Lord, Save Me From Helpful, Encouraging Men

Dear Dating Site Dude,
It is so refreshing to know that you believe in a “full and equal relationship between a man and woman”.
How lovely that I’d be “encouraged” to have interests of my own. For, without such encouragement from you, I would surely not think on my own to stray from our hearth, and would grow to resent my limited life, and you.
And I especially agree with your comment about domestic duties. I, too, realize that occasionally it would be more “convenient” for me, as well, to “lend a hand with laundry, cooking, and cleaning duties”.
I am curious, though: For all those other times–when it’s not convenient for either one of us–who will perform those duties?
Bred For Housework

Perhaps We Can Hire Out To the Bred-For-Domestic-Duty Subclass Within the Subclass? (They’s All Happy When They Cleans)

You are looking for a woman comfortable in a domestic role. Stop looking at skinny little things like me. Look for sexy women with more meat on their bones. I suspect odds will be better you’ll find more women who won’t mind cooking you up some fine meals.
Me, I’m finished cooking for a man. I worked full-time (many years of 65+ hours) and cooked and kept house(s) for men from 1977 to 2005. That’s long enough.
It’s MY turn. I’ll clean and do laundry, or most of both, but everyone can do their own d#mned cooking, or take ME out. I’m worth it.
I do wish you the very best of luck with your search.
–O. Babe


The Daring Pilot Monk, and Adventuresome Roo, Too

We two,
we had no children,
Or dogs or cats
upon to lavish
fond affection,

In later years,
were told ’twas natural,
Our love turned
in a fiberfill direction.

No corncob pipe,
or eyes made out of coal,

But soft brown fur,
and polyester soul.


Monk Sledding, With Friend

Who Could Resist Such Cutosity?

That one was Monk;
His friend, his partner, Roo,
Unlike him in most every way, it seems,

Unlike as well,
all other roos,

For he was as to real roos
as daydreams are to dreams.

Made in Pe-roo,
he had four tiny hooves instead of feet;

It’s llamas more than roos
there that they meet.


Rakish Roo Today, With Style Acorn Beret

A Rakish Roo Today, With Stylish Acorn Beret

Before my thirty-year marriage to the perfect man, my longest previous relationship had been a three-year co-living arrangement with an imperfect man who did NOT hate me

(Simple math: child of abuse stays ten times longer with the man who despises her than the one who does not. 🙂 )

We never discussed “where the relationship was going”, or, I think, ever thought about it. We simply lived together, easily and comfortably.

He and I had very little in common, but he had a big, sexy, furry Teddy Bear chest, and he kissed and made love in a comfortable Teddy Bear way, and he listened to me natter on and on as I do just like your favorite Teddy Bear would patiently do.

Teddy Bear Man

Actual Photograph of the Two of Us (I Was Blonde and Hot Then)

What we DID have in common was a joyful, childlike sense of fun. We enjoyed teasing and surprising each other in small ways–a characteristic I believe that very few men possess, and one which I miss terribly.

He once left a Christmas card for me with a drawing of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Pig, implying, for some ridiculous reason, that I was a tad over-indulgent when it came to pecan pie. Hmph!

Here is a birthday note I left once for him:

Happy Birthday Oh Mighty Oink

Happy Birthday Oh Mighty Oink

“From a precious piglet who desires only to kiss your trotters and wallow joyously with you in the sacred squishy element.” (For Pournelle/Niven fans, when I later readFootfall“, you can imagine the kick I got : ) )

I don’t remember how or where Monk and Roo entered our lives, but they became the central focus of our play.

Here they are as I found them once upon first walking in the door after an extended business trip:

Monk and Roo Forging Signature

Monk and Roo Forging My Signature on a Check

Here they are, along with some friends, in their ’32 Ford Roadster (constructed by yours truly):

Monk and Roo in 32 Ford Roadster

Monk Lends a Hand to Roo and Friend

Over time, because of the life we gave to the two of them, our Pinocchio pals became almost real, live boys to the the two of us.

Here is Monk, in his daring persona as the Flying Ace Ape:

Daring Pilot Monk

Daring Pilot Monk

Despite Monk’s name and flying skills, though, Roo always seemed to get up to more monkey business. He was more adventuresome–and more accident-prone. Here he is one Christmas after he took a serious spill and injured one of his flocked papier mache ears. Simultaneously, the poor thing was suffering from a dreadful head cold–what a way to celebrate Christmas!

Pitiful Roo At Christmas

Pitiful Roo At Christmas With Flannel Bathrobe and Bandaged Ears

Here he is exploring the seven seas:

Admiral Roo Prepares For Battle

Admiral Roo Prepares For Battle

And here, he does a different sort of exploring, showing his sensitive side:

Roo and The David

Roo and The David (Had YOU Known They Had That Giant Art Deco Lamp in the Accademia Gallery in Florence?)

Monk, with his more conservative bent, plodded along solidly, much as my then-boyfriend, an auditor and aspiring CPA. Monk even subscribed to his own accounting magazine:

Breaking the Primate Barrier

Breaking the Primate Barrier

It had articles of interest only to those fascinated by laundry lists and legume tallies:

Breaking the Primate Barrier Articles

The “Anonymous” Author of “Flying Ace Apes” Later Received a Monk-Sized Check At Our Address

My relationship with the Teddy Bear ended rather suddenly one December day. I was standing on the hood of his Pontiac Firebird, my backside facing its windshield, feet spread, body bent in two, whacking away between my knees at the ice on that windshield with the scraper.

I straightened up, slid off, crunched my way indoors, and announced “I’ve had it. I’m moving to southern California. You may come or you may stay.”

He decided to stay.

I phoned a headhunter (recruiter) that same morning, and two hours later had eight interviews lined up in Los Angeles for a two-day slot the following week (I was a computer programmer: easy employment).

Custody would have to be decided for Monk and Roo. I think this picture shows what they meant to both of us:

Monk, Roo, and the BF Share a Moment

The Boys Share a Moment

I was desperate to have Monk. At the same time, I knew that my heart was not hurting. His was. My emotional investment had long departed for reasons I may blog about someday.

I let the Teddy Bear keep Monk.

Roo travelled with me on my interview journey. Here he is enjoying his first Los Angeles Fatburger:

Roo On His First Fatburger

Roo On His First Fatburger

I moved to L.A. thirty-odd years ago, and Roo has shared my various homes ever since–sometimes out, sometimes packed away.

You would think, me being a big girl and all, that I would have long ago put away all memories of Monk. But he was so cute! There was something so friendly about his little, big-eyed face surrounded by its snow-monkey ruff. Plus, I put quite a bit of effort into sewing his little Ohio State letter jacket!

But I guess, what I truly miss is the playfulness and spirit of cameraderie that came from tiny toys, invested with personality by we toy-appreciative giants.

When I look at the old photos now, I do feel partly guilty: That as an ugly American, I spent money on toys for me when children had no toys and in fact, no food.

But I honestly feel more strongly great happiness and gratefulness for the pleasure these little bits of nothing brought me then, and still bring me now when I look at the photos.

How could anyone look at these next two pictures and not feel that they represent the spirit of Christmas joy?:

Monk and Roo At Christmas

Monk and Roo At Christmas

Monk and Roo and Christmas Gifts

“What Did He Bring Us?”

Merry Christmas, Everyone!
Monk and Roo's Train Set

Guess What They Got?

Monk and Roo and Train Silhouette 2

The funniest note the Teddy Bear ever left me that was purportedly from Monk and/or Roo read:

To : Monk
From: Roo

Call me. You know where. Call when you can talk.
It took me a good ten seconds to get it. I laughed at least that long. I still laugh. “Call when you can talk.” Ha ha ha!!

An Online Sea, No Fish for ME

I just know y’all have been a-wonderin’ how my online fishin’ has been goin’.

Womans Animated Gif of Disgust

Not Swimmingly. But You Have It Wrong: That’s THEM, Looking At ME.

Here are some of the letters I’ve been sending out. Maybe you can help me analyze what I’m doing wrong.


Excellent profile, sir. But you live way east, and I’m way west…

It’s moot, anyhow. Per “Oh, Hey, Stupid!”®, you are both messier AND more logical than I–an off-putting combination. Even my supposedly-lesser logic can dope out that disorder is illogical. And I, sir, am logical to a perfectly logical degree 😉 .

If you are truly even MORE logical than I, you are anal as sh#t. (See what I did there?)

Dis was fun, doe.

–O. Babe


(His interests: Flamenco, Belly Dancing)

So you belly dance AND do Flamenco? At the same time? That would be something to see. 😉

–O. Babe


(His Ad:)

I like excellent Merlot,
And to walk in the rain;
I’m a member of MENSA,
I’ve a pretty smart brain.

Let’s make love in the mornings,
In the dunes of the cape;
I’m the love that you’ve looked for,
Write to me, and escape.

(My Response:)

I like cheap Mogen David,
And I’d rather stay dry,
Why does someone need MENSA,
To say “You’re a smart guy”?

At first light, I am achy,
I like sex in a bed, [usually 😉 ]
We’re not matched well as lovers:
Choose a teen girl instead.

–O. Babe


Not a flirt–don’t think we’re suited. Just wanted to stop to say that I am assuming those are your parents in that one photo, and really like that you included them here. You are a good boy 🙂 .

–O. Babe


We are a no-go (for one, I am deadly allergic to dogs, though I love ’em–so stinkin’ unfair!–and what decent guy doesn’t own a dog, anyway?

D#mn, and you enjoy Scrabble, too. Can’t get ANYbody to play that any more…).

But enjoyed your Profile. Am betting you will get someone smart and fun, no prob. After all, I liked what you had to say ;).

Oh–how did I fall across you on “Tons o’ Tuna“®? Because even though my Profile says “No Pets”, the muckety-muck “Best Catches for YOU!” keeps showing me dog owners–just to rub my face in my petless pariah status.

Good luck fishing!

–O. Babe


“…I can’t be with a religious person, please don’t bother contacting me if you believe in the tooth fairy, etc.”

Wow. What is it with many atheists today, going out of their way to slam those who believe in God? I just don’t get it.

I mean, it’s your Profile, and you get to say whatever you want–I’m a big believer in free speech.

I have no antipathy to atheists–used to be one myself–but I don’t understand taking an extra-big step to slam someone who believes differently than I do unless they are persecuting me–and definitely not all God-believers are persecuting all atheists–only a small minority appear to be obnoxious on the topic. Just saying.

Shall I pass this on to the Muslim community in case they want to issue a fatwah on your fanny for disrespecting Allah?

Or should I just tell the tooth fairy, so that none of your grandkids ever get any more under-the-pillow handouts? ; )


Evil Tooth Fairy Drawing

You Don’t Want to Be On THAT Fairy’s Bad Side


For a first date, you chose “Lunch”. WAY too much of a commitment.

What if you both decide in the first ten minutes you can’t stand the sight of each other? Sit silently through the meal? ?Yell “Doggie bags, STAT!”? Start flinging sushi rolls? Awk-ward…

I say, stick to Starbucks.

–O. Babe

P.S. You said there should be CAT parks?

Dogs are cool. It is cats that drool, figuratively speaking. Cats would not deign to stay within park boundaries if there were any children’s sandboxes nearby to cr#p in instead.

But of course you WOULD think cats cool. Isn’t that a cool-cat soul patch I see in your picture?


Wow. What a wonderful writer you are, sir. And a lovely Profile you put together.

I was sailing along, thinking that, perhaps, this might be the first person on these tedious sites I’d be willing to meet, if the feeling were mutual–and then, I bumped up against your next-to-last sentence:

“You must have NEVER polluted your body with drugs.”

Wouldn’t you know it.

Haven’t touched an illegal substance since highschool until my last boyfriend offered me a toke.

Yup. I have inhaled on each on four separate occasions in the last year (although, who knows? My drug-addled brain may have clouded my tally memory).

So. I am crossed off your list.

You’ve definitely harshed my buzz(cut), Mr. Ex-Military.


Not a flirt, just a comment–Yours is the first Profile I’ve seen that listed God as an interest. Nicely done, sir.

–O. Babe


You don’t match all my criteria, but what the heck. At least you read… And at least one of us is perfect.
(yes…she’s kidding.)

And schizophrenic.
(yes…she really is kidding. again. just ignore the woman behind the lowercase.)

How ’bout, if you have any interest, you send me something that indicates there’s a hint of humor in you?
(but…he lives too d#mn far away.)

Shhh. When fishing in poor waters, one must cast one’s net wide. He READS.
(but.. but… what’s with the tiny picture?)

Yeah. What IS with only one tiny picture of you, and in Italy?

Are you trying to woo women by buying us with a trip to Italy? Exactly what kind of women are you fishing for, anyhow?
(psst: don’t tell him it will totally work for you)

–O. Babe


Not a flirt–we two aren’t suited–just stopping by to say that, so far, you have the BEST main pic of any guy on this site.

All these dudes saying how they enjoy life, or have a great sense of humor, but there you are, SHOWING us, laughing at a friend (or yourself), totally relaxed and looking like someone a good woman would want to be with. Yeah…THAT “with”.

The best of fishing luck to you!

–O. Babe


Your Profile says only what your job is and that you spend at least two hours a day at the gym.

THAT’s your Profile? Dude, you didn’t even TRY.

–O. Babe

lol uhh why should I try, its pretty simple I work and I work out

(O…kay, then.)


Dear Groucho,

A tie for funniest Profile I’ve ever read, and the other guy gets paid to write comedy.

I haven’t yet agreed to meet anyone, and was tempted in your case just to see if you could clip along like that, live. But that would be unfair–to tempt you with my own rapid-fire wit and stellar beauty–when you and I are doomed from ever attaining the perfect comic counterpoint.

For you, sir, have a CAT.

Blech. Blech blech.

Plus, I am damned allergic to the blech-y things.

Okay, there are one or two that aren’t QUITE so blech-y.

There was one Siamese I quite fell in love with, I’m gaining some fondness for Cornish Rexes, and, from an aesthetic viewpoint alone, I am enchanted by Russian Blues. (I can’t say how the cats feel about me. Most likely how they feel about all people: “Food? No? Next person…Food? No? Next person…”

Dogs, on the other hand, are entirely blech-less. (Other than Chihuahuas, a successful cross between rodents and insects.)

Huge fan of many dogs. Have even dated some (Ba-DUM-dum!).

Hope you find the kitty-kissin’ quick-quippin’ lovin’-lippin’ (that last one was an awful stretch, huh?) lady of your dreams.


THAT dude wrote back! Too bad about his furry death-dealer.


Even with my more “straight” messages, ALL of my own overtures so far have been rejected. Men I was excited about writing to–those who are funny or witty, don’t own pets, and don’t live too far away–have rejected me. Even when the sites claimed those same men liked ME!

What the Heck Woman


Their responses to my messages? Cold, dead silence–Except in two cases. Here is one of them:

Dear O. Babe,

Thanks for the kind words. No offense, but I didn’t see much humor in your blog–but to each his/her own, right?
Good luck in your search (and with your blogging, keep working on it).


A few lovely men have written to ME. My simple criteria have not been met, or we were otherwise incompatible. A current possibility thinks me paranoid for not handing out my phone number until after I meet him. (Home address can be gotten with phone. There are nutters out there. Call me nuts, but I’d rather meet them before inviting them home.)

You have just gotta read Kiri’s hysterical post. I suspect it’s funnier to women than men, but if you’re a genital outie, go on over and see what YOU think. Short, fast, funny-funny!

Snail Mail, Love Code, and Vigilance

Not that I’d ever give up email, chat, or text (difficult as the latter two are, with my lupus slo-mo fingers), but I think the world lost something goofy and charming–and touching–when we lost snail mail. No more margin notes. No more silly drawings. No longer a cache of mom’s old love letters left behind for the children to discover that there was more to mom than they ever knew.


Shocked Teen Boy

And I Thought  I Was Having Fun!

Here are traces an old boyfriend left behind in hardcopy. Perhaps, were we dating today at the same ages we were then, our e-communications would be even richer. I doubt it.
(On the night of his birthday:)

I am still awake and I am 18 and you are only 17. Nyeah Nyeah. I can see dirty movies and drink in bars—what can YOU do?


Snail Mail Who Is The Real Norman Normal

Can YOU Tell Who the Real Norman Normal Is?

(Before his driving test:)

I never used hand signals—what if he makes me? I’ll say the window is broken, or my hand is dirty. Should I bring a gift for him? Oh dear.


Snail Mail Stroot Madroople Love Code

Stroot Madroople Love Code–If You Click to Enlarge, Return With Your Back Arrow 🙂

(After landing his first job:)

How rich I’ll be in twenty or thirty years! You are probably wonderin’ what it is that I do. I help big, important people make big, important decisions. How do I do this, you ask? Well, you see, when big, important decision-makers have to make big, important decisions, they like to be alone without distractions. Sometimes, they find the most conducive place is the employee washroom. This is where I come in.



Enough of this foolish charade, I can’t bear to go on dissembling, I must let the truth be known!

I am but a humble janitor boy junior assistant trainee.


Snail Mail Whats John A-Writin

“What’s John a-Writin’?” “’bout the Revelator!” I Can Still Hear It Being Sung. So Can You 🙂


I once received a charming envelope from this creative boy. He had sewn it out of blue-and-white ticking on his mom’s antique Singer treadle machine.

Cloth Envelope Button

The Flap Was Held Closed By Only a Button

In those days, the U.S.P.S. would deliver differently-crafted items like that.

Cancellation Stamp on Cloth Envelope

Here’s the Cancellation Stamp

Sewn Letter B on Cloth Envelope

Even My Name Was Treadle-Sewn!

The outside of the envelope held a puzzle: A tiny sticker cut out from the Dick Tracy comic strip:

No Substitute For Vigilance

“There Is No Substitute for Vigilance”? Why Was THAT Pasted On?

After I finished reading the letter inside and reached the definition below, the crude but amusing intent of the envelope’s outside sticker become clear:


Vigilance Definition

VIGILANCE: The Readiness of Any Organ…For Its Highest Type of Activity, Physiological Vitality, and Efficiency…

In a sad case of foreshadowing, this is the boy who later raped me. But aside from his behavior that day, he was a sweet, witty, creative, and fun boyfriend, and I thought it fair to show you that side of him.
This post was a result of my continuing attempt to reduce, reuse, and recycle–my LIFE! Out with those old papers! On the blog, out the door 🙂
Earlier posts that issued from the murky depths of those dusty boxes:
The Summer of the Naked Bear and
I Once Knew a Girl Named Maria.

Tons o’ Tuna: Fishin’ for Love Online

“Face it, girls. We’re only gonna look at your picture. None of us guys is ever gonna read what you write.”

Overnight, my sweet, sexy Fang and I are no more (see Addendum) and I’ve stooped to trying online dating for the first time. And what a rollicking delight it is.

This time, I’m looking for the full package: Friendship plus love, good kissing, and still some HEAT. (Hah! Like all that’s likely. Dream on, Babe.)

Never Give Up, Honey. I Haven’t! (I Just Wish That Somebody, Somewhere Would Just Once Respond to My Texts.)


My “absolutes” are few (I mean, look who I was dating, yes? But a very nice man who loved me deeply–sniff! Was I an idiot?):

  • The ability to make me laugh and an appreciation for my humor,
  • No obesity (that may be small of me, but it is what it is),
  • Fairness,
  • Something between the ears besides the mounds of hair growing out,
  • Good grooming and hygiene,
  • Reasonable taste (e.g. no double-knit polyester, right?).

    Okay, and I probably would be hesitant at extreme unattractiveness, or combovers—I mean, just cut your dang hair off, already. You’re not fooling anyone.

    I Think I Look Quite Arresting.


    Oops—and I, darn my genetics, am deadly allergic to dogs and cats, so that rules out a lot of the better dudes—‘cause the nicer ones would be dog owners, yes? Or at least own one of those lesser feline creatures.

    Clearly the Weaker Pet.



    Dregs: What’s Left After the Good Stuff is Gone.


    Some people see Jesus in dregs. I didn’t find any miracles.

    360 ads for men seeking women, and 300 of them were d#ck picks.

    I Don’t Get It. Even WITH Glasses, They All Look Pretty Much the Same.


    Obviously, these pictures were tremendously exciting to me, particularly as the gentlemen held the cameras close to their members so as to trick we gullible females into thinking their willies were GI-NOR-MOUS. I was fooled each time–and greatly stimulated.

    Unfortunately, I was also unable to tell anything about the gentlemen themselves based solely upon their extremely creative photography.

    But I thank them here for all of the repeat orgasms they engendered in my throbbing loins.


    Of the remaining 60, 58 were not d#ck’s heads, but were posted by d#ckheads. (The other two? One owns cats and t’other lives too far away.)

    One guy posted two ads, both saying how important honesty was, yet the ads gave conflicting facts. (Saying “lies” wouldn’t be polite.)

    I suspected a college Psych student was trying to get a research paper done (“Which ad will get the most responses?” or “Which types of women will respond to each?”. Curious me sent an email pointing out the conflicts and asking what the story was: Student, or someone who just thought women wouldn’t spot the diffs. The non-student, as it turned out, responded, calling me “angry girl”. Then, a little later, he followed up with another:

    “F#ck you! Now, how’s that for honesty you angry seething c#nt :)”

    It was nice of him to include the smiley face at the end.

    Much Appreciated!

    Well, this wasn’t really very productive for anyone. On to the next site.

    Tons o’ Tuna

    After I filled out my Tuna Temptation description, TOT decided that my most suitable partners consisted of motorcycle riders. I have nothing against bike riders, but a dude who makes his top gal-snagging picture one which features prominently his bike, car, or dolls (boys like to call their dolls action figures) is likely not the dude for me.

    TOT does have a top team of psychologist-slash-matchmaking experts, however, so they must know my taste better than I.

    Although I’d said I was not a pet owner, many guys TOT chose for me were dog and cat owners. Perhaps I do NOT get asthma when I hang around these animals or their environs too long. I sure am learning a lot from TOT!

    Each time I looked at any man’s description, TOT would adjust my “Super Catches for You!” choices. If I checked out a black man, 80% of my offerings became of darker hue; if I checked out a younger man, my net grew more youthful. TOT thought that a single peek constituted an entire taste trend.

    Is Kitteh Using “Tuna”, Too? (Duh. Of Course Kitteh Would Choose Tuna.)


    I decided to search TOT on my own.

    I managed to find a few guys whom I felt were more in my ballpark. For one thing, their self-descriptions showed that they had reasoning abilities beyond “I’m really into riding my two hogs.”

    Golly! I Just Realized One of Those Hogs May Not Be His Bike!


    The first prospect in whom I had interest not only didn’t deign to respond, he fled the site immediately upon receiving my query. Take THAT, ego!

    Do You Think My Tuna Selfie is Part of the Problem?


    The next two and a half hours I spent looking through an uninspiring set of drab descriptions without a hint of creativity or wit. Yet each man claimed he had a “great sense of humor”. They were all playing an excellent joke by hiding it. Even in their photos.

    They Looked Like This Coen Brother

    By the end of that time, I was a bit depressed (and missing Fang–we couldn’t have that). I was also foolishly exhausted–I had stayed up way too late and it was far past my lupus expiration date.

    I’m afraid I strayed off the sanity reservation as a result, and began responding to ads I should not have, in a manner I should not have. I regret a couple of the messages I sent that night, or regret their tone.

    Only One Was Worse Than This Bossy Sign (SOMEone Forgot the Magic Word.).


    A couple of the less impolite messages:

    Dear Frank,

    In your ad, to be frank, I don’t know what it was that appealed to me, other than your frankness, which came across as frank frankness rather than rank rankness (i.e. the false-osity of a lot of the other males on this site). Not that I can really tell the difference, being Aspie, but I can kinda sorta tell, now that I’m older and less of an Asp–or I like to think I can (and am). –O. Babe  (Nope. In the light of day, clearly still pretty much an Asp.)

    Frank Didn’t Respond. Not All Frank-ness Wins Friends.


    Dear Athletic-Build,

    Notice one of your interests is “Snowboaring”. They must be much easier to spot against the winter whiteness ; ) –O. Babe

    It’s Especially Tricky to Hold a Boar-Spear Steady While on Skis


    Dear What-Fit-Are-YOU?

    You say you want a “normal fit” woman. Many woman I see normally fit at least two actress-widths, except in the richer beach areas. The men I see look like they’ve just EATEN two, when it comes to their middles, much though they may wear huge shirts to hide it.

    Interestingly, yours is the first ad I’ve seen that posts only a head shot. –O. Babe

    Sexist Modern Dating Expectations Which Women Have Totally Bought Into


    Dear Almost-Perfect,

    I’m sailing along, reading your description, which sounds terrific. Then I get to the age data. You’re a 51-year-old man. To contact you, a female “MUST be between 30 and 50″.

    Brother. You Men Kill Me. –O. Babe


    I had noticed a similar “must” for several other men, so I decided to exclude from my next search all men who wanted to date women 20 years their junior.

    Wanna Guess What Happened?


    Which dating site should I try next?

    (In the interests of fairness, “Head Shot” man did write back and claims he is quite svelte below the neck.)

    Addendum: For the Ultimate Word on D#ck Pics

    Whether guy or gal, I promise you will be glad you took a side trip to

    The Out of Context Penis, if for the pictures alone.

    Addendum: The Split With Fang

    Fang committed what I consider an unforgivable error–and did it more than once. We needn’t go into what. No, he didn’t cheat on me. He’s a good man. Just not great at the fairness part of being a couple. I still love him, and still don’t know if I made a terrible mistake. Best not to think about it.

    I said, I have to stop thinking about Fang as quickly as possible so that I don’t go running back to–Oh dear: I just had a vision of his arms wrapped around me. Time to get fishin’ again. Sigh.
    An Online Sea, No Fish For Me

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