GIRL 28
BAIT-&-SWITCH GIRL
I did a search for nurses, the group of females famous for being right
up there with strippers and hookers on the sexual thermostat scale.
When the search didn’t give me the right people, I narrowed it.
Nurses. Blonde. Bone thin.
Bingo. She said she did research. Her tagline was something about
researching online dating. Her original name was Blonde Research Nurse
Girl.
She was scheduled for the week before, but the day of our date, she
called in tears. She’d been fired. Of course, I’d been giving her work
advice. Be more aggressive, assertive, and don’t take any shit from
management. Boom, she’s fired. I’m sure it had nothing to do with me.
She was so hot on the phone. She promised to do things in bed that
other women had flinched at. She said she would truly love it all.
On Match, when a date is cancelled, due to the short attention span of
all the players involved, there is usually no rescheduled date. But in
this case I couldn’t forget about her. I scheduled her for a week
later, and we talked so much on the phone that we decided we knew each
other well enough that we could skip some of the preliminaries. Our
first night together would be a "pack-your-bag-come-over-and –fuck-me"
date. Usually that is extremely ill-advised for a first date. It puts
so much pressure on an individual prior to the first meeting that she
can barely get in the shower. No doubt about it, a first date planned
fucking session almost inevitably leads to a no-show, and I didn’t want
to be stood up.
I figured I would be stood up anyway. I blew it.
But on the way to City Streets, the neighborhood pub and restaurant,
Blonde Research Nurse Girl called me from her stool at the bar. Cell
phones are an amazing invention. How the hell anyone got laid before
their invention, I’ll never know. Cell phones and the famous internet dating site, I
smirked to myself. My friends had taken to calling it Snatch dot com,
and regularly tuned in for dating stories. As usual, the best ones were
the tales of failure.
I was nice to Research Nurse Girl and apologized for being fashionably
late. She was in a foul mood, because she’d driven her big-assed
Suburban to the gas station, floated the Arab a twenty and waited for
gas. When she drove off, her gas tank fill connection door was open and
her gas gauge read empty. Did you turn around and bitch at the guy, I
asked? No, she said. It was one of those typically female things, bitch
about a non-problem to the male in hopes of sympathy, and our brains
only recognize a problem to be solved and advice to be given. I may
have the girl brain functioning inside this brain case, but it is still
connected to a male body with male hormones, so like any other guy, I
gave her advice, and it pissed her off.
So when I walked into the bar I was already down a touchdown. I scanned
the patrons, but there was no one matching the photo on her profile,
that gorgeous bone-thin girl with the long platinum blonde hair. There
was a heavy woman with a bull dyke haircut who drilled hungry eyes into
me, but that wasn’t unusual. I did and still do attract lesbians. God
knows why. It’s probably that spectrum of masculinity thing.
On one end of the scale are the bad boys, the hyper-macho, the cops,
firemen, pro football players, Marine Corps fighter pilots, Navy SEALS,
union ironworkers and boilermakers, and the auto mechanics who can
rebuild a transmission with their bare hands. The ultra masculine. In
business, these are the CEOs who fly jet helicopters to work and run
oil exploration companies or Wall Street hedge funds. The more extreme
of them fuck their women rough, but for only four minutes a week, after
which they unapologetically roll over and go to sleep. They are cavemen
who drag women to the cave by their hair, and who thrill women just by
walking by them on a street corner. The construction workers who wolf
whistle at the females on the sidewalk may be the subject of female
complaints, but deep inside the girl mind, they are psyched to be
noticed by the beer-guzzling dirty-under-the-fingernails boys.
The problem with the super-macho is that they tend to put a lot more
emphasis on hanging with their pals than with spending quality time
with the bitch. Furthermore, they are prone to cheating, imagining that
all females are equally tempting and perhaps as equally annoying. But
for many women, this is all the male contact they can handle. They may
complain to their sisters about how Johnny doesn’t spend much time at
home, and when he is home he just sits on the couch with his hand down
his pants, farting and demanding dinner or a blowjob, and that he does
nothing for the woman’s orgasm. But truth be told, this is another one
of those female complaints-about-nothing. These women in relationships
with the super-macho are there by design. It is intentional. They can’t
handle an all-night sex session with a bohemian artist or an
avant-garde screenwriter. It would annoy them to be touched for more
than their allotted weekly four minutes. They’d rather either just
touch themselves or leave sex behind altogether. Because, after all,
having a REAL sex life would mean having to be accountable for how THEY
perform in bed, and so many females can’t handle a molecule of
accountability or criticism.
On the other end of the machismo spectrum are the ballerinas, artists,
writers, musicians and guys who talk about relationships and take
ballroom dancing classes. These guys won’t be found whistling at
miniskirt-clad women on the sidewalk, but talking about their feelings.
While they generally earn female contempt, these are the men who
surprise their females with roses and diamonds for no reason other than
that their women exist. They write poetry. They plan amazing dates to
new restaurants. They read up on new sexual techniques for bringing the
female into the multiple orgasm zone. They dream about how their
woman’s pussy looks, smells and feels. In short, they are the
inspiration for that line from the song "Stayin’ Alive," -- "Well, you
can tell by the way I use my walk / I’m a woman’s man / no time to
talk." I first heard that song as a midshipman at the United States
Naval Academy, a veritable training ground for the hyper-macho, and it
made me vaguely sick. Now I understand it. The guys who used to enjoy
disco? They fit into the non-macho category, and they’re the ones
females who want a good romantic life should be with. The good boys.
The ones who rarely get the girl. The ones who attract lesbians. Like
me.
A side note, which came to me from some females who know more about men
than I ever will: Some of the guys left of the ballerinas are bisexual,
and perhaps off the map of masculinity, and further out than the
bisexual ballerinas are the gay guys who are essentially the females in
the gay relationship. On the right, the ultra masculine side, you get
bodybuilders who are so incredibly macho that they worship the male
body, and when they go off the chart into the gay world, they are the
dominators, the males in the gay relationship. So the spectrum isn’t a
complete circle even though it "goes gay" on either side, but perhaps
you could call it a helix, a spiral.
So attracting the lesbo across the bar is par for my course, but no
sign of Research Nurse Girl. Figuring she was in the bathroom, I pulled
my cell phone off my belt and dialed her number.
The chubby lesbo smiled and put a cell phone to her ear.
Fuck.
I walked up to her, but I didn’t smile.
"What the hell, honey?" were my first words.
"What?" she said.
"You ever heard of bait-and-switch?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your profile shows a thin, long-haired blonde. Look at you. You’re not thin, darling. And your hair is shorter than mine."
She became furious.
"I told you I threw my back out and haven’t been able to work out! So I gained a little weight! Big deal!"
"The hair?" I prompted, looking at how it barely touched her ears. Men
love long, luxurious hair. It is a woman’s sexuality. Always find the
girl with the long hair. She’s the one who reads books about improving
her blowjob technique and isn’t afraid to ram a finger into the male
body just before the semen spurts into her eager mouth. Show me a woman
with a short, dykey haircut, and I’ll show you a woman who doesn’t like
the cock.
"What about my hair?" she screamed. All eyes in the bar were on us. The
cute, slender, blonde, long-haired bar maid gave me an arch look.
"What’s with the lesbo haircut?" I persisted.
"I wanted a change! My girlfriend said men love hair like this!"
I wanted to choke. The female friend sabotaging the dating of her pal
is long known in the male kingdom, but a blind spot to the females.
That married frumpy friend the woman is getting her dating advice from?
The advice is always a time bomb. Cut your hair. Eat more
cheeseburgers. Wear flat shoes, men hate high heels. I know. My
sister’s relationship advisor was my mother. Jesus, a few months of
that advice and my poor sister couldn’t buy a date. After a weekend of
shopping for slutty date clothes, fuck-me-pumps, getting long red nails
at the salon and stern instructions to grow her hair, my sister almost
immediately capturedthe attention of the guy she later married. Beware
the female dating advisor. They often aren’t aware of the sabotage, but
all their hostility toward men comes blasting out when it is time to
advise the single girl. Or they are secretly jealous that it's their
friend who gets to be single and date men and get laid. Either way,
they give advice designed to derail the single girl. Notice to all
female relationship advisors -- we males DO like long hair, we DO love
sex early in the relationship, we LOVE slutty clothes and high heeled
fuck-me pumps, and "a little weight" DOES matter.
"Sweetheart, you represented yourself with an ancient photograph of a
thin, long-haired blonde, and that’s nothing like how you look. And
looks are beyond important, they’re vital."
"You’re so superficial." Her look of accusation said it all.
"Maybe so, baby, but you’re such a liar," I replied.
"I can’t believe this!" she shrieked. She gathered up her purse and stormed out of the bar.
The cute barmaid smiled in amusement. "Really charming them tonight, I see," she said.
I grinned back in my best imitation of a bad boy. "Shut up, gorgeous, and get me another beer."
She did, winking as she set it on the bar napkin. Too bad she was 25.
Hell, when she was a baby, I was fighting the Soviets in the Cold War a
thousand feet beneath the tossing, wind-swept waves of the frozen North
Atlantic on the deck of a fast attack nuclear submarine. No way could I
imagine being in a relationship with someone that young.
But I guess I could always consider throwing a few fucks into her.
Isn’t that what the cops, firemen, union ironworkers and CEOs would be
thinking? Or would they just focus on the beer and the television tuned
to ESPN?
Hell, I had no idea, I thought. I’m a goddamned lesbian-attracting ballerina.
Written by tigersharktorp . Link to this entry
This entry has 3 comments: (Add your own)
Isn't it funny how women call men who value a woman's physical
appearance as being "superficial," but it's perfectly fine for a woman
to value a man's earning potential and size of bank account. Who's
kidding who? If a man looks like Jabba-The-Hutt, but has a large bank
roll, he can still catch a woman's eye. Be honest ladies, the first
thing you look at is how good looking a man is and the second is how
fat his wallet is. We all play these games, so why should it shock and
enrage a woman when a man admits he wants to be with a beautiful woman?
At least the man is being completely truthful.
Comment from ussdevilfish666 - 9/11/05 8:34 AM
hi Michael ~ hope all is well and the next story is as good as the
others. Have fun and good luck. I look forward to reading more.
Comment from cremepuff1955 - 9/8/05 7:42 PM
poor Mikey
How can someone so smart in nearly EVERY other aspect of life, fuck up so badly with women?
One would have thought you'd have figured out some scientific or
mathmatical equation by now. Talk when i get home... still in Europe.
Your story was refreshment from home. always, J
Comment from ganja819 - 9/8/05 4:40 PM
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