Tag Archives: Relationships

CyberBully4U

18 Feb

I rejoined Tinder yesterday after a friend showed me one of her suggested matches: a thirty-two year old man in a ski mask, swinging around two large axes.  I felt left out.

This morning I awoke to thirty-three Tinder notifications, so I skimmed through the first few messages over a nice plate of pancakes.  One gentleman simply wrote “your dog is more attractive than you.”  Hmmmmm.  My first reaction was to wonder whether or not this man likes dogs, because if he doesn’t, that’s a fairly rude thing to say to someone.  My second reaction was to consider pointing out to him that he looks a lot like a baked potato.  But, since I strive to be a wise and mature woman, I just deleted him.

One of the pesky road bumps you encounter on dating websites is the inevitable insecure man-child who uses the curtain of anonymity that the internet provides as a means of combating his own perceived inadequacies.  YouTube is another popular forum where these types go to spew their pent-up aggression toward the human race by typing things they would never say to someone’s face.  Anyway, I hope this particular individual finds some source of personal power beyond insulting women he doesn’t know online.

Unless of course he DOES love dogs… in which case forget everything I just said.  He was only pointing out the obvious, because my dog is incomparably stunning.

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It’s Not Me, It’s You

16 Sep

My mother has said to me on more than one occasion: “how can there be no nice boys in New York?  There are millions of people in that city!”  True, true.  But, after you subtract the ones who are married, in a relationship, gay, under twenty-one, or over fifty-one… you are left with mostly depressed, emotionally unavailable men who never quite got over their ex and are addicted to attention.  Or as I like to call them: comedians.  I once attempted the daring feat of dating a man who fancied himself a comedian.  It lasted (maaaybe) four months.  Here are some highlights:

-He bragged about eating multiple buckets of fried chicken by himself on a nightly basis.

-Whined about all the injustices in his life– Cranky roommates, absent father, absent money, you name it.

-Claimed his ex-girlfriend was stalking him… according to her, it was the other way around.  The whole time I was seeing him, there was a passive-aggressive Twitter war going on between them.

-His cologne of choice was Febreeze “Meadows and Rain.”  I called him out on dousing himself in air freshener after I recognized the scent as the same spray my coworkers use following a particularly lengthy bathroom session.  He initially denied it, but came clean (so to speak) after I spotted the bottle in question in his bedroom.

-Once, I came back from the bathroom to find him hiding behind a table in my apartment.  He eventually came out and sheepishly said “yeah, I was hiding behind the table…”

-Invited my sister and I to one of his sketch shows at Upright Citizens Brigade and the whole show consisted of inside jokes only other UCB members in the audience understood.  As we were walking out, my sister remarked “is it just me, or was that not very funny?”

-Had no concept of how to get around in the city.  He had lived in New York longer than I.  And had a smart phone.  I called a car for him once to get to the airport because he couldn’t figure out how.

-Accused my sister’s cat of peeing on his cowboy boots and stealing his contact lenses.

-Sold his Muppets DVD collection to make rent.

-Invited me out to dinner on Valentines Day by telling me he “felt bad” he had forgotten to invite me out to dinner on Valentines Day.  I chose the place, made the reservations, and paid.

-Broke things off with me two weeks later via a 3:30 a.m. email telling me that he “felt bad” because he just didn’t have enough time in his busy schedule to be dating anybody.

-Got involved in a serious relationship with another UCB groupie less than two months later.

At the time, I found all of this about as funny as his sketch show.  However, I’m happy to report that, nearly two years later, I can finally appreciate the immense hilarity of my time with this individual.  Even if most of my favorite “bits” were unintentional on his part.

PantyhoseLover81

2 Jul

Have you ever had an experience where, as you are going through it, you wonder if you are living your last few moments here on Earth?  That’s how I felt on Sunday night when I went out with a gigantic, pantyhose-wearing man.

I must admit that I was fully aware of what I was getting myself into when I answered a message from someone named PantyhoseLover81 on OKCupid.  His profile picture was of his hairy legs sheathed in a sheer, nude hose.  I responded because he mentioned that he also had a “regular” profile and I was curious as to what type of man fancied womens undergarments.  I figured his regular profile would feature a photo of a diminutive dweeb who was an office worker by day and a top secret hose fiend by night.  These dual profile people creep me out because they make me wonder how many “normal” men I have gone out with who have also had a secret sex profile.  But at this point there was no going back… I was intrigued.  So I got down to brass tacks with PantyhoseLover81:

PantyhoseLover81:  Hey how’s it going?
Me:  Wait, I don’t get it. Do you wear the pantyhose or does your date?
PantyhoseLover81:  Well if everything goes ok we both do lol
Me:  Like under our pants? Or just a nude hang out with hosiery?
PantyhoseLover81:  More like in the bedroom although I have been known to wear them under my pants on occasion.

He showed me his other profile, which was not at all what I had expected.  He was a giant, clean cut Italian man who was covered in tattoos.  He looked like a cast member of The Jersey Shore.  Under the question “Would you prefer your life to be simple or complex?” he answered “Simple.  Keep the drama for the movies.”  Additionally, I discovered that he didn’t drink– he was a sober lover of hose.  I concluded that all of these variables warranted a date.

PantyhoseLover81 lived in Little Neck (I have no idea where that is) but was driving, so I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble for him to transport to my area.  I selected my least favorite bar in my neighborhood.  That way, he wouldn’t easily be able to track me down in the future because I rarely go there… but, at the same time, I could potentially make a quick escape to my home base if he tried to bind and gag me with hose and throw me in the back of his truck.

I went into the date with a massive headache due to the fact that I had spent the previous two hours looking at magic eye puzzles and could no longer focus my eyesight.  Tony Chiccorino, the man himself, walked in as I was taking a shot of tequila that the bartender bought me.  Oops.  He assured me that he didn’t mind, and I was struck equally by how tall and mellow he was.  I forgot to mention earlier that this was my first blind date ever where I gave someone a false name for safety purposes.  I knew I was inevitably going to slip up and have to come clean about my lie… which happened when I explained to him that the letters on one of my tattoos are my initials and he said “I thought your first name was Sara?”  Double oops.

Tony told me in his thick Queens accent that he worked as a firefighter– which genuinely surprised me.  You would think I’d be shocked to learn that my firefighter date was a pantyhose aficionado, but unfortunately it was the other way around.   I let him talk about the life of a New York firefighter, his nieces, and his recent kayak outing for a little while before I broached the real topic at hand.  “So have you ever slid down a fireman’s pole wearing nothing but hose and a helmet?” I asked, after procuring a second beer.  “I never mix business with pleasure” he responded.  “How did you first come to realize your love of hosiery?”  He explained that, at the impressionable age of seven, he had found a pair of his older sister’s pantyhose hanging in the family bathroom.  The texture had aroused his senses and he felt drawn to them in a way that, at seven years old, he could not venture to explain.  The next thing you know, those bad boys were on his legs and he was sold for life.  I asked him how often he finds himself galavanting about in a pair of hose and he said “you know, a pantyhose fetish is like a pulse.  It goes up and down.”  “How many pairs of hose do you own?”  I was not letting this go.  “In my arsenal?  Three or four.  I got news for you.  That’s a lot.  Usually it’s one.”  I guess the pulse is high this summer.  Just when I didn’t think things could get any better, he pulled out a vaporizer and started vaping in my face as he pondered: “Hose.  It’s one of those words you say too many times and it starts to sound funny.  Hose.  Hose.”  Eventually it came to light that he had recently engaged in a threesome with a married couple he met through OKCupid.  I made a joke about all three participants writhing around in a pantyhosed fury, to which I think he replied something about my statement not being too far off.  “You heard me” he said, as if reading my mind.

As we were leaving I asked Tony if he was currently sporting a sensible pair of hose under his jeans.  He told me that it was a little too hot for layering, but he did have a pair in his truck if I was interested.  “Can I drive you home?” he asked, as I began fearing for my safety and considering how I could leave a trail of forensic evidence.  I told him I only lived two blocks away, but he persisted.  “That really won’t be necessary” I said, giving him my number which seemed to be an acceptable parting gift.  I then ducked behind a homeless man’s cart until I saw his truck disappear over the hill.  By the time I got home, I received a text from him that read “Hope you got hose ok.”  I’m still not sure whether or not the typo was intentional, but that, along with the fact he didn’t murder me definitely secures Tony Chiccorino a spot in my Blind Date Hall of Fame.

The Queen of Erotica

4 Jun

I can no longer go anywhere without running into the self-proclaimed “Queen of Erotica.”  Who happens to be a man.  An allegedly straight man.

The gentleman in question pulled up a stool next to me one night while I was enjoying some crawdad mac and cheese at a bar.  He introduced himself as Adam, but then leaned in closer and added in a lowered voice “but my pen name is Lily Night.”  I wish I could say that he was not the third person who had introduced themselves to me using a pseudonym that week, but sadly that would be a lie.  Adam explained that he had been writing under the name Lily Night because his publisher thought his erotic short stories would be better received if the author were female.  He was bored with the subject matter given to him (middle-aged married couples having their annual beach orgy and so forth) so he had taken it upon himself to begin working on what will be the masterpiece of his career: an erotic saga about krakens.  Adam had even recently spent seventeen days lost at sea in the Caribbean in attempt to emulate the plight of his characters getting shipwrecked in Africa.  Once he finished the novel and leaked it to Gawker (like his erotica forefathers) he would be rich!  His main goal in life, he said with a huge grin, was to own a Dodge Challenger with commercial plates that read “BALLER.”

He finally paused to take a sip of his pink drink and I seized the opportunity to assess the situation.  He was dressed like he had just gotten off the bus from Massachusetts– button-up stripy shirt over a v-neck, some sort of oddly-washed jean, a necklace, and a chunky watch, which he kept flipping open and shut on his wrist while intermittently thumbing his exposed chest hair.  There was also a peculiar pair of sunglasses dangling from his deep-v that looked like they were stolen from a member of the Three Blind Mice.

“Is there really a market for a book about krakens who probe each other with their tentacles?” I asked him, picturing a nerdy teen with braces pulling out kraken porn from under his mattress.  “You don’t understand” Adam explained, downing a shot of raspberry vodka, a third of which missed its target and trickled down his chin and through his chest hair.  “The krakens aren’t having sex with each other.  They’re capsizing pirate ships, wreaking general havoc, and having their way with all the women.  The main character starts out as a juvenile kraken, only about fifteen feet long, but as the story goes on, the tentacles grow longer and longer until it can violate multiple women at once.  I’m not only telling a story here, I’m challenging science to prove me wrong!”  Sounds like we’ve got a real hit on our hands.

He added that his overwhelming success will be a nice slap in the face to his girlfriend of seven years who had recently dumped him.  “Wait a minute, you aren’t gay?!” I couldn’t help but blurt out.  I don’t know, maybe it was the way he spoke, the pink drinks, the jewelry, or the fact that he goes around referring to himself as the QUEEN OF EROTICA.  He looked offended and scoffed “gay men don’t write novels about women being raped by tentacle monsters.  They write about men being raped by tentacle monsters.”  I was finished with my crawdad mac and cheese.  He continued that for my information, he was currently dating three 22-year-old Asian girls he had curated from OKCupid.  In addition to seeming a little light in his Steve Madden loafers, he was obviously pretty immature.  He kept mentioning the appeal of being seen as a “tortured writer” and how he drinks as much as he can every night so he can obtain that image.  I haven’t heard someone glorify drinking that much since a group of naughty eighth graders passed me a beer on the playground in middle school.

I told Adam that the time had come for me to bid him farewell but he ignored me, saying “I’m a very ambitious person.  I have to finish three films, six erotica stories, and write the first great contemporary New York novel of our time before I turn thirty-two and there aren’t enough hours in the day.  Do you know anyone who will sell me Adderall?”  Despite the fact that I am not a drug dealer, he said he still hoped we would see each other again soon and I replied “me, too!” thinking the opposite.

Little did I know that I would run into Adam every time I went out in my neighborhood until the end of time.  I’ve mostly taken to pretending I don’t see him, but every once in awhile he will come over and show me the profile of the latest hot 22-year-old he is talking to online.  At least it’s good to know that there is still such a high caliber of men on OKCupid.

The Chip

20 May

I met Matthew a couple months ago after I stopped at a local bar on my way home to get out of the freezing rain.   I was coming from a previous bar in the West Village where a drunken she-beast had stolen my coat and I was pretty upset.  Not long after I arrived, Matthew approached me and asked if he could buy me a drink to cheer me up.  He was cute and things could not have gotten much worse at that point, so I figured “why not?” and gave him my number.  The next morning I received a text from him asking if he could take me out for drinks that night.  Our “date” was fairly uneventful, but fun… we talked and drank beers in outdoor chair swings at a new bar in my neighborhood.  He had recently moved here from Los Angeles and expressed that he wants to meet new people so he can get involved in the club scene and rooftop party scenarios (to which I told him he’s got the wrong gal for that sort of business).  He was sweet, but slightly effeminate– perhaps just a little too perfectly preened for my liking.  Before parting ways, he gave me a brief kiss goodnight and I kind of felt like I was kissing a delicate lady.  Over the next few days he texted me a lot about going out to dinner.  I wasn’t sure if things had reached meal-level just yet, so I invited him to see my sister’s friend’s band play instead.

The night of the show, my sister and I chatted awkwardly with Matthew for an hour or so before the the band started playing.  He was virtually silent at first, but after two or three beers began talking non-stop about electrical wiring.  After my sister left, we moved to the bar for one more round and suddenly Matthew’s entire demeanor changed drastically.  Out of nowhere he started raising his voice about how everyone in Brooklyn is racist.  I was so shocked at this hostile turn of events, I just sat there with my mouth open.  “No one wants to talk to me when I go out!” he yelled, “why do I have to be the problem, why aren’t YOU PEOPLE the problem?!”  Oh dear.  I gently reminded him that I had gone out with him multiple times after meeting him in a bar, but he wasn’t listening.  He kept getting more and more worked up, to the point where he was sobbing and shouting “I never knew my father!  I was raised by a white woman, how am I supposed to know who I am!?”  I was torn between running out the door as fast as I could and staying to make sure he was okay because he was so upset.  “You are judging others more than they are judging you,” I told him, “people only care about whether or not you seem like a good person whom they would want to be around.”  In between sobs, he screamed “look around you!  Everyone in this bar is white!”  Clearly this conversation was going nowhere, so I suggested maybe he should leave if he didn’t like the bar.  “I’m not leaving!  You leave!  THIS IS MY BAR NOW!”  That’s it.  I told him I had already listened to his belligerent rant long enough and I was not going to entertain him any longer.  I turned to leave, but he aggressively grabbed my arm to stop me.  “Please don’t go, I’m sorry… Promise me that we can just pretend this didn’t happen and keep hanging out… I really need friends… Just tell me you’ll see me again.”  I looked around for the bartender I know in hopes that he would diffuse the situation, but he was no where in sight.  “To be honest?  No, I don’t want to see you again.  You obviously have a chip on your shoulder and need to work through some things for yourself.”  I pulled away from his grasp and ran out as quickly as possible, hiding around the corner from the bar and peering back to make sure he wasn’t following me.  What the hell just happened?!

The next day I received a text from Matthew that said  “I’m really sorry about last night and I’d really like to see you again.  Please know the chip on my shoulder isn’t me, it’s the chip.”  Uhhhh, what?  I told my coworkers the story about what had happened, to which one of them exclaimed “where on Earth do you FIND these people?!”  The bar…

Ace of Spades

10 Sep

The other day I was watching a reality TV show about frog-catching at a neighborhood bar.  My friend had abandoned me and my beverage was long gone but I couldn’t unglue my eyes from the duo of old men on the screen hurling accusations of amphibian sabotage at one another.  Suddenly, a bar patron who sounded like a Tickle-Me-Elmo in mid-tickle straddled the barstool next to mine and asked if he could buy me a drink.  I was hesitant– the last guy I’d taken up on that offer at this particular venue had turned out to be a crawfish-obsessed carny.

My new friend’s name was Brant.  I’d never met such a giggly individual and couldn’t decide if I was more confused by what drug he must be on, or why he was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap inside a bar at night.  He asked what I did for a living and I told him that I work in a store… which prompted an eruption of high-pitched giggles.  When I returned the question, he looked around before responding in a lowered voice “I play poker.”  That’s right– Brant was a part-time poker player, full-time party animal.  I could see a reflection of my facial expression in his dark lenses and quickly altered it to appear more impressed.  I don’t remember anything that was said between “I play poker” and “Let’s go to Atlantic City and get married next Wednesday” because my brain was still stuck trying to process that there is an entire reality series dedicated to frog-catching.  But it was just one of those situations where you agree to go to Atlantic City with someone you just met to get married next Wednesday.  Why not?

Sadly, my schedule that Wednesday ended up being full to the brim, so my fiancé had to go to Atlantic City alone.  He sent me a text saying what a great time he was having but how it would be much more fun if I were there.  How romantic!  Did he even remember what I look like?  Because I didn’t have any clue, thanks in part to his unabomber disguise.  I recall a sort of mushroomy nose and distressing thumbs… but I only remember the thumbs because he sent me a picture of them fanning out five crisp $100 bills.

A few evenings later, he asked if he could use his plentiful winnings to buy me some beers.  I declined his offer because I didn’t want to go out after work, and he texted back “Ok then send me a pic if u in ur PJs.”  ENGAGEMENT OFF.  What a creep.  My disgust quickly dissipated, however, when I realized how hilarious his typo was.  He wanted me to send him a sexy selfie… but only IF I was wearing my PJs– no nudity or underwear, please.  I started to text him back “you first,” but was afraid he would actually follow through.  A vision crossed my mind of Brant cackling into the night sky, wearing sunglasses, a cap, and onesie pajamas– with the rear-end flap unbuttoned to reveal a strategically-placed Ace of Spades.

What had I gotten myself into?  A pending engagement with a professional gambler who wears criminal disguises and has a pajama fetish.  This is precisely why you don’t encourage people in a biker bar.

Suitors of the Week 11

4 Jul

I haven’t posted a Suitors of the Week in awhile and I had a few gems left over from my last few weeks on OKCupid.  It’s true, I deleted my account… this time I think for good.  It was a fun year and half– I met a couple good friends, lots of people who made me laugh (usually unintentionally), and officially not one person I could actually see myself dating.  But thanks for the memories, OKCupid.  Here are some excerpts from my favorite final moments on the website:

Favorite Movies:  “Anything with a good twist at the end like Last of the Mohicans.”

What I’m Doing With My Life:  “I sell ovals.”

I’m Really Good At:  “Counting a lot of ants at one time.”

“Hey, Cute pics!  Crazy question maybe…are you into any kinky stuff? Having your feet worshiped perhaps??”

“Will u be my valintine?”  – A man named Eybal

“My duck breast from last night was a huge success and I even have a small bowl of rendered duck fat left over in my fridge!  What to do, what to do?” – 40 year old bald man whom I gave my number to and then he proceeded to text me about duck breasts for two days.

“What is it going to take for me to get you to go on another date with me?”  – The Law Blob.  We went out twice and struggled both times to have a lively conversation.  He was late, made zero eye contact, rarely smiled, and left after two drinks.  I wrote it off, assuming he was disinterested, but continued to receive texts from him about how I am “purty” and he wants to see me again.  I eventually admitted to him that I didn’t feel like we had anything in common and wasn’t interested in going out again… and then received the above text message two weeks later.

“Instead of naming an exact time to meet, why don’t you just go to the bar after work and maybe I’ll meet you if I end up being down there after dinner.”  – Tim the Buddhist.  He did end up materializing at the bar and texting me to ask where I was– which was back in Brooklyn because I wasn’t about to sit around a bar alone, waiting for a flaky Buddhist to decide to show up.

The Five-Minute Date

13 Jun

I’ve been feeling the whole independent thing lately and have thus been terribly negligent with my OKCupid account.  However, that does not mean that my fellow New Yorkers have abstained from awkward blind dates in my absence.  Everywhere I go, it seems there is a couple trying each other on for size in my close proximity.  In fact, just the other day I witnessed what could be entered into The Guinness Book of World Records for the quickest blind date ever.

I stopped into a Manhattan record store to see if they had the Pat Travers album on which he is legless and levitating in front of a fiery sunset.  While I was thumbing through the T’s… (lots of good T’s)… a seemingly mismatched couple entered the scene.  He was tall, dark, and reserved.  She was loud as can be, and moving at a pace that was about ten notches too rapid for the size of the room.  As they went from row to row, I gathered that they had just met for a blind date.  He looked extremely uncomfortable and she was doing her best “schtick”– touching every record, saying things in funny voices, and zooming around like a parrot on PCP.  I stood frozen in dismay, my fingers stopped between Tom Petty and T Rex, as I watched this girl who seemed to be in five places at once.  The guy she was on a date with looked first to me, then to the befuddled sales clerk for help, before attempting to herd her towards the door.

“I think I’m going to pass on the bar,” the guy said in a lowered voice, “this isn’t going to work.”
“Why?  What do you mean?” She replied, out of breath from her shenanigans.
“Well, I’m really not interested in a date with someone who is going to act like William Shatner all night.”

I felt as if I had been cast in a sitcom and a live studio audience was about to make a collective “Awww!” sound as the two of them walked out the door and went their separate ways.  But alas, I guess it was not meant to be for ReadrsDigest83 and IHeartImprov69.

Cool Your Jets!

14 May

A friend of mine recently dated a man who makes a substantial living teaching men how to be pick-up artists.  Apparently he receives over three grand per disciple–  to occupy various bars around Manhattan and coach these men on how to get women to go home with them.  After discovering his profession, things were short-lived between my friend and this cunning philanthropist.  But it got me thinking.  How is this corny lad making several thousand dollars every night by teaching men how to lure women with their charisma and to read our cryptic signs?  I could do that!

Here, my first lesson is free.  Last night I was out on a date when I received a text message from “Rick,” a guy I have known a year or two through a mutual friend.  We had recently run into each other on OKCupid and he texted me about how funny that was, blah blah blah.  I had also seen Rick a few nights ago at my friend’s birthday party.  He barely acknowledged me and was there with a new girlfriend whom I assume he acquired from everyone’s favorite dating website.  Now, back to last night.  I was finishing up a gourmet beef frank with my date when I received this text message from Rick:

Rick:  Is it weird if I told you I thought you looked amazing on Friday night?

Me:  Well thank you!  But you barely even spoke to me.

Rick:  Meet me.

Me:  What happened to your girlfriend?

Rick:  She dumped me :-;

Rick:  Do we have a Chance of loving eAch other?

Me:  You are wasted.

Rick:  Not wasted.  Meet me for a drink?

Rick:  Dont be weird…

Rick:  :/(?/?//?

It doesn’t take a stack of tarot cards and a crystal ball to figure out what was going on here.  Rick wasn’t even attempting to conceal his desperation– and even his slickest move of all, when he complimented me, was transparent.  Wooing a lady takes patience and finesse.  You can’t expect me to leap into your bedchambers the minute things go south with your girlfriend of the week.  Especially after that odd part about loving each other, which only reveals the fact that he was flailing about the city in a boozy frenzy, flinging careless capital Cs and As in his wake.

In my professional opinion, Rick needs to cool his jets.

Suitors of the Week 10

20 Apr

Oh, which one of these tempting bachelors shall I choose?

“Hola Mammita!  A Real Man does not sleep with a thousand women, he sleeps with one a thousand ways..Im very romantic and not into the ordinary, which is movies and arcades,. zzzzzz, perhaps a picnic at the beach, listening to the waves crash, lookin up at the stars and having deep talk. A evening where i would cook for you a candle lit dinner, we’re both dressed up, you in a long black tight fitted sequenced dress, me a black sports blazer with a red wine color dress shirt, top button open.”  — Well, that’s awfully specific.  I like where he pretends to fall asleep mid-message and that he thinks a normal date would take place at an arcade.  Honestly, I’d rather do that than his alternative which sounds about as creepy as it gets.  At least what he lacks in spelling, grammar, and punctuation he makes up for with a vivid imagination.

“Greetings!  Have you ever dreamed of having sex in zero gravity?  If so, message me back.”  — A blonde mess whose screen name is BeardJam.  Upon reading through his profile I found many more enticing statements such as: “I think Disney’s Robin Hood is the best movie ever.  83 minutes of joyous music, crazy antics, brilliant colors, and love.  Oh and I love giving oral sex.  It’s my favorite.”  Yikes!  This guy was either on ecstasy when he wrote his profile or he’s just a complete maniac.

“Hi, I’m Matthew.  You seem like a fun and outgoing girl and I bet we could get into some adventures together.  Oh by the way, I just took up scuba diving.”  —  I’ll keep this one in my back pocket in case I’m ever in the mood to date a plump gentleman squeezed into a wet suit who lives in Delaware.

“Howdy!  What’s the good word?”  — Man from Colorado who looks like his head is four inches wide.  Under The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit he wrote “I once got my penis stuck in a shampoo bottle at my grandma’s house and had to go to the hospital.”  So I guess the rest of him is as narrow as his head.

 

“I love you!  Let’s get married!!”  —  Judging from the pictures, I thought this person was a woman at first until I looked at the rest of his(?) profile.  He also wrote:  “I’m an active type.  Inline skating, ice skating, fishing, or anything that requires me to push myself.”  Now I’m no athlete, but those are three of the daintiest physical activities I can think of.  And “inline skating”?  Let’s be serious here, you’re a rollerblader.

“Hi, name is Marty and um…. I am everything you are looking for in a guy! Over Confident? Brash? Likely….. Check my profile out, if you aren’t completely or maybe slightly interested, I’ll refund your subscription price to OKCupid.”  — Oh this isn’t a generic message at all, Marty.  Don’t these guys realize it’s incredibly obvious that they wrote one message that they copy/paste to all the girls?  But it gets worse.  Under The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit he wrote:  “Girls have told me before that I have a huge conch shell collection, and I’m not even from the islands!”  Is that some sort of euphemism I don’t know about?