I raised the glass to my lips in quiet anticipation.  And as soon as the hour struck, I took a tentative sip.  Two things changed at that moment:  I became a 30-year-old virgin, and I had my first beer.

Yes, my first beer ever.  I’ve had wine, I’ve had champagne, I’ve had vodka, I’ve had a tequila shot once… all very sparingly, but never an actual beer.  It just never appealed to me.  Of course, when I was at the age when I could have started drinking, there weren’t options like there are today.  You know – all this craft beer and other bullshit.  There was just Budweiser.  I always figured that if beer tasted like it smelled, then I wasn’t interested.

But this beer I was having was quite scrumptious.  It went down very easily.  And fifteen minutes later, I finally understood why people drank.  Alcohol really does work wonders as a social lubricant.  Not that I needed it on this occasion, but nonetheless I was more relaxed than ever.  And giggly.  Holy Jesus.  I was laughing up a storm, and nothing hilarious was happening.

The girls were quite amused by my antics, though.

Ahh, yes… the girls.

A couple of weeks ago I came up with a brilliant idea.  I suggested that we should all go out for drinks after this week’s dance class, especially since this is the last time we’re meeting before the holidays.  Everybody was all for it, and Dancer Chick seemed super-stoked.  Dancer Chick, the cute girl in my class in whom I was interested, but didn’t appear interested in return.  That didn’t mean that I didn’t still have my eye on her, because I did.

I thought this would be a great opportunity for her to get to know me a little better and to talk outside of class for a change. That part went as well I could have hoped.  And I took her enthusiasm for my proposed outing as a good sign, especially since there were only four of us going:  her, myself, our dance teacher, and the other girl in the class (whom I’ve dubbed Teacher and Married Girl respectively).

Then something interesting happened.  I’m probably reading too much into things as usual, and it’s probably nothing, but I feel like it’s worth mentioning.

As I was getting ready to take my first sip, Dancer Chick pulled out her phone to take a picture.  Just before she could take the snap, Teacher ran over and put her arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Whoa.  I turned quite red, but thankfully we were in a bar so it was dark and nobody noticed.  And that wasn’t the only time she did that, either.  She hugged and kissed me at least two more times throughout the night, and my memory is a little hazy (yes, even after one beer) but I’m pretty sure she even ruffled my hair once as she walked past.

She’s the same age as me.  She informed us that night that she broke up with her boyfriend a few months ago.  I always thought she was hot, but I never paid her that much attention because she had been unavailable.  Now that I know she’s single, she’s become even more attractive to me.  And now – due to her actions – I can’t help but wonder…

After we all parted ways and wished each other a Merry Christmas, I went home to bed.  I was so delirious with lust I could barely sleep, and when I did sleep I had all kinds of sex dreams about her.  I’m even willing to overlook her Italian Syndrome.  She’s only part Italian, but that’s the part that wins out.  She’s talks very loud and very fast. Yappity yappity yappity boppity-bada-bing-bada-bop.  But she’s a lot livelier than Dancer Chick, which is a plus.

I’ve met girls like her before, and after a while I learned not to read too much into anything because some girls are just touchy-feely like that and that’s the way they are with everyone and it doesn’t mean a thing.  But in any case, she has me all hot and bothered and curious.  Next class is not until the first week of January, and the wait is going to kill me.  I’m very much interested in her.  And I’m still a little interested in Dancer Chick… but I feel like I should just forget about her – I can do better than someone who doesn’t exhibit any real outward signs of interest.  Teacher is more my speed.  Energetic, outgoing, vocal, no filter, and she owns her own dance school so she’s an entrepreneur like myself.  Good deal.


In the meantime, I’ve been reflecting on how far I’ve come in just a short year.  At 29 I was virtually dateless.  Now I’m 30 with 30 dates under my belt, along with some making out and some titty action.  That’s the most action I’ve seen since high school, which really isn’t saying much.  So I’ve come a long way since then, and a long way since I’ve started this blog.

I don’t really have any plans for this point forward.  I’ve taken down my online dating profiles, with no real desire to go back there anytime soon.  I’ve had my fill for now so I’m just going to take a break.  Time for something different.


“Hey, Tommy, there’s a girl giving blow jobs under the bleachers… you want one?” Joe asked as we stood in our high school parking lot.  His friends hovered behind him, shoving their fists into their mouths and elbowing each other waiting for my response.  Joe was one of my many childhood bullies, and based upon their reactions I knew he was up to no good.

Not to mention that I was fourteen years old and I still had no idea what a blow job was.  I did know that it sounded like something I’d seen on the board at the barbershop: “Wash cut and blow job.”  I scratched my head, trying to figure this out.  So… was Joe saying there was a girl under the bleachers with a hair dryer?  Where did she have it plugged in?  And why was he asking me this?  Why did his friends think this was so funny?  Did my hair look wet? Was somebody sneaking up behind me to dump a pail of water on my head?

I decided to bow out gracefully:  “No thanks,” I told him.  “I’ll just get one the next time I get a haircut.”

There was a riotous explosion of laughter.  “HOLY SHIT, DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE JUST SAID!?”  Joe yelled.  Some of his friends were literally rolling on the ground, unable to contain their mirth.  Confused, I turned and walked away, doing my best to ignore the words they were calling me.

I was pretty upset when I got home, and when my mother saw me she asked what had happened.  “This guy at school told me there was a girl giving blow jobs under the bleachers and asked if I wanted one, and I didn’t know what to say!”  I shared this story with her hoping she’d pick up the hint and dispel my confusion as to what a “blow job” was without me having to ask.  No such luck.  Her response, though?

“You should have asked them, ‘how much?'” she said.

Now I was really confused.   But that was the reality of school life for me.  On a daily basis the guys would approach me with a new question:

“Hey Tommy, do you like Korn?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.  We have corn every night for dinner.”

“HOLY SHIT, THIS KID IS A RETARD.  YO, GUYS, COME OVER HERE, YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS!  Tommy, say it again.  Tell them what you just told me.”

Everybody in school called me a retard for the rest of the day.  Or they asked me if I wanted some corn. Or they asked me if my family was poor and whether corn was all we could afford to eat.

Next day:

“Hey Tommy, are you a fudgepacker?”

“What’s a fudgepacker?

“It means you eat a lot of candy.”

I didn’t eat a lot of candy – or any candy at all – but I didn’t want them to think I was even more of a weirdo.  I was desperately  trying to fit in, so I told them, “Yeah, I’m a fudgepacker…”

“HOLY SHIT, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THIS KID JUST SAID!?  HE’S A FAGGOT!  YO – Chris!  Nick!  Joe!  Get over here, you gotta hear what this kid said, he likes to take it up the ass!  He’s fucking gay, I knew it!”

Everybody in school called me a fag for the rest of the day.  Then again, they called me a fag every single day, so that wasn’t exactly anything new.  But this time they peppered me with extras:

“So what does penis taste like?”

“I know this guy in my third period class you’ll like.  He’s a faggot too.  You can fuck each other in the ass in the locker rooms.  I’ll stand guard outside the door so nobody bothers you two.  Would you like that?”

“No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“When did you take it up the ass for the first time?”

“Are you really a fudgepacker?”

“Yo, we were talking about AIDS in health class today, and I thought of you.”

“You know everybody knows you’re queer now… right?”

“You’re so skinny you probably weren’t in the closet all this time, you probably hid where your mom keeps the ironing board instead.”

“Joe told me your barber blows you.  Is that true?”

When I went to my last period class there was a pile of pencils on my desk:  “Hey Tommy, me and some of the other guys took up a collection for you.  We thought you could use these because you’re so tiny that your ass probably couldn’t take a real dick…”  (In case you missed it, I was a skinny little nothing back then.)

Multiply that by twelve years and you get the idea…


I went for a haircut today to ensure that I looked fresh for the holidays and my fast-approaching birthday.  I love getting a haircut – I always feel fresh and sexy afterwards.  Anyway.  I decided to pamper myself this time.  For an additional cost, my haircut also included a hot towel face and scalp massage, and then an upper back and shoulder massage.  Well worth the extra money.  And I specifically went to this place because it’s men-only clientele, and the staff are all very lovely young ladies.  They are very nice and friendly and talkative, but then again I’m sure they’re paid to be.

I got Kaitlyn. Very pretty blonde with a very nice ass.   And normally I hate it when girls wear perfume (because they usually overdo it with shit that’s WAY too strong), but whatever she had on was very light and pleasant. and as she worked I closed my eyes and inhaled her intoxicating scent.  Thankfully I was sitting down, because I was getting weak-kneed every time she ran her fingers through my hair.  I silently mused about how nice it would be to have someone run her fingers on my hair on a regular basis.  I’m actually considering going back there for my next hair cut just so I can experience the pleasure again, even though I never go to the same place twice.

Damn, I need to get laid.

We talked the entire time, exchanging chit-chat and pleasant conversation.  I like to think she was so taken with me that that’s why she forgot to dry my hair.  So when we came to the end and she asked if I’d like anything else, I said, “Yeah, can you give me a blow job?”

Whoops.  My eyes bulged and I gaped at her, horror-struck.  I covered my face with my hands and started laughing.  “I’m sorry!  Oh God… I meant can you blow dry my hair!” I babbled, pointing at my wet head.  Fortunately she took it in stride and laughed too, as she realized she had forgotten all about that step.  But I couldn’t recover from my embarrassment.

When we were finally finished I followed her up to the register, enjoying the view as she walked in front of me.  After I paid she handed me a business card, and for one wild second I thought she was giving me her number.  My heart hammered in my chest as I took it from her.  Was she actually thinking of…?  No.  It was just one of those get-five-cuts-get-the-sixth-one-free punch cards.  Oh well.

I really need to get laid though.