Online Dating Lessons: A Picture Is Worth More Than A 1,000 Words

Between 2003 and 2005, I posted profiles on numerous internet dating sites. From the mainstream cattle call that is Match.com, to the oddball appeal of the Onion personals, to the Hassidic loving goodness surrounding J-Dates, if there was a web site out there where one could insert a picture and a 300 word description, then I was probably on it.

The allure of these sites did not stem from personal desperation or the quest for a soul mate, but rather from my own notions of maximized efficiency. In other words, I liked the idea that while I was working, driving, or even sleeping, there was still a part of me out there trying to pick up women.

During these two years I learned that these women in question are, to nobody’s surprise, a mixed bag of varying quality, both in terms of physical appearance and personality. Being a shallow man, the main tool at my disposal for separating the wheat from the chaff was pictures, as I would generally ignore the written word in favor of time spent gawking at the professional pic, the party pic, and, with any luck, the much cherished bikini pic.

So for those still involved in the online dating scene, here is a little wisdom on interpreting photos from a guy who learned that one person’s “average” can very easily be another’s “morbidly obese.”


WOMEN TO AVOID

The head shot-A close up that extends from the forehead to the chin, usually not revealing anything more than a neckline. If she’s consistently hiding her body that means she’s either tired of men drooling over her flab free curves and ignoring her mind, or she’s got a lot to hide. In the online world, assuming the latter is a pretty safe bet.

The princess shot-Usually these girls will be preening in their most expensive outfits and on occasion they go so far as to actually wear a tiara, just in case you don’t get that they think of themselves as having descended from noble bloodlines, and thus should be treated in a manner consistent with their lofty heritage. Warning: If you ask these girls why a princess studies psychology at the local community college and drives an Accord they can be quick to anger.

The funny face shot-Some women really like to show their personality by making a goofball expression that distorts their features and inspires a chuckle, but sadly they are frequently the only ones amused. If I want a girl to make me laugh I’ll watch Sarah Silverman, otherwise, I would like to know what her face looks like with her eyes pointed forward and her tongue somewhere near her mouth.

The I’m with a guy shot-These lasses will frequently be shown sitting on the lap of that special someone, in a moment of affection probably mere seconds prior to him hauling her into the nearest rest room and ravishing her. This picture on a dating site evokes a common misunderstanding between the sexes, so allow me to clarify: When a woman sees a guy with a girl she is intrigued, when a man sees a girl with a guy he couldn't care less.

The I’m with a baby shot-A lot of girls will pose with children who don’t belong to them, which I’ve always found weird. Call me crazy, but when I first evaluate a girl, in person or online, my mental checklist isn’t hometown, favorite movie, skills necessary to effectively nurture offspring and ensure their sustained growth even in the harshest conditions. Check.

The I’m with my pet shot-These photos normally feature a proud pet owner cradling Fido or Meme the cat against their cheek so tenderly that it resembles an almost filial embrace. This type of girl already has love, which means that you will always be the clear #2 in her life to an animal that spends much of its day scavenging the carpet for crumbs and licking its crotch, behaviors she will surely not tolerate out of you. Think of your role more along the lines of financial support and potential breeding stock.

[Online Dating] [Sarah Silverman] [Match.com] [J-Dates] [The Onion]

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Why Do Old Black Women Love Me?

I love the ladies, but my relationship with the opposite sex has been notoriously rocky. From my long period of forced celibacy-some people refer to this period as the 90s-to the good times that stretched from October to November of 2006, I have always tried to maintain a positive attitude during both moments of bounty and need.

This attitude includes being open to different types of women, regardless of race, ethnicity, or religion. When it comes to maintaining this spirit of opportunity, I find that among my friends I fall into the middle of a pretty wide continuum. For some of my boys, they will reject a girl based on an exhaustive set of criteria that Heidi Klum would have difficulty meeting. For others, a pulse and feminine gender seem to be the only key factors, as these walking Ellis Islands are loathe to turn away a willing partner, and should wear shirts reading, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses."

While my experience has taught me to avoid stereotyping, I can't help but notice that there is one group of women who really seems to love me, and that's mature black women. Over the last few years, smitten black beauties with some extra miles on their tires have bought me free drinks at restaurants, snapped my picture for holiday cards, and giddily squeezed my biceps as though they belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his pre-Last Action Hero Days.

The fervor is such that if you locked me in a house with Della Reese, Oprah, Toni Morrison, and the cast of Waiting to Exhale, there would be so many cat fights and hookups that Flavor Flav would be embarrassed. Thus far, no other girl, much less group of girls, has come close to matching this level of affection.


Even after years of observation, the reason behind this infatuation remains a mystery. If I had to speculate, I would say that the source might be my very fair, milky white skin tone combined with my clean cut, conservative attire. I think this look may be highly appealing to black women who grew up in an era before rap impresarios and moguls, when white men in suits were considered the epitome of wealth and success. Or maybe I'm simply mistaken as being albino, its hard to say.

Whatever the cause, I sincerely appreciate the attention, and hope the phenomena continues well into my nursing home days, so that I can at least get some senior center action prior to the great beyond. Until then, my only wish is that women in other demographics start taking notes on how I should be treated, because while black is beautiful, there's still a whole rainbow of girls out there.

[Waiting To Exhale] [Toni Morrison] [Della Reese] [Flavor Flav] [Last Action Hero] [Ellis Island] [Heidi Klum]

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I Beat People Up In My Sleep

The period when you first start sleeping with someone is a fascinating time in any blossoming relationship, and I'm not talking about just the sex. I'm talking about the actual sleep. The reason being that when you’re sleeping, you have no idea what's going on, and no control over what you’re doing. In some ways, falling asleep beside a person can be an act of greater intimacy and trust than the sex itself.

In my current relationship with Mandi, we are now at the point where we spend two to three nights a week in the same bed. What is it like sleeping with me you ask? Well, according to Mandi, I have a few quirks.

One is that I like run in my sleep, as I will lie flat on my back and vigorously move my legs in a cylindrical motion for ten to twenty minute intervals. If that weren't enough exercise, she has also informed me that I occasionally throw punches while running, some of which have actually hit her in the head and arms. Although I was initially skeptical of this claim, Thursday morning I saw the fresh welts with my own eyes.

While I am sprinting and engaging in nocturnal fisticuffs, Mandi is not exactly lying motionless beside me. She has this habit of turning her body every five minutes, starting on her back, moving to her side, re-positioning to her stomach, before finally returning to her back. The problem is that she frequently takes the covers with her, wrapping them around her body like she was in her own little cocoon. I know this because I frequently wake up freezing in the middle of the night, and will look over to find her in the midst of a rotation, as the blankets that used to be mine tightly coil around her frame.

The two of us sleeping together must be quite a sight, and I've considered shooting a video. It might not be as raunchy as something from the Pam/Tommy Lee or Paris Hilton genre, but it would have all the elements necessary for internet success, including violence, theft, and a hairy, half naked guy running in his sleep.

[Pamela Anderson] [Tommy Lee] [Paris Hilton]

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How Do You Help An Alcoholic Friend?

One of my best friends in recent years is a guy we’ll call Dan. Dan is an alcoholic. We met, of course, at a bar, where we were both trying to gain the attention of the same girl. I tried to engage her by asking if she had any interest in books, while Dan, staying true to his indomitable style, asked if she had any interest in sex. Shockingly, neither of us got the girl, but Dan and I hit it off and wound up exchanging numbers.

I’ve now known Dan for three years, and learned that he is actually two very different people. Sober Dan is quiet, contemplative, and regularly goes out of his way to help others. He enjoys watching Animal Planet on TV and working at his pizza shop. Drunk Dan is boisterous, rash, and crude beyond all belief. He enjoys alcohol, women, and more alcohol. These personalities are so different it’s hard to fathom that ten Bud Lights are all that separates them.

In spite of this contradiction, I’ve seen the transformation happen a lot, as Dan and I go out to bars once or twice a week. On those nights, Dan will be drinking when I arrive at his apartment, and he will also drink in my car on the way to the venue. In fact, like a cagey squirrel, Dan has mastered the art of hiding beer in my car, as I have discovered bottles in the trunk, under the seat, and, my personal favorite, in the glove compartment where I keep my license and registration.

Dan’s roommate, John, is also a lush, and at 3am they will frequently start wrestling, demand Taco Bell, or both. For example, last week they were able to order without incident, but at the pickup window John put Dan in what he called a “rear naked choke.” Dan responded by getting out of the car and challenging John. John’s response was to charge Dan, knocking him into the bushes where they would spend the next twenty minutes grappling. Unfortunately, I didn’t have money to pay for their Cheesy Beefy Melts, and the ten cars behind me started honking, while I did the best I could to avoid the glare of the drive-through cashier, a young, cross-eyed Asian guy, who probably thought earlier in the day that life couldn’t get any worse.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about Dan’s drinking, my role as an enabler, and what, if anything, I can do to help him quit. Having raised the subject of alcoholism to him before on numerous occasions, I know that when confronted Dan will acknowledge he has a problem, tell me “I’m ten years too late,” and then quickly change the subject. I’ve considered not driving Dan to the bar anymore, however I fear he will attempt to drive himself, or turn to John, who is no better an option.

So that’s where the situation currently stands. If anyone has any suggestions they would be greatly appreciated, since I have no experience dealing with alcoholism and am completely out of ideas. Until then, I don’t see anything changing, and Dan’s steady deterioration will continue.

[Alcoholism] [Taco Bell] [Animal Planet]

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Love Really Does Hurt

Thursday will be the first time this decade that I'm going to be spending Valentine's Day on a date. In previous years, I had been able to insure that I was either not in a relationship, or we happened to be on a "break" when February 14 rolled around. Things are different this year because Mandi, the girl I’m sort of seeing, proved to be a diabolically clever opponent.

Mandi laid the groundwork for her scheme about a month ago, after we had a discussion regarding how I hadn't been to a college basketball game since school. A few days later she called to tell me that she had purchased tickets for us to attend Georgetown vs. Villanova on February 11. When I first heard about the tickets, I was touched, and considered them to be a harmless gift borne out of an agenda free spirit.

Having had a chance to reflect, I now realize that she knew the obligation of the game would keep us together until the middle of February, and that this kind of shared experience, combined with the impending holiday, would prevent even the coldest of hearts from ignoring her on the 14th. In essence, these tickets conferred upon me admission not only to the game, but also to a Valentine's Day where I have to pay for candy, flowers, and dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t have a slogan along the lines of, “eating good in the neighborhood,” which means it will be expensive.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with Mandi; she’s a cool girl and we have a lot of fun together. However, there is a major sexual problem that threatens our relationship. Without getting too graphic, she has informed me that we don’t fit together very well, and she believes that this space issue, combined with my vigorous nature, may have caused her to suffer internal bleeding and bruising.

My reaction to her statement has been twofold. Firstly, I was surprised by her use of the adjective “vigorous” to describe my style, as I had previously heard ladies throw around terms like sweaty, surprising, methodical, and unorthodox, but never vigorous. Secondly, I can now definitively say that while there are many aphrodisiacs in this world, having a girl explain that you are causing her internal bleeding and bruising is not one of them.

In light of these obstacles, I suppose that this Valentine’s Day will be a test to see whether Mandi and I actually have a chance, or if we are simply two different people spending an evening together out of the fear of loneliness and the bonds of social obligation. Either way, due to our physical incongruity, there will likely be no sex at the end of the night, and if that’s the case, maybe we’ll wind up at Applebee’s after all.


[Love Hurts] [Internal Bleeding] [Valentine's Day] [Applebee's] [Villanova University] [Georgetown University]

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Breasts = Shoes

I was out at one of the local bars on Friday night with some of my friends when I started a conversation with a girl passing by. I first noticed her face, which had soft, feminine features, offset by dazzling green eyes and surrounded by immaculately layered locks of silky, conditioner commercial quality blonde hair. As my eyes strained to soak in her beauty they moved down past her neck to her chest, where they discovered a set of the largest, most elevated breasts they had ever seen. And they weren't just big, but tan and shapely, adorned with a thin layer of glitter that sparkled in the smoke and dive bar lighting. Despite my best intentions to shift the focus back to her face, I was powerless, and quickly became entranced. We stood in silence for a few moments before she proceeded to give me a lecture on the shallowness of the male species, of which I heard only parts. She proceeded to walk away, leaving me with a glazed look and a week's worth of memories.

In retrospect, I think that all men can relate to the above situation. While I admit that such unambiguous gawking might take things a little too far, I do maintain that her contempt was uncalled for. In my opinion, when a woman decides to wear a provocative outfit and highlight her assets so blatantly, she should not be subject to unwanted harassment or ridicule, however, a little staring is understandable and should be expected by any reasonable person. For example, if I'm getting ready for a night out and decide to wear a special kind of underwear that gives me extra padding and lift, and then adorn my groin area with diamonds in a heart shaped pattern before sprinkling on some glitter, I shouldn't be surprised or upset when everyone's attention is fixated in that region. It's only natural, and when you add this kind of primping to a guy's Gollem-like fixation with breasts, it becomes obvious why I was in such a helpless situation.

For women out there who still can't relate, let me put it another way: Breasts to men are a lot like shoes. Think about it, they come in pairs, its one of the first things you notice about another person, and no matter how many you have you always want more. Not to mention all the different varieties of colors, styles, and sizes. If I could buy breasts at the mall I'd never leave. The scene in my apartment would be straight out of MTV Cribs, only instead of a celebrity showing off of a massive walk-in closet stocked with hundreds of pairs of shoes, my walk-in would feature an abundance of boobs all meticulously arranged. I would point out my favorite pair, maybe acknowledge a set I got a really good deal on, and then shut the doors and move on to the garage where I keep my Hyundai Sonata.

So I think I'm going to go back to that bar this weekend and hopefully I'll run into the well endowed woman who previously caught my attention. I'd like to think that I'm going to look her in the eye and explain to her that her prior behavior was uncalled for, as her outfit amounted to an entrapment so alluring that no reasonable man could have resisted. She will then apologize profusely, analogize the showcasing of her boobs to me colorfully decorating my pubic area, and then offer to make amends by inviting me home for a private viewing.

Okay, more likely, I'm going to walk up to her, look her in the eye, and then stare at her breasts some more until she recites a similar sermon equating me and my unconscious drooling to that of a particularly unrefined caveman. Did I mention there was glitter?

[Breasts] [Shoes] [Glitter] [Pam Anderson]

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To Those Seeking a Challenge

Lately I've been talking with some of my single female friends and I've noticed a disturbing trend among them. The first commonality is they won't have sex with me, which is why we're friends who actually talk, as opposed to friends who say nothing beyond guttural moans and drunken phone calls. The second, and slightly less important topic upon which they agree is that they are all looking for a guy who is a "challenge." Then they will turn to me and ask whether I'm looking for a girl who is a "challenge," to which I reply "hell no."

If I wanted a major challenge, I'd go climb Mt. Everest after running the New York marathon with a Sherpa on my back the whole time, not decide to start dating someone. Maybe it's me, but I think life should be challenging enough if you're doing it right, and why in the world would I want the person I'm dating to make it harder instead of easier? And this idea goes to the fact that I believe my friends, along with many others, are overlooking the inherent difficulties that make life a struggle. If you want to find a real challenge, check out a homeless person on the way to work, or ponder how pretty much everything created by man is poisoning our atmosphere.

For my friends, I think their problems began when they bought into the whole work hard/play hard mentality that has become the omnipresent mantra in overachieving yuppies of a certain age. Sure, I can see the value of the work hard thing, and, even though I don't practice it, how that might benefit a person professionally. However, when it comes to playing hard, there couldn't be a bigger oxy moron going. Play shouldn't be hard, it should, dare I say, be relaxing, joyous, and if its not, then it's not play but more like work. I think my friends and those like them have taken this philosophy to its logical extreme and applied it to their relationship lives as well. For you see, it can't be enough to enjoy someone's company and simply savor the moment, but they want this guy to be a challenge, just like they expect from their work and play. The expression should now be: Work hard, play hard, date hard.

The downside is of course that at some point no challenge is enough. People of this ilk switch jobs and hobbies always looking for the bigger test, and they tend to switch partners just as frequently, all the while complaining about how they got bored. So it seems to me that the answer my friends need is to stop looking for someone who "challenges" them and to start looking for someone who "compliments" them. Someone who might not be the walking equivalent of a half finished rubiks cube, but who holds them when they've had a bad day or eats the onions they take off their burger. They also need more friends with benefits, particularly a guy they already know and who is good at keeping a secret. I'm not sure if my friends are going to take any of my advice, but they would be a lot happier if they did.

[Challenge] [Mt. Everest] [Female Friends] [Girls]

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Reasons to Love the Metric System

I'm not sure why, but I've always opposed the metric system. Perhaps it’s because it uses measurements that I just don't understand. For example, what is a kilogram? Exactly, nobody knows outside of math majors and a couple of snooty, crepe eating, beret wearing Frenchmen living atop one of those idyllic hill towns in Provence that nestles around the Mediterranean and reeks of Fromage de chevre aka goat cheese.

However, my views may have recently changed, as I was speaking with a friend (NOT ME) who confided in me that he was only packing five inches (Again it’s NOT ME). He was afraid that his girl might leave him for a guy with a little more substance and wanted some advice. After our laughter, alright my laughter, stopped an hour later, I had an epiphany. Sitting down at the computer I googled "five inches" and was shocked to discover that in the metric system my friend's embarrassing measurement transforms into a pu-nanny slaying, lung puncturing 12 centimeters! I told him to throw out his old rulers with their inches and proclamations of inadequacy, because tonight he could proudly tell his girl that she would be getting the full 12.

Apparently, the full 12 centimeters isn't as appealing as I had first thought, because a couple weeks later they had broken up. He says the split had to do with personal reasons and not the fact that he's hung like a baby field mouse born three months premature, but who knows the truth. Before you start feeling too badly for him, you should know that my boy is already dating a new girl he swears will be the one he marries, which has really pissed me off and is no doubt going to set me off on another diatribe.

So here it goes: The best rationale I have heard for marriage is that once you attain a certain age and all your friends break off into pairs, it’s inevitable that the urge to mate will spring from sheer boredom. The transition from young and single to ancient and undesirable can take place overnight, and the reaction it spurs occasionally makes forging a relationship with another human being feel as though it were some sadistic game of musical chairs, where the music has stopped and everyone has begun scurrying for that last open seat. This final chair, perhaps once frequently overlooked, has suddenly become much more inviting, as the change in circumstances have made its availability alluring in a way it couldn’t be three years earlier. No one I know wants to find themselves in the midst of the mad scramble for that final empty seat, nor do they want to be that broken down chair covered by a thick layer of but sweat and plagued by a sunken middle and crusty edges, so they grab the best available seat and cling to it for dear life.

And this is why there are problems down the road my friends. Nature is nothing if not cruel and ironic, for the longer you spend with your women the more she will want you and the less you will want her. This fate makes the Black Widow, who devours her mate immediately after the courtship ritual, seem kind, because at least she doesn't prolong the agony, whereas in humans, the man will get bored sexually, and then his wife wants to know why they have become more roommates than lovers. Faced with this situation, he will do what men have been doing for centuries; he will lie to her, always, often, and completely.

Today's lie de jour for men is that he's impotent and needs to see a doctor, as explaining this is far easier than even the mere suggestion that the lack of passion might come from the fact he no longer finds his wife appealing in that way. Men will pop drugs with names like Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra. It doesn't matter that these drugs have side effects or were probably cooked up to breed farm animals. In reality, the drugs could be labeled fast acting Ebola and most men would prefer taking them than having to tell their wife the truth, ie that there is nothing wrong physically and after fifteen years even the idea of bending Phyllis the neighborhood bag lady over her shopping cart sounds pretty damn appealing.

I am not married yet, but statistics show I probably will be some day. And when I am, and my wife is yelling at me for not taking out the garbage while simultaneously trying to consume a tub of mashed potatoes, I will scream impotency at the top of my lungs until a task force of pharmacists breaks through the windows of our bedroom, hands me a few pills, and gets me so drugged up I could play major league baseball, or, if that doesn't work out, have sex with my wife.


[Marriage] [Baseball] [Viagra] [Metric System] [Musical Chairs] [Black Widow] [Impotence] [Pharmacist]

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Ohio Girls

So I had a date last night with a pretty cute girl from Destro's old hood in Ohio. She loved the Browns, Buckeyes, and Cedar Point. She even bitched about how expensive it is in the Northeast, just like Destro. Things seemed to be going pretty well, that is until she decided to describe some of her many physical ailments.

Apparently, this girl suffers from TMJ, which is a jaw disease that causes severe pain, headaches, and best of all, locking! But it got better, she also was in a car accident and now has a bad back, so she can't lift anything over five pounds or bend over. After about fifteen minutes of this medical confessional she looks up at me with these sad eyes seeking out solace and understanding in what would no doubt be a sensitive and comforting reply. My resonse: "Lets drop you off before its too late."

This is unbelievable. Maybe now I need to conduct pre-date physicals. I thought Ohio girls were tough? If only I were an ear man, she didn't mention anything wrong with them. Back to the drawing board.


[Ohio] [TMJ] [Cleveland Browns] [Locking]

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Reaching Out 2 Friends Through Poetry

I called Coach Crunk on Sunday and once again was dissed. No pickup, no return call. In my grief, I composed the following. Yes, I have way to much free time at work. Feel free to diseminate your own poetry about Tommy Crunk.

An Ode to Crunk

He glides through the world in a florescent blue sweat suit
His bulk in constant motion except for girls that are cute

Students and bartenders, strippers, and even wives
He treats them all the same, like a bear raiding a bee hive

With a gallon of iced tea and cheese puffs for the party
His car zips along, for he hates to be tardy

Spraying cologne so he’s sure he’s not smelly
He can’t flip people off, because he’s fingering his belly

Always thinking of basketball and drawing up plays
His mind stuck in the past, with his Claymont glory days

He now lives in Maryland, amongst men afraid of shirts
One who loves his Brittney Spears dance pad, and belongs in a skirt

Because Crunk is a teacher, a coach, a slumlord, and a mac
Just be sure you don’t need him, because he’ll never have your back

[Cheese Puffs] [Strippers] [Teacher] [Basketball] [Maryland] [Coach]

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Vaginosis Returns

On Saturday night I went a date in Bethesda with a girl I had met the previous evening in Adams Morgan. She was cute, thin, and from New York. After a few drinks, alright a lot of drinks, I suggested we go to her place so I could use her bathroom. Why I couldn't use the bathroom at the bar I do not know, but being the hopeless romantic that I am, I went with the bathroom reference in order to try to get into her pad.

Regardless of its obvious hollowness, my scheme worked and after a few awkward moments on the couch discussing topics such as the accent colors in her living room and how she exclusively dated football players throughout high school, we were making out. Thinking to myself, what would the star quarterback do? I pushed her onto the couch and jumped on top of her. Yes, sadly, we were both thinking of the high school quarterback.

It was after approximately five minutes of kissing that I first noticed it. A lightly wafting aroma that started stinging my eyes, burning my nostrils, and jogging my memory. With our increased intimacy the odor grew more pervasive and it quickly dawned on me that the pungent foe I thought I had vanquished for good back in 2000 had in fact survived. Vaginosis! My arch nemesis had returned to torment me seven years later.

For the unitiated, vaginosis is the insidious medical condition where a woman features a strong, unpleasant odor emanating from her pubic area. Scholars have theorized that this smell results from an abundant collection of dead sperm, an overall lack of hygiene, or a girl sub-leasing space in her nether regions to a sewer treatment facility in order to make extra cash. Regardless of the reasons, the result is a hellacious, pungent stench that is capable of rendering armies of men impotent. It has also been speculated that this year's dramatic reduction in the number of pollinating honey bees can be directly tied to an increase in the number of women suffering from this condition. The most awful and sadistic part of vaginosis is that the sufferer is almost always immune to the effects of her own powers.

In spite of my past experience, I found myself on the couch, bewildered and scared. While most women with whom I've been intimate guard access to their pants with savage intensity, my date on this night had no problem trying to remove them herself. In this ironic duel taking place at the top of her jeans she would unbutton a button and I would snap it back into place. She would pull down her zipper and I would zip it back up. Round and round we went in this twisted dance, as somehow my reticence only added to her aroused state, until I relented, and the jeans came off.

I wanted to cry. Instinctively I recoiled and looked for ventilation. Why is it that these girls always live in apartments with so few windows? With a sly smile on her face, she suggested we move to the bedroom. With a look on my face that implied this suggestion was somewhere in between drowning and a colonoscopy on my pleasure scale, I thought of suggesting we should move to a car wash.

I would like to tell you my friends that I am a stronger person in 2007 than I was as an immature college student in 2000. That I stood up, addressed her with an honest explanation for rejecting her indecent proposal, gathered my possessions, and walked out the door never to return. I could tell you this, but I think we all know that I'd be lying. Yes, I did it, and yes it stank, and yes it lingers to this very day. While some of you will judge me and my actions as being less than those of an honorable man, I believe that going in there with her makes me more of a man than some will ever be. I think we've got another date scheduled for Thursday. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the store to find the world's largest bottle of Febreze.

Peace,
Bradley

[Vaginosis] [Odor] [Kissing] [Pubic Area]

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