A Good Ole Cock Blocking Time!

One of the many definitions of “cock block” on Urban Dictionary goes like this:

(n.) one who prevents another from getting "play", "poontang", etc.

(v.) any action that impedes or stalls another's "game", "mack", or "pimp maneuver"

One of their many definitions of a “cock blocker” reads as:

Insecure male that horns in on any developing interaction another male has established with a female, an extremely embarrassing and pathetic event to watch.

I will admit…I’ve been a cock blocker on occasion. Only to friends though. I’ve never cock blocked a total stranger. Also, I only do it when I deem it necessary. When do I deem it necessary? Let me give you an example.

I was at a rave one time, nicely rolling, when I noticed this girl. At the time I thought she was gorgeous…on x though…everyone is gorgeous. I’ll take that back. Most of the time I could still tell if a woman was attractive or not. In fact, a lot of my friends would ask me about the attractiveness of a woman before actually going after her. So I see this attractive girl and I start talking to her. Talking led to me giving her a massage. I’ve been massaging her for about fifteen minutes, talking to her for about an hour, when she leans back and asks, “That’s your friend right?” I look up to see my former best friend dancing. “Yeah?” She looks away from me, back to him, and smiles. “Is he single?” What would you do in that situation? You’ve been massaging, you’ve been talking, to this girl that you are obviously attracted to. I did what any sane and logical person would do…”Him? Hahaha. He’s gay.”

Yep…I did it. She ended up dancing with him all night. On the car ride back home he says to me, “Dude. When I asked that chick for her number as we were leaving, she laughed at me.”

Now let me tell you what happened Monday night.

I go to the same bar pretty much every Monday. For awhile there I went every Monday for about 3-4 years. Seriously…it was like a weekly ritual. I used to sit at the same table (it practically had my name on it), had the same server, ordered the same thing to drink, the same food to eat, and I would usually have a ten minute discussion with the manager, T. After the break up with the last ex (who I met there) and moving into the apartment (I had no money), I stopped going. There was a bar down the street from my apartment (read: hella cheap) and I had basically no chance of running into said ex there. Recently (because I moved back home, read: more money), I started going back. It doesn’t hurt that my friend and former coworker (M), a tiny little tattooed deviant, is also the bartender there. So now, instead of my table, I sit at the bar. Was that a good rundown?

So Monday night I grab a friend (Brad) and we head up there. We take a seat at the bar, pace ourselves through the first two quarters of the game (Giants vs. Cowboys), and then start drinking after half-time. Sitting next to us were these two guys. One of them apparently used to be a regular there, we shall call him Mr. No-Chin. Or…Mr. NC for short. I ended up having a couple of football related conversations with the guy. He was ok, but he was also a money man…buying shot, after shot, after shot. At some point his buddy leaves and A and E show up. Now, I know A, she’s a server at the bar (I don’t think she’s ever waited on me) and a roomie of M's. She was looking…delicious.

Now here is where it gets confusing. I can never tell if a girl is flirting with me. Seriously, its like some goddamn glitch in my brain or something. If I’ve ever told the “So what’s it like to kiss a smoker?” story…you’d understand this. But I thought A was flirting with me. Mainly with the eye thing. You know how you look at someone, like, with the flirty eye? I thought we kept exchanging glances. Of course, she could have just been looking over and I inferred I was getting the flirty eye. I walked by her once and she stopped me and said something. The only thing I heard was “Ty.” For the life of me I am terrible with names. Fucking terrible. I…I don’t know her name.

It’s around this point that M quickly sneaks out of the bar, but not before I ask her what her roomies name is (or maybe I asked T…but I‘m pretty sure it was M), and she tells me its A. She got cut from her shift early and she didn’t want her roomie to catch her and start drinking. So, I text her a little while later.

Is your roomie A single?

Yup

So if I could get these cock blockers out of the way. A is the one you work with yeah?

Yeah. E is the one with dark hair.

You are a fantastic text wingman.

I try!

*cue 30 minutes later*

Well this is hopeless. Haha.

For some reason I feel like there are texts missing…Oh well…I was drinking.

Where was I? Oh right, the cock blocking.

So, every time I tried to talk to A someone would interrupt. Never a female…oh no…always a male. If it wasn’t Mr. NC it was Mr. Fat Dude in a Half Business Suit. Seriously. At one point we were in the middle of a conversation and suddenly all I see in front of me is a large white dress shirt. I was like…uhhhhh. This happened…repeatedly. It was like a chain reaction.

Lock eyes.

Dress shirt.

“I saw your post on M's wall. About your hoodie.”

“Oh yeah, do you know where it is?”

“In a box somewhere. I told her to sell it.”

"You did wha..."

Dress shirt.

Eyes.

Shirt.

“So your team is…”

Shirt.

“So Ty…”

Shirt.

Holy shit he moved!

“Your team can still come back and win.”

“No they can’t.”

“Oh ye of little faith, of course they can. They have to score, get an onside kick, and score again.”

“Like that’s going to happ…”

Shirt.

Eyes.

Shirt.

“Don’t look at me like that Ty. Don’t judge me with your eyes.”

Shirt.

“Does you cell phone cover match the shirt you’re wearing?”

“I guess so. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Uhh huh.”

Shirt.

It was like the fucking Never-ending Story. Could I have simply taken advantage of one of the opportunities when the seat was open? Moved over? I suppose I could have, but that would have been dick. Mr. NC had technically been sitting there longer than I had.

So, I pretty much give up. I end up in a seriously long conversation with T. During which, the cock blocking was actually discussed. Note: the conversations from now on will be roughly translated. Like I said, there…uhh…was alcohol involved.

“Who keeps cock blocking you?”

“The dude in the half suit.”

*she shakes her head*

“He’s a regular here, he doesn’t have a chance.”

“That doesn’t stop him from cock blocking me.”

The night is winding down, the bar is closing. I go to the bathroom and come out to realize that A & E are playing pool with Mr. NC and some other dude. So what do I do? I slide over there. Finally, I get to talk to her. Not much mind you considering she’s playing pool (drunken pool is very slow), and trying to talk to the people she’s playing with. But, I’m trying (although my creative conversation meter has been beermatized). When…cue drum roll. Brad walks over (who, by the way, had been bugging me the whole night to go over and play wingman for him with other women. When…I was obviously occupied).

“Dude, you ready to go?”

FUCK.

So, the moral of the story is this. I didn’t ask her out, I didn’t even get her phone number. For fucksakes, I don’t even know if she would be interested in the first place. But cock blocking seriously sucks, and that was by far the worst cock blocking I‘ve ever endured…from a stranger.

Also, I’m not one to ask out a server at an establishment I frequent. It’s like a rule I have. The one time I tried it…ended up horrible. If they flirt with you when they are working its likely because they think they will get a better tip. Which they will. BUT, she wasn’t working…and she looked delicious.

Ohhhhh. Icing on the cake? This!

And yes…that like would happen to be the bar I go to. I also realize that means anyone who goes to this bar will also know everyone I am talking about. I was going to use their real names throughout the blog because of this fact, but I decided that not everyone who reads this will know that. Therefore, their one letter title's.

So,What Are You Thinking About?

So, what are you thinking?

So, what are you thinking about?

What are you thinking?

What are you thinking about?

What’s on your mind?

What’s going on in that head of yours?

Tell me what you’re thinking…

Etc.

Etc.

This…any of these…a combination of them…is like an anvil to my very core. Not all the time mind you, specific times. Particularly when escaping the lips of a woman. I don’t know why I don’t like discussing what I’m thinking. Scratch that, I do know why. It’s because 90% of the time I’m pretty sure they don’t want to know what I’m thinking. So then I have to lie, tell them something that I think they want to hear. Or, I say the little magic word, “Nothing” or “I’m not thinking anything.” Of course women know this is bullshit, it‘s not a magic word, it‘s more like a death sentence. They know I’m thinking something. So they insist;

Come on…

Come on, tell me…

I want to know…

Why won’t you tell me?

Etc.

Etc.

I imagine it’s what went through Eve’s head when the bible blamed women for being the origin for original sin. As we all know, Eve ate the forbidden fruit. However, we also know that women are always right. Always right. So I’m sure when she heard what had been written in the bible she went, “Goddam…sorry. You know Adam ate that fruit. Look at my figure, do you think I would ruin this? Not to mention, we know women don’t stick weird things in our mouths…like hissing cockroaches…men do that. Why do I get blamed for starting all of this? Women are smarter than men. So, I wouldn’t have been that dumb to eat that thing. Adam did it. Because men are dumb. Do I need to mention the snake? A snake? Bitch please, I ran. The thing had weird skin and hissed…did I mention the hissing cockroaches?”

Those particular instances I mentioned? They go something like this.

After a little “afternoon delight.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I could really go for a meatball sub from Subway. Am I going to be late for work?

“That I enjoy these moments.”

“That’s it?”

Shit, she wanted something more. I‘ll get extra cheese on that sub.

“Wanna go again?”

*disgusted/awkward look*

After a surprise romantic encounter.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

She totally planned this tonight because she knew I would want to watch the football game.

“That I like it when you’re sweet.”

“Am I not always sweet?”

Not when you hit me the other night. I wonder if I can still catch the game.

“Yes, you’re always sweet.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Fuck. What quarter is it? Can I sneak a peek at my watch?

“I’m not trying to. I mean that.”

“Why do you always ruin shit?”

*disgusted/awkward look*

After a quick romp of some serious fucking.

“I want to know what you’re thinking about, right now.”

Right now? Well I was just…fine…I was thinking about what an old woman would look like decapitated in a car wreck.

“That you have a fantastic ass.”

“That’s what you’re thinking? That’s romantic.”

Well, really, I’m kind of writing a story right now in my head. I need to wash my crotch.

“Romantic? We just had some seriously dirty fucking.”

“And you’re thinking about my ass? How come we don’t make love anymore?”

Because we hardly have sex anymore? What's that smell?

“What? Uhhhh…I don’t know.”

*disgusted/awkward look*

During an fight.

“Why are you being so quiet?”

I was totally thinking about what it would be like if zombies attacked the house right now.

“I’m just thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

That I totally tuned you out about 20 minutes ago and you didn’t even notice.

“What you’re saying. I can understand your point.”

“And my point is?”

Fuck…dug yourself in a hole again. Would the zombies be able to get through the bush to the window?

“I’m sorry?”

*disgusted/awkward look*

On a road trip.

“You haven’t said anything in, like, twenty minutes. What’s up in that head of yours?”

That you haven’t shut the fuck up for the last hour. Was that a deer?

“I’m just enjoying the scenery.”

“The scenery?”

How many people know we went on this trip? Can I possibly get away with killing her? I bet that was a deer.

“Yeah. I’m enjoying the view.”

“So you don’t have anything to talk about?”

Red Rum. Red Rum. Mmmmmm rum.

“Why do we always have to talk? Can’t we just ride a little in quiet?”

“So you want me to shut up? If you want me to shut up why don’t you just tell me to shut the fuck up?”

Shut the fuck up! I wonder if I‘m going to the bar tonight.

“I didn’t say that.”

*disgusted/awkward look*

Sitting in line at a fast food restaurant.

“So, what are you thinking about?”

What would happen if a jumbo jet landed on 75 in the middle of rush hour traffic.

“What I want to eat?”

“I just told you about my day and you have nothing to tell me?”

I wonder how much destruction that would cause. Seriously. Like…how big would the fireball be?

“I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“You weren’t paying attention?”

Yup. Because I just saw you 3 hours ago. So much happened in your life in 3 fucking hours. How would they get paramedics down to the scene?

“Do you ever listen to me?”

“Of course I do.”

*disgusted/awkward look*

I…could…go…all…day. I consider myself a creative person. A lot of times I can pretty much guarantee that my mind is somewhere else. I daydream, a lot. I don’t like conversing about random bullshit, unless I specifically ask. Most of the time I like to operate around a topic of discussion. I’ve been out to eat at restaurants and watched a woman ramble for hours about…Joe and Donna. While her boyfriend sits there pretending to look interested. Likely, he doesn’t give a fuck about Joe and Donna. The fact that Joe left to go out to the bar with his friends leaving Donna at home. That you just went shopping with her and she bought some new lingerie. Seriously. I think, my main problem is the ADD. When someone, male or female, starts a diatribe, I flash to being in one of my college classes. You know what I did in my college classes? I slept. Which is likely a contributing factor to why I failed college. I can’t stand being lectured, or talked to. Involve me in the conversation and we can go all day.

“So Donna and I went to the store and she bought some lingerie. Do you know what I bought?”

“Did you buy some lingerie?”

“No. But you’re going to like it. She’s mad though because Joe went to the bar last night without her. Would you go without me?”

“That would depend. Is it a guys night?”

That’s what I’m saying, keep me involved. If you’re going to ask me what I’m thinking…tell me what you’re thinking first.

After a quick romp of some serious fucking.

“Whew. Sweet Jesus. I was wondering though, why don’t we make love anymore? I think its because we seem to be growing apart. What do you think?”

“I think so. Why are we growing apart?”

“Probably because I want to fuck this guy I work with and you’re not doing it for me anymore.”

Ok…not really like that…but you get the idea. Involve me. Don’t just ask me. My mind is literally going in twenty different directions at any given point. It seriously never shuts the fuck up…unless I’m sleeping. I also hate, HATE, fighting. It seems like women love to fight. I like to argue, I don’t like to fight. I don’t even fight with men. If a dude walks up to me and starts talking shit, I calmly look at them and tell them to swing. I simply do not understand the logic of verbally fighting. Have a discussion. Keep a level head. Yet it seems that every time I hear that question, “So, what are you thinking,” a fight is about to start. If I actually TELL them what I’m thinking…a fight is about to start. Because I’m never thinking, apparently, what they want to hear. Even my lies don’t help me out. Obviously.

I’ve lost my train of thought. Where was I? Great…now all I can think about is what I want for dinner. What I’m doing tomorrow night. How my date is going to go on Friday. Why is my cat staring at me? The tick-tock of this clock is fucking annoying right now. I need to take dishes upstairs. Should I smoke a cigarette before I cook? I haven’t watched a movie in a couple of days…should I watch a movie? What movie? I wish I was Boba Fett.

See this? This is why you don’t ask me what I’m thinking.

So…what are you thinking? I’m an asshole aren’t I?

Whowiththewhatsit?

I’m still here. I’m still alive. I'm still...sleepy.

To be honest I’ve kind of devoted a lot of energy in my Tumblr account. To me it’s like the best part of blogging mixed with facebook. The ability to express yourself but without the limitations. In other words having the ability to post nudity, AND not choke up your friends news feed with post, after post, after post. Right now I’m only following a few blogs, and I only have a few followers, but I find that I almost feel like I can express myself better. The three that I pay attention to the most are fuckyeahtattoos, architectureblog, and bookshelfporn. I think the funniest part is how the architecture blog has actually sparked my interest in it…again. A long, long time ago…I used to love architecture. I would read books on it, look at pictures for hours, etc. Suddenly, that interest disappeared. I don’t remember why. But part of that is my combination love for modern design with antiques. I adore clean lines and large windows…but I cherish oak furniture and large leather chairs. Old school mixed with modern technology.

The other part of my energy is going towards the wonderful world of dating. I won’t get into that too much, but I will say that I am dating. I’m also not looking for a relationship. Which is where the conundrum kind of comes into play. Isn’t a relationship the purpose of dating? I suppose so, but right now I’m more so enjoying the company of women. Right now I’m pretty opposed to the idea of a relationship, but if the right girl comes along that knocks my fucking socks off? I think I would be open to the idea.

So tonight I have about three topic ideas bouncing around in my head.

1) Sex. Of course the idea of sex is always bouncing around in my head. In this case I was going to look at the different types of sex. In particular I had a desire to talk about rough sex. I’ve recently learned that my definition of rough sex varies wildly from other people. My rough sex involves a lot of bruising, and maybe even some scars. Does that make me fucked up? Shit, I don’t know. I don’t want a woman to piss or shit on me…I consider that fucked up. I know on a previous post (Wait, Am I Going To Be A Fuck Buddy) I included a picture of a girls chest after sex. I had a lot of people saying, “that poor girl,” or “that’s fucked up.” You have to know a few things. I would never do that without someone’s consent. If a lady tells me “Ow,” or “Stop,” I stop. I will no doubt test the waters, but if the reception comes back cold? I’m not going to do that. I’m not into BDSM, not really. I don’t have a desire to tie a woman up and hang clothespins from the lips of her vagina. I do like to choke though. When I say choke I don’t mean knock them unconscious. Its more I like to have my hand on their throat. Just remember though, the next time you say…”I like rough sex,” think about what that could really mean…as I grab the handcuffs, blindfold, and candle wax.

2) My perfect girl. I was asked tonight to describe my perfect woman. I apparently have this misconception that there is one person in this world who is right for me. The thought that my future wife is certainly guaranteed to live within 100 miles of me just boggles my mind. With an entire world out there how can a person fathom that the right person even lives in the same state as them? I came to the conclusion that most people settle. I think this is why the divorce rate is so high. Rather than wait for the perfect person to come along we give into this sociological demand that says we should be married. So, rather than wait, we marry the person who comes close to our ideal perfect person. So…my dream girl? She’s short, probably between 5’ and 5’6”. Athletic. Petite. I’ve never been a fan of large breasts, not really, a B or C cup is just fine for me. Dark hair (auburn, black, or brunette). Short hair. I want a woman who is a strong, independent thinker, yet who still maintains her femininity. I like a girl who wears dresses, who likes to put on heels, who wants to look good when she goes out. Yet I also want a woman who has no problem throwing on some jeans and getting caked in mud. Who would enjoy a hiking/camping trip just as much as going into the city for an extravagant dinner and catching the opera. A woman who loves to travel, who wants to experience new things, who is open to new ideas. A lady who during a rainy day will throw herself between two ideas: Playing in the rain, or curling up in a quilt and reading a book. Who likes beer. Watches sports. Reads. Who still wants to act like a child some times. Confident. Strong willed. Who likes to argue but doesn’t like to fight.

I’m not saying this is all I want…or that I expect the woman I actually find to meet all of these categories. But I want most of them to be in her. Do I expect the physical package to be spot on? No. Is that really so much to ask? Am I a fool for not settling? Is it normal for me to be prepared to go the rest of my life without finding her?

3) The definition of a man. Trouble really encouraged me to write about this one and I think it’s so she could yell at me. There was a post on Pajiba that I commented on. Basically I said I looked less at Ryan Reynolds as a man because he didn’t know how to change a flat tire. I was raised with the principle that a man is a rock. A foundation. Someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. With calluses on their hands, dirt under their fingernails. A man is a protector, a gentleman. I was taught how to change a tire when I was really young…by my father. I argued that the reason men have lost “manly” characteristics is because those things are no longer being passed down by their fathers, like how to build a fire and grill a steak. I feel that…over time…the line between femininity and masculinity has been blurred. Is that a bad thing? I guess that would depend on who you ask. I think it is. Should a woman know how to change a tire? Yes. Should a guy stop and offer to do it for her? Yes.

That’s all I’ve got right now. I’m still open to suggestions for ideas. I write better when given a topic. So what do you want to hear DB’s thoughts on? Huh? You can make it simple or controversial. Something that will make women love me…or hate me. That can make men love me…or hate me. Give me something, or you’ll get more ramblings like this post.

LSD...And YOU!

Let me tell you a story…

Before the age of twenty I had pretty much tried every drug on the planet. Now I know I probably hadn’t tried literally every drug on the planet, but I’d tried every one that I could get my hands on. Weed, Opium, Coke, Heroin, Meth, Shrooms, XTC, prescription drugs (in particular pain killers, and I loved me some soma’s), I could go on, and on, and on. So it comes, from time to time, when I get asked the question, “if you would recommend any drug, what would it be?” I can’t just say that I would recommend it, I would say I encourage everyone to try acid at least once. Now I realize there are some people who can’t take a wonderful hallucinogen like LSD. These are the people who have “bad trips.” I can’t really tell you if you are one of these people…all I can say is if you have a hard time distinguishing between reality and fantasy, its probably not for you. Some of the things I’ve seen on acid would scare the ever living shit out of some people. Me? I went meh. Because I knew there was no one in hell that it was real. I kept in control of my brain.

For example: At a rave one time I was candy-flipping (combining LSD and XTC, also known as trolling). Now most of the time you want to be around people, both of those drugs are more of a social drug. However, for some reason, I ended up by myself. So I’m sitting there in a dark corner, on a dingy floor, the smell of dust and dirt in my nose (the rave was actually taking place at a church…believe it or not) and I feel something hit my hand. I look down to see a spider crawling on me. Normally I would flip the fuck out, I hate spiders, but this time I crunched it with the fingers of my other hand. I looked back up and felt a tingle go down my arm. When I looked again I had about 300 spiders running up my arm. 300 spiders. Instead of flipping my shit I said, “that’s cool,” and got up to find someone to talk to. That’s what I mean by knowing what’s real.

For example: I’m passed out at this guys house when my friend, his girlfriend, and the guy come strolling in. They are flipping out about the girlfriend. Apparently they gave her some acid and she was having a bad trip. So they throw her on the couch and proceed to argue about how to crash it, leaving me alone with her in the living room. I’m staring at this girl, who has a perma-grin on her face, and I watch as she slowly closes her eyes. The perma-grin goes away and is replaced by a look of terror. She snaps her eyes open and says to me, tears in her voice, “Please don’t let me go back to the bad place.”

I’m just like, what? So I yell into the kitchen (where they have taken the argument), “How many hits did you give her?”

A unanimous “One,” came back out at me.

One? This bitch is flipping out on one hit? I don’t even feel anything when I take one hit. Anyway, by the time I return my attention to her she’s opening her eyes again.

“Please,” she says, tears still in her voice.

“Hey,” I reply, getting her to look at me, “quit closing your eyes.”

She looks at me dumbfounded. “What?”

“If you go to a bad place when you close your eyes…quit closing your eyes.”

She stares at me and I watch her shut her eyes again. This continues for about ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. Finally I say fuck it. She closes her eyes again and I whisper in her ear, “Spiders. Spiders are everywhere.”

A huge shiver goes down her body and the little whine in her voice gets a little higher. I don’t know how many times I did that before my friend caught on.

“Hey!” He yelled at me, “Stop that. That shit ain’t cool!”

Yes. I’m an asshole.

Back to my original point. Acid is awesome. To demonstrate the awesomeness of acid I’m going to tell you a true story. Me…on my greatest acid trip ever. The names used will be the actual rave names of the parties involved.

I don’t know what day of the week it was. I would assume it was either a Saturday or Sunday morning considering most of the raves were on Friday or Saturday night. I know it wasn’t a particularly late night because the sun hadn’t come up yet. I can’t tell you how many times I drove back from Atlanta to a sunrise. But we were all at Keebs house passing out in one of his basement rooms. Well, except for Wonka and I. We had decided to keep tripping, considering we had started candy-flipping at the rave. So Special-K is passed out on the floor, curled up in a blanket. Keebs is passed out on another chair. Wonka and I are sitting on the couch. Let me see if I can recall a layout of this room, because details are important. If I were to give the dimensions of the room I would say they were slightly larger than a prison cell. There was enough room for a tiny two person couch (not a love seat), one of those bean bag chairs, a coffee table, and a small entertainment stand. The walls had been decorated in black light reactive drawings by several people…including all of the people in the room. There were black light reactive candles, posters, etc. Keebs was also something of an amateur magician…so the wall above the couch was lined in plastic masks where he used to do some kind of mask trick. Wonka was playing with a silicone ball (apparently also good for magic tricks). He would do that trick where you toss the ball up and palm it. However, to the observer, it looks like the ball disappears. What I saw was the ball disappear…and the ceiling ripple where it would have hit. Everyone has been out for awhile and Wonka asks if I want to do another hit.

“How many?”

“Three?”

“Sure.”

So he taps Keebs awake and asks him if he can get his vile. For those not inside the know, a vile of acid is liquid acid, typically more potent than paper, and it comes in a breath assure bottle. Not always, but most of the time. He tells Keebs we both want another three hits and he hands the vile over, barely waking up to do so. I give Wonka his first. Drop. Drop. Drop. Underneath his tongue. He turns to do the same, only I feel: Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.

“Did I give you any?”

“Yeah.”

PPPPPSSSHSHHHTFFFFFFFFF

“Holy shit!”

“Dude my whole head just went numb!”

Now the reason my whole head went numb is simple. The cinnamon/mint/whateverthefuck that was originally in the bottle lingers. That made my head numb. By now Keebs has snapped awake and grabbed the vile from him.

“How much did I give him?”

“A quarter of the fucking vile.”

“How many hits is that?”

“Like…25-30.”

Now when telling this story I usually say 28. That I had 28 hits of liquid silver acid at once. That kids…is a lot. I’m not going to detail my entire trip here, but I will say that it lasted three days. So, Wonka is looking at me.

“Shit dude…I’m so sorry.”

And Keebs is looking at me, “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“No.” Wonka replies, “No. I tell you what Ty…if those mushrooms detach (he points to a black light candle that has three separate mushrooms on it)…we’ll figure out a way to crash it.”

I could go into how those mushrooms did detach at one point (I opted not to try and crash the trip). I could describe to you how this slightly colorblind individual saw some of the most vivid colors ever. GREEN Oh. My. God. I could tell you about the masks on the wall each moving their mouths in different patterns. I could go on about how I watched Special-K’s face melt into a blanket, how I watched my face melt into a mirror, how I saw a little man that kind of looked like Don Quixote on a white horse (he would have been about 8 inches high), about seeing death…yes…death…dead in the hallway. But I won’t. This tale, is about that goddamn silicone ball.

So a few hours into the trip Wonka decides to go fuck his girlfriend who his passed out in the next room. The reason being? He’d never had sex on acid before. So why the fuck not? So he leaves me…alone…to go fuck her. So I’m sitting in the hallway, listening to her moaning and the sound of his balls slapping against her, bouncing the ball against the wall and catching it.

“Dude…I just felt my dick go through her stomach…and touch me in the stomach!”

Bounce.

Ass slap.

Bounce.

Moan.

Bounce.

Bed squeaking.

Bounce.

Eventually I get a good rhythm going…I can’t recall if it was in pace to the ball slapping…but it was a good rhythm. A steady: bounce off the floor, bounce off the wall, into my hand, repeat. At some point the ball got away from me. As I’m reaching for it I hear, “Fuck you.”

I instantly stop and look around. I still hear the sex going. I still see Keebs and Special-K sleeping away. The voice sounded like an old male cigarette smoker.

Bounce.

“Piece of shit.”

I stop again…look around. What the fuck?

Bounce.

“Cock sucker.”

Bounce.

“Motherfucker.”

Bounce.

“Asshole.”

I stop and stare at the ball. Is this little white ball really giving me shit? I still hear the sex going. I still see Keebs and Special-K sleeping away.

Bounce.

“Fucker.”

“Hey fuck you ya fucking piece of shit ball.” -Me

Bounce.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Pole smoker.”-Me

Bounce.

“Bastard.”

“Douche.”-Me

Bounce.

This continued…for an hour and a half. For an HOUR AND A HALF I had a little goddamn silicone ball talking shit to me. And, well, me talking shit to it. No lie. Hand to god. That little motherfucker spit some of the filthiest shit I have ever heard in my life. I’m sure a lot of things were repeated…I doubt my imagination is that great. It ended when Wonka calmly called out, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

“This goddamn rubber ball is giving me shit!”

“What?”

He comes strolling out into the hall, only in his boxers, and looks around.

“You’re talking to the ball?”

“Yes.”

“You know it’s a silicone ball right?”

“I don’t give a fuck, does that matter?”

“I’m sorry I left you alone. Come on.”

He proceeds to lead me into the bedroom, where he rips the covers off his girlfriend and I watch very large tits melt into one another like in End of Days.

Some other highlights of those three days? Going to an art gallery and arguing with the dealer for thirty minutes that a painting was finger paint…my friends had to drag me out. Being told, “You’re scaring the black people,” while I stood in Marietta Square watching the hour chime on the courthouse. Attempting to eat Krystal’s. Note…I said attempting. Going to see Someone Like You… with my mom and my sister. MY MOM AND MY SISTER. I moved once during the entire movie. That was to cross my legs when I realized I hadn’t moved at all. Driving. Driving on the highway and running into rush hour traffic. I almost ran a red corvette off the road…because it was red. I also must have used the phrase, “Did that just happen?” at least ten times.

Anyway boys and girl, ladies and gentlemen, hoes and pimps…I just felt like sharing a little story of my friend, and who should be your friend, Mr. LSD. Know this one thing though…you may get one hell of a fucking headache if you try it. Talk about stimulation overload.

Who Is...The Sexy Beast?

So the last round was actually kind of a wash. Not many people participated so I can only assume that you've lost interest. I can't blame you. If no real interest was there to begin with, and you just did it to please me, I can understand why you wouldn't continue. However, for those that did it just to make me happy...thank you. For those that were actually interested...you rock. It was my futile attempt at giving it to the MAN, and by man I mean a corporate entertainment magazine. Who knows, maybe when People decides to do their most beautiful people issue I'll compete against that. Not likely. I think my standards of beauty differ slightly from the vast majority. For example? I think Uma Thurman is fucking ugly, that Julia Roberts looks like she would have had a better life as a clown, and Cameron Diaz was only hot in The Mask. But that's just me.

So here's the conclusion folks. This is actually the category I was most looking forward to. Which makes it kind of sad that, to me, it feels anti-climactic. This is the dénouement. Man vs. Woman. So who are you going to go for? Are you going to go for the "Supreme Being" or the "Supreme Vampire?"

FINAL ROUND

Leeloo (Milla Jovovich)

VS

Eric Northman (Alexander Skarsgard)

I'm So Confused

I’ve been dating Jami for around a month now. Our first date was interesting. It was a “un-date” seeing as how she was tired of the dating scene. We went out to eat and then she participated in this thing called “Write Club” (I posted the link to it in a previous blog). Not only did I meet some of her friends at this “un-date,” but I also met her parents. From there it was another dinner and drinks, followed by me going to see her one night when I got off work, another date of dinner and drinks, and her coming to see me when I got off work. Things are great, I like her, she’s a wonderful woman with a great personality. In fact…I think she’s the first person I’ve ever even gone on a date with that was generally, and truly, nice to me. Talking to coveredinbees she told me I needed to find a nice girl. I think I found one, I’m just not ready.

From the start of my transition back into dating (I took two years off remember) I’ve given myself one rule. No relationships. My whole intent, my purpose, is to go out and have fun. It had been forever since I went out with a woman, enjoyed the company of estrogen instead of testosterone…really flirted with a pretty face. First kisses. First meetings. First laughs. Not only that but I want to play the field. I’ve never tried “dating.” Most of the time I went on a date it was for the purpose of being in a relationship. In fact, I can honestly say that I’ve only been on three dates that didn’t end in a relationship. And those were some terrible dates. Truth be told, I don’t know if I know how to “date.”

Another aspect to look at is that I have basically shut myself off emotionally. Mentally I have this giant wall up. A cavernous black hole. I’m not letting myself feel anything. I suppose this is the same detachment that people who have meaningless sex have. It is foreign to me, alien…but it feels right, and wrong, at the same time. I have entirely too many what-if’s in my life right now to try and share those with someone else. How can I get into a relationship with someone when I know I don’t want to settle in Georgia? When I still have the freedom to explore the world? Does that mean its wrong of me to simply want to have fun? Is it wrong for me to “date?” Or should I just limit my “dating” to…say…two dates per person?

I also know I’m not ready to tie anything down because I’m not ready to stop looking. Like I said…I just started dating after two years. It feels like I would be cheating myself if I just stopped as soon as I started. If she knocks my socks off? Maybe. But how will I know if she does that, or can do that, if I have this wall up? I don’t want to hurt these girls I’m dating…the last thing I want is for them to fall for me. I don’t want to be that guy.

It’s all so fucking foreign to me.

Jami is awesome though. She’s a smart, single mother. She’s a writer (seriously…you can check out her blogs Date Wrecks and Freak Bacon), and she’s funny. She’s cute. She’s fun. She’s flirty. She has an amazing ass and she’s experimental in bed. See? All good traits. But I’m just not ready, and that’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to her to pretend I want more. It’s not fair to her to string her along while I try and figure myself out. So, we decided to lose the sex (seriously, sex fucks shit up…I’ve said this a million times) and I guess we’re going to take a hiatus. I honestly don’t know where that leads from here, I hope she’s still available for a date when I go to Atlanta. If not, I hope she finds someone that deserves the awesomeness that is her. I do know that I don’t want to stop talking to her…she’s hella entertaining and good for conversation.

So where does that leave me? I guess I’m going to start saving money again (I spent over $1000 in the last week on med bills…I’m feeling better though), and get back out there. I know I have another date tentatively planned for a week to two weeks from now. I have another “what-if” scenario that may play itself out soon. I’d like to take that trip to Orlando…even though I might have to wait another month or so.

Basically I’m going to try and live the life I want to live. I’m looking out for myself this time. I just hope I can stay the course without depressing the fuck outta myself.

#29 Choke

Choke is an interesting fucking book. It basically follows the path of someone who wants love, but doesn’t know what that really means. The loveless man is given to us in the character of Victor. A med-school dropout who works at a colonial theme park (where everyone is constantly high), goes to sex addict meetings but never actually goes to the meetings (he has sex instead), and attempts to take care of his ailing (and quite insane) mother by paying her exuberant doctors bills using different methods (one of which is choking on food in restaurants so that people save him and then feel responsible for him).

It is a Chuck Palahniuk book…for sure.

There has gotta be something else to say in the fact that every time I read Palahniuk I mark up my pages. I’ve never really been one to dog ear, never been one to make notations in the pages, never been one to highlight passages. However, I do this when I’m reading Palahniuk. So many of his lines pop out at me as being wonderful. Yet, when I go back and look at the book, I am almost ashamed at some of the things I’ve highlighted. Like, why would I find some of those things funny? Why would I think that is a powerful political statement? I suppose that’s why Palahniuk has a following. There’s a lot of us twisted bastards out there.

Despite the fact that the main focus of the book is really a boy and his mother. A mother who may not actually be his mother…then again…he could be a descendant of Christ. It’s the side stories that caught my interest the most. The story of a guy who doesn’t want to be the way he is. Of a guy who dreaded every time his mother kidnapped him again as a child (yet went anyway). The most interesting to me was the Colonial theme park. I liked how they stepped out of the normal world and into a place with strict rules and limitations, yet you learn, like any other job, how people broke the rules and got away with it. How they walked around with the mutated chickens and had sex in the hay. How you get put in the stocks for chewing gum and get high while milking the cows. I guess you can say my interest was more in the people living, and less in the people dying.

I give up trying to explain his book. Like before, I’m going to give you quotes. Love em.

This one came just 7 pages in: Picture anybody growing up so stupid he didn’t know that hope is just another phase you’ll grow out of. Who thought you could make something, anything, that would last forever.

I think the saddest thing here is that I kind of agree with it. The beauty of youth is hope…and as we age that hope seems to fade away.

Here’s the cheerleader who gets her stomach pumped and they find a pound of sperm. Her name is LouAnn.

How many nut shots would it take to make a pound of sperm? I mean really.

The truth is, every son raised by a single mom is pretty much born married. I don’t know, but until your mom dies it seems like all the other women in your life can never be more than just your mistress.

What do you think single moms? Do you think you smother your sons?

I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut-hosing orgasm.

*snort*

He leans back so he can look at me through his wire-framed glasses. “Colonial Dunsboro,” he says, “doesn’t have a village whore.”

Then I say, “Then how about a village idiot?”

The governor shakes his head, no.

“Pickpocket?”

No.

“Hangman?”

Certainly not.

This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shunning. Witch-burning.

See…the colonial town was my favorite part of the book. He also raises a good point. They do seem to take out the more unsavory folk from reenactments.

I mean, how many times can everybody tell you that you’re the oppressive, prejudiced enemy before you give up and become the enemy. I mean, a male chauvinist pig isn’t born, he’s made, and more and more of them are being made by women.

I will certainly agree with this. The more women keep yelling at men that they are chauvinist pigs the more likely they are to become one. After all…if you already have the opinion what’s easier, to go along with it or fight it?

If it comes down to a choice between being unloved and being vulnerable and sensitive and emotional, then you can just keep your love.

It was a measure of weakness in the story driven by anger. You know he doesn’t mean it as soon as the words come out. And yet…he wants to mean it.

In conclusion, this was my favorite Palahniuk book so far. His gross wasn't as over the top as it has been before, the sex wasn't as crass, and the topic wasn't as vulgar. In other words...this one was just the better story.