Six foot fucking four, a surfer, law degree, sometime male model. He has been in the army. They sent him to Iraq, Congo, what he cheekily calls “DMZ” with no further clarification. Every chick in the world then googled DMZ. His profile is perfect. Arrogant as shit but backing it up. Funny. No angst, no real self deprecation. Why would there be. There is nothing wrong with him.
Lives on the coast. Founded and sold a software company in his 20’s. Now he makes his money as a lawyer when he is not surfing with various dolphins and whales. He takes great pains to talk about the whales. But it’s tongue in cheek enough that it doesn’t come across as bragging. He is the sort of person who surfs with dolphins but knows that the sort of person who talks about surfing with dolphins comes off as a fucking dork. He manages to work it in perfectly. I would tell you the exact language, and you’d agree with me. But I don’t want you to google him. Continue reading
image stolen from hotnerdgirl.com
Various readers write:
I’m concerned about your head injury. I’m not normally the kind of person who freaks out over this shit, but you really need to see a doctor. You could die or be retarded, etc.
As always, thank you for your sweet concern. But it’s nothing. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m only cognitively impaired insofar as I’m distracted by pain. It’s just a knot on the head. It’s on the right side right on top of my occipital lobe so if there were brain damage it would be evident in my eyesight. Left side. Because of the optic chiasm– the nerves that read from your eyes cross over in an X and run to the back of your head, for some reason. Meaning your left eye transmits to the back right side of your head. See? I remember all that shit from class, that was almost 20 years ago. No brain damaged person can say shit like “optic chiasm.” I bet it’s even called that because it’s shaped like the Greek letter “chi.” See? I remember the Greek alphabet. Continue reading
So I need to date a porn star. I need to date someone who is in the sex industry. Someone whose life’s work is a study of sexiness and how to keep guys’ interest sexually. Because I become bored with somebody after maybe three times fucking them. And I’ve given up on them engaging me as human beings. Or, some of them do, but we end up being friends; they can’t be my girlfriend because I don’t want to fuck them anymore. The sex is what holds up my being in a relationship. But the sex becomes a chore, quickly switching from something I have to push for, which lasts all of one first date, to something they have to push for. When they are no longer new pussy, who gives a shit. So I need a girl who can overcome that. And the good news is, I don’t give a shit, you know, morally, if someone is employed in the sex industry. I am not a stick in the mud. But just like I kind of see it as my “work” in a relationship to be amusing and witty and full of valuable facts and ideas and etc., I need someone who sees it as their “work” in a relationship to change up their appearance and maybe walk around in a diaper and take an active role in fucking, persuading me to fuck, getting me off in new and innovative ways, etc.
I need to be beguiled. This is the danger of staying single too long. Of getting too much pussy. Of not “putting the pussy on a pedestal.” Of achieving the dream of being a “player,” someone to whom the act of putting your penis into a new young attractive woman is as rote as putting on a pair of shoes– when you win, it becomes bathwater. Something you’re just used to. Continue reading