Have you ever been wildly attracted to someone you can’t stand but you go out with them anyway, maybe even jump in the sack with them, regardless of the distaste they leave in your mouth? Of course you have because anyone who reads my blog has to be at least mildly dysfunctional or not functioning at full mental capacity.

I’m too tired to write. Goodbye. More later. Don’t you hate when I do that? Here – go help Bagel with her butt sex issues.

Ok, I’m back.

There is a man who I refer to as Top Gun. He’s a Lt Col in the Air Force and he flies F-16s or at least he did in his younger glory days. I met him off of Craigslist back when I put up this silly ad under Casual Encounters – basically, I was cruising for a piece of ass and I wanted a very specific type – 6′0+ and military and yes, bring your damn uniform with you in it. Classy, I know, but in my defense, a girl like moi has a hell of a time meeting men when out and about [in Washington and it's only in Washington!] because decent looking men do not approach me, say, at a bar, for example, even for a simple piece of…conversation… and I end up standing around looking like a total social reject.

Notice I said decent looking, now whether or not they are decent human beings in general, who gives a shit? You’re at a bar and you’re dying to chat it up with someone, anyone, and if Ted Bundy is sitting on the stool next to you and disarming with the charm, well, so what? Just so long as he picks someone else for a fresh kill, I’d be down with sharing a bottle of Bordeaux with him.

When it comes down to it, men look, men poke their friends, but rarely do I even get a hello unless they’re absolutely obliterated out of their minds and it’s usually three types which I absolutely loathe and would throw myself off a bridge before I succumb – the guy who hits on anyone because he has a shot with no one (God bless his desperate, courageous, and undiscriminating soul); MGD drinking GAP wearing baseball cap sportin’ frat boy cheese dick types who can’t tuck their shirts inside their mismatched pants to save their lives (a dime a dozen in my neck of the hood); or sleazy (but well-dressed, I’ll give them that) and pretentious Middle Easterners living off of Daddy’s money and let me repeat this for clarity – I do NOT DATE PRACTICING MUSLIMS. I am NOT an equal opportunity dater. In fact I will not date anyone whose personal and cultural ethos is entrenched in a religion that treats women as if they are second class citizens and that is putting it politely.

But I digress. We are, after all, talking about love between the sheets, not outside of it, and you’re probably thinking – damn, is she fucked up, she’ll shoot the shit with some pyscho rapist/murderer but she’s a Muslim hating racist bitch.

Not true. I wouldn’t bed either of them.

But before we move further on let me take back that Ted Bundy reference and insert a young Hannibel Lechter instead. If he looks anything like the gorgeous blue eyed actor playing him then he can eat me any time or much on a toe or two if so inclined.

Let’s establish a little history here, shall we? Reach back into the Winter of 2005 – back when I was a mere 113 pounds size extra small and getting my kicks with this pathological liar and despicable chiseled body/butterfaced racist from Macon, Georgia whose day job was stringing cable in the ghettos of Baltimore – working for the very people he loathed – yeah, “n*gg*s” [to quote - hey, don't shoot the messenger or boycott me like Imus]. Well, I had had about enough of him and around this time I received an introductory email from Top Gun enclosed with an impressive picture of him in his flight suit and sportin’ a cocky shit eating grin all while standing next to a formidable piece of machinery. His photo unabashedly screamed COCK DIESEL and I bubbled with excitement at the prospect of a romp with a taller and better looking Maverick – minus the full fledged lunacy of Scientology.

Let’s meet! I replied without hesitation.

And so we did. Downstairs. And as I entered the lobby I became abruptly aware that men were not above using similar forms of deceit to lure naive and unsuspecting women into their arms.

He was…older…and not as… invincible looking. I spotted a hint of middle aged paunch beneath his pull-over uniform sweater and he bore a faint but unflattering resemblance to Gomer Pyle. His nose tiltled upwards and the depression between his nostrils and upper lip was quite generous, defined, and distinctly Irish; more likely than not, a genetic blessing to the fairer sex but perhaps an anathema to masculinity.

Mr. Cock Diesel was flaccid and running on empty.

Well. At least he had all of his hair.

Don’t get me wrong – he was not bad looking – but he wasn’t nearly as fetching as he had led me to believe. I would prefer to say that I wanted to shake him for a free dinner but the truth is I felt compelled to satisfy my morbid curiosity; therefore I did not deny him the pleasure of my company, rather, I led him to a local Caribbean hot spot where he rudely and incessantly touched every part of my body until I swatted his hands and shoved them against his lap.

“You’re invading my space and I don’t even know you. Please stop,” I warned.

“But I can’t help it. I’m a touchy feely sort of man. And you’re amazing. You’re beautiful. You’re the total package. Oh my god, you are so sexy.” He placed a hand on my knee and squeezed.

For all his faults he had a certain quality that I found oddly attractive.

“You’re not a water sign, are you?” I asked.

“Cancer,” he replied.

Bingo.

Why was I not surprised? My most memorable and exquisite romps – Cancer men. So they’re a bunch of emotionally fucked up and philandering low-life bastards. Sex with Cancer men have been so good you’d sell your soul for an encore.

“We need to wrap up,” I insisted.

So like the reckless fool that I am I invite him back to my apartment and we are sitting on the couch right next to each other where I sip more wine and somewhere in the middle of the conversation he says:

“My sisters tell me that the size of a man’s penis doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed and in the most unprecedented first date move I’ve ever seen, he stands up to face me, drops his pants around his ankles, and looking me squarely in the eyes, he says, “Go ahead, touch it.”

I was astonished. Not only were his boxers dorky and dingy, he was sporting an unsightly pair of garters!

“Oh my god! You’re wearing garters!” I squealed and without a moment’s hesitation I demanded he pull back up his pants. Obviously, he was of a different mind because he resumed his place on the couch and smiled as though he didn’t have a care in the world. He may as well have lit up a cigar and broke wind and scratched his balls while he was at it.

He shot me a sly look. “Military garters,” he explained as he grabbed my hand and implored me once again to cop a feel.

“I think those G forces have gotten to your brain,” I said.

Feel, feel.

I finally took the bait. And squeezed. And suppressed a laugh with all my might. What the hell? If you’re going to put the goods on display at least have something to show!

Right then the Old Man called.

“Go ahead, answer,” he said. “I really don’t mind.”

“Thanks for granting me permission,” I shot back sarcastically. “But I think at this moment I’ll pass.” And then: “Don’t you think it’s time you should be leaving?”

“Sure,” he replied good naturedly and upon securing his pants back around his waist I marched him towards the door and dismissed him with a quick goodbye.

“Wait,” he protested before stepping into the hall. “Can I get a goodnight kiss?”

I leaned in to give him a peck on the lips. Anything to get rid of him!

But then he pulled me close against him and slipped in what felt like an alien object probing the back of my tonsils. He had rolled his tongue into a stiff and unnatural shape and now he was trying to make me eat it. I prayed the acid in my mouth would burn it alive. Unpleasant, awkward, purely revolting.

I stepped back and shoved him out the door.