The Curse of The White Socks
Who doesn't love a shitty date story?
Recently, I have made an executive decision to bluntly tell the truth when I am on Lava. After trying different approaches including being as tactful and understanding as possible, I haven’t encountered the fun I hoped for. So, I am willing to risk it and go for the brutal truth. Therefore, I have started answering the incessant Lava chatter of “what are you looking for on Lava?” with “I am looking for a boy that likes to smoke pot and likes to fuck for hours”…. you would think that in this city, I would be swimming in cock…but no. It hasn’t really turned out that way. However, it has produced some loser date stories – which are always good for a laugh.
I call this one….The Curse of The White Socks….
I was on Lava chatting one saturday afternoon. Enter FIFAboy69er…hmm, sounds promising – a sarcastic British bastard perhaps? My new line of “pot and cock” seemed to be working.. FIFAboy69er gets “really fucking horny” when smoking herb. Not exactly a poet, but with the added bonus of a hard cock... sounded like flirting to my girlie ears.
We continued to chat and it became apparent that he was not a flowing, British chatterbox with loads of literary quips…he watched Premiership football (soccer) and liked to smoke pot. Thus, FIFAboy69er reached my "you must be at least this interesting" date minimum and I agreed to hook up with him. However, I wasn't willing to travel very far to do it- not much beyond the end of my drive way at any rate.. or just within stumbling distance of my local bar.
As part of my dating ritual, I was early and sat in the sunshine and had a glass of Lava-courage. It was fun to bask in the calm while you are all giggly and excited about meeting someone new. In a flash of plaid and a whiff of Polo cologne in strolls my Lava date…a Brampton suburban, bad hair cut of a man...awesome.
It was quite a first impression. Whoever gave the boy permission to wear white tube socks with white running shoes on a date should be shot in a public square – with full CNN and Fox News coverage. (O’Reilly would love a public execution.)
As I sat across from my Lava date, I tried to decide what to ignore first- try and be the bigger person and see his appalling taste as zany suburban style as opposed to manic, psycho-cop chic…There was so much to choose from when embarking on what part of his appearance to dismiss outright: the sock and shoe combination or the ugly plaid shirt or the plastic green sun visor. It was the sun visor that I was really shocked by. Old ladies wear those sorts of things on golf courses…and even then, this sort of coloured plastic visor was something I hadn’t seen on a straight boy since maybe tight, red satin pants on men were cool. Mike Reno of Loverboy, I am pointing my finger at you…working for the weekend? sure you are honey...
However, I was an optimist (horny) and was willing to sit through a few cocktails. Perhaps, just perhaps this time the dating gods would smile on me and introduce me to someone unexpected - a true diamond in the rough. However, the gods were vengeful, selfish and prefered to bitch-slap me. My date was (in true Canadian style) super-hoser boring, self-loathing (good for him really) and worked in a factory unloading “things that stink” (his description) from a truck.
Thank you Lava.
After two pints, I sat negotiating with my inner voice… “How many beers and how much pot is it going to take to want to fuck this guy?” Generally, when I am bored with a date I start to rate just how far I am willing to push my drunken sluttiness. Whether the morality-bar needs to be lowered just that much closer to the ground. Sure I am slutty...but I can I be tube sock slutty? Could I fuck a tube-sock wearing man with only two pints under my belt? Or do I have release the inner whore-beast that appears when I have had a few too many and can't control the needs of my vagina. What was my moral brick wall? Certainly not the voice of organised religon but the resoundingly secular voice of fashion. I should call up Chanel's headoffice and say "you are the reason I am not a total whore".
And what of my helpless date? Sure, I didn't specify "must be a snappy dresser”. Sure, he was what I thought I was looking for - big fan of pot and loves to fuck. Who exactly was I to add on the specifics after the deal was done? This was a perfect example of when the sex gods delivered but I was the cheeky bitch and declined their invitation.
After some forced conversation, I made my excuses to him by blatantly lying about having to pick my sister up at the airport. I left Mr. White-socks to make his way back to suburbia with an unsucked cock. I just couldn't live myself if I had chosen to screw him. It would have been one of those embarrassing sexual encounters that would have haunted me for years. Nevermind the white sock situation - I just wasn't ready to commit to a "sex-mare".
With no cock story to speak of, I sat on the sofa and tried to digest where exactly I went wrong. I think this is a lesson in clarity. From this point going forward my answer to Lava queries will be thus:
I am looking for a poncey, well dressed, pot smoker that likes to fuck for hours and hours – tube socks or plastic sun visors need not apply....oh, and the same goes for small-cocked-cologne-spritzers!
Next posting : Why Tits is single and desperate in Toronto
Recently, I have made an executive decision to bluntly tell the truth when I am on Lava. After trying different approaches including being as tactful and understanding as possible, I haven’t encountered the fun I hoped for. So, I am willing to risk it and go for the brutal truth. Therefore, I have started answering the incessant Lava chatter of “what are you looking for on Lava?” with “I am looking for a boy that likes to smoke pot and likes to fuck for hours”…. you would think that in this city, I would be swimming in cock…but no. It hasn’t really turned out that way. However, it has produced some loser date stories – which are always good for a laugh.
I call this one….The Curse of The White Socks….
I was on Lava chatting one saturday afternoon. Enter FIFAboy69er…hmm, sounds promising – a sarcastic British bastard perhaps? My new line of “pot and cock” seemed to be working.. FIFAboy69er gets “really fucking horny” when smoking herb. Not exactly a poet, but with the added bonus of a hard cock... sounded like flirting to my girlie ears.
We continued to chat and it became apparent that he was not a flowing, British chatterbox with loads of literary quips…he watched Premiership football (soccer) and liked to smoke pot. Thus, FIFAboy69er reached my "you must be at least this interesting" date minimum and I agreed to hook up with him. However, I wasn't willing to travel very far to do it- not much beyond the end of my drive way at any rate.. or just within stumbling distance of my local bar.
As part of my dating ritual, I was early and sat in the sunshine and had a glass of Lava-courage. It was fun to bask in the calm while you are all giggly and excited about meeting someone new. In a flash of plaid and a whiff of Polo cologne in strolls my Lava date…a Brampton suburban, bad hair cut of a man...awesome.
It was quite a first impression. Whoever gave the boy permission to wear white tube socks with white running shoes on a date should be shot in a public square – with full CNN and Fox News coverage. (O’Reilly would love a public execution.)
As I sat across from my Lava date, I tried to decide what to ignore first- try and be the bigger person and see his appalling taste as zany suburban style as opposed to manic, psycho-cop chic…There was so much to choose from when embarking on what part of his appearance to dismiss outright: the sock and shoe combination or the ugly plaid shirt or the plastic green sun visor. It was the sun visor that I was really shocked by. Old ladies wear those sorts of things on golf courses…and even then, this sort of coloured plastic visor was something I hadn’t seen on a straight boy since maybe tight, red satin pants on men were cool. Mike Reno of Loverboy, I am pointing my finger at you…working for the weekend? sure you are honey...
However, I was an optimist (horny) and was willing to sit through a few cocktails. Perhaps, just perhaps this time the dating gods would smile on me and introduce me to someone unexpected - a true diamond in the rough. However, the gods were vengeful, selfish and prefered to bitch-slap me. My date was (in true Canadian style) super-hoser boring, self-loathing (good for him really) and worked in a factory unloading “things that stink” (his description) from a truck.
Thank you Lava.
After two pints, I sat negotiating with my inner voice… “How many beers and how much pot is it going to take to want to fuck this guy?” Generally, when I am bored with a date I start to rate just how far I am willing to push my drunken sluttiness. Whether the morality-bar needs to be lowered just that much closer to the ground. Sure I am slutty...but I can I be tube sock slutty? Could I fuck a tube-sock wearing man with only two pints under my belt? Or do I have release the inner whore-beast that appears when I have had a few too many and can't control the needs of my vagina. What was my moral brick wall? Certainly not the voice of organised religon but the resoundingly secular voice of fashion. I should call up Chanel's headoffice and say "you are the reason I am not a total whore".
And what of my helpless date? Sure, I didn't specify "must be a snappy dresser”. Sure, he was what I thought I was looking for - big fan of pot and loves to fuck. Who exactly was I to add on the specifics after the deal was done? This was a perfect example of when the sex gods delivered but I was the cheeky bitch and declined their invitation.
After some forced conversation, I made my excuses to him by blatantly lying about having to pick my sister up at the airport. I left Mr. White-socks to make his way back to suburbia with an unsucked cock. I just couldn't live myself if I had chosen to screw him. It would have been one of those embarrassing sexual encounters that would have haunted me for years. Nevermind the white sock situation - I just wasn't ready to commit to a "sex-mare".
With no cock story to speak of, I sat on the sofa and tried to digest where exactly I went wrong. I think this is a lesson in clarity. From this point going forward my answer to Lava queries will be thus:
I am looking for a poncey, well dressed, pot smoker that likes to fuck for hours and hours – tube socks or plastic sun visors need not apply....oh, and the same goes for small-cocked-cologne-spritzers!
Next posting : Why Tits is single and desperate in Toronto
posted by Tits Malone at 12:04 p.m.
1 Comments:
I am so glad that story had a happy ending. I can still respect you and your wicked, but not crawling, ways.
xxoo
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