The Meantime

The Meantime
So before the second act with the Terminator, I was extremely frustrated and trying to meet a hook-up elsewhere. It did not go well. There was a gorgeous guy who I spent two hours on the phone flirting and talking and getting to know each other, only to find his big fantasy is gagging, blind-folding and hand-cuffing a woman to a stripper pole in his basement while he has his way with her.  “How does that sound to you,” he asks, seriously expecting an enthusiastic response. “Like the beginning of a horror movie, I say, and hang up.
Then there was a charming guy who had a thing for curvy older women (check and check) but who was so cheap he went to L.A. on a vacation, and didn’t rent a car. Bitching about what rotten drivers Angelenos are is like part of the fun of taking the trip, no? But besides that, “how did you get around?” I asked. “I walked everywhere,” he responded.  Ok, strike one. Strike two was when during a sexy talk, he wanted me to listen to him jerk off. Um, no.
And then there was a seemingly normal guy, who seemed like straight dating material, responsible, nice, normal decent guy. We emailed back and forth a few times, then spoke on the phone and got to know each other, like any two strangers at a cocktail party. Our backgrounds, family, travels, movies, books etc. really nice, and we promised to talk again the next day.  I felt a date coming on. First thing the next morning, I get a message on my phone from him. It’s porn. WTF?  We didn’t talk about sex at all. What the hell?  It’s not that I’m a prude, obviously, but that this was so out of left field. There’s something seriously wrong  with the man if that is his reaction to a nice conversation with someone he wants to date and eventually fuck.  Delete.
The guy with the chiseled bod was a real possibility until I realized I only ever heard from him on the weekends. Monday to Friday nothing, then Saturday and Sunday he would blow up my phone with texts, pictures and calls.  Yeah, probably married. Delete.
The Asshole from the hot-sheet motel was still calling, but I don’t answer his calls or texts anymore. Oh the frustration. Life is hard when you’re trying to get laid and have standards…
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