It’s like a Morning Glory card from hell.
Morbid curiosity led me to read his whole profile, which made me want to throw up and hide in a cave somewhere.
Is the love of my life seriously among guys like this?
boys
blonde changes everything.
My profile photo used to be a rather adorable one with a brachiosaurus and a brunette CJ, and as soon as I changed it to a blonde CJ with sunglasses and a skirt, my inbox blew up with guys commenting about it and going into detail about why Asian girls with blonde hair is the shit. And to answer this guy’s question (although not directly to him since all his photos were him practically naked… my word!):
Yes, yes I am. The catcalls are more frequent, the compliments are more scandalous, and the guys are more blatant about making it known that they want to do disgusting things to me. There was one guy who called me Marilyn Monroe at the supermarket who added nonchalantly that I should wear her little white dress, and then there was that other guy who said I looked like an import model and I should get breast implants next.
The reason why I went blonde is because I felt like it described my personality better. I’m loud and I don’t mind a lot of attention, but I also consider myself a thoughtful creative who’s colorfully abnormal, like a walking Picasso. And I’m proud to be that, therefore the blonde was more of a profound unveiling. But to these MEN… it’s like I became something fantastical that would fuel their trashy desires even more and it has been quite interesting (and unnerving at times) to observe.
I met up with a friend at a club because this DJ she liked was there, and that was probably the most Amish I ever looked. I had gone straight from work, and I was wearing a long sleeved shirt, a skirt, and leggings. There was no boob or ass action to admire, and I was (and I know this is very hard to believe) sincerely there for the music. One guy came over and murmured into my ear, “Love the hair. You look wild.” His hand was suddenly on the small of my back and I wrestled my way further into the crowd.
Now I’m wondering if I’ve made myself an easier target, and if it’ll just be harder for me to go on dates with guys who want to get to know me, rather than the slutty Asian chick they are concocting in their minds. It would be nice to be able to express myself without being sexually harassed and handled like a sticky, dirty magazine.
the guy who bore me to death.
Nice guys don’t finish last.
Over-religious, sensitive boys with voices as delicate as dandelions finish last.
Through the interwebular (new word, BOOM) world of dating, I connected with this boy who seemed normal and sweet. We emailed back and forth and he finally asked me for my number, which I gave to him without much hesitation. Then he emailed me again a few hours later: “Hey C, not sure if I have the right number because some dude keeps picking up.” I re-checked our previous emails, and damn, I had accidentally given him the wrong number. Or perhaps my subconscious was trying to protect me?
We talked on the phone that night and I literally fell asleep during the call. He was boring, his voice was squeaky and soft, and he kept saying, “You giving me the wrong number. That’s a funny story.” Calm down, dude. We laughed awkwardly for one second and that was it. Stop trying to make that a “thing.”
After that conversation in which he talked about his church friends and how much he loved Jesus and how much he would love to pray for my salvation, I very honestly told him, “Hey E, I’m going to cut this conversation because I just don’t feel any connection and thank you for your time.”
Dead silence. Then he shyly joked, “But we have that funny story where you gave me the wr–”
“YES,” I interrupted. “The wrong number, yeahyeahyeah. I’m sorry, I know myself well enough to know this won’t work.”
He politely thanked me and we hung up. Then he kept texting me. Day after day. I texted him back a few weeks later, “Hey E, I thought I made myself clear, but I’d really like to say no to us having any further interactions.” He politely complied again.
Then he added me on Facebook a couple weeks ago with this message:
“Hey C, it has been a while huh? I wanted to add you as a friend because I still think about that funny story where–”
Do I even need to finish? Excuse me as I set my eyeballs on fire.
the guy known as “The Italian Stallion.”
I was never that girl who got drunk and wobbled around like a newborn foul, spewing yellow gunk from my nicely lip-lined lips while hurling insults at strangers. The worst that I’ve done is to bolt, never to return again. My friends found me later that night sitting on a curb as a police officer in tight biker shorts scolded me for being an idiot. Other than that though, I’m a fun, happy-go-lucky drunk.
When I’m on dates, I like drinking a lot with the guy because a) it relaxes them and if they’re nervous, it calms them down, b) it relaxes them and if they’re fucking boring, at least I’m drunk, and c) it’s a lot more fun when the walls come down and alcohol makes anyone brutally honest.
I went on a date with this Italian lawyer (let’s call him the Italian Stallion because I just watched Rocky II and III, so I’m feeling sentimental) and he was going ON AND ON about his own life and how wonderfully handsome he is, and I kept taking shot after shot because I wanted to drown out his voice with the pounding that my liver was taking. Finally, we finished and took a walk, and no surprise, he was STILL TALKING. All of a sudden, he grabs my head and tries to kiss me. I screech and say very eloquently, “You kidding me?!”
His eyes were wide and dumbfounded as I admonished him for talking my ears off and then trying to take advantage of my clearly drunken state, but it was probably funnier that I tried to come off high and mighty while standing there awkwardly with my high heels and hair slightly disheveled from his eager hands.
He apologized and offered to buy me a McRib.
So I made out with him.
the guy who lied.
In a perfect world, the first kiss happens in slow motion. The man that you had been pining after for months realizes his overwhelming love for you in a flash of a moment, and runs straight into your arms. The sunlight tickles your face—or could it be the single tear that’s running down your cheek? Two pairs of lips meet, and instantly you flash forward to the wedding day where you’re standing before hundreds of friends and family, showing off to the world your perfect love story that started with that perfect first kiss.
I’ve seen too many movies, right?
I actually did believe in that. A tiny, tiny part of me did. Even growing up with Ninja Turtles and fist fights on the rooftop of our ghetto ass apartment, I believed in that fluffy I’m-going-to-shit-in-my-pants-from-pure-joy type of love.
And then my first kiss happened.
There was no sunlight. There was the flickering of a halogen lamp that was obviously fitted with the wrong bulb because it caused a disgusting yellow blanket over everything in that room. The boy I faced licked his lips and I stared blankly at his cracked brown lips. They reminded me of brown lunch bags that had been sitting in the heat for too long.
I had to pee really badly and recess wasn’t for another twenty minutes. We were hidden behind a screen that separated the classroom and the art supplies. I could hear the kids on the other side working hard on their assignments while Jose and I were pretending to sharpen our colored pencils.
Like any successful couple, we had communicated our feelings about this days ago. He said he wanted to kiss me, I said whatever ew gross, and then he said that it would be like being on clouds. Now here we were.
I started to hesitate about what was about to happen, and then he just lunged at me. His mouth was suddenly around mine, and he hugged my head tightly. I felt like I was being squeezed to death by this short Mexican boy with the giant mole on his face, and started to squirm violently.
I was 9 years old and I wasn’t on clouds. I was screaming into the slimy mouth of a kid who had clearly eaten a bowl of Cheetos for breakfast. I would surely drown in his saliva or suffocate to my end.
And thus my journey with boys began.
For Love & Whiskey 