Month: September 2015

Recovering Trish Part 2: Relapse, Momma Coog and The Cub

Posted on by jimense86

“I am a woman in my forties that the younger guys have a tendency to be attracted to,” she explained. “I’m like, as long as I can breast-feed ’em, cool.”

-Vivica A. Fox

Disclaimer- This is the second half of a two part entry. Please see Recovering Trish Part 1 if you need the background or to have a full understanding of this entry.

It was another slow Wednesday night at the Sturge. Mark was back from his two days off and was pouring the Jameson with only a splash of ginger.  We had spent the better part of the dinner rush debating the Giants playoff run, parlays and early season favorites for the Super Bowl. In between our sports talk were a flurry of messages between Golden Girl Trish and my increasingly inebriated self. With each swig of Jameson the messages had manipulated from small talk to innuendo and now direct demands. Trish was a woman of limited vocabulary but she more than knew how to make T & A work in a sentence. I needed a cigarette to slow my roll but fought the urge in order to avoid reeking like a Vietnamese Card Room. According to my text message alerts it was half past 9. Almost time for me to meet the ageless wonder.

A few weeks back I had chosen to swallow my pride and reinstalled Tinder. Poof, like a black light in motion every match and mistake was brought back to the surface. I had done some deep diving and discovered that just because I had trashed the app it didn’t mean I had deleted my account. I was in a comatose state, a veggie swiper if you will, still connected and able to be viewed but not responsive. A few messages came through, one of those messages being from Trish. She was 39 but appeared a passable 35. Trish listed herself as “fun, independent, up for adventure, currently reinventing myself, full time mommy and student. I’m Looking for Mr. Right, not Mr. Right Now. Swipe left if you’re looking for a hook up”. I don’t think Trish understood the meaning of Tinder, but far be it from me to burst her bubble. Best to be the gentleman and play the game. Her profile consisted of the obligatory selfie, yet another Raider Nation tailgate shot but with real eyebrows and no Dickies or Cortezes this time. Trish felt the need to class up the profile and go artsy with the “Toaster” filter from Instagram to make her “glancing at the horizon while in deep thought” shot seem vintage and unique. I’m all for creative expression, but dolling up a picture of you waiting for the light rail was just a bit too much. Aside from this there was the classic “look at me taking a picture in the mirror at the gym” selfie. I truly appreciated her foundation and lipstick in that one,  very presentable and not the least bit sweaty. More alarming and what should have been a red flag was the curious choice of her celebrating what appeared to be a cat’s birthday. It was the perfect portrait of crazy and an unnatural attachment to an animal. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I doubt Peanut Butter(the cat’s name) woke up that day juiced to celebrate his birth and pose for pictures with a lavender cone strapped to his head. Well done Trish. You’re fit, not a chola and a philosopher. Have a love for felines as if they’re your children and have a flair for the arts. Definitely NOT a woman in a crisis by any means. No need to judge her as a person that had reached a point where Tinder counted as a legitimate attempt to connect with a soul mate. It was that or she was a closet horn-dog that subscribed to the motto “Get em young, get em sprung.” Before you judge me as superficial or a complete asshole I would like point out that Trish also set her search radius above 30 miles and as young as 25 years old. This woman was no Mother Teresa and had seen too much Desperate Housewives. Not to mention there was an obvious sickness for “cubs” in distress. You just knew she relished the opportunity to play Momma Bear. Who was I to deny her the opportunity to feel youth once more?

Through our multiple texts I learned Trish was from Yuba City, a small town about an hour north of Sacramento. Yuba is an agricultural based community that has a high population of cows, meth heads and owns one of the largest Sikh communities in America per Wikipedia. Don’t know how Trish could strike out with those stats but she did. She described the night life and dating scene as a cross between Deliverance and Fargo but in Spanish or Hmong. She’d tried dating, speed dating, online dating and swiping with locals to no avail. I was skeptical but between the racy pictures we shared, our mutual horror stories of dating and my curiosity of the older woman I had become somewhat sold on experiencing a Cougar. Years prior I had somewhat dated an older woman. She had been a passionate Salvadorian with a temper and multiple levels of control issues. Surprisingly she also had an unnatural affection for the felines. Let’s just say her story involves a dead cat on the box and tons of broken glass, but back to Trish. Her chief complaint and reason for being on Tinder was that men her age were either married and seeking an affair, or had failed in life and had one too many kids and ex wives. Lately she’d experimenting with younger men, “Keeps me on my toes” she said.

Trish had done her homework and looked me up on Thedirty.com as well as stalked my Instagram and Facebook page. The former being a website where people post the dirty laundry and sexual disfunction of their exes. Lots of small penis talk mixed with what STD the person is responsible for producing. It basically doubles as a digital cock block to avoid getting stink in the pink. “Can’t have a repeat of last time.” I took it that she had to take an unplanned trip to Planned Parenthood because of these dates, leading to her crazy levels and lack of trust. It was refreshing to know I wasn’t being bashed on sister sites, I recomend you check them out sometime. Anyhow, I was still leery “The Indian” was up to his old tricks. Adding to this, Trish had consistently dodged my attempts to FaceTime or Tango me, providing no video proof of her identity. What was worse than a practical joke? What if I was being set up to get drugged, raped, robbed and left in a van down by the river? Far fetched but I had seen enough To Catch a Predator to know when I was being baited. In this case Chris Hansen was disguising himself as a 40 year old Momma Coog on the prowl. I could see the headline now, “29 year old Sacramento man forcibly entered, Tinder to blame”. Against my better judgment I busted out the pepper spray and rolled the dice on a meet up for tonight. Figured if anything went sideways I’d at least have Mark and his trusted Louisville Slugger to protect my man cakes. This time I chose not to dress up, cut my hair or do anything out of the ordinary. Figured she was after me and would have to accept me as I was. This was made easier because I was in those awkward days between paychecks so investing in this date was out of the question. At the last second Trish decided to switch the game up again and requested we meet at my place. Time to roll the dice. I paid Mark and let him know where I’d be, just in case I ended up missing. A disapproving glance and a Mark approved tip later I was on my way.

I waited at the house for her arrival with my friend and roommate “The Mexican”. He was less than approving of the decision to have a complete stranger in his home. Granted he was humored at the idea of me potentially being catfished and murdered as well. I had done a fair amount of talking her up and shared several of our exchanges, douche bag move but come on ladies, you already know we can’t keep these secrets. I recommend you remember this the next time you choose to send the over the shoulder ass shot to a guy you met in your iphone. A text came through, she was here, the moment of truth was upon us. I opened the door and was slightly surprised, I’d been disappointed enough to no longer be truly surprised. She definitely wasn’t a product of “The Indian’s” prank, so there’s the positive, Trish however was closer to the Senior Menu at IHOP than her profile had led me to believe. She dressed “appropriate” for her age, leggings, an off the shoulder blouse and had the sweet scent of stripper and Elizabeth Taylor. Her eyes sparkled with hope that clutched to the crows feet beneath them. Her breast pushed up with a peak of leopard print beneath her shirt. For what she was lacking in youth she more than made up for in effort. We passed on sharing a drink before going out and took an Uber downtown to a local Irish Pub on L street. We ended up running into my roommate “The Mexican” along with five of his cousins who he had never met before. Although they came form more than 3,000 miles away, they knew a tinder date when they saw one. Her comfortable attire for that eve would prevent us from getting into MIX, a night club next door, so we decided to share a drink with the aforementioned group of spanish speaking muchachos. During her surgically steady drinking pace she started to become paranoid of the way these young latin men perceived our date, “do you think they know what we are doing?” she asked, “yes, my roommate said they told him they have tinder down in the mother land too.” With her fears confirmed, she hinted at going back to my place. The roommate offered up his car since he was going to show his cousins the “fanciest” parts of downtown Sacramento. When we arrived she said she would be right back since she had something to get, I thought it was a bottle…it was a bottle, but she also brought an overnight bag. We enjoyed a couple of drinks from her obviously broken-in 750ml bottle of Bacardi Lemon mixed with Dr.Thunder to complete the Rum and Coke recipe, only problem being is that Dr.Thunder was your Dollar Tree version of Dr.Pepper, which didn’t exactly comply with the proper flavor profile. We made the most of it though, and I could appreciate the gesture. I was enjoying my moment, feeling like 5 o’clock on a Friday and looking forward to getting the weekend. That night, David would fight Goliath, except that this time Goliath would win. She text me on her way home, “I feel stupid, I think your roommate saw me leave.” Text book walk of shame.

To be honest we would see each other a few additional times, with each time ending in a more awkward place and that always awkward conversation about what two people are doing. We humored those conversations where both parties know they’ve made the wrong purchase but stubbornly stand by the idea of the product. The inevitable result regardless if it’s after three weeks, three months or three years would come swiftly. We could continue to sugar coat the time we spent and take it for what it’s worth  or we could go out guns blazing and call it a ride and a run. We chose the latter, I started an argument, she responded with some cheap shots and I ended up stuck with leopard print, some shame plus half wasted bottle of Andre.

Recovering Trish Part 1: Reinvention and Addiction

Posted on by jimense86

“I got these cheeseburgers man”

-Menace 2 Society

Off she went, saddles blazing, middle finger and pride firmly hanging out the window for anyone but mostly myself to see. She’d left in a hurry, shamefully admitting her mistakes. Left behind was the leopard print pushup, one earring, half drank bottle flat bottle of Andre Champagne and broken pipe dream of us actually dating. She’d be okay I told myself, this wasn’t her first rodeo or last walk of shame. “I told you so” was all I could come up with. Internally I was conflicted with “I’m sorry” and “You deserve better.” I knew it was all hollow and only existed to make myself feel like less of an asshole. So how did we get here? Let’s rewind the story a little bit…

“We’re on a break.” “This isn’t working out.” “It’s not you, it’s me.” “We both deserve better.” These are all the statements we have used to serve walking papers to ex or two. We start with our best intentions but inevitably the relationship runs it’s course, whether it be due to the lack of sexual satisfaction or somebody finding too much if it with a secret lover. Hell maybe it just ended because you got tired of him being a deadweight that smoked too much and just wanted to Netflix and Chill instead of Sushi and Couples Paint. One way or another somebody failed to communicate efficiently and the other is left uttering those generic words in an attempt  to end the relationship. Those phrases also happened to be the same words I shamelessly uttered to my wingman/smartphone when I chose to delete Tinder. I had grown tired of randomly swiping and getting no results and I wasn’t about to put real effort into meeting somebody though an app in my phone. Following my date with Lil Joker I experience a dry spell with matches few and far between. The Tinder Gods had shunned me and placed me into a bizarro version of the late 80s-early 90s show “Love Connection” only with no Chuck Woolery and marginally better dates. Behind Door Number One was Arlene, a “good, no drama, old fashioned and down to earth Christian girl who’s waiting for sex until marriage”, suffice to say we shared a few paragraphs worth of messaging before fizzling out. We’ll just chalk it up as two people with opposite moral compasses. I couldn’t be the “Christian Soldier” she was seeking url cesspool. That misstep would lead me to Door Number 2, Val, a 29 year old mother of four, who described herself as “Silly, open and looking to meet Mr. Right.” First off Val needed to invest in Valtrax. The mole hill on her upper lip was unbecoming of such a classy lady. Most importantly though, I didn’t see a need to waste a mother’s time. Finally Door Number 3 gave me Jessica, the albino version of Precious, who had a soft spot for cupcakes and snickerdoodles. That match was completely the product of swiping with reckless abandonment. She may have been a good person at heart but there was too much person in front of that heart for me to handle.  Aside from these eligible bachelorettes I began pairing with countless robots. These Bots were on a mission to obtain a credit or debit card in order for me join them in a live chat.  Normally it goes something like “You look sexy, I’m horny and haven’t fucked all day. Go ahead and click the link and cum chat with me baby. I’ll get the cam going.” I had fallen far but “Live Cam” was not going to be in my IP history. So there we were, my phone and I, saying our last goodbyes to Tinder. It was a fun run, I scrolled through my matches and messages. A fleeting flood of memories that were set to be deleted and discarded, some good, most bad but memories nonetheless. As I scrolled through the messages I decided to send a few “deleting this app, here’s my number” messages to these Tinderonies. Couldn’t hurt to throw out a life line right? With that I hit uninstall and was done with that chapter of my life.

I had just left the gym and was going to get ready for work. Feeling like a refined man, more energy, alive and clean, I’d been Tinder free for little over a week. There were several bouts with withdrawals, nervous twitching, excessive eating, clammy skin, thoughts of reinstalling for just a quick swipe or two, where was the Tinderholics hotline when I needed it? Slowly but surely I had begun to ease off the smack and attempted to interact more with the real world. A hipster sandwich shop here, a vegan coffee shop there, I’d even gone back to a club  “Mix” and gave single Sergio an opportunity to socialize. Several atttempts to start conversations and join these  middle aged State Workers in the art of twerking I realized how terrible idea of an idea this was. A) I have two left feet. B) I posses little to no filter when intoxicated and C) A+B= Security asking me to leave. Not to mention the cost of drinking there was ridiculous. Could somebody please remind the owners that they are at the end of the day a Club in Sacramento? So to recap: I went hood rich at the club on subpar drinks, failed conversations and a private escort to the street. I guess it could have been worse night.

So where were we, it was a Thursday morning as I prepared for work after a quick gym visit, when I received that faitful “Hi ; ) it’s Trish.” I debated on responding but left it alone. A few minutes would pass and I’d receive a followup “It’s Trish….From Tinder….” Multiple dots and Tinder,  she was slightly ashamed. I again didn’t immediately respond as I had no recollection to who this person was. After what seemed to be the most uncomfortable seven minutes in Text Message Purgatory I finally settled on my trademark “Yo”. Again I was attempting to be a dominant male but also to come of as cool and not that interested. Trish apologized for the delay in messaging me and blamed it on her not checking the app. How could she had gotten my message if I’d hit uninstall on my phone? Did Tinder somehow survive my trash can? Oh well, sure there was a reason but still I had no clue who this person was or why they had a (530) area code. There were way too many possibilities, I shouldn’t have ever expanded my search radius to 30 miles. I stalled via small talk “How’s your day going? Oh you’re at work? What do you do? etc.” Backfire, turns out she was “off work” like permanently off work and going back to school to be a caregiver. Sounded like a real winner. Still no clue to who this woman was. I decided to buy more time and text that I was going into a meeting and would call after work. She quickly replied and was “getting impatient”. My curiosity and fear were beginning to peak and wander.

After a particularly stressful day at the office, made worse by a woman that had soiled herself, refused to bathe and wanted to argue about racism in world, I was ready for a drink and some relaxation. Only thing was this Miss (530) was still on my mind. How could I be certain this wasn’t a prank? News of my Tinder activities had begun to spread and I was getting crusified by my friends for the “quality of women” I’d met on online. It was a field day, think cats in heat with a fertile feline, tail up and all. Maybe one of these hyenas were up to no good? Several years prior one of my friends, we’ll refer to him as “The Indian”, had created a fake Craigslist ad. He listed me under Erotic Services and MFM (Man for Man for the uninitiated), described me as being after “a good time” and ready to mingle. The Indian set up a fake email address and had these pervs send over there “stats”,photos and requests. Some married, some closet and most describing the foul things they wanted to do to me. I can’t put any of it in print. All things considered, a practical Tinder joke by one of my friends was not out of the question. There was only one way to be sure if I had been played.  I had to ask for a selfie which would jog my memory. “Let me get a pic.” Nothing but the most honest intent behind the question. She responded with “What kind of pic? I’m with my kid.” Instantly I realized she had presumed I was asking for T&A shots. I figured I had two ways to proceed, I could correct her and clarify I meant a face shot or I could push the envelope. I chose the raunchier. “Hit me when you’re alone.” That generated a response of ” 😉 will do..” With that little bit of addrenaline rush I knew, like any good junkie, the relapse was coming. I could feel my excitement rising at the thought of throwing on my slut slippers again. I was more than eager to go into the belly of the beast once more. Tinder and I were going to need to put our differences aside. I was going to be the bigger person. We were going to kiss, make up, have disappointing sex and call it a day. Tinder and I were about to embark on phase two of our relationship. God help me and the Tinderonies in the Sacramento area.

La Diabla: My Dance With a Chola In The Pale Moonlight

Posted on by jimense86

10554206_1484845711762540_896068405_n

I’m sorry for the delay in posting but I was distracted with a perfectly drunken disaster and I promise we’ll get to her story soon enough. I truely appreciate you taking time out of your day to sit and injest this. Your feedback is always welcomed and useful. What follows is my date with a woman that could probably knife me in my sleep. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, allegedly.

I’d all but given up on Tinder and the thought of meeting a legitimate woman in my phone. Between the catastrophe that was Shelby and the shame of bumping uglies with Sandra it was becoming apparent to me that Tinder/online dating wasn’t the place to find your version of a family, dog, picket fence and love. Yet there I was in my bed on another lackluster Wednesday night with nothing but a trip to Sturgeon under my belt. I’d been out, enjoying another stronger than average Jameson and Ginger from Mark the Bartender. We filled the night with conversations about his fondness for Serena Williams, note to self: Don’t bash Serena in front of Mark, it’s a recipe for disaster and a one way ticket out of the bar. Mostly though we debated about sports betting and my recent dating adventures. As we sat there and exchanged barbs I’d again begun to reach for my phone, looking for that feeling, my trusted companion that could provide me with entertainment and maybe adventures for the evening. Tinder and I were beginning to become an item, for better or for worse.  I’d even done “homework” on Tinder and was coming to the realization that this was no “Christian Mingle” or “E-Harmony”. Tinder and a slew of others like it were designed to be strictly dickly and was meant for instant gratification, nothing more. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are tons of “serious and committed” relationships that have been formed from randomly swiping. I’m also fairly certain that Tinder is responsible for a spike in STDS, broken dreams and phone rape (Phone Rape being defined as “the unwanted or non agreed to advancement of sexual proposition, commonly involving eggplant emojis and the request for sexual favors”) but I digress.

After several unsuccessful “right swipes” I’d chosen to go home and call it a night. It was there, as I laid in bed, that a flashing blue LED light notified me of a match. A match made at 12:23 in the am….Hmmm, my curiosity had just peaked. As it turned out, I’d swiped right on a feisty little meatlocker, we’ll refer to her as La Diabla. She had an inspirational quote as her header “Patience is a virtue and through that virtue I found Him” She described herself as follows “28, SINGLE, entrepreneur, BLESSED, PROUD momma of 2, LOYALTY and RESPECT above all, I keep it 100 and always classy, never trashy but with a dab of nasty. Only real niggas need apply”. From what I gathered she was a mother that had the gift of rhyme, owned her own business and was looking for a real man to treat her like a lady. Her profile pictures fell in line with the bio in that they showed off her “assets” in a cheetah print dress, rocking hoop earrings that I could fist, her at club/bar, a questionable selfie that was all eyebrows and a Raiders jersey, with her finger raised to all the 49er fans out there. She Topped it off with a shot of her in a little black dress holding a flask of Hennessy and emphasis on some poor sap’s name tatted on her left breast ( Would later find out that was Baby Dad number two) along with a quote in cursive that ran the length of her chest plate, it read “Live, Laugh, Love, Respect” in what must have been 30 point font. It was right there, in that moment, that I realized I’d just hit the gold mine. I had finally found myself the down ass Chola I desperately needed in my life.

I made sure to send a manly and simple message to her “yo”, figuring it was the best way to say hello without sounding desperate. I promptly received a message of “Heyyy”. Three “ys”, this girl was fun already. We went back and forth and again exchanged basic info, IG and SnapChat, I discovered she’d just moved from San Jose and was using Tinder to “meet new people”. I could respect that, I’d been struggling with getting back in the dating game and was nobody to judge. La Diabla had been single “forever” (forever being six months) and was raising her daughters on her own. Her “Entrepreneurship” consisted of making hats that utilized bold lettering of statements like ” Bae”, “On Fleek” “$ Trees”. This was without a doubt a woman on a mission.

After what seemed like weeks of back and forth flirting La Diabla finally asked me ” What’s good tomorrow night?”, a Thursday, I suggested Benny’s or Fanny Anne’s, two Bars that were more than suited to the crowd she typically ran with and that would display my ability to adapt, not to mention it would be fun run in the mud. We’d both agree on Benny’s as she’d been there prior. Benny’s is a local dive bar, a bar where you can score stiff drinks, loose morals and if lucky, get stabbed in the stomach if you played should you play your cards right. I absolutely couldn’t wait till we met up. Where would we go? Would she be down for a shot and a red can or would I end up holding her pocket? The excitement was again growing and I’d begun to feel alive. Cheers to tonight and the endless possibilities it brought.

I sat at the bar, nervous again, sweaty palms and a couple of Stellas in. La Diabla finally showed up in all her glory. White skirt, breast and chest tats on full display. The bloodshot eyes were also a nice touch in the “I don’t give a fuck” kind of way. We took a shot of Hennessy to ease the nerves, her choice. We sat there, listened to music, exchanged flirtatious comments, lies and desires. It took roughly 30 minutes before we ran out of things to say. You can only talk Raiders football for so long. I attempted to force a conversation around “what are you looking for” and was met with that awkward pause. You could see the hamster wheel racing as she searched for politically correct response. We each knew we were wasting the other’s time. Maybe it was that I’d slightly catfished her and was indeed 5’6 to her 5’8? Either way La Diabla was not feeling me, the conversation or my eyebrows. It may have gone sideways when I failed align with the terms “fam”, “ya feel me” and “On Mommas”. I wanted to break away and call it a night but I was legitimately afraid of how quickly she could knife me just for pissing her off. What was once nervous curiosity had evolved to hypertension filled fear. After what seemed like and hour La Diabla looked me in the eyes and said “Be cool, I’m not trying to fuck with you.” Out of instinct I wanted to respond defensively, in an attempt to cover my embarrassment and letdown. Who was she to tell me that I wasn’t worth a mistake? I fought the urge to throw my drink at her knowing that nothing good could come from that. The reality is that I ultimately ended up paying for our drinks, my bean dip next door and a free bag Pringles.  La Diabla would leave me at Benny’s with nothing more than a slight hug and “Don’t change”. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Where does one go after being let down by a clown with breast? I need to stop randomly swiping. These were all thoughts and questions that passed though my head as I kept sipping and thinking, drinking and swiping. What did I learn? Sometimes it just doesn’t break your way. Sometimes the universe swipes left.