised, but you know Tess knows a pirate when she sees one. I ate three lobster tails for dinner. What kind of an animal eats three lobster tails (with butter) at one sitting? Found the hot tub that actually gets hot. Tonight's towel sculpture was a puppy dog. /tess (in Ecstasy...)

Ship's Log, Day 3
Saturday, September 2, 2006
We went aground this morning in Cozumel. Just as we left the ship we hooked up with Tim again, who promised again to "take care of us." Very quickly Sissy disappeared, leaving Tim and I to fight off the natives on our own.

Lots of Mexicans in Cozumel. They kept referring to Tim as my husband. I practiced my Spanish. I said, "Buscando un esposo nuevo, por favor! Un esposo Mexicano!" I think I said it right, for several of the natives responded quite favorably.

We saw some Federalis arresting some woman, or maybe just writing her a ticket or something, I don't know, but I noticed there is something much more sinister and intimidating about the Mexican police. American police are almost comical, with their goofy hats and their mailman uniforms. You see an American cop and you almost just wanna mess with him for fun. Not so the Federalis. In their helmets and riot gear, with their lean bodies and dark malevolent featuers, they do not invite any sort of monkey business or jokes at their expense. I took a picture of the two we saw, and Tim cautioned me, "They don't like it when you do that." He jerked his head in a frantic "follow me, come on, come on" gesture and grabbed my hand.

I ignored him and waited for the pirate policeman to arrest me. He came near, looking down from his intimidating height, his boots tapping on the sidewalk. His face was unreadable, his Latino features set firm in disapproval. With a gentle yet forceful hand on my chest, he backed me to the wall and leaned in close to whisper something in Spanish that I could not understand.

"Give me your hands," he said and I held them out weakly, unsure what I hoped he would do with them. My adrenaline rush made it hard to hear him or to focus my eyes on his sinister gaze. The blood beat steady in my ears. Taking my wrists together in one strong hand, he yanked my arms above my head, causing me to drop my camera.

"Hey!" I said, before being twirled smoothly around in an instant to find my face and chest against the wall, my hands now pinned behind my back. He leaned in against me, whispering again in Spanish, and shoved his knee betwwn my thighs. I felt him strong and hard against my ass and wondered if that was himself or his weapon I felt there.

Okay, okay, not really. I took the picture, Tim said "They don't like it when you do that." The police scowled at me, and we walked on.
Ah, but those policemen did appear later in my dreams, you bet. Tonight's towel sculpture was a monkey.

Tess's Lonely Hearts Club

I took inventory recently of my bookshelf and I was amused (depressed?) to see the number of books I’ve purchased on the subject of love and dating.

One book, with the embarrassing title of How to Make Anyone Fall in Love With You provided some really good stuff. Here’s what I learned from this book:

The All-Important First Impression Everybody knows that first impressions are crucial. And since you never know when your path will be crossing with your victim--er, your true love--you want to make sure you spruce yourself up every time you leave the house. Don’t be tempted to schlump off to the post office or the bank in your sweats, with your hair and face looking like a scrambled egg.

Cheating Death is the Best Date for Making Love Bloom Better than a simple dinner/movie date is one in which actually surviving the date is not a given. Studies show that the chemicals released into the brain when our life is threatened are similar to those released when we fall in love. So similar in fact that we can’t really tell the difference. Getting your date to feel like she’s in love is the first step to actually getting her there.

The Art of the Compliment There’s an art to paying compliments that bring about feelings of love. Clumsy compliments can make you seem insincere or desperate or retarded. The trick is to pay subtle verbal compliments, while letting your eyes do the heavy hitting. Your eyes should be expressive, with large pupils, intense eye contact, barely able to drag themselves away from her supreme countenance. Subtle verbal compliments would be something like "It’s a long hike but you look like you can handle it." or "As bright as you are, you would have seen it coming a mile away." Save the really big verbal compliments for maximum impact later on.

Don’t Try Dating Out of Your League This piece of advice struck me as the most likely cause for the majority of lonely hearts. Especially for men. As competitive as men are, they want to go for the hot chick that every other man is going for as well.

It’s no surprise that we all have a market value in the meat market of love. Your value is a combination of a handful of attributes: looks, status, money, intelligence, charm, etc. Studies show that successful relationships occur between people who are relatively equal in value. When someone marries or dates out of their league, chances are very high that they will not be as happy as they think they will.

This is because both partners in a couple will subconsciously try to even out the relationship. If the girl is hot and the guy is ugly but rich, an equity balance is created. Each person is getting something. But if one person is much better looking, smarter and more successful than the other, he will subconsciously attempt to create balance by withholding things such as affection, respect and other things needed in a healthy relationship.

While it is possible to fool your victim into thinking that your market value is higher than it really is, you’d be a lot happier if you set your sights on someone who brings little more to the table than you do.

As I said, this is especially true for men. Every lonely man I know is alone because he wants what every other man wants: a young, thin beautiful woman with brains and charm who is a demon between the sheets.

So make a fair assessment of your own market value and try to select your dates from the same pool of prospects.