From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post out of the mouth of babes

YUMMY … need I say more??

Best picture EVAH!!!!

Oh man … I can’t get enough of these men!!!

From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post BEST pic EVER!!!!

Here are some of his email, there are hundreds as we chatted for over a month

From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post Devon James – Nigerian Scammer

First off, I’d be remiss if I didn’t first welcome all the folks who’ve visited this blog from dykefinders.com and Black Lesbian Planet. I hope you’ve all enjoyed what you’ve read. Perhaps you can speak to one another in the comments section. If I can bring even one lesbian couple together, then the four years I’ve spent on this blog were well worth it.

Anyway, below is a sample chapter from the book I wrote with the same title as this blog. Hope you like it, and if you do, please spread the word.

OCTOBER 14: DON’T BE DISAPPOINTED

It finally happened – or did it? I’m not really sure. I’m still trying to figure out what exactly I did with Marty Applebaum’s niece.

About a half hour before I was going to leave my apartment tonight to meet Tammy, I noticed an email from dad that he had sent a few hours earlier. The subject was “Have a good time on your date.” The body read: “Don’t be disappointed.”

Don’t be disappointed? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I started to panic, and immediately called dad to find out what he meant, but mom picked up.

“Your father’s sleeping. It’s past eight-thirty. What’s wrong?”

“I’m supposed to meet Marty Applebaum’s niece in less than a half hour, and he sends me an email saying ‘don’t be disappointed.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why should it mean anything? He wants you to enjoy yourself. That’s all.”

“Then he should’ve said ‘enjoy yourself.’ Not ‘don’t be disappointed.’ Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I wasn’t involved with this. I have no idea what he meant. Just go on the date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could be two-hundred pounds.”

“Your father would never set you up with someone who was two-hundred pounds.”

Once again, mom was right. Dad would never set me up with someone who was two-hundred pounds – but he did set me up with someone who was two-hundred fifty pounds.

I sat across from Tammy in Starbucks, waiting for the hour I had allotted for this date to go by. After the general pleasantries about work, family, and how dad knows Marty, we had little to say to each other. I wasn’t really that interested in making an effort to keep the conversation going because Tammy was an absolute pig – both in terms of size and demeanor. She snapped at the kid who made our coffee for taking too long and she practically swallowed her Cinnamon Swirl whole.

I still felt an obligation to dad and Marty Applebaum to be nice to Tammy, so I tried to fill the dead air as best I could, but Tammy kept giving me one word answers to my questions. I was about to ask her about her shower routine when an old Chinese man walked by our table, and asked in a thick Chinese accent if the newspaper on the seat next to us was ours.

“Nee How,” I said to the man. “It’s all yours.”

“Nee How,” he said, smiling, as he took the paper and left.

“You speak Chinese?” Tammy asked, confused.

“Not really. But I’m taking classes,” I lied just to say something.

“Of all the languages you could learn, why waste your time on Chinese? Why not learn something useful like I don’t know – German, or something?”

“Because China is on its way to becoming the world’s largest economy. If you wanna take advantage of that, you need to speak the language.”

Her eyes lit up for a moment – like she hit the jackpot.

“So, like, you’re into finance and stuff?” she asked in such an excited tone that if she were a guy, she would have had a boner.

“Not really. I just wanna be able to have an actual conversation with the Chinese guy I buy my bootleg DVDs from. I’ve been buying movies from him for over a year, and I’d like our relationship to move on to the next level. And somehow I don’t think he’s gonna learn English.”

Maybe I’m a really good actor, or maybe I don’t convey sarcasm well, but for some reason, she didn’t get it. I’m guessing it’s because she’s a moron.

“So, what – you’re into Chinese men?” she asked in a disgusted tone, her she-boner now subsiding.

“No. I just think it would be really cool to be able to speak Chinese.”

“I see,” she responded, disappointed that I wasn’t the rich international man of finance she was hoping to land – and we spent the rest of the hour quietly sipping our drinks.

I sat there wishing I actually did speak Chinese and that the Chinese man hadn’t left, so I could have someone to talk to. When the hour was up, we stepped out of the Starbucks together, and Tammy asked me if I’d mind walking her home. She said she didn’t feel safe walking home alone at night, and I figured it was the least I could do for Marty Applebaum’s niece since I was never going to see her again.

We arrived at her building, and I was giving her the old “It was great to meet you, take care of yourself” routine, when all of a sudden she lunged at me. I thought she was going in for the cheek kiss, but our lips touched, and she thrust her tongue into my mouth. I pulled back, fearing for my life, but she lunged in again for a second attack. I saw her lips moving closer to mine in slow motion, and I felt trapped. I didn’t want to insult Tammy by pulling away a second time, but I didn’t want to lead her on either. I wondered why this couldn’t be happening with someone I actually liked, or was attracted to, when all of a sudden, I heard Shmegs’ voice egging me on: “First get laid. Then meet someone you like. It’s been a year.” I looked at Tammy – all two-hundred-fifty pounds of her – and wondered how bad it would be if I listened to Shmegs. Maybe I’d be in for the ride of my life. Maybe I wouldn’t be disappointed at all. Before I could decide what I wanted to do, she made the decision for me. Tammy’s tongue was in my mouth again, and her hand was down my pants.

I followed her up the stairs to her second floor walk-up. As she struggled to lug her oversized body up each step, I feared she’d fall back and crush me. I envisioned the emergency room surgeons desperately trying to remove my face from her gigantic ass cheeks, while mom watched in horror, as I gasped for each breath.

“You think he’s disappointed now?!” I could hear her crying to dad. “Breathe, Ray. Breathe!”

When we got to Tammy’s apartment, she grabbed my hand and led me to her bedroom. After more than a year of celibacy and numerous failed dates, I was seconds away from fucking Marty Applebaum’s fat niece.

“Get naked,” she ordered.

As I took off my clothes and watched Tammy take off hers, I was both excited at the thought of actually having sex, and repulsed by the sight of Tammy naked. The only thing preventing her gargantuan, drooping breasts from touching the ground was her Buddha like belly, which was likely the only thing preventing me from finishing before we even began. I stood there completely naked and completely erect, feeling weird, even ashamed, that anything in the room was turning me on. I worried that Tammy might confuse my raging hard-on with a desire to want to be her boyfriend when all I wanted to do was bust a nut in something other than a tissue. I feared having to go with her to Marty Applebaum’s retirement party, or to her niece’s graduation, or to some family wedding all because of what I was about to do. I felt guilty that I was using her just to satisfy an urge, and even guiltier that I wasn’t the least bit attracted to her, despite my boner’s insistence to the contrary. I was bothered by the fact that I couldn’t just take care of business and worry about the consequences later like most other guys. I wondered why I was so goddamn impossible, when I heard Uncle Jerry’s voice telling me, “You’re impossible because no one is good enough for you” – but I knew Tammy certainly wasn’t. She wasn’t attractive, interesting, intelligent, or nice, but then I remembered that she seduced me, and I used that to soldier through. If there were to be any hurt feelings on her part, they were of her own doing. I was just trying to be a nice guy by walking her home. I had no idea she used the “I’m afraid to walk home alone” line to get guys to fuck her.

As she pulled me into her bed and on top of her, I felt like a bear cub nestled in its mother’s bosom.

“Wait,” I said, stopping her before she could pull me in all the way. “Do you have condoms?”

She reached over to her nightstand and opened the drawer to reveal what looked like at least thirty female condoms. She grabbed one out of the drawer and ripped it open with her teeth like a fat, horny lioness tearing into a carcass to feed her young. I was surprised she didn’t growl as she handed me the wrapper and proceeded to insert the contraceptive.

“I’ve never seen one of these before,” I said, studying the insertion instructions on the packaging – more to avoid watching her put it in than to actually learn how.

“Okay. It’s in,” she said.

“In where?”

“In me!” she screamed, impatiently. “Stick your cock in.”

I tried to oblige, but I couldn’t find anywhere to stick anything in. Granted, it had been a while, but could I have possibly forgotten how to screw? Tammy noticed my look of confusion.

“Are you a virgin?” she asked.

“No!” I said defiantly, like a five-year old who’s been asked if he was a baby.

“Then fuck me already!”

“I’m not wearing my glasses. I’m having trouble – ”

“Gimme a break,” she sighed – and an image of Nell Carter popped into my head, which didn’t help matters.

She was losing her patience and I was losing my wood. Then suddenly, from in between the thigh and belly fat emerged what looked like a plastic bag with a ring around the opening.

“Stick it in there?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes!” she moaned – and I did.

I pumped away at that plastic bag for twenty minutes with my eyes closed, trying my best to think of someone else besides the behemoth from whose vagina the bag was protruding. I wasn’t sure if I was inside her at all, or if only the Glad Bag was on the receiving end of the pounding. When she screamed, “Cum with me!” I started frantically flipping through my mental rolodex of images of women so that I could blow my wad and be done, but nothing was working. The guilt, disgust, and severe back pain I was feeling prevented me from experiencing anything remotely ejaculatory.

“I’m cumming,” I said, giving her my best cross-eyed orgasm look.

“Me too!” she moaned, as she pulled me in even closer.

My face was now buried in a pool of her breast sweat while she continued to moan, and I almost cried. When it was finally over, she released me from her bear hug. I pulled out of the Ziploc and quickly scanned the room for my clothes, so I could get dressed, go home, and bathe for a week. But then the guilt set in once again. I couldn’t leave this sad, lonely, overweight woman alone after I’d just violated her. It was clear she had sex with men so quickly after meeting them as a way to prevent them from rejecting her. She obviously didn’t want to be alone. Though I could totally relate to her desire for companionship, I was dreading the thought of having to lie next to her for the remainder of the night, possibly even having to cuddle, when I head her say, “You should go.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, not sure I heard her correctly.

“It’s late. I have work in the morning,” she said.

What I should have seen as a gift from god – the ultimate get out jail free card – actually insulted me. I was worried about violating her and hurting her feelings, when she was the one who violated me, and hurt my feelings. She basically used me as a human dildo, and was now kicking me out into the street, feeling completely used and entirely unsatisfied. Was this what dad meant by “don’t be disappointed?” Did he know she did this to guys? Did Marty Applebaum tell Norman that his fat niece fucked guys on the first date and then sent them packing?

I got dressed and watched Tammy pull the sheets over herself, as if she was suddenly embarrassed to be naked around me. For a moment I knew how Jonah must have felt. Tammy had completely taken away my upper hand. I was the one who was supposed to be rejecting her.

“We’ll talk,” she said, as I put my shoes on and walked out of her bedroom.

“Yeah, say hi to Marty for me,” I shouted back, as I closed her apartment door behind me.

I walked the thirty blocks home in a state of bewilderment. This was the “walk of shame” to end all walks of shame. I thought about stopping and asking a man I saw hailing a cab on Columbus Avenue if screwing a plastic bag without cumming actually counted as sex. I envisioned him answering, “You must have just fucked Tammy. Welcome to the club.”

I considered calling Shmegs to tell him what had happened, or responding to dad’s email, but I’m too embarrassed. Helen and Norman will definitely be hearing about the Starbucks portion of our date, but the rest of the story I’ll have to take with me to the grave.

At this moment, I’m no closer to meeting “the one” than I was when I first asked Shmegs to set me up with Linda. I’ve been rejected, humiliated, disillusioned, and now molested. I had hoped that by now I’d have had a romance that lasted more than three dates – or at least had intercourse with something not made of polyurethane.

Tonight, in my most recent moment of weakness, I logged back on to Jdate, hoping to find some fresh faces. I thought bathing in the cesspool of Jdate would wash away the shame I felt from fucking Tammy that my forty-five minute shower couldn’t. But I found the profiles of the exact same women who ignored me when I was a paying member.

I was actually pleased to see these Jdate Superstars still just as hopeless as I was waiting for their Jdate princes. I took solace in the fact that they hadn’t yet found the men of their dreams, and it wasn’t just me they were rejecting. I scrolled through a dozen pages of pictures I’d seen only weeks earlier, and somehow despite their forced smiles for the cameras, they seemed sad and defeated. I wondered if the men they were writing to were ignoring them like they did me. What once looked like The Hadassah catalogue now looked more like an online version of “Auto Trader” magazine. These women looked used – or certified pre-owned at best. They’d been around the block more than a few times, and the long numbers after their user names might as well have been a listing of the mileage they’d accrued.

When I read one woman insisting in her “About Me” section that: “I’m not into the drug scene! If it’s not legal, it’s a drug. Don’t try and tell me otherwise. Just keep moving!” I imagined the baggage she was carrying around with her from her ex-boyfriend the pothead, and I kept moving – right off the site.

I even logged on to Match.com to see if they were still overstocked with women, but their excess inventory looked scarily like what Jdate had to offer – despondent and discouraged women with poorly written profiles. I thought about signing up for Match’s free trial and emailing the woman whose entire profile consisted of the phrase “I like dogs, shopping and Bingo.” I was going to write her that I knew of a fixed Bingo game at a retirement home I could take her to, and that we could go dog shopping with our winnings. I then remembered that she ignored me when I emailed that to her on Jdate.

I officially have no prospects and no hope.

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From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED DATER: SAMPLE CHAPTER

From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post

For about three weeks, Does He Cheat? Confessions from Men: 50 Signs Your Partner May Be Cheating sat on my desk at work amidst a sloppy pile of books I was either reading, or had intended to read, clearly visible to all passersby. My coworkers now look at me differently, as do the handful of clients who have seen my reading list. I’m sure none of them noticed the yellowed copy of Moby Dick that sat in the pile that I told myself I’d re-read, but never got past the first page. (Truth is, I can’t remember if I actually ever read Moby Dick, or if I’ve lied about reading it so many times that I actually believe I’ve read it). No one saw Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, which after page 100 turned into a coaster for my morning green tea. The Dancing Wu Li Masters I’m sure went entirely unnoticed, too, by people who are confident that I’m a dude who’s into dudes, who thinks his dude is cheating on him. And you know what? I don’t even care. I make that sacrifice for you — my female readers — so you’ll know if you should read books like Sterling Anderson’s and Stephanie Dart’s user’s manual for the cheating male; a veritable reference guide against which you can check if your mate’s behaviors require immediate attention.

Does your husband’s phone go straight to voice mail for hours at a time? Look that shit up. It’s in there. That may be a sign he’s cheating.

Does your guy have a weekly poker game? You may be picturing a sausage fest in some smoke filled, suburban finished basement, but the type of “poke her” going on doesn’t involve chips or cards. It involves your man poking her – her, as in, not you. Well, maybe. There’s only one way to know for sure — buy the book and Anderson and Dart will tell you.

Dating a fellow who enjoys looking at naked ladies on the computer? He may be a cheater, according to Anderson and Dart. Does He Cheat? warns women that porn “is a gateway drug to becoming unfaithful,” and while I would confidently wager that most guys, who like to rub one out while watching ladies touch each other, are not cheaters, I’m sure there are some that are. It probably isn’t fair for Anderson and Dart to cast such a wide net in the process of trying to catch a few bad fish, (or more accurately, bad guys who smell like fish. Yeah, I went there), but this isn’t science, and the authors make that clear in the preface: “We heard hundreds of ways to manipulate and deceive a wife or girlfriend. The frequent flyers made it to this book. None of what is written here is etched in stone.”

The 50 signs, drawn from hundreds of interviews with cheaters, are conveniently divided into a cheater’s confession followed by a section entitled, “Advice to You.” So if your guy is calling you to tell you he’s too drunk to drive home, Does He Cheat? suggests you offer to pick his ass up. His reaction will tell you whether he’s to be believed.

Much of the book contains fairly obvious common sense advice, and as a guy reading it, I couldn’t imagine a woman needing to be told that if her man gets all tongue tied trying to explain a 3 AM phone call, he’s probably up to no good. And some of the other signs listed that a man may be cheating may or may not be indicative of infidelity, like purposely picking a fight to have an excuse to leave. I used to do that with an ex all the time, but it wasn’t because I wanted to be with another woman, I just wanted to be withOUT my ex. Again, this is a guidebook, not a bible, and women reading it should treat it as such, lest they accuse their men of doing something he wasn’t going to do until they got up his ass about it.

Ladies, use this book wisely, but certainly check it out if you suspect your man is cheating — like I apparently do.

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From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post Does He Cheat? Confessions from Men: 50 Signs Your Partner May Be Cheating

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Musical Comedy is served… with fava beans and a nice Chianti. SILENCE! The Musical is a hilarious parody based on the Academy Award winning film. Rookie FBI agent Clarice Starling matches wits with the brilliant but insane cannibal, Dr. Hannibal Lecter in order to catch the serial killer known as Buffalo Bill. Clarice faces her own demons while racing the clock to unlock Lecter’s clues before another innocent girl is killed and skinned by Buffalo Bill. This laugh-out-loud naughty satire features a singing chorus of floppy-eared lambs narrating the action as Buffalo Bill gleefully dances a hoedown while kidnapping hapless Catherine Martin. Even Dr. Lecter, scary as ever, sings about the life he’d like to lead someday outside the prison walls.

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From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post SILENCE! THE MUSICAL

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From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post IF YOU’RE IN NYC THIS WEEKEND COME TO WILLIFEST

I support Michele Bachmann’s run for president. There, I said it.

I’m a liberal, pro-welfare state New York Jew. I’m not only pro-choice, I think there should be government funded drive-thru abortion centers in every city in the country. I think gay dudes and gay women should be allowed to marry, and if they could find a way for gay guys to have babies, I’d be for that too.

Drugs: legalize all of ‘em. Tax the rich, feed the poor, and remove the word “God” from anything paid for by the government. I believe in Creationism as much as I do Santa Claus, and if you think climate change is bullshit, I think you’re a fucking moron.

So why do I support Michele Bachmann’s run? For the same reason I used to email good looking, idiots on dating sites. You know, the type whose picture looked too good not to click on. And then when you’d actually read the stupid shit they wrote, you’d roll your eyes, but would still email them out of morbid curiosity in the hope that maybe, possibly you’d get to bang a stupid chick from Match.com. I remember one such scholar I emailed from Mamaroneck. When I asked her how close that was to MaManhattan, she declined my message.

But with Bachmann as president, we’re all guaranteed to get fucked. It’s a sure thing. She may actually be stupider than GW, but gosh, ain’t she purdy?

This country is in desperate need not of jobs, not of economic reform, not of better education, but of a president we’d like to fuck. So let’s elect a Commander in Chief the same way we determine who’s the most popular on Jdate.

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From Date Wealthy Millionaire Men and Women, post MICHELE BACHMANN: PILF