Concrete Jungle. Concrete Crotch.

You know it's taken a turn for the worse when your friends announce they'll be commandeering your dating life. They're pretty much saying, "You're embarrassing us, and if you don't kill yourself soon, we will." Actually, I think that's exactly what my friends said when it happened to me. I can't say I really blame them. 

The dating coup was decided over a fancy Restaurant Week dinner, the only kind of fine dining I could afford having spent all of my money at bars on putting-myself-out-there drinks. They realized it was time to step in once it was my turn for the "any special guy in your life" update. They had all just finished boasting about their seemingly wonderful relationships, and were horrified when I showed them a picture of a bar hook up that passed out on my couch before the hook up part of the deal ever happened. Apparently, this was the last men-in-Lily's-life overdose they could handle before staging an intervention.

Sure, it had been a while since I had been out on a real date. The dating world was apparently boycotting me as much as my vibrator, which had decided to go on strike right in the middle of my slump. Just because it had been a while (or forever) since I had a great guy in my life, didn't mean I was incapable of choosing the right men on my own. Or did it? Regardless, I gave in to their demands, and found myself six emails into an "Introduction - Lily/The Ted" conversation later that week. 

The banter was fueled by sports talk after my matchmaking friend, Cane, made it well-known that we were football rivals.  Historically, Cane had always refused to set people up so as to not disappoint on either end (she never disappoints as a drinking/judging/bitching buddy). For me and "The Ted," she decided to make an exception. Spoiler alert: she shouldn't have.

The thing is, I should've realized it wasn't going to end well when the scheduled steak dinner turned into happy hour drinks. There must be something about my email correspondence that screams "no self-respect" because he knew I wouldn't object to an excess of drinks replacing food. Fast forward a few hours and we were back at my apartment (high fives to my doorman on the way in - he always appreciates a fresh new face).

I didn't necessarily want to make out with him, but the Jameson convinced me it was better than the solo manual labor I would try for and undoubtedly fail at later. We found our way to my bed, which isn't difficult in a studio apartment. The floor would have worked just as well, but why make an already uncomfortable situation more so?

The kissing wasn't terrible, but it was only moistening one set of lips. As is typical with most bankers, his seductive talent lived only on the trading floor. My mind began wandering (and wondering) to the better days of hook ups. Would things ever live up to past excitements?  Gone were the college days where the beds weren't the only things that were extra-long. Gone were the juvenile, yet stimulating, high school days of sneaking out to head down the block giving the neighbors a show in the back of your hand-me-down car. Now all I had to show for myself (and the neighbors) was this average guy, his average kissing, his average penis (assuming the latter - and I'm probably being generous), and unfortunately some Concrete Crotch.

If you're wearing fairly tight jeans while reading this, you're at an advantage because you can follow along and experience this as you continue (I suggest against this if you are currently around children - pedophilia is frowned upon). When spreading your legs in tight jeans, you create a firm barrier that can form anywhere between two to four inches from your actual baby making parts. It is rock solid. Not even a karate chop could affect your situation (chopping being my favorite method of testing the concreteness).

Now, many guys fail to consider this when attempting to pleasure a woman. Either they don' t care or they don't care realize they're making a mistake.  While attempting dominance, they hover over you and spread your legs with theirs. You're wearing tight jeans and this spreading quickly creates a concrete barrier versus a preferred warm welcome (why didn't you just wear the sweatpants?) They put forth their best effort in clitoral stimulation, and it's all for naught as they remain two to four inches away from any vaginal (you're welcome) contact.

The Ted hit the Concrete Crotch as aggressively as Chad Johnson hit his wife (I wanted to go with a Chris Brown reference here, but I decided to attack it with current events). I was amused by his ignorance.  He really thought he was doing me a favor. "Please her and she'll please me." It's a standard misconception, and it should be renamed "Try and please her, she'll fake it for my sake, and she'll please me if I spend money on her."

I suppose I could have let him know the common mistake he was making, but his ignorance was the only thing that amused me at the time. If he couldn't find his way around a Concrete Crotch, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perform as I needed him to. It was finally time to cut him loose. I muttered, "I'm sorry, you have to go, I'm a lady," and escorted him out as he begrudgingly walked toward my door with a bewildered look on his face. I couldn't decipher whether his confusion was from me declaring myself a lady or me laughing and texting a backup mid-step.

The backup wasn't available, and sadly, I wasn't even in the mood to buzz one out (or my broken vibrator wasn't). A failed night in my eyes. It did teach me a lesson though: buy a dependable vibrator wear leggings more often on dates.

Sexual Conquests 33-48

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Casanova is no longer Casanova; he is now Prince Charming. Well, at least according to Forty-One he is. He conquered the much coveted threesome (well, foursome - but by the looks of it, the fatty just watched). Finally. Took him long enough. Speaking of long, he was sure to mention his "huge dick" again (Thirty-Five). We get it, asshole, you're God's gift to women (isn't he, though?).

If only the luck in his pants extended to Forty-Three. Perhaps we shouldn't feel sorry for the "girlfriend," though. He did say he "loves" her, right? That's really all a girl can ask for. Well, that, and for him to wrap it up with all the other whores ladies he runs through. I sure hope he's careful - you know what they say: those who pull out during sex as a method of birth control - there's a name for those people - parents. And let's be realistic, I'm sure he has some kiddos running the streets somewhere in the world. At the rate he's going, I'm sure he has  enough for a CYO basketball team (just assuming he's Catholic - he sounds it, no?). I'll be sure to send him a Father's Day card next year, and might include a link to this blog.

This group is rather diverse -  a Canadian, a Russian, a German, a "half-black, half-mexican [sic]." He surely maintains the anti-discrimination all-list-long.  He makes me want to start mixing things up.  Historically, I've always wanted blonde mistakes babies, but perhaps I'll take Prince Charming's route and expand my search. I will, however, steer clear of koala's (Thirty-Nine). I've never much trusted bears - there's a reason they're affiliated with pedophilia.  

I'm glad I was able to work pedophilia in there. Sorry, I'm not sorry, and neither is Casanova Prince Charming.

Sexual Conquests 17-32

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

After posting One through Sixteen, quite a few of my readers began questioning the authenticity of the occurrences. I'd like to vouch for Casanova's List - he didn't compile it to boast to hundreds of people (I'm doing that for him). He had too much time on his hands and too many blunts in them. He simply wrote an email to a buddy - no bragging necessary. I even heard many of the stories from the whore's horse's mouth containing more detail, which is seemingly unimaginable. My boyfriend at the time (the email recipient) verified and, at times, contributed to the firsthand recollections. 

At one time or another, I'm certain each of you have written out (or perhaps compiled one in your head) a list of conquests. Maybe your list was one only consisting of names. You can't really be mad that Casanova is simply more detail-oriented than you are. He's not lying to potential employers when his resume boasts "strong attention to detail." Who are we kidding, Casanova doesn't have to interview for jobs; jobs are bestowed upon him (as made evident in his list). I digress.

What can we ascertain from conquests Seventeen through Thirty-Two?

Well, he's got a "huge dick." Thanks, Seventeen.

Apart from discovering Casanova is well endowed, I am more so excited to spotlight Eighteen. As creepy as this will might sound, I wish I could have witnessed this (OK, I'm sure if I really wanted to, I could find it online somewhere, but observing non-actors doing this - much more intriguing). How does someone even propose that idea?

"Hey, you're short; I'm tall. You stand there; I'll stand here. Open up."

Can it be that simple? Seriously, how does that come up? Also, he didn't really specify - is she a little person or just short? If it's the former, that adds a whole new brilliance. So many questions that I will never have the answers to, meh.

As much as I love Eighteen, bitch doesn't hold a candle to the three "nights" in Cancun (Twenty-Five through Twenty-Seven). Talk about a diverse conglomerate. I almost felt like I was on It's a Small World at Disneyland - the NC-17 version.

I really liked this group. Starting out with freckles, throwing in some nicknames and a pot-purchasing cougar, finishing up with a Ricky Lake lesbian - entertainment at its best.

Sexual Conquests 1-16

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Taking virginity on Christmas. Naked at Easter. He has some fascinating ways of celebrating Jesus. At least he doesn't discriminate for religion, age, or weight - a true patriot.

I find it rather intriguing that he calls Three a "slut." Sure, he disregards women as mere conquests, but we needn't worry because, well, the aforementioned are sluts unworthy of anyone's respect. At least they're "spirited" sluts as Two is described, despite her abundance of pubic hair. Quite a motley crew what with spirited sluts and registered sex offenders (Fifteen). This list is starting off with a bang (or 16).

Most Some people might find his chronicles rather offensive, but not I. He's aggressively bold and I appreciate that. I wish I could compile a list like this, but I am, of course, saving myself for marriage. That, or I lack the detailed memories, which is probably for the best (thank you, vodka).

I cannot blame these women for falling victim.  On the few occasions I came in contact with him, I too was charmed.  His cool confidence emanates off him in a seductive scent (think Pepe Le Pew's scented trail but substitute putrid for erotic).  Initially these women have no idea what they're getting themselves into. They're at home, pregaming with their girls, asking dumb questions like "does this make me look fat?" (of course it does - but really, it doesn't matter because someone, somewhere will fuck it), and they have no idea what awaits them out in the world.

Well, ladies, Casanova awaits. Enjoy.

The List

Oscar Wilde once said, "A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her."  He went on to later say, "If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em." Or maybe that was Chris Brown. I digress. For a dead guy, Mr. Wilde is pretty spot on. Case in point...

The below email was written with no intent to be read by a woman - ever. I luckily happened upon it by perusing through a boyfriend's email chance. While it lacks the intricate formatting of the excel spreadsheet douche, it does include plenty of eloquently observed details and does not disappoint in length (that's what she said).

Written in 2006, this list was one of many emails from its author that piqued my interest. He has a style unlike any other and paints a beautiful picture with his pot-fueled recollections that are as amusing as they are descriptive.  I might be a satisfied woman if only I possessed the updated version - a list that is sure to have quadrupled in brilliance size (as per usual, I'll have to get by with satisfying myself).

To ensure its authenticity, I will post redacted pictures (obviously, I'm not supposed to have this - or even know it exists) of the email over six parts beginning with its introduction.

It's rather self-explanatory, but I will note that he's for real. He's a womanizer, and he's great at it (he's also pretty fucking good looking).

From the self-proclaimed "Junior Casanova" (click to zoom):

I will take this opportunity to clarify that I am not on this list, which is a bit upsetting seeing as how these women become "immortalized" simply at mere mention. Well, now that they're on a blog for the world to see, I suppose Casanova was right. If you're considering compiling a similar list, might I suggest making the same preparations (e.g. "rippin bowls," "acid jazz," and "trippin out").  Sounds like a lovely little Sunday if I do say so myself.

Obviously, my favorite part of the entire email is "imagine if it got out" (cue my creepy smile and eerie cackle). He even calls himself out for being scumbag - do I hint a small measure of moral fiber? This introduction makes me happy, but the actual descriptions to come are the real cherries on top, or lack thereof (see what I did there?).

To note: The email recipient was, in fact, able to name quite a few more that didn't make the list. He named enough to maintain a high for at least a month from receipt of the many "blunts in the mail" (which is just stupid, because anyone knows you shouldn't send drugs through the mail - that's what poor people drug mules are for).