My First Fan Hook-up
I began blogging in January 2008—a time when MySpace still dominated the online community—and as I accumulated more and more friends, the emails and messages began to pour in. Some criticized me. Some commended me. A handful were complete psychos. But most were from women making a simple picture request. Actual excerpts:
“I can’t believe they let you teach high school. You are scum.” –Marsha, 39
“You are not a gentleman. I am not impressed with your page.” -Pam, 42
“Okay, hun. I finished reading every one of your blogs, and if you don’t show me what you look like, I’m going to go fucking crazy. Please just ONE pic! I’ll keep it between us.” -Jessica, 22
“Hi Dave, first of all, I love your blogs, and I wanted to tell you I’m coming to California next month. I’ll be staying in Palm Springs for three days on the weekend of ____. I looked it up and it should be less than two hours away from Orange County. I’m totally open with my sexuality and think we should be meet up for a drink and good times. You seem like a fun guy. Let me know if you’re interested. My number is ### ### ####.” –Justine, 30
“Come to Michigan! I PROMISE I’ll make it worth your while. Just no rimjobs!” –Nora, 24
“Hi Dave, I read your blog and am emailing you because unlike the girls you have experienced, I take care of myself and am proud to say that I do not under any circumstances smell! I have more of a fruity scent, one that I find irresistible to most.”
-Female, unknown
“How big is your penis? I won’t tell. I’m just curious.” –Amanda, 40
“Fag.” Calihottie88, 20
“WTF…do…you…LOOK LIKE???!!!!!??!!!!! –Babycakes, 19
I never responded to the majority of them. Most of the girls had wacky profiles with shitty cell phone camera pics; or they had close-up duck-face pictures where that strand of hair was always in the same spot, at the same angle, slicing the exact same fraction of left eyeball. A handful of girls—smiley, attractive, and boinkable—stood out, and I messaged back and forth with a dozen or so, eventually caving and sending pics to five of them. It was risky, but I’d emailed them enough to discern that they were educated and sane.
Rundown/results of the five:
Marisa, 25, Orange County- After sending her my pics, I never heard from her again. She must have thought I was totally out of her league and become nervous or something. Not sure.
Stacy, 32, Scottsdale, AZ- One time I messaged her declaring a friend and I would be making a road trip out to Scottsdale for a weekend. Her excited messages went from things like “We have to party together sometime! I’ll totally make out with you” to “OK, yeah, maybe one night I can come out, but if you turn out to be a creep, I’m bolting.” Any time a girl tells you “maybe” to anything, she isn’t coming. I lose interest quickly in Maybe-girls, although Stacy and I still message each other with maybe-plans of partying one day.
Leanne, 35, Pennsylvania (too far)- Nothing ever happened. One time she got drunk off wine and requested we chat on “Yahoo Messenger” at midnight. But I hate downloading new crap I’m only going to use once, so I went to bed instead. She currently has a boyfriend.
Tessa, 24, Minnesota- One week we talked on the phone for hours. A week later she bought a plane ticket to come see me. She flaked three days before her flight. A couple months later, I planned a trip to Pittsburgh to see my friend Napolean. I informed her I could stop in Minneapolis one night because it’d only cost a few extra bucks for a two-destination flight. Tessa hesitated, didn’t return my texts, then a week later, after I’d already booked my Pittsburgh-only flight, she texted me and told me I could come, but she “hadn’t had sex in a long time.” Despite the comical irony of her statement, it was too late. We still chat and text here and there; and she insists she’ll fly out one day. We’ll see.
Blaire, 32, Orange County-
Realistically, I always knew Blaire was the only one of the five I’d ever meet, let alone hook up with. She had her own sex-related blog and claimed she and her Huntington Beach girlfriends gossiped about my salad-tossing antics while lying out by the pier. Sometimes after a night at bars, I’d catch her online, and we’d message back and forth. She said we could “make it happen anytime” as long as I called/texted at a reasonable hour. My post-midnight texts would always be the same message: “Rimjobs.” I’d done it so much that eventually she just programmed me as “Rimjobs” in her phone.
After a handful of late-night sexts, one night I finally connected. The texting commenced:
Me: Rimjobs
Blaire: HAHA! What are you doing?
Me: In Newport. Come drink with me.
Blaire: HAHA Ok I just have to kick these people out of my house.
Me: K hurry. I need to get out of this place.
Blaire: What place? Where are you?
Me: My friend Vick’s house, but the dude on the other couch is snoring barbarically and everything smells like feet.
Blaire: HAHA! Ok I’ll try and pick you up as soon as I can. But I’m on the rag. Maybe tonight’s not the best night…
Me: Rag Shmag. Whatever. Come hang out.
Blaire: K where in Newport?
Me: Down by Cabo Cantina. Call me when you’re close.
Blaire: That bar is a shit-hole.
Me: You’re telling me. See you soon…
Blaire: K
Expecting her to flake, I decided to pass out. Jason’s snoring had subsided into loogy-hocking noises every fifteen seconds, so I was able to sleep within a couple minutes.
I must have been asleep for at least an hour when my phone finally rang. It was Blaire. “Hey, I just turned on Balboa. Should be there in like two minutes,” she told me.
“Okay, I’ll come outside. What kind of car are you driving?”
“A white Expedition.”
“Okay.”
Something just didn’t make sense. One of my readers—someone who I’d never met—was picking me up at 2:30 in the morning for a period-constrained booty call to drive me back to my place to do what? Make out? A blowjob maybe? I doubted Blaire did anal. I couldn’t figure it out. Did she just want to talk? If so, I’d be terrible company in my post-twelve-beers-with-nap state. I took a leak, cleared my head, and prepared myself for the woman who was about to enter my world.
Surprisingly, Blaire wasn’t nervous. She sat in the driver seat, her long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, and asked me in a motherly voice, “How’s your weekend going?” She followed it with, “What you got planned for tomorrow?” It almost felt like I was getting picked up from soccer practice. The conversation soon ventured towards rimjobs, and I decided to test the waters.
“You’re giving me a rimjob tonight, right?”
She smiled momentarily, then shook her head. “No, I had a really bad experience with rimjobs. And I’m never doing it again. Sorry.”
“Really? What happened?”
“It was just…bad.”
I glanced at her, noticing her eyes were focused on the road, both hands on the wheel, her nails painted blood red. “Was there a dingleberry in there?”
“Yes.”
For some reason this angered me. “What an idiot! Why didn’t that guy scrub his butthole?”
“I don’t know. But after that night I cut it off with him. It was just too disgusting. Everytime I even thought of him reminded me of poo. And the sad thing is, the poor guy had no clue what he did wrong.”
“You should have told him to wash his ass!” I was serious. I’ve always washed my ass. When I was four, I didn’t mind getting baths, but only by my mom. Every time my dad took the reins, he consistently told me, “Dave, you need to make sure you have a clean butt,” and then he’d wash my ass for me, leaving me in a befuddled aftermath as he resumed scrubbing my legs while I stood there trying to process my butt-crack situation. I eventually caught on and began doing it myself. Judging by the amount of poo-smelling girls I’ve been with, along with Blaire’s dingleberry dude, I consider myself lucky to have a father who cared for my butt cleanliness. Other people never got lectured or received instruction on how to wash their anus when they were little, and it shows. I’ve been rimjob-ready since pre-school.
Blaire was shorter than I’d imagined—maybe 5’4. As we entered my house, I couldn’t help but comment. “Whoa, I didn’t know you were so short.”
She smiled. “Yep. I’m no volleyball player.”
After taking a leak, I became horny and impatient. As we stood in the living room, I pulled her close and started kissing her. She stopped me. “I don’t want to make out in here.”
I laughed. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.” I took her hand.
“Is your name even Dave?”
I hesitated. “Uh. Yeah.”
My room was in full-fledged explosion mode, which didn’t surprise Blaire, who was aware of my messiness. “You weren’t lying about your room,” she commented, making a quick scan.
I kicked some clothes to the corner the same way I smashed eggplant to the corner of the plate when I was seven so it looked like I’d eaten it. (On a horrifying side note, my mom eventually caught on to my sneaky tactic and forced me to eat it. I was fine at first. But ten minutes later while sitting on the couch watching a Laker game with my dad, I looked over at him, told him I didn’t feel well, and then projectile vomited all over his face. Orange fury ensued.) “Oh, that did a lot,” Blaire remarked.
“Better than it was before.” I collapsed on the bed. Blaire walked around to the side of the bed, put her purse on the floor, and sat on the edge. We’d already had our warm-up conversation in the car, so if I didn’t make a move now, she’d think I was a weenie. I grabbed her arm and pulled her over me.
After a substantial make-out session and another reminder of her period (at one point she even showed me the string hanging out of her snatch to prove it), Blaire laid me down and began focusing on my pants. What followed was definitely a first, but I can understand why a girl would do it. Blaire hovered around my midsection, reached for my cock over my pants, and began “outlining.” She soon had both hands literally tracing my penis, her head maybe a foot away from my package.
After a minute of watching her assess my manhood as if she were molding a clay sculpture, I decided to speak up, since for some reason my penis was feeling smaller than usual. “I’m not even fully hard yet,” I said, my hands behind my pillow.
She looked back at me and smiled.
“You can take it out if you want,” I offered.
She was silent for a moment, then spoke. “No, because once I take it out, I’m gonna wanna suck it. And then I’m gonna wanna fuck, and we can’t do that.” Still outlining. “I told you it was a bad night.”
“I see. Come here.”
After making out some more and watching her rub herself, she suggested I jerk off on her ass. And that’s exactly what I did. She got on all fours, and I started stroking to her toned body and hourglass figure—in addition to images of recent porn vids. “Cum on my ass,” she told me.
It took some time, but I eventually shot a meager load down her butt crack, which angered her. “What the? I said on my ass; not…in the middle of it.”
“Sorry.” We talked for another five minutes about her living situation. I discovered she was living with her boyfriend/fuck-buddy, but he was in Vegas for the weekend, which gave her freedom to hang out with guys like me.
Update: She still lives with that guy; they are now an official couple; and he knows she hooked up with me. I still wonder how she broke it to him. My best guess:
Blaire: “Hey Love, I hooked up with that rimjob guy, but we didn’t have sex.”
Guy: “Did he wash his ass at least?”
Blaire: “How the fuck would I know? The only ass I lick is yours.”
Guy: “Okay, I forgive you.”
I walked her out, told her to drive safe, and passed out.
I recently contacted her about the contents of this blog. After she Okayed it, I asked her to fill out the following survey regarding our night. Since I always make fun of the girls I write about, I thought I’d give them a chance to make fun of me. And I thought this might shed some light on “the other side of the story—the girls’ perspective.” I told her to be 100% truthful.
1) How would you describe your night with Dave?
a) Amazing b) Educational c) Disappointing d) What night?
Her answer: I’m going to have to say that Dave, I am used to a different caliber of man. I normally date man whores. You read as a man whore, but you are truly not. TOTALLY NOT trying to disrespect you, but you just aren’t that savvy of a hook-up.
My response: I’ll take that as a compliment. Because I care about details, I decided to look up “manwhore” on urbandictionary.com. The results:
2. A Manwhore is a male that has several key attributes. A typically young (18-25) male who dresses in designer clothing, carries multiple cell phones, has become a master of manipulating women, and makes it his personal mission to sleep with as many different women as possible qualifies as a manwhore. He also has virtually no emmotional attachment to any of his victims. The reputaion of manwhore makes gaining new potential victims somewhat difficult, so most manwhores are forced to switch territories and stomping grounds frequently. However, even in familair enviornments, many manwhores can continue to get laid by playing the “I’m misunderstood, or “I’m just pissed and acting out over a bad breakup” card. A true master in both deception and cunning, a manwhore is any “good girl’s” worst nightmare.
Ex: “Oh god, we need to hide Jenny; that boy is a Manwhore.”
7. Tiger Woods
Ex:
Me: “Damn! Did you hear about Tiger Woods?”
Other person: “Yeah! He’s such a manwhore!”
While I’ll be the first to admit that I do possess some manwhore traits, I certainly don’t dress in designer anything or carry multiple cell phones. Thanks, Blaire—for not categorizing me with those numskulls.
As far as the savvy thing goes, considering I couldn’t even pull off an on-the-rag blowjob, Blaire’s assessment was correct.
2) What was your prognosis after “outlining”?
a) He was too big! He’d split me in half! b) Good size, same as my uncle
c) Eh, about average d) Below average
e) Unacceptably small (but even if I circled this answer, I doubt Dave would let it fly)
Her answer: C
My response: “Daaaaamn, boy! Nice dick!” –Jada, the black chick from “The Lost Night.”
3) Why didn’t you return Dave’s two “Rimjob” texts in the weeks that followed?
a) Busy with work b) He is a slimebag c) I never got them
d) I’m “Late”
Her answer: Honestly, just not interested. We didn’t have that kind of connection.
My response: Sounds like one of my match.com rejection emails.
4) What went through your mind as he was jerking off while in doggie position?
a) I forgot to let out the dog. Shit. b) My elbows hurt. Shit.
c) What is that smell? Shit? d) Hurry the fuck up! Shit!
Her answer: Really it was more like what the fuck am I doing here? And did I really tell him to jack off on my ass? I don’t think I’ve had anyone “jack off” on or near me in ten years.
My response: Okay, fine. The jacking off thing might have been my idea. I am savvy.
5) Dave always complains about how his women smell. Did anything about him smell?
a) His cock b) His hair c) His post twelve-beer-with-nap breath
d) His pillow e) Dead midget under his bed e) Everything was fine
Her answer: I really don’t remember. Plus I smoked at the time, so I wouldn’t have noticed.
My response: “Daaaaamn, boy! Nice dick!” –Jada, the black chick from “The Lost Night.”
6) Would you ever hook up with Dave again?
a) No way b) Yeah! Of course!
c) Yes, but only if the timing was right
d) I have a boyfriend e) Only if I were able to reveal my gender
Her answer: Probably not. He likes Newport Beach style chicks and I like Huntington style guys. We are just really different people and he wouldn’t want to anyway because I would never lick his ass. EVER.
My response: For those who are unaware of Huntington Beach and Newport Beach culture, I’ll break it down for you: A stereotypical HB guy has an over/under of five tattoos and has been in an over/under of 2.5 bar fights in the past year. They say “fuck” a lot and will stare you down as they drive past you in their four-by-fours. As opposed to a Newport Beach guy, who gels their hair, wears black socks, gets way too drunk, sloppily hits on as many chicks as possible, and stumbles home at two in the morning, only to wake up six hours later to “paddle out.” For a better understanding, I google-image searched “Huntington Beach Dude,” and a picture of the MMA fighter Tito Ortiz was among the results. When I searched “Newport Beach Dude,” this guy headed the list:
Crap.
As far as Newport and Huntington girls go, it doesn’t matter. If you google-image search any girl in Orange County—or California—the results are all the same: blonde girls running with surfboards along the beach. No guy gives a shit where a girl comes from. If she’s hot, she’s hot.
You have blog groupies?
You bastard. I’m jealous. Ha ha!
you sure are an asshole and proud of it, huh?
I hope you get your balls waxed soon.