Hiliarious Pick Up Lines (Part 1)

Second Place
"But I already did you."
Credit to: The Friend of a Friend

Apparently you didn't do a very good job.

Runner-Up
"I'm a high school graduate and I work at Sports Zone. I make $13 an hour."
Credit to: Guy Who Followed Me Home Today

No. Just no.

WINNER!
"Do it for science!"
Credit to: The Roommate

Sunday night, after 8 months of thinly veiled post-sex animosity and an eventual return to good hearted flirting, The Roommate and I finally fucked again. Here's how it happened: I recently purchased some sort of miracle orgasm gel. I can never remember what it's called, but the first time I put it on my clit, I walked into a refrigerator, hence "Miracle Orgasm Gel" is sufficient. I told The Roommate about this experience since I have no sense of appropriate boundaries. Since then, he's been dying to know how it works. The Roommate apparently felt that the best way to personally experience the immaculate orgasm was to suggest we sleep together as a scientific experiment. And wouldn't you know it, it worked. At $45 a bottle, I'm not about to let a scientific breakthrough go to waste.

Fruit of the Devil

If a implies b, then not a implies not b. Follow me? If ignorance is bliss than knowledge is misery. Since I'm not terribly close with most of my lovers, I generally I have no idea what they do after we stop sleeping together. Are they married? Are they now gay? Are they man whores in other cities? Are they in jail? I have no idea and I like it that way. The minute the condom comes off for the last time, they disappear into the Bermuda Triangle of Former Flames. Because I don't know what they're up to, I either create post-me lives for them or stop thinking of them altogether. It's a comfort because, if I care enough to wonder about them, I can choose to believe that they are infinitely less happy than they were in my bed. I can also choose to believe that they are fucking women far less attractive and more boring than I am.

Unfortunately, this same formula doesn't work with ex-boyfriends. No matter how hard I try to keep them there, they just won't stay in the Fuck It Bucket. Either they purposely crawl out to send me engagement notices and photos of their spawn, or worse, I pull them out.

Thanks to the miracle of the interwebs, I no longer have to endure the awkwardness that comes with calling up old boyfriends to find out what they're doing and get misery fix. Social networking sites, though helpful for stock piling drunken pictures of yourself, are a nightmare for those who, like me, can't turn down the fruit of knowledge. I wish I didn't know that I had been replaced and yet I can't stop myself from clicking open the floodgates.

At about 6:15 this morning just after the day's very first cigarette, I decided to check up on Disingenuous. I didn't bother to read any of the drivel he's posted, but scroll right to the information I dread but am dying to know: relationship status. And there it is in all it's completely unavoidable splendor--In A Relationship.

As Satan's preferred networking site, Myspace allows me to see a boy who couldn't commit committed to someone else. Why stop the fun there? Scroll over to the right and I see how far down I am in the Top 8. Before you judge me for acting like a 15 year old for even caring about this nonsense, stop and ask yourself if you wouldn't do exactly the same thing. I'll wait.

Glad you're back with me. Not only can I see that I've been demoted, but since Myspace lacks anything resembling a soul, I can actually look at my replacement. Why, oh why did I do this to myself?!? I don't need to know who she is or what she looks like. Knowing will only cause me to spiral into self-deprecation and agonize over the ways in which she is superior to me. Tell me that I stopped there. Please.

Several hours of On Demand and half a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch later, I wish I had stopped. Why does she have to be so thin or so cute? Why does she have to have perfect, straight, blond hair? Why does she have to be 22? Wait just a tick. Back up there. 22, you say? And in college? At this point, I can't help but laugh. The thought of a grown man (over 30 makes you grown) dating, not fucking mind you, a college student is ludicrous. She may be better than me in every other way but he will still be fucking her on a twin size bed with a mortified roommate five feet away. That knowledge takes at least a little of the misery out of it.

You've Lost That New Car Smell

Let me first say that I'm opposed to using definitions blatantly stolen from Wikipedia in my posts. To me, it feels all to much like wedding speeches containing the phrase "Webster's Dictionary defines love as". Makes me itchy all over just to think of it. But I also firmly believe that you should accept available assistance from experts when you have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Say a subject like accounting, for example. Anyway, here's what Wikipedia, a source far more reliable than myself, says:

"Appreciation is a term used in accounting relating to the increase in value of an asset. In this sense it is the reverse of depreciation, which measures the fall in value of assets over their normal life-time...

There are considerable difficulties in assessing the increase in value of any particular asset. This is principally because of the variety of interpretations that can be attached to the word value itself and due to the various instruments and methods used in the valuation process."

As lovers, are we depreciating in value the minute we sleep with someone? For the boys I know, it seems that the more unattainable the girl, the more they want her. Perhaps for myself too, as I've continued a three-year sexual relationship with someone who has said over and over that it will never be anything more. Are we like cars, dropping in value so severely the second you take us off the market that we're barely worth anything to each other at all?

Take Mr. Friday Night. After meeting up at a bachelorette party and enjoying a night of heavy drinking and fun with Sharpies, we headed back to my place. He bitched the entire way about how hungry he was. My patience was already thin. As a member of the bride-to-be's posse, I had already been subjected to all manner of groping, fondling, and obscene messages written on my t-shirt. Beyond that, before we left Tom Tom (sidebar: worst Friday night spot ever!) I had asked if he wanted any one of the many food items available in Adams Morgan. Maggie Moo's, falafel, three kinds of jumbo slice! But everyone loves a martyr, so he declined and whined. Finally we got to my house, and he asked if we could get pizza. Rage! You didn't want pizza when it was right next to you! Talk about a warning sign that this boy can't appreciate what he has. Of course, it's 2 am and I live in the hood so there is no pizza available. I offer my last box of mac n' cheese. For me, this is roughly the equivalent of offering you a kidney. He accepts, and I prepare the most domestic meal I'm capable of. He eats a few spoonfuls of the mac n' cheese and says, "This is awful!" I very nearly stabbed him with my deliciously cheesy spoon. Motherfucker even had the nerve to bring it up the next morning at breakfast.

Okay, so he doesn't appreciate my cooking. That's nothing to cry over. I barely appreciate my cooking, so I should be alright with that. What I'm not alright with is that this boys continues to talk at great length with me about the other girls we know and how much he wants to sleep with and/or date them. Often not terribly long before or after we've fucked. He's idealized these girls to the point that no one can out do them. They're perfect because they're fantasy. Stupid skinny, nice, pretty fantasy girls. Even more frustrating than his complete lack of tact is his complete lack of appreciation for me and what I do for him. At first, he seemed so grateful to be sleeping with anyone at all, let alone someone with my approach to sex. Now that a few weeks have passed, suddenly I'm not doing enough to keep him sexually satisfied or to keep his eye from being permanently fixed on my friends' breasts. I've never really experienced this before. Where did I go wrong? I think my mistake was making myself too available. Aloofness is tiring, but it's proven effective. I suppose I need to return to formerly unavailable self in order to keep this boy in line. That and continuously remind him that he hasn't fucked me in the ass...yet.

Days of Our Lives

8:37 pm - I pick up my cell phone and look at it. No missed calls. No new messages. Fucker.

8:42 pm - I walk to the fridge for a beer. Return to the phone and check for new developments. No missed calls. No messages. Maybe he's waiting until after 9 for free minutes? That's considerate. Then I wonder if I'm thinking of the right person.

9:03 pm - I put my headphones on and pretend to ignore the phone. I glance at it, and it seems that the longer I look at it, the less likely it will be to actually ring.

9:21 pm - I can't stand it anymore and violently throw the phone on my bedroom floor and storm downstairs. Stupid cunt. I hate him.

9:58 pm - Remorseful, I return to the phone I so recently cast aside. One missed call! Hallelujah! I knew he would cave in before I would. I knew it! I win, I win, I win!

9:59 pm - Immediately following my victory dance, I flip open the phone and see that the missed call is from my mother. A stream of expletives is unleashed.

10:00 pm to 10:15 pm - I take two shots of tequila, smoke a cigarette and crawl into my bed. In my last thoughts before the tequila takes affect and I slip into a night of restless sleep, I tell myself that I don't care anymore. Fuck him. It's over and I don't care.

For the first 8 days that he didn't call, I didn't care. For the last 7, it's been this same routine every night. Why doesn't the goddamn phone just ring?!? Who goes 15 days without a word. No email, no phone call. Nothing. Not one single, ridiculous, stupid, little word. One could argue that I haven't called or written either. I start to dial the number, or begin to compose the email, and then I realize that I have nothing to say. More than that, I realize that I don't even want to talk to him. I realize this and it drives me absolutely fucking nuts that he obviously feels the same.

Karmic Retribution

In years past, I made a concerted effort to avoid complicated sexual situations. I never slept with any of my friends or even friends of friends. I was so careful in the selection of my partners that I only slept with someone from my university two years after I graduated. My efforts were not in vain either. Despite dozens of lovers in the National Capital Region, I had only accidentally run into someone I fucked once. The interaction was so brief that I could barely feel the awkwardness. But barely is too much.

Part of the reason I chose boys from far outside my social and professional circles was to avoid all the awkward moments that follow the end of sex. Once I've slept with someone, I can only think one thing when I see them again: penis in vagina. Oh yeah.

Another great reason to avoid mixing professional, personal, or social relationships with sexual ones is because I don't want to risk existing relationships. Don't put your pen in the company ink, you know what I mean? Beyond the obvious risks (i.e. becoming known as the easy office lay, losing your cheap housing due to awkward roommate situation, etc.), there are more subtle complications to be aware of. Friends seem more apt to frown upon these mixed relationships. Moreover, they are even more than normal to offer unsolicited advice. I hate unsolicited advice. When others know your lover, they can become jealous or start to take sides. It's frustrating, and frankly, much more of a bother than I'm willing to put up with. The less complicated my sex life is, the happier I am. And for years, the system worked. All was right with the world. Oh but then...

Lately it seems I can't keep my hands out of the proverbial cookie jar. From The Roommate to The Friend of a Friend to The Volunteer, I can't seem to avoid temptation close to home. Even in the moment I recognize that eventually the situation will become, at best, uncomfortable and, at worst, personally detrimental. Well, finally the cookie bit back. Literally. A fortune cookie broke my tooth on Monday night. Maybe now I can sleep with my dentist...