The Friend Zone Episode 2: The Yoga Instructor – Part 1: Date Nuts
Posted on November 4, 2019
The Friend Zone
(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) There is a vaginal dimension beyond that which is known to the penis. It is a dimension as dumbfounding and as senseless as most religious beliefs. It is the middle ground between a man’s happiness and despair, between his hope and hopelessness and it lies between the pit of his fears and the summit of his desperation. This is a dimension of ignorance. It is an area which we call…the Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)
Written by: Terry Allen Cummings on 11/01/09
Brought to you by: Cous’n Cumm’ns Entertainment
Featuring: The Ghost of Rod Serling
Episode 3: The Yoga Instructor – Part 1: Date Nuts
The Ghost of Rod Serling: Witness Mr. Terry Cummings, a charter member in the fraternity of rejection; a loser whose passion is trying to make sex on women above his vaginal clearance level. Unable to settle, unable to swallow the bitter pill of dating an obese equal, Mr. Cummings wanders down the bachelor highway alone, wearing a back pack with that sad Incredible Hulk ‘walking away’ music playing in the background. Hoping to hitchhike his way back to vagina-ville in a sleek newer model Ford Cutie rather than a 69 VW Gigantor; what he doesn’t realize is that there’s no such thing as a free ride and the next woman who picks him up will take him deep into…The Friend Zone.
In the months since I started my internet quest for a girlfriend who meets my exacting standards, I haven’t met with too much success. In that time I’ve gone on a few dates, I’ve made some penile achievements, and I’ve met some interesting ladies. However there hasn’t been much worth writing about. Although I may not be Rocky, I still hold out hope that I’ll find an Adrian.
One of the things that’s been holding me back from putting more of an effort into my search, is my ex girlfriend, I’ve been a tad reticent about actually MEETING some of the women that I’ve talked to thus far. I haven’t really felt…the spirit of cold calling potential penile clientele, mostly because my ex hasn’t really shut the fuck up and given me a chance to get COMPLETELY over her yet.
But this past week, I talked with a woman who was…well, attractive in an all around way. Not only is she a yoga instructor, but she’s also a 22 year old art history major. Oofa, body AND brains…so, why am I so lucky? Well, apparently she enjoyed my ramblings on one particular site and wanted to find out more. Join the fucking club; I’d like to find out more about me too.
Talking with women from the internet has been kind of frustrating, but not for the reasons you may think. A woman will respond to my post or profile, we’ll do the email tango, followed by a waltz across the phone lines, and set up a time to meet; but then my ex will not-so politely tap me on the shoulder and ask to cut in. I guess instead of taking a chance with unknown pussy, my dick has been staying in the shallow end of the pussy it already knows. And believe me, the SHALLOW end of that pussy runs deep.
But not this time. This time I put all of my effort into The Yoga Instructor. We made plans to go on a Halloween date.
When the yoga instructor and I began chatting a few weeks ago, I found myself impressed by her intelligence. She was engrossing, charming, and ambitious. After some playful ‘you first’ talk, we exchanged photos. Now, on this point, I will admit to a bit of cheating. I sent her pictures of me that are so old; you can see ‘Manimal’ playing on the T.V. in the background. Then she sent me pictures of a woman SO attractive that I literally had to study them like a Hasidic diamond merchant looking for flaws in a freshly cut diamond.
Well, I told her that she was so far out of my league that her being seen in public with me would be about as appropriate as framing a fart and putting it on display at the Louvre. So, just to avoid the ‘Oh no’ look that I’ve encountered on women’s faces when meeting them for a blind date; I sent her the real deal. A full on body, and head shot.
Then SHE asked ME out. I immediately started running scenarios through my mind. We have a lot in common, AND she’s a fucking knockout to boot. My luck is NOT this good.
Maybe she’s actually a guy in the Russian Mafia and when I go to meet what I think will be a woman, he’ll sap me over the head and take my car. OR, maybe she’s in a sorority, and part of her ‘hell week’ is that she has to do a treasure hunt. Y’know, She has to find the bumper for an 87 Capri, a green wig, and go on a date with a fat, vulgar, ignoramus who’s 10 years her senior. OR, it was one of those things that cops do to get YOU to come to THEM when you owe a bunch of money on tickets. Whatever, I handed the reigns of thought over to my penis and we made a date.
Now, I’ve gone on a lot of dates. Usually after meeting someone at the mall, or through a friend, or at work. The point being, that ‘How does he look’ is not the foremost question on her mind. So this is a new experience for me. I know that if she sees me and heads for ZE hills, I’ll have to take it on the chin and get right back up on the social pummel bar.
I would normally NEVER put this kind of pressure on myself, but I actually wanted to impress this girl. I didn’t have any delusions as to what this was. I had no wants or expectations, at this point; my only hope was that she didn’t bolt for the door like Rosie O’Donnell when she hears the ice cream man music outside.
I don’t know if women know this, but men will go OVER board when they want to impress you. Keeping in mind that I have NO expectations, I went out and bought gum, binaca, Listerine, a new wash cloth, fucking baby wipes to make SURE my ass was clean (Cause folks…believe me when I tell you…you just NEVER know when you’re gonna get a freak who wants to lick your asshole.), took my car to the car wash, which I haven’t done since Clinton was in office, I scrubbed my apartment down like a Hispanic maid, washed my dog, spot cleaned the clouds above my neighborhood, vacuumed the planets in my solar system, and dusted the corners of the milky way galaxy for cobwebs. Overboard. I pretty much prepared for EVERY scenario. So unless her face split in two and revealed a flaming skull…wait…actually I bought a fire extinguisher for that one too.
Date night came. I got home from work, hosed myself down like Stallone in ‘Rambo’, and danced around my apartment listening to the ‘Rocky’ soundtrack to pump myself up (Yes, Sly is a big part of my pre-vaginal ceremony.) I even wrote out individual discussion threads on 3×5 cards in case I got stuck. I was bringing crib notes to a date.
Our 1st date was amazing, and after all that fuss I put myself through, I actually had a great time. It turned out that The Yoga Instructor was as charming in person as she was on the internet, and even more beautiful than the pictures she sent. I found her to be disarming and charismatic. We carried on a conversation that, I’m proud to say, was both relaxed and informative. Whatta woman. We ate; we laughed, we kissed and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.
But that’s boring, right? Doesn’t make for a real interesting story. Don’t worry though…it’s coming.
Ghost of Rod Serling: In with the new; visage of a portly gentleman and a rendezvous with fate. Not the providence of time, but the luck of the draw. Another roller coaster on the precipice of peak vagina, and although the drop only lasts a second, it can inspire excitement or compel projectile vomiting. Mr. Terry Cummings courts anticipation once again…in The Friend Zone!
Deleted Scene 1
Some people put the pussy on a pedestal so high that Michael Jordon from 20 years ago couldn’t get it down with a full court running start and a fucking trampoline.
Deleted Scene 2
What’s the WORST part of being cheated on? And I’m pretty sure this goes for girls as well as guys…thinking we didn’t fuck well enough so she had to get it someplace else. Oofa. That’s the killer right there. We don’t like to think about it, we don’t like to talk about it, and when we tell our friends? That reason NEVER comes up in the conversation. And let’s face it folks…that’s the lynchpin. That’s the finger in the damn keeping the whole thing together: Fucking.
Deleted Scene 3
Sometimes it takes me a little while longer to realize just what the fuck that is, but if I keep chipping away at the stone, eventually I’ll come up with a David. (And, I meant that metaphorically…I’m not gay…no, SERIOUSLY…I’m TOTALLY not gay…I mean look, I like to LOOK at a naked man sure, who doesn’t enjoy a man’s hardened luxurious form, but I don’t wanna, I mean sure…I’m COMFORTABLE in my, I could KISS a dude, but I’d never handle his member, that’s RIGHT out…unless, I mean, if someone was threatening someone I love, A GIRL, a GIRL I love and they TOLD me to touch a penis…, I GUESS I’d have no choice. But gross…no, I’m not gay. Shutup.)
Reach me at:
@GeneralDbag on Twitter
@generaldouchebaggery on Instagram
follow me on Instagram; if I get 200 followers I can apply for ‘Raya’, the celebrity dating app – imagine a ‘celebrity’ Friend Zone? You’re gonna wanna read about those dates.