Soul mates and Blanket Forts...

I know what you're expecting. You're expecting me to continue on with part II of the Seth story and why my boobs get in the way of things. Well, I was going to for my next post. But, I've been wanting to get into another subject...So, Seth can wait to be posted after this one, since I didn't go far into that story to begin with.

It'll be a year in February since I've started this blog. It actually feels like I've had this baby a lot longer than that. It's been a good source of recording all my "interesting" experiences and breaking up friendships...but you'll have that, I suppose.

With having quite a number of posts on here, Ive gotten quite a bit of emails from all over the world. Some hate mail from the actual guys I have written about, some wanting to take me out to show me what a good date is actually like, a few wanted me to post something about my likes and dislikes to get to know me better, and others were wanting me to write a list on what I actually want in someone because I'm quite unclear about it.

To be honest, I don't believe in writing a list for my kind of perfect guy. Which is quite funny, because I write a list for everything else in the world

The reason I don't believe in writing a list for the perfect guy is because you always make exceptions. Always. I could have 28 must haves on a list, but if I find someone I fall head over heels with and he doesn't have those must haves, I'll make the exception for him. It's something we all do. But, is that a smart idea?

I don't have the answer to that, but I do know that a conversation with one of my grandmothers made me think more about it. Here's the story:

I was raised by five steel magnolia women while growing up. My mother, my aunt and my three grandmothers. For those of you who don't know what a steel magnolia is, it's a southern woman who is strong and independent yet very feminine. I've been told I was destined to be one, but my location just screwed things up. Anyways, they come from Mississippi, West Virginia, Virginia and Alabama.

While being raised by these amazing women, I've learned quite a bit of different things. This includes southern phrases that I sometimes use and constantly get made fun of for by "city" friends:

"Well, pin a rose on your nose."

"There's nothing open after midnight, but legs."

"He's about as useful as tits on a bull."

"They call him blister, because he doesn't show up until after the work is done."

And my favorite that I still don't understand: "Well looky there, the devil is beating his wife." ...meaning it's raining while it's still sunny out.

Anyways, besides the lovely southern phrases, the incredible peach cobbler and sweet tea recipe I learned to master, and the lessons on how to be a lady but hit like a boy, I have sat around the table with these women every Sunday afternoon for twenty-four years and have heard their stories and I thought I heard all of them.

But one recent afternoon, we were talking about my dating life and a particular guy I have been seeing. One thing led to another and my grandmother, Martha, told the story on how she met my grandfather, Aubrey.

My grandmother, Martha was gorgeous and still is. I know everyone says that about their female relatives but it's true. She was a sort of the ideal pin-up in the fifties. She had raven black hair like Elizabeth Taylor, a curvy figure that could stop traffic, and big blue eyes that still shine today.

She had just graduated high school and had found out she was accepted into the college, Old Miss, to become a teacher. Her good friend, Ernestine, mentioned a summer party she was going to be having and asked my grandmother to come before she left for college.

My grandmother was dating an almost doctor at the time, and thought he was someone she could see spending the rest of her life with. He had all the perfect qualities and my great grandparents approved greatly. She knew it was only a matter of time before he popped the question to her.

The day of the party, my grandmother had bought a white sundress for the occasion and was hoping that one of her last outings before college would be a night to remember. Little did she know, it was going to be just that.

My grandmother and her date arrived at the gathering where there were a good amount of people already there. My grandmother didn't know anyone but Ernestine but she never had trouble being social with anyone.

As her date went to go get them another glass of sweet tea, my grandmother saw a handsome guy staring at her from across the room with a group of guys and he was not being nonchalant about it. She turned her body away from him, so there were no misconceptions about her interest. She even stood closer to her date when he came back, so that mysterious guy knew she was spoken for.

Music was playing, dancing was happening and her date asked her to dance. As they were dancing, she turned her head to look back and see if that guy across the room was still there. And he sure enough was, staring right at her and smiling.

She described him as a James Dean. He had a smile that was all trouble and sideburns that were quite perfect.

After awhile, my grandmother and date sat to the side to take a break from dancing...and all of a sudden the music came to a halt.

Everyone turned to see what was happening and there was the guy that was across the room, standing on a coffee table, tapping his class with a butter knife.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. I'm going to marry that girl!" He then pointed straight at my grandmother.

My grandmother told me she was beat red and embarrassed and had no idea how to respond but say "And just who are you?"

That guy on the other side of the room, ended up being my grandfather and they had a happy marriage for fifty-five years with two kids and four grandchildren.

The point I'm trying to make in this story I shared is she had a guy who had every quality on her list and there came my grandfather out of nowhere, who was blunt, not planning on going to college, and never stepped foot into a church before...something my grandmother never wanted being the southern girl she was, but he was the exception. There's always someone who will be the exception.

I'm not sure I believe in the topic of soul mates but then again when I heard that story from my grandmother I think a little differently. She told me "Your grandfather knew the moment he saw me that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, and I knew it deep down too. He wasn't perfect, he pushed my buttons and I sure as hell pushed his. But, you want that. Someone who you can be yourself around, that's going to know how to push your buttons. You're going to find that one person who's unlike anybody else you've ever met. You can talk to this person for hours and never get bored, silence is never an issue and when it does happen it's the comfortable kind, things are never boring with them, you can tell them things and they wont judge. This person is your best friend, your soul mate. When you find this someone, don't ever let them go or you'll regret it."

When she told me this, it was a lot to take in. It's hard to think about something like that happening nowadays...knowing from the start that you're destined to be with that person? It kind of seems like something that only happens in the movies or in the 1950's.

I don't think I could come up with a specific list of all the must haves. I just want my happily ever after to be with someone who accepts all of me. My past, my quirks...just me.

I do know I want conversations that could go on for hours with someone, about everything under the sun: politics, world news, music, books, movies, things that have happened in our lives, why paris hilton is even famous, a debate on Donald Trumps hair, why Nickleback's songs all sound the same...

I want someone to challenge me, to bicker with me, to give it back to me when I say something smart ass.

I want someone who would be up for doing one of my crazy ideas that I come up with for the day, whether it's flying across the country for the weekend on a whim because there's nothing on the television, building a fort with blankets and camping out in the living room because I need a change of scenery, or making out with a mouth full of pop rocks because I've always wanted to to see what it would be like.

I want someone who comes up with their own crazy ideas.

Someone who doesn't mind my nerdy/silly quirks and embraces them: I read the dictionary before I go to sleep and highlight all the words I love. I watch Jeopardy when I'm giving myself a pedicure and try to answer all the questions. I go to rock concerts when I have to work at seven am the next morning. I put my feet up on the dashboard when I'm riding shot gun and I write inappropriate messages on fogged up windows. I will change my own oil but will ask you to show me how to defrost my windows. I will dress like a groupie one day and then like a librarian the next. I will give you many reasons on why I question the existence of dinosaurs and will watch specials on Bigfoot and ghosts. I go on random road trips by myself when I'm upset or need to think. I will play four metal songs in a row on the jukebox and will then throw a Celine Dion song at the end and I will spend my last 30 dollars on getting my nails done.

I want someone that stimulates me intellectually, who makes me laugh, my heart pound and my vagina yearn.

I believe in romance, sex, lust, and even love.

I don't want everything to add up to a perfect equation.

I want mess. I want chaos.

I want someone to go crazy out of his mind for me.

I want to feel passion, heat, and madness.

I want it all.

I'm happiest when I'm myself. I just want to be my true self about this person.

That's all I ask. :-)

xox

hotto.

Having Big Hooters Result In Meeting Big Idiots Part I...

I have big boobs...or you could call them Big Bazooms, Big Betty Boops, Big Bombshells, Big Bulbs, Big Cha-Chas, Big Ear Muffs, Big Gazingas, Big Honkers, Big Hooters, Big Jugs, Big Mammies, Big Nippers, Big Peaches, Big Scoops, Big Snuggle Puppies, Big Sweater Taters, Big Tatas, Big TidBits, Big Zeppelins...You get the picture. (Can you tell I've heard it all?) Anyways, I know I have big boobs. I know this without you bringing it up to me in a "clever" email or when I'm out and about with friends for a drink, believe it or not, I know this because I have been in this body of mine for twenty-four years. I know what you're thinking..."Don't wear v-neck tops or tank tops and it won't happen." But, here's a little secret...boobs look even bigger in turtle necks and t-shirts. I've learned this and it's pretty much a scientific known fact to girls with big knockers. I guess God really out did himself when I prayed at the age of 11 years old to have a chest one day.

I did, I prayed to God before I went to sleep to have something that would fill out a pretty lacy bra I had seen at a department store...among the other regular stuff I prayed for like my family, a pony, and for AC Slater to come to my middle school dance and kiss me. So, I was a tall, flat chested, freckled face girl who didn't get these boobs till the summer before college and it's been annoying ever since then. Not annoying, because I'm not gonna lie they are a nice accessory to have sometimes, but they're more like a distraction to others.

Now, I'm not saying my tits are like Pam Anderson's by any means, they're not that big or famous. But, they're big enough that 89% of the men I come in contact with hardly ever look me in my hazel eyes or could even tell you what color eyes I actually have...it can get super annoying.

So, when being in this position or having this power with toting these babies, people assume you are a certain way, to put it bluntly...a slutty slut slut.

I'm not really sure how having big boobs and being a slut go hand in hand, like peanut butter and jelly, but it does. If you don't believe me, take one look at my facebook page and read what some of the listeners of the radio station put...they assume that since I have big breasts it will result in me automatically opening up my legs for them, regardless if I know their middle name.

I'm not going to go into my sexual history on here and give you my "number." But, if you asked me flat out, I wouldn't lie to you. I'm extremely picky on who I sleep with and am very proud of that. Those that know me, know how picky I am with the heels I put on my feet, let alone who I let into Hottoland.

However, like I said before, a lot of people don't know that. Which leads me to talk about my former co-worker, Seth.

(to be continued)

The Anticipation, The Wanting, The Tease...

I'm not a fan of fire hydrants in perfect parking spots in the city. I'm also not a fan of a stranger blowing his nose right in front of me while I'm in line for a bottled water in the cafeteria at work. And I am not a fan of first kisses. Absolutely hate them.Well, hate is a strong word...don't particularly care for them is more like it. I have had some good ones but I've also have had a few bad experiences with them as well. Who hasn't? But that's not the reason why I dislike them. It's mostly due to the fact that first kisses have so much pressure behind them. You want it to be perfect if you like the person. The movies on the big screen tell you they have to be for a perfect happy ending and then when it happens it's either a type of kiss that's barely there and is innocent as a nun or a kiss that doesn't have any flow to it because you're both trying to understand the others style. That's why I prefer that second. There's more anticipation, more thought, and wanting.

However, we're not going to be focusing on that in this post, though I could give you 54 more reasons on why a second kiss is way better, but I'm not....we're going to be talking about the best type of kiss. You know the kind. Everyone has had at least one great kiss they can look back on and automatically give that cheesy grin when they think about it. The moment was perfect, the setting couldn't have been better, and you can still see that person in your mind that you shared it with. We've all had that. So, when a co-worker of mine mentioned about different types of kisses and how she's so tired of no one liking to kiss anymore, I thought about posting a blog about the topic of kissing.

I'm by no means claiming to be a kissing expert. But, I do enjoy kissing. A lot. I think it's something that's way underrated and goes basically extinct after you go past the age of fifteen. People my age basically want to skip it and go straight for the gold, like their penis is that leprechaun going past the beauty of the rainbow and looking for the damn treasure. What gives? Try just having a hot and heavy make out session with your significant other one afternoon when you're bored. I dare you. High school style.

Because of kissing not happening as often as it should, this can sometimes result in bad kissing.

Bummer.

I've had some bad kissers. Boy, have I. I've had some Saint Bernard kind, the little Nemo kind, the human tongue kind, the licking lizard kind, the vacuum cleaner kind, the statue kiss, the peck peck kind, the makes weird noises and sounds like a dying animal kind. Yeah, those are all blog worthy for sure, but that's another post. And I love impersonating them, remind me if you see me out and about. :-)

So, you may be asking yourself, what makes a bad kisser? Could you possibly be a bad kisser and not even know it? I've never met anyone who thought they were bad at it. In fact everyone thinks they're Tony the Tiger Great. But, here are a few signs that you may need to analyze your technique:

1.) He/She gave you a hot and heavy kiss one time before but now they just go in for a peck. Maybe because your tongue was going crazy like an eager beaver.

2.) They go for other parts to kiss other than your mouth. This may be a good thing but could be awfully odd for the second date on the front porch near traffic.

3.) They never initiate kissing. It could be because they know their tonsils will get quite the beating if they did.

4.) You see the other person's face glistening with your saliva after you're done. If I wanted to date a Saint Bernard I would go to an animal shelter. Take it easy, there should be no splash zone going on. Swallow, swallow, swallow. (Don't forget I'm talking about kissing, ya perv. Get your minds outta the gutter.)

5.) And finally, if you see blood on the other person...well, that's a bad sign. I'm a bit of biter but there's a big difference between a playful hot nibble and looking like you're trying to help the red cross' blood drive.

So, lets talk about that perfect kind of kiss. Now obviously this definition will vary from person to person and there are different perfect kinds of kisses for different moments in life. But, I'll be trying to explain the perfect kind of kiss on a second date, right outside your front door after an amazing evening out. This is a different type of writing for me and is in a woman's point of view, so men, bare with me, it's going to be almost like a kissing instruction manuel...almost:

The best kind of kiss is when you get the feeling that your heart is beating so fast, that you feel like it's going to beat right out of your chest. It's all you can hear. The feeling of your hands starting to tremble, traveling over to over voice, knowing it's so obvious but not caring at all. The feeling of needing to swallow but suddenly have forgotten how. Your eyes automatically closing the second his hands touch your face, but not out of choice. His face gets closer to yours and your foreheads slightly meet. Your lips barely open, just enough to let your deep breaths out. Both of your breathings intertwine and speed up at the same time. Lips are so close to each other, but have yet to meet. Waiting. Still. Finally, his lips just barely graze yours, just enough to make your lips chase his. But, he doesn't let you catch him. Not yet. 45 seconds will feel like 45 minutes to you. You push closer to him, almost building a force of frustration due to being so impatient for this anticipation. Your hands have moved from his arms, up his stomach, to his chest, and is now grasping the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards you. At last, he pushes his lips onto your top lip, which in turn makes yours push against his bottom. Your hands raise from his collar to the back of his neck, pulling him in with your fingers and nails. Hearts are still racing, maybe even more than before. It's impossible for you to think of anything but the moment you are in and a way to get closer.

So, something like that, perhaps? Of course, I left out a few add ons but I swear, the scene looks way better in my head. :-) Anyways, the point I'm trying to make is that the anticipation, the wanting, the slight tease before that kiss...that's the best part, the rest is simply bonus. But, hey...that's just me.

xox
hotto

The Manther, The Anteater, and Katie Couric

Once again, I've had people question why I have this blog, because you know, no one wants to date someone who posts their diary on the Internet for all to read. First of all, I realize not many are used to someone straight forward with their opinions, past history, and risque experiences. But, you know what? The things I post on here are about people I don't have any contact with anymore. They're a bunch of "life lessons" or "oops" in my world and why not make light of shitty situations and learn? So no, I don't post every single thing about my life that I've experienced, I don't post about the guy I went out with on a date a few weeks ago that was a lovely time or the amazing night I had with a bunch of my friends for a girl outing, because you know what? I like to keep some things private, have my own personal diary at home. Because every girl has to have a little mystery about her.
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I thought about what I could write for this blog entry. What were some other screwed up experiences I have had that could qualify as some what interesting or warped to get someones attention. My first instinct was to write about my first gyno appointment ever and the gynecologist ending the exam with "you have a very pretty vagina" and asking me to put a condom on a fake 9 inch penis for practice since I was a virgin at the time. Or perhaps when I decided to make my mother a dating profile online without her knowing and having an old teacher of mine write some risque emails to her. Or I even thought about going as far as my first, crazy, almost fight in the girl's locker room. (No, there was no removal of shirts while fighting, you sick-os.) But, I decided those stories are possibly more entertaining when I tell them in person...with wine involved, of course. So, I settled for this one instead...




Out of my group of friends, I have always been the one to go for someone older when it came to dating or just something casual. Even when it comes to my celebrity crushes, I have Ted Danson and John Cusack as my top two. Actually now that I think of it, I don't think I was ever with someone younger than me. Ever. Ugh. Never mind. I take that back. 23rd birthday party, jello shots, pudding shots, liquor, and a 19 year old cutie pa tootie with a deer tattoo on his back....not proud. At all. That will be another potential blog entry I'm sure. But anyways, older men and me seem to always happen. Now, I'm not talking about grandfather clocks but more like the male version of a cougar...So I guess a manther? Yes, a manther.

The majority of you would probably know the band the "manther" is in but couldn't name any of the members.(Isn't that how it always goes? I dare you to name all the band members from The Police.) In fact some of you may be going to his upcoming concert. No, it's not someone as big as Tommy Lee from Motley Crue. However, he likes to think he is.

We'll call this manther...Tim. Tim had contacted me a nice little message on myspace when it was cool. Which seems like a century ago. You know, it was right around the time that Justin Beiber didn't even exist on the pop charts and Charlie Sheen was a "family man." Anyways, we had some mutual friends that were involved in the record industry and he thought he would just say "Hello." Well I wasn't that impressed by the "Hello" message. I mean, put a little effort into it, dude. At least add in a "How are ya" So, I responded with one word back..."Hey"

Well, after the increase of words in our messages happened, the invite to text him did. Before I knew it the invite to hang out with him when he came to town followed and me living in a boring rinky dink town, I naturally RSVP ed "Duh, of course." I mean what was I going to do on a Thursday night besides brush my hair and watch Sex and the City?

Unlike other episodes I had with people in the music industry, this didn't leave me tossing and turning with excitement the night before. To put it plain and simple: I dug his music and that was it. Who wouldn't want to hang out with someone that they respected as a musician and owned a few of their CD'S that they sometimes jammed out to? However, his age was up there, like 20 years older than me up there. So, when I say Cd's, I really mean vinyl records or 8 track tapes.

But, don't get me wrong he was attractive for his age. Very attractive. In a warped "I was in an '80s band and wore snake skin pants and lipstick" kind of way. Still there were women my mother's age who would flash their less than perky tits at the sight of him if given the opportunity.

The day of our meeting started off with a 7 am text that said: "Watz gudd?" I looked at my phone in a sleepy matter, sighed and thought that this was going to be an interesting day and it hadn't even started yet. My response? "Obviously not your spelling." I was depicted as feisty by him and he continued to text random nonsense since he was bored on the road.

I didn't understand where the "young ghetto" talk came from, since he never wrote like that in any of our past emails or texts. I was hoping some roadie had stolen his phone for a day. Forget the hoping, I prayed.

After getting dolled up and taking the tag off my new off the shoulder black dress, I was ready to head down to the city with my friend Amber.

Walking downtown is always an eventful time, especially when it starts to get dark outside. Coming from a girl who works in the city, when the sun goes down the free Jerry Springer show in person starts. I've seen a woman arguing with another woman with no teeth and pulling out her scrunchie and throwing it into city traffic, a woman arguing with thin air and then hitting herself and a homeless man taking a shit on the sidewalk and yelling at passerbys for disturbing him. You see some crazy stuff when working in the city like I do. There's always a story to tell when you get home.

But in this instance, on the way to the venue, we see this guy who was obviously drunk or high on something. I was looking on the bright side of things and was hoping it was just life. I was guessing he was homeless but it wasn't point blank obvious.No sign nearby labeling his situation. But he was toting an impressive beard that had either powdered sugar or cocaine on the tip of it. I wasn't planning on getting close enough to smell it and find out.

So, Amber and I are strolling along and I noticed he is standing right in my path, so naturally I move so I am able to go around him. He moves again making it so he's in my path once again. A homeless powdered sugar eater or not, I'm going to say something. I was not in the mood to start two stepping with a stranger.

"Excuse me" I said politely.

Nothing.

"Umm, excuse me."

Nothing.

All of a sudden he hands me a religious pamphlet that says "Where is Jesus in your life?"

Well, my guess is playing "go fish" with Waldo and Carmen San Diego but I haven't really put out a search party for him.

So, I accepted the pamphlet and forced a some what smile, hoping he would then move aside.

It was a good 5 seconds before he spoke anything and then word vomit just came out of him...

"Your friend is dressed like a fucking whore."

I was speechless, which doesn't happen very often. I mean, it's a rock concert and it's backstage. So, dont tell me you would wear a turtle neck and pajama pants to this event.

He pissed me off to say the least. So, I barged through him and grabbed Amber's hand only to respond with "Yeah, your mother had a garage sale on her clothes. Tell her thanks."

The moment that followed my smart ass comment was the only time I ever had a somewhat empty beer can thrown at my head. A Coors light can to be exact. So, not only did this man have a powder substance on his beard and had the scent of Ritz crackers and peppermint patties on his body, he also was a crappy beer chooser and just wasted cashing the can in for ten cents. I still win, Mr. powder puff.

After Amber, me, and my beer smelling hair arrived at the side doors, I began to text Tim to let him know we were there. Before I could hit send on my phone, a man who looked like a combination of Jesus and Bernie Mac appeared out of nowhere. I normally would have been scared with someone coming out of nowhere like that, but the word 'security' was printed big on the front of his tight fitted shirt and for some reason made it okay for him to be right in my face and invading my personal space.

"Are you here for Tim?" He asked.

"Um yeah." I responded wondering if he was going to ask for my name to check it off or something. But, he didn't.

"He told me you would be here around this time. Can I look in your bag?"

I looked at him funny and thought it was odd. I mean I was used to getting my bag searched when I went to a concert through regular doors but when I was heading backstage there was never a time I was patted down...well, for security reasons anyways. ...kidding. :-)

So, I opened my bag. I'm sure he was looking for a gun, a knife or some kind of weapon. What was I packing? A library book, my phone, lipstick, a slinky, my birth control, and my camera.

Honest to god, I do not know where that slinky came from. Jesus Mac stared at me like I had seven arms. I'm sure he doesn't come across a library book and a slinky too often. Here's hoping he thought "Well gee whiz, she's smart AND fun."

After the bag check was complete we headed behind the stage and the show began.

It was a kick ass show. All three hours worth.

Two encores later, Jesus Mac came up to us and said we could wait in the dressing room if we would like.

Sure, why not? I thought. It beats being tricked into sitting on a speaker and someone turning the music way loud. Me and my vagina are never falling for that one again.

So, there Amber and I are in the guy's dressing room, where it smells like a typical changing space for men...like ass.

After sitting there for a good 20 minutes, the guys began to arrive.

With introductions from everyone Tim was still missing.

And then I heard someone in the hallway yell "We need more beer in the fridge." ...I'm sure there was still quite a bit left in my hair if that person would have liked to have taken a whiff until the beer arrived.

Enter Tim. Big teased haired, short man, tight pants, Tim.

Amber being the smart ass she was, whispered "You and him must go to the same hair stylist."

Tim walked right over to me and I stood up. First instinct: Take off the heels, Hotto, take off the heels. You look like the jolly blonde giant next to...well, tiny Tim. (I'm awful, I know.)

We gave each other a hug, well it was more like his head embracing my twins from where his noggin landed. Oh, the perks of being a shortie.

Small talk and thank yous for the invite and for attending were exchanged and then the discussion of the after party in their hotel that was going to happen later. Now this wasn't a three person party from what I understood at the time. I made sure of it. The band, roadies, managers, friends, and others were going to be attending. It sounded like a fun time. So, off we went.

Tim's band had a whole floor of the hotel bought out for complete privacy. There were hotel rooms for drinking and each guy had their own room for sleeping or whatever activities they chose to do. You know, probably playing board games or putting on a puppet show.

Amber and I made a pact before hand, no matter what, do not leave the other's side. Well, I knew that pact was going to be broken as soon as Amber met their drummer, Frank. (Doesn't anyone take a pinky promise seriously anymore?) Therefore, I was left alone with tiny Tim. Why can't girls learn to control that little voice from their vagina telling them to "go for it?!" Amber was not a favorite of mine at the time.

Tim decided he needed to get out of his sweaty clothes from the show and wanted to head back to his room for a quick and innocent change. I agreed to come along.

(Okay before I continue, I now understand the predicament I put myself in by going in his room alone. A lot of bad stuff could have happened, but I was younger and obviously know better now.)

So, we arrived in room 4122. (Don't ask me how I remembered that. I remember useless shit but can't remember where South Dakota is located on the map.) I immediately walk to a leather chair in the living room and sit, in my warped mind this would give him the clue that I was not planning on any hanky panky that night.

He headed straight to the bathroom and said he wouldn't be long.

"What to do? What to do?" I thought.

So, I turned the gigantic television on. Of course there was nothing on, so I left it on some biography show on Katie Couric, even though she strangely annoys me.

Near by the leather chair there were various magazine looking booklets and me being the curious Georgette I was, picked them up and looked at them.

They were photo collage's of Tim's band through the years, most of them being from the 1980s. My eyes automatically focused on the guy's attire and girly fashion. I decided to cut them a break, remembering the time period. In the middle of a thought about one of the guy's leather pants, I heard the bathroom door open and there was Tim. Naked as a freaking jay bird.

Houston we have a problem.

"Okay" I thought to myself, "the door is not locked, so you could leave if you wanted to but maybe he doesn't have any intentions sexually, so just act like this is normal, hotto."

...yeah right.

I turn my head and force my eyes to watch Katie Couric on television and I hear his footsteps coming closer to the leather chair and his bare ass is sitting on the arm chair to the left of me. Really, my first thought should have been "What is he going to do?" But no, I'm of course different..."I hope housekeeping cleans this chair for the sake of your bare ass."

There was silence in the room besides the TV informing the viewers that Katie was a cheerleader and runner in high school.

I had to say something. So I did, quite a bit actually..."Ugh, I don't like Katie Couric. She seems to be a snot and a half when it comes to interviewing people. I think I would rather watch a biography on Oprah and I don't like Oprah either. Yeah, she does great things for people and gives everyone a car, but I had a friend that worked for her and she said that Oprah treats her employees like shit but not as bad as David Lee Roth tips from what I understand. My boss when I was a hair dresser slept with David Lee Roth but I didn't find out about that whole tipping thing from her, I heard it on the radio. But, she said David Lee Roth was a fun guy. I used to love listening to Van Halen and now I'm tired of them. I preferred when Roth was the lead singer and not Hagar. But, I think I like Motley Crue a little bit more. I love everything 80s and 90s. Oh, especially the movies like "Breakfast Club" and "Sixteen Candles." Why don't they make movies like that anymore? But, I don't even know why I still have this biography show on because finding out that Couric graduated from college in 1979 is not going to increase my IQ too much."

(If you can't tell, I ramble and talk a lot when I'm nervous or uncomfy.)

Tim just stared at me and I continued on staring at the TV. He then moved right in my view, luckily his shortness made it so his Tim junior was not in my face.

"What are you thinking about?" He whispered.

I wish I could say. Honestly, I wanted to ask him what kind of lipstick he had on in the picture on page 134 in the collage booklet because I had been looking for a shade like that forever. And I also noticed he had an ant eater between his legs. Someone didn't get circumcised.

So, I came up with something else: "Uh, just that you guys did a great show tonight. Yep."

"You think so?" He asked. "I just hope the fans think we're as good as we were back in the day. I mean I don't want to disappoint anybody, I like to make sure everyone is satisfied. You know what I mean?"

"Eh, yeah. But, I'm not really a people pleaser." I responded, kind of getting the idea on where he was heading with his "satisfying" theory.

"You look like you are." He again whispered.

"Well, people also depict me as a cat lover and I'm allergic and am not a fan of them, so looks can be decieving." (I really say some stupid stuff in situations.)

"I think you are and you just don't know it."

"No, I'm rather positive I don't like cats. I think they're sneaky little animals."

"I'm talking about the people pleaser trait."

"Oh well, la tee da" <-- La tee da is always my response when I don't have anything else to say.

(Insert some more silence and him and his ant eater walking closer to me.)

"Well..." I said "I bet you Amber is probably looking for me or needs a smart ass comment in her life so I better go look for her."

"You're leaving. Wow. I didn't think it would be this early."

Well, I also didn't think I would have to be introduced to Arther the ant eater either but it's amazing how things happen in life. <--- I refrained from saying that.

"So, yeah...it was nice talking to you. Thanks for the invite." I forced a some what smile and began to walk towards the door.

"Yeah, good luck with everything since we probably wont be talking anymore." He said in a bratty manner.

(Insert me smiling a fake smile) and saying "Roger that."

So, in conclusion:

1.) He was a liar about never contacting me again because I occasionally get emails and texts from him.

2.) I can't look at Katie Couric or Coors Light the same.

3.) Amber ended up getting puked on by the drummer. Karma's a bitch.

4.) And I'm still pissed I never found out the shade of lipstick Tim wore on page 134.

xox

hotto.

Weed, Wine, Willie Nelson and Without a Credit Card.

Call me crazy, but I have standards. I'm not saying you have to follow a strict list in order to accompany me. But, I don't settle. At all. I'm selective with the shoes I put on my feet, let alone who I spend my time with. Some deal breakers that have taken guys to the back of the line for Hottoworld?

1.) Leaving your toenail clippings on my bed. There is this great thing called a trash can...use it.

2.) Still living with your ex. You can tell me till your blue in the face that it has to do with financial issues...she has kids...she pays most of the rent. I call bullshit on that. You have her as a side of vagina when you're bored...nextttt.

3.) Fish kisser. No explanation needed, Nemo.

4.) Wearing a blue tooth on a date. Unless you're a doctor on call or President Obama who could be paged at any moment that aliens are attacking the White House, you're not THAT important or famous to have that stupid ear piece on.

5.) Or this guy I'm about to write about...

I will warn you before I continue, that this was a true date from hell. But, you can judge for yourself.

Okay, here it goes...

This guy? Well, we'll call him...Phil. Yeah, that's a good name.

So, I'm not gonna lie, I was at a popular bar around this area with friends and it kind of happened with meeting him. This is not a regular tradition of mine nor do I recommend it to others. Now, I realize there are always exceptions with dating someone you meet at the bar. I know couples who have normal marriages who met there. But, I myself, wouldn't recommend it. With dim lighting, alcohol involved, and the Cupid Shuffle playing on the jukebox, it screams "no good."

I had a shitty day that day, feeling as if nothing was going my way and Phil with his imaginary cape on flew on over and saved the day. He didn't make me laugh, which now that I look back on it, why did I agree to go on a date with him? That's one of the most important factors in my eyes. If you can't have fun with someone, than whats the point? But, he had excellent taste in music - which is a big star on the chart. He was absolutely adorable -bonus. And he was almost a physical therapist - so he had some smarts about him. After the exchanging of numbers and the promise that I would actually pick up when he called, we went our separate ways.

After three days, yes three days, he called (Men, what is with that rule?) and asked if I wanted to go out on a Friday night. I agreed to it, thinking that he seemed like someone I would like to get to know better.

So, we agreed to meet at his apartment building and he offered to drive to the restaurant. As I arrived in the parking lot, he greeted me with a smile, standing by his new sports car. Compliments were said to each other on how the other one looked and we drove off to our destination.

As he drove us to the restaurant, I was reminded how good looking he was. Not just "yeah, he's a looker" but more like a "turn my head to look at him again" kind of guy. We continued our conversation on our similar interests in music and then he turns up the CD he had put in his cd player earlier. Sailing by Christopher Cross began to play through the speakers. After going through this date, I turn the channel when this song comes on.

Well, the car ride was enjoyable and we had arrived at our destination. It was a nice Italian restaurant that was in one of the bigger cities by us and I was thinking this date had some great potential...although, it was only 830pm, a little too early to start assuming.

As we sat down, we ordered our drinks and continued with conversation. I'm not exactly sure how the topic of fruit came up but then the mention of boxers came out of nowhere from him. Okay, fine. I can handle the subject of boxers. Where will this go? The discussion of the difference between boxers and boxer briefs? That tightie whiteys cut off the circulation to his man hood? That Justin Timberlake is coming out with a new line of under-roos? No. He proceeds to tell me has a pair of boxers with the word "big banana" on them. (insert the sound of crickets beginning to chirp) ...I shrugged it off, laughed a little to get rid of the awkwardness and threw in a "where the hell did you find a pair like that?" He laughed and responded with "I really don't know. My mom got them for me." (insert me waiting for him to say 'just kidding' and then me choking on a piece of Italian bread I was eating when he didn't.) Waitress, we're going to need some more wine and someone to call the producer of Jerry Springer...

After I tried to overlook the Mother comment earlier, our appetizers arrived. However, Mister Phil thought he should inform me that he has a high gag reflex and can't put too much food in his mouth at once. Then why the hell did he stuff three stuffed mushrooms in his mouth? Well, if I was a guy toting a dick between my legs after hearing that confession about the high gag reflex...our date would have ended right there. Just sayin...

As the conversation moved on to him telling me who is the most underrated baseball player of all time in his opinion, a man who looked like a stunt double of Zach Galifiankis appeared at our table and to be honest I thought he was the bus boy about to take Gag boy's empty plate away. Thankfully I didn't hand him a plate because it turned out to be Phil's old roommate from college who stopped by to see his girlfriend who worked back in the kitchen.

After they went through a little reminiscing about the old freshmen days, frat parties, and Phil waking up with a blowup doll in his bed after one crazy night, I assumed that Zach junior would go back to his car, cave, bench, where ever it is that he came from and let us continue. Wrong.

He brought a chair up to the table, making it feel like a Threes Company episode and whispered to Phil that he had some really good weed in his van, better than the weed they smoked at Tommy Sumner's party in '05.

Well, isn't that a great FYI? And then the invitation to smoke it in his van with him while we wait for our food was offered.

'Go in a van with a stranger?' I thought. Well gee whiz, offer me some candy and the promise that I can pet your lost dog when we find it while you're at it. Psh, lame.

I looked at Phil thinking real hard. I could hear the Jeopardy theme song playing in my head. Time is running out. Give your RSVP. Phil finally spoke and said "Man, I haven't smoked in forever. I'll only do it, if my girl agrees to do it too."

Hey Gag boy, my name is Haley Jane.

All of a sudden all eyes were on me, shine the spotlight. I felt like I was back to being one of the top finalists in the spelling bee in the 4th grade and I spelled the word Accelerator wrong.

My answer? "No, I'm good."

Now, let me just get this straight. I have no problem with people who choose to smoke weed. Their choice and there's worse things they could be doing. But, it wasn't my bag and frankly I didn't find it attractive for a first date.

By giving that answer I assumed there was no way he was going to agree to do it on our first date. No way in hell. Guess what? I was wrong. I need to quit assuming evidently.

I sat there at the table alone...by myself...solo...table for one...while Cheech and Chong got baked in an imitation Scooby Doo van. I felt pissed off at myself for not driving myself to the restaurant so I could have a getaway car, Zach junior for leaving his cave and interrupting our dinner, Phil for his lame high gag reflex and leaving me here alone, and Tommy Sumner for having such good weed in '05.

30 minutes went by and Phil finally came back to the table, smelling like Skunk and looking like he partied at a Willie Nelson Concert. I was not amused. At all.

After eating his dinner, some of mine, and making it known to me that he wished he had more. I was beyond annoyed with him and was very happy to see the check placed on the table. Checks on a bad date are like a light at the end of the tunnel - a feeling of relief and hope to get the hell out of there.

I was planning on paying for my half of the bill. I'm not one of those girls that just expects the guy to pay for it. But, Gag Boy realized he didn't have enough money to even cover his half of the check and conveniently couldn't find his card. Righhht. I secretly hoped he got sick from all the fucking food he ate...that I payed for.

I paid while Phil went to the men's restroom, our waiter asked why I was on a date with someone like him. I questioned the same thing.

I was ready to go, leave that joint, go to my car, and head home. Alone.

I went back to the table, waiting for Phil and getting my purse together. He came back still smelling like skunk and said he was full. ....Yeah, full of shit.

I gathered my belongings and was silent on the car ride back to my car. I think it was obvious to him and he tried to lighten the mood with singing Queen into his lighter that he probably used in the Scooby Doo van.

At last, we were to the parking lot of his apartment and the moment I saw my car I was ready to flee that scene. He parked and turned off the car and moved his body towards me. I noticed the doors were still locked and decided I wasn't going to wait until he unlocked them and did it myself and got out of the car. He looked confused. Almost like he couldn't understand what was going on or where I was going. As I walked towards my car, I heard him shout "You want to come up to my apartment?" ...my reply? "You've got to be fucking joking."

Now, usually this is where the post would end. But, that isn't the end of the story. The very next day I realized I couldn't find my card. I searched in my car, my purse, my wallet, my driveway. Nowhere. I called the card company to cancel my account. The day after, I got a call from the company saying someone had found it in a parking lot and there were attempts to use it after it got cancelled. The parking lot it was in? Gag Boy's work parking lot.

I could look on the bright side of things and say "Well, he could have found it in his car and was going to contact me about it and then dropped it himself." Or I could be a realist and think that he was the one that tried to charge some things on the card since it was found in his work parking lot. I guess it really depends if you see the glass half full or half empty. After that episode someone just needs to fill the rest of the glass with vodka so I can drink it.

So, in conclusion I leave you with this...

1.) I always take my own vehicle when going on a date now.

2.) I've seen our waiter at the school I attend and he said how he wished I would have kicked Phil.

3.) Phil could never be a gay male with his high gag reflexes and I'm sure the dentist hates him.

4.) I still dislike Tommy Sumner.

xox
Hotto

"The Pieces Of Me"

After having this blog for a while, it's occurred to me that this may not help in my love department. Don't get me wrong, I would be more than willing to bring some of this stuff up after a glass of wine or five if I didn't know you that well...but, having it on the Internet is kind of a different story. It's almost as if having a diary just open on a busy city sidewalk, with a neon sign by it that says "READ ME." But in all fairness, it was my choice to do this. In a way this is a way to document all of my crazy experiences, the modern way. Though, I do have a regular journal I write in every night. (The stuff in that would make your eyes pop out even more.) Anyways, the point I'm trying to make is...there are people who are regular readers of this blog, that I don't know that well or for that matter, at all. I have readers in the United Kingdom, Italy, and Orange County, FL. For instance, a former classmate of mine told me how much her two brothers love my blog. Well, who the hell are they? I'm appreciative of the audience but still a little guarded. Yes, sometimes I do care about what people think about me. 98% of the time I don't. But, anyone who says they don't at all, need to check their pants because they're a liar. We like to be liked and for people to think positive things about us. And by not knowing the readers, I always think "God, they must think I'm crazy wild with little or no boundaries, partying 24/7, with no sleep in between." I can promise you that image is not right. At all. Another obstacle in keeping a blog is when talking to a guy who has been exposed to your entries. They either think one of two things - 1.) "Every day spent with her is going to involve something hilarious, crazy, absurd or possibly all three." Or my favorite - 2.) "What if I do or say something stupid? She's going to write a blog about me. I don't want to be one of her little entries." My response to the second thought is "Don't flatter yourself, there are many stories about guys I've encountered that I don't plan on posting that are quite humorous because it would be obvious to some readers on who it might be. And I'm not that cruel.

The point of this blog that I'm "trying" to make is that I'm not always that crazy girl with movie style adventures. Yes, I've gone to Bondage Bars but I consider my Grams to be one of my best friends. Yes, I've watched Rock stars snort cocaine off of women's body parts but taught Bible School the following Sunday. Yes, I had the radio station I was interning for talk about my bikini line on the air but I spend a lot of my time at the library, Yes, I "borrowed" a police car but would be where ever you are in a heart beat if you needed my help at 4 in the morning, Yes, I bungee jumped but I scream like a little girl when a mouse is near. And sometimes I stay in Saturday nights watching the West Wing, soaking in a bubble bath, and making up potential raps in my head. Yes, I'm a bundle of sass with a dash of wild but let's not forget the side of sweet.

So, I'm not expecting my readers to understand how I operate from this little post. I'm a little bit of this and that. Unpredictable with rituals. Independent with the need for encouragement. Open with her sexuality but picky with who she exposes that side to. An obsessive shopper who changes her own oil. I'm simply a walking contradiction in heels.

The puzzle of myself is not put together like everyone else's, it's occasionally missing some pieces, and the pattern or picture may not make sense to most, but it does...to me. And that's all that really matters in the end.

xox
Hotto

The First Barry White Dance Part II

(Part II)

In the middle of him telling me how he feels, his bedroom window flung open in a dramatic matter, and a person's head popped in screaming at the top of their lungs. Not saying anything but just screaming, like the scream you would hear in a Halloween movie.

My first thought was 1.) I'm going to pee the sheets with how much that scared the living crap outta me and 2.) I'm assuming this person is one of his idiotic friends playing a trick.

The second thought was quickly corrected after I realized this person trying to climb in the bedroom was a blonde woman, with a crazy look on her face, a hammer in her right hand and screaming "I'm going to kill you, you fucking whore."

Was she talking to me? Or the wimpy scared looking naked guy standing in the far corner that left me in his bed?

Once again, Hotto was in the position of being the dominant one in the situation while a guy with a man-gina is backing up from the crazy mess. I swear, I should just carry a model of a huge penis around with gigantic balls because I'm obviously the only one to have them in scenarios.

I looked at the crazy blonde struggling to get in the bedroom and then I looked at Matt just staring at this psycho female with his mouth practically on the frickin floor.

Okay, I thought to myself. You can't just sit in the bed and wait for this girl to attack you with the hammer that's in her hand and lord knows you can't be the damsel in distress because Mattie boy's feet is cemented near the corner of the room. So, do the first thing that comes to you, it'll be genius. Hopefully...

I had to do something quick before struggling Sally grabbed a hold of something sturdy to pull herself up, plus her loud yelling and two out of the three people in the equation being naked still did not help the process of thinking of something beyond brilliant.

I had three choices in the matter, I could have A.) Screamed along with her and convinced her that we should record our screams after I get dressed and send it to some upcoming horror films to use during the scary parts. B.) Work out a schedule with her and tell her she could have Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Saturday to scream at his house and I get the rest of the days with him alone. Or C.) High five Matt for getting me into this fucking situation and for being added to the list of men sporting a man-gina that I know.

...None of those "genius" plans seemed to actually solve my problem. So, I went with my backup...I moved closer to her, closed my eyes, prayed to all the gods of the universe, and pushed her out the window, followed by locking it. (PS the fall was not far down but she does scream different when she's falling compared to when attacking.)

I sat there for a minute trying to sort everything that was happening in my head and then I remembered Matt was still in the room with me...

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" I screamed.

"I DON'T KNOW. I MEAN WOW! THAT WAS INTENSE!" He shouted back.

"INTENSE IS NOT THE WORD I WOULD BE USING RIGHT NOW. WHO IS SHE, MATT?!" I asked.

"I DON"T KNOW WHO THAT WAS, A CRAZY FAN PROBABLY OR MAYBE MY EX..."

"YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS." I ordered.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?" He cried in a pathetic manner.

Right at that moment I heard the front door open, some loud thumping, and a female voice screaming "I'm going to slash your throat, you fucking bitch."

Well, where I come from we use hammers for building stuff but whatever floats your boat, sister. Be creative.

As both Matt and I heard her stomping her way through the house, Matt actually volunteered to take over. It's about time. But, PS get some clothes on or her screaming may turn into laughing when she sees you.

As he left the room, he shut the door behind him and I locked it, just to give me enough time to get my clothes on, so I wouldn't be kicking this bitch's ass in my birthday suit. (save your perverted thoughts, please.)

And then I realized, my clothes were outside of the bathroom. Lucky me.

I heard her yelling some more in the house. "Where is she?! Is she hiding in the bathroom?!"

Yeah, I'm in the bathroom drawing you a bath, would you like bath salts or bubbles?! Come on now!!!

Sad part was, I needed in the bathroom to get my clothes and purse that had my cell phone in it to call my best friend, Jen.

I needed to some how sneak passed them to get the bathroom. But, how the hell was I going to do that? I was praying to god that she was going to stop in the kitchen to make herself a sandwich before she continued on trying to kill me.

Luckily I heard Matt tell her to calm down and informing her that I darted out the back door and already left.

Perfect. Maybe that will distract her and give me enough time.

So, I carefully opened the door slowly and peeked my head out. I couldn't see them. I needed to go all James Bond on this situation and remain sneaky. So, there I am tip toeing through the hall, with a sheet wrapped around me, looking like I'm ready for a toga party at the animal house. And then the creak happened. Of course it did. The floor creaked as I made my final step to the bathroom and she heard it. There came Speedy Gonzales through the house ready to introduce me to her handy dandy hammer. Luckily I was already near the bathroom door and locked it as fast as Matt came during sex. Call me a chicken for not facing her then, but until God dropped me a tool box from the heavens and gave me a wrench or a drill to make this showdown even, I was not going to take the chance on having some damage down to me by a hammer. I needed back up. So, I called my best friend.

I wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do in this situation to help me out but I just needed someone on team Hotto because Matt was doing a shitty job. I need a cheerleader or something.

After pushing a mini shelf up against the door, I called Jen. It was 2' o clock in the morning and I was praying that she was still up.

I didn't know what to tell her. I didn't want to freak her out and tell her the exact details. So I planned on just kind of summarizing the predicament I was in.

She answered and this is what I said - "Jen, I need you here at Matt's house as soon as you can. I just lost my virginity, I've locked myself in a bathroom, and there's a crazy lady after me."
...way to be vague, Hotto.

She responded back with "Wait, you lost your virginity?"

"Ugh, forget that. Just bring your boyfriend Jack with you and get here."

After I hung up, I realized I should have told her to bring her father's tool belt.

So there I was, hearing commotion outside the door, sounding like an elephant was trying to break through. And all I could think of was I still needed to put my clothes on, my vagina hurt from his porno pounding, and I wondered if the Sheetz down the road made slushies because I was frickin thirsty.

Finally after sitting there on the edge of the bathtub for what seemed like 4 hours, the noise stopped.

I heard knocking on the door and Matt told me it was him and that his ex had finally left.

Since I had my clothes back on, I opened the door and actually hoped he was lying so I could grab her little neck. He was right, she was gone. He told me he called the cops and after she heard that, she jetted out of there but only after she keyed my brand new convertible.

Great! How was I going to explain that to my mother?!

The cops and Jen finally arrived and I had to explain to the cops what happened.

Their first response? "Wait, you lost your virginity?"

To make the ending of this short and to the point, I later found out that Matt was seeing his ex and she was not an ex at all but his girlfriend for quite some time and I was the other woman. I refused to answer his calls and the last email I got from him consisted of this...

"Sorry about that. I'm just a long for the ride."

Wow! Really?

He goes to college with me and occasionally I see him walking in the halls to his class. If you live around the Warren area, you've probably seen his flyers posted all over the place. Schools, Stores, Bars...You may have also seen comments written on the flyers in pen that talk about his little pee pee or other creative sayings. I have no idea who does that. (wink wink)

So, in closing I leave you with these statements...

1.) Not my ideal way to lose my virginity, but I tell you what, I will never forget it as long as I live.
2.) I've invested in a hammer since then.
3.) Soap operas don't have shit on me.
4.) My sex life has thankfully improved.

XoX

hotto

The First Barry White Dance Part I

I grew up watching the cheesy teenage love films. You know the kind. Girl loses virginity to boy at prom, everything is perfect, it feels great, it ends with an amazing kiss plus an orgasm for both, cue over commercialized song at the end during the credits. Well, I wanted something better than that for myself. I was determined to have my experience of losing my virginity to be something different than after prom. I was going to make it special. Boy was I in for a treat when it happened.


Of course something fucked up would happen to me when it came to a huge happening in my life like losing my v-card ...Eh, I take back the huge part. That's giving him too much credit, he was anything but...:-p

I was very choosy when it came to who I let give me my first kiss, let alone who I slept with for the very first time.

I grew up to believe that one should wait to give the goods when you have a ring on your wedding finger and for a long time I believed that's what I was going to do. It was tradition with all the females in my family. That tradition was going to continue with me until I started thinking about the "car theory", everyone test drives the car they end up purchasing before they buy it. No, I wasn't planning on letting everyone and their brother enter into "hottoland" but I wasn't going to say "I do" to some guy who liked to play the role as a baby during foreplay without knowing about it beforehand. I mean there's a lot of sick minded people out there. I was going to start my own tradition...the "do what you want and sleep with someone before you marry them."

So, I guess you could say I was a late starter to the whole "sex life" thing and it didn't fully exist until I was in college. That's where "Matt" comes into play.

No, I'm not using his real name. Unlike him and Lil Kim, I still like to keep things classy in my world. He thinks he's a local rock star, he's a musician around these parts, so you may know him. Besides being a warren based rock star, he's also a liar, a cheater, and toting a little winky dink in his jeans. I state this because I believe he is close to being the scum of the earth.

Now that it's been sometime since this all happened, I kind of giggle about it all. "Kind of" are the key words. I mean, when I tell people this story they always say it sounds like a combination of a lifetime movie plus Jerry Springer making a guest appearance. Lucky me. Oh well, it gives me something interesting to tell at the dinner table...

So, here it goes...

I met Matt at a music festival where he was singing. It wasn't a very big music festival but it had a good amount of people jamming to it for the local musicians to feel appreciated by the public. I was instantly physically attracted to Matt when I saw him on stage there was no doubt, but he seemed more than the amount of cocky I normally put up with. I could tell he thought he was something.

He approached the table my best friend and I were sitting at after his performance, sat down next to me and said nothing. Just sat and looked at me with a smile and started staring. What was I suppose to do? Start jumping for joy? Ask him to sign his name on my right boob? I would have given him a few free minutes of looking at me without saying anything but he was doing it to the point that it was annoying me.

"I think I may have a picture in my phone somewhere in here that I could send you..." I stated while looking for my phone in my purse.

"What picture?" He smoothly asks.

"Oh, a picture of me. Ya know, since you've been staring at me forever. I figure it might come in handy later on when I leave you sitting by yourself at this table."

His mouth dropped open slightly.

"No girl has said that to me before when I smile at them and give that look."

"Well, I would be surprised any girl said anything to you if you stared at them like that in a stalker-ish fashion."

I turned my body away from him and started talking to my best friend, feeling like I was done with this conversation that I knew was going nowhere.

An attractive ginger girl approached our table, telling Matt every compliment in the world but that he should run for president of the world. Matt interrupted her and told her he would continue to talk to her about his music after he was done conversing with me.

Psh, maybe I didn't want to continue conversing with him...

But, I did.

As we continued on talking some more I began to get intrigued by him and I could tell he wasn't used to a woman not kissing the ground he walked on. So, we did the obvious thing - we exchanged numbers.

After a few dates, I had found out that he had a four year old child with his ex girlfriend who he said was beyond crazy.

I didn't really think too much of it considering most men consider their exes "crazy."

I also wasn't too keen on the thoughts of him having a child. I myself had no children or baggage so I was iffy on whether to get involved with someone who did.

After several months, five to be exact, we began to question what our relationship was. Were we an item? Just friends that went out? Or random people that liked to stick our tongue in each others mouth?

We finally decided to be exclusive and see only each other. No other person involved in the equation, just him and me. Which I didn't mind, because honestly I was starting to really care for the guy.

On a mid September evening, after dinner and a night at the lake, we went back to his bachelor pad. I had been there countless times before and always thought how tidy it was for a guy his age. Everything was always perfectly placed, no crumbs, the fridge was always fully stocked, the right piece of artwork was placed on the walls. It was too perfect. But, I just assumed he was a male straight version of Martha Stewart. Go me.

After watching some stand-up on Comedy Central, him serenading me with his guitar in his jam room (he is a good singer) we started making our way to the bedroom.

This wasn't the first time I had been in his bedroom, after many sessions of fooling around before hand, I was to the point that I considered his bed very comfy.

Clothes started flying off in various directions, heavy breathing combined with the sound of Ben Harper playing on the stereo was heard. I knew this was going to be the night. I was ready for it to happen. There was going to be some Barry White dancing going on...aka: sex.

So, I whispered to him "Before we do this, I have something to tell you..."

He instantly jumped back and looked a little scared on how I was going to finish the sentence. Which I can't say I blame him, anyone who watches a little bit of television knows that statement being said right before sex usually ends in two ways...

1.) I have (insert STD here).

2.) I used to be a man named Harold, love me for me.

But, I finished the sentence with "I'm a virgin."

Of course, he had no problem with that at all. His junior was getting the opportunity to be in a tight space that no other explorer had been to before, no loosey goosey equipment on this chick a dee, might as well call his dick Christopher Columbus discovering hottoland.

To make the sex scene short and not so indepth, here it goes:

He wasn't gentle with me for my first time. It was difficult to distinguish the difference between his penis and finger. For me not having sex beforehand I still knew he sucked at it and I was praying the whole time that the rest of my sex life wasn't going to be as pitiful and boring as that episode was.

When it was over and only one person in the equation was satisfied, we layed in his bed, talking about us and listening to the Kings of Leon playing on the stereo.

In the middle of him telling me how he feels, his bedroom window flung open in a dramatic matter, and a persons head popped in screaming at the top of their lungs. Not saying anything but just screaming, like the scream you would hear in a Halloween movie.

My first thought was 1.) Im going to pee the sheets with how much that scared the living crap outta me and 2.) I'm assuming this person is one of his idiotic friends playing a trick.

The second thought was quickly corrected after I realized this person trying to climb in the bedroom was a blonde woman, with a crazy look on her face, a hammer in her right hand and screaming "I'm going to kill you, you fucking whore."

Was she talking to me? Or the wimpy scared looking naked guy standing in the far corner that left me in his bed?

(to be continued...)