Last week, I mentioned the "List 'O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain't Getting' Any." One reader posed the brilliant question which asked what was on said list. Usually, I try to make the Chronicles as universal as I can. I send this to a lot of boys and want them to be able to relate to the situations as well. I’m pretty sure we all have at least one quality about our prospective partner on our lists, and they are likely very different from somebody else’s idea of what is fundamental, especially the heterosexual male’s list. So this week, I hope that you darling boys will bear with me and make some attempt to switch the gender roles around to accommodate you while giggling at the thought of wanting a woman who loves your inner thighs. At least perversely enjoy it like you know you secretly would enjoy reading a Cosmo. You sickos.
I have to admit that a large part of my list is comprised of shitty lessons that I have learned from ex boyfriends dicking me over. It’s usually only then that I realize that I hated having to mother him because he was such a sick pussy that he couldn’t clean out his closet for 15 years and I finally had to help him do it, thereby discovering hideously terrifying mesh sequiny rave shirts with sparkling flames circa 1990. I mean, Jesus! Take some fucking initiative and take care of your personal space! It’s one thing to hang on to an old pair of boots because you really love them, but an entire closet full of shit that makes you look like a flaming homo? Have some pride in your apartment and in your appearance!
So the first few things that are on my personal list are likely the same as everyone else’s: intelligent, good sense of humor, attractive, good in bed. Although I have installed a loophole clause to allow me to rip the clothing off of stupid hot guys who never laugh. But you get the gist. A fundamental relationship isn’t going to go well if he’s so retarded that you constantly have to explain the definitions of words that are a normal part of your lexicon. I once had to define labyrinth to a guy. HELLO! Labyrinth is my favorite movie! Did he not grow up in the 80’s? See? It would have never worked out for obvious reasons.
I also have to be able to trust a man. I mean completely. Again, I learned this lesson the hard way with a total Douche Bag ex who cheated on me with his downstairs neighbor that resembled a Mack truck/large quarterback with enormous breasts and very unclean hair. Unfortunately for me, I thought I could trust him implicitly at the time, so I’m not sure how to go about determining whether or not I can really trust a guy. They can turn on you in an instant, like a rabid baboon. I think they don’t actually turn in that exact moment, but they sure as hell don’t bother to communicate with you about their progressive turn, so it hits you like a shot in the chest. I’d prefer to be told, in the cruelest of terms, that I am no longer desirable and that he’d rather fuck his entire family under the Christmas tree rather than be caught dead in the same room with me ever again as opposed to being cheated on.
Some other fundamental qualities for me are that he must like my family, and if possible, come from a similar background. I’m not saying we have to be Ken and Barbie Twinkies, but it would be nice to have common experiences from which we learned comparable values etc. Blah blah blah. He also must be a good dancer, which goes hand in hand with him loving music. Hopefully, he will be Johnny Castle. I want to be spun around the dance floor, told that nobody puts me in the corner, and totally publicly seduced. That’s what good dancing is: public seduction. I want a guy with killer moves to back me up against a wall in a crowded bar and with the fluid, artful movement of legs, hips, and hands, bring me to near climax. Is that really asking for so much? I’m a dancer. I need someone who can keep up. Otherwise, I’ll be grinding on other peeps for the rest of my life because I refuse to give up booty dancing.
He’s also got to take serious pride in himself. He’s got to have goals and dreams that he is passionate about. I tend to pick these wimpy guys who seem strong at first, then crumble to pussy dust before me. Their life becomes my life. Their dreams become exclusively about me. And while that’s flattering and all, I push them around a little. I’ll admit it. I really don’t do it to get the power though. I’d like to have my way two out of three times, but what happens is that they give me my way all the time. Then I become a tyrant who is evil and dominates them. All I really want is for a guy to stand up to me and encourage me to respect him. Granted, I am the princess who deserves everything I ask for, but he should have the balls to tell me to value his opinion on the matter. Then we can have hot B&D sex where he ties me up and spanks me because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
So, in conclusion, we have to be able to communicate well, trust each other, dance like Richard and J.LO, and cultivate mutual respect. It would also be nice if he was a feminist, loved Nine Inch Nails, was in Nine Inch Nails, was named Trent, and loved cats. I asked the countless lovely ladies who read The Chronicles to tell us what was on their lists, and the three of them that responded included the following:
Good teeth (sounds simple but a good grill can make a world of difference)
Beautiful eyes (my favorite are blue eyes w/black hair) but not a must to have blue
Must be thick (I don't like these scrawny, wash board stomach guys) yeah they're nice to look at but if I can squash them in bed, it's just not attractive
Gentle touch (you can be a big, rough football player & still have a gentle touch when it comes to women. Personally, guitar players have the best hands! *
Likes to cuddle (yes, I'm one of those that likes to cuddle)
Someone who thinks farting is funny
Completely focused on my goals and willing to make my desires #1
Adores the part of my body I hate the most. E.g. I hate my inner thighs, but Consuelo** swears he loves them.
He must read me really well. If I am lonely, he must drop everything to occupy me. But if I’m busy or distracted, he must find something to do immediately. And, he must be willing to flip between the two as often as every 5 minutes
He must get me because I'm a little odd and proud of it!
He has to adore my pussies (Oliver and Elliott of course)
He must get along with my dad and brothers. He must let them make fun of him mercilessly, and then he can give it back to them 4 fold!!
He must care about my friends. They are a huge part of my life!
He must make me feel like a goddess, but when he doesn't agree with my ramblings at times, I love to hear about it. There is nothing sexier than a guy with an intelligent, though provoking opinion
Two words: James Spader
*and the best cheaters!!! It's like getting a free coupon!
**names have been changed to make me laugh because Consuelo is a funny name. Whee!
Ye Olde Chronicle
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I am officially on sabbatical from sex. It’s dramatic, mucky, confusing, and leads to procreation. Unfortunately, my quest is not going so well. Sex is instinctual! You can think you’re not interested in it and then boom! Here comes some hottie that smells yummy then your stupid hormones kick in and you shriek, “Take me, you beast! I don’t care that you’re a total ass clown that hasn’t called for a month and professionally sucks souls!” It blows balls. I wish I could turn it off like a switch. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex ever again or anything. But I do have to admit that I’m mostly successful in my voluntary spinsterhood because I don’t have anybody to have sex with right now. At least where it would be consensual.* But this is seriously sad! I can’t even go to Tool Fest 2004 without getting all worked up.
Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.
See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!
Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.
Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.
Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.
So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!
*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.
Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.
See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!
Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.
Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.
Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.
So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!
*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.
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The Disappearance
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I’d like to discuss a terrible, apocalyptic epidemic that is sweeping the dating scene. No, no, not Syphighonnochlamydia. Dirty, dirty! I’m talking about Disappearing.
We’ve all been there: you’re talking to someone you like. Maybe you’ve gone out with them. Perhaps you’ve put the naughty on them. So you call one day and leave a message on their voicemail. You have every right to call this individual because at some point in time, they have displayed obvious interest in you whether by chatting you up on the phone or bending your legs back over your head. Whatever.
You’d think they would return your call, right? You’d think that they would recognize the fact that you are a human being with a soul whose existence deserves to be acknowledged, right? So here begins the problem. They don’t call back. Ever. You might hear from them in an indirect way, like through a mutual friend, or you might even be so lucky as to be carbon copied on an e-mail from them. But they never call.
Now I know we’ve also all been on the other side of this where the person we’ve been halfway seeing leaves us a message that we never return. But those people are like, hideous atrocities of nature! You know? They need extensive dental work and say weird shit like, “I love how natural we are together. Do you believe in destiny?” on the first date. They’re like carnies! So you blow them off until they stop calling because they make you feel car sick! Perfectly reasonable, right?
So here is my dilemma. Am I a carnie? Do I look like a cat rapist? Do I need to be taken out back and euthanized for my own good? Because I know that I’ve never said anything even remotely as Velveeta-on-ball-sac-cheesy as some of the canned lines that I’ve gotten from the guys that I’ve blown off. So how can we, arguably the hottest, most fabulous, educated, interesting, funny, intelligent people in the world, possibly be the victims of The Disappearance?
We are too gorgeous to be ditched so unceremoniously. We at least deserve a fucking phone call. A little, “Hi there. Yeah, I was just calling to tell you that I am no longer able to stick it in (and or to) you. I have realized that you are a golden shining ray of divinity and that I am a huge sick piece of shit. I am nothing, and you are the most perfect being that has ever been or ever will be. I have decided to erect a shrine to you in my basement where I will commence furiously masturbating to photographs of you rather than keeping you from dating more worthy partners. I will only ever truly love you, but am completely unworthy of your attention. Bye.” Now wouldn’t that be nice?
I honestly have no explanation for Disappearing. I suppose it’s a one man’s carnie is another man’s hottie thing. But damn them for denying us hottie status! It’s total horseshit! But at least we know that we are, in fact, unstoppable sex beasts. Screw those avoidy a holes! Just remember babies. Mama here loves you and thinks you’re delicious. It’s those chicken shit tools that are blind and crazy.
We’ve all been there: you’re talking to someone you like. Maybe you’ve gone out with them. Perhaps you’ve put the naughty on them. So you call one day and leave a message on their voicemail. You have every right to call this individual because at some point in time, they have displayed obvious interest in you whether by chatting you up on the phone or bending your legs back over your head. Whatever.
You’d think they would return your call, right? You’d think that they would recognize the fact that you are a human being with a soul whose existence deserves to be acknowledged, right? So here begins the problem. They don’t call back. Ever. You might hear from them in an indirect way, like through a mutual friend, or you might even be so lucky as to be carbon copied on an e-mail from them. But they never call.
Now I know we’ve also all been on the other side of this where the person we’ve been halfway seeing leaves us a message that we never return. But those people are like, hideous atrocities of nature! You know? They need extensive dental work and say weird shit like, “I love how natural we are together. Do you believe in destiny?” on the first date. They’re like carnies! So you blow them off until they stop calling because they make you feel car sick! Perfectly reasonable, right?
So here is my dilemma. Am I a carnie? Do I look like a cat rapist? Do I need to be taken out back and euthanized for my own good? Because I know that I’ve never said anything even remotely as Velveeta-on-ball-sac-cheesy as some of the canned lines that I’ve gotten from the guys that I’ve blown off. So how can we, arguably the hottest, most fabulous, educated, interesting, funny, intelligent people in the world, possibly be the victims of The Disappearance?
We are too gorgeous to be ditched so unceremoniously. We at least deserve a fucking phone call. A little, “Hi there. Yeah, I was just calling to tell you that I am no longer able to stick it in (and or to) you. I have realized that you are a golden shining ray of divinity and that I am a huge sick piece of shit. I am nothing, and you are the most perfect being that has ever been or ever will be. I have decided to erect a shrine to you in my basement where I will commence furiously masturbating to photographs of you rather than keeping you from dating more worthy partners. I will only ever truly love you, but am completely unworthy of your attention. Bye.” Now wouldn’t that be nice?
I honestly have no explanation for Disappearing. I suppose it’s a one man’s carnie is another man’s hottie thing. But damn them for denying us hottie status! It’s total horseshit! But at least we know that we are, in fact, unstoppable sex beasts. Screw those avoidy a holes! Just remember babies. Mama here loves you and thinks you’re delicious. It’s those chicken shit tools that are blind and crazy.
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What's My Mothafuckin' Name
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Did I mention that dating sucks? Please, allow me to elaborate, not that I need to after the whole Gropey Groperson story, but humor me. I met this very cute boy at the Brookie. He seemed normal and nice, which is a huge change for me. Usually, I try to find the most angst ridden, emotionally unavailable, tortured soul around and fall madly in lust with him only to be consistently spurned and rejected. So, as you can see, this one was a brand new flavor or lickable ice cream that I was dying to taste.
I should have known. His name was Ken. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ken. It’s a fine name. But come on. Ken and Summer? It sounds like some hideous Mattel cartoon about a pair of squirrels! I always said that I’d have to end up with somebody who has a cool name because mine is so weird. Like Summer and Trent, or Summer and Razor, or maybe Summer and Thor. I don’t know … something to that effect. Regardless, that was my first hint.
He started out so pleasant, calling two days after getting my number rather than drunk dialing the night of in the manner of, “Heeeeeyyyy, Sunshine…I mean Sunny…Oh wait, hey guys! What was that bitch’s name I met earlier? Oh yeah, SUMMER! It’s (insert name that clashes hideously with my own.) Dude, we’re gonna (insert lame “event” that is just starting at 3:30AM that is poorly masquerading as a sad excuse for getting me to his place, preferably so drunk that I will willingly throw myself at said loser.) Call me, babe!!!” At least Ken wasn’t so obvious. We actually had nice phone conversations and set up a date for Thursday. His fatal mistake was when he made the cursory here’s-the-plan-for-tomorrow phone call on Wednesday. It went a little something like this:
Summer: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Ken: I don’t know. I spent way too much money last weekend on booze. I spent like $350, so funds are a little low.
Summer: *Thinking to self* Oh. Oh! Now that’s classy. This guy is clearly an alcoholic who has no impulse control.
Ken: And anyway, I’m pretty tired. If I’m still this tired, we should just rent a movie and bring it back to my place.
Summer: *Thinking to self* What the fuck? Does your tiredness grow exponentially? Take a nap, you ass licker! And do you really think I’m going to go to your house for a first date? Can you say el cheapo axe murderer?
Ken: So I’ll just call you tomorrow around 6PM and let you know what’s going on.
Summer: Uh. Ok. Talk to you later. *Thinking to self* LAME!!!! Make plans with me before 6PM of the night of!
Needless to say, this did not sit well with me. So I called him back and left a message along the lines of, sorry, pal! I don’t go out with guys who “take” me on dates to their house because they are too cheap to take me out. Hello!!! Do I look like I want to be sexually assaulted? So alas, I remain dateless once again. But I think it was the right decision, don’t you? Well, babies, until next time…hooray for vibrators!
I should have known. His name was Ken. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ken. It’s a fine name. But come on. Ken and Summer? It sounds like some hideous Mattel cartoon about a pair of squirrels! I always said that I’d have to end up with somebody who has a cool name because mine is so weird. Like Summer and Trent, or Summer and Razor, or maybe Summer and Thor. I don’t know … something to that effect. Regardless, that was my first hint.
He started out so pleasant, calling two days after getting my number rather than drunk dialing the night of in the manner of, “Heeeeeyyyy, Sunshine…I mean Sunny…Oh wait, hey guys! What was that bitch’s name I met earlier? Oh yeah, SUMMER! It’s (insert name that clashes hideously with my own.) Dude, we’re gonna (insert lame “event” that is just starting at 3:30AM that is poorly masquerading as a sad excuse for getting me to his place, preferably so drunk that I will willingly throw myself at said loser.) Call me, babe!!!” At least Ken wasn’t so obvious. We actually had nice phone conversations and set up a date for Thursday. His fatal mistake was when he made the cursory here’s-the-plan-for-tomorrow phone call on Wednesday. It went a little something like this:
Summer: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Ken: I don’t know. I spent way too much money last weekend on booze. I spent like $350, so funds are a little low.
Summer: *Thinking to self* Oh. Oh! Now that’s classy. This guy is clearly an alcoholic who has no impulse control.
Ken: And anyway, I’m pretty tired. If I’m still this tired, we should just rent a movie and bring it back to my place.
Summer: *Thinking to self* What the fuck? Does your tiredness grow exponentially? Take a nap, you ass licker! And do you really think I’m going to go to your house for a first date? Can you say el cheapo axe murderer?
Ken: So I’ll just call you tomorrow around 6PM and let you know what’s going on.
Summer: Uh. Ok. Talk to you later. *Thinking to self* LAME!!!! Make plans with me before 6PM of the night of!
Needless to say, this did not sit well with me. So I called him back and left a message along the lines of, sorry, pal! I don’t go out with guys who “take” me on dates to their house because they are too cheap to take me out. Hello!!! Do I look like I want to be sexually assaulted? So alas, I remain dateless once again. But I think it was the right decision, don’t you? Well, babies, until next time…hooray for vibrators!
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