I met this girl on Match.com, if I recall correctly. She was a twenty-six year old graphic designer who lived somewhere in West LA, which was very convenient as it meant she wouldn’t have to drive far to deliver herself to me. Her profile pictures showed a cute, thin, blonde who looked a bit conservative, but those were always the best kind. Chicks that shop at Banana Republic love the whole “bad boy” image I’d cultivated. Tattoos, earrings, and spikey hair, along with the ability to write in complete sentences and speak with a reasonable level of intelligence (until he’s drunk as fuck), are a recipe for “I’ve never been with a guy like you. Now put it in my butt.”

Because this girl was particularly cute, I didn’t balk when she said she wanted to meet for a drink at a local bar. See, I typically didn’t like to leave my apartment and, as a general rule, I made girls come to me. This served a number of purposes including, but not limited to:

1) Stroking my massive ego. Chicks deliver themselves to my door, ergo I am god.
2) Placating my massive insecurities. In the real world, I’m just another self-concious dude. In my own domain, I am god.
3) Saving me massive amounts of cash. Two buck chuck by the case at Casa del Bad Ass. Drink as much as you like, I’ve got plenty (Of wine, not cash. I’m a broke ass nigga)
4) When the golden moment hits, where she arrives at the intersection of drunk and horny, we’re already on location for penetration. (Have I shown you my duvet?)
5) I’m lazy and don’t like to go anywhere. (Snores before whores!”)

But like I said, she was cute enough and seemingly “normal” (They all seem normal at first). I suspected that she might back out altogether if I pushed for her to come straight to my crib. Plus it was kind of a challenge. Can I play the game outside of my own arena? Can I get her to buy the drinks? Can I get her back to my place before she realizes that she’s about to fuck a stranger who’s only criteria for the date was that she be cute and paid for drinks? (I’m a romantic) So I said yes, I’d meet up at her favorite watering hole (and later be up in her favorite wet hole?). She chose:

It is, or at least was, a trendy little place in West Los Angeles, right on Pico Blvd. Not exactly my style, but they had alcohol (which was totally my style), and girls (which were even more my style). I arrived a few minutes late and she was already there, finishing her first drink. I apologized for being tardy (retarded) but she said no problem, she’d only been there a few minutes. A few minutes and she was already polishing off the first cocktail? That’s a good sign. As I was a chronic binge drinker, who drained booze bottles like pornstars drain cocks, I enjoyed a female who imbibed the same way (I also enjoy a female who drains cocks, preferably mine.) It usually turned out great. We both got ass out inebriated and thought it in our best interest to fuck each other in spite of the fact that we probably hadn’t exchanged last names. Of course, there was the occasional issue where one or the other of us got too fucked up to function, or the other turned into a fucking cunt. But that shit happens. Call it a job hazard (blow job hazard? ouch) Maybe chicks should watch what they drink (as long as they pay for what I drink). Anyway, turns out she was a big lush just like me and we got along swimmingly. We emptied numerous martini glasses, had some great conversation, followed quickly by drunken slurring conversation, and made out. We were full on going at it in the back of the bar and, at one point, I had my hand so far up her skirt I think my fingers got tangled in her fallopian tubes. Needless to say, we had a mutual attraction. This went on for a while until I finally said, “Less getta fuck outta hair”, and let her pay the bill (I’m a feminist). We collected ourselves and staggered out the front door and onto the sidewalk. I suggest that she follow me home and she says, “Nope. Gotta go to work early.” Um, did I just hear this chick correctly? I left my apartment to come here. I drove almost two miles (ok, more like three quarters of a mile but still). She wasn’t going to give me any? Because she had work in the morning? Oh no. I didn’t spend the last few hours in a pretentious bar, fingering your poonanny, and tongue wrestling so I could go home and rub one out. You’re going to have to quit your job.

I suggest that maybe she’d like to drive me home, just to make sure I get there safely (Drunk me is very clever). To my amazement, she actually agrees to that idea (Drunk her is decidedly not very clever), so we start walking to her car.

We get about ten feet away and she pushes me back into a recessed doorway right off the sidewalk. She pushes her tongue into my mouth and starts rubbing my junk in a “way too aggressive for a public street” manner. I get hard instantly and I can’t decide if I’m turned on by her actions or by how clever I am. Nothing turns me on like my own ego. (I’d fuck me) One thing about the ol’ alcoholic BAF, he never got “whiskey dick”. Even in the most drunken stupor I could get it up. And up I was. The girl actually starts to unzip my pants and I figure she’s just trying to get me amped up before we head to my place. Head is the operative word apparently. Seconds later she is on her knees, my cock in her mouth. I’m halfway between “damn this feels good” and “holy shit there are a lot of cars driving by”. I’m not an exhibitionist by nature and prefer that nobody watch me make retarded sex faces, particularly if they’re sitting at a light in their Volvo. We’re not exactly in a remote alley, behind a dumpster, off on some side street (Very romantic though, just fyi). We’re in a tiny alcove, on a busy thoroughfare, next to a bar that’s just closing down, street lights blazing. Two seconds later, people start pouring out of the bar. All I can do is stand there, frozen, while this chick is on her knees blowing me in front of most of the Westside. (If only I could make that little ‘W’ with my hand)

Now I have multiple problems (I have always had multiple problems). One, I have an overwhelming desire to start screaming down at her, “It’s last call bitch, finish that drink!”, and see if anyone else finds me funny. Two, I’m wildly uncomfortable and want to leave, but I don’t exactly want her to just stand up and step away, leaving me fumbling to cover up my naked wood. Three, at this point I’d be happy to blow a load but there’s no way I can do it with all of these fucking looky loo’s. Can’t people just mind their own business?

Move along folks. Nothing to see here. This chick is not on her knees, wearing her office attire from work today, sucking my dick here on Pico Blvd. She’s not. No seriously. It’s all a big misunderstanding. She dropped her contact on my penis and is trying to find it with her tonsils.

Finally I have a moment of clarity, reach down and literally shove it back in my pants. Zip. Snap. Done.

I start walking.

She scrambles to get up, steady herself, then stagger/chases me down the sidewalk. I’m laughing and she’s a little pissed but hey, it’s not like the sidewalk-suckoff was my idea.  After a few seconds of blowing off steam (she’s doing a lot of blowing tonight), it’s right back to be lovey dovey and ready to get in the car. Once in her car, she leans over and starts blowing me again. Now I kinda have to pee and really just wanna get home. I tell her let’s wait and get out of this area first, lest the cops come and bust us for lewd behavior. Moments later we pull into the alley behind my building (finally, a dark alley where the real romance occurs) and she starts to lean over. I assume she’s going to come inside but she says no, that she really has to get up early for work. I start to argue but my heart isn’t in it. I’m about to pass out and, truth be told, the blow job wasn’t all that great. The fun was only in the fact that we were on a public sidewalk. I say goodnight, give her a peck on the cheek, and jump out of the car. In no time at all I’m passed out in my bed. We never went out again.

Two days later I get an email from another chick saying, “Did I see you at The Arsenal the other night?” I reply with, “Nope, never been there. But always wanted to check it out.”

“Wanna meet there for a drink sometime?”

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Check out my other fucked up internet dating, er, love stories here: I FUCKED THE INTERNET.