A Friend Zone Sub-Chapter: Vagina-Bone: One Man’s Journey Into Social Networking

Preface to Vagina-Bone:

I posted, the now wildly popular “Vagina-Bone: One Man’s Journey Into Social Networking” a few days ago, and that very evening my cell phone started to blow up with text messages from a young lady whom I mentioned in the article. For about a half hour she ‘mother fucked’ me and called attentions to my, somewhat obvious, misgivings as a man…and as a human being. I tried to respond and explain myself, however my excuses fell on deaf eyes (we were texting). Eventually she heard my excuses and although she didn’t accept them (nor should she have), she told me it was fine, and that if I wanted to post the article…she didn’t give a shit.

I immediately took the article down, and pondered my writing and my choices. Was it right for me to talk about her in one of my short stories? And if not, was it wrong for me to talk about ANYone…no matter HOW honest I’m being? Well, the way I figure it, if she didn’t want to be offended, then she shouldn’t have offended me first. Almost immediately I reposted the story, unedited. The reason being that I do not now, nor have I ever believed in editing oneself. Plus I pretty much fucked up whatever chance I may have had with her a while ago. No matter what I say, it’s not like she’s going to fuck me again (that’s a question by the way…ARE you going to fuck me again? Cause I know yo ass is reading this).

I have to say though, that I find it odd that sometimes the ONLY fucking time we can get a reaction out of you women is when we say something mean or stupid. I mean, I saw this girl for 2 months. I told her how beautiful I thought she was, I brought her flowers, I took her out, hell, I even bought and MADE vegetarian dishes at my house so she’d have something to eat when she came over. I went out of my way to say ‘hey, I like you’ without ever putting any pressure on her. What did I get in return? An occasional sex bone thrown my way and idle chatter of THIS guy she banged, and THAT guy she has a crush on.

After she told me she was enjoying her single life and didn’t want a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship with me, I never asked her out and adhered to HER schedule of when she wanted to see me. I didn’t blow up her phone, I gave her space, and the comments she would always make that led me to believe she had or was going to sleep with someone? I never asked because it was none of my business.

I was fine with that at first, but as time went on and I started enjoying her company more and more, I felt that I needed more, and I thought perhaps she felt the same way. So at some point I had to stand up and be a man. Shit or get off the pot. I told her flat out that I couldn’t do a ‘fuck buddy’ relationship because I don’t like ‘not knowing’. I’m a curious mother fucker and I liked her. Part of having affection for someone is not wanting them to fuck other guys. I told her that if we couldn’t be exclusive, I had to step. I guess she felt that being monogamous wasn’t in her foreseeable future, and step I did.

The point is that I don’t like being the one on trial for knowing myself. What some may consider delusions, I consider principles. As far as I’m concerned, the relationship could have continued EXACTLY as it had been, with no pressure, her having her ‘space’, and us having a great time when we saw each other…all I was asking for was a little monogamy, and maybe…later down the line of course…a little anal.

But because there never was a clear definition of where the fuck buddy line was to be drawn, I never got a chance to let my relationship freak flag fly. I spent too much time pondering who or when she was going to fuck someone else, because I was never given a clear statement of design. Some of you reading this right now can testify that although I have my issues, as do we all, dating me is a lot of fucking fun if nothing else (Action Jim). I’m open to pretty much anything, I have great date ideas, and I’m more often than not…good in the sack (Action Jim).

After I stopped seeing her a month ago, I unfriended her on face book, and I’ve only responded to texts from her. I told her I didn’t want to see her again because I don’t want to hear about whatever guy she’s balling and HAS given a chance to. Why do I bother responding to her texts? Because, JUST like when I was seeing her, she confuses the hell out of me. I

 I figure that if she’s texting me, maybe she’s having second thoughts. However, a few weeks ago she starts texting me out of the blue, getting my hopes up again. I get that automatic smile on my face when I hear from her and my stomach does that roller coaster thing a bit. But then she tells me that she’d been out with the DJ and/or the bartender EVERY night of the week FOR a week. These are the EXACT guys that she told me she had a crush on WHILE we were going out on dates. THESE guys are the EXACT reason that I didn’t want to see or talk to her anymore because I KNEW this was going to happen. Needless to say, I went back to feeling like shit about myself and told her I was happy for her and to take care. Haven’t heard from her since.

Until a few days ago. She read my article, which you: faithful reader, are about to embark on. Who the fuck knew she even STILL went to my face book page? MORE FUCKING CONFUSION! Why read my shit if you don’t like me? So, just let me make a few things clear before you read on. These articles are meant for fucking entertainment purposes only. Any similarities between people mentioned here and persons in real life are purely coincidental. Taking what I say as literal can only be construed as stupefying.

The moral of this preface? Don’t get on the bad side of a good writer. Enjoy.

Vagina-Bone: One Man’s Journey Into Social Networking

Some of you may be wondering why I haven’t posted anything in a while, well it’s because I was putting a profile up on the ‘Fubar’ site. By the time I was done, I realized that I had grown a 2 foot beard, my toe nails had grown into flat curly fries, and my dog had decomposed all the way down to a flakey skeleton under my dust covered and cobweb encrusted air hockey table. My apartment looks like one of those abandoned haunted houses that Abbot and Costello would always find themselves in. In fact, for some reason the eyes were cut out of my velvet Elvis, and I could swear that real eyes were watching me clean out my ball gag drawer. The only way you can tell that something had been alive in here is by the crop circle of funion bags, empty Dr. Pepper bottles, and (for some reason) anal thermometers that surround the couch cushion I’ve been pissing into for the last 8 fucking years. I look like Forrest after his run…only fat. The first thing I did when I was finished was apply for social security. FOLKS! WHAT I’M SAYING IS THAT IT TAKES TOO FUCKING LONG TO FILL OUT A COHERENT PROFILE ON FUBAR!!!

I’ve profiled on just about every god damned ‘internet dating’ site there is and the one thing I’ve learned? ‘Social Networking’ is computer talk for ‘fuck you’. It seems like the only thing ‘social’ going on is social retardation. The time I’ve spent putting up these articles/posts/notes I could have been at an actual bar meeting a REAL life dingbat with breast implants who smells like she spent AT LEAST 10 dollars on a bottle of perfume instead of smelling like she just sprayed a can of raid on her twat like some of the women I’ve met off the internet. And here’s some advice…Putting a tuna fish sandwich under each arm before you go out, does NOT a deodorant make.

As I was perusing the ‘women seeking men’ posts on Craig’s List the other day, it dawned on me that I’d be better off just having breast implants sewn into my hands, that way it will FEEL like I’m with someone. Reading this shit makes me feel like I used to when I first read William Burroughs: Sad, creepy, and oddly aroused while thinking ‘What the fuck is HE on, and how do I get some?’

And what’s with all the fucking synonyms you ladies use? Look, a lot of guys are into bigger women, and I have NO problem with any two consenting adults finding love, but ‘full figured’,’ Curvy’, ‘Voluptuous’, ‘Bbw’? DEAL with your weight; be honest about it, because it’s only when YOU accept yourself that others will accept you for who you are.

 I mean, what’s next? Horizontally challenged? Happy Meal Activist? Gravitationally affected? Some women lie to themselves to the point that they’re only sabotaging their own chance. The FIRST woman I met off the internet was wonderful. We talked and had phone sex for 2 months before we decided to meet. When I finally drove out to her place over 2 hours away? I found out that the picture she put up on the internet was of her hot friend, and that she herself looked like Grimace.

My old car was a purple Lincoln Continental. Fucking loaded. It had air shocks that lifted the front end of the car up when you turned the key. This girl was SO heavy, that when she got into the passenger side? The right side of the car dipped so much that wheel scraped the inside of the wheel well on the front end sending sparks flying out into the street.

Not ONCE did I bring up this huge lie, not once did I scream at her for making me telephone masturbate under false pretences, and not once did I point out that I was leaving fire tracks behind us like in ‘Back to the Future’. The fucked up thing is that SHE never brought it up. She never apologized, and she never once acknowledged her deceit. I took her out on a date and all night long she just kept peppering the conversation with talk of fucking cookies and McDonalds. It’s like having a guy with a lazy eye talk about nothing but eyes…you’re just drawing attention it! I’m still paying off the small loan I had to take out for her meal, and I promptly never talked to her again. Why? Simple. Because she was full of shit. She lied to me from the get go. And to make it worse, she treated me like I was wearing an ‘I’m an asshole’ t-shirt by thinking I was too dumb to notice that I was whacking off to, what I THOUGHT, was Brittany Spears, when in fact it was Nell Carter.

And I know what all you reflexively irate women’s libbers out there are saying ‘but she might have been a nice person’. Look honey, if I told you I was Brad fucking Pitt, and then showed up on your doorstep as a 3 foot 2 inch tall midget who is an exact look alike of the guy who played Mr. Belvedere…you’d tell me to fuck off in a quick, so don’t feed me your shit.

The ‘Men seeking Women’ side isn’t much better. If Dateline NBC would just park a few hundred FBI profilers along with Chris Hanson on this site, they could wipe out 90 percent of the world’s potential serial killers. It’s like reading a rogues gallery Christmas wish list from fucking Arkham Asylum. And my FAVORITE ones are the guys who tell you how wonderful they are, how great they look, and how they have the best life and the most to offer you….then you scroll down to the bottom of the page to their picture, and it’s fucking Little Ricky from ‘Better Off Dead’. You just know that this guy is typing out this delusional post in his mom’s basement, while sitting in a chair that can only be described as ‘icky’, surrounded by half eaten, sweaty, hot pockets, while his cat, who he’s named ‘Mr. Meowmington’, precariously rubs itself on the plastic legs of his life sized Darth Maul statue.

Finding the right person to go out with, especially using the internet is like OJ trying to find the real killer. Sure, I’ll look…but at the end of the day, I’ll end up taking myself out to dinner, taking myself out to a movie, and then coming home and having my way with myself until I eventually go batshit and pull a gun on someone in a Vegas hotel room and end up in a cell with a large African America gentleman named ‘Cumswalla’.

What these people, especially women, are looking for is more unlikely than finding ‘Black Booty’ magazines in Tiger Woods nightstand. It’s a sad search for a needle in a haystack out there, but I KEEP looking with this false hope that I’m going to find SOMEONE that I won’t mind just having a date with. That’s ALL I’m looking for is a fucking date. When did that become such a god damned impossibility?

The FREE dating sites only seem to have fat chicks with no personality on them, while the pay sites just want your money in exchange for phone numbers of fat chicks with no personalities who have better jobs. I’m basically paying them money to hook me up with a woman who’s going to bring her own shovel to dinner.

I just read a young ladies ad that stated ‘I’m a 22 year old mother of 4, looking for a husband’. WHAT? Are you kidding me? Twenty two? What are the odds that all those kids have the same father? CALM fucking DOWN. What happened to just ‘I’d like to go on a date and see what happens’. When you tell me that you want someone to take care of your caravan of children, what’s my incentive? Basically what you’ve conveyed to me is that some guy got to fuck you FOUR times, that we know of, while you were hot, and now you’re looking for someone to deal with his leavings. Fuck you. You keep spawning like a tribble and you’re gonna break your vagina bone.

Just by that add, I know everything I need to know about you. You don’t have enough self confidence to tell someone to put a Jim hat on. You don’t think about consequences, and you don’t consider solutions. Not to mention the fact that I don’t want to put my dork in a moist hole that 8 tiny eyeballs have passed through like a watermelon in a mudslide. It’s a vagina, not a clown car for chrissake.

Even the women who are NOT moms have ads like ‘looking for someone to spend my life with’. WHAT? I just want to throw a few burgers down your throat, listen to some music, and maybe make out on my couch for an hour, hon., how bout we get through that and we’ll see what happens. Don’t put so much expectation on what could be a generally pleasant experience for the both of us. I mean, who goes on a date and sais to themselves ‘I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this guy’. Ridiculous.

I was complaining to my friend Mike the other day about how I can’t catch a break with all the internet dating. Every girl I’ve met in the past six months has been ‘broken’ somehow. They’re all drug/alcohol/Twinkie addicted women who live in apartments so small that if we order a large pizza, we have to eat it outside. Hell, I have a shitty apartment, but it looks like fucking Xanadu compared to some of the places I’ve been recently.

One girl I dated was impossibly beautiful, smart, and well educated. Problem? Narcissistic, corrected my spelling ALL the time, and fucked random married men as a sport. Next was the vegetarian hippie, she had an awesome energy, great in the sack, just fucking fun to be around. Problem? Wanted to stay single, alcoholic, and closed off. Then there was the Peruvian voodoo dancer…although in retrospect, that one may have been my fault as curiosity got the best of me. If anyone out there knows a voodoo chant to get rid of a prehensile tail and ass warts, please let me know.

Mike’s response to me was incredulous to say the least: “BUT YOU’RE GETTING LAID! Why the fuck are you so miserable?” Simple, I’m not TRYING to just get laid. Every one of those women, with the exception of the Peruvian Voodoo chick, was of general interest to me at the time. I’m trying to foster a one dick relationship based on mutual trust and common interests. Just fucking someone is easy, spending time with someone is the difficult part, but for me that’s the part that makes the whole thing worthwhile.

The point is that I’m just looking to get to know someone who can laugh, who can joke, and who can enjoy the occasionally ill timed fart. Why must you women tax me so?

It wasn’t so long ago that I was full of piss in vinegar at the prospect of meeting a new woman. I almost felt like Eddie Murphy in ‘Coming to America’. Only instead of being an African Prince hiding his identity with shitty clothes and a crap job, I’m a douche bag loser, hiding his identity on the internet so you can’t SEE my shitty clothes and I can LIE about my crap job.

Action Jim sent me a text a few weeks ago after he had read my last article titled ‘Welcome to Dumpsville, Population: Me’. Basically he told me that he was out buying tampons after reading it. He told me that I have a type, and that type is alternative girls who have a ‘throw rocks at newspaper vending machines; and ‘talk to their sammiches’ mentality. Chicks who are into 6 foot 5, shaved head, tattooed mutants who would rather roll a joint with their toe jam, than open the car door for them…Action Jim is not only a funny mother fucker, but he is also absolutely right.

I DO have a type, and maybe that’s what’s been keeping me from finding a decent girl for so long. But the question then becomes ‘do I have to compromise what I’m into just to be happy?’ I guess I do. But what’s the OPPOSITE of my type? 36 year old hefty church virgins with multiple cats? I can’t do that either.

Look, the last girl I was with was more confusing than Dennis Rodman without the subtitles on Celebrity Rehab. She would drone on and on about how ‘hot’ this guy was and how she had a ‘crush’ on that guy, but never, and I mean NEVER said shit about me TO me. She never said she was having a great time with me, she never said she was looking forward to seeing me again; she never said ‘wow, what a beautiful dork you have’. Nothing. Now in a normal situation, I would just think that this girl doesn’t like me, however, SHE initiated sex and SHE invited ME out. But she was never available when I wanted to do something. I had to sit around and wait for her call like Medicated Pete on the Howard Stern Show.

Sex was JUST as confusing. She gave me no instructions other than ‘fuck me’. I’m sorry, but I like a LITTLE fooling around before the main attraction. I’m not some porn star who gets an insta boner just cause you said ‘fuck’. I like a little foreplay, even five minutes worth. A prize fighter has to warm up before he steps into the ring. Hell, even KISSING would have been great, but one time she wouldn’t even kiss me DURING. Just flat out refused and kept turning her head away. WTF? She said that she had ‘bad breath’ but shit, we’d BOTH been drinking and smoking all night. Who notices bad breath during a drunk fuck? I like passion, I like a little teasing, and I like the playful banter that you have with someone you really like as you get to know them sexually. Not to mention that a guy needs a little ‘cooing’ or maybe some fucking validation during the act. Even afterwards she’d just get up and walk out of the room. I half expected to find a 20 on my dresser.

I’ve had girls cry after having sex with me, I’ve had girls tell me it was wonderful, I’ve been with a girl who told me she’s had better RIGHT after, I’ve had girls wake up with a severe case of the ‘oh no’s, I’ve even had a crazy girl that talked to her Teddy Bears after wards (by the way, that’s rule number 8. Never date a grown woman with teddy bears on her bed). But never have I had a situation arise where NO reaction was given. It was like I just fucked George W after someone whispered in his ear that a plane flew into the towers while he was reading to children.

As a man, I can tell you with all humility that we’re stupid. We NEED some kind of validation; we need a touch, SOMETHING to let us know that things are proceeding on a level equal to our effort. Otherwise we’re just a dick with a guy attached to it. I know that some guys are fine with that. Hell, probably 90 percent of guys are fine with that, but I’m a serial monogamist. I’ve been trying to have a simple, good natured, mutually adoring, relationship with a woman since I was 16.

The first girl I kissed when I was sixteen bounced back and forth between my friend Aaron and me about 6 times. And yes, we only kissed, it wasn’t like NOW when most guys have done ATM by the time they’re twelve. I would go visit her while she was babysitting and we’d make out. She’d tell me that I was the only guy for her. Then, Aaron would visit her at her house because he lived across the street from her, and she’d make out with him and tell him the same fucking thing. We did this a bunch of times until we BOTH got fed up with her shit. The sad thing is that that was probably the LEAST confusing relationship I’ve ever had.

There HAS to come a point in our lives where we do things differently. We see a pattern in how we approach an issue that remains unresolved, and we have to change something. So, do I change what I do? Or do I change my type?

Well, let’s examine WHAT I do in a relationship. And I’m not trying to polish my own ass here, but I try to be respectful of a woman. I open doors, and pull out chairs. That’s just how I roll. If we’re on a date? I’m paying. Sorry, but put your purse away Ayn Rand. I like a dark room with candles when we fuck, at first, you can pick the music. After that? Anything goes. I like to introduce a woman to good writing. If she doesn’t like it, I’m fine with that, but I know my shit. So when I tell you that you’ll really like ‘True Blood’, or ‘Lost’? Give it a try. If you don’t like it I’m not going to force it on you. But you’ll benefit from my years of pop culture knowledge. I’m as loyal as they come. If we’re together I’m not looking at other women. And I’m not stalky, in fact my biggest fear in life is being called a stalker (that and spiders in my mouth…SHUDDER). In fact I have a rule that during the FIRST 2 weeks we’re seeing each other, I ONLY respond to texts and calls, I never initiate. I like to cook for a woman, especially breakfast. Hell, if you were decent enough to have spent the night with me, I feel like the LEAST I can do is throw a couple a waffles down your throat.

What do I do wrong then? I always say what’s on my mind. There’s no governor on my conversations. I ask too many questions, and I have a rated R sense of humor that can put a lot of women off. I obsessively listen to Howard Stern, and my taste in music can be confusing to say the least. Although I have a decent apartment loaded with (what I consider) cool shit, it looks like a college dorm during hell week. Not dirty, I’m a clean freak, but I have ‘Lost’ action figures on the wall, comic book character statues, and a velvet Elvis hanging above my bed (oh, the atrocities that velvet Elvis has witnessed…). I have no family and I’m worse with money than Bernie Madhoff. Hell, now that I’ve written all that down….I wouldn’t date me.

Now, let’s look at my ‘type’. I think that the thing that gets me into the most trouble is not so much how a girl looks, but how a girl acts. Although in many cases the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Let me elaborate. I like good looking girls. Not in a ‘big tits’, ‘nice ass’ kind of way, but thin and pretty. Face counts for a lot with me.

As far as thin is concerned, I’m not talking about Olive Oil thin, but she can’t be a mess. When I take a girl out on a date, I don’t want the first question I ask her to be ‘So…why did you kill your trainer at Sea World?’ (Too soon?). I’m not going to apologize for this; we all like what we like. I stopped feeling bad about turning down hefty chicks when I realized that guys, a LOT hotter than me are into them.

The problem with trying to date a good looking, thin woman is that EVERY other guy is trying to do the same thing. So what I run into when I meet this girl is a gaggle of ‘guy friends’. Don’t be stupid ladies…you HAVE to know that EVERY guy friend you have (gays excluded) wants to fuck you. I feel like I just walked into a spider web when I start dating a girl with a bunch of ‘just friends’. I start flailing my arms about, trying to keep them out of my hair, and people in the distance think I’m waiving. I don’t know what that has to do with guy friends…I just feel like an idiot when I walk into a spider web.

And for some reason I have a particular interest in ‘Goth chicks’. Short black hair, pale skin, tattoo’s. Maybe it’s an oedipal complex because my mom is Marilyn Manson. The problem is that these bitches are hypocritical. They all SAY they want a smart guy, who is just as comfortable taking them to bondage night at Exit as he is taking a walk through grant park, but the reality is that if you don’t look like fucking Tommy Lee, or Trent Reznor and have a bigger attitude problem than Naomi Cambel has towards her house keepers, they’ll take their black lipstick and ‘Hello Kitty’ underwear someplace else.

So, I submit to the scientific community, which is doing wonderful things with genetics and gene splicing, and coming up with ‘streak free’ window cleaners…Let’s come up with an autonomous THIRD sex. Why do we need ONLY two? In today’s ever changing climate of ‘choice’, two sexes seem a tad limited.

Think about it, besides ‘male and female’ name ONE thing out there that you ONLY have two choices with? Good and Evil? Hell no, there’s a multitude of ‘grey areas’. Black and white? I’m gonna throw down the Tiger Woods card. Chicken or steak? Chicken fried steak. BOOM, didn’t think I had one for that did ya?

Now, let’s lay down some ground rules for this third sex.

1.) No penis. Sorry ladies, but this is MY third sex after all, you come up with a fourth if you feel the need, have 6 peni and a Mathew McCounoughy chest on both sides if you want.

2.) Multiple vaginas. This way we don’t need to cheat. Have one tucked away for years down the road
when the ‘mid life crisis’ kicks in. No more than three though, otherwise they’d get hard to cover up.
And none on the neck, I don’t want it to feel like I’m fucking a pez dispenser.

3.) Put a button behind the ear that we can press to change hair colors. I don’t know about SOME
guys out there, but sometimes you feel like a blond, and sometimes you feel like a brunette. And
asking her to put on a wig always ends with the ‘oh, so you want to fuck a different woman’

4.) An inherent love of anal sex. Nuff said.

5.) Built in sexual blinders. When it’s in a relationship with me, it sees NO other men. And when we break up? It moves to Florida and never contacts me again to tell me how wonderful it’s new man’s penis is (or 6 peni if the fourth sex thing gets off the ground)

6.) It sais exactly what’s on its mind with no filters. If it doesn’t like me, it tells me so. None of this ‘I just
want to be single’; ‘we’ll see how it goes’ shit. Got me dangling like a fish freshly caught in ‘Puss Lake’.

Ok, so look I don’t have all the answers, hell I don’t even have all the questions, but I’m STILL going to sift through the women out there like I’m panning for gold in the Colorado River. If I give up what has all the effort been for? A stronger left forearm? And don’t you give up either, you’re out there…you may be reading this RIGHT now. You may be one of those women who read these posts just for fun but never responds, but I’m pleading with you…respond this time. After all, the worst that could happen is you get a free dinner. Well…that’s not the WORST that could happen, but fuck it…my dorks not big enough to do any permanent damage anyway.


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