But I Took A Viagra!

After a major break-up, your common sense generally flies out the window and you are prone to making poor decisions on the rebound.

This has been true of me about 900 times. Give or take.

The rebound after my post-divorce rebound – which was nearly as catastrophic as my first marriage, though with less time vested – was no exception.

After that bullshit finally concluded, I “met” this guy online, as I met many friends – with benefits and without – this one hailing from a message board related to an online video game I played at the time.

He was dark, he was brooding. There was a definite mystique about him. From what I could gather from his online presence anyway. He was clearly intelligent, funny but in a cutting way. I could relate to that as I, too, was a smartass jerk. This worked for me.

Our online dalliance started with a scrabble-like word game, which he crushed me at as often as I crushed him. I liked that.

We moved on to phone conversations not long after we hit it off online, and I discovered that, not only did he have a nice, deep voice, but he was goooood at the sexytalk. I’ll leave it at that for now.

We soon discussed meeting up in person – he lived two states away – and the more we talked about it, the higher the sexual tension got. There was something about that dude, and it was hot. Yeah, I only had one picture to go by, but it seemed to really “capture” him.

One night, however, things were nearly derailed entirely when, during our sexy phone time, he felt the need to ask me how big a sex toy that may have been employed during said conversation was (ok, I had said “I’ll leave it at that” but this is relevant).

I told him: It was about seven inches, maybe eight.

“What the hell do you need something that big for?” His tone changed completely.

What the fuck.

Well, my lady-boner had recoiled a bit, but ok. I had no idea what this guy was operating with, and I’m no size queen, but seven or eight inches isn’t exactly Ron Jeremy-league, so…

I tried to salve his obviously hurt feelings (because I was still in a phase where I would placate angry men, don’t worry, I’m over that). I conjured up some sweet words about, I don’t know, size not mattering or some shit, and he seemed to be soothed enough.

We continued on with our little phone sex session, eventually turning the conversation to him and what “toy” HE was playing with (i.e. his dick, but I’m sure you gathered that). He made a comment about my toy again, and I asked him what his looked like…and how big he was.

If he were driving a car, I would have heard screeching tires over the phone.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Ok, lady-boner is officially totally gone now, and I replied, “Oh, I don’t know, you’re basically asking me about the breadth of my vagina when you asked what toy I was using, so I want to know what you’ve got going on, too.” I’m officially annoyed.

He paused. “I don’t know,” he lies, “it’s average.”

“So about six inches then?” I was serious, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, but apparently THAT MADE ME A HUGE JERK, because he asked me what was wrong with me. “No, jesus, it’s about five and a half inches, ok?”

Listen, I have been with various sizes of wang, and I honestly don’t focus or care about size – with the exception of one that was about the size of an adult female’s thumb…that one was weird – but we’re all shaped differently and you’re compatible or you’re not.

And I really DID think, due to being around the block a few times or so that six inches was “the average”. Whatever.

The conversation ended awkwardly, we hung up, talk to you tomorrow, yada.

Over the course of the next few days, things seemed to blow over, and I ignored one or two more red flags (did I mention that he lied about still living with his parents?) because, when you’re just coming out of a bad break up YOU MAKE STUPID DECISIONS.

So we made plans to meet.

We met – let’s just say he misrepresented his appearance like many of us are prone to doing in the age of the internet, but you know what? Cool, whatever. He didn’t really look like that pic he had in his message board profile, but to be fair, I used a really flattering picture of myself in my online profile, so that’s fair (hi, this is my rationalizing his BLATANT misrepresentation of himself…because that’s the shit I let slide back then).

Let’s also just say that he may have overshot on this size of little junior, too, but you know what? OK, WHATEVER, MAN, IT’S OBVIOUSLY A SENSITIVE SUBJECT…but honestly, I was going to eventually find out, so why lie? Even if you keep the lights off…I’m not numb below the waste.

Anyhoo…

We spent a weekend together, and ok, there were some good times – he talked a strong talk over the phone and make no mistake, his personality was no different in person. Not really.

Was this a good thing though? Time would tell.

Had an on-and-off enjoyable weekend, but the dude had a cloud over his head, and he had a major hang-up over an ex-girlfriend. I mean a MAJOR hang-up. Fine, I get it, we all have baggage.

I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t call things off when he’d go on about how his ex’s pussy was “blown-out” and loose.

I’m not sure why I didn’t run screaming at the stories he’d regale me about the “fat, pie-faced Ren Faire girl” who he said pity-fucked, how when her hair was up, it looked like she had a pack of hot dogs on the back of her head and neck…a story he was telling me as I gazed at the pack of hot dogs on the back of his head and neck…

And I’m not totally sure why I didn’t run for the hills when he would “neg” me by implying I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was. Or that I wasn’t nearly as hot as I thought I was, because when he was talking about this gorgeous girl he had “strung along” a while back, he made sure to let me know, “No, you’re pretty and all, but she was supermodel hot, you know?”

I hadn’t run for the hills, but I was starting to mentally select which shoes I’d wear when I did.

A few more ridiculous instances later…

Like yet another “rough sex” session (man, I used to love rough sex, but this guy was a one trick pony, and I found out quick that it was to distract from…well, a lot) he wanted to hold my head down with a T-shirt up and over my face (what??)…

Or when we went toy shopping after he INSISTED that I hadn’t truly experienced sex toys until I had experienced a glass dildo, and, the after the first three I picked up were MUCH too big (Seven inches…six inches…”god, do you need to feel like you have a freight train in there or something?) so I let him pick out a little slender number that he wouldn’t be threatened by…

And I can’t remember at which point in our long distance relationship that he blessed me with the story about how his friends all thought that oral sex was supposed to focus on the clit, but he CORRECTED THEM. If this doesn’t give you any indication as to how satisfied I was in the sack, I could elaborate…

At least he was a really good cook?

It came to a head when he was at my house and had been super grumpy the whole trip – and I mean from the time I picked him up from the airport, he was being a total snatch, sulking about in his brown, stained work shirt and smelling like he had rolled in an ashtray, and if I’d ask him what was wrong, he’d look at me like I was the dumbest fucking thing on the planet.

Did I mention that he was a member of Mensa? Oh yes. He didn’t have a card, but he had taken the test, but turned down the membership, I mean that’s what he said…

Anyhoo…

Things were winding down for the night, his last night in town, and I guess he had popped a Viagra – oh, did I also mention that his approximately three inches of thunder didn’t work on its own? There were some health issues related to his weight and chain-smoking that had rendered shit “timid” so at least there were pharmaceuticals, three cheers, joy to the world…shit happens, no one’s perfect.

I honestly don’t remember what exactly it was he said that night, which surprises me because I have a pretty good memory for shit, but I think it’s that there was SO MUCH GOING ON that day that was making me wish I could toss him into my non-existent Leerjet out of town that very evening.

But he fucking pissed me off.

He said something shitty, and I had fucking had it. I let him know, and he lumbered out of the room.

So I was sitting there on my bed, reading a book for a while, completely fine with the fact that he was apparently going to spend the evening out in the living room, but then my door opened and he walked in.

He’s wearing no pants, though he’s kept that sexy-ass stretched-out stained T-shirt on…as well as his dirty socks (of course).

I looked up at him and said, “Hi. What do you think’s going to happen at this point?”

Him: “What do you mean?”

Me: “This isn’t happening tonight.”

Him sounding angry: “What do you MEAN this isn’t happening tonight?”

Me: “I’m not fucking you, you need to leave…at least leave this room. I’ll take you to the airport in the morning.”

Him sounding angrier: “But I took a fucking VIAGRAAAAHHH!”

I had to chuckle a bit at the situation.

“You didn’t plan very well because I am in zero mood for anything with you right now,” I scoffed.

His face contorts and he bellows, betrayed by a Peter Brady-esque crack in his normally smooth, baritone voice while, with two index fingers…pointing at his crotch:

“WELL WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH *THIS* ???”

Now let me tell you something:

There are fewer things more pathetic than a 6 foot 4 mountain of a man standing before you, sans pants, with his penis, such as it was – a penis that I couldn’t actually LOCATE even while erect through pubic hair that obscured what his oversized gut didn’t – PRACTICALLY CRYING because his arrogance and his mouth had worked in conjunction with one another to negate ANY chance of me fucking him after he took his little blue pill.

It is not my intent to fat-shame, I am a girthy fucking broad myself, I am merely attempting to paint for you this visual assault of a picture that I will have burned into my brain until the end of fucking time.

I calmly replied, “Well I guess you should have thought of that before you ran your fucking mouth, huh.”

There was a minute that I thought he might punch me. That would have been the end of my face because he was strong and what he lacked in penis size, he made up for in arm and fist size.

He didn’t.

He stared at me in disbelief…then turned and walked out of the room, presumably to either “handle shit himself” or to just put his pants on and cry about it.

The next morning was strangely calm with a smidge of awkwardness. I drove him to the airport, told him to travel safe, and sent him on his way. I think may have actually realized that he fucked up pretty hard and wasn’t able to articulate, Mensa brain non-withstanding, a decent apology.

We didn’t immediately break-up (I know, I know…like I said, I’m better now), but we were done. I knew it and I’m sure he had to have known it.

I spent one more weekend about three months later with this guy because it had already been planned, a gathering of fellow-gamer nerds that was happening in my general neck of the woods. I knew it would be our last time together and it was, as previous visits had been, mostly unpleasant with highlights of awesome, but I had, at that point, started using this relationship and our encounters as a basis to decide what I would and would not put up with in my future relationships. A long distance relationship can be really good for exactly that: Spend time, send them home far away, then figure out what serves you and what absolutely does not.

I made the final break from Captain Mensa at the end of what was his last trip up north to visit.

And when we split up, he had the nerve to ask for my petite glass dildo back.

Ew?

I said no.

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