I Have Been a Very Bad Girl…Blogger

bad-girls-button-2

 

A Huge and humbled thank you to the ever seductive Ann St.Vincent  for awarding me with the Bad Girl Bloggers AwardAnn, your breasts are perfection, and your journaling provides me with more insight into my own life than you could ever realize.

It’s been quite the year in dating for me. Turns out I like my sex rough, and I could give a fuck what anyone thinks about that. If talking about the various forms of Flesh Plugs, or discussing what Women ACTUALLY want offends you, then you probably shouldn’t follow my Blog. But here’s some lovely ladies who you SHOULD follow. …because they too are “Bad Girl Bloggers.”

Turning Lamebos Into Rainbows: The Rambling Goat co-writes a blog with Non-sensical Unicorn, and together they can turn your frown upside down. Goat is a Bi-sexual lady who’s in love with a character she calls The Hulk, but her Polyamory ways often lead her to exploring with Sugar Daddy’s while checking out some lady parts along the way. If you’re a guy you’ll love her because she’s just as into boobs as you are, and if you’re a lady her ridiculously awesome sense of humor will have you questioning your own sexuality.

SexAholics Anonymous: The Daring Vagina is a ball of laughter mixed with some very important life lessons. She’s a yoga-pants wearing Craigslister who has had more Sexcapades then I could ever imagine. While her methods are risky, her journey is one I cannot tear myself away from because she truly is a kindred spirit. If you ever wanted to know what it was like to have sex with a complete stranger…she’s your girl.

Kittykat-bitsandbobs: Kat is a woman without boundaries. She’s a married lady who wants it all…romance, passion, and enough sex to make her dizzy. She writes THREE blogs, and one of them is steamy enough to hit your G-spot with no touching involved. I know right? Kat keeps it real and doesn’t put up any facades. Her writing is highly relate-able to any and all bloggers. Follow her and you won’t regret it.

The ‘S’ Word: Girlseule is an Australian hottie with more personality than you and I combined. Ever since I ventured into this WordPress World I’ve been a fan. She’s honest, smart, and embraces the word slut. She’s admitted to being a hopeless romantic, and hasn’t lost her sense of what this life is really suppose to be about. She makes you feel like a welcomed voyeur into all of her adventures, and after reading just one of her posts I’m sure you’ll agree with me that she possesses a true gift for writing.

For anyone who actually reads my posts and comments…you provide my heart with happiness. Therefore thanking you seems a bit dull. But just know that when I “like” your posts it’s because I’ve read it, and it probably made me FEEL something. I write because I long for my voice to be heard and I write about sex because it’s one of my favorite things about this life. So if that makes me a Bad Girl…then someone should come and punish me right away ;)

 

RULES: If you are a recipient, please choose 3-5 female bloggers who write about sex (or post sexy pics of them selves, or both) that you admire and award them by passing on the award photo above and the rules.  Also, give a brief explanations of why you love those bloggers so much.  Be sure to notify your favorite bloggers that they got the award! (Or Don’t…as The Rambling Goat would say…”Meh” …you still won whether you nominate others or not)

 

The Atheist

His freckles were specks of perfection, and his eyes spoke only of kindness. He was taller than I had first imagined him to be, and his smile was full of mischief. After day one of just texting I knew The Atheist was not my soulmate. He had told me he was talking to another girl, and right from the beginning made me feel as if I had to compete with her. I had learned this lesson a long time ago thanks to The Psychopath and The Mad Hatter. If I’m not enough for you in the beginning…I never will be. 

(In case you missed it, The Atheist wrote a guest post for me which you can read Here)

So I left my heart out of his game. But at the same time, I knew he had come into my life for a reason. And I was willing to stick around to find out his purpose.

If I may be vulnerable for a moment, I’ve had some pretty awful luck when it comes to men. Shocker right? My dating mishaps and adventures are really just new additions to a long legacy of failures when it comes to the opposite sex. My father was a free-loving hippie who never wanted children. He was a “whenever I feel like it,” kind of dad; not a bad person, just not a father. One month we would be speaking several times per week, and then for the next three years I would have no idea whether he was alive or dead. In addition to my father’s intermittence, my mother was always dating someone. Men came in and out of my life like busboys in a restaurant. I loved some of them, others I was extremely apathetic towards.

As a child, and all the way through early adulthood, I was extremely uncomfortable around men. I would actually avoid check-out lines at the grocery store if they had a male cashier. Making eye contact was difficult, and speaking to anyone with a penis felt like having a root canal done. It’s only within the past few years that I’ve completely overcome this debilitating fear.

Hopping into The Atheist’s car that night felt a bit surreal. Here I was…in a car…alone with a man…and I felt completely comfortable. I wasn’t nervous because I had already let my guard down, and since my heart wasn’t involved, I knew fun was the only agenda that evening.

The Atheist had gotten stood up that afternoon, and my adventures with Ollie had just begun. Needless to say there were plenty of hot topics to discuss. Since he doesn’t believe in soul-mates, or “souls,” in general (hence his name), I think rejection is more difficult for him. When he began speaking of how he missed his ex-girlfriend my heart ached. As a friend I wanted to make everything go away, but as a therapist I knew better. So as The Atheist talked, I listened and ate some guacamole.

We finished dinner and traveled to a few bars. I got drunk and asked him to dance. He declined. Yep, ”definitely not my soulmate,” I thought to myself. That’s a deal breaker for me. If a girl gets up the courage to ask you to dance, you better oblige her for at least one song.

As the bar began to close, the alcohol penetrated my frontal lobe and my thinking became cloudy. On the way home I decided I hadn’t had enough fun, so I asked The Atheist if he’d like to hear me sing.

Playing my guitar to someone is not something I take lightly. I had joked with The Atheist earlier in the month that it’s my way of seducing men, but let’s be real here…men don’t need seducing. I’ve only played for two men in my life. One of them just happened to have a classic guitar I was longing to strum, and the other I had fallen madly in love with (key word there was “madly”).

Deciding to sing to The Atheist was a combination of the alcohol, and a way of proving to myself I could do it. I wanted to be absolutely open with a man I had no romantic interest in.

 So I played, and I sang, and he smiled.

 Walking him to the door I felt an overwhelming sense of warmth. So I kissed him. While there was no spark, it was a good kiss. Which is why things led to where they did…aka…the stairs.

The Atheist is my friend. He is my first male friend whom I can completely be myself around. In all actuality, he is the first man in my life to take an interest in me that has nothing to with what I can give him. He isn’t my friend because he thinks it will lead somewhere. He doesn’t talk to me because I show him attention. And he’s willing to come and rescue me from a flat tire in the middle of a dangerous ghetto.

The Atheist reminds me there are good men in this world, even when everything in my life is telling me otherwise. He’s upfront with the women he dates and never strings them along. The dedication to his sons should be respected and repeated by every man in this world. Plus, he’s pretty damn funny.

He recently met a girl who makes him feel like he’s won some kind of prize. Her intensity matches his and she shows him all of the physical affection he’s been missing for the last year. She fits perfectly into his little box of life, and since he doesn’t believe in soulmates, I’ll just say: Here’s to another Great Love friend. May it be long lasting and never end.

The Atheist speaks the truth about online dating. What are we doing to each other?

The Atheist speaks the truth about online dating. What are we doing to each other?

 

From Homeless to CPA

Rewind to about a year ago and you would have seen me in the midst of getting my heart broken by a homeless man. While it was a very toxic relationship, I learned a lot through my experiences with him. He taught me what “Chemistry” actually meant, so in a way I’m thankful for his existence (however my credit-card still hates him).

Fast-forward to two weeks ago, and you would have seen me sitting at a bar with a CPA. I’ve come a long way since last year (or at least that’s what I thought as I downed my Old Fashioned).

Walking out of my door heading to the date, I realized my rear tire had decided to play limp dick proving utterly useless. I was forced to shoot Mr. CPA a text.

 “Soooo I just walked out to my car and realized I have a flat tire.”

“Well that’s no good.” …was his response

(Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Now I’m gonna have to wake up early in the morning before work).

 “Unfortunately I think I’ll have to cancel with it being so late already.”

I realized he probably thought I might be making up an excuse, so I quickly followed up with…

 “Unless you trust me to not be a stalker, and are willing to pick me up?”

Mr. CPA asked for my address, and I made him swear to abstain from smothering me with Chloroform.

It was an awkward way to meet him. I hadn’t let anyone pick me up at my apartment since The Racist, and being back to my old self nowadays, I’m more concerned about my safety. As I hopped in his front seat, I sent a silent prayer up into the heavens.

 “Dear Mother Earth, Please don’t let this man be a serial killer.” Quickly followed by…”if my mother knew I was doing this she would murder me herself.”

Inquiring about his job on the way to the bar was an enlightening experience. Accountants have a bad rep. Whenever I think of an accountant, I imagine Milton from Office Space.milton

However, as he went on about his different responsibilities, and the various companies he worked for, I found myself a little intrigued by Mr. CPA.

Once seated at the bar, we began talking about various subjects…well…rather HE began talking about various subjects. He regaled me with stories of the stripper at his bachelor party, and the various women he had met off of Plenty of Freaks. Usually to keep an individual talking about themselves you have to provide certain question prompts, but not Mr. CPA…he was on a roll by himself.

Somehow we began talking about politics and before I knew it, I was imagining him as a bobble head.  mrbean-bobblehead

As he rambled on about how Obama has failed our country, I pictured his head bobbing about on my compact dashboard, entertaining me on my way to work in the morning.

My minor was Political Science in college, so the topic of conversation certainly didn’t bore me, and I love a heated discussion, but Mr. CPA really didn’t give two hoots about what I thought regarding ISIS or our country’s economic status. My independent vote was trampled by his majority voice.

He ended up talking until the bar closed. I tell you not one question did he ask about me. Not a single one. …and when the bartender came to give us the bill (I had all of one drink) he looked at me as if I should pay for my own.

 You MUST be kidding me.

 Since he saw I wasn’t reaching for my bag, he quickly put down a $20 bill. He got back change and left a stingy tip for the bartender who had waited on us for three hours only serving two drinks.

Pulling through my apartment complex he continued to go on about why liberals are idiots.

 “Did you know that it actually hurts the economy when the minimum wage is raised? It causes small businesses to hire less people therefore limiting the number of jobs available.”

 As you can imagine, by this point I began to get annoyed.

 Here’s what I wanted to say:

Yes Mr. CPA, Actually I DID know that fun fact. I took four Economic courses in undergrad, and have read books such as Naked Economics and Freakonomics. If you would have let me speak without having to talk over you, or asked me ANY questions about myself, you might have realized I have an educated viewpoint that you may or may not find interesting.

 Here’s what I ACTUALLY said:

 “Yep. I knew that. That’s why I consider myself financially conservative and a social liberal.”

Rather than making any comments on what I had just said, or asking any follow-up questions, he began talking about abortion.

You would think maybe by his lack of appropriate dating etiquette Mr. CPA was a newbie in the world of meet and greets, but no. I suspect he was just SUPER full of himself.

 Attempting to make light of a very serious topic, I made mention of how I had never ended a date talking about dead fetuses before. …he didn’t laugh. No one gets me. ::Sigh::

 I thanked Mr. CPA for the drink, and let myself out of the car. No handshake. No hug. And there was certainly no kiss.

He of course sent a follow-up text asking how I thought everything went. I was torn.

How do you tell someone that unfortunately you would rather see them as a plastic car accessory than in person?

Important Side Note: The homeless man ALWAYS opened doors for me. Money does NOT make a gentleman. Case Closed.

 

 

 

Coffee Shop Talk

It was snowing that night. If you had been standing outside on the sidewalk it would’ve been easy to peer in from the window and see them. They were sitting across from one another at a booth in an unknown coffee shop, on an unknown street, in an unknown city.

If you knew her at all, you would be able to tell from her face she had never been happier. And you could have deciphered that she was enthralled in telling him a story. As the words flew from her lips at a ridiculous rate she smiled. It wasn’t a forced smile, or an everyday smile, but a smile just for him.

Moving your eyes across the table, you could’ve seen him listening intently. His neck stretched as far as his shoulders would allow, for he refused to miss a single syllable coming out of her mouth. His face was one of contentment, and as he gently smiled at her, you suddenly longed to hear what she was saying.

Her smile widened, and she began moving her hands in the air. He spoke, and she nodded her head yes. They both erupted into a laughter you could almost hear through the windowpane.

The waitress came over and filled their coffee, placing the check in front of him. He handed over the money and said something to the blonde across the table. She laughed to herself.

Exiting the restaurant he took her hand and placed it around his arm. She looked up at him and softly smiled. They were in love. It would have been evident to anyone who crossed their path.

No man has ever made her feel important. She’s used to being brushed aside and forgotten. She’s used to listening, and responding politely. And she’s become accustomed to asking questions, without any mutual interest shown in return.

But that’s all he thinks about. He asks her how her day was not to be courteous, but out of genuine curiosity. He wants to know if she’s ok. He wants to make sure she’s happy. And if she’s not, he wants to know how to change it. He can’t get enough of her. The light in her eyes when she talks about the things she loves in life is one he has never encountered before.

“No one has ever taken the time to really see her,” he thinks to himself. Suddenly, he feels compelled to keep her a secret.

Passing in front of you that night, her voice led into a question. As he began to laugh, they crossed the street and disappeared into the dark. You wonder where they’re headed.

They’re going home. He’s going to help her take off her coat once inside the door, then remove his own. He’ll ask her to sit with him on the couch for a while and they’ll talk to one another how lovers do. Even though it’s been a year since they’ve met, they still keep each other up at night. Just talking in the dark.

He finally kisses her and she removes her top. He helps her take off her skirt, and she undresses him in return. He lays her down on the floor, and then brushes her bangs softly from her face. After kissing her, he looks her in the eyes and asks her a question he already knows the answer to.

 “Do you love me?”

“Forever and then some,” she answers.

That’s how she’s always answered him when asked that question. It’s how she will answer him until she takes her last breath.

Waking up from that dream was a painful experience. I wanted to stay in the cocoon offered by my REM cycle for as long as possible. It’s taken a year of dating and seven months of writing, but I’ve finally pinpointed my number one need in a relationship.

Everyday I am overrun by an intake of information. Asking questions, helping people discover how they think and why is the main focus of my job. I realized a long time ago most individuals don’t want you to provide the answer, they’re just asking you to show interest in helping to find it.

The dream signified what I’m longing for at the end of my day. I’m hoping to find someone who is genuinely interested in me. Someone who notices my passion and craves for me to express it. A man who sees my wall, and has patience while I find my footing to climb over to his side. He’ll be waiting to hear about the boring nuances my Tuesday had to offer. Just as I would want to know what he ate for lunch, or if that new coworker annoyed him like always, I would want him to ask about what type of work I mostly dealt with that day, or if I had accomplished everything on my to-do list. Rather then his eyes glazing over, he would only display sheer interest in how my story turned out.

Most people tell me I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist, or what I desire is something that cannot be found. …that I have this perfect idea of love in my head which nothing will ever compare to. And to that I have finally found my response.

We are all searching for something. I am searching for a “no questions asked,” type of love, a love that will only enhance my excitement for this life. But above everything else…I am simply searching to be heard.

What are you searching for?

Fuck.

The minute the word “Fuck” graced my virgin lips I fell in love. I can still remember the first time I used it. During a super serious 7th grade gym class, involving an intense game of Dodge Ball, I had gotten tagged in the head by one of my male classmates. I recall my friend Dana looking at me suspiciously as if we couldn’t believe the word had flew out of my mouth. Time stood still for a moment. …similar to a great first kiss.

 “Fuck,” is what I like to call an “any situation word, ” or an “all-rounder.” If there wasn’t such a stigma on women cussing, I’d let that fucker fly out of my mouth thirty times a day instead of twenty. For some reason, my relationship with the word fuck has been one of the longest relationships of my life. But where does it come from? What does it mean? And why does my daily vocabulary feel so naked without it?

Growing up I was ingrained with the belief that cussing is “unlady like,” and “ugly.” My mother abhorred me using it while I lived in her house, and to this day she gives me the “evil eye,” whenever I let it slip around family. …needless to say, the majority of looks I get from my mother involve the “evil eye.”

But I digress…

So I did a little research (I know, you’re welcome). Believe it or not, this magical word is quite mysterious. There are three urban legends to what the word “Fuck” means, with the most common being “Fornication Under Consent of the King.” However, this is NOT true. (Thanks for that rumor Monty-Python)

Turns out, “Fuck” can be dated back all the way to 1278, being used as a last name, and in 1379 was noted for the first time in the English language being used to describe sex. As far as etymologists can confirm, the word “Fuck” means to literally “strike” or “hit” something.

Hence the phrase…”Hit it and Quit it.”

For you grammar police out there, “Fuck” can be used as every type of speech. Amazeballs right? You can use it as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, etc…”Fuck” has you covered. (You just came in your shorts a little bit didn’t you? …Gross)

So I know what you’re thinking…so fucking what JBlondie…how am I suppose to use this super-bomb-ass word? Well you came to the right place. Let’s begin with some pretty common expressions…

When I meet people who annoy me, I’ll simply use:

 fuckoff

However, when people REALLY annoy me I will utilize:

It's better to confuse them while you're telling them to get fucked.

…I like to add a little insult to the injury

Also, you Never want to forget the beauty of name calling. It’s super mature and really productive…So feel free to steal one of these beauties the next time you’re in a fight with someone special.

 mother-fucker

-fucktard

titty

I especially like to use “Fuck” to describe any and ALL emotions I’m feeling.

Hunger

Hunger

Distrust

Distrust

Pride

Pride

Pain

Pain

And We Can’t Forget….

Absolute Apathy

Absolute Apathy

Another fucking fabulous point to remember about the word “Fuck” is really there are no words necessary because you can express it in many other ways. For instance, the next time you’re having a heated texting fight with your significant other, I suggest throwing one of these at them.

Boom! Shit just got real.

Boom! Shit just got real.

…or let’s say you’re looking for something a little MORE colorful…something that says “I don’t give a fuck because I’m a fucking unicorn and you’re a boring fucker…”

unicorn

No one can dull my fucking sparkle…

Now obviously there are times where you’d want to use this image in person…you want YOUR finger to be the last thing they see. THIS is the method I typically utilize…

lickingfinger

But maybe this is more your style….

fingerkiss

I think this method is rather pretty…

There are certain people who believe cussing is for the uneducated, or that it’s immature. Some would say using this type of vocabulary is rather mindless, and the use of “Fuck” is simply for those who lack knowledge of the English language, or better outlets to express themselves. But to those individuals I’d like to propose a question…Why does it feel so FUCKING good to use some of these phrases?

“Go Fuck a Duck.”

“Heads are going to Fucking Roll.”

“I don’t Give a Fuck.”

“Houston, we have a big Fucking problem.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely!”

Fuck Me.”

“What the Fuck?!?”

Yeah...I don't know either.

Yeah…I don’t know either.

There are entire books on the word “Fuck.” In fact, after researching the word “Fuck,” combined with my sexual history…it’s my personal belief Jblondie could be considered a “Fuckologist.” Just saying.

A critical component to remember when using the word “Fuck” is you must mean it. That’s the problem with kids these days…there’s no passion behind the words they use. No commitment. I also suggest using it responsibly. Meaning…behind your boss’s back and NOT in front of your mother. Abstaining from using it around anyone under the age of 18 is also highly suggested. After all, cussing in front of children is just fucking tacky.

Again, I digress…

In my opinion, the word “Fuck,” can truly be a meaningful expression of one’s self. It could be seen as an everyday rebellion, a right of passage, or a taboo gone right. Some of us use it on-the-daily, while others choose to let it fly sparingly. Whatever category you place “Fuck” into, I hope the next time this word tips your tongue it’s used with vigor. Because knowledge is power, and now you too are knowledgeable about the word Fuck.

Happy Fucking Monday WordPress! Let your Freak-Flag Fly today with no shame.

apathy

You’re date may not be a serial killer, but your wardrobe might.

jblondie:

I teamed up with my favorite fashion guru, Evelynouise, to provide some tips for a first date. Feel free to check it out if you’re currently Single and Ready to Mingle!

Originally posted on Evelynlouise Clothing & Co.:

I was recently approached by one of my long time friends about co-writing a blog about what fashions to wear on a first date, especially an internet first date. My friend has been keeping track of her crazy adventures into the internet dating world through her blog  Ps. Please Don’t Be a Serial Killer (Note: NSFW and if you are easily offended by open sexuality or the F-bomb, just don’t click on it). She asked me if we could write something about tips for dressing on the first date. However, after discussing and having read many of her experiences I feel that there should be a two pronged approach to this advice column. So many are rushing to the internet to find their soul-mates and while I think that it certainly opens up the dating pool, you have to be careful. So heed her cautionary tales, and some advice…

View original 1,212 more words

The Atheist Meets JBlondie

As she softly strummed the cords of her acoustic guitar, Blondie gently announced to me, “One more song and you’ll have to go home.” She began to sing (in a folk manner similar to Jewel), and my mind raced to a previous conversation we had shared.

About a month ago, Blondie had confessed that once she decides she will sing to a suitor, it most certainly will result in passionate “date sex”.  I’m sure my face became as red as her lipstick, when I suddenly realized there was no way I could walk out of this apartment with the same friendship status I entered with.

 Oh Lord, how did I get myself in this situation?

Earlier that day, I had made plans to go on a date with a gal I met on Plenty of Freaks. She fit nicely into the small window of women I call my type; single mom, average looks, nothing too special, but still witty enough to hold my attention in a conversation. Now if you have ever dated on-line, you already know what is coming next. Her text came in at about 4pm,

“Hi Sweetie! My son was injured at his football game today”…blah, blah blah…”I have to cancel our date.”

Ugh! Prepare for the low mood swing…

Now enters Blondie…

“Text me a picture of what you’re wearing on your date!”

Blondie always has perfect timing. It’s as if she is wearing a mood ring set to your emotions.

“Date was canceled.” I replied, as I began to sink lower into my private own pity-party.

Another text from Blondie,

“I’m off tonight, come pick me up. Dinner is on me.”

Hold on…what’s this? Was this a date?

“This isn’t a date,” Blondie quickly followed-up with. …is she a mind reader?

Blondie and I had already agreed weeks ago that our lives did not exactly line up enough for us to expect anything other than a good friendship. However, over a month of talking and we had yet to actually meet one another. So excited for that opportunity, I replied that I was on my way. Before I knew it, I found myself creeping slowly (in my “drug dealer” style car) through a very classy apartment complex. Was I even in the right place? But as I turned the next corner, there she was, waiting kindly on the sidewalk for me to notice her. She was wearing a tight red skirt and a light tan, leather jacket that had a soft, artistic kiss of ‘70’s retro. I lowered the dark tinted passenger window, and as she approached my car, I said something extremely clever, “Hey, baby, get in!”

Quickly I sized up the Blonde situation in front of me. Her big eyes, beautiful red lips, and all ten fingers and toes made for a nice combination. She shut the door and we were off into the night.

The air was warm, so Blondie requested dinner outside somewhere. We chose a downtown Mexican restaurant (one of her favorites).

As we were walking up to the restaurant, I bumped straight into my step-father who was waiting at the crosswalk. A wave of panic overwhelmed me. Was my mother with him? The last thing any man wants is to bump into his mother on a first date (or non-date…whatever this was). I panned around quickly. There across the street I spotted my parent’s ’69 Stingray with the top down, and sitting in the car was my mother facing the opposite direction.

 “Welp, Pops, you have a great night!” I quickly escorted Blondie across the street.

Because we had already been texting friends for weeks now, the awkward “first date” small talk was well behind us. We quickly found our conversation to be both playful and sexy, and it rolled on until we were the last couple sitting on the patio. Deciding to walk over to the nearest dive bar, we found our way inside and chose a black, leather loveseat near the back. We laughed, we flirted, and we talked about our exes, as well as the all the people we were currently dating. At one point, she even scrolled through my phone for texts I sent to other women, just so that she could tell me all the things I was doing wrong. Blondie and I bounced around to a few more bars, and before we knew it, we were sitting in her apartment.

“That’s the last song I’m going to sing you, it’s late and you have to go now,” she said while directing me to the door.

“But there is one thing I need to know. Are you a good kisser?” She innocently inquired.

As she leaned into kiss me, I pulled back before our lips met. “This isn’t a good idea,” I said. I was torn, do I switch from friend mode to date mode? Should I dare cross the friend line with someone who already knows me this well?

 Blondie opened the door and we stepped out into the hallway of her apartment building. As the door slammed closed, we embraced into a whirlwind of kissing, touching, and slamming each others’ bodies against the wall of the hallway. We quickly regained our senses and stopped.

 “You have to go,” she said again.

“You’re really sending me home? You won’t get another chance.” I threatened as I turned the corner of the hallway.

Walking down her hallway, it was as if I could hear Blondie’s brain questioning what she wanted. Suddenly, I heard the sound of her tiny feet running after me. I began to run away from her, laughing playfully. I let her catch me at the top of the stairs and we stumbled down a few as we started to kiss. My eyes quickly scanned for security cameras…none in sight. I ran my hands under Blondie’s dress and around to her back. I hooked my thumbs into the top of her panties, slowly bringing my hands around to the front. Before we knew it, we were laughing at our random spots of rug-burn and bruises from the stairs.

“What will this mean for our friendship come morning,” I thought on the drive home.

Best Regards,

–The Atheist

Throw Back Thursday: My First Love

His mullet was beautiful. I had never seen anything like it before. Staring across the pool at him made my six-year-old body nervous and excited at the same time. No one knows what love means at that age. All I knew is that I wanted Zachary Crawford to continue watching me.

 “Show us your dive J.,” my mother laughed. “Watch this,” she said, smiling coyly at Zach’s father.

Stepping up to the edge of the pool I placed my toes slightly past the brim. Bending my boney knees at almost a 90 degree angle, I arched my arms above my head in perfect Olympic fashion. One, two ,three…and “jump!” I screamed.

As my head surfaced I could hear laughing from all sides. Having no clue how to dive, and an intense fear of my head smashing into the water, I had perfected a type of feet first belly-flopping which is still utilized by JBlondie today.

 “That was the moment,” he said. “That was the moment I decided you were the cutest girl in the entire world.” Zachary always had a way of making me blush.

We were sixteen when he first told me he loved me. We then spent all night talking on the telephone. Both of us would go to school the next day and write letters to one another during study hall. Young love is such an amazing thing. It’s so intense, and so free all at the same time. I find it sad that as we age we forget how to love like that. Life creates boundaries for our heart in order to prevent future breaks. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to realize those boundaries cannot be crossed.

fencekiss

Being that he still lived in Atlanta, and my mother had moved us to the Chicago area a few years back, made my first love a little unusual. However, distance has never kept my heart from feeling, and being young you think everything will eventually unfold as planned. Our parents often grounded us for outrageous telephone bills (there wasn’t free long-distance back then) and writing letters to one another was our calling card. Receiving snail mail is still one of life’s tiny pleasures for me. I become ridiculously excited opening the post box.

At age eighteen I asked Zachary if he would be my first. I loved him unconditionally. While at that moment in time he had told me his feelings weren’t mutual, I knew he loved me as much as you can love someone whom you’re not “in love” with.

 He visited me for a week after high school graduation. It was awkward, and painful, but everything you could ever want for your first time.

 As I headed off to college, Zachary got stuck in an abyss of uncertainty. Where my future was a straight path, his seemed to have multiple forks in the road. Eventually he decided to join the Army and away he went to Iraq and then to Afghanistan. The war was at it’s peak and my wildest imagination could not due justice to his experiences while deployed.

Upon a three-week break from fighting in the sand, he asked me to come and visit. I took my first solo road trip down to Georgia to see him. I already noticed changes in his personality. He was colder. Parts of him were still goofy and fun, but his spirit seemed more abrasive.

One night while visiting we were watching a movie about The Vietnam War. I couldn’t take it and went to bed crying. He came and held me in the dark. It was such a selfish moment that I will always remember it. I should have been holding him.

Zachary would continue to write letters to me while he was deployed and of course I wrote back. He called me a few times while in Afghanistan (this was before Skype) and during one particular phone call he alluded to the fact he was having a difficult moment. His thoughts were dark and very hopeless. It’s only now looking back I realize that could have been the last time I heard his voice.

After his last deployment he was stationed in Texas. It was all pretty ironic seeing as I had chosen to attend grad school in the same state. He called me a few times after returning home and we had discussed possibly seeing one another, but then I received a text message from him one afternoon…

“I got married today. Thought of you.”

Zachary eloped with a girl named Jessica. They now have two adorable boys who look exactly like their mother. He and I stayed in-touch for a long time, and would occasionally message each other to check-in, but now he’s disappeared from my life. Even so, Zach will always be my best-friend-ever, and I will forever remain his clumsy mermaid.

Growing up in Georgia in the early 90’s was the best time of my life. I still think of Atlanta as home. On certain warm fall days my mind will drift back to a time when the high point of my afternoon was climbing trees with Zachary Crawford in the woods behind his house …silently pleading him to kiss me.

Front bottom: Zachary C., Left Top: Zach's little sister, Right Top: Jblondie (in my awkward stage)

Front bottom: Zachary C., Left Top: Zach’s little sister, Right Top: Jblondie (in my VERY awkward stage of early adolescence)

Over Ollie

My body tensed. I had a lump in my throat. Ollie’s face was as straight as ever. No hint of humor.

 “ummmm what?” I asked.

“Yeah. My real name is Peter.” His lips began to slowly part into a grin.

Nervous laughter erupted from my throat because Ollie had to be joking. …Right?

(If you have no idea what this post is about you probably need to read about Ollie Here, And Here, and Part 3)

 “You’re stupid,” I said with a forced chuckle.

From there Ollie began to smile and laugh uncomfortably as well.

(Seriously…imagine a really awkward moment from your life…times that by 10)

 To be honest, I hadn’t been in a laughing mood after explaining everything. But I know how The Catfish sounds to other people. I realize that while it’s an awful situation, it’s somewhat comical (and pathetic) that I take it so seriously. However, Ollie had asked me to begin showing vulnerable parts of myself, and while I hadn’t expected this type of response, I guess I should have…

 “Oh this isn’t going to work,” He sighed. “I can already see you becoming bored with me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re not use to being happy and in a stable relationship.” He answered.

“But that’s exactly what I want. I just haven’t found it yet. I was incredibly happy and satisfied when I thought The Catfish was real.” I chuckled.

Ollie saw me as broken. I was tainted. He had been telling me since our second date how intelligent he thought I was, but the look on his face had changed. In that moment I could see he now viewed me as just another dumb girl.

Needless to say his eyes no longer sparkled when I spoke.

Needless to say his eyes no longer sparkled when I spoke.

For the first time since Catfish had nearly pulled me under, I had allowed myself to tell the story to an outsider. Beyond the World of WordPress, only a few select people know about this utter embarrassment of mine. Being seduced by an internet ghost is not something JBlondie regales people with at parties. These days I’m more likely to laugh at the thought of being naked in front of my web cam rather then cry, but I still have moments where Fake Pete haunts me.

Ollie was somewhat laughing with me at that point, but I could tell he had a million thoughts racing through his brain.

We left his house and went for dinner. He took me to his favorite burrito place, and on our way home we talked about music and some of his friends. He never really asked me questions about myself. In the beginning, he alluded to the fact he was wanting to respect my guard, but now that everything is said and done, maybe he “just wasn’t that into me.”

We spent the night cuddling on the rug in front of his fake fireplace just relaxing.

 “Blankets, cuddles, and a lazy day. The Trifecta of Awesome.” He commented.

It had been a weird day in my opinion. And although Ollie had not taken Catfish how I would’ve wanted him to, he didn’t seem to be serious of what he had said earlier.

 We fell asleep and I woke up to him holding me. It was a chilly morning outside, and I adored waking up to being spooned. I hadn’t been this intimate with someone in a very long time, and it felt …lovely.

couple

 Leaving that morning I kissed him goodbye, and awkwardly flew out the door. I traveled home, filled Kristyn in on what had taken place the day before, and then went to dinner with my friend Lindsay.

It was late evening when I texted Ollie a little joke we had going about him becoming my physical trainer (he’s super into fitness…a body like whoa!)

A few hours went by, and while I could tell he had read my text message (thanks iphone technology), he hadn’t responded.

At midnight he retorted with a one-line comeback.

Normally I wouldn’t become nervous by this, but the thing was, Ollie was an extreme texter. In fact, in the very beginning, I would often find myself a bit tired of texting so much. Ollie was one of those people sending ten texts in a row without your response back, whereas I’m not one to be chained to my phone. But I had appreciated his intensity so I reciprocated.

The next morning I woke up to a “Good morning,” text from him, which made me feel slightly more at ease. Later that afternoon, I asked him how his day was going…no response. Ever. Ollie was either commencing “The Fade Out,” or he had meant what he said on Saturday.

“This isn’t going to work….”

The next day I figured I’d go balls to the walls. I sent Ollie a text that read,

“Hey-any plans for Friday?”

I was not surprised in the least when I read his response.

“Yeah I have my best friend’s birthday dinner that night.”

Funny. He had his best friend’s birthday dinner last Wednesday too.

This is where JBlondie got a little crazy. I know…feel free to judge me for the next text I sent. It was a moment I shall always regret because I gave into “the game.”

 “I was asked out for dinner this Friday by someone. What are your thoughts on me saying yes to that?” (By the way…totally had NOT been asked out to dinner. I was trying to play a game, which I am so NOT skilled at).

No response.

The next day I woke up angryreally angry. I was angry with myself. I was angry with Ollie. I was angry at dating, and fate, and that fucking cherub cupid who is obviously an idiot.

Yeah...Yeah...Yeah...

Yeah…Yeah…Yeah…

 

Grabbing my phone I sent a text which read:

“It’s very surprising to me that you would tell me your supposedly deepest darkest secret, and then do the fade out rather than being direct and up front. Just saying.”

“Well I’ve been really busy with work and honestly that question you asked me yesterday through me off.”– Ollie’s Response

…and that’s how it ended.

Ollie was not the Catfish (but he had found my blog unknowingly to me). I had opened myself up on my own volition. I had went crazy with his inconsistency and I had let my past get the best of me. When we allow ourselves to be too vulnerable too quickly…we become easily crushed.

Maybe Ollie was doing The Fade Out…or maybe I’m insane. Maybe I should NEVER tell the Catfish story again…to anyone. Maybe Ollie didn’t like me because of my work schedule which he had already commented on how it “may not work” because of that. Maybe my comment on how I couldn’t understand the lyrics to his favorite screamo music was the deal breaker. No one really knows.

But here’s what I do know. I know that I really liked Ollie, but when someone pushes you for vulnerability SO quickly, it’s not because they want to know you, they’re playing a game. They want you to crave them. They want you to expose you’re deepest parts, so they can have the upper-hand. The words he had said meant nothing. He had no intention of staying. He wanted entertainment. And apparently The JBlondie Show wasn’t up to his standards.

Oh Fuck Off Kid..

Oh Fuck Off Kid..

 

 

A Confession

Ever since I had first met Ollie my gut had tried to tell me that something was just…off. (If you need an Ollie refresher, you can read about him Here and Part 2)

He was intelligent, and funny, kind and cool… so I ignored the twinge in my stomach because it’s not every day you meet someone with these qualities. My instincts have never been wrong, and yet I continue to push them away. From our very first date, and a few comments he had made, I wondered if Ollie had found my blog. He seemed to know me…too well for someone whom I had exchanged a few text messages and conversations with. But none of this seemed to make me stop and turn away as I should have done. Instead, in JBlondie fashion, I kept the metaphorical blindfold tight around my eyes.

“I always find it funny when women have a drastic haircut after a break-up.” Ollie commented.

I laughed. “Yeah. It has to do with evolution I think. If it didn’t work as a blonde…maybe things will go better as a brunette.” I laughed again.

“Oh so you’ve done that before? Do tell. ” Ollie inquired.

I don’t recall how this topic of conversation began, but it’s one I will never forget.

Yes. I had done this twice. After my first love, Zachary, I died my hair a dark chocolate brown. Once I began falling in love with Fake Pete (The Catfish), I chopped off my long blonde hair in order to start fresh with him. The long locks reminded me of everyone who had come before him. I needed to forget them all.

As I pondered which way to turn this conversation I realized I had two options. I could laugh it off and make fun of myself. I could make light of how foolish I was to fall in love with a fuzzy screen, or I could let Ollie see a part of me that very few people do. Note to self: Always choose the light, laughing option.

“Well,” I began…“I’ve been Catfished before.” I gave him my crooked smile.

“Oh tell me everything.” Ollie pushed with a curious grin.

My brain kept shooting off signals to shut the fuck up, but my mouth kept moving in protest. I gave Ollie an overview of how it all began and why I chose to believe the things Peter Turner (Catfish) had told me. Explaining how it all ended was the worst part…how all of Fake Pete’s lies came to the surface and how I had never been so broken before. I had been staring at the wall during this confession, with Ollie listening quietly beside me.

When I was done dishing the dirt, I knew I had to turn and face him. At that moment, I remember thinking “god he probably thinks I’m a lunatic.” Instead, as my gaze met his, I found his light green eyes to be judgement free.

A moment of silence passed (which felt like fucking eternity) and my inner thoughts became selfishly insecure. “Was he laughing at my level of pathetic?” “Has he realized that my damage may be too much for him to handle?” After all, who the fuck falls in love with a picture? A thousand theories flew through my mind. The look on Ollie’s face only resembled a big question mark.

I couldn’t help but ask what he was thinking. Nervous butterflies turned into circling bats in my stomach while he paused again.

He inhaled and let it all out.

Ollie interrupted my neurotic brain and with no hint of sarcasm, as if he was going to tell me a secret, the words came out of his mouth…

“Jessica. What if I told you I was Peter Turner?”

wait-what-gif