I met this woman. Nothing particularly incredible about her. She wore a summer dress on a body that had seen better days but was still holding on. Slim. A nice face. An attractive woman, I guess, if you’re not too picky.
But the conversation, Christ. She starts with the ex, the one she lived with for a year and a half. A real tragedy, she says. It didn’t go well. So now he lives upstairs, and she lives in his goddamn basement. She’s in constant contact with him, every day, while she’s trying to move her shit to her mom’s house because her mom is dying of some weird kind of cancer. She’s in crisis mode, she says, and she’s also planning on buying a condo.
And before that? A whole other life. A second marriage, the one with all the toys. A big truck, a fifth-wheel trailer, jet skis. All of it, collateral damage from her deceased husband, who had the bad manners to drown in Martinez Lake while she was on the shore, under her “watchful eye,” petting the goddamn dogs as he sank to the bottom.
But I digress. The real story, the one that cost me a hundred and twenty bucks, was this: she couldn’t stop talking about other cocks.
I tried to explain it to her. “Look,” I said, “it’s like a movie. We all love a good fuck flick. And the reason you’re sitting here is because you’re an attractive woman, and I’m a man. That’s the movie we’re supposed to be watching. But every time you start talking about another man, it’s like you’re forcing me to watch a different movie, one with a different cock in it. And two cocks is too many. Hell, one is usually too many.”
But she didn’t get it. The stories just kept coming. “Oh, this guy, he was so bad. A year and a half of me begging for his affection, of me opening my ass to him. I finally got tired of it, I took some self-esteem pills, and I’m never going to let that happen again. So, here I am. How are you doing, sir? Would you like to date me?”
Fuck no.
Stop talking about other dick. The second you start talking about other dick, I shut down. It cost me a hundred and twenty dollars for some chicken wings, some nachos, and a front-row seat to her own private porn festival. I had to sit there and listen to the highlight reel of her past failures. And for what? A pat on the back and a polite hug at the end of the night? I don’t think so.
You know, if she ever finds the “right person,” he’s going to have to be a goddamn saint, or a fool. Because a woman like that, she’s just going to attract the same kind of man, over and over again. At this age, if you haven’t learned your fucking lesson, you’re just doomed to repeat it. One dick just adds up to the next dick and the next. Because the problem isn’t all those other dicks. The common denominator to all those dicks is you, sweetheart.
And here she is, sitting across from a guy who wasn’t talking about his ex-lovers. I have a friend with benefits coming over tomorrow that I’m going to fuck for twelve hours. After that, I have another one coming over. I wasn’t telling her any of that. She didn’t know how long I’d been divorced, how many women I’d been with. But this woman, she seemed to be trying to measure cocks with me. “Oh yeah, we were fucking out in the RV, and he did this, and I did that…” I don’t want to hear it. No man of any quality wants to hear that shit.
The only man who’s going to put up with that is some other broken piece of shit who doesn’t have any other options. And you’re going to get into that mess, and then you’re going to complain that the dating market is fucked up. No. You’re fucked up.
She was an absolute fucking joy-suck. Lord, even after I tutored her, hinted to her that I wasn’t interested, she just kept going. Other cocks, other cocks, other cocks. “I dated this guy over here… we went to a baseball game… it only lasted four months…” Cock, cock, cock, cock, cock. All she did was talk about cock. And none of it was mine.
