Tag Archives: ShyGuy

Dear L, G, & SG…

I can’t tell you how excited I was to get a ringle on my Blackberry (ugh, that NEVER happens) to find an e-mail with “L & G Advice Column” in the subject line. I was digging for Black Friday deals with Buttons when the message came in, immediately dropped the black velvet blazer I had and read it out loud in the store.

It really is a goodie! Of course, me, Gizzy & ShyGuy offered up our help, but please give this gal some words of wisdom, too!

Hi Girls,

My roommate and I knew each other a few years ago and lost contact when I moved to another city. I had recently broke up with my boyfriend who I was living with and was in desperate need to move out as soon as possible but could not afford to live on my own. I put a little status update on FB and she responded saying she was looking for a roommate as well. I didn’t tell her that my relationship had gone sour at first. We looked for a place and signed a lease and it was then that I mentioned that my boyfriend and I broke up. Things were good at the beginning (probably because I was spending time at home being sad and lonely) but I had broken up with my ex for various reasons, and one was because of my feelings for another guy. I took some time to get over my ex before moving on with the other guy (who is now my current boyfriend). In the past four months I have been spending a great deal of time with my boyfriend, and some of that time is spent at my apartment (my boyfriend still lives at home, saving up to buy a place).
It has become obvious that my roommate is extremely jealous (she is 30 years old, single and works 7 days a week because she has nothing to do on weekends and was bored so she got another job). She began to move all her personal stuff into her bedroom, she even eats her meals in there. I’m rarely home, I get home around 10pm and go right to bed because I have a life, but she has decided to torture herself by imagining that I am home all the time watching tv with my boyfriend in the living room (EXTREMELY FALSE) I can’t even remember the last time I watched tv in the living room, or tv for that matter.
Anyway, she recently asked me if she should be splitting the bills 3 ways because my boyfriend is ALWAYS there and should be paying. She then proceeded to tell me that I have forced her to move into her bedroom and that my boyfriend spends too much time at the apartment and that he can’t stay over during the week anymore, but weekends are fine… (Excuse me???? I didn’t realize I had moved in with my mother!!!!) She now won’t even look at me, deleted my bf from FB and has taken ALL her personal stuff into her room (including bathroom floor mats and hand towels that we were using).
Oh and did I mention she has a dog that has it’s own bedroom and a turtle that lives in our bathtub? Yeah disgusting!!! (And yes we split the rent right in half even though her dog has it’s own room).
So you now know the story (sorry for it being so lengthy), I would love to hear your advice on how to handle my very immature roommate.
Thx 🙂
Dear Ms. Needs-a-new-roommate,

First of all let’s hit the most important issue you raised; she deleted your boyfriend on Facebook? Inexcusable. What.a.wretched.bitch. Sounds like this roommate of yours needs some dick. You want a happy girl, facilitate a happy libido (vagina just sounded too dirty to use there).
It’s actually funny this is the first question I’ve assisted in answering for Lucky and Gizzy, because I’m going through a similarly awkward rainforest with my roommate. Like you, my roommate sits in her room whenever she’s at our place. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hang out. Doesn’t know the sweet sweet bliss for drowning her sorrows with my good friend and confidant Jose Cuervo. Last night, as a matter of fact, she came to me saying ‘I’m just not happy here’ because she feels like my home isn’t really her home and how she’s been disappointed at how things with our living arrangement have developed. Well no shit it doesn’t feel like your home, its my fucking home. I pay the mortgage. I bought the furniture, I painted the amateur shit that hangs on the wall. It’s not supposed to feel like your place, it isn’t. Of course I didn’t say this to her because I want to keep her rent money coming.
Her second point, of being disappointed, seems most similar to the situation you’re dealing with. I would bet that when you two moved in together, this broad had built up expectations that you two would become best friend and would sit around every night watching Will & Grace and braid one another’s hair. I bet when you told her you’d recently broken up with your bro-vice, if she hadn’t already put two-and-two together, her expectations of you two being close became even higher. My roommate expected me to be her fucking tour guide. Was I down for that? Ha. I bought her a five dollar metro card and said, ‘It’s a great big world out there. Give it your best try there Sport’.
Now I’m not saying you should be best friends with your roommate, but making her feel welcome around you (and your boyfriend if he’s around) would probably go a long way. You said it yourself; she’s lonely. So going a reasonable distance to reach out to her might do a world of good until she gets the sand out of her glory-hole. If that doesn’t work, I stand by my initial comment that she just needs some dick. Surely you have a friend, or your boo has a friend, who’d fuck her. Surely, with enough alcohol you can facilitate some sort of bonestorm on her behalf. Really? A turtle in the bathtub? Is his name Michelangelo and does he love Pizza? Cause those guys were my favorite grown up.

I honestly don’t check our email that often so I heard about this story a few hours after the fact when I met up with Lucky and Buttons for dinner.  I’m not kidding you, my jaw dropped when they told me the dog had it’s own room and then my hands went straight to cover my face when they told me about the turtle.  Yeah I was laughing, but it was an in shock kind of laughter.  First, I need to say props to you girlfriend for not “accidently” killing this broad off in your sleep.  Because I would have, or found horrible things to do to her ie: pickles under her bed, holla Snooks.
Anyway, I’ll have to back ShyGuy up in saying you should definitely try and make an effort to spend some time with her and see if that eases the tension.  I don’t know that I’d invite the bf along just yet though.  Maybe suggest doing a roommate dinner once a week or every other week so she feels like she has some “you” time.  I would also ask her what her problem is with your boyfriend, I doubt he snuck in her room and fondled her booberrys while you were asleep, so she really should have no reason to hate him.  But it does sound like she is super jealous of the time you two spend together, and it’s probably definitely mostly because she has no one and no life.  You know what they say, misery loves company.  If all else fails revert to the Bible (aka Mean Girls) and say, “Sorry you’re like IN LOVE WITH ME!” And then make the dog get a damn job and pay some rent!
God speed,

Dear One Less Lonely Girl,
Wow! I love love love that you asked us this question, because I’ve had my fair share of horrid roommates in my day. But on the other hand, I hate that this is your actual life.
I will agree with Shy Guy on most of his accounts, except the Jose Cuervo thing (that’s like the Malibu of tequilas). I think inviting the roomie out one night with the boyfriend (sorry G) will go a long way—chances are, she will say no because she has to work, but then the problem becomes hers and not yours.
On the other hand, maybe setting aside one night for a ladies evening would help, too as much as I hate this idea. Having some wine, getting sloppy drunk and talking things out might work. If neither of these ideas do the trick, it’s time to get blunt and tell her what you think—that you don’t understand her problem with your boyfriend or why she is neglecting the rooms your share.
Maybe it’s time for you guys to relay the ground rules. If that’s the case, step up and tell her the truth—you aren’t splitting the rent three ways unless the dog and turty are included.
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The trifecta of advice columns.

Gizzy & I sure hope you bitches are enjoying this week of fun and celebration on your end, because G & I are just using this as an excuse to get sloppity drunk everyday (don’t ask about the other 51 weeks of the year). But in all seriousness, we’ve been hustling and bustling more than the contestants on Project Runway to bring you something we’ve all been hinting about—the Lucky & Gizzy advice column!

But since this week, and this blog, is about making everything bigger, and better, things are about to get HUGE (in a totally awesome, sexy way). Not only will Gizzy & I be offering our sound advice to our dear readers, but so will our favorite white guy: ShyGuy!

We figured our ladies out there, and the guys too, could use perspectives from both ends of the stick (I’ll take ShyGuy’s end, please and thanks).

So here’s the dealio:

First, we need you all to WRITE us! Send us your questions, problems, your biggest life decisions to cocktailsattiffanys@gmail.com

We will read the question, post it on our lovely blog, and solve the world’s problems using the brains of our TRIAD advice writers (ahem, Gizzy, ShyGuy, and yours truly) and of course, add in a dash of funny. Cause that’s how we do.

We want to make it perfectly clear (clear as glass, like LC says) that the questions are completely anonymous. If you don’t give yourself a pen name, we will assign you one and change all the names in the question, just to be sure we’re all protected. K? Protected like the condom protects your eggs from the big bad spermies!

Par Example:

Dear Gizzy, ShyGuy, and Lucky,

Hola! Love you, love your blog, love you more. I keep having these dreams where I speak to previous boyfriends. The conversations are ridiculous and, from what I can remember, pretty meaningless. Often, the conversations end in fights. I never talk to my exes, so I don’t know why they’d be coming up in my dreams in the first place. What do you think they mean, and what can I do to stop the dreams?


Boyfriend Dream Catcher

P.S. I have anal leakage what do I do!!?



First, thanks gf love you more! Second, this problem is easily fixable by an online dream interpreter dictionary.  Since those are basically a bunch of bologna, here’s what I think: you miss your ex and want to talk to him.  Simple as that girlfran’.  The next question is should you talk to your ex? My question for you is why did you break up, if you dumped him sure go ahead and talk to him he’s probably sulking at home with a 6 pack, your glamour shots, and a box of tissues anyway.  But, if he dumped you, you need to go to Mexico.  Like right now.  So that if you call him you get an outrageous phone bill and feel the burn for that stupid decision later so that it never happens again.  Don’t be an idiot!

As for the anal leakage, if you’d like a home solution might I suggest you get some thread and a needle?



We’re totally aware  that maybe everyone doesn’t have problems they want solved by a couple of drunk lunatics and their all that and a bag of chips guy friend, but if you don’t send us your problems we will start writing our own problems and posting them as the problems of others and I really don’t think anyone wants to see us try and give ourselves advice.  That would cause things to end with a bottle of alcohol and a sad movie.  It probably would end that way no matter what, but it will be less sad if we’re solving your problems, hmmkay?!

It is also at this time that I would luuurrveee to give a shout out to the one and only, our dear friend, and loyal hit getter, Megan Fox.  Only a few days after we started the blog I sat at home one evening striving to get Megan Fox’s Eyebrows and decided to blog about my struggles with the eyebrow pencils from Walgreens. Had we known that nearly 100 posts later the eyebrows post will still be the most popular post we have, we probably would and should create a “Make Me Look Like…[Insert Celebrity Name Here]” segment where we try and make ourselves look as much like a specific celebrity via spray paint, makeup, and minor plastic surgery, because Megan single handedly got us half of our hits.

I guess if we’re giving Megan a shout out we also need to say thanks to those people out there who search penises every day, because they visit us a lot too.  I’m sure they’re pretty upset when they scroll through the posts and see that the only penises we’re blogging about are macaweenies.  Sorry guys or girls, whoever you are.

I feel that it is my duty to share this with the world:

I honestly laughed really hard at this, I hope that doesn’t make me gross, but it probably makes me inappropriate.  I also just send out a mass text to a bunch of people asking them to please not text me because I’m going to watch Raising Hope and would greatly appreciate that it not be interrupted, some of those were guys who have yet to ask me on dates, but I got a lot of responses basically saying you got it asshole.  It saddens me that a fat guy lip syncing to I Kissed a Girl and some white trash peeps raising a baby make my day.  It is what it is. So peace out homies.

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The terrible girlfriend.

Welp, here at Cocktails at Tiffany’s, it’s fucking Friday. And that means, we like, we like to party. Am I right, or am I right? I showed up to work yesterday to find that Fatso has a new office. Right next to MINE. Great. Just wonderful. I spent the whole day with my door shut and my music on full-blast so I didn’t have to hear his nasal voice.

But enough about him, me and Gizzy have a special treat for you. Remember ShyGuy {the one I had the beach dream about Sunday night, then found out he spent the last five days on said beach with his gf}? He’s guest-blogging today, so read up little lovers. And a week from today marks the 100th post, so get your votes in!

$     $     $

I used to live with this guy, let’s call him Randy, who is one of my best friends. He and I went to college together and both suffered from being chronically misunderstood. He’s been my closest friend since I moved to the Capital city. We moved in together in 2008 and lived together until this past summer.

The reason I moved out really had nothing to do with him. I was just tired of living in frat-style. Sure, having a full band in set up in the family room is pretty convenient for rocking out on a whim. And so is having a deer head on the wall adorning some small breasted woman’s brassier. I’ll even go so far as to say I can respect having nothing in the refrigerator to drink but beer and vodka.

Part of the reason I moved out was because I think I may have gotten dysentery from the kitchen. I mean it was awful. Food from weeks ago left out. Empty pizza and takeout boxes lying in a disheveled pile by the back door. Some unknown fungi growing from the disposal. I could have dealt with all that, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was when I came home from work one day and could not find a clean glass, or any other suitable container from which to drink (trust me, I’d gotten inventive before; bowls, empty bottles, a bongo drum at one point,etc.) to pour my 2% milk into. Shit does a body good.

But really the reason I moved out is much more disturbing than that.

Randy’s girlfriend sucks.

Like awe.ful.person.

Before I go into describing why said broad sucks the life out of everything good in the world, let me tell you about Randy.

Before, lets call her Disaster, showed up in his life Randy was awesome. He was always down for fun, always doing funny and eccentric musings, and would be a drinking buddy one hundred percent of the time. He was a guy’s guy. Ladies loved him because he’s unabashedly himself, and guys loved him because he’s fucking hilarious.

Randy met Disaster at a party of a mutual friend. They both grew up in similar areas but never ran in the same crowds. I use the term met very loosely because after their ‘one-night stand’, Disaster asked Randy if he knew her name. He knew it was either Disaster or Kim, and said Kim. Wrong and embarrassed Randy tried to make it up to her by taking her on a date (to make her feel more like a lady?) and the rest as they say is hell…I mean…history.

Come to find out later, Disaster totally goated him and had no idea what Randy’s name was until sometime later. At least Randy remembered her name…. a little bit! Everyone’s gotten a little drunk and forgotten someone’s name, right? RIGHT?

So Randy has been dating Disaster for almost two years now. Disaster goes to graduate school about two hours away (thank.god). But when she’s around she makes at least one, usually fifteen, nagging comments about how Randy never goes to visit her. Umm. Bullshit. Part of the reason we (his collective friends) hate her so much is because he drives to see her so often. Wretched.

I know women are a little sensitive to this issue so I’ll try to sugar coat her physical appearance as best I can. Disaster has big boobs.
And I just spent five minutes trying nearly helplessly to think of something else positive to say about her. I guess my revulsion of her really does run deep.

And even her boobs aren’t that great because since she’s started dating Randy, Disaster has let. Herself. Go.

But seriously. This broad is awful. Not really as a person, cause I don’t think she’s a spawn of Satan, but she’s just terrible for Randy. Let me count the ways. She’s a nag. She’s demanding. She’s rude to his friends (me) and his friends’ girlfriends (…). She’s blindly ignorant of issues directly relating to what she’s studying in graduate school. Her friends are not hot, nor are they fun; let’s not even get into how snooty those bitches are (what-the-fuck good is having a best friend with a girlfriend if you don’t wanna bang out some of her girlfriends- inciting infighting of friends?)

I think what bothers me most about her though is her sense of entitlement. Randy has told me on a number of instances that he loves living in the city. He wants to stick around here and is in no hurry to leave. Yet almost as soon as they started dating, Disaster started yapping about “when we move here” and “when we move there” as if she’s just expecting him to pick up his successful and gainful employment so she can chase some fantasy she has.

Actually, I lied. That’s not the thing about her that bothers me most. What bothers me most (and I’ve discussed this with the rest of our buddies also) is that whenever Disaster is around, Randy’s not himself anymore. Sure he’s himself literally, but a more vanilla version.

Vanilla is not a good color on a guy whose excellence was perpetuated by pushing the limits of both comfort and appropriate behavior. And by push the limits, I really mean a complete disregard of both.

But how do you tell a best buddy that the girl he’s been seeing, the girl he’s grown comfortable with, whose tricked him into thinking she’s accepted him for who he is, and whose willing to bang basically on demand, that she’s actually in fact a Disaster.

So far I’ve just sat on the sidelines and passive-aggressively made cunning jokes about her, of which only one or two she’s able to realize are directed toward her- and even then she thought I was just teasing her playfully. Think again, bitch.

I know part of the blame should be on Randy. He could stand up for himself and tell Disaster that he doesn’t want to be brought down. Sure some responsibility lies with him in this whole fiasco, but I honestly don’t blame him at all. He was single for a long time, and this sorceress Disaster has tricked him into thinking she’s the best he can do.

Well, I say fuck that, and fuck her. Actually don’t. I wouldn’t wish that on any penis.

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Hey, white liar.

I can’t drink coffee this morning. This is a huge problem.

I got my teeth whitened yesterday and have to go 24-hours without eating or drinking anything dark [racist, much?]. So, I’m stuck at the office [yep, on Columbus Day] drinking white tea. Fuck this.

Anyway, I’ve been in the damn dumps all weekend. By hey, what else is new? I showed up at work Thursday, for a meeting in which they basically told us our company is declaring bankruptcy at the end of the year. Splendid. I left work, hooked up with Fratty, and went to the Melting Pot with Anne to stuff myself with meats and cheese.

Anne is going through a hard time, too—her fiance has two weeks to prove himself at work or else he gets canned. So both of us felt guilty for spending the money, but it is a treat we give ourself about every other month. So we get there, order the usual: Spinach Mushroom salad, Wisconsin Trio Cheese, steak and seafood plate, and the s’mores dessert.

I just proved Gizzy’s theory that all of our readers think we are huge. I weighed in at 124 at the dr’s office two weeks ago, so draw your own conclusions.

So the salads are great, and then the cheese comes. The Melting Pot prides itself on mixing everything right in front of you, so the waitress pours in the wine, a variety of cheese, and proceeds to beat it like she’s scrambling eggs for her ex-husband. It was real awkward. She tells us to enjoy.

Umm, she just mixed up a batch of cheese soup. Anne pulled up the fork and the cheese dripped off it, with the consistency of honey mustard dressing. Uh no. I have a horrid fear of soggy bread, I was not about to dip my cubes of rye in that shit. So the manager walks by and this conversation happens:

Anne: We don’t think our cheese is thick enough [takes the fork, shows him the drip].

Mgr: it’s supposed to be like that.

Anne: nnoooo. We’ve had it many times, and it’s never been like this.

Mgr: your waiters probably made it wrong before.

Anne: Well, we aren’t going to eat it.

Mgr: I can add more cheese, but it’s supposed to be the consistency of warm honey.

Anne: Honey is thick, add the cheese.

Mgr: ok, you had the Big Night Out cheese?

Anne: no, see? You don’t even know. It’s the trio.

What in fucking hell? I’m not a food snob, but shit, if the food I’m paying for isn’t up to par, then fucking fix it. I’ve waited tables, and guess what? The customer is always right. No one would’ve dipped their bread into that cheese broth. It was disgusting. And then you’re going to throw your very own staff under the bus and say they’ve made it wrong every time we’ve been there? Christ.

Anyway, the cheese was fixed and the rest of the meal was quite delish. Friday night was ultra-depressing, to say the least. I stayed home to clean my entire apartment, from top to bottom. Saturday, I ran errands all day—buying gifts for a baby shower I have to go to next Sunday [kill me]. While I was out, my phone was blowing up—lights, vibrating, sirens, the works. What was all the racket? This:

Lucky Lady,

Your anniversary with

Disgusting Trashy Cheating Bastard Ex

Is in: 7 days

Well, fucking hell. So it is. What would’ve been three years will be Saturday. Three years, wasted, of my precious life, and all optimism that I once had for love and marriage gone down the shitter. I’m shopping for other people’s success getting reminders of past love, while I’m sure he’s fucking every cunt in town. Live it up, you bastard.

Needless to say, I needed a pitcher of beer. So I met up with Anne, her fiance, and her dad Saturday night to watch a football game. Everything was going pretty well until I get this on my piece of shit phone:

Pageant Queen: WE’RE ENGAGED!!!!!!!

Fucking fuck fuck. It took everything I had not to slam my face into the wooden table and just drown myself in my 4th pint of beer. Later, when I was bitching to Gizzy about it, she told me we need to get over it and stop making a big deal out of it when people get engaged. I can say I’ll try, but honestly, there is no one left to get engaged. Seriously when The Ex gets engaged NO ONE tell me. Seriously. Do not, because I will kill myself.

Sunday, I got my teeth whitened, which was fine at first, then it hurt like a bitch for the remainder of the day. I tried to sleep it off, which resulted in a dream about McFaggot. In the dream, I was at a party and McFaggot showed up in a limo. He got out of the limo, wearing the tuxedo he had on when I met him. But when he saw I was there, he turned around and left.


I had to go to a writer’s meeting Sunday night, for a local magazine I work for. There, I saw this guy I’ve seen at the meetings. He is kind of cute, in a nerdy way, and I’m pretty sure we had a college class together or something, but I can’t figure it out. He flips burgers and writes for the magazine. No, really. And that’s what my life is now. Thinking about cute guys flipping burgers.

I drove home from that meeting listening to country music. And yes, I considered just driving off a cliff.

So, as much as I don’t want it to happen, I’m thinking I might need to meet 100 guys for the 100th post. But hey, it’s up to you. So if you haven’t voted yet, go do it! For the sake of my sanity.

I should sign off with something positive, right? Last night, I had a hot dream about ShyGuy. Seriously. I was on the beach and he came out of nowhere [there were even rays of sunshine behind him] and I tackled him. Right there in the sand. I was supposed to be on vacation with Gizzy, but she was late. When I called her, she was all, “I’ll be there tomorrow,” so there I was stuck at the beach, alone.

ShyGuy was all, Lucky, I’m not going to leave you here alone. Mmmmhmmm.

I’m no dream-reader, but I’m pretty sure I know what it means: we need more ShyGuy! Holla if ya hear me 😉

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I believe a few thank you’s are in order…

I’ll make this short since we all know I’m a rambler, but Lucky and I need to do a few shout outs and thank some people who have made our blog a smash hit.

First and foremost we’d like to thank ourselves and the assholes that date us.  Without us and them, lets face it, there would be no Cocktails at Tiffanys, and nothing for you to read to make you feel better about your own life.

Second, we need to thank freesexmovie.irwanaf.com (this is in no way a plug, I wouldn’t recommend going to this site….it’s probably all whored out with virus’ and shit) for having the largest number of referrals to the blog.  If we had prizes, they would get one.

But most importantly, we’d like to thank our readers.  We nearly doubled our record yesterday and while 95% of them were us logging on from different computers reading our own blog, there’s still 5% of you out there that actually are reading it (ShyGuy, Lucky’s Mom, Buttons… ummm I think that’s it.)

Anyway, cheers to you and cheers to us.   Happy Weekend!

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ShyGuy drinks the kool-aid.

Hello lovelies! Remember earlier in the week when I told you about my favorite DC (hottie) blogger ShyGuy? Well, after a little bit of sweet talking, Gizzy & I were able to convince him to guest blog for us! Why else would I be in such a great mood to be sitting in my shit hole of an office? Anyway, enjoy his post, leave comments, flirt with him, just make him feel welcome so he will come (cum) back.

Yo! You can call me ShyGuy. Gizzy and Lucky asked me to guest post, I assume because of a lack of male perspective. So here it is, your male perspective. Brace.yo.self.

As Lucky and I have discussed, I’ve had considerable difficulty finding a woman that even remotely resembles someone I’d like to pursue romantically. When I first moved out to the east coast after college I dated a lot. Actually, let me clarify; I went on a lot of first dates. There was a stretch of about a year when I went on like 25 first dates without a second.

No, I’m not a troll.

I have sense broken the one date curse, even if only barely, and have been on a few (3) dates with a woman we shall call PDA. I had a few -let’s call them orange because they’re not quite red-flags going into number four. The first was, she does this thing where we’ll be talking about something and she’ll mutter the first few syllables of a thought, then stop, then change the subject all together. This is hugely irritating to me as I’m trying to get to know her. It’s almost as if her speech has ADD. Second, she’s all. About. The PDA (hence the name). I’m not anti-PDA, but I usually like to be comfortable with someone before I get all hands-on in front of the whole world. Call me a prude, but I tend to shy away from finger-blasting dates on street corners.

That’s just me.

Regardless, I’ve been excited about this date for a few days. We were trying this new dim sum restaurant and seeing a concert of a really good singer/songwriter named Mat Kearney.

If you don’t know who he is, you should look him up.

I figured even if the date goes poorly, I’ll have some solid entertainment and an easy excuse not to pay attention to her.

So we’re at dinner and things are going fine. Conversation is going, we’re laughing and bantering.  Then something happened and she went from calm and playful to serious—I half expected her to come across the table and shine a bright light in my face for an interrogation.

And no, not the hot kind.

So while she’s gabbing on about what she wants and how she feels (blah blah blah) I try not to zone out, but you’ve gotta understand the restaurant was dark and I was slipping into a food-coma.

She’s talking about being guarded and wanting to talk to me, but because I notice that she’s guarded she just doesn’t say anything. She gets to talking about what she wants and what she needs. The more she kept talking the more I went gloss. I thought that interest in a person caused more-than-usual openness instead of the other way around. All of this sounds like excuses and I’m preparing myself for the ‘let’s be friends’ line.

This merry-go-round continues for the duration of our dinner. I think I spent this time eating every last speck of food I could find on the plates and thinking to myself, this girl just isn’t interested and to hell if I’m gonna stick around and have to convince this broad that I’m a catch. I’m smart, I’m funny, and damnit I can dance. I’ve got manners, am romantic, and would rather eat the dessert between your legs than some silly French custard bullshit. Sorry I’m not sorry.

So I ask for the check, which we had agreed she would pick up because I bought the concert tickets. That’s fair, right? Apparently wrong. She’s like, ‘should we split this?’ shocked and still a little steamy from the verbal berating I just took, I say nothing and just toss my AMEX her way.

Once we get the check back and are ready to go I say, “I’m going to hit the bathroom before we go.” To which she responds that she has to also and tells me not to plot my escape or make any calls asking to get bailed out. She said it as if she were kidding, but all I could think was “oh, you have no idea.”

So I sent a text to Lucky (704): Fuck. This is going poorly.

As soon as I step out of the bathroom and get on the sidewalk with her, here comes the PDA again. She grabs my hand and steps up to kiss me. I kiss her quickly and start walking toward the concert. She makes a comment asking me if I’m comfortable, to which I honestly respond that I’m anything but comfortable.

Fast forward to the concert. We’re sitting on the side of the stage, fairly close. And she wants to start talking dirty.  She starts talking about all sorts of sexual things. Obviously I’m not opposed to this. So she tells me that she likes how I use my hands (I tend to be very hands-on… Oh shut up ladies, you like it), and I’m like… okay lets rectify this date! Hooo ahh! (that sound effect was just in my head I promise).

No dice.

After an incredible concert and a steadily ascending sexual tension, she kisses me goodnight and tells me to go home safe.


Ladies, if there’s one thing guys hate about women, it’s cock-teases. She was clearly giving me the green light. Hello! She told me she likes… no love… playing how many licks…! Then stonewalls me when it’s time to get in the game. Sure I could have been more aggressive and just come out and said, ‘Listen PDA, lets go back to my place and take my slam-piece to Bonetown.’ But I’m a nice guy and a little shy, so I didn’t, and was left walking home alone, pissed about being left with a pitched tent and no heat for the night.

No worries though, or so I thought. A few mornings later I woke up with the girl I used to be dating but am now just sleeping with. We’re still good friends, but the timing just wasn’t right. I just bought a condo and it’s still not so well furnished; it’s a work in progress. I don’t remember how it came up, but we were talking about housewarming parties or presents or something.

Sidenote: Back when this girl and I were dating I got a text from her on a random afternoon saying that she was at a certain lingerie store and had picked out my housewarming present. Sweet. Why didn’t this work out? Let’s not get into that.

I think I asked her when she’ll be giving me a housewarming present (I’d been living here for awhile) she promised and her response is possibly the best burn I’ve ever received. Her response was totally deserved, and complete Karma coming back for being upset about getting cock-teased a few night earlier. She said to me:

I took back your housewarming present and bought a vibrator instead.

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