31 March, 2011

The twenty somethings. And then some.

I am getting a ludicrous amount of attention from twenty somethings.  And I must say ladies, particularly those of you under thirty, it's time for you to lift your game.  Because some of these boys are smokin' hot.  Unfortunately, they have the mental acuity of an eggplant.  Allow me to share some of the messages I've been blessed with in the past week.  Before you read this, I'd like to say that I do not have my rack out in any of my profile photos.  Young folk just have vivid imaginations.

27 year old, Melbourne :"Mmm cute pics...I'd love to cum all over your perky tits, sexy"
Well there's a nice way to speak to a lady.  Will you buy me a drink first?  No?  Oh.
23 year old, Minnesota: "I like ur boob"
Which one?  The left or the right?
24 year old, Egypt: "you very attractive"
Thanks fella, wish I could say the same about you. 
Then again, perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies.  Because this dickwad deluxe also sent me a, frankly, obscene message that even I can't bring myself to replicate here.  If a picture says a thousand words, then this one says yokel for 999 of them, and bogan for number one thousand.  Makes Mister Perky Tits up there look positively darling!

Look at that fucking tooth.  God almighty.

25 March, 2011

Getting digi with it.

We're moving into the digital age. 
Watch out future!
 So I finally got my act together, and now you can  follow me on Facebook.  That way you'll never miss a riveting second of my love life wasteland.  Watch aghast as tumbleweeds roll across the plains of romantic disillusion as the days and years pass...

Actually, I do post the odd tidbit there that doesn't make it here, but I promise not to bug you too often.  I'll also let you know when there's an update.  Oh, and I love feedback, so if you want to write to me, you can!  deadfishfloat.blog@gmail.com.  Knock yourself out.

Love, love,


24 March, 2011

The Writer

It's a little known fact about me that in my youth, I starred in a horror movie.  One would think that might be good training for the story I'm about to tell you.  Especially since the director was both smitten and hideous.  Alas, nothing prepared me for The Writer.

You might remember a few posts ago I mentioned that I was courting a charming young author.
I met him on the dating site where diaper boy got in touch, and he seemed, well dishy. His photos were hot. They were his publicity shots. His eyes were intelligent. He was a fucking author for god's sake. Articulate, clever, with a turn-of-phrase that made me swoon. We parlayed by email, flirted like mad. I was half in love with him before I even met him. And then I met him.

I have to tell you, I could hardly wait. I wore my best cowboy boots. I got to the restaurant exactly on time. I'm always exactly on time. He was a little late. Then he arrived and...

I nearly fucking died.

He was a giant goth. A towering six foot something, with long, thin, stringy black hair, and a pallor so white he looked blue. Like an Antarctic ice shelf. He practically glowed in the dark he was so white. He was clad in black on black which only served to highlight his ghostly achromia.

And his teeth. God almighty. They pointed in all directions, grey as tombstones, jutting from his gums like a creepy Victorian cemetery. Which was appropriate given he looked like a fricken vampire. And not a sexy True Blood vampire, but a Nosferatu vampire. There's a lesson there, a lesson I'd learned before. Way before. When people have their mouth closed in their photos, it's probably because they've got ghastly teeth.

What I expected.

What I got (but with long hair).
I knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't even Halloween for christ's sake.

16 March, 2011

The Vibe

Let's talk about the vibe.  The vibe is the feeling you get when someone wants to shag you.  Or at least, take you out back and fool around a bit.  My ex-husband once said "if you're ever getting the vibe from a guy, and you're not sure if he's actually interested, I assure you, he is."  That stayed with me.  As opposed to the husband.

So I'm getting the vibe from a guy I work with which is most unpleasant.  We had a discussion by email about Facebook Connect.  I wrote something and called it "FB connect".  He came back with "Does it bother you that FB has the same initials as a certain kind of buddy?"

Then, I said something in an unrelated email like "Fuck me.  That's a disaster!"  To which he replied "I take it that was an exclamation and not an invitation?"  There's been knowing looks, unaccountable desk-loitering, and muttered comments in the kitchen.  Compliments on apparel and a variety of other unmentionable mentionings, including a rather casual invitation to a house-warming.  Although I'm slightly worried that I might be the only guest - a la Sunset Boulevard.

The vibe in action.

Now, this is just not cool.  Apart from the fact that he's married, he's also jaw-droppingly unattractive.  I may be single, and hell, let's face it, I might even be considered a bit of a slut in some circles.  But I'm not easy. And as should be apparent by now, I'm rather discerning.  I'm certainly not going to be banging someone's husband.  Well, not unless it's Angelina Jolie's or Vanessa Paradis' anyway.

Personally, I'm rather obvious with the vibe.  And I can assure you its electric massage-fingers have not been waving at him.  I do wish he'd stop.  Otherwise there may have to be Stern Words.  And those words might include the expression "Sexual Harassment Suit".  Which should put him off his game for a week or two at least, I daresay.  I'll keep you posted of eventualities.

04 March, 2011

All hands and heart

So last month I had a blog-threatening date.  Which is to say, a date that went so well that I thought that it might end my interminable and miserable dating life and leave the blog high and dry, a record of my romantic failure before my final, lasting success.

The date was great.  The guy was wonderful.  Smart, funny, working.  Good looking, charming and generally all round top bloke.  A second date followed, and a third.  Before long we were in the sack having the time of our lives.  And then it all went horribly pear-shaped.

Look, I know this is going to make me sound like I have unrealistic expectations.  I know you're going to think I'm a whiny bitch.  But if something's not right, it's just not right.  And this was not right.  You see, my paramour was just way too affectionate.  Cloyingly, graspingly affectionate. All the time. I'd be trying to cook and he'd be trying to cuddle me.  And I was toasting sesame seeds too.  Those little bastards go from golden deliciousness to black and bitter in about ten seconds.  You really have to keep an eye on them. I'd sit for a second on the couch to download something and his arms would be around me, pulling my face toward him, his mouth trying to kiss me.  Every fricken second of the day that he could touch me, he did.  It did my head in.  I felt like this.

Only more so.  Except it wasn't spicy, nor was it an adventure. And I don't look like that.  I looked far more aghast.

In bed it was worse.

He slept all over me.  Like he was trying to maximise the amount of skin contact. Is this how normal couples sleep?  I don't remember it being like that.   I was spilling out my side of the bed because he's pressed up next to me, head on my pillow, great expanse of mattress behind him, arms and legs all intertwined.  Hot and uncomfortable. I cannot sleep like this.  I can't.  Three times I asked him to move.  Three times!  I couldn't roll over because his face was right in mine.  Breathing on me.  Kissing me.  I seriously thought about moving to the couch just to get some rest. 

And the morning was even more appalling.  Because he woke me up before I had to wake up on a Sunday.  Now nothing sends me into a white hot rage faster than being woken up before it's absolutely necessary.  It's the reason I don't have children.  I gave up a perfectly serviceable marriage because I like to sleep in on the weekend, so you'd better not fuck with that.

He said "oh God, I can't stop touching you."  This compounded my fury! It's not my fault that he couldn't keep his fricken hands to himself. I snapped "Oh, for fuck's sake, cut it out!  Now!  I need sleep!  And move the FUCK over."  He moved over. Finally.

Even writing this is making my wrath rise as sure as the sun.

The damage was done.  After that, every time he reached for me I felt a desperate need to run. A choking, claustrophobic, strangling panic. A week later, I ended it.  I didn't tell him it was because dating him was like wrestling a giant man-squid.  I said it was no-ones fault but it just wasn't working for me.