The Plastic Surgeon, Part 1*

A few years back I met a plastic surgeon on a dating site. He emailed me a well written email talking about how great he was and complementing my pictures. He seemed pretty full of himself, but I thought, Hey, he’s a surgeon, I can let a few things slide.

We talked on the phone. Rather, I should say he talked. And talked. And talked. I said a few “mm hmm”s and such, but it was mostly just him droning on and on about how intellectually superior he was to everyone else. The few exchanges I can remember were him asking what I was into sexually. At the end of this “conversation” he asked me if I wanted to meet him. I should have said no. If I had a conversation with someone like that now, I would know better and would say no.

But back then, I was still looking for someone to validate me, someone to protect me, and take care of me, someone to use. I was shallow. I thought about how wealthy he was, the nice life I could have if I was with him, etc. Instead of listening to all his bragging and thinking, What a boring blowhard!, I thought, If a guy as successful and as rich as him likes me, then that will mean that I am worthy.

We met at a really nice restaurant. He was full of appearance-based compliments about my dress, body, hair, etc. I’ve always struggled with my body image so I felt hugely validated by this guy. I would have felt validated by any man that showered me with compliments, but this guy was a plastic surgeon. It was his job to make women beautiful. If he thinks I’m pretty, then fuck, it must actually be true, I thought.

He was working hard at charming me with the expensive restaurant and the compliments. But underneath that he was weird. The way he spoke, the way he carried himself; something was off. I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but he made me uneasy.

After dinner we walked to his car. He said he wanted to give me a ride to my car, which was only a block away. Of course this was just an excuse to make out with me. I was fine with the making-out, but not fine with everything he did.

At one point he pulled the straps of my dress down, exposing my breasts. It was late at night and there weren’t a lot of people around, but we were still on a public street. I wasn’t cool with this, so I pulled my dress back up and told him “no.” He didn’t listen to me.

He said something like, “Don’t worry, no one can see,” proceeded to pull the straps down again and suck on my nipples. I felt really uncomfortable, but begrudgingly went along with it.

After that date I went home, counted up all the red flags, thanked my lucky stars he had only tried to suck on my breasts, deleted his number and said, “good riddance prick!”

No I didn’t. That’s what I wish I had done. I googled him. Found out more about his plastic surgery practice, swooned over his ivy-leauge education, ignored all of my instincts, and told all of my friends, some of my family, and even my therapist about the “amazing” first date I had just had with this “amazing” guy.

*This is a long story, so I am breaking it up into two parts. I’ll have part two up tomorrow.

The Guy Who Wasn’t John Jenner

When I think of my first boyfriend, what comes to mind is my first truly love addicted entanglement, which I was involved with from my late teens to early 20s. I often forget that he was preceded by Dennis, a boy who was my boyfriend for four whole weeks when I was 15.

At the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I was feeling pretty insecure. I’d never had a boyfriend, never been kissed, never even been on one date. If I had known then how much I was going to eventually make up for this late start, I might have relaxed a little. But at the time I felt like a freak.

One of my good friends, Louisa, had always had a boyfriend. She was one of those girls, who later became one of those women who was never single more than a day in her life. She just went from one longterm boyfriend to another. Dennis, a freshman, was totally smitten with Louisa, but since she was attached, he set his sites on one of her single girlfriends (me).

I had no interest in Dennis. He was a decent enough looking guy, but I just wasn’t into him. While girls like Louisa could trace their history from present all the way back to third grade from boyfriend to boyfriend, I could do the same but from silent, painful, all consuming crush to silent, painful, all consuming crush. When Dennis started showing interest in me, all the space in my brain reserved for liking guys was completely taken over by John Jenner, the gorgeous water polo player I had never talked to even once. In fact, I had never even made eye contact with the guy, who was in half of my classes, for fear that if he looked in my eyes he would see how much I liked him, and reject me in a public and humiliating way.

Dennis could have been the coolest guy in school (he wasn’t, though) and I would have had no interest, because he wasn’t John Jenner. Despite the fact that he wasn’t what I wanted, I agreed to be his date to the Homecoming Dance. I did this for two reasons. 1) My friends all told me I should and 2) I felt like going on a date with someone, anyone would make me less of a freak.

We went to the dance, we made out, and then he asked me to be his girlfriend. We spent the next four weeks making out in the back of movie theaters. Even though I was totally indifferent towards the guy, I liked making out with him especially in the dark.

Talking to him was another story. We just didn’t have anything in common. One time I showed him my recently painted nails. I had painted them black with a gold glitter topcoat. This was a few years before black nail polish became en vogue, but I still thought they looked rather cool. When I asked him what he thought, he gave me a disgusted look and said, “Why can’t you just be a normal girl?” Ouch! I should have shot back with, “Why can’t you just be John Jenner?”

Another time we were deciding how to divvy up the pictures from Homecoming and I said something like, “Well, when we break-up you probably won’t want to have all these extra pictures of me lying around.” A pretty logical point for a 15-year-old girl, right? But Dennis didn’t think so.

“What do you mean when we break-up?”

“We are going to eventually break-up. I’m 15 and you’re only 14.”

“But you are actually planning for it?”

Yeah, cry me a river Dennis. Three days later he called me up and broke up with me. On the phone.

Actually I remember the conversation going a little like this:

“Maybe we should break up.”

“Yeah, maybe we should.”

But the next day at school this Freshman had the nerve to tell everyone he broke up with me. Although we passed each other every day in the halls, we never said another word to each other.

Louisa eventually started seeing Dennis. I think she even lost her virginity to him. Then they broke up and he moved to another school. I tried to look him up on Facebook, but to no avail. I also can’t find Louisa, who I lost touch with after graduation.

I did find John Jenner, though. He is now some granola-y, hippie, organic farmer married to some chick with dreadlocks. He is also balding, and has lost his water polo physique. Seems like a cool guy, but not my type at all. He probably was never my type. I was too caught up in the fantasy of John Jenner to actually get to know John Jenner.

Earlier, I started to type that Dennis was the first guy I ever used, but then I realized I also used John Jenner, and every boy I had an obsessive crush on before him. In the past all I needed was a few details about a hot guy and I would fill in all the blanks, falling for essentially a fantasy character I created. I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to get to know people for who they authentically are.

My Drugs


I’ve been getting a lot of new readers, so I thought I would create a handy reference for those who don’t know where to begin.

This is a list of many of the men I have written about on this blog. Since I don’t want to get sued I’m such a nice person, I’ve given them all pseudonyms.

HC is a married man I was seeing right before I came into program. You can read about him here and here.

Joe Turner is some shady idiot.

Ethan is a sociopath I was hooked on for a long time.

Peter was my first (and probably worst) boyfriend.

Jonathan is a liar and a cheater.

Mr. Fat Cock, Fat Wallet has the distinction of actually being a nice guy… well, as nice as one can be while regularly cheating on his wife.

Creepy Daddy is, well, just that.

Jane was a little girl who I was in love with even though she was mean to me.

Leigh is the worst casual encounter I have had the displeasure of encountering.

Carson is the last guy I acted out with. I actually wrote about him while I was seeing him. You can read about him here, here, and here.

Anthony is the closest I’ve ever coming to being in love. I wrote about him here, here, and here.

Of course not all of my posts are about men. Most of them are about my recovery and what I’ve found out about myself along the way. But I know the acting out stories are usually the ones that are the most “fun” to read. If you are new to my blog, I invite you to click around and find out more about me.

Missing the Lame

The other day I had dinner with my friend Polly and her new fiance. They met on Match.com. After he finished entertaining us with a story about his worst online dating experience ever, my friend said, “Imperfect (man, I really need a better pen name) has a lot of great Match.com horror stories.”

The funny thing is, I have never actually been on Match.com. Back when I was dating guys I had met on CollarMe or Fetlife, my vanilla friends would ask where I had met the man of the week. “Oh… on, um… Match.com,” I would reply and then quickly change the subject. This was a sufficient enough answer for most of my friends, but Polly always had a lot of follow up questions about Match, how it worked, and the kind of guys who were on it. So, I would make up a bunch of bullshit. Apparently Polly bought it, hook line and sinker, because one day, after she broken up with her last fiance, she told me that she had joined Match.com, on my recommendation. So in a way, my lies helped her find true love — well, convenient love, at least.

Meeting the finance wouldn’t have been a good opportunity to come clean about my (formerly?) kinky lifestyle so I shared my “Match.com” horror stories. I told them the one about the dude that sent a couple of tightly cropped face pics then turned out to be about 200 lbs. bigger than his profile had stated. He thought that buying me lunch gave him license to try to make out with me… in public… in broad daylight. I had to push him away several times as he lurched at me with a wide gaping maw, looking like he was trying to swallow me whole rather than kiss me. I also told them the story of the tool that made me drive an hour in rush hour traffic (his car was in the shop), acted like he was high on coke, then didn’t even offer to pay for my drinks. At the end of the date, he had the nerve to ask me for a ride back to my part of town, because he was meeting “a friend” there.

At the end of the evening, I found myself thinking, wow, I really miss online dating! Not because of Polly and her fiance’s questionable love connection, but because I miss the shitty dates that would later become entertaining anecdotes. Totally healthy, right? No drama addiction here.

Recent experiences have shown me that I’m not quite ready to start dating again. I might rock at collecting and later relating bad and even traumatic date stories, but I still suck at healthy dating.

Pity Sex

When I met Nathan, I was hungover. It was a midday hangover from cheap champagne consumed at Sunday brunch with my family. As is the case with many dysfunctional families, I find mine much more tolerable with a few (or several) drinks in me. After brunch, I fell asleep for a few hours, and woke up around 5, disgusted at myself for sleeping away the day. I went online, and found Nathan, a man I had exchanged a handful of emails with over the past week. He hadn’t made much of an impression on me, but he was semi-goodlooking and polite. When I told him about my day, he suggested we meet for beer and pizza. I didn’t have anything better to do, and beer and pizza sounded perfect, so I took a shower and met him.

Nathan had the potential to be a hot guy. He was tall, blond, kind of scruffy, with an okay body. But there was just something blah about him. He wore light-colored baggy jeans, which I found to be very uncool; and a pullover sweatshirt from the college we were both alumni of. This isn’t the look I’m into. I’m usually into hipster-ish/rock n’ roll kind of guys; or, at the other end of the spectrum guys with kind of a button-downed look. I figured this was a last minute date for pizza and beer in a very casual place, so I could forgive his outfit. I wore my standard first date look: heels, tight jeans, semi-low cut top (sexy, but not slutty).

Like his outfit, I found Nathan a little bit boring. He was three years younger than me, but I had lied and shaved four years off my age, so he actually thought he was a year older than me. I’m not sure why, but I used to do shit like that all the time. Even when a guy was 20 years older than me, I almost never told anyone my real age. When I was active in my addiction, meeting guys from online for a drink or dinner was pretty much my only social life. I’d had an okay time with Nathan was grateful that he had saved me from an otherwise dreary Sunday, so I agreed to see him again.

For our second date, Nathan picked me up and we went to an Italian restaurant that I chose. Nathan was one of those dudes who would ask you out a on a date, but then do no prep work. He’d show up and be like, “So… what do you want to do?” I’m sure I’m not alone in finding guys who can’t be bothered to actually plan a date really unattractive. Again, he wore light-colored jeans and a pullover sweatshirt from our Alma Mater. Different, but the same. Every time I saw Nathan he had on a variation of this outfit. Another irritating thing about Nathan is that he would keep his cell-phone on the table and be texting and sending emails during dinner. I remember thinking, What the fuck could this boring-ass square being texting about that is so freaking interesting? I would ask him who and what he was texting about not because I really gave a shit, but because I had nothing else to ask him. His answers were so uncompelling, that I can’t remember them now, and probably wasn’t able to remember them 5 minutes after he told me.

I kept going out with Nathan, because he kept asking me. I kept thinking maybe he would grow on me. After our third date, Nathan still hadn’t put the moves on me. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me. Well… he had given me some long hugs and looked at me like he wanted me to kiss him, but I really didn’t care enough to go take the lead. Everything about poor Nathan shouted “bottom,” and I’m not much of a top.

On our fourth date Nathan finally took some initiative and suggested we rent a movie and order a pizza. While, not the most original plan, I remember thinking, Finally! Maybe I’ll like him better once we fuck. But no fucking happened that night. He did finally kiss me, though, and he was a fairly good kisser. We spent the whole night on my couch cuddling, and kissing. Nathan didn’t get any bolder than sticking his hand up my shirt to rub my back. Again, he kept looking at me like he wanted ME to put the moves on HIM. If after buying me dinner four times, Nathan still didn’t have the balls to put his hand on my tit, I wasn’t going to help him out. At the end of this date, I decided I couldn’t take another night of Nathan looking at me longingly, like a timid high school virgin wanting her boyfriend to finger-bang her, but too afraid to ask. I was done going out with this boy.

But a few nights later, Nathan texted me with some bad news. He’d been laid off from his job, and was, understandably, quite upset. He asked if he could come over and have a few beers with me. I’d already had a few, so I let him come over. After a few more beers, I decided that I owed Nathan sex. I’d let him buy me dinner four times and hadn’t even given him as much as a hand job. Also, the poor boy had just lost his job.

I started taking off my clothes while he was kissing me and he followed suit. I remember thinking that his penis, which was on the smaller side of average, reminded me of a piece of raw chicken breast. As a nearly life-long vegetarian, this visual made me want to throw-up. I didn’t even attempt to go down on Nathan, but he went down on me and did a pretty lack-luster job of it. Let’s just get this over with, I was thinking when I handed him a condom. When he was inside of me, I couldn’t even look at him. I put my head to the side, and then eventually gave up even trying to look like I was into it, and just put my arm over my eyes. Why the fuck am I doing this! I was thinking. That and, What am I going to say to let him down easy? He kept asking me if I was okay. “Yes! Just cum already!” I wanted to shout. But instead I said, “I’m fine.” I felt bad for Nathan that I couldn’t even do a convincing job of pretending I was enjoying myself.

The next day he sent me a text to say he’d had a nice time. I told him I had as well, but I was having a hard time getting over my ex and didn’t feel like I was ready for a relationship yet. Clueless up until the end, Nathan actually asked me if I just wanted to be “friends with benefits.” I didn’t understand how anyone could possibly want a repeat of sex that was that bad. I lied and told him that I didn’t do “friends with benefits,” that I wasn’t that kind of girl.

Looking back on my experience with Nathan, I’m disgusted by what I did. I chose to tell this story with Nathan, but I could have told the same one with three or four different guys. Other times where I just laid back like a limp doll, staring at the celling letting some man I had zero feelings for, attraction to, or chemistry with fuck me because I felt an obligation to give him sex. One of “The Twelve Signs of Recovery in SLAA” is, “We learn to value sex as a by-product of sharing, commitment, trust and cooperation in a partnership.” Going forward, and with the help of my Higher Power, I will never again have sex with someone I feel so dispassionately towards. I will never have  it out of a sense of pity or obligation.

Bad Idea of the Week: Blendr

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A couple of months ago, when I was really struggling with my HC obsession, I downloaded Blendr, the straight cousin of Grindr, the gay hook-up app. I also downloaded Grindr, ’cause HC swings both ways. I went on both apps a few times with an empty profile. No evidence of HC was found on either one, so I deleted both and forgot about them.

Until the other night, when I realized that Blendr was still on my phone. Interesting how I somehow forgot to delete the straight app, not the gay one, right?

Blendr doesn’t market itself as a hook-up service. It bills itself as a social networking app, where users can meet new friends in their immediate areas, who share similar interests and hobbies, like spanking, oral sex and fucking yoga, wine tasting and writing. I went on Blendr Friday night and filled in some profile details, like my age, gender, and hobbies.

At first glance, Blendr looks totally PG-13 and benign. Users can’t upload explicit photos or text. I thought, Well this is totally Kosher. This isn’t against any bottom lines, right? I don’t remember if I shared this on here yet or not, but I am now able to “practice sober dating.” I am available to meet appropriate men in appropriate places (e.g. not Craigslist) to date soberly, meaning no sex outside of an exclusive, committed relationship. Never mind that I told myself I would stay away from online dating for a few months and only try to meet men in the real world. Blendr is on my phone and it only shows me users that are within a couple of miles from me. It’s basically the equivalent of taking a walk around my neighborhood and smiling and saying hello to all my neighbors… Except I don’t walk around my neighborhood at 2am. Also, when I smile and say hi to my neighbors they usually don’t flash their genitals at me.

In just a couple of days of using Blendr I’ve received dozens of cock shots, been hit on by married men, and gotten a few offers for phone sex. All in all, a pretty good time a bad idea.

I’ve been extremely well behaved, though. I block men that make it clear they are only looking for sex, tell me they are married, or send me pictures of their genitals. I’ve also talked to a few seemingly nice men who haven’t done any of the above. I do realize, though, that hanging out on a website or phone app where the vast majority of users are looking for casual sex is playing with fire.

Another troubling issue is how addicted I am to the attention I receive. Every time I log in, I have tons of messages. While I’d like to think this is because of how beautiful I am (I don’t even have a picture up) or how smart, charming and funny I am (I haven’t filled out any text); it’s not. It’s because I’m female, and just like on other hook-up sites, the men outnumber the women and anything with a vagina gets hit on relentlessly. This desire for male validation has always been a problem for me and is something working on.

So here’s the plan: I’m going to give myself a couple more days on Blendr to see if it’s an appropriate place to meet potential suitors (spoiler alert: it not) and then delete it.

Have any of you ever used Blendr, Grindr or similar services? Feel free to share any stories in the comments.

Update: I just found the profile of someone I know through my family. Someone who I find both gross and creepy. My sponsor would probably say this is an example of my Higher Power at work. Blendr has been deleted.

How to Make a Man Disapear

One aspect of relationships I have always excelled at is pushing away men that were previously interested in me. Below is a tried and true list of magic phrases I’ve used to make a man disappear (usually not on purpose). Got a guy you’re trying to lose? Suck at breaking up with people? Try out one if these lines.

“The last guy I dated had a huuuge penis. Like, almost too big… The sex was amazing though.”

“What’s your ex’s name? I want to google her.”

“My goal is to get married within the next 6 to 12 months.” This one I would actually use to purposely get rid of overzealous suitors. Success rate: 100%.

“So, last night I was on (insert name of dating site where you met) and saw you were on too… I’ve noticed you still go on there a lot. I also found your profile at (insert another website, the more obscure the better). You’re on there a lot too.” This one requires some research.

“Once I dated this guy who had the smallest penis ever/always came really quick/could never get hard (choose the option you think might be his anxiety). My friends couldn’t stop laughing when I told them about it.”

“Do you think I’d be prettier if I lost a lot weight?” Wait for answer. Then start crying regardless of what it is.

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking for anything serious either…. So, just curious, in how long from now do you think you will be looking for something serious?”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how do I rate compared to the other girls you’ve dated.” Then, “Only a xx! Why only a xx?” Act super pissed. This will work even if he says 10, because he could have said an 11.

“OMG, I don’t even know why you want to date me. I’m sooooo screwed up, like fucking nuts. You’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg. It’s only a matter of time until I scare you off for good.” This line works best when drunkenly slurred through tears. Bonus points if he’s stone cold sober.

“I miiiiiiiss you so much, baby! Do you miss me?” Text this to him 45 minutes after he’s left your apartment.

“Tell me about the other girls you’re dating. Are any of them prettier/thinner/smarter/better at sex than me?”

“How many people have you had sex with?” Followed by, “That’s all! Why so few?”

Call him up late on a night you know he has to wake up early, crying hysterically. Tell him you are crying over (insert childhood trauma). Ask him to come over and hold you. Repeat the whole production a couple of days later, this time in the middle of his workday.

Try these out. Your guy will be gone in no time.

Feel free to add your own magic lines in the comments.

Old Eggs

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I had dinner last night with a couple of old friends. One friend, Polly, was all abuzz with news of her new beau. Seems Polly and her fella are on the fast track, full steam ahead to Marriage City. He hasn’t formally proposed yet, but they are living together and already shopping for wedding venues. She told us to expect an announcement soon and to keep October open. Polly’s relationship with her guy is younger than my blog, btw. When asked why the hurry, Polly pointed to her lower abdomen and said, “because these puppies aren’t getting any younger. I need to be pregnant by this time next year.” Ohh! So that’s why… Matzel Tov?

So exactly how old are these old friend’s old eggs? Less than six months older than my old eggs, as a mater of fact. Thanks for reminding me, P! I try not to think about this ticking clock stuff, but maybe she’s got a point. My eggs and I better get a move-on. Haste makes waste! I should be on Match.com right now looking for the first half-way suitable sperm donor I can find, marry him, push out 2.5 kids, then worry about all that other silly compatibility stuff later. Right?

Wait. I would like to be happily married some day with a kid or two, I really would. What are the chances, though, if I went Polly’s route that I would have the happily part? I think about what my Aunt Liz said, that there is no worse loneliness than the loneliness inside of a bad relationship. For the record, I haven’t met Polly’s boyfriend/unofficial fiancé yet. He could be Polly’s perfect life partner, for all I know. When she was talking about him, though, all I heard was, “red flag, red flag, red flag.” I learned a long time ago that having an opinion, particularly when it comes to someone else’s boyfriend/girlfriend, doesn’t mean I need to voice it; so I kept my mouth shut. How often is, “I HATE your new boyfriend!” or “Make sure you get a pre-nup!” ever well received, anyway?

What I’m trying to say here is that I don’t think it’s wise (for me, at least) to force an artificial timeline. I surrender to my higher power. He’s in control of this matter, not me. Someday he’ll probably see fit to lead me toward a healthy partner. Maybe he’ll do this while I’m still young enough to conceive naturally. Maybe not, though. Maybe his plan is for me to adopt, or something else entirely. All I need to worry about right now is getting healthy. The rest will come when it’s time.

Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Leigh and The Fun House

A few years back, I had just ended a relationship, of sorts, with Anthony. I was still obsessively hung up on him and hoping we would reconcile so I wasn’t ready to start dating again. I was, however, quite ready to start having sex again. I turned to my old friend/foe craigslist.

At the time, I was very into the dominant daddy/submissive little girl roleplay dynamic so I searched for “daddy” under m4w in casual encounters. I had plenty of choices. I don’t remember what the text of Leigh’s ad said, but I do remember he posted a charming picture of his penis.

I met Leigh the next day for coffee. He was a few years younger than me and a recent college grad from a fancy private school. Leigh was very good looking and seemed normal enough. He told me where he lived and I knew the apartment building. It was a nice place. He also brought his adorable puppy with him, a black lab. All of this made me feel safe.

Since there were no red flags (and since he was hot) I agreed to meet Leigh at his place the following evening. His place was nice, and he also had a cat. I usually have pretty good instincts that tell me when I’m in danger, but the fact that Leigh was an animal lover with two pets (he also claimed to be a vegetarian) perhaps gave me a false sense of security. Wrong or not, when I picture a serial killer, I don’t see a vegetarian with pets.

We had a couple of glasses of wine and then started making out on his couch. He took off my clothes, put a blindfold on me and then led me to his bedroom, where we proceeded to have sex. At some point he also tied my hands behind my back. I met him knowing we were going to engage in D/s play, so the blindfold and the restraints, while maybe not a good idea, were inline with what we had discussed before hooking up.

The sex was good. Maybe a little too good. I asked if he was wearing a condom. He assured me he was. It didn’t feel like it, though. I began to get a little paranoid that this guy who I’d just met was fucking me without a condom. I asked him again and he got mad at me, said I wasn’t being a good sub.

Eventually he untied my hands and flipped me on my back. Bad sub that I was, I took the opportunity to remove the blindfold. Surprise, surprise. Not only was this stranger who I had just met on craigslist inside of me without a condom, he was also holding a video camera.

My immediate impulse was to knock the camera out of his hands, which I did. Then I demanded that he erase what he had filmed. This asshole had the nerve to get pissed at me, claiming I had broken his camera (I hadn’t). He then attempted some smoke and mirrors bullshit while he fiddled around with the camera, claiming to delete the video, which I still don’t think he actually did. He also was pissed that I had “ruined” his film. He apparently was planning the big reveal for a more dramatic moment. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I’d had a throw down with a sex partner over a camera. You can read about the first time here.

At this point, I was in a situation that any sexually adventurous young woman could have gotten into. I had met Leigh in public, felt safe with him, and agreed to go to his apartment the next day. I had even let a friend know where I was and texted the address to her before I went. I’d been responsible enough and there were no warning signs that this guy was a creep. Here’s what separates a “normal” sexually adventurous young woman from me, a sex and love addict with unhealthy boundaries: I didn’t get the hell out of there. I stayed and continued fucking him (but made him put on a condom).

He was pretty rough, which I was into, but he was also into slapping me in the face, which I wasn’t into. He slapped me so hard that the next day little purple spots, broken blood vessels, decorated my eyelids.

When the sex was over, things started to get really weird. I was in his bathroom, sitting on the toilet, peeing, when all of the sudden he bursts in and just stands there, like an idiot. “Um, do you mind? I’m trying to pee.” He continued to stand there with a huge grin on his face. “What the fuck are you doing? Get out!” I screamed. No reaction. “Please leave!” I told him. Leigh leaned over and kissed me full, on the lips, then finally left. What a weirdo.

When I got out of the bathroom, I found Leigh standing over my purse, with my cell phone is his hands. He was going through my text messages. “Wow, you really have a lot of Daddies, you little slut!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Give me my phone back!”

Leigh went into grade school mode, holding the phone above my head, just out of my reach, laughing hysterically as he continued going through my texts. This was a grown man, a college graduate with his own apartment.

I was not in the mood for this childish bullshit. I went to find my shoes, so I could leave. But I couldn’t find them. This motherfucker had hidden my shoes. I used to do this same brilliant move to extend playtime with my cousins when I was five and it was time for them to go home. “Where did you put my shoes?” I asked, exhausted.

“Why would I put your shoes anywhere?” Um, because you’re a psycho, I thought.

We got into an argument with me searching his place, demanding that he give my shoes back, and him insisting that he hadn’t hidden them. The conclusion of this was him reaching under one of his couch cushions, and thrusting my shoes at me with a, “Here! They’re just where you left them!… under the couch cushion.”

At last, it was time to leave Leigh’s fun house. He walked me to my car and kissed me good night. He told me he’d had a nice time and wanted to see me again, acting like we’d just gone to dinner and a movie. I would have been sick enough to see him again, if he had ever called me. But he never did.

Don Draper? I Think Not.

Jon Hamm as Don Draper on AMC's Mad Men

I had a low-key, yet lovely Thanksgiving holiday this year.

Last year’s celebration was a bigger affair. I went out of town for an extended family get-together. Although I had a lot of fun with my relatives, the thing that stands out the most from that trip was the relentless texts I kept receiving from a man I’ll call, “Creepy Daddy,” and all the maneuvers I had to preform to keep my cell phone and these creepy texts away from my young cousins who kept wanting to play with my phone.

“Creepy Daddy” isn’t a great pseudonym, because it could apply to at least half-a-dozen other men from my past, but that’s all I can think of right now, so let’s just go with it.

I met Creepy Daddy on a BDSM site. He had a couple of tightly cropped face photos and a well-written profile. As an opening he sent an email about the show Mad Men, saying that my pictures reminded him of one of the characters from that show and how he fancied himself a modern-day Don Draper. Today if some dude told me that he sees Don Draper as a role-model, I would probably run the other direction. A year ago, though; rich, powerful, successful, good-looking, smooth and dominant Don Draper was my shallow ideal. A side note: I briefly thought about using the pseudonym “Don” for Creepy Daddy, but, as you’ll soon find out, the name doesn’t really apply.

Mad Men is one of my favorite shows and Creepy D’s email was clever and charming so I sent him my phone number.  He called me a few minutes later. He told me that he was calling me from the lobby of a movie theater, where he was watching some kid movie with his eight-year-old twin sons. I found the fact that he must have been sitting in this kids’ movie with his sons using his smartphone to email girls on a fetish site slightly disturbing, and the fact that he left his kids alone in the theater to call me even more so. Actually, I find all that disturbing now, but at the time I was thinking; Wow. He must really like me. 

The next day we talked on the phone for a looooong time. I have ADHD and long phone calls can make me pretty restless, but Creepy D was impossible to get off the phone. The conversation would wind down and I’d say I have to go, then Creepy D would start on a new topic and wind it right up again. We spent almost all day on the phone… at least that’s what it felt like.

We ended up having phone sex. Phone sex was one of my favorite past times back then, but phone sex with Creepy D consisted of lots of sexy (to him)/shuddersome (to me) baby talk. “Let Dada touch your pretty little cunny,” later followed by, “Give Daddy your cummy;” are two of the ickiest lines that I remember. Creepy D also constantly talked about his ex, whom he was obsessed with (not like I’m in any place to call someone out on his obsessions). She was 18, and he payed her college tuition and rent for her. He also fondly recalled that she would introduce him to her friends as her father. He hoped some day he could do this with me. He was only about 15 years older than me, but I look young. When I was meeting guys online, especially ones into this particular fetish, I would frequently shave about five years off of my age.

After a week or two, I met Creepy D for dinner. He took me to an expensive restaurant that I had always wanted to try. I know this sounds awful, but when I saw him, I was a little embarrassed to be there with him. First of all, he had totally misrepresented himself physically. In all fairness, I am a Size 16 living in a town where the beauty ideal is a Size 2. However, when meeting guys online, I always made sure to clearly represent what I look like and to send several full-length pictures. He was not what I was expecting, and I was not attracted to him. The second reason I was embarrassed was by his outfit. He was well-dressed… if you consider getting dressed up like a dandy  going to a cotillion, to go to a restaurant where every other dude is wearing business casual, well-dressed. He told me previously that Don Draper was his style icon, but he was dressed more like Nucky Thompson (a plus-sized version) from Boardwalk Empire. If our date was taking place in prohibition era Atlantic City, he would have looked dapper; but in 2010 he looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume.

Steve Buscemi as Nucky Thompson in HBO's Boardwalk Empire

Although he wasn’t my cup of tea, Creepy D was pleasant enough. He also ordered two very nice bottles of wine, which helped make the evening more palatable. Also, he kept doing this thing where he would offer to take me to some event and then say, “Of course, I’ll take you shopping beforehand to buy you a new outfit” or, “I don’t think your apartment is in a very safe neighborhood, we’ll have to look into getting you a place in a more secure building.” He kept talking about all the stuff he would buy for me. I have always considered myself a feminist (even when I was heavy into being a submissive) so the idea of being a kept woman didn’t sit well with me; but at the same time I’m a cheapskate who likes nice stuff I can seldom afford. With this in mind, I agreed to see him again.

Soon after that I had to go out of town for Thanksgiving, then Creepy D had to go out of town for work, then I went out of town for Christmas. He also had custody of his kids every other weekend. During this time we kept in touch with loooong phone conversations that I found almost unbearable. He kept up the gross sexual baby talk, but also talked a lot about all the stuff he was going to buy me. While I never encouraged this talk, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t what was enticing me. “Dada wants to make his sweet baby cummy,” made me want to barf, but I put up with it because he would also say, “I’m going to take you to Nordstrom on our next date. Baby deserves some new clothes.”

I guess I got a little bad about returning his phone calls, and started responding with texts. I also asked him to please tone down the baby talk. After Christmas I called him up and asked when this Nordstrom shopping spree was to take place. Though, my actual words were, “When can I see you again, Daddy?”

“I’m going to be frank with you,” he said. “I’m getting the impression that you are only interested in me for my money, that’s why my last relationship ended and I don’t want to go through that again.” What? How dare you call me out so accurately!

But instead of ‘fess up, I decided to be a bitch. I made some quip about how he was only attracted to barely-legal teens and child abuse victims, which from what he told me about all of his exes is probably accurate, but not very nice. Then I hung up on him and blocked him. I may have many talents, but blowing smoke up the asses of rich Sugar Daddies isn’t one of them.

Although I just wrote an essay making fun of Creepy D (and calling him Creepy D throughout), I think the guy is most likely a sex and love addict like myself. I’m thankful for my recovery, and I pray for the sex and love addict who still suffers.