Ashley and Me

Now I Know How Justin Bieber Feels

2012-01-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

People have been writing me a lot of angry email lately. First are the people who are mad because I'm not finishing the Hannah story. We talked about that on Monday. But that's nothing compared to the people who are REALLY mad.

You see, it seems that a lot of people are pissed off that "Ashley and Me" not only got on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers list, but that it came in at number 5.

As if it's *my* fault that Rori has no taste!

Now I know how Justin Bieber feels. Sure, he's annoying to listen to. Just like Riff Dog. But what's he supposed to do? Not put out records??? Think about it. Is it really his fault that he's all over the media? Heck no! He's just doing what talentless attention whores all over the world do. He can't help it, so it's not his fault. It's your fault for buying his damn records and feeding the machine!

Just like with "Ashley and Me." Sure, it's a self-indulgent rambling mess, written by an egotistical prick with questionable morals. And yes, each post ends by promising there will finally be something worthy of your time in the next post . . . only to disappoint you yet again. Yet here you are. Still reading it. Willingly enduring the punishment that is "Ashley and Me."

So who's fault is that?

But anyway, back to the topic of this blog making Rori's list . . . okay, I guess it's a little bit my fault. After all, that amazing hotsex post in August wasn't really fair on my part. First, it was a dazzling display of hotsex writing at it's very finest. One of my prouder moments.

But then, in a shamelessly pandering way, I put Rori into the story. Yes, I gave Rori the honor of putting her right there with Riff Dog. The ultimate dream for any girl, right? Seriously, once she read about me jerking off onto her face, it was game-over for any of the other bloggers out there who thought they could possibly compete with me. (Oh . . . sorry for giving away the ending to the story if you hadn't read the post yet.)

Well, clearly, that post worked its magic, because there I am on her list. Top five. Ha! Right up there with all those egghead writer types who use metaphors and complete sentences and spell Neil Gaiman correctly and all that other other fancy stuff. Yep, there I am with the intellectuals. It's just like one of those Eddie Murphy gets elected president, or Rodney Dangerfield goes to college movies.

If it makes you feel any better, I do feel bad for duping Rori like that. But . . . then again, just like when I feel sorta bad about duping a girl into believing I won't cum in her mouth, I think I'll manage to get over this one, too. I guess I just have a way of accepting myself for who I am, flaws and all. Heck, maybe I should teach a Self-Acceptance course at the Learning Annex. I could call it, "Cumming on her Face Without the Guilt." But I can't go into that now, because that would be going off on a tangent, and that just wouldn't be my style.

Anyway, here's where you might be expecting me to reprint Rori's list. And I'm sure she'd appreciate it if I did. But surely she knows men well enough to know that once I've gotten what I want, then . . . well, ladies, let's just say that you never want to give a guy a blowjob before he's gone down on you.

Besides, it's kind of a long list, and let's face it, if you're too lazy to click the link to Rori's list, then you're probably too lazy to click the links to any of the blogs anyway, so what's the point? Besides, that would make this a very long post and you know how I hate long posts.

But I will cherry-pick a few of my favorites. After all, why trust her list? She put me on it, didn't she? So what does that tell you?

To prove that point, the first blog from her list that I want to tell you about isn't on her list. I don't think it's really Rori's fault, though, because I don't think "The Anatomies of a Marriage" by Ms Inconspicuous even got nominated, so she probably didn't know about it. It should have, of course, because as readers of "Seduction of Infidelity" will remember, Ms Inconspicuous is a true talent. And hot as hell. (She posts pictures, fellas.) This one is a must.

Speaking of pictures, one blog that did make Rori's list in a most deserving way was Cheeky Minx from "Love Hate Sex Cake." Like Ms Inconspicuous, she looks fantastic. She writes really nice poetry, too.

My favorite fantasy blog, hands down, is Vanillamom's Blog, by Nilla. This girl has an amazing talent for writing very imaginative and engaging stories. She has a taste for the kinky, even beyond just her submissiveness. I highly recommend.

In the same vein is sin from "Finding my Submission." Unlike Nilla's blog, this blog is more of a diary, rather than fantasies (although Nilla has a number of real life adventures and thoughts as well.) But Nilla and sin have much in common. First, they're both submissive. Second, I want to fuck them. (Hmmm, I guess there does seem to be a trend developing here.) "Finding my Submission" is very personal, which gives it a whole new dimension in eroticism.

I also want to point you to Kat of "Prowling with Kat." This is an ensemble effort in some ways, because it includes Dauntless D who writes a number of posts, as well as Cara, who photographs reeeeally well. Fellas, take note.

Be sure to check out my sexy L.A. friend, Carrie Oakie of "Turn the AC On." She's one of the few bloggers I've actually met. (I've only met four. SO@24, Coquette, and of course, Gabriela/Eva.) I like both her and her blog a lot.

And then there's Lady Grinning Soul. This is where lists like Rori's really pay off. I had read this blog a couple times a year ago, but never did get it to my blogroll, so I kinda forgot about it. I guess she's what you would describe as a BBW, although I'm hesitant to use the term because I'm never sure if I'm using it right. Her pictures are very hot. Yeah, I know I've made mention a time or two that I prefer women on the thinner side. But I reserve the right to like what I like.

Another blog I was reminded of is Jade from Pieces of Jade. She writes about some very hardcore submissive/BDSM situations she gets herself into, and includes lots of pictures, including her face in the pictures. Very nice. Fellas, if you're the dominant type, this blog is a must. Jade is the girl you wish you could have for yourself.

Lest I be accused of only listing girls I wish I could fuck, I also want to bring Ryan of "The Ashley Madison Adventures of a Regular Guy Gone Bad" to your attention. The title kinda says it all, and he includes musical references in each post that are fun. I like this blog a lot. I don't think I'd want to fuck him, but some of you ladies may have a different opinion.

I actually have a couple more I want to name, but I'm running out of time. I'd forgotten how hard writing these posts can be! I should take a break . . .

But not just yet, because I've got some stuff I've been itching to talk about. Oh, and I should give fair warning to you ladies that the next post or two are not going to sit well with you. Just sayin'. So don't go gettin' all mad at me when I warned you ahead of time!

Reader Email - The Angry Kind!

2012-01-23T06:01:00.001-08:00

My e-mailbox has been bursting with angry email. Bursting, I tell ya!

Normally, of course, that would be "situation normal" here at "Ashley and Me." Except . . . I haven't been writing any posts! No stories about sticking fingers in girls' asses without warning them, no fat jokes, no fucking without condoms, no nothin'! Sure, I can understand people getting a little upset when I'm actually writing something offensive, but it's been almost two months since I've made fun of anyone! (By the way, ladies, you might want to skip this entire month of January. Just sayin'.)

So what is everyone so angry about, you might ask? Well, it's two things. (Hence the bursting email box.)

First, apparently there are some readers out there who think I'm really going to finish the Hannah story and they can't believe the blog went suddenly silent. They're annoyed that Riff Dog just doesn't seem to have much of a blogging work ethic.

Silly readers. Since when has Riff Dog ever shown even the slightest work ethic? Or been reliable? Yet even with the disgracefull posting history here at "Ashley and Me," some readers still have expectations (nay, demands) that I not only finish Hannah, but "get to the sex." And pronto.

It reminds me of that Neil Gaiman article: "Don't Be a Bitch." (I didn't really read the article, of course, because I'm not really into that whole "reading" thing. But I heard about it, and I think it's quite apropos here.) You see, people were complaining on websites and blogs and stuff about how long it's taking for season two of "Game of Thrones" to start. ("Game of Thrones" is a pretty cool show on HBO. Heck, I've been kind of impatient for it myself.) But Neil Gaiman made the point that we all need to just chill out and "Don't Be a Bitch." It's the perfect parallel to "Ashley and Me," don't you think?

[EDIT] Ms Inconspicuous has informed me that I didn't get this one quite right. Apparently Neil Gaiman's article was titled "George R.R. Martin Is Not Your Bitch," rather than "Don't Be a Bitch." Oops. I knew "bitch" was in there somewhere. Luckily we have Ms Inconspicuous to keep us straight with all this cultural stuff. You know, what with her being a girl and all.

For the uncultured amongst you, George R.R. Martin wrote this song about "Fire and Ice." (Probably some folk song.) But the followup was slow in coming, so people were complaining loudly that he wasn't slavishly working on his next album like they wanted him to. (You know how that folk audience can be. Damn radicals!) So his friend, Gaiman, wrote an article (probably in Rolling Stone, which is why I never read it) explaining that a writer is not the reader's bitch.

I must admit, that's a lot slicker than just saying "don't be a bitch." Sometimes the eggheads really do get it right! But I still don't see what that has to do with "Game of Thrones." But you know how writers are, with their obscure references and stuff. Kinda makes you happy to have your old pal Riff Dog back, doesn't it? Because here at "Ashley and Me," we keep things simple! That way us fellas can follow what's going on.[END EDIT]

Speaking of having your old pal Riff Dog back, you're probably wondering where I've been and why the blog went suddenly silent and left you looking at that damn Sexie Sadie post week after week. (I guess nobody bought her book, because she still hasn't agreed to have sex with me.) Well, I can't tell you what was going on. But I can tell you that things worked out really well. Riff Dog is a happy pup.

Speaking of Riff Dog being a happy pup, you didn't really believe me earlier when I implied I wouldn't finish the Hannah story, did you? And you knew I was just playin' around when I called you a "silly reader," right? Good. Because I really am gonna finish the Hannah story. Heck, I have to! It's my favorite story of the bunch.

But I do have a couple odds and ends to post about first. Starting with the second reason I got so many angry emails . . .

Summer Camp

2012-01-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

What? I haven't been posting lately? Silly reader, of course I have!

Why, just a few weeks ago, there was that post about . . . uhhh . . . okay, so forget that, but just last week I wrote about . . . uhhh . . . by golly, you're right! This place has been a ghost town!

I'm so ashamed. I'm surprised Blogger hasn't terminated the blog for inactivity. Then again, they never terminated it before for poor taste, so why would they terminate it now for inactivity?

And now that I think about it, if Blogger (owned by Google) doesn't have a problem with my recent lack of posting, why should you? What, you think you're better than Google???

Besides, remember last summer when the kids were off at sleepaway camp? Two glorious weeks of freedom. Heck, after you dropped them off, remember how you jumped for joy at the thought of doing whatever you want for the next two weeks?

But then, after a week, you started to miss them. Sure, they can try your patience sometimes, but they're such sweet kids. Why, if they were here right now, they'd probably give you a big hug and say, "Mommy, you're the best mommy ever! I love you!" Yep. And then they'd probably do something really cute. Because they're always doing cute stuff, those damn kids of yours! Oh, how you wished they were back home again.

And then they got back.

Within minutes, all you could think about was how long would it be until next summer and do you think that you could convince then to stay four weeks next time? And . . . maybe there are sleepaway camps during Christmas break, too!

Well, Ashley and Me is like that. Sure, you might be thinking right now that you wish I was back and writing new posts. But trust me, once I'm back, it won't be long before you remember what this blog is really like, as you slog through a few long self-indulgent posts that never seem to get to any sort of point. And when the fuck is he ever going to finish the Hannah story???

So sit tight. Gimme a week. Two, tops.

Soon enough, you'll be longing for the next break.

It's Book Report Day!

2011-11-16T06:01:00.000-08:00

Remember when you were in school and had to do book reports? Not only were you forced to read a book, but then you had to write a report about it. And then the teacher would make each kid get up in front of the class and talk about whatever book it was that he supposedly read.

And of course, every report ended with the words, "And if you want to know how it ends, you'll have to read the book." Remember?

Well, it's Book Report Day here at "Ashley and Me." And just like when I was in school, I'm about to give a report on a book I didn't really read.

You see, Riff Dog doesn't read. Really, I don't. (Surely you've noticed the telltale lack of any sophisticated vocabulary here, right?)

Oh, I know how to read. And I might read the sports section, or guitar magazines, or even read a guide on how to rebuild a Holley Quadrajet. But those are written for guys like me. Men, in other words. They don't use a bunch of big words or confusing metaphors or stuff that we dudes neither understand nor care about.

Now, I can see you rolling your eyes in disgust at my illiterateness. Believe me, I get the same look from my wife. "What kind of example are you setting for the girls if they never see you read a book?"

She does make a good point there, so I do agree to read one or two books a year, and I do it where the family can see me. You know, setting a good example. Yep, Riff Dog is a role model.

My wife always tries to get me to read weighty books about inner struggles and deep issues and stuff that makes you think way more than we guys should be expected to. But luckily, with daughters, I can just read Twilight books instead. Those count as real books, right? Sure, they're a little girly, but as books go, they're really easy reads. (Although they have no useful information about rebuilding carburetors.) Plus it's kinda fun to hear excited squeals of, "Daddy, did you get to the part about **** yet???"

I'm such a good dad.

Now, much as my wife would like to see me read something a little more adult than Twilight or Harry Potter, I think she might draw the line at Sexie Sadie's book, "Open All the Way - Confessions from my Open Marriage." You see, there's adult . . . and then there's adult.

By the way, what you've just witnessed is Book Report Trick #1 - The Misdirection. I start with some semi related story and nobody even thinks to ask what it has to do with the book. Heck, when you get right down to it, all "Ashley and Me" posts are like this. I never do seem to get to the point, yet here you are, still reading. See? It works!

Anyway, since I didn't actually read Sadie's book, I was gonna lift some lines from some of the the other reviews. (Book Report Trick #2 - choose a popular book that some other kids will choose, too. Then go last.)

But damn, these other reviews were written by women. So they say crazy stuff like, "She produces a pace and rhythm that is syncopated and alliterative." No man (straight man, that is) would ever say something like that.

So I'll skip the tricks and go the honest route. I, Riff Dog, do hereby confess that that this book report is about a book I didn't really read. I would have read it, but . . . well, I don't think we need to cover that ground again.

So why am I reviewing a book I never read, you might ask? Because I like Sadie. A lot. She has a great blog. Plus she's pretty (she's posted pictures.) And she has a great body. (My reasons for liking her are not necessarily in the order I've just given.)

Besides, I've read enough of her blog to know she writes really well and can definitely put you in a certain "mood," ifyaknowwhatimean.

So check it out. There's an eBook version, as well as a paperback version. (Fancy!)

And maybe, just maybe, if she gets enough clicks from here and sells enough copies, she'll have sex with me. Which would make this my best book report ever.

Maybe "Whitney" Can Be Saved

2011-11-14T06:01:00.000-08:00

One thing I learned with my little laugh track experiment last week is that a laugh track actually makes things less funny. ("Golly, Riff Dog. I didn't think it was even possible for "Ashley and Me" to be less funny.)

When I originally wrote the BigBonerBob post, I thought it was pretty amusing. But when I added the [LAUGH] cues after certain lines, it kinda took away a lot of the impact. Add a [LAUGH] cue, and a line goes from being moderately amusing to being downright annoying.

It reminds me of this guy I know named Patrick who tells "jokes." He's not an especially funny guy, mind you. He's not witty. Not clever. He never comes up with anything funny in normal conversation. It's just that that he hears, and then memorizes, jokes. And then tells them to us.

Which is cool, because I like jokes. And given the choice between a Patrick and that attention craving guy who is always "on" and thinks he needs to make a clever comeback to every damn sentence in a conversation, I'll take Patrick.

But Patrick has this annoying habit of always preceding the punchline of his jokes with "Okay, you're gonna love this!" or some other way of saying, "Here comes the punchline! Get ready to start laughing!"

It completely wrecks his jokes.

It's kinda like "Let's Get Pregnant" sex. You know what I'm talking about, right fellas? "It's time, honey! We need to have sex right now because I'll be ovulating on Thursday at noon, so now is the optimal time for sex. Okay, come and fuck me, now." Worst of all. Okay, maybe "ass-rape in prison" sex is worse, but of the voluntary sex possibilities, "Let's Get Pregnant" sex is more like a chore than actual sex.

Hmmm, that seemed like a better analogy before I typed it. Now I can't even remember why I thought it worked. But you guys don't pay me enough for editing, so that paragraph stays.

So back to Patrick, he wrecks his jokes by announcing that the punchline is coming. So we're being told that a line is going to be funny, rather than hearing the line and deciding for ourselves whether it's funny. Like being told that we need to want sex now, rather than seeing our wife in that pink negligee we love so much and deciding for ourselves that we want sex. (Not such a bad analogy after all, eh?)

Anyway, this all got me thinking about shows like "Whitney." You know, completely derivative sitcoms that aren't very good, but with America's love affair with their couches and TV, the networks keep crankin' em out.

I wonder if "Whitney" would actually be funnier without the laugh track? The laugh track raises the stakes on each line that was supposed to be funny. So a joke can't just be amusing, it has to be laugh inducing, otherwise your brain subconsciously thinks, "I was supposed to laugh at that??? Okay, maybe it was a little bit funny. But not LOL funny. Now I'm starting to question the caliber of jokes that you guys seem to think are LOL funny!"

A laugh track turns a show into a collection of one liners. Not a show that can be amusing as a whole, but rather a series of places where you're supposed to laugh.

The story in a sitcom can be completely pedestrian. Or it can be interesting, but that's pretty rare in network sitcoms.) Either way, it doesn't matter. The only purpose of the "story" is to provide a vehicle for the one liners. The "jokes." So the quality of the show is entirely dependent on the quality of the jokes. Or at least the viewer's perceived quality of those jokes.

Like with BigBonerBob. By telling you to laugh at certain lines that might have been amusing, but certainly weren't laugh out loud funny, I drew attention to those lines. And the fact that they weren't laugh out loud funny. The post was meant to be taken as a whole. The sum of its parts, if you will. By separating it into it's individual lines and trying to make certain lines into "jokes," it kinda wrecked it.

But, of course, I did it anyway. Yes, I wrecked a perfectly good post with a laugh track. Intentionally. Because I thought the concept of a laugh track was interesting, so it would be worth it. (Yeah, I know, I have an odd sense of what's amusing. What do you expect from a guy who gave Claire her own blog?)

So back to "Whitney." With the jokes as lame as they are (and boy, are they lame,) I can't help but wonder if the show would be funnier without the laugh track. Without the laugh track, the lame jokes wouldn't stick out so much, so maybe we would take the show as a whole, and possibly find it amusing overall.

Or maybe not. Who am I kidding? "Whitney" is hopeless.

You see, one nice thing about having an anonymous blog is that I have a place where I can get things off my chest that I can't say in real life. Even things like this that are completely unrelated to our usual topic.

You see, I know a few people involved in "Whitney." So, being the good friend that I am, I have to pretend I watch it every week. I have to pretend I'm amazed that critics and the viewing public haven't embraced it. I have to act surprised when I hear that not everyone loves it. You know, like I do. 'Cause I think it's great! Huge fan. Huge.

And I have to bite my tongue every time I feel the urge to say, "My god! Do you think you could make this show any more cliched and stupid? Is there *anything* in this show we haven't seen a dozen times before??? And the writing? Sponge Boob Square Pants??? That's a joke you KEPT??? Meaning the jokes you rejected were even WORSE???????"

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, that felt good.

Meet BigB****Bob

2011-11-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

Ashley Madison now has this new "Viewed Me" tab where you can see who's checked out your profile, and how recently they viewed it. It's surprisingly useful. (I say "surprising" because most things Ashley Madison does are the opposite of useful.) [LAUGH]

If you write a message to a woman, you can check the "Viewed Me" tab later to see if she's checked out your profile yet. (Which would indicate she probably read your message.) Or if you gave her your passkey, you can tell if she's checked out your pictures yet.

Even after the first couple messages, it can be a good gauge of interest on her part. If you notice that she's checking your profile every day, you can assume she's really interested. Or has a really bad memory. [LAUGH] I like this "Viewed Me" tab way more than I thought I would.

But there's one problem. Not only can we see if she's checked our profile, but she can see if we've checked her profile!

So in order to look like you're playin' it cool, you have to resist the temptation to constantly check her profile. You see, I don't want a woman to think I have all my eggs in her basket. Women aren't attracted to the eager beaver who follows her around. So I need to appear cool. Which means I can't be leaving evidence that I check her profile every couple hours.

But it's hard, because you do want to know how long it's been since she last logged in. Or if she's logged in right now. Or . . . if she's logged in right now . . . and has been logged in for hours . . . but she's not talking to you! Scheming bitch must be chatting up some other guy! [LAUGH]

So you want to check her profile, but you can't. What's a dog to do???

Here's the solution. Create a new profile. Fill it out with information that isn't you. Different height, age, etc. Completely different guy. No custom words, no pictures, just check a few checkboxes and call it done.

Now, while logged in under this secondary profile, find all the women you want to keep tabs on and click that little "Add to Favorites" box. Sure, they'll get a message that BigBonerBob [LAUGH] has added them to his favorites list, but none of your beauties will suspect it's you, since BigBonerBob's profile description is completely different from yours.

Now click on the "Lists" tab (you probably never even noticed it before,) and there are all your Favorites, right there in one handy list, complete with how long it's been since they last logged in. You don't even have to click their profiles individually because the "Last Log In" information is all right there! You can check it as many times as you want from this profile, letting your main profile be cool and aloof.

Pretty nifty, right?

But do you wanna hear something weird? The first time I tried this secondary BigBonerBob profile, I had nine women I was keeping tabs on. (Not fucking, just keeping tabs in the early stages of trying to lure them in.) As I explained, I clicked the "Add to Favorites" button for all nine. They each got the "You Have an Admirer" email when I did this. So far, so good, right?

Here's the weird part - Two of these women then winked BigBonerBob back! And they both gave him their picture passkeys! And - get this - one of them hadn't yet given ME her passkey!!! [AWWWWW] (Might as well add "Awwww," so we'll have a full complement of audience helpers.)

Again, his profile was completely unremarkable. 5'10" white dude at 190 pounds (a little heavy.) No pictures. He checked some obvious checkboxes, but wrote no custom words. And he doesn't even have an "AM Member" button either, because he's just a "Guest Member."

You know you're in trouble when a lame dummy profile does better than you do. [LAUGH]

Or maybe it's all in the name. I wonder if BigBonerBob got unsolicited messages because in truth, BigBonerBob isn't really the name I gave the profile.

You see, I called this alternate identity, "HandsomeExec." Which I thought was laughably cheesy when I made it up. But as we've learned, what I think is laughable is often very different from other people find laughable. In this particular case, I can't help but wonder if women saw that profile name and thought to themselves, "Hmmmm, a handsome executive type? Why yes, that's exactly what I'm looking for! And surely his self-assessment is accurate!" [LAUGH]

With this new knowledge, I only wish I could use the name for real. But unfortunately, I'm not exactly an "exec." Well, technically I am, but not in the way they're thinking. (Notice how I felt the need to qualify the "exec" part, but felt no such need with the "handsome" part. That's 'cause Riff Dog has to keep it real, false modesty be damned!)

And no, there's no [LAUGH] necessary on that last line, dammit!

Maybe I Should Have Said Denny's

2011-11-07T06:01:00.000-08:00

You know how sometimes things might seem really obvious to you, but it turns out they're not so obvious to everyone else? Like lets suppose you come up with this crazy idea for how to pay for Ashley Madison. Let's see . . . where can we can find the money to help us cheat on our wife . . . oh, how about if we use the money we were going to spend on her anniversary present!

Ha! It's such an absurdly callous and cruel plot that you think this idea is funny as hell. It's obvious, right?

Well, it turns out that other people might think you're seriously proposing doing this. Even when you take it the next step and recommend buying your wife $10 Target jewelry as a substitute gift. And then taking her to Sizzler for your anniversary dinner. There will still be those who think you're quite serious.

Maybe it's just my L.A. snobbery, but . . . Target jewelry? Romantic dinner at Sizzler? People are taking this seriously??? I guess this explains why so many wives might not be putting out as much as some husbands would like.

This reminds me of the sex fantasy post that I wrote back in August. Remember? It was that one I wrote to try and convince Rori to put me on her Sexiest Bloggers of 2011 list.

Now, for those of you who didn't read the post (almost all of you, in other words,) the story ends with me triumphantly jerking off onto two girls' faces to the sounds of applause from scores of drivers who pulled over to the side of the road to witness the wonderment of Riff Dog lovemaking. Afterwards, the guys all high fived me and the girls all asked for my number. Surely Rori would be dazzled by my sexual prowess and put me right to the top of her list!

I thought it was pretty funny, but a few people seemed to think it was serious sex writing where my ego got a little out of control and as one girl put it, "I think this is what is known as 'jumping the shark'."

~sigh~

I suppose I should pay the monkeys more. Or maybe get more talented monkeys. You know, so that the jokes will seem more like jokes. Apparently the monkeys I've got now have humor that's a little too much on the dry side. I need wetter monkeys.

But I don't have enough money to pay better (or wetter) monkeys. So, sadly, this is as good as the writing around here is going to get. So what can I do?

Hmmmm, maybe I should take my cue from network television. How do they handle a show like "Whitney?" You know, a total bomb that, like "Ashley and Me," doesn't seem to be nearly as funny as the writers think it is.

So what do the networks do with shows like these? They add a laugh track. That way you can tell that it's a comedy and you don't have to do a lot of thinking for yourself about when to laugh. (Like deep fried Twinkies, laugh tracks are clearly an American invention.)

That's what I need to do here. Yep, I need to add a laugh track. That way it will be easy for you to know when something is supposed to be funny or not. Trust me, your wife is gonna thank me for this, because she was *not* going to be happy with those copper earrings from the Snookie Collection.

Okay, so it's all settled. Here's what we'll do. When you see this symbol: [LAUGH], then that means you're supposed to laugh at that part. Make sense? Good. Okay, let's practice:

This wasn't the first time I'd had my finger in a girl's ass. But it was the first time my finger had . . . company. [LAUGH]

There. Did you know to laugh at the "finger had company" line? Great! That's the magic of the laugh track working already! Treat yourself to a deep fried Twinkie as your reward for following instructions!

Okay, now let's try another one:

Rodney opened his office door and called "Letter K." The other people in the waiting room watched as I walked to learn my fate. Finally I'd have the results of my HIV test.

Okay, did you laugh that time? No? Good. You see, most people don't consider HIV to be funny, so we left the [LAUGH] signal turned off, thus saving you all sorts of embarrassment!

I tell you, this laugh track is just what this blog has so desperately needed. From now on, readers won't have to have senses of humor to read "Ashley and Me" posts. They can simply wait for the [LAUGH] signal, then they know that line was supposed to be funny, whether it really is or not. Just like "Whitney!"

Reading "Ashley and Me" has never been easier. I think I've earned myself a Twinkie.

How to Pay for All This???

2011-11-02T06:01:00.000-07:00

One question I get asked a lot is, "Golly, Riff Dog! How am I going to pay for an Ashley Madison membership without my wife noticing the money is gone???"

Yes, I can see how this could be tricky. Especially if you opt for the $150 membership, which at the risk of sounding like an AM shill, is the one I'd recommend. I understand the temptation is to just go with the 50 dollar basic membership and "see how it goes." The problem with that is that with only 100 credits, you can only send Custom Messages to 20 women. You're gonna need some luck to get laid that quickly.

And even if you do get lucky, you're a dude, right? You can't stop at just one girl. (Is it just coincidence that that old ad campaign was for "Lays" Potato Chips?) Trust me, 500 credits for $150 is going to save you money in the long run.

But how to come up with that $150? Well, lucky for you, your pal Riff Dog has a plan all figured out:

Chances are that your wife's birthday or else your anniversary is coming up, right? So being the good husband that you are, you're gonna need to buy her a gift. Well, 150 bucks is right around what you were going to spend on her gift, so just take that money and spend it on an Ashley Madison membership instead. Simple!

She kinda owes you anyway, right? I mean . . . you're here, aren't you? So whose fault is that?

"But Riff Dog! I can't just get her nothing for our anniversary and tell her I spent the money on an Ashley Madison membership!"

Yeah, you're right. But don't you worry, amigo. This is where Target comes in. They have jewelry for like 10 or 15 bucks. It's true! (Actually they have some jewelry for 5 bucks, too, but we have to show a little class and draw the line somewhere. I mean, this is our wife, for God's sake!)

Sure, most of this Target jewelry is pretty tacky and looks like something your daughter might wear. But there's a way we can make this work. Check it out:

First, find some earrings at Target that are almost decent. Hint - stay small. And if they have anything with a cut piece of glass that a man (real man, not some book readin' girlie man) might believe is a "birthstone" or something, go for that. Don't worry, it doesn't matter that a woman would instantly recognize it's not real amethyst. You're a guy, so you have lots of leeway here.

Then, at your anniversary dinner, after you tell the waitress that you don't need any more Sizzler Cheese Toast or clean plates for the All-You-Can-Eat Salad Bar, pull out a gift box. (Bonus points if you've saved boxes from when you bought stuff at a real jewelry store.)

But (and here's the important part) before you give it to her, tell her a story about how you were buying a new Slip-N-Slide for the kids at Target two weeks ago. (You do have to do a little planning ahead to make this work.) Then tell her how as you walked by the jewelry counter, you noticed these earrings and . . . "Well, the stone reminds me of you, honey, and . . . aw shucks, I don't even think it's real amethyst, but . . . oh, I know it's silly, but I had to get them. I hope you like them." Then hand her the box.

She'll probably start to laugh when she opens it and sees how clueless men are about jewelry. But then she'll catch herself, so she doesn't hurt your feelings. Give her your best puppy dog "Did I do good?" look that you can muster. The key is that you're not trying to hide that this is "cheap." In fact, your story is that that made you hesitate in buying them. "But doggone it, they just made me think of you and I had to get them, honey."

By adding the Slip-N-Slide element to the story, you've told her that you were thinking of her and this anniversary two weeks ago! Because you care so very much for her. Play it right and she might even tear up a bit at the thought of her big lug of a husband thinking he can pick out jewelry on his own, but he's so damn thoughtful, he tried anyway.

As she leans across the table to kiss her sweet, sweet husband, do your best to ignore the phone in your pocket vibrating with a text from "Stiffler'sMom77."

Ashley Madison Halloween Frightfest! With 20% New Content!

2011-10-31T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know this is basically a repost. But which would you rather have, a repost or no post at all? What? Seriously, you would??? Well, fuck you, because you're gettin' a repost anyway! Besides, it's Halloween and how can I resist the timing?

Plus I'm in kind of a good mood. You see, we had our millionth visitor sometime on Saturday. Don't get too excited, though, because most of those visits were just me, clicking my "Ashley and Me" bookmark over and over again. You know, to pad my stats, so I can pretend people actually read this thing. (Riff Dog is easily fooled. Even by himself.) But I figure there's at least a few hundred legit visits in there somewhere. Some of whom actually came here on purpose! Weird, right?

Anyway, in honor of the scariness of the holiday, as well as the scariness that people can be so degenerate that they would intentionally read this blog, I present the Ashley Madison Halloween Frightfest. With some actual new content thrown in!
_______________________________

Hey kids! Do you like your monsters scary? Not like that wimpy Dracula or Frankenstein bullshit. Those so called "monsters" are for pussies!

I'm talking really scary monsters! The kind of monsters that make a grown man curl up into a ball and cry like a baby! That's right, kids! I'm talking Ashley Madison monsters! What do you say, kids? Think you can handle it? Then hang on! This is gonna be a scaaaaary ride!!!

The Email Queen! - The most common of the Ashley Madison monsters, but that doesn't make her any less terrifying!

Her profile looks good so you send her a message and . . . she responds! You carefully craft your first few emails and things are going great. The time seems right, so you suggest meeting for coffee. But she's not sure about you yet. And she suggests you write something to "get me hot." So you write something sexy. She likes it and wants more. So you write more. And you suggest again that maybe it's time we should meet. But . . . this week is bad for her. But you're such a doll for being patient, she tells you, so next week for sure!

In the meantime, she suggests instant messaging. You learn all those idiotic abbreviations. And a week later, you invent one of your own - WSMN (We Should Meet Now.) But she's sick that week and wouldn't want you to get her germs. Because she's so sweet and caring. So you do the cyber-sex thing for another week. And again suggest it's time we meet. But she has more excuses for why she can't. But maybe next week. Then maybe the next.

You see, kids, unlike most monsters that strike quickly, the horrible Email Queen works slowly. Like an insidious parasite, ever so slowly sucking the very life out of you! Beware the Email Queen, kids! Beware the Email Queen!!!

The Picture Goddess! - Her pictures look so good. She's freakin' hot. You're sold. But beware! Yes kids, there are actually women out there who put completely fake pictures on their profiles! (See this post about Paige.) Or very old pictures. Or deceivingly posed or cropped pictures. Don't believe me? Click on this picture for a special surprise. Brace yourself, kids! Brace yourself!!!

The Believer! - No, she's not named The Believer because she believes in Santa Claus. Or in ghosts. Or that teaching abstinence is the solution to teen pregnancies.

No, she believes in something far more ridiculous than that. That's right, kids - she actually believes that guys who tell her she's beautiful are telling her the truth!

So why is this so scary? What's so horrible about a woman gullibly believing obvious lies from desperate and horny guys who are just trying to get laid? What's wrong with a beast believing she's a beauty?

Because it will go to her head. She's going to give herself a profile name like "PerfectTen." And then she's going to yammer on and on in her profile about how attractive she is and how only the highest quality men need apply for a shot at beauty like this. She's going to make you jump through a zillion hoops before you can meet her. Because she's "worth it."

But then . . . ohhhhh, but then! You're going to get the fright of your life when you finally lay eyes on this woman! The woman who puts more faith in the words of horny guys than she does in a mirror!

The worst part is that we have only ourselves to blame for The Believer. You see, my fellow dogs, it is we who created her! Yes, it's true! Oh, the humanity! We should never have told The Believer all those "You're so beautiful!" lies, just for the sake of a one night pump and dump. Behold the monster our lies have created! And now all other men must pay the price for our sins! Can we ever be forgiven???

The Collector! - Not to be confused with the Email Queen, who will only string along one or maybe a small handful of guys at a time, The Collector is more into sheer numbers. She writes a very enticing profile. She may even include a public picture. All carefully designed to lure her prey into her web of terror! Well . . . more like her web of . . . nothingness!

You see, she's a black hole for Ashley Madison messages! Her game is watching the flood of messages come in, then answering none of them. Or if she does answer any, she writes just enough to keep hopeful men writing to her. Her pleasure is purely in seeing a full InBox and believing all these men want her.

Yes, look at her there, wringing her bony, witchlike fingers, cackling, "They all want me! They all want meeeee!"

Of course, she wasn't always "The Collector." It's true! You see, in her younger days, she went by a different name. In her younger days, she was known as: "Girl Who Couldn't Get a Date to the Prom!"

That's right, fellas. Just like with The Believer, it is we who created the Collector! You see, at least one of us should have asked The Collector out to the prom and . . . wait a minute . . . surely we couldn't be expected to go that far. But perhaps . . . hmmmm . . . okay, I've got it. Perhaps we should have tricked one of our dumber friends into asking her out! Yes, that's what we should have done! We should have convinced that foreign exchange student dude from Italy that this girl was hot stuff by American standards, and he'd be big man on campus if he got her to go out with him! But we didn't! And now look at the horror that's resulted! God forgive us!

The Clinger! - Seriously, what's so hard to understand about "Thanks for the blow job. See ya."? But oh, the wrath you will incur if you foolishly believed her when she said, "Just looking for some NSA fun!" Sure, she believed it when she wrote it. But then you had to go and be all attentive when she talked. And attentive in bed. Not to mention making yourself look good. And bathing. Including "down there." And now, you fool, look what you've done!

The Sugar Baby! - Kids, do you have your eye on a girl with a really hot public picture? And does she have a very suggestive greeting along the lines of, "I love cock!" or "Need sex tonight?" Then she's probably a straight up prostitute rather than a Sugar Baby. Shame on you for not spotting that on your own! Silly kids.

But if she's a little more subtle with her greeting, like "One in a Million," and uses words like "generous," or "mutually beneficial" in the "What I'm Looking For" section of her profile, then you've got yourself a Sugar Baby!

But here's the scary part - They don't always check the "Sugar Daddy" checkbox to warn you! So here you are, thinking you're doing great with a girl you would have normally figured would be way out of your league. Then bam! She starts dropping hints about how her car is in the shop, and the bill is more than what she thought it would be and . . . and . . . and oh, how's a girl to survive in L.A. without a car???

Claire! - Oh, she doesn't really even exist, so nothing to worry about with her.

The Single Girl! - Kids, you know how sometimes you see a profile of a single girl who says she's just interested in some no-strings sex and that's why she's here on Ashley Madison? Because she doesn't want men who might get too attached to her? She wants a FWB (friend with benefits) who isn't going to go all crazy and fall in love with her.

Well kids, when you see that profile, run like hell! Because the one sure sign that a girl is likely to fall in love is when she goes to great pains to say she *isn't* the type to fall in love. And if there's one thing scarier than an obsessed married girl parked in front of your house, it's an obsessed single girl with nothing to lose parked in front of your house! Don't believe me? One of our blogging brethren is no longer here because he learned this lesson too late.

You see, kids, of all ways to learn the lesson that what women say they want (even if they really believe it) is usually the complete opposite of what they really want, this would be the worst way to learn it.

Wife Who Figures Out How to Check Web History That You Thought Was Deleted! - The scariest of all! The one monster above all others that we pray we will never meet!

Thankfully, I'm just making this one up though. You see, my wife doesn't even understand how to tab pages in her browser and thinks "right click" means "click correctly." So there's no way she's gonna figure out technical stuff like cookies and caches, let alone keystroke recorders. She is a woman, after all. She can't even gap a spark plug!

But still, it's scary to think about! And it's why I never do this stuff on our home computers. Because my wife may be a technophobe. But my kids . . .

New Material from Riff Dog! - Almost too terrifying to mention! Imagine the horror of once again having to read new ramblings from the monkeys who write this swill! Yet the mind numbing torture resumes on Wednesday. Lord have mercy on us all!

This Blog Is a Disaster!

2011-10-25T12:39:00.001-07:00

Not only has the posting been sparse lately, but here's another post on a Tuesday. A Tuesday, for God's sake! Everybody knows that all the cool guys post on Mondays and Wednesdays! Does our beloved "Ashley and Me" have no standards anymore? Where's the pride???

Clearly Riff Dog just doesn't care anymore.

~sigh~

Oh, who am I kidding? There's no way I could ever stop caring about you, my good friends and dear readers!

It's just that I've had to make some unplanned trips out of town this last few weeks and I haven't been home much. Hardly at all, in fact. And as you know, I don't do any of "this" anywhere except from the private safety of my office. I don't trust IT guys in places I don't know and even if I did, I don't trust myself to remember to clear my laptop when I leave a room. ("Hey, I'll bet Riff Dog has that song I was telling you about on his iTunes. He won't mind. Lets just check his laptop and . . . whaaaaa???")

So no Ashley and Me until I'm safe and sound in my office once again. Which should be by the end of this week. Which means Mondays and Wednesdays will once again be the days of high culture you've come to expect.

Chatty Cathy

2011-10-04T06:01:00.000-07:00

Those of you with really good memories may remember a post titled Meet Stillman. It was five days ago, I think. Come on, you skim-reading fucks. You haven't forgotten already, have you? Good.

As I mentioned in the post, I had told Stillman that I'd be posting it. You see, since I copied his profile and put it in the post, I wanted to let him know ahead of time, in case he didn't want it put on public display. Riff Dog is considerate like that. Heck, I even sent him an advance copy. (Actually, I just wanted to be sure he was gonna be cool with the gay jokes. He was. Stillman has a great sense of humor.)

I had told him all this before I posted the Linda story, since the two stories kinda go together. So before he could see his glorious debut, he had to trudge through my ramblings, just like you did, hoping it would go somewhere. Which, as we all know, it didn't.

Stillman has a theory on that, which he posted in the comments of the Meet Stillman post. (He couldn't post in the Linda chapter, since he wasn't yet introduced.) Here's what he had to say:

One thought that the Linda story clarified: I keep my emails and communications pretty short and clean. There are a few reasons for this:

a) You don't want to create a ton of expectation through dirty emailing that reality will have a hard time living up to. I'm thinking more of the pressure it puts on her than for a guy's temptation to exaggerate his anatomy, stamina etc. Plus you want to get her off in person, not over email. At least I do.

b) Long emails can also create pressure to write long responses, which can be daunting and time consuming.

c) I try to put the obligation to keep the conversation going on her. Subtle, tricky and I'm sure it fails frequently. But submissive women (well damn near all women, really) want a man who's working from a possition of power.

Can you believe this guy? He's questioning - nay, criticizing - my email tactics! Doesn't he know who I am??? I'm Riff Dog, dammit!

Damn, I should have known he was lying when said he wasn't pissed off about the gay jokes.

But here's the thing - I agree with everything he wrote. You don't want to create a ton of expectations. You don't want to write emails that intimidate her into thinking she has to write long responses. (Although women, being the lazy fucks that they are, don't seem to feel especially guilty answering thoughtful emails with "Mmmm, tell me more.".) And you definitely want to write from a position of power, which means you don't want to be some dancing fool with long try-hard emails.

Yep, all great points. In fact, any guy who knows much about game will tell you that you shouldn't write long emails. It can make you look like you're trying too hard, which will not give you the appearance of being alpha. To tell you the truth, I've been wondering if anyone was ever going to point out that my early messages in several of these chapters are too long. Because I sure as hell feel that way sometimes as I type them.

So you might be wondering - if I agree with Stillman that shorter messages are better, then why do I write "War and Peace" when I'm introducing myself to a new Ashley Madison prospect?

Because short messages just haven't worked for me. Simple as that. They get me no very few results. Yet my long messages have gotten me laid. A lot. It goes against fundamental game theory, but that's what my experience has been. Theory is one thing, reality can often be another.

So why do short messages work for Stillman?

Well, to start with, he sends out his pictures right away. And he looks a hell of a lot like Rob Lowe, which sure doesn't hurt. So his hook is already set. The girls *want* to know more about him before he's said a word. So just like in a nightclub, he can play the cool and aloof alpha male role and slowly reel her in.

I, on the other hand, don't send out my pictures when I first contact a girl. (A number of people out there are not fans of your good pal, Riff Dog, so I have to play things ultra safe.) So I'm just a faceless guy in a whole sea of faceless guys . . . and faceful guys as well.

Now, a typical Ashley girl checking her inbox sees a whole bunch of picture passkeys. (In Los Angeles, it's gotta be close to 50% of the guys who send a passkey right off the bat.) The first thing she's going to do is click on each of them. Reject, reject, good, reject, maybe, reject, good, etc. She'll delete the rejects, then read the "good" and "maybe" profiles. If the profile looks good as well, maybe she'll send a wink back, or maybe even write an actual message.

That's the first thing she does. Check the guys who gave her keys. That her first ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, whatever.

Then, she might read custom messages from the guys who didn't give her a passkey. Guys who she wonders if they might be pretty ugly. After all, those other guys all sent her their keys, so wussup with these stingy guys??? Their message had better be pretty compelling to get her attention.

Now, being like 90% of the women on Ashley Madison, her profile is completely unremarkable. If she has custom words at all (besides the checkboxes,) it's probably something like, "Don't want to change your situation or mine." (Really, that should be a checkbox, just to save everyone the trouble of typing it.)

So she reads her messages and they're all lame because what the fuck can a guy say to a profile that has practically nothing to play off of? "Oh, I see you're 5'5" and live in Santa Monica. Let's fuck." Heck, even in Linda's case, she writes a great profile, but what can I say in two sentences to get her attention? "Hey, I see you like a guy who can take charge. I can do that. Let's fuck."

So our typical Ashley girl is in full-on reject mode. She might get a chuckle out of a message here and there, but she checks the profile and wonders if 6'5" might be too tall and why didn't this dude give her his passkey? Speaking of passkeys, let's see if that Rob Lowe guy wrote back yet.

So to get her attention, I need to have more impact with the custom message. There's no picture, so I need my personality to come through. Not just come through, but come through loudly. Because I need to really grab her attention and make her notice me, not just chuckle at a one liner.

I'm fully aware that I risk looking like a guy trying too hard by writing these long messages. But like I said, I tried the short messages and they just didn't get me results.

Mind you, adding a public picture (as opposed to the private picture) does make a big difference. I've found I don't have to work nearly as hard if I have a good public shot. (No face, of course.) But that's a topic for another time . . .

Meet Stillman

2011-09-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

Ever since Claire got a message from an unwitting friend of mine (who included his picture passkey,) I've had this weird hope that I'll spot someone else I know. I'm not sure why, since I can't let them know I saw them and share a beer now that we're brother dogs. But I still have this little hope. Yeah, I know, I'm a sick motherfucker. But you already knew that.

Anyway, I logged onto Claire's profile (despite all that I just said, I only check her profile once every month or two) and a dozen or so guys sent me their picture passkeys. As usual, I recognized none. But still, it's interesting to see which guys decide to include their pictures, unprompted.

Some of these guys have pictures that serve no other function than that of girl repellant. Have these guys even looked at their pictures? Best foot forward, fellas. If your face doesn't look better than your foot (whether it's your best foot or otherwise,) then don't show it until she's already hooked.

Generally, though, the guys who send their pictures unsolicited are going to be the better looking guys who have something to gain by letting the ladies see what they look like. At least in Los Angeles.

I have a theory on this, by the way:

Women are different from men. Yes, you heard it here first. (That part's not the theory, by the way. I'm getting to it. Slowly, as is my custom.) Okay, ready for the theory? Here goes:

Tell the truth, fellas, lets suppose you have 4 women to choose from:
One is very smart.
One is very funny.
One is very nice.
One says she can deep throat.

Okay, now be honest here. Which girl are you going to choose? Come on, tell the truth . . .

That's right, whichever is the prettiest one, of course!

All the other stuff is just icing. (Although the deep throating thing makes a good tie-breaker.) That's because us dudes are shallow bastards.

You see, all those wonderful characteristics - smart, funny, kind . . . those are nice. They really are. But those could just as easily describe my Aunt Gertrude. But I don't wanna fuck my Aunt Gertrude. Even if she did tell me she can deep throat.

That's not to say women are all superior and stuff, by the way. You see, women are shallow motherfuckers, too. They're just not *as* shallow.

So in the Ashley Madison environment, where they get to pick and choose, looks do wind up being important, but more in a "good enough" scale, rather than a "which guy is hottest" scale. A girl wants a guy who's good looking, but as long as he meets her minimum fuckable standard, then anything over that standard is kinda wasted.

Here's an example. Suppose a woman has a minimum looks requirement that a guy be a 6. She meets two men on AM, one is a 6 in looks, the other is an 8. But the six is a better writer. Which guy do you think she will meet?

Both, of course. (Weren't you paying attention when I said women are shallow motherfuckers, too?)

But when they do meet, if the 6 is more charming, he will win, even though the 8 is better looking. That's because, unlike with men, the difference in a woman's mind between a 6 and 8 is negligible. They're both "good enough," so that the other factors that are more important to women (intellect, charm, wit, romance, and all that other boring stuff) start to take over as factors for who they choose.

I've seen this play out in my own experience. When I first went on Ashley Madison . . . okay, well maybe not when I first went on Ashley Madison, but after my first couple of sputters, I would send out custom messages and include my picture passkey right off the bat in the very first message. Now, I'm no Brad Pitt, but I'm a decent looking guy. Certainly what ~~all women~~ some women would consider "good enough."

The results? Well, can I tell you a secret, dear reader? You know how I met Surfer Girl and Sandra in October, and Connie in November, and Monica in January? (Just play along and pretend you've been paying attention, okay?) Well, the truth is that I met all four of them in that very first month of October. I just changed the dates for the blog so that timeline would be easier to follow. Ah, October ~sigh~. 'Twas a very busy month, ifyouknowwhatimean.

After those early days, fruitful though they were, I got nervous about sending out pictures so carelessly, so I stopped sending pictures right away and . . . I got far fewer responses to my messages.

Now, before you start thinking that I'm trying to give you the idea that women responded because that just couldn't resist Riff Dog's amazing good looks, I should clarify that I'm quite sure that in many (if not most) cases, I wasn't the "best" looking of the guys who contacted Surfer Girl or Sandra or Connie or Monica. It's just that I looked "good enough," so that my Custom Message would then be taken more seriously.

Hmmm, as usual, none of this is really the point of this post. Okay, it sort of is, but . . . well . . .

Anyway, as I was clicking on pictures of guys who contacted Claire, there was this one guy (lets call him "Stillman" . . . hey, just like the title of this post!) who sent Claire nothing more than a wink and his picture passkey. That's it. No custom message. (And, to his credit, no "request for passkey.")

His profile lists him as early 30's, under 6', white, attached, etc. He has a public picture with his shirt off. Tanned and in excellent shape, although not "ripped" in a gym rat kind of way.

Stillman checks a medium number of checkboxes, most significantly: Light Kinky Fun, Being Dominant/Master, Spanking, Blindfolding, Someone I Can Teach, and Sex Talk

He includes custom wording as well:

I want to kiss your lips, I want to kiss your neck, I want to kiss your ear lobe. I'll press you against the wall with your hair wrapped in my hand. I'll whisper in your ear, tell you how you turn me on . . . Tell you what you make me want to do . . . Tell you what I want you to do. I want to push you down to your knees, hold your face, look into your eyes and tell you what a bad girl you are... my slut, my whore. And more. You like it. You do as you're told . . . take it all, take it deep. You get your hair pulled and your ass spanked for your trouble. Just for starters ...

Then in the "What I'm looking for" section, he writes:

You're submissive, discrete, preferably also married. You can carry on a conversation and are looking for an adventure or two.

I'm looking for a dirty little secret... is that you?

This guy's a really good writer. But my first reaction was that he's coming on way too strong with the domination stuff. Didn't he read my Linda Chapter???

You see, I've tried a few overtly dominant profiles and results were not great. I'd get a number of girls curious about exploring this side of themselves, but they were so skittish that the amount of handholding and emailing I'd have to do just so we could meet was ridiculous compared to normal (non dominant/submissive) AM situations.

I've concluded that submissive girls get scared off very easily, so I'm better off with a straighter profile. Then I just sneak in the submissive stuff later. (I'm kinda convinced that half the women on AM have submissive tendencies anyway, so it's not all that necessary to make a point of finding submissive girls in the beginning stages.) That way I'm not so scary in the beginning stages. Scary later = good. Scary in the beginning = bad.

So I dismissed Stillman as having a pretty good profile, but not one that will get him any ladies. Maybe some email queens, but no girl's gonna meet him in person. Don't feel bad, brother. I tried the same thing and it just doesn't work.

But then I looked at the bottom of his profile and saw his feedback. Holy shit! He's got four "Better in Person" checks!

Now, anyone familiar with Ashley Madison knows that feedback is mostly useless. Most people don't leave feedback at all. (Of all the women in this blog, I think the only one to leave me feedback was Amy. And she only did it because she thought she was "supposed to.") And a lot of the feedback that is there is kinda like eBay feedback, where a small minority think it's their obligation to leave a positive review for anyone who sent them a message.

But four "Better in Person" checks? As we all know, of all the feedback options, it's the "Better in Person" count that's the true proof of the pudding. (Ha! "Pudding," Oh, how I crack myself up sometimes.) Considering the fact that only a tiny minority of people leave feedback, this guy must be meeting women right and left. It sounds like Stillman might be on to something.

So I sent him a wink back, or rather, Claire sent him a wink back asking him to send her a custom message so we can communicate. (Yes, I know that I should be the one paying in this instance, but Claire doesn't have any credits.)

Not knowing what's really going on, Stillman writes back, saying he thinks Claire is a pretty name and asking if that's my real name. (Sometimes my "research" makes me feel so . . . so . . . dirty. Oh, the moral depths I lower myself to, all for you, my faithful readers. But sink to new depths I must!)

I respond that no, Claire isn't my real name. Worse, I tell him that I'm not even a girl. I explain wussup, he gets a laugh out of it. And answers my questions.

Namely, is this profile really working? Answer: Yes, to the tune of fucking about ten women in the last year that he has had this profile. He says if he had more time, he could easily fuck even more. Yeah, I'd say the profile is working.

But still, I would think that women would be too nervous to really go through with contacting this guy. I've done this myself, and even with my most toned down dominant profile, with few exceptions, women have a definite fear of this.

So what's this guy's secret?

His pictures. (See? And you thought the first half of the post was just another typically mindless Riff Dog tangent.)

But not in the way you're thinking, although he is indeed a very good looking guy. It's that he's a good looking guy . . . in a gay sort of way. (I sure hope he ain't reading this! Hmmm, perhaps I shouldn't have told him I would be posting about him.)

Stillman has Rob Lowe pretty-boy type features. (Some might say "delicate," as opposed to "rugged" features.) Not only that, he seems to have good fashion sense. I'll bet his wife doesn't even have to pick out his clothes for him when he goes to weddings and stuff.

And one of the pictures is of him lying on a couch, reading a book (as if that weren't gay enough) with a kitten on his shoulder! A kitten! Cute picture, but the Gay-O-Meter is pointing straight at 10 on this one!

But that's the key right there. His words say "Here's a man who might hurt you." But his pictures say "You can trust me. Look, even the kitten knows she's safe."

You see, normally, women are going to be too scared to actually take that big step of actually meeting some complete stranger who talks about pushing them against a wall and calling them a whore and giving it to them hard and deep and then spanking them for their trouble. But his pictures make those fears all disappear. Fucking brilliant!

I ask him about this, offering my theory. He responds, "I didn't plan it that way, but you're right, a number of women have commented that the juxtaposition between my pictures and my words was very intriguing to them." I look up what "juxtaposition" means, then agree that this makes total sense.

Mind you, I'm not sure how I can use this information in my own profile(s.) Even with a hundred kittens on my shoulder, at 6'5" and with a sense of fashion that screams "straight guy," no woman is ever going to look at me and think, "Aw, he wouldn't hurt a fly."

Or . . . maybe it's not the kitten that makes the difference. Maybe it's the book that's the key. Yes, maybe Claire was onto something after all.

Meet Linda - The Exciting Conclusion

2011-09-26T06:01:00.000-07:00

Friends, has this ever happened to you? Have you ever been in the writing stages with someone and the chemistry is great? This person is definitely your type (i.e. as sexually perverted as you are.) So all that's left is to meet in person and take this thing to the next level. And then . . . you never hear from that person again? Has that ever happened to you?

Yeah, me too. More than once, in fact, but never so disappointingly as with Linda.

I'm not all that surprised, mind you. But definitely disappointed. And if I'm gonna be disappointed, then by golly, I'm gonna drag you down into my pit of disappointment as well!

I suppose I should feel bad about leading you on with the first three posts, but I don't. Even though this story didn't go anywhere, I still think her emails were great, so I wanted to share them with you, my trusted friends. (Yeah, I know, sharing her pictures would make it even better, but I do have to have some scruples.)

Plus, I do have a few thoughts about this that I want to share.

As I said, I wasn't completely surprised about this. After sending one, then two, then three messages followup responses to her last message and not getting any further response from her, I think Linda might be what I like to call a "late night cheater." Meaning she's all hot to really do this as the hour gets later and the house gets lonelier and the wine glass get emptier. But the next day, with a clearer head, well . . .

I'm sure you've been there. It's midnight, you're got sex on your mind, and you're chatting up some stranger you met on an internet "dating service." One of you brings up the possibility of meeting at, say, some nightclub and fucking in the bathroom there. Sounds like a damn good idea. But with a clearer head the next day, you start thinking a little more carefully about the reality of this. What if the bathroom is disgusting? What if people you know are there? What if you get busted for indecent exposure?

I can only imagine the thoughts Linda had the next day. Damn, I live in this town, so I can't really masturbate in some public place with my panties at my ankles. And can I trust that this guy will really be safe? And what's my husband going to say if he sees a lot of bruises on me? And . . . can I trust that this guy will really be safe???

I've seen this a dozen times. If I get a risque message time stamped after 10:00 at night, then I know I might be dealing with a woman who's juuuust a little hornier than she will be the next day. Not that I don't like the messages, mind you, but just like that drunk girl you meet late at the bar, chances are that if you see her the next day, her offer to blow you in your car might be off the table.

In fact, maybe it's just me, but any time the early messages onAshley Madison get too hard core, then you can just about guarantee you're never going to meet this girl. I'm sure there are lots of exceptions, but I can't think of any in my own experiences. Soft stuff? Yes, we might meet. But hard core early messages? No.

This got me thinking not just about early stage sex messages, but about the whole concept of my dominant profile. I've had more than a few affairs that started with my normal (vanilla) profiles, yet after meeting, things went in a harder direction. She didn't say she liked being spanked or dominated in her profile, or even in those first few messages, but damn, she sure seems to love it now.

For me, at least, that's been surprisingly common. It seems that a lot of women have submissive tendencies to varying degrees. So if you meet any woman, no matter what her profile says, chances are she's going to have way more twisted tastes than what she wrote about in her profile. And often more than what she even knew (or was willing to admit to) about herself.

Yet in the other direction - from the direction of *starting* with a dominant profile and being clear right from the get go that this is to be Dominant/submisive situation - I've had no luck at all. None. Lots of nice fantasies, but not one girl has taken that next step of actually meeting.

So I hereby conclude that if you want to meet a submissive girl, then having a profile where you actually let your dominant tendencies be known is a big mistake. It just won't work.

At least that's what I used to think . . .

Meet Linda - Part 3

2011-09-21T06:01:00.000-07:00

So Linda is looking for a guy who can be rough with her, and she says that I'm her leading candidate so far. I'm still very concerned about this being an email queen situation, but I do get the feeling that she really does want to take this to Realityville.

Of course, just wanting to make this real is several steps away from actually doing it. Writing about ultra-kinky stuff is easy. But actually meeting some stranger to do this with is another story. Personally, I don't see how any girl makes that leap.

But getting girls to throw caution to the wind is my job. So I need to further convince Linda that I'm the guy who understands her. And I want to take this to email, rather than continuing on Ashley Madison. And maybe, just maybe, I can get her to meet me somewhere.

My Lil Ho Linda

Yes, you are cute enough. Which is good, because I won't waste my time or my cock on someone who isn't.

But I should warn you that like you, I am also very choosy. I need a girl who is very cute, which you clearly are. But I also need a girl who understands that she is truly a slut. My slut. For me to play with. My slut toy.

I need a toy that knows that I'm not always going to feel like being gentle when I fuck her. A toy who knows her role is to be used. For my pleasure. A toy that knows her purpose is to service me. And serve my cock. A toy who knows how to submit to me.

I think that may be you. I can already tell what a cock hungry whore you are. You've already told me your pussy is mine. And your asshole is mine. What kind of cock hungry cunt would give her fuck holes to a man she's never met? What kind of cheap whore dreams about a man fucking her in the ass? What kind of slut would let me cum all over her cute little face if that's what I felt like doing?

My slut toy, that's who. You do need my big cock, don't you? While I hold you face down. And spread your legs, so I can see your pussy. And see your asshole. Mine for the taking.

Since you've offered me your pussy and your asshole, I need to decide if I want to accept them. I need to decide if you're good enough for me to fuck. Or not. Maybe I'll fuck you anyway and just pretend you were a crack whore who needed $5 really bad and I felt sorry for you, but made sure you were good and fucked afterwards. You'll take the $5, because by then, neither of us will be able to tell that you're not really a crack whore.

But for now, we should meet. Maybe at a bar one afternoon or evening. Tell me when would be good.

I do want you to feel safe. We need to talk about how slowly or quickly you would want to take things.

Here is my email address:
xxxxxx@xxxxx.xxx

Riff

To tell you the truth, I feel a little silly talking about "serving my cock" with a girl I don't really know very well. If we were in a chat situation, where the back and forth was more immediate, then it would make sense. But in a disjointed sense like this, if she's not in the right mood, then this could drift into the absurd. That's always the challenge when writing hard core sex stuff so early on. Certain elements are always going to be risky and you're never sure which will fall flat.

The fact that I don't hear from Linda that night or the next day is evidence that this may have indeed fallen flat. Fuck.

With the fairly high likelihood of Linda being an email queen, I'm not willing to invest too much more effort into this. But damn, she does look good. And I do like her kinky tastes. A lot. So I send one more message:

What am I to do with you?

Again, you're not answering when you should. Again you're showing me you need to be disciplined. So how shall I handle you?

Shall I force you over my knee and spank you, making you count each one? Perhaps I will force you to ask for another each time. Perhaps I will make you say, "Please, spank my slutty ass again."

Or shall I force you to the floor. Not to the bed, but to the floor, like a dog. Where I will hold you down while I fuck you like you don't even matter. Not caring about your pleasure, but just thinking of you as a hole for me to put my cock in. I don't tire easily, so prepare yourself to be fucked for a long time. And be prepared to lick my cock clean of all your pussy juices.

Or perhaps I shall fuck you in your tiny little asshole. I have to warn you that my cock is big. And I have to warn you that I fuck hard.

You will not be able to stop me if that's what I want to do with you. I am 6'4" and weight train hard three days a week. You may feel my arms. You may feel my chest. Then you will understand why I will never need to tie you up. One hand is all I will need to hold you down. So I may take you as I wish.

But first Linda, we must build a trust. I want to experience these things with you, but only at a pace you agree to. We can take things slowly or if you think you can handle it, we can take things quickly. I am a big man who is always in control of situations, but I take that responsibility seriously. We can play these fantasies, but only at a pace I'm absolutely sure you want. When you trust me, then we can move to me using you as a cheap slut.

We should meet at a place you are comfortable so we can talk about what will make you most comfortable. Perhaps even tonight. I will be available until very late.

Contact me here or email me at:
xxxxx@xxxxx.xxx

Riff

A little after midnight, Linda does write back. And boy, does she have a lot to say. So much so, that with the 2,000 character limit on AM, it took three messages to get it all out:

Riff,

I haven't written back to you because I needed a bit of time to bring myself back to earth. Your messages overwhelmed me to the point where I could think of nothing else.

In bed, in the shower, driving down the street, all I could think about was your hands on me, wrapped around my neck, pulling my panties down, shoving your fingers in my ass, pulling and squeezing my clit. I was in the market a yesterday, and I felt like you were watching me there. I felt so violated. I felt like someone owned me, like I belonged to someone other than my husband, like a piece of meat. I couldn't concentrate on any chore or activity without thinking of your cock, in my hands, down my throat, shoved up my asshole.

Even now, I feel a need to get your approval somehow. I haven't really thought much about my husband or his feelings, just about how much I think about you manhandling me. I think about how it would be to meet you, but I can't get over the idea of never meeting you, but instead having various planned encounters set up, like you having me stand on a corner or in a particular spot, having you call me on your cell from somewhere nearby, so you can see me. Having you tell me to do things for your pleasure. Telling me to play with my pussy, or pulling my panties down to my ankles and standing there, so people can walk by and see them on the floor around my feet. Trying to humiliate me in front of strangers, then telling me not to move, and then walking away and leaving me there.

Perhaps you'll have me go to a particular mall and command me to stand at a rail overlooking the level below, and to not turn around no matter what. Then you would arrive, without making a sound, and grab my ass with both hands, reach up under my short skirt, pull my thong down, and shove a couple of fingers up my cunt. Pulling, squeezing and pinching my pussy, clamping your teeth down on the back of my neck, biting hard and making me cry, but not allowing me to turn around...

God damn, she knows how to get my attention! And as I said, this was just part one. About 20 minutes later:

Whispering in my ear, telling me I'm a fucking whore, a lousy wife, a cheating bitch. You reach up my skirt and take my panties off, rub them in my face, making me smell my own scent, then throw them over the railing to the level below. Then you walk off and leave me there, telling me not to turn around.

If I was to have a choice, I want that kind of meeting. I don't want small talk or coffee. I don't want dinner or some quiet time to see if we can hit it off. I want to know there is someone out there outside of my home, someone who doesn't know anything about me, who has this power over me. Someone who can call me and, with a few words, have me abandon my home, my family and all I know, and send me somewhere to be used and degraded. Someone who'll grab me and force me into a waiting car, or have me go to an address, then open the door and pull me in, tearing off my clothes, pushing me to my knees and pushing his cock in my mouth.

I've never swallowed my man's cum, and I've dreamed of the first time being a forced or dominant situation, where someone holds my head up against his crotch with his cock in my mouth, taunting me, telling me he's going to cum in my mouth, and I better swallow it, or he'll beat me, and then he's cumming, and I swallow it all, and then he beats my ass anyway.

I'm living out a real desire of mine with you. I want that man in my life, I want to be used at someone else's whims.

Can we do this. Do you need to get to know me? Do we have to have a sit-down before hand? Can I trust you ahead of time, cause once we get going, I don't want to have doubts, I just want to submit. I want to be tied down, I want to be trapped and feel a man feeling my body, feeling his fingers exploring my body. I want to be talked to, degraded and insulted. I want to give someone the chance to abuse me and know it's OK.

Can we do this together? I have other desires I'd want to explore with you. Do you have someone that knows your tastes, another man or a woman who

And 9 minutes later:

could join you in taking me? I've been in threesomes with couples, with two men, I've been with three guys at once, but never in a situation where there is such an advantage over me.

I'm very open to persuing this, if we progress to that point. I'm open and willing to give myself to you, Riff. Have you been in a situation like this, where someone has been so willing? How did it turn out, if you did. I have some concern as to whether this might all be too powerful an attraction, that I may become too dependant on this and hurt my homelife, and yet I can't put this desire away. It's much to powerful.

Tell me if we can make it happen this way, or if we should meet in a more conventional way first. It's all rather new and intoxicating to me, perhaps I'm not thinking straight. Help me, hon. Your little whore needs your wisdom.

These were all one big paragraph each, by the way. (I reformatted them here so they'd be easier to read.) Total stream of consciousness type stuff. This is no cut and paste. The fact that it was all written "in the moment" makes it that much hotter.

Time to make this a reality . . .

Meet Linda - Part 2

2011-09-19T06:01:00.000-07:00

Linda clearly has some hardcore tastes. The fantasy she wrote me is basically a rape fantasy. From here, I can't just continue with my cut and paste fantasy about "kissing your neck and gently tying your wrists to the bedpost." Damn, I'm gonna have to really write. And you know how I hate that! What's the point of cut and paste templates if you wind up having to write original stuff later anyway???

Now, the danger here is that I can't get too hard core in my response to her story. That will escalate into this fantasy exchange that could get so extreme, that there would be no way that she'd ever really meet me. It would be too scary.

There's still a high likelihood of her being an email queen, so I need to keep this in the realm of what she would really want to do in real life. And I need to make this personal somehow. Make it so it's about "us," rather than just a mental image in her head of some imaginary dominant guy.

But, at the same time, I do need to play off what she started. Not continue the story, but go sideways with it, showing that I "got" what she wrote and that I understand her. I need to keep her aroused, but still keep her in the real world. This can be especially pretty tough with a 2,000 character limit, by the way. But try I must:

Subject: People probably think . . .

. . . you're a good girl, don't they? They see you as a sweet little faithful angel. Whose body belongs only to her husband.

I like that. I like a sweet girl.

But it seems that you're really a cock loving whore, aren't you? Are you really such a cheap slut that you would meet me somewhere for drinks, knowing full well that I'd be planning to take advantage of you? Knowing that I'd be plotting exactly what I'd want to do with you? Knowing I'd take you right here to my office? Where once inside the door, I would first kiss you, letting you take my tongue down your throat, letting you believe I'm going to be gentle with you?

But you know full well that then I'd force you to strip in front of me, don't you? You WILL strip for me when I tell you to, by the way. And you know that I'd then force you over the back of my couch, tying your hands to the leg posts. So that I may decide exactly what I want to do with you. So that I can fuck you however I please.

First you'll feel my fingers inside your pussy. Why is your pussy already so wet? What kind of slut has a wet pussy in a situation like this? Does your cunt really LIKE the idea of a man besides your husband doing this? It does, doesn't it? You want a cock that doesn't belong to you, don't you? Just like a whore.

Feel my wide cock slide into your tight little pussy as I pound you hard, slapping your sweet little ass with my hand while I do. After a few minutes, I'll walk around so my cock is inches from your face. Holding it in my hand. Stroking it. You may watch, but not touch. You'll have to convince me that this cheating little whore deserve to taste my cock. That you deserve to taste your own juices on me while you suck me. Do you deserve it? Beg. Tell me how much little whores like you love to suck big cocks.

Yes, I do like a sweet girl. A sweet girl knows she's really my little whore.

Riff

Now, whether or not this is great fantasy writing is debatable. I do want it to excite her, but my real aim here is to personalize this. I'm making it less about a fantasy, and more about who she is and that I understand her. That's the main thing right there - that I understand her. That's what I hope will turn her from just swapping stories to actually wanting to meet.

The next morning I show up here at the office, close the door and get ready to read her response. Except . . . there is no response. No big deal, because she probably hasn't read my message yet. Oh wait . . . it says here that she logged on a couple hours ago. Fuck. well, she'll probably write later today.

Nope. Not the next day either. And as I periodically check her profile, I can see that has been logging on to the site. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And I thought my last message was so perfect! Perfect, I tell you!

~sigh~ Such is the way things go on Ashley Madison. Things can appear to be going great, then . . . nothing.

In SweetLilHo's case, I can think of a number of reasons she hasn't written back yet. Perhaps she's busy and might be reading messages, but hasn't written back to anyone. Or perhaps this is too intense and she's afraid to continue with me. Or perhaps there's some other guy who's got her attention more than I do. Wait . . . some other guy? Hmmmm . . . that's the one I worry about. I'd better send her another message.

Now, there's an important rule to remember when you send a message to a woman who ignored your last message. (By the way, you should *always* send a followup message if a woman hasn't responded to your last one. Why the hell not? Followup messages are free. Plus they often work.)

That rule is to *not* mention that she didn't respond to your last message. You don't want to draw attention to the fact that she already ignored you once. You're already writing from a position of weakness, so to remind her of that makes you look like the loser at the bar who keeps trying to buy drinks for the pretty girl who's out of his league.

So don't say, "Hey, I don't know if you got my last message . . . " Don't say, "I know you must be busy . . . " And for God's sake *don't* say, "Sorry to keep bothering you . . . "

Hold on . . . just typing those examples has made me nauseous. I need to lie down for a minute.

. . .

Okay, I'm back. So just write to her as if everything is cool. Write whatever you would say if the conversation was going fine. As if you wouldn't even know whether she answered your last message because you've got so many other fish on the line that things become a blur. Confidence will get you everywhere, fellas.

Having said all that, I'm about to break that rule. As the dominant in this situation, ignoring the fact that she didn't obediently respond would show weakness. So I *do* have to address it. Luckily, there's an obvious way to do that:

Subject: My Lil Ho is going to . . .

. . . get herself a spanking by all 6'4" of me if she doesn't start answering my messages. Now, you wouldn't want that, would you?

You wouldn't want me to bend you over my knee, lift up that little skirt you wore for me, and then massage your little butt with my hand . . . caressing it . . . before I give you a nice slap on your ass. Should I have you count each spank?

How many spanks do you think you'd need to get your pussy ready for me to fuck? Because you and I both know that you get wet even thinking about it. That's what I like about you.

I've attached my picture passkey. I trust you'll send me yours.

We'll start slow. But get there quickly.

Now, there are two risks I took with this message.

First is that I gave her my passkey. Usually I wait a while before I do that, if at all. Mostly because after starting the blog, I always worry about "bait" profiles. I've encountered two so far. One was a woman who wanted to out me and masqueraded as a local blogger who she knew I liked. She used this blogger's name as her profile name and then asked for my passkey. I believed it was her, but thankfully didn't give her the passkey. But I did email my blogger friend and joked "Nice try." This blogger friend didn't know what I was talking about, but knew for sure that that profile wasn't her. I later found out who this person was. Complete nutjob who believed she was God's sergeant at arms. Scary shit.

The other instance wasn't as scary, but it was really creepy nonetheless. Blogging does have its downsides.

The other reason I'm slow to send pictures is that I tend to think of sharing pictures as a power move. Weaker player goes first. But I have a feeling that's just me, and in the world of Ashley Madison the guy is usually the weaker player by default anyway, so what the heck, I attached the passkey. Besides, once SweetLilHo beholds my undeniable good looks, she'll be putty in my hands. Yep.

By the way, when you give a girl your passkey, don't say you "hope" she returns the favor. Let her know that you assume she'll return the favor. Because after seeing you, what girl wouldn't? Confidence, fellas, confidence.

The other risky move is where I wrote, "We'll start slow. But get there quickly." I still kinda wonder about that line, but I think in light of SweetLilHo's hardcore tastes, in order to get her to meet me in real life, I need to let her know that this can be safe.

Risky or not, it worked, because about an hour later, she writes back:

Riff,

Im sorry I didn't write back as soon as I got your note. I shouldn't have done that. I want to do everything right with you, and I don't want to start off on the wrong foot. I know that each little mistake is going to hurt.

You can read me so well. I want to be taught how to obey a man who doesn't really care about me. I want to be with man who will demand of me so much, but will give me very little. I don't know why it's on my mind so much, and I'm really scared of being taken by a man having to trust a total stranger, but my inside little girl tells me to think less and submit more.

You look elegant and tall, and strong in your eyes. I want us to find each other somewhere, a bar or some small restaurant. I WANT to have those drinks. I WANT you to push me inside some room. I WANT you to throw me on the bed.

I want people to look at us and think "there's a fucking hot couple" I can be there dressed in something revealing, and flaunt it towards you. I want to be grabbed and pulled towards the door, but just strong and firm enough that no one else will notice.

I don't want to be tied up in any way. I'm really not that big, and I only want to cheat with a guy much bigger and stronger than me. I like to be held down tight with your hands. I love having my hands held down against my hips when I'm on the bottom on my stomach. I feel so used with my legs spread and you on top of me with all your weight on my back, fucking me.

I want to try all this. I'm willing to put myself in your hands. I just need to feel safe. I don't know anyone on AM, and haven't seen someone yet. I've had a lot of proposals, but what I'm really looking for is someone who can be aggresive with my body in a unique way, and you've been the closest to what I want.

Want to be talked down to, also. I want you to use very hurtful words when I'm at my most vulnerable. I want to be your whore, Riff. My pics are attached. I hope I'm cute enough!!

my pussy is yours...my asshole is yours...

luv,
Linda

Now, I know that not everyone shares my tastes for submissive girls, but if you do, then you gotta admit, that's a pretty fucking good answer. And you know what my favorite line is? "I hope I'm cute enough." Fellas, is there anything better than a girl so eager to please?

She definitely is "cute enough," by the way. She looks exactly as you'd expect. I mean, she's Asian, right?

Oh, stop with the dirty looks, you humorless fucks. Just a little politically incorrect humor there.

But . . . she is cute as hell. Which makes sense, because only a very cute girl would say, "I hope I'm cute enough." (Some day I should write a post listing things girls say when they're cute, and things girls say when they're not so cute, and things girls say when they're juuuust a little heavier than what they listed on their profile, and things girls say when they might have fudged their age just a teensy bit. I swear when you can read between the lines, pictures become almost unnecessary.)

Okay, so I need to write something back to Linda. The big challenge, though, is where she said she said she wants to try all these things, but she needs to feel safe.

Hmmmmm . . .

Meet Linda

2011-09-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

I've experimented with all sorts of profiles on Ashley Madison. Most were the basic types of profiles that I gave examples of in this post and this post and this post.

But every so often, I try writing a profile that is very specific about one aspect or another that I might be looking for. The theory is that by being specific, I might not appeal to most women, but of the women who do share some particular tastes (like Ms Inconspicuous and her love of dogs,) I'll stand out more.

I have a dominant profile like that. It's nothing hard core, because I don't want to scare away the little submissive fishies (who can be pretty skittish in the early stages of online stuff.) Besides, I'm not exactly Mr. Dungeon anyway. I do have a definite dominant side to me, and I do like to get a little rough from time to time, but overall, I'm a variety kind of guy.

The profile mostly talks about how I'm looking for a girl who wants to explore her submissive side. No specifics of what we might do are given, instead I focus on the "guidance" aspect of it, implying that this big strong man can teach you. That sort of thing. Talk of spankings and specifics can come later. And of course, I add a couple of my usual lines about kissing.

So one fine day while cruising the usual Ashley Madison profiles (it's amazing how many of these same ladies have been on for *years*,) I come across a girl calling herself "SweetLilHo," who lists herself as 35 years old, 5'3" tall, 115 pounds, and Asian. She checks the usual "Good Hygiene" and "Disease Free" checkboxes, but also checks the ones for "Submissive" and "Spankings." She also has some custom words, "Looking for an alpha male who takes what he wants. A brute, not a gentleman."

Hmmmm . . . I must say, I'm intrigued by this profile. But one thing I've learned is that girls who advertise so overtly that they're submissive are especially likely to be email queens. Moreover, I've learned that if I start writing hard core whips and chains stuff to these girls, then it increases the email queen factor tenfold. In fact, I can't remember a single time where writing hard core fantasies *ever* resulted in me meeting a girl in person.

I want to convince her that I'm a confident and dominant kind of guy . . . but that I'm also a guy who wouldn't be too scary to actually meet. Think about it for a minute - if some guy wrote stories to you about tying you up and beating you until you're begging for mercy, and then jamming his cock down your throat so you're gagging on it, and then inviting all his friends over and making you strip in front of them to show them what a good girl you are, and then letting them all take turns fucking you while he watches . . . it might be fun as a fantasy. But would you then feel comfortable really meeting this guy? Alone? With God only knows what other fantasies in his head that he hasn't even told you about?

Who knows, maybe there are girls who would, but my theory is that to get a girl to actually meet you, you need to start by being more friend than monster. Monster can come later.

So I decide to play it very safe (and admittedly, very lazy) and simply copy and paste my usual "Fantasy Message," which is sort of my go-to message when I can't think of anything else to send:

Subject: Hello, my sweet lil ho

I suppose I should tell you about how I'm educated, successful, help old ladies cross the street, bathe regularly, and on and on. But I am indeed the alpha male type. And knowing that an alpha male is exactly what you need, well, I find I'm in a certain . . . "mood." So tell me if this appeals to you:

We're on a bed, kissing (I do love kissing, by the way.) I kiss your neck, and behind your ear. And down to your shoulders.

All the while, I slowly unbutton your top. Kissing as I go, starting at the base of your neck. Kissing as I undo one button. Then the next. And the next. Working my way down with my tongue and lips . . . until I'm at your waist and I'm kissing your tummy.

I slowly make my way back up to kiss you on your lips. I take both of your hands in mine. And pull your hands over your head. Holding you steady as I keep kissing you. Now kissing your shoulder. Slowly up your left arm. And to your wrist.

I kiss your wrist. Softly. Then tie a scarf around it. And tie it to the headboard.

I slowly do the same to your right hand. Gently. Tying it to the headboard. So you can lie back and just enjoy. Letting me take over.

You lie back and watch as I take off your bra. And run my tongue in slow circles around your left breast. Slowly circling your breast with my tongue. Making smaller circles as I get closer and closer to your nipple.

But I don't touch your nipple. I hover just above it. Ready. But I don't kiss it yet. Because you don't want it enough. Not yet.

I run my hands slowly down your arms. Past your shoulders. Now behind you. My left hand under your back, my right hand under your head. And I start to lift you up, arching your back. Raising your breasts into the air. So that I now kiss between them.

And start slow circles with my tongue around your other breast. Smaller and smaller circles as I get closer and closer to your nipple. This time I . . .

. . . run out of words! Damn 2000 character limit.

I'm fully aware that this might be too tame for SweetLilHo's tastes, by the way. But when I did some experiments with Riff's Angels and had Little Debbie and Monica put "Submissive" into their profiles, I found out that even amongst the guys who write custom messages, most don't address the submissive factor at all. In fact, for the most part, guys sent the same messages to the submissive profiles as they did to the non-submissive profiles. Just carpet bombing the entire female population on Ashley Madison. I don't think most guys even read these profiles, except for age, height and weight.

Then, most of the guys who do address the submissive factor are so presumptuously demanding and boorish right from the first message ("You will obey me, bitch!") that I can't imagine any girl would really meet them. After all, even a submissive girl wants a little nice-nice before the hard core fun.

So I think tame with a hint of domination is the way to go.

Besides, like I said, with the high likelihood of SweetLilHo being an email queen, I'm not going to spend 10 or 15 minutes slaving over some delicately worded custom message. (With a profile like hers, the message would have to be very carefully written.) She's not the only profile that interests me and this is a numbers game. I've got other profiles to check out. Efficiency is important, so cut and paste is all the effort I'm going to put into this. This "bedpost fanstasy" is the most appropriate one I have, so this is what she gets.

Well, tameness or laziness be damned, lo and behold, a few hours later, this showed up in my InBox:

Subject: It's your sweet lil ho, Riff

Hi babe,
Really, 6'4"...225? My favorite numbers, daddy!

How about this, instead? We agree to get together close to a little place you've planned out ahead of time to take me to after some drinks. It's in the afternoon, so we have a nice amount of time to play. We sit down and have a drink, then you insist I have another, but you can't because your driving. Then you tell me to drink another, all the while making really nice and sweet small talk.

Once I'm a little tipsy (OK,a lot tipsy!), you talk me into stopping by your "office" for a minute, while you check in. We go to an apartment you've borrowed from a buddy of your's, in exchange for him setting up a hidden videocam.

When we walk in, I say that I don't like what this is about, when you grab my wrists from behind with one hand, you slip your other hand up my skirt and through my thong, and begin to rub my clit while biting my neck and pushing me into the bedroom. You throw me on the bed and fall on top of me, your gorgeous body totally covering my little asian ass. Hands everywhere, your tongue in my ear and down my throat, you reach above me and pull one of the four straps tied to each bedpost. Quickly, my hands are tied above me, and my legs are spread open and anchored down.

You get up, take a stroll around the room, working your cock till it's rock solid, then you mount my chest and force that thick meat in my mouth, calling me a fucking whore, and telling me your taping this whole thing, and how you'll send a copy to my husband if I don't promise a long and satisfying affair for you. Then down my throat goes that cock. Once you've got a good sucking, you mount me, ram your fingers up my cunt, spreading my lips so wide I cry out, then stick them in my mouth so I can taste my own pussy juice. Then, with your wet fingers gagging me and playing with my tongue, you start giving me the most violent fucking a little two-timing bitch like me could ever hope for.

I cry out my love for you, and then.......

Oh my. When Linda said she wants a brute, not a gentleman, she wasn't kidding.

I seriously doubt I'm the only one she sent this message to, by the way. But still, maybe I'll put a little effort into this girl after all . . .

Charlie Brown and Lucy

2011-09-12T06:01:00.000-07:00

After last week's post, I got a number of questions like this:

Golly, Riff Dog. Sure, you *claim* to be back. But how do we know that you're not going to write two or three posts, then take yet another "vacation?" And when the hell are you going to finish with the Hannah story?

Excellent questions, my faith challenged friends. After all, I can see how up to this point, our relationship has been very much like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football. You know the one, where Lucy keeps convincing Charlie Brown that she's really, really, really gonna let him kick that football this time. But sure enough, Lucy always yanks the football at the last second. Just like how I always take a break right before we get to the good part. (And you naively believing there even is a good part.)

Such is the life of an "Ashley and Me" reader. Endless frustration.

Although that's kinda got me thinking . . . who's really at fault here? Sure, this blog can be an exercise in frustration, but like with Lucy, what else do you expect? Lucy's just being Lucy. And Riff Dog's just being Riff Dog. I mean, sure, anyone can write an annoying blog. But what does that say about you, the person who reads it?

But that's all neither here nor there, because this time I'm really, really, really, REALLY gonna let you kick that football this time and we'll finish our Hannah story at last. And with no further commercial interruptions. I promise! You see, I gave in to those monkeys' demands and they are once again on the payroll, typing more of that "Ashley and Me" jibberish you've come to know and love! I paid 'em in advance this time, so nothing can stop the blog now!

Although they do have coke habits, so maybe paying them in advance wasn't such a good idea . . .

Wait a minute, Riff Dog. Monkeys? What Monkeys???

Oh, you're right! Where are my manners? It seems we have some new readers here who might be wondering what's the deal with these "monkeys" that I sometimes imply write my blog for me. You see, since I introduced them in one of my Lame Excuse posts (those are the posts where I say I'm going to be gone for a while,) and since I always delete my Lame Excuse posts when I return, then there's no record of these monkeys for new readers to refer to. Oh, the perils of being a new reader on Ashley and Me!

Well, lucky for you, my newbie friends, nobody loves Riff Dog's jokes more that Riff Dog does. So under the pretense of helping inform any new readers who might be confused, I'm gonna repeat it here.

You see, it's been said that if you took a millions monkeys randomly pecking away at a million typewriters, then in a million years, by sheer probability, one of those monkeys will have typed the first act of Shakespeare's Hamlet. It's also been said that if you took just one monkey drunkenly pecking away at a typewriter, then in about a half hour, you will have a typical Ashley and Me post.

One reader (I wish I could remember who) suggested I should pay this monkey, implying the monkey does a better job than I do. Do you see now the insults I have to put up with??? One monkey turned into several monkeys, and it's been a running joke ever since. So now you know. You're part of the in-crowd.

Let's see . . . let's see . . . what other bookkeeping items do I need to take care of before we get back to our story? Ah yes . . .

Hey Riff Dog! I Have a Blog Too! Can I Have a Blog Link?

Want me to give you a blog link? It's really easy. Link me first and I'll link you back. It really is that simple and most people seem to have a pretty good handle on the concept. (In fact, if you've already linked me, let me know and I'll reciprocate.)

One thing that always cracks me up, though, is that every so often I'll get an email from some blogger (always a "he," by the way) who will tell me all about his new site and how great it's gonna be. Invariably he'll only have one or two posts so far, but he assures me that he gets laid like crazy and boy oh boy does he have some great stories to tell. It's gonna be awesome!

Anyway, he'll then make an ever so tempting offer that if I give him a link on my sidebar, then after he confirms I've linked him, he'll do the same for me. Yes, I have to go first. Maybe it's my ego talking, but . . . seriously?

And then there's this girl blogger who thinks my linking policy is all wrong. She thinks my blog roll should only have blogs I actually read and recommend. Blogs I endorse, if you will. You know, because that's how her blogroll works. So mine should be the same. 'Cause that's how blogrolls should be.

I explained to her that jumping into the politics of deciding which blogs are "worthy" of my blogroll and which blogs are unworthy is not a game I want to play. I get enough pissed off and offended emailers as it is. (Coincidentally, or perhaps not coincidentally, this same girl also gave me a piece of her mind after my "Night with Brenda" post.)

So in the interest of not hurting anyone's feelings, I take the easy way out and make my blogroll a purely reciprocal thing. You suck me, I'll go down on you. You stop sucking me, no more head for you either. Simple. And more importantly, drama free. Because believe me, one thing I've learned about bloggers (especially lady bloggers,) is that drama is lurking around every corner.

But she wasn't havin' it. You see, a while back, she removed me from her blogroll (I refer you once again to the "Night with Brenda" post.) A few days later, she was quite perturbed when she noticed that I had then taken her blog off my blogroll. The nerve of me to remove her link just because she removed mine!

She did later put my link back, though. And then I gave her her link back. Annoyed that this was my policy, and that I would not link her if she didn't link me, she wrote to me, "That seems very......selfish. So it doesn't matter if you like a blog, if they don't link to you then you take your toys back?" (I'm not making this shit up!) I explained to her (again) that, well, yes, while I'm sure her policy works great for her, this is how it works here.

So she took my link off again.

Damn, I do go off on tangents. But the blog linking policy is clear, right? If you want a link, then get over here and start suckin'.

Hey, Riff Dog. What's up with this Ashley and Me Forum that you have on your sidebar? Exactly how big is your ego??? Do you really think people want to go to a forum to talk about your stupid blog???

Yeah, I probably should come up with a better name for it, because even though it's called Ashley and Me Forum, it's not really a forum about the blog. In fact, it's not at all about the blog. Yes, I realize how out of character that is for me to be involved in anything that doesn't directly stroke my ego (or some other part of me,) but there it is.

It's basically a forum where people (probably 50/50 women and men) share ideas or tips or questions or just vent on matters mostly related to Ashley Madison. It's been a very pleasant surprise how well it's worked out. You really should visit.

Okay, so I think that covers all the odds and ends I needed to take care of before we get back to our story. But . . . our story isn't going to be about Hannah just yet.

You see, first we need to meet Linda . . .

Didja Miss Me?

2011-09-07T06:01:00.000-07:00

You did? Aw, I missed you, too! It's just like summer vacation is over and we get to see each other at school once again. Exciting, isn't it? Especially seeing what all the girls decided to wear for this first day back.

Well, as for my first-day-of-school outfit, sharp eyed readers might have noticed that we have a new banner. Yep, while most bloggers spent their summer writing posts and filling their blogs with actual content, here at "Ashley and Me," we're all about the look. Content, schmontent. Image is what counts, baby!

Plus, with this emphasis of style over substance, it works out best for both of us. You see, when you go to other blogs, what do you find? New posts with lots of words and stuff, right? Well, those bloggers had to write those posts. And then you have to read them. It's a lose-lose situation. I mean seriously. Reading? And writing? That stuff's for losers!

So as my gift to you, my good friends, I have spared you from having to read any new "Ashley and Me" posts for the last month. Heck, for the whole last year, if we're being honest! You're welcome!

But that gift ends today. That's right, the twice-weekly waste of time that is "Ashley and Me" resumes once again every Monday and Wednesday at 6:01 a.m. Pacific time. (Some might say the gift ended last week, but that post doesn't really count.)

But enough about artwork and scheduling and all that nerd stuff. Things been happening around here in Ashley and Me World that I need to tell you about. Important things.

Now, as you might imagine, when you're a big time blogger like me, with a readership numbering in the dozens, then you get lots and lots of email. Sometimes one, maybe even two emails in a single month! I'm gonna need to hire an assistant to handle all of it!

Usually these emails are from readers or other bloggers who are pissed off at me for one reason or another. But occasionally I'll get an email that I have to take seriously. Specifically, this one:

Dear Riff Dog,

My name is Chrissy. I am 10 years old and go to South Pasadena Elementary School. I am in the fifth grade.

Yesterday I had a question during math and I went to ask my teacher, Ms Anthony, for help. She must not have heard me coming, because when I got to her desk, she acted all surprised and embarrassed and closed her laptop real fast. She must have been doing something that she wasn't supposed to, because she was extra nice to me for the rest of the day.

She doesn't know, but I saw the website she was looking at and it was called Ashley and Me. So when I got home last night, I went to my computer and looked to see what it was. It's about a guy who even though he is married, he kisses and does other stuff with ladies who aren't even his wife! Well why am I telling you this? Duh! You're the one who writes it!

Anyway, I want to ask you if the stuff you write is really true? It isn't, is it? Because you said all men are like you and all men want to kiss other women, even though they're married. But that's not really true, is it? Because my dad would never do that, would he? He loves my mom and he would never want to kiss any other girls!

So tell me that you weren't really telling the truth when you wrote that. No way my dad is like that!

Luv,
Chrissy

As you might guess, Chrissy's story kinda got to me. Writing this blog has always been something that I just do for fun. You know, tell a few stories, make a few jokes, maybe even be a little provocative from time to time.

But I don't usually think too much about the real life consequences of what I write. And how there can be a very real intersection between my blog and the people who read it. An intersection Chrissy has now made me very much aware of. So I sent her this reply:

Dear Chrissy,

Thank you for your thoughtful note. It's always nice to hear from people who read the blog.

So tell me, how old is Ms Anthony? Do you think most men would consider her cute? Do you know if she lives east or west of Pasadena? Because east of Pasadena is getting pretty far from here. Then again, if she's really cute, it could be worth the drive. You don't happen to have pictures, do you?

Your friend,
Riff Dog

Are you as excited as I am, dear reader? Like I said, I'd never really thought much about how the blog could intersect with real life, but now I can imagine all sorts of possibilities.

By the way, fellas, notice how I didn't ask Chrissy if she thought Ms Anthony was cute. That's a classic mistake guys sometimes make. Never trust a girl to give an accurate appraisal, because it's like some girl code that they always say some other girl is cute. Instead ask her whether other men would consider your target cute. You'll get a more accurate answer that way.

Anyway, a few minutes later, Chrissy responded with this:

Dear Riff Dog,

You didn't answer my questions! OMG! How can you ask me questions about my teacher and totally ignore how I want to know if my dad is like you trying to kiss other ladies who aren't my mom?

I'm not going to answer any questions about Ms Anthony until you tell me the truth about whether all men are really like what you said! I'm really worried about this!!!

Luv,
Chrissy

Ohhhh, this Chrissy is a crafty one! Did you see what she did right there? Instead of this being all about me, now she's making it all about her!

Now we can see that she wasn't just being helpful when she told me about her potentially hot teacher who might be a fan of Ashley and Me. Nope, she has this whole ulterior motive of getting me to give her advice . . . free advice . . . on the psychology of men. The whole story about Ms Anthony was just bait!

Ooooh, these girls nowadays learn their manipulative ways young! God help the boys that have to deal with them. But she's got me, so I answer her with this:

Dear Chrissy,

No, not all men want to be with other women. I'm sure your dad is a good guy. And there's an easy way to prove it. Just ask him this question:

"Dad, do you have a penis?"

If he says, "No," then you're in the clear. You have nothing to worry about, because men without penises rarely stray.

On the other hand, if he answers, "Yes," then . . . well, I have bad news for you. Which I suppose is also bad news for your mom.

Speaking of your mom . . .

Oh, stop with the dirty looks, dear reader, that's not really the email I sent. What do you think I am? Heartless???

Remember, I'm a parent, too. So years of dance recitals and school plays have trained me well in the art of ~~lying~~ telling young girls what they want to hear. If I can manage, with a straight face, to say, "Wow, that was the best production of Annie I've ever seen!" then I can sure as hell manage to tell Chrissy what she wants to hear.

And to tell you the truth, I do feel kinda bad about this whole thing. Not just for Chrissy, but for all those wide eyed naive girls out there (some even into their 20's) with their absurd fantasies of forever-faithful beaus. Beaus who would forsake the wishes of their own penises, and instead commit to lives of mind numbing monogamy. Beaus like you see in fairy tales and romantic comedies and other fiction written by writers who never get laid in real life. Ridiculous, of course, but is it really my place to dash the dreams, however silly, of these young hopefuls?

No, it isn't. I played along with the Santa Claus myth, so I can play along with this one, too. In fact, it actually made me feel pretty good to write Chrissy this email:

Silly Chrissy,

You didn't really believe any of that stuff I wrote in the blog, did you? Hahahahaha! No, that's just this funny character I made up for this movie I'm writing. You know that movies aren't real, right? Of course you do.

You see, Chrissy, in real life, guys are looking for that one special girl. And once they've found her, they just want to be with her, and only her, forever and ever.

So stop worrying about pretend stories. Certainly no boy you ever date, and definitely not your dad, would ever do any of those silly things I wrote about.

Your friend,
Riff Dog

To which Chrissy sent me this reply:

Dear Riff Dog,

Psyche! I just made up the part about Ms Anthony so that you would answer my questions, which you did.

Thanks for letting me know my dad and any boyfriends I have will be good guys and never cheat on me or my mom. I feel so much better. I always knew it was true, but it makes me feel better to hear you say it.

Luv,
Chrissy

P.S. Ms Anthony is really Mr. Anthony. I'll give him your email address! Hahahahaha!

Yep. Like I said, God help the young boys of today . . .

But Riff Dog! It's Still August!

2011-08-30T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know I said I wouldn't be back until September 7. But surely you know by now that I can't be trusted to stick to a schedule, right?

Truth be told, I'm not really coming back early. It's just that a couple lunatics have nominated "Ashley and Me" for that Sexiest Bloggers of 2011 thing. Lists like that don't interest me, of course. You know, because I'm so cool and all. I'm all about the art, not the glory, you see.

But still, I hate to let the readers down by not putting at least some effort into this. After all, I am a returning ~~champion~~ 35th place finisher.

Unfortunately, Rori (blogmistress of "Between my Sheets" and the person who runs this list) has this silly rule about bloggers having to actually have *active* blogs in order to be considered. She insists these bloggers have content. New content! Which according to her rules entails five posts since June and at least one of those in occurring in August. That's like an average of almost two posts per month! Crazy, right?

Well, like them or not, those are the rules and there's not much I can do about it. So . . . here you go. I now officially have a post in August. If I had time, I'd Photoshop a "Qualified" symbol onto my banner.

Now, I suppose I should make this an actual sex post, since, well, the whole purpose of this is to convince the discriminating judges (actually just "judge," since Rori is doing this herself this year) that I'm an honest to goodness sex blogger. (Something that long term readers here have oh so disappointingly learned that I am not.)

So. Are you ready for some sex? Not just regular sex, either, but hotsex! You know, that special kind of sex that us bloggers always seem to have! Hotsex! Good, because here goes:
________________________

A Hot Topanga Night

(By the way, notice how "Hot" in the title could be referring to either the typical August L.A. temperature . . . or it could be referring to the ~~sex~~ hotsex. Cool, huh? That's what us writer types call a "double entendre." Yup. Sophisticated writing techniques like that might make you think I went to Writers School, but believe it or not, I never did. Really, I didn't! I'm what you would call "a natural." Yup. Anyway . . . )

I don't often drive through Topanga Canyon, but when I do, it always reminds me of my small town country boy days growing up. Funny how in a big city like Los Angeles, there's this one area that feels like you're in the woods. Especially at dusk like this.

I'm half tempted to change the radio to a country station to complete the mood. Or maybe some oldies station and hope for a Stevie Nicks song or something. But I'm a city boy now, so I tap along on the steering wheel as KROQ plays "Pumped Up Kicks." (Damn, that's a catchy tune.)

I round a turn and notice a car to the side of the road. Hmmm, the hood is up. Must be car trouble. There's not a lot of traffic around here, so maybe I should stop and help. But I forgot to set my TIVO, so I need to get home before Entourage starts. Heck, I'm sure someone else will come along anyway and . . . whoa . . . hello! Who's that girl standing next to the car?

You know, now that I think about it, it would be the right thing to do for me to pull over and see if I can help.

I get out of my car and walk over to the woman. Damn, she looks even better as I get closer! You fellas know that that usually isn't the case, by the way. After all, how many times have we all seen some girl who looks amazing from a distance, but then as we get closer . . . well, that's why we call those girls "50 footers." You see, from 50 feet away, they look great, but close up . . . anyway, this girl is no 50-footer, if you know what I mean.

"Car trouble?" I ask, trying to avoid staring at her tits. I've learned that girls don't like it when when you stare at their tits. And they especially don't like it if you stare at their tits while you're talking to them. (By the way, fellas, if a girl ever says to you, "My eyes are up here," don't respond with "Yeah, but your tits are down there!" It turns out that they don't have much of a sense of humor about that stuff.)

"Yes, it started running rough as I was coming up the hill, and then it just died." Heh. She said "rough" and "coming" both in the same sentence. I think she might be coming on to me.

"Will the engine turn over when you turn the key?" (Hopefully she'll take the bait and say, "No, but *I'll* turn over when you find my key, big boy.")

"Yes, but it just won't start." (Damn. She didn't take the bait. I guess she's gonna make this hard. Ha! I said "hard!")

Now, I do happen to know a thing or two about cars. I've even hot rodded an engine or two. But one thing I've learned is that when a car is dead on the side of the road (a modern car, at least,) there's hardly ever (basically never, in fact) anything you can do. First off, try and even find the distributor or the coil or anything to jiggle on cars today. And there's no carburetor! You can't even pull the accelerator linkage to see if gas is getting to the carb!

No matter, I still do the "manly" thing of poking around a bit and mumble something about "I don't think it's getting fuel." (Which isn't really true, since my money is really on the ignition. But I can't bring myself to say that, because I come from the days when if it's the ignition, then the carb is filling up with unignited gas, so you can smell it.)

"Do you have Triple A?" I ask.

"Yes, I called them a few minutes ago. They should be here any minute."

Hmmmmm . . .

Damn. Hold on a minute. I guess I should have thought this story out ahead of time. You know, before I started writing it. Because . . . how am I going to get from us waiting for the tow truck to us having hotsex??? This fantasy writing stuff is hard! Writing reality is way easier. Maybe I should stick to . . .

Oh wait, I got it! Okay, so where were we? Oh, yeah:

"Yes, I called them a few minutes ago. They should be here any minute."

Just then, a tow truck with "Jones and Daughter" written on the side pulls up. The driver gets out and . . . damn, this is the first time I've ever seen a girl tow truck driver! And she's even hotter than the girl with the car!

She's wearing a tight blue mechanic's work shirt with a name tag that said "Rori." (Hey, you knew this was gonna be shameless, right?) Don't get me wrong, the shirt is the proper size, but the fact that she had such great tits makes it tight (some might say . . . "bursting") on top. The top three buttons are undone and I can see part of her black lace bra.

"Someone call for a tow?" she asks.

"Yes, it died when I was coming over the hill and now I can't get it started."

Rori looks at me and says, "She said 'coming'" I nod and we high five each other.

"I don't think it's getting fuel," I say as Rori and I stand side by side and look under the hood.

She pokes around a bit, then says, "You don't really think it's the fuel system, do you? I'll bet you're a carb guy who hates fuel injection, right?"

"Hey, the only 'injection' I'm interested in doesn't involve gasoline." (God DAMN! You can't teach seductive wit like that! It's a gift, I tell you!)

Rori looks into my eyes, trying to gauge if I really meant what she thinks I meant. (It was pretty subtle, after all.) She inhales juuuust a little too deeply and a button pops open on her top. Her eyes don't leave mine as she whispers, "Oops."

"Oh, let me help you with that," I offer. Still looking into her eyes, I reach and hook my finger into the front of her bra, pulling her towards me. We're now face to face.

"How is that helping?" she asks, knowing damn well what I really meant. Just inches apart, I feel her breath as she speaks. But neither of us makes a move. Our lips so close, we're looking into each other's eyes, daring the other to make the first move as we play our little seductive game of chicken.

I can't hold back any longer, so with my finger still hooked in her bra, I pull her even closer to me and kiss her. She kisses back. Our arms are around each other as we're making out. I feel her pushing her tongue into my mouth. I suck it into me as she starts to moan.

But suddenly we're interrupted by, "Hey! Have you forgotten about me???"

Fuck. Just my luck that the first girl is getting impatient about getting her car towed and is going to wreck our fun. We stop kissing and turn to see . . . this other girl is taking off her top! "You two don't expect me to just watch, do you?"

Rori looks at me and says, "I'm game if you are."

So we have this awesome threesome on the side of the road. We get naked and do lots of cool hotsex stuff. Including me taking turns fucking one, and then the other, and then back to the first girl again. I don't cum yet, though, because I save it for the special finish when they're both on their knees so they can suck me at the same time. Rori and the other girl get competitive with each other over who can take me the deepest. (Rori wins.)

Then, right before I'm going to cum, I pull back so I can jerk off and cum on both of their faces at the same time. Awesome!

Then, as they each lick my cum off the other's face, we hear all these people applauding and we realize that we were so focused on our amazing hotsex that we hadn't noticed all these cars that were stopping and pulling over so they could watch us. After they finish clapping, a bunch of girls that were watching ask me for my number. And the guys want to high five me, but then they realize I just finished jerking off, so they decide maybe that isn't such a good idea.

It was awesome.

The end.
________________________________

Hey, this fantasy writing is way easier than I thought! Maybe I should skip all the "real life" stories and stick to hot fantasy stuff like this! Sure, it's pandering to the judges, but after that insult last year of being ranked #35, I gotta do something different around here, right?

Really?

2011-06-20T06:01:00.000-07:00

Friends, have you been amazed to see not one, not two, not three, but four legitimate posts in a row from your pal, Riff Dog? Me too! Sure, they were ~~a little long~~ ~~a lot long~~ omygod those motherfuckers were long, but wasn't it nice to see some actual content here for for a change?

And regarding the lengths of the posts, yeah, I know they were a teensy bit long. You don't have to tell me, I got it.

I thought about splitting them into shorter pieces, but that would drag the story out for about a month. More importantly, each of the four parts was kinda its own little self contained thing. So splitting any of them would have messed with the rhythm.

It would be like splitting "Stairway to Heaven" into three songs, instead of just one, to make it more palatable to AM pop radio. ("Stairway to Heaven" was always an album track, never a single. That's why it was an FM radio hit, but never appeared on the pop charts.)

Sure, they could have sold some singles that way, but think how confused the casual listener would be if they only heard the the third part. When they got to the lyric, "There walks a lady we all know," they'd be wondering, "Lady? What fucking lady is he talking about???" Oh, the confusion!

Similarly, suppose I split "Coquette in San Diego" into three parts. Part one at the Omni where we first meet, part two at the restaurant, and part three on our little after-dinner walk and "pre-adventures." So in part two (the restaurant part) when I speculate that the ladies in the Omni lobby (first introduced in part 1) must have been thinking about the Pythagorean Theorem (I love that joke,) you would be wondering, "What ladies in the Omni lobby??? I haven't been so confused since that damn three part Stairway to Heaven song!"

See how much care I put into keeping you from becoming confused, dear reader? Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? And doesn't it make you feel good that I think of you as FM, rather than AM listeners? (You young pups might not fully understand what I mean by that.)

Now, as usual, none of that has much to do with the point of today's post. It's just some stuff I was thinking about.

Or more accurately . . . it was stalling.

You see, this is one of "those" posts.

Much as I would love to continue our story, much as I would love to share a few more tales, much as I would love to finish our Hannah story, when I start figuring out how much time all this will take, there's no way I can make it work.

I could do things in pieces, but I hate that. For instance, it really bugs me that the first three parts of the Hannah story are disjointed from the rest.

My main problem is that with this being summer, I have a lengthy family vacation coming up at the end of July. I've done autoposts while I was gone before, but never for that long. And it would be in the middle of Hannah, which are posts I want to be here for.

So, call me a slacker, but "Ashley and Me" is taking another break. To make things easier all around, it will be for the whole summer. We'll be back September 7th, the Wednesday after Labor Day. Bright and early at our usual 6:01 a.m. time.

From there, it will be nothing but smoooooth sailin'. I promise!

Meet Coquette at the Hotel

2011-06-13T06:01:00.000-07:00

The one bad thing about meeting a woman two and a half hours from where you live is that after your "visit," you have to drive two and a half hours to get back home. Considering that it's already 11:00, this is going to be a long drive.

I can't help but wonder if I stayed too long. The fact that Coquette is the one who said, "Well, I've got to get up early tomorrow" is probably an indication that maybe I should have left a little sooner. But it was so nice lying there naked with her on the hotel bed. What guy would be in a rush to leave?

Then again, it was getting kind of late. Yeah, I should have left sooner.

Damn. This is the kind of second guessing that's going to kill me for the next two and a half hours.

________________________________

"I think that alleyway next to the hotel might be a little more private," she says.

Indeed, it does look that way. "Let's find out." I take her hand and we walk to this dark walkway between the hotel and some building next to it. Not a dangerous type alley, but more of a lover's alley. We walk about 50 feet down.

No windows look down on us here. The only eyes that might see us would be people walking along the boardwalk where we just were, or people walking down the street on the other end of this walkway. Perfect.

I lean back against the Hilton wall and pull Coquette in to me. "Perfect," I say, right before I kiss her. It's only been minutes since we were kissing overlooking the water, but I've been wanting her lips again. Her lips are so soft against mine. I ease my tongue into her mouth. She takes it, pulling it into her.

My hands make their way down her waist as we kiss. I feel the waistline of her thong through her dress. My hands slide down still further until they're on her perfect ass. Damn, it feels nice through the slinky fabric. I alternate between rubbing and squeezing. We're kissing more aggressively now, and Coquette is moaning audibly.

I stop kissing her. Looking right into her eyes, I take her wrists and hold them behind her. I turn her around. With her wrists in one hand, I take my other hand to the top of her back and and gently push her into a bent over position. She doesn't resist.

Damn, is she really going to let me do this?

I ease my hand down her back. Along her waist. To her ass. Her perfectly curved ass. It feels so nice as I rub my hand on it. I give a gentle squeeze. And I start to lift up her dress. She's not stopping me. I'm hard as a rock. I think she really is going to let me fuck her just like this.

Should I? Damn, this would be hot. To unzip my pants and fuck her with no warning right here and now, still holding her hands behind her back as she's bent over in an alleyway at the side of a hotel. This would be straight up animalistic fucking at it's best.

But I'd have to put on a condom, which will break the whole rhythm of this insta-fuck. And what if security did come by? And . . . it's already getting kinda late, so if I fuck her now, will that eliminate the rest of the evening's "entertainment?"

I turn Coquette around and pull her hard into me and kiss her. No, I'm not going to fuck her just yet. But the fact that I think she was going to let me fuck her here in an alley has me harder than ever. I kiss her. Not sweetly, but hard. You're mine.

My right hand is again on her ass, squeezing. There is nothing slow or subtle about how I'm feeling right now. My left hand is on her tit. Damn, she has nice tits. So . . . squeezable. God damn, she has a killer body.

I reach down and ease my hand under her dress. My fingers find their way between her legs. I find her panty covered mound. And slip my fingers under, just along the edge of her pussy lips. I can feel how wet she is already.

I slide my fingers between her pussy lips. Not in yet, just along her slit. Up and back. So fucking wet. I stop kissing her, because I want to see her eyes as I rub my fingers on her. She looks up at me. Saying nothing. Up and back. her pussy soaking my fingers.

I run my fingers forward and press hard on her clit. Her mouth opens slightly and she inhales. I rub for just a few seconds. Her eyes are locked on mine.

I stop rubbing. I lighten the pressure on her clit. No more rubbing for you, little girl. She says nothing, but her eyes seem to ask why I've stopped. I don't say anything as I look at her. My fingers just touching her pussy so slightly.

I wait a few more seconds, then all at once, plunge a finger into her. No warning. She gasps. Still looking up at me. Good girl. That's the look I wanted. I start to pump my finger in and out of her. Slow at first. Then faster. That's right, keep looking at me. I want to see your face while I finger-bang you right here in a public alley.

I pull out my finger, then push two fingers into her. She gasps again at the suddenness of this invasion. I fuck her with my ring and middle fingers, moving them in an out of her, my hand slapping her clit with each pump. I curl them forward, pressing my fingertips against the front wall of her pussy. She puts her face against my chest. Her whimper tells me that's the spot.

Her breathing is stuttered. Her face against my chest. I can't see her eyes anymore, but this is even better. She has one hand behind me, pulling herself harder against me. Her other hand is grabbing on my chest. Clawing.

Suddenly, her body clenches and she lets out a high sound, almost a squeal. God damn, she cums quick! Her breathing is stuttered against my chest as she cums. Her legs are together, holding my fingers in place. And that voice. God, I love the way she sounds.

I hold my hand still for a minute or two. It feels nice to hold her like this. I'm so hard right now. I want to fuck her. But not yet. We kiss. I hold her. My hands find their way to her ass. Both hands this time. I could squeeze this ass all night.

I lean down just a bit. My hands ease down from her ass to the back of her legs. In one motion, I lift her up by her legs so she's straddling me. He crotch against mine. Her pussy against my cock, still trapped in my pants. She looks at me, almost as if she's surprised I'm so hard. I smile, as if to say, "What did you expect?"

I lift her up and down, rubbing her against my hard cock. Dry humping in a standing position. I happen to love dry humping. It has such a raw, "Yeah, I know this isn't how it's supposed to be done, but it feels so good that I can't help myself" quality to it.

As good as this feels, I can't go too long because I have to be careful not to cum. But there's no need to worry, because Coquette is already cumming. Again! Damn, this girl cums easily! I don't think I've ever been with a girl who came this easily. I could get used to this.

____________________________________

On the northern end of Anaheim is an In and Out Burger. Not that I should be stuffing my face at midnight, but I do love In and Out Burger. Besides, this is a long ass drive. And it's midnight. I'm having a hard time staying awake, so the stop will do me good.

Rather than use the drive-through, I park and walk inside. The cool air and the bright florescent lights are doing the trick. I'm already feeling more alert.

Even this late on a Monday night, the place is full. These In and Out Burgers' are freakin' gold mines! There's a couple in line in front of me. He's a blond surfer looking dude, she looks to be Indian (dot, not feather.) They're both in their early 20's, I'd say. She's babbling on about some guy where she works who is a slacker. Apparently he's gets away with stuff because his mom owns the place. But ohhhh, if she only knew some of the stuff her son does!

Surfer Dude is being a good boyfriend and nodding at appropriate times. I wonder if he's fucked her yet?

The girl behind the counter calls next. Surfer Dude orders like a man, double-double, fries and a coke. His girlfriend isn't so sure. Come on, girl, there's only like five things on the menu. She eventually settles on a regular hamburger and a Diet Coke. She'll share his fries. Only a few, she assures him. I'm half-tempted to tell Surfer Dude to go ahead and order a second fries. Heck, I'll even pay. But I keep my mouth shut. Young pup needs to learn on his own.

I order, take my receipt with "19" printed at the top, then take a seat on the bench. Surfer Dude and his girl are standing by the Pick-Up counter. She's still gabbing about who knows what. The price we fellas pay to get laid.

A cheery Latina behind the counter calls, "Number 18." Surfer Dude takes the tray with one manly hamburger, one girl hamburger, two drinks. And one order of fries. I watch as they walk away to find a table. She does have a nice walk. Good luck, young pup. I wonder if she'd let him fingerbang her in an alley?

The guy behind the counter calls number 19 and I take my order (same as Surfer Dude, but substitute the a chocolate shake for the Coke. My wife would kill me if she knew how often I ate like this) and head back into the parking lot. This little diversion did me good, because I'm feeling alert again as I get in my car and pull out of the parking lot. And back onto the freeway.

_____________________________________

We get off the elevator and make our way to Room 712. Coquette slides in the key card and opens the door. Her room is nice. And it's especially nice that there was no awkward checking in with cash or using a fake name. Heck, I didn't even have to pay for the room! I need to date women from out of town more often.

Coquette gives me a quick tour of the room. By "quick," the tour consists of "So, this is my room" as she makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

"This is nice," I respond. I love hotel rooms, especially when I didn't have to arrange it.

We walk to the window. Her room overlooks the boardwalk. We can see the pool we were at an hour earlier, as well as several other hotels along the bay. From this high up, it's a nice view, so in yet another dazzling display of conversation at its finest, I say, "Nice view." (Fellas, you're writin' this stuff down, right? Pure gold, I tell ya!)

There's a ledge a couple feet deep before the glass, which is flush with the outside of the building. It's basically a bench in front of the glass. Coquette sits on the ledge. She puts her hand on my arm, then looks out the window. It is a nice view.

"I wonder if people would be able to see us if we had sex right here, " she says.

_______________________________________

I finish the last french fry, then feel around on the bottom of the bag for any strays. KROQ is playing "Break," by Three Days Grace. Now this is late night driving music.

I can't help but think I should have fucked Coquette in the window. That would have been pretty cool.

"Dude! Seventh floor, third window over - check it out!"

"Whoa! Go for it, buddy! Hey, she's cute!"

"Yeah, what's she doin' with *that* guy?"

"I don't know, but I think he saw us watching, because he slapped her ass and gave us a thumbs up sign."

"What a douche."

You see, that's the problem with an audience. You find yourself playing to the audience instead of doing what you would have done normally. Not that I would have been giving thumbs up signs if we had fucked in the window. But knowing that people were watching would have probably made me feel like I had to "put on a show." I'm not opposed to putting on a show, mind you. But it does change things.

Still, I should have fucked Coquette in the window.

I know why I didn't, though. You see, I felt like there was an audience. Not the audience of people who might look up from the boardwalk. Or the hotel next door. It's a different audience that was in my head.

For the first time during an Ashley Madison related encounter, I was actually conscious of the blog and all that it entails. Believe it or not, when I was with Sandra, or with Connie, or with Amy, or even with Gabriela (who reads the blog,) I never thought during the dates how any of it would get written. Truly, I never did. It's not until afterwards, usually days afterwards that the thought of how to write it would even cross my mind.

I prefer it this way, because it you start thinking about your audience during sex, then it isn't as "in the moment." It isn't as real. With no offense intended towards some of my fellow bloggers, it you're actually counting orgasms, or posing juuust a little too much for the camera in mid-fuck, then you're fucking for the wrong reasons.

That's why I never write about encounters beyond the first time. It would wreck it for me, because instead of just having fun, thinking about the writing would get in my head.

Tonight it was in my head.

Dinner, that was cool, by the way. By the swimming pool, then at the boardwalk railing, then in the alleyway, that was all cool, too. Typical date - blog readers were the furthest thing from my mind.

It wasn't until we were in her hotel room that I started thinking about the fact that we each have a number of "friends" in common. Certainly we would each tell at least a few of these about what happened. What would I tell them? More importantly, what would she tell them?

What got into my head was that there would be certain expectations for anyone who has read either (and especially both) of our blogs. Not that every (or even any) Riff Dog or Coquette encounter is a porn video in the making. But considering that Coquette has written about some pretty kinky stuff (like about discovering that she likes things a little rough, and about how she likes to be spanked, and about how she likes her face fucked, and about how she likes to be dominated) . . . and considering that I've written about similar things (except in my case, I like being the one who does the spanking, and fucks a girl in her face, making her take it deep, and making a girl submit,) well, I can't help but feel there are some expectations here.

And that was my mistake. Thinking about expectations. And then adjusting to those expectations.

I should have fucked Coquette in the window when she dropped her ever so subtle hint. I should have kissed her. I should have unzipped her dress while we kissed. Then pulled the straps to the side, letting her dress drop off her shoulders. I should have stood her up in the window and unhooded her bra. Then pulled it slowly off her breasts. Then sucked them, in full view of anyone who happened to look our way.

I should have then sat her down on the ledge. Kissed her. Then pulled off her panties. Then eaten her, making her writhe against the glass. She cums so easily, I should have made her cum right there where anyone could see.

And then I should have stood her up, facing the window. Naked. One leg on the floor, one knee on the window ledge. And I should have fucked her right there.

In hindsight, that would have been pretty cool. Straight vanilla sex. It's tough to argue with the basics. That's what I wanted to do. That's what I would have done if there was no audience in my head.

But what was on my mind was that I couldn't make love sweetly in the window because I hadn't spanked her yet. I hadn't made her get on her knees and forced her to suck me deep. I hadn't bent her over the bed, held her hands behind her back, then pushed her face down into the mattress as I fucked her mercilessly.

Dammit, I hadn't given her the full Riff Dog treatment, yet! After all, I'm Riff Dog! Dammit!

This was exacerbated by the fact that we had one night and only one night to do whatever it is that we might do. Whether I'm going to write about it or not, I *did* want to spank Coquette. I'd been fantasizing about it for over a year. I *did* want to make her gag on my cock. I *did* want to make her get on her hands and knees and take her.

But how often can you do "everything" in a first date? How often does it make sense to even try? In a way, this was like going to Disneyland and trying to do the whole park in an afternoon. The whole park? In one afternoon? Sure, you can rush through it and say you did most of the rides. But it won't be as fun.

And in fact, that's my regret with how things went in the hotel room. We did do most of the stuff I had fantasized about. Spank? Check. Rough blow job? Check. Reciprocation of oral sex? Check. (Although I have the order backwards here.) Fuck? Check. And in fact, it was nice. Really nice, in fact.

But I can't help but feel like I was trying too hard. Too hard to "do it all" in one night. And too hard to impress whoever we might know in common who might hear about this little encounter.

"A Beautiful Lie" by 30 Seconds to Mars starts playing. Damn, KROQ is on their game tonight.

I wonder if I should blog about this? I wasn't planning to. In fact, I had told myself ahead of time that I wouldn't. Because one thing I hate is when two bloggers meet and then write about it. It always winds up being a big strokefest. "She's so sexy in real life!" - "No, *he's* so sexy in real life!" - "No, she's the one who is so wonderful and sexy! Oh my God, she's hawt!!!" - "Oh, he's too kind, because really he's the one who is hot! And oh, what an amazing lover!"

Yuck.

But this is a different story. Maybe this is a story worth telling. About a year late, but what the hell.

Besides, can I really have sex with Coquette and *not* brag about it. At least a little bit?

_______________________________________

Being the diligent kind of guy that I am, I show up bright and early to the office. 10:00. Real Claire asks how it went last night. How it went last night? WTF??? Ohhh, yeah, the uhhh, "recording session" went well. Very well indeed.

I go into my office, sit down and hear that familiar Mischief Phone ring. I check out the display and apparently I've already missed two calls this morning from the same number.

"Hi Gabi."

"This has been the worst night I've ever had." She's crying. Fuck. "Tell me what happened. Tell me everything."

I tell her about my night with Coquette. Yes, she's pretty. Yes, it was fun. Yes, we fucked. That's the hard one. Yes, we fucked. But I have to be truthful.

Because if I'm truthful about the hard things, like that I fucked a blogger that I've fantasized forever about, then she'll believe me when I tell her the flipside. That yes, Coquette was great. But she can never replace my Baby Bear. My beautiful Baby Bear.

It takes a little while, but Gabriela is feeling better. In some ways, I think I shouldn't have told her about Coquette in the first place. Like I said, I wasn't going to write about it anyway, and Coquette doesn't have a blog anymore, so there wouldn't be anything there either. So Gabriela would have been none the wiser. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

But I can't lie like that. Gabriela and I have been seeing each other for over a year. What we have is really special.

And it's because I'm honest with her that Gabriela believes me when I tell her how special she is and that Coquette could never replace her.

Because it's true. Coquette could never replace Gabriela.

But . . .

I didn't say *nobody* could replace Gabriela . . .

Meet Coquette in San Diego

2011-06-08T06:01:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes you read a story and the whole time you're reading, you can't really concentrate on the story as it unfolds, because all you really want to know is how it turns out in the end?

Like let's suppose you're reading a story about . . . oh, I don't know, how about a story about some boy blogger who finally gets a chance to meet this girl blogger he's been lusting after. But the storyteller, in his usual rambling manner, takes forever to get to "the good part." Instead, he goes on and on and on with all sorts of unimportant details and tangent after boring tangent. It's hard for the poor reader to focus on this distracting filler, because let's face it, all you can think about is, "So, are they gonna have sex or aren't they???" It's like there's a cloud hanging over the story.

After all, if they do have sex, then you don't want to have to slog through a bunch of tedious details about dinner and conversation and what's going on in this moron's mind, right? You want to get right to the part about whether or not she has nice tits!

Well, I don't want there to be a cloud hanging over this story. And I especially don't want this story to wind up being a huge letdown when you finally learn the sad truth. Yes, you heard me. The sad truth.

You see, Coquette and I don't wind up having sex.

There, I said it. You think you're disappointed? Imagine how I feel!

But at least now we can continue our story, free of clouds.
__________________________

The Omni lobby is very long, as lobbies go. There are a few people here, mostly gathered at the rather large lounge type area near some huge windows. Mostly guys. There are three women, two of which are definitely not Coquette. But the third . . . could it be? I do have one picture of Coquette, but I'm not sure. I walk by her, making myself fairly conspicuous. She shows no interest. Nope, not Coquette. And obviously a lesbian.

I'm about ten minutes early (traffic and parking were easy,) so I take a seat. I pull out my iPhone (not my Mischief Phone) to check in with the real world and be sure there are no emergencies that might send me racing back to Los Angeles. Being two and a half hours from home does introduce a new set of risks. But we're all clear.

Right on time, a very attractive woman in a black and white floral pattern dress walks into the lobby. She looks just like the picture I have, plus she's giving me this big smile, so I'm going to take a wild guess on this one, "Coquette?"

"Riff?" She laughs. We hug.

Coquette is even cuter than her picture. On top of that, what her picture doesn't show is how great her body is. She looks very much like Ellie Kemper (who plays Erin on The Office.) Not just in face, but body as well.

What I really like about the Erin comparison is that her vibe is so much like Erin as well. I hesitate to use the word, since Coquette is undoubtedly reading this, but there's a certain optimistic naivete to Erin's character that reminds me very much of Coquette. They both laugh so easily. They're both sometimes silly. Often marching to their own drummer. And they're both always upbeat. That's the biggest one. Always upbeat.

Coquette is in San Diego for a technical conference. Lots of egghead types here. Which would explain why I was ignored by the ladies in the Omni lobby. They were probably busy thinking about the Pythagorean Theorem.

Speaking of egghead types, I guess that's one place where Coquette and Erin depart. Erin is kinda dumb, while Coquette is ultra bright. Not only is she really good with math and science (that's her profession and why she's here,) but she uses big words and knows about foreign literature and stuff.

I'm not intimidated, though, because I'm way smarter than she is on other topics. Like Brady Bunch characters. I can name them all. In order! (Yes, I'm that good.) Coquette can't name any of them. She can't even sing the theme song. Ha! Who's the smartest now?

After I've regaled her with my golden throat rendition of not only the Brady Bunch song, but then the Gilligan's Island song AND explained the difference between the early version and the later version (for the unsophisticated amongst you, in the later version, they replaced "and the rest" with "the Professor and Mary Ann,") we decide it's time to walk through the Gas Lamp district (San Diego's old town area) in search of a restaurant for dinner.

We don't hold hands or anything like that as we walk. It's a little too early for "romance." Plus I want her to start wondering if I'm ever going to make a move on her. I'm sure she's assuming it's coming, so I want to make her question that assumption. Nothing makes a girl want to fuck you like getting her to believe you don't want to fuck her. Mind you, my plan is made a little more difficult by the fact that she's read my blog and knows that holding back is my favorite trick. But still, I'm gonna play it cool and hopefully have her begging me to make a move.

There are tons of restaurants here, and we settle on "de Medici," which the guy in front assures us is the best Italian food in town. (We will both later conclude that we don't share his opinion.)

They have outdoor seating in front, so we take a table just off the sidewalk. We sit down and I pull out a small bag I've been carrying. You see, since the whole split with her husband, Coquette's has been living without HBO. (Can you imagine???) Which means she hasn't been able to watch Entourage, which is kinda "our show." Well, the season just ended, and all the episodes are still on my TIVO, so I recorded them all to DVD for her. Then, in my best penmanship, I labeled the four DVDs with a Sharpie before wrapping them in red paper. (This is all so girlie, I really should delete this entire paragraph.)

"I brought you a little something."

"But I didn't bring you anything . . . " Ha! I've caught Coquette off guard with this. She's probably worried that I bought her a necklace or silk scarf or something.

"Just open it."

Her laugh is priceless when she sees not a set of nice jewelry, but a few hand scribbled DVDs. I half imagine my wife telling her, "Welcome to my world."

We order some wine and as we watch the passersby, we decide to play a little game of "Spot the Conventioneer." As I mentioned earlier, Coquette is here for a technical conference at the Convention Center, so this town is crawling with engineers and scientists tonight. They're fun to spot, mostly because it's so easy. They don't necessarily have pocket protectors nowadays, but there's always been something about engineers and fashion that never seem to mix. (No engineer types are reading this, right? Because if you you are, then naturally I'm not talking about you. Heavens no.)

"That group there!" Coquette nods in the general direction of three guys, each wearing bland polyester shirts, all tucked into pants pulled up just a little too high. This isn't even a challenge.

"Where do you even buy shirts like that? Does The Gap have a special Dwight Schrute department?" (You know you're a bad dresser when Riff Dog can point out what's wrong with your clothes.)

"And they have wedding rings! They're married! What wife would let her husband get a haircut like that?" (Okay, so maybe we're being a little mean, but tell me you don't think the same sorts of things.)

If there's one word that I would use to describe Coquette, it would be "fun." (Okay, so "cute" and "nice tits" and "nice ass" would be words that I would use first, and not necessarily in that order, but I'm talking about personality here.) She laughs really easily. She has a love of life that's infectious. You can't help but be taken by her.

She tells me about how she grew up in a really religious family. I'm talking reeeeally religious. As in no listening to the radio, unless it was a Christian station. She didn't even know who the Clash was until recently. No 6-Flags or Disneyland, either. Her family would spend summers at a place called "Sonshine Ranch."

"Sonshine Ranch?" I asked. "Wait a minute . . . there was a Sonshine Ranch right near where I grew up . . . "

"You grew up in *******?"

"Yes!" (This is getting freaky. Coquette and I already have another huge coincidence between us that I can't even tell you about.) "Wait . . . that's a religious camp???"

"Well, yeah. Son-shine? That didn't make you think there might be a little bible thumpin' going on?"

I have to laugh at myself on this one, because no, that had never occurred to me. "Well, in my defense, I'm not sure I ever saw it spelled out. But I did know a couple kids who would go there. Now that I think about it, this does make a lot of sense."

Coquette and I talk about a million different things. Interestingly, though, the one thing we don't talk about is blogging. She does tell me the latest on a few of the characters in her story, and I do update her on Gabriela. And I tell her I'm going to record a theme song for the blog. But other than that, blogging just doesn't come up.

The other topic that doesn't come up is any kind of real flirting. We're not seated in such a way that "accidental" touching is much of a possibility. We're not even is some dark private corner. We're right out in the open air with a zillion people walking by. Fun for a first date where you can count on other dates following. But on a night where I've just got this one shot, it's not ideal.

Conversation hasn't been conducive to being steered in a flirty direction, either. Damn. I like to play things slow, but I have to be careful not to go too slow here. This could backfire. But I'm staying the course.

An hour and several glasses of wine later, I pay the check and we decide to walk back to the waterfront. (Both the Convention Center and her hotel are on the bay.) I make a calculated risk as we walk. Time is waning, but I decide to still play it cool and not to try to hold her hand. I figure it might seem a little forced if I do, since there hasn't been the slightest hint of romance up to this point. And I'm still convinced I can eventually steer this into a situation where my restraint will result in her begging me to make my move. I want to be suave, not the eager beaver.

Plus (and this is a little embarrassing to admit,) I do feel like there's this whole "Riff Dog" image I have to live up to. (Like I said, it's embarrassing to admit.) In fact, it occurs to me that I care about being "smooth" more than I normally do. Coquette reads the blog, after all. She knows my tricks. I can't help but wonder what her expectations are.

At the same time, she's gotta be wondering what's the holdup here. Is Riff Dog all bark and no bite?

We get to the waterfront and she asks, "So, what should we do now?" Now there's a loaded question.

"Well, we could go up to your room," I offer. (Yes, I'm cringing at the bluntness of this line, too.)

"No, I don't think so," she laughs. "Not tonight."

Ah, so that's how she's going to play it. Truthfully, this doesn't bother me. You see, I view the "Not tonight" remark as a challenge. A test, if you will.

In fact, in my experience, "Not tonight" usually means "Yes tonight" if you play your cards right. What you *don't* want to do is to react in such a way that you show disappointment. Disappointment's close cousin is desperation, and desperation ain't sexy. The trick is to play along that you're not so sure tonight is good either. Mind you, I already suggested going up to her room, so I'm heavily handicapped in convincing her I'm not interested in fucking her. But try I must.

"Oh, I just thought it might be fun to check out the view," I respond, knowing full well she sees right through this. Which is fine, because all I really care about is that a little humor shows through the obvious attempt to save face.

We're near the pool of her hotel. The Convention Center Hilton is huge, maybe 20 stories or so, and has a very nice pool to match. "Nice pool," I observe. (Yep, there's more of that sparkling Riff Dog conversation in action!)

We stroll around the perimeter of the pool. It's dark now and we're alone. We decide to sit down on lounge chairs. Separate lounge chairs. Conversation is still free and easy. But completely unromantic. Try as I might, my "chance" isn't presenting itself. The clock is ticking. This night is my only shot. I can't fuck around anymore.

Suaveness be damned, I lean forward and pull Coquette onto my chair. "What are you doing?" she asks, knowing full well what I'm doing.

I don't answer. Instead I look straight into her eyes, my hand on her back, slowly making circles. She does feel nice. The fabric of her dress is thin, and I feel her bra strap. I do love the feel of a bra strap through clothes. I pull her closer to me. Still saying nothing. Her "What are you doing?" question still lingering.

I kiss her. Just a short peck. She doesn't jump back or anything. That's a relief.

I kiss her again, this time longer. Coquette does have nice lips. She puts an arm around me. It's a deliberate motion that seems to say, "Yes, let's do this." I pull her closer to me and we kiss more aggressively. We've both been waiting a long time for this.

I ease my tongue into her mouth. She takes it and I feel her hand on my back, squeezing. Damn, this girl can kiss.

My hand is on her leg. I start to rub her leg as we still kiss. My hand moves slowly up, just a bit. Then back down. Slowly up just a bit further. And down. Slowly up . . . further . . . her hand stops me. She pulls away.

"They can see us," she says as she looks up at the towers of her hotel.

"But you're single."

"Yes, but I still work with some of them!" she laughs. "I can just imagine what they'd be thinking watching me let some guys put his hand up my dress!"

"Yeah, I guess that might make it a little hard to get taken seriously tomorrow." We kiss one more time, this time with no hands trying to sneak up any dresses.

"Let's check out the view," I suggest. There's a walkway along the bay. We walk to the railing. We hold hands as we walk. Ha! "Not tonight" indeed!

Coquette is leaning against the railing as we look over the bay. This dress really hangs nicely on her. It shows off her legs. I'm struck by how it follows the gentle curve of her back, then hugs her ass so very nicely. Whoever invented dresses deserves a Nobel Prize.

I stand behind, rather than beside her, my hands on her arms. Sliding up and down her sleeveless arms. We look out onto the bay. I imagine we must look like we're straight out of a Cialis ad.

There's a Dole plant to the left. We speculate what kind of fruit this plant processes. I lean to kiss her neck.

"Maybe pineapple," she says, as I reach around her, pulling her back against me. Damn, I love how her body feels against mine. And from this angle, I appreciate even more how her dress compliments her tits. I mean breasts.

"Could be bananas," I suggest. I pull her tighter against me. I wonder if she feels how hard I am. Probably best to not do any grinding right now. I kiss her neck. I start to push her forward, just a bit. Leaning over just a bit. God, she's so sexy in this dress. I want to fuck her right here. I push just a bit . . .

She turns around, facing me. Giving me a look as if I'm an incorrigible 8 year old, she says, "No!" as she laughs and gestures up again at the hotel.

"Oh, let's give them a show," I offer. "You know they'd love it!"

"Let's not."

"Just a little show . . . " When Riff Dog's, uhhh . . . "engine" starts to rev, it's hard to rev it back down.

Coquette laughs, then puts her hands around my neck and kisses me. The kind of kiss that says I just might be able to talk her into this.

But she does me one better. Looking to my left, she says, "I think that walkway next to the hotel might be a little more private."

Indeed, it does look that way. "Let's find out," I say, as I take her hand and we walk to this dark walkway between the hotel and some building next to it. Not a dangerous type alley, but more of a lover's alley. We walk about 50 feet down.

No windows look down on us here. The only eyes that might see us would be people walking along the boardwalk where we just were, or people walking down the street on the other end of this walkway. Perfect.

I lean back against the Hilton wall and pull Coquette in to me. "Perfect," I say, right before I kiss her. My hands make their way down her waist as we kiss. I feel the waistline of her thong through her dress. My hands slide down still further until they're on her perfect ass. Damn, it feels nice through the slinky fabric. I alternate between rubbing and squeezing. We're kissing more aggressively now, and Coquette is moaning audibly.

I stop kissing her. Looking right into her eyes, I take her wrists and hold them behind her. I turn her around. With her wrists in one hand, I take my other hand to the top of her back and and gently push her into a bent over position. She doesn't resist. Damn, is she really going to let me do this?

Hold on a minute. Let's hit the pause button here.

You see, it occurs to me that there's a lot of story left here, but I know how you hate long posts, dear reader. And let's face it, this post is already entirely too long.

So lets finish this part of our story on Monday. Be advised, though, it might not be suitable for work.

"Wait a minute, Riff Dog! Not suitable for work??? But you said at the beginning of this post that you didn't have sex!"

Oh yeah. I guess I did say that.

You didn't really believe me, did you?

Meet Coquette - The Gabriela Factor

2011-06-06T06:01:00.000-07:00

"You'll never guess who's coming out here."

"Ms Inconspicuous???" Gabriela has always had a girl crush on Ms Inconspicuous, so I kinda knew that would be her first guess.

"Nope. But you're close."

"Ohhhh, I know who. Coquette!"

"Yep. She's coming to San Diego next week."

Now, readers with good memories will recall from the last post that Coquette said she was coming in the next month, not the next week. The discrepancy is because I've waited a few weeks before telling Gabriela.

You see, I'm not completely sure how she's going to take this. Gabriela and I have been "dating" for about a year now and although neither of us has any ideas of leaving our spouses or anything like that, things are still fairly serious between us. I think the dominant/submissive nature of our relationship adds to that.

She reads this blog, of course, so she knows I'm no angel to begin with. But still, I never make any mention of other women, either in the blog or in our conversations. In fact, now that I think about it, I've been a pretty damn good boy the last year. Okay, mostly, at least.

So this is the first time a situation like this has come up. I suppose I could just not tell her at all, but weird as this may sound, I don't like the dishonesty of that.

"So, are you going to see her?" she asks.

"I think so." Actually, I know so. And Gabriela knows so, too.

"At her hotel?" Hmmm, Gabriela doesn't sound bothered at all about this.

"No, I think we're gonna meet for dinner first. But I wouldn't be surprised if we wind up in her room later."

This conversation is going even better than I hoped. Not only is Gabriela not jealous, she seems excited about this. I half expect her to tell me to bring a camera and film everything.

Now, I know what you must be thinking, "Damn, Riff Dog. How could a girl not be jealous if her boyfriend tells her he's going to fuck some other girl?" Good question, dear reader. You see, Coquette may be a one night stand, but Gabriela is my girl and she knows it. So, as weird as this might sound, I think there's a sense of her wanting to show off her boyfriend. As if I'm a reflection on her. (Yes, I know how egotistical this sounds.)

After the whole idea has really sunk in, Gabi says, "There's just one thing."

"What's that?"

"Give her a goooood fucking!" Yeah, I'd say jealousy isn't going to be an issue here.

So everything is cool with Gabriela. That's a relief, because truth be told, I'd be meeting Coquette either way. This way I don't have to lie about it. Although, like I said earlier, I don't think I could lie about this one, so this way there's no drama.

Coquette and I email a few more times as she figures out exactly when and where we should meet. This is a working trip for her, so she does have a schedule, as well as colleagues, to work around.

Now, there's one thing I haven't mentioned. You know how I said Coquette and I always end our emails with "I really want to fuck you?" Well, neither of us has written those words since Coquette said she was coming to Southern California. Neither of us have even hinted at it.

I can't speak for Coquette, but I can say for myself that I do indeed want to fuck her. But now things are "real" and practicalities come into play.

Don't get me wrong, I think we will have sex. But as I said in one of my "Cleaning Out My Locker" posts, I don't like to tell a woman, ""I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before." Because then she's going to expect me to fuck her like she's never been fucked before. Pressure and expectations are not your friends when it comes to sex. (At least for the guy, if you know what I mean.)

Especially since there are a lot of variables here. What if I don't find her attractive in real life? What if she doesn't find me attractive in real life? (Ha! That's silly, of course, but for the sake of balance, I have to add that ridiculous possibility.) What if she's engaged or serious about some new guy and I'd feel too guilty to fuck her? (Ha! There I go with the jokes again!)

Anyway, neither of us is making any sex references. Truth be told, although I do want to fuck Coquette, what I'm looking forward to most is meeting and talking. Yes, I'm serious about that. The chemistry we have (all online, by the way,) has always been more personal rather than sexual.

But that's a topic for later. We'll take things as they come, which is my preferred way of doing things anyway. I love the unknown. I love winging it. For you musicians out there, I never write my solos out ahead of time. It just isn't as exciting that way.

So we decide to meet at 4:30 in the lobby of the Omni (a hotel by the Convention Center) and figure out drinks and dinner from there. Coquette is staying at the Hilton, which is across the street, but doesn't want to meet in the Hilton lobby because her colleagues might be there. Not so much that she's worried about being seen with me (she's single now, remember,) it's more because she's skipping out of the late afternoon seminar to meet me. In case anyone else is playing hooky or wandering about for one reason or another, it would be smart to not be right there in the Hilton Lobby.

San Diego is about two and a half hours south of Los Angeles. Kind of a long drive, but let's be real, what guy here wouldn't drive two and half hours to meet Coquette? Yeah, like I was saying.

So I figure I should leave around 2:00. Who knows how traffic will be, but if I'm late, I do have her cell number and she has mine. (My Mischief Phone, not my real phone.)

Speaking of Mischief Phone, at about 1:45, I get a call. I recognize the number.

"Hi Gabi."

There's no response for a few seconds. Then a very quiet voice asks, "Are you still at the office?" The tone of her voice tells me everything. It's hard to believe this is the same girl who, just a few days ago, was excitedly telling me to "Give her a gooood fucking!"

"Yeah, I'm still here. I don't need to leave for a few minutes. Are you okay, Gabi?"

Again, there's no response for a few seconds. "It's hard to think about you having sex with her." Uh-oh. She's definitely come full circle with her feelings on this.

"Well . . . I don't even know that we will have sex."

"Yes you will." Gabriela's no dummy. Fuck, I was not prepared for this conversation. Especially not now.

"Gabi, no matter what happens with Coquette, you know you're my girl. Not her." I can imagine how ridiculous that must sound - "Hey, I'm gonna fuck this other girl, but don't feel bad because you know I like you best!" But it seems like the right thing to say. I suppose I could try to lie and say we won't have sex, but that would be insulting to Gabriela.

"Really?"

"You're my girl, Gabriela. No one can replace you. You know that."

"I know. But . . . " This goes on for another few minutes. Eventually we get to the point where Gabriela isn't completely reassured, but at least she's feeling a little better. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you about this. I'm sorry."

Okay, now here's where you're going to have to indulge me for a minute. You want to know something weird? I actually wonder to myself if Gabriela is hoping, at least subconsciously, for me to handle this in an entirely different way. I kinda wonder if Gabriela is hoping I might be . . . cruel. I wonder if she's subconsciously hoping I'll taunt her with this.

You see, Gabi and I often dabble in the BDSM side of things. Not always, but often we're playing some sort of Dominant/submissive game. For anyone who's read her Monster's Den post, you know that she does like things pretty hard core.

With physical things, I have a pretty good feel for what's a turn on, versus what's too much. I can read her pretty well. We don't even have a safe word.

But with the mental stuff, like calling her names, or playing emotional games with her, I'm a lot more cautious. Too cautious for her tastes, I sometimes suspect. But words can truly hurt, so I'm hesitant to test boundaries with them. Calling her a whore or a slut are all pretty safe. Even more fun is making *her* call herself a whore.

But beyond that, I get a little less comfortable. I don't think I could call her ugly, or get racial. Mind you, in the Monster's Den story, I did indeed make her call herself a fat, ugly whore, but that was only as punishment for her implying in one of her blog posts that she was fat and ugly. (She is certainly neither, but was trying to be self-deprecating in the post.)

I once asked her what would be off limits emotionally. How mean would be too mean with my words? She said I could go much further than I do. In fact, she said I could say anything, no matter how hurtful. The abuse of her emotions would be a turn on.

Could this be such a case? Could it be that she's secretly hoping I'll tell her how glad I am to fuck somebody besides her? How I'll probably like fucking Coquette more than her? How I may not even want to fuck her anymore after I've tasted Coquette? How I'll probably never even want to see Gabriela again?

None of those things are true, of course, but I do wonder if that's what she wants to hear. Is that something she would get off on?

But I'm not taking that chance. First, because I don't think that was really her intent. Second, it's not something I would get off on. "Say you're a whore. Say the words!" is fun, in what I readily admit is a twisted way. But "I'd rather fuck Coquette than you" is just too risky, so I'm not going there.

Still, to this day, I do wonder.

Anyway, I stick to the truth that she can't possibly be replaced by Coquette as my girl. We've been through too much together that one date with someone else could change that. She's feeling better now. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

My mind is a little tweaked now, but that doesn't stop me from my mission. After all, a dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do. I check a few last minute details at the office, put on a shirt with buttons (it's a special occasion, after all,) snag a pack of Altoids and hop in the car to ~~begin my trek to San Diego to hopefully fuck a fellow sex blogger~~ drive to Sunset Sound Studios for a late night recording session with the fellas. Working late tonight, you see. Yep.

The drive to San Diego goes pretty smoothly. Traffic's not bad at all. About halfway there, I get through to Laguna where the "5" follows the coastline for the prettiest part of the drive. It's then that I hear that familiar little Mischief Phone jingle. It's Gabi. She tells me she's sorry about her earlier call. And she tells me to have fun with Coquette.

Well, if I must . . .

Meet Coquette

2011-06-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

I know this may be hard to believe, but there was actually a time when "Ashley and Me" would go for months without endless vacations or lame excuse posts. It's true! Riff Dog would actually post on Monday, then Wednesday, then the next Monday, and the next Wednesday, then the next Monday after that . . . it was dizzying!

And he'd actually stick to the story! He'd introduce Sandra in one post, then tell you more about Sandra in the next post. And then keep going with Sandra in the next post after that! For, like, 10 posts in a row! No "Cleaning Out My Locker" posts. No "Personal Trainer" posts. No "Listen to My Damn Song!" posts. Just non-stop story action. Crazy, right?

Don't get me wrong, the blog was still a chore to read. (Although the posts were mercifully shorter than they are now.) But damn, it was nice to see that work ethic.

Now, back in those days (we're talking 2008,) there were far fewer "infidelity blogs" than there are now. There were a few, but most "sex bloggers" stayed away from the whole topic of fucking someone else's wife or husband. Some things are sacred, after all.

You see, it was a much classier time back then. Bloggers would write about peeing on each other or how many cocks they could fit in their ass. But the sanctity of marriage was always respected. So if one of those cocks in a blogger's ass did happen to belong to someone else's husband, then by golly, it was with full knowledge and approval of that husband's wife. Who was probably right there, in fact. Waiting to lick those cocks clean afterwards. Because like I said, it was a classier time back then.

Now, as I was saying, there was a handful of infidelity blogs back then. The one that inspired me to start "Ashley and Me" was Secret Lover's Lane. (Which still exists, by the way. Although Cherie is now divorced, so I don't know if it counts as an infidelity blog anymore.) I'd never read anything like it before. Truth be told, I'd never read any blog at all before. Heck, I only found Secret Lover's Lane because it came up in a Google search of "Ashley Madison tips."

I naively thought Secret Lover's Lane was the only infidelity blog there was. So I thought it would be cool to start one from the male perspective. Or dog's perspective, if you will. Because that's what the world needs, dammit. Mine would focus mainly on tips and stuff, and hopefully other guys would chime in with what worked and didn't work for them in the comments section. I had it all figured out.

But first, I had to start with my basic story so the fellas could see where I'm coming from. Claire, then Surfer Girl, then Sandra. I figured that would take about a month to get the basics taken care of so readers could see how it all works. Then to the tips.

Well, as you know, it didn't work out that way. I quickly learned that there were other adultery blogs out there besides Cheri's and mine. Really good ones, I might add. First was Titus Pepper's "The Philosophy of Infidelity." This one was so good that I wrote him an email, telling him how impressed I was. Cool guy that he is, he wrote me back! And he gave me a blog link, before I even knew what a link was!

Then I found Ally, and then Ms Inconspicuous's "Seduction of Infidelity." OMFG, as the kids would say! They'd write about all the details of their dalliances. How a guy might slap her ass before he fucked her. How he might stroke her hair and say, "There's my good girl." And rather than being offended by the complete political incorrectness of something like that . . . she liked it! A lot! Damn, Ally and Ms Inconspicuous both had me hooked.

They both linked me as well. I was honestly touched by that. As the new kid in town, it's nice to get that stamp of approval from people you ~~want to fuck~~ like and respect.

Now, here's where things veered a little off course. Thanks to these links from Titus and Ally and Ms Inconspicuous, I was getting real live readers. Amazing! But not dude readers. I was mostly getting lady readers. This surprised me, although I can't say I was displeased by it. In fact, it was pretty damn cool to be getting comments from the likes of Ally and Ms I and Rosie and Pocket Secrets.

But it did mean I had to change my plans for the direction I would take with the blog. So, ~~in order to try and convince one of these girls to fuck me,~~ since I'm the sensitive and caring type, I needed to pull the plug on my ideas for "Easy Ways to Dump a Girl After You've Fucked Her" and "How to Find Out a Girl's REAL Weight . . . BEFORE You Meet Her." And the "Meet Brenda" story would definitely have to wait. Yes, "Ashley and Me" became the pandering mess you see before you.

Okay, ready to switch gears? Good. Forget about blogs and forget about L.A. for a minute, because we're going to switch states and fast forward a couple months to a conversation between a young "Coquette" and a hopeful beau who we'll call "Buddy." No "action" had occurred (yet) between Coquette and Buddy because at the time, Coquette was what I like to call an "Email Queen." But Buddy, being both patient and smart, wasn't giving up on our Coquette.

Now, one reason Buddy is named Buddy (this is the name Coquette gave him) is because in Coquette's eyes, he was more of a friend rather than a potential lover. More of a regular buddy than a fuck buddy. Nice guy, but not on Coquette's immediate fuck list. (Not that Coquette was actually fucking anyone at the time anyway. As I said, "Email Queen.")

Anyway, Buddy mentioned in conversation one day that there is a blog called "Ashley and Me" that Coquette might enjoy. My theory is that Buddy figured once Coquette saw what a cad this "Riff Dog" character was, she would realize what a prize Buddy was in comparison, and beg him to fuck her immediately. A good plan, but it didn't work out that way.

You see, Coquette, having very questionable tastes, actually liked "Ashley and Me." So much so, that in the same way I started "Ashley and Me" as a male counterpart to "Secret Lover's Lane," Coquette decided to start her own blog as a female counterpart to this one. She even called it "Me and Madison." (Get it? "Ashley and Me" . . . "Me and Madison?" Oh, it's almost too cute for words, isn't it?)

Of course, she quickly learned that there are other blogs out there and dumped the "Me and Madison" name, changing it to "Meeting Madison." And later to "Coquettica." Where's the love??? But don't worry about me, because my ego is unfazed and to this day, I still take credit for inspiring what many will agree is amongst the best blogs we've seen.

I'm not just saying that because Coquette is the topic of this post, by the way. (Although up to this point, it would seem this post is more about Riff Dog than Coquette. Ah, a typical "Ashley and Me" post!) It's never been a secret what my favorite blogs have been over this last three years: "Seduction of Infidelity" by Ms Inconspicuous, "Crack the Whip" by Wil, and "Meeting Madison" by Coquette. (And "Eva Goes Hunting," of course, but with that one, I really am being partial.)

Anyway, from the very first post (about a girl in an ice cream shop faced with so many tempting choices) we knew her blog was going to be special. Very clever. Very honest. Very funny. And smart. Oh, how Coquette is smart.

Coquette had lead a very sheltered life up to this point (very religious background,) so the girl in the ice cream shop was a perfect metaphor. She's young and cute, so meeting men was easy.

In her blog, of course she'd write about these men. There was one guy she named "Don Juan." He had a picture of himself, shirtless, holding a copy of Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment." (Don't feel bad, fellas. I never heard of it either.) I teased her that she didn't seem to think the picture might be juuuust a little staged.

It became a running joke between us. Claire even posted "Riff Dog's First HNT" on her blog, a shirtless "me" holding a copy of Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment." Ah, those were the days.

Coquette and I would email. I never do that, by the way. I really don't. As fun as emailing ladies can be, it can eat up way too much time. But Coquette was special. I wanted to fuck her, of course, but more than that, I love her sense of humor and wit. Plus she's so open and honest. And innocent, if that makes any sense.

We'd talk about all kinds of things. Blogging. Families. Music. Work. And Entourage. We both loved Entourage. Coquette thought Ari was like me. I don't see that at all. (At least she didn't say Turtle.) But there was one episode where Ari had a moment that I really did identify with. I told her that part of Ari was me. It sounds silly now, but Entourage was kinda our thing.

We never talked about sex. But we started ending our emails with "I really want to fuck you." No descriptions of what this fucking would involve, mind you. Just those words. "I really want to fuck you." At the end of every email. We lived pretty far apart, so it would never really happen, of course, but it was nice to think about.

So everything was going great. But then . . .

One December day, Coquette forgot to log off her Blogger page on her laptop before she left for the evening. Her husband, alone with their kids, decided to order pizza. Coquette's laptop was right there, so he decided to use it to order the pizza online.

To say he got a shock is an understatement. He saw everything. Her blogs, her emails . . . everything.

A little later that evening, Coquette, completely unaware of what was happening back at home, got a call on her cell phone. It was her husband. He asked to speak to "Surrogate Husband." Readers of her blog will recall that "Surrogate Husband" was the name of one of her lovers she detailed in her blog. This was bad.

I did get one email from her, saying simply, "My husband found the blog. Still awaiting the fallout. : ( " We lost touch for a few months as she tried to work things out with her husband. She wanted to distance herself from the whole infidelity blogging world, including me. I can understand that. Any betrayed spouse would insist on that.

The whole episode was sad for me on a couple levels. First (and primarily) because of what she was going through with her family. But second because I had lost a very good friend. (Sad as it was for me, remember Buddy? Coquette's husband now had his contact information. ALL of it. To say it was a scary time for him is an understatement.)

Time passed. Coquette eventually decided (wisely IMHO) that she didn't want to work things out with her husband after all. (I won't go into detail here, but I don't like the guy.) They would eventually divorce.

During this time, she would again visit the blogging world. And me. We would email again. We were friends again. And eventually, we would again add those magic words at the ends of our messages. "I really want to fuck you."

Emails were never especially frequent. (I'm not much of an emailer.) But it was nice keeping in touch.

Then one day, after we hadn't written in a month or two, I got one of the shortest emails I've ever gotten from Coquette. Just two sentences:

How the hell are you?

Also... I'm going to be in SoCal next month.

Is It 2011 Yet?

2011-05-04T06:01:00.000-07:00

It is??? Damn, when did that happen? One minute it's December of 2010 and the next minute, it's ~~January~~ ~~February~~ ~~March~~ ~~April~~ May of 2011. Crazy, huh?

Okay, so during our little down time, I trust you've checked out our shiny new forum, haven't you? Sadly, there aren't ~~many~~ any threads there about how wonderful Riff Dog is. But that little flaw aside, there's some cool stuff there and it's a pretty active site. It turns out there are a bunch of people besides me with things to say.

One interesting thing there is that UpperMidwestAnon (who I suspect is a lawyer) checked the fine print of the User License Agreement that Ashley Madison makes you click "I Agree" to before you can log in. There is a (possibly new?) clause that says, essentially, that Ashley Madison can use your pictures, public or private, however they wish. That's pretty scary.

Mind you, it would be nuts for them to use any pictures in an advertising campaign or some other public way, since they can't be assured that the pictures we upload aren't fakes. (Pictures of a completely innocent neighbor or random person on the internet, for instance, who would then be completely within their rights to sue them.) But still, it's pretty creepy that they make a point of including the word "pictures" in the clause.

Being the "glass half full" type, I see this as an opportunity for us guys. As we all know, the ladies, being the shallow creatures that they are, are always asking for our Private Showcase pictures. But any guy who reads this blog knows that giving pictures too soon is a bad tactical move. Why give her an instant reason to weed us out? We never want to give a woman more information about us when we have the option of giving them less information about us. Mystery lures. Facts repel.

Still, some of these ladies can be pretty demanding. So what's a discreet dog to do? Simple. Explain to her that Ashley Madison has this clause about pictures, so now you're not comfortable with face shots there . . . blah, blah, blah . . . but you'll be happy to take this to email and exchange (say "exchange," not "send") pictures there.

What I like about this is that ordinarily, it's a struggle to find conversation topics when dealing with someone you barely know. But now you have something real to talk about that you can both relate to - those AM bastards! Plus now you're not just the guy who won't send her pictures, you're the guy who's "in the know." Like that kid in math class who could tell you pi out to 100 digits. Ooooooo . . . okay, so be careful about how you play the "in the know" card, but you get the idea.

Anyway, there's some other stuff in that thread that's pretty interesting, too, including UpperMidwestAnon noticing that Ashley Madison reserves the right to delete your credits after 90 or 180 days. But mostly the forum is a bunch of fun threads and some pretty good advice as well. (Even though it's not from me!) Seriously, check it out.

In other news, you wanna know something funny that happens when you take a long break from blogging like this? Other bloggers start deleting you from their blogrolls. Wussup with that??? Mind you, they don't ask me to take their names off my blogroll. And they happily accept the traffic those links send their way. Yet they still feel the need to remove me from theirs. Ah, the politics and inner drama of blogging. One day I'll have to start a blog about that. I think I'll call it "'Ashley and Me' and Me."

Okay, now, here's where I'm supposed to tell you that it's great to be back and then say something about how the monkeys and I have worked out our differences and "Ashley and Me" is open for business once again.

No such luck, though. Although I have a couple days free here, I'm still not out of the woods. But a number of people ask if I'm still here, so . . . yes, I'm still here. And yes, I'm fine. I swear.

So yes, this is essentially just another lame excuse post. But I'm reasonably sure I'll be back in the saddle this month. (And yes, I mean May, Ms Inconspicuous!) That's right, "Ashley and Me" is really going to return. I promise.

After all, we do still have a few loose ends here with the blog. First, I started the Hannah story . . . but didn't finish it!

Then I promised to tell you about meeting Coquette, but never did. And for some reason, I promised the Meet Coquette story before finishing the Hannah story. That makes no sense! Why would I stop the Hannah story halfway to tell you about . . . ohhhhh, now I remember.

Gimme a few weeks. I promise it will be worth it. Oh, and did I mention there's a forum now?

UPDATE: We'll be back in business next Wednesday, June 1st. (Can't post Monday, because that's Memorial Day.) For once, it won't be even be a lame "I'm Back!" post, either! Yep, I'm gonna dive right into Coquette. Wait, that didn't sound right . . .

Riff Dog's Ego Knows No Bounds

2011-04-11T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know it's April. And I know I haven't written a legitimate post since January. (Some might even argue that I haven't written a legit post since December.)

Well, rest assured, the torture will resume as soon as I am able. I promise! But that's a least a few weeks off. In the meantime . . .

A couple people have suggested that during this little layoff, it might be nice to have a forum, since a number of people check in here even when there aren't any new posts.

Obviously, I love this idea. An Ashley and Me Forum! A special place where everyone can discuss how wonderful Riff Dog is! Why didn't I think of this myself?

But then I was informed that that isn't what they were thinking the forum would be for.

Hold on a minute. What? Not all about me???

Silly reader. Why would I be interested in that?

"Because if there was a forum, people could post ideas or questions or maybe even post a profile they're thinking of using, but they want to get feedback on it first."

"Oh. That's a good idea, but I really don't have enough time right now to answer questions or critique profiles."

"No, Riff. You don't have to answer the questions. There are lots of other guys who are doing pretty well on AM, too. They might even have some ideas of their own that are different from yours and they could post them."

"You mean bad ideas, right?"

"No, good ideas. You do know you're not the only guy getting laid, don't you?"

Other guys out there are getting laid? Without Riff Dog's help??? My head was spinning here!

This got me thinking, "Hmmmmm . . . " (That's usually what I say when I start thinking.) "Hmmmmm, when Claire has logged on to AM, there have been a few damn good profiles that I wish I had thought of myself. And many of the commenters here do have some pretty insightful things to say. Maybe this forum thing isn't such a bad idea. Come to think of it, this is kind of what I envisioned when I first started 'Ashley and Me.' A community of sorts where we could all share tips or funny stories or even vent about things that happen.

"And, of course, talk about how wonderful Riff Dog is!"

So, because I care so very much for you, the faithful "Ashley and Me" reader, I have put together a shiny new forum. (Go ahead. Click!) I'll keep a link near the top of my sidebar that says something clever, like "Forum."

I don't really have any forum rules figured out. We'll probably play that by ear.

I think the way the forum is set up now, you don't have to register or anything to post or reply, so fire away. Although this post suggests it's a place mostly for the fellas, ladies are of course more than welcome.

Topics that would make sense would be any tips you have to share, or maybe a profile you're writing that you'd like people's opinions on, or some funny story that happened to you, or just something you need to vent about.

As far as this blog goes, I will indeed return in a few weeks. Coquette, Hannah . . . I can't not tell you those stories.

Ms Inconspicuous Was Right!

2011-02-28T12:21:00.000-08:00

Don't you hate that?

You see, back in December, I said in my "And What Do YOU Want for Christmas, Little Girl?" post that I would be taking a short little break and would be back in January. Well, the first comment right out of the box was from that smart aleck, Ms Inconspicuous, who wrote:

And by January, he means March.

~sigh~ She thinks she's so smart. Which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't turn out that she was right!

On the bright side, there's a reasonable possibility that I won't be back until April, not March. Ha! In your face, Ms Inconspicuous!

Now, I know what you're thinking. "But Riff Dog! Even by your lazy standards, this is a pretty long break! What about the blog? Don't you have any kind of work ethic at all?"

As a matter of fact, I do. At least by musician standards. (Which I guess means I really don't.)

But this (watered down) work ethic doesn't work the way you might think when it comes to blogging. It's all about keeping things in perspective. So I have a few rules I've made for myself pertaining to this blog. The first rules have to do with risk.

Rule number one is that I don't do any of this at home. I don't write or read blog related stuff, no matter how safe I think I might be. Even if everyone else is out of the house. It's too easy to forget that I didn't actually close a window, but instead just minimized it, so it's still sitting on the dock. Waiting to re-show itself at the worst possible time. More than one (former) blogger has made that exact mistake and is no longer with us because of it.

You see, you as a reader have an advantage. If you should happen to get caught reading "Ashley and Me," you can simply come up with a story about some friend who sent you a link with the words, "Can you believe this jerk???" In fact, it might even be a good idea to have a trusted friend actually send you that email once a week or so. You know, just in case. That way you can actually show your spouse the email as proof!

And then you can joke with your spouse about how stupid the blog is. (See? The low quality writing here turns out to be a good thing!)

And if you live in southern California, you can throw up the ultimate smoke screen and say, "You know . . . the writing style . . . the description . . . I think I might know who this guy is!" Lemons to lemonade, my friend. Not only are you not on the hot seat anymore, but now you and your spouse are having fun as (s)he tries to get you to spill the beans on who you think this "Riff Dog" bozo might be!

So you don't need to worry too much. But if I get caught with "Ashley and Me" on my computer screen, it's a different story. It won't take long for my wife to notice a lot of similarities between Riff Dog and me. Tall - check. Music biz - check. Devilishly handsome - check. Illiterate - check. My goose is cooked!

Of course, I could pull out my driver's license and show her, "Look Honey! See? It says ***** *****, not Riff Dog!" But my wife is pretty smart, so I don't think that one's gonna work. (Sure, marrying me showed poor judgement, but that doesn't mean she isn't smart.)

This all means safety has gotta be priority one. Therefore no blog activity at home.

The other rules have to do with priorities. No offense, dear reader, but you and this blog are a distant third on my priority list behind family and work. (Truth be told, you're not even third, but I don't want to give you an inferiority complex. I mean, let's be real about this. You don't seriously think that blogging about fucking your wife is a higher priority than actually fucking her, do you?)

So when things get busy here in Riffworld with family and/or work, the blog has to go dark for a while. Indeed, suffice it to say that lately, my plate has been a little full with family and/or work. (You weren't really expecting anything more specific than that, were you? Although for those who might wonder, I will say that all is well and there is nothing bad going on.)

I get asked all the time how I balance family life, work, "side action," and the blog. This is how. It's not the first, or even the second, or even the third time I've taken an extended break.

And if it makes you feel better, Riff Dog hasn't been getting extracurricularly laid in 2011 either. I've just been too busy. Oh wait, except for Connie stopping by the office unexpectedly a couple weeks ago. But that doesn't really count because I literally hadn't seen her in years and I had no idea she was coming and she was only here for a couple hours and we had to be really quiet because people were outside in the lobby and it wasn't even my idea and . . . and . . . oh, all right, it counts. (She looked great, by the way. It was really a nice surprise.)

So there. Give me two or three weeks. Then "Ashley and Me" will be back in all its inglory. (Hmmm . . . spellcheck says that "inglorious" is a word, but "inglory" is not. Damn. But I'm gonna use it anyway. Because I'm a rebel!)

Oh, one other thing. New readers to this blog (even the masochistic type of new reader who actually went back and read the archives. You know who you are!) might not know that tradition here is that "Lame Excuse" posts (such as this one) always self destruct when I return to regular blogging. That's because I don't like clutter in the blog. I don't want mindless babbling interrupting all the mindless babbling.

With that in mind, since this post (as well as the previous one) will be deleted in a few weeks, then so will the comments. So if you comment, don't make it too good. It's just gonna get erased anyway in a few weeks with the rest of the post.

Which, of course, means that this is your perfect opportunity to make that special confession. Or unload that deep dark secret you've always wanted to get off your chest. Go ahead, dear reader. Confess. It will feel good.

This Might Be a While . . .

2011-02-01T13:23:00.000-08:00

For obvious reasons, I can't go into detail about what's going on here (no tragedies or anything like that,) but I'm going to be out of commission for at least another week or two. Maybe longer, but we'll see.

Now, I know what you're thinking - "But Riff Dog! Who's going to ~~bore~~ entertain us while you're gone?" Silly reader. Since when have you ever felt entertained when I'm here? But that's a topic for another time. Only your therapist can really help you with why you subject yourself to my mindless ramblings.

Anyway, as is my custom (I'm such a slave to tradition,) I have a few new blogs to recommend:

First is Vanilla Mom, who writes what may very well be the best fantasies I've read anywhere. She really does have a gift for this and I can't recommend her highly enough. Granted, she isn't new, but by golly, I have to give her a plug. So to speak.

One thing, though. Contrary to what her name might suggest, she is most certainly not "vanilla." Mostly she indulges her submissive side, which can get pretty kinky, so consider yourself warned. (Or more likely, "intrigued.") Check out her most recent stories (all within the last week. This girl is prolific!):
The Mechanic's Deal
Photographs
Goin' Commando
Nightmare

But the fun doesn't end there! There are two actual new blogs that are worth a look, both by guys diving into the Ashley Madison waters and then writing about it.

First is "Talking to Bob," where Sweet Lou writes about his adulterous adventures with the twist of telling "Bob" about what happened. It's a pretty cool concept. I like this guy.

Second is Ryan Beaumont's "The Ashley Madison Adventures of a Regular Guy Gone Bad." The title kinda explains it all. To be honest, I've only read a few posts in this one and haven't had time to fully catch up, but what I have read has been fun. Check him out.

And even though I've mentioned him before, I want to give another shout out (see how hip I am with the lingo?) to Adulterous Letch for his "A6Y" blog. I love this guy's sense of humor and his blog is consistently top notch. If you haven't checked him out before, you definitely should.

Oops

2011-01-24T06:01:00.000-08:00

I kinda screwed up. You know those two posts last week? They were supposed to autopost THIS week, not last week.

I suppose I could try to put the blame on Blogger, but the truth is that it was indeed me who set them for last Monday and Wednesday. You see, I thought I was going to be back in town sooner, in which case that would have been perfect. I'd have two posts already written and ready to post last week, as I write new stuff for this week.

But one thing happened, and then another thing happened, and before I knew it, my "trip" was a week longer than expected. I actually knew this a couple weeks ago, so I really should have logged onto Blogger and changed the autopost dates to be a week or two later. But I kinda never got around to it.

Oops.

So not only was I unable to respond to the people who left comments last week (sorry for the rudeness,) but now that I'm (almost) back, I don't have any posts ready. Today you should have been reading the "Meet Your New Personal Trainer" filler post as I leisurely put together new Hannah posts for next week.

Instead, you get *this* post. As I leisurely put together new Hannah posts for next week. Assuming I can think of how to even tell the Hannah story.

Oh, who am I kidding. I know *exactly* how I'm going to tell the Hannah story.

But because this is "Ashley and Me" and I have my own way of doing things, I do have one more little diversion before we get to Hannah. No, it's not another workout post. It's not another theme song.

I have one word for you.

Coquette.

Tramps Like Us

2011-01-19T06:01:00.000-08:00

Someone once accused me of being manipulative with the blog. She actually meant it like that was a bad thing. Like trying to manipulate an audience must mean that I have some sort of personality defect or something. Riff Dog does have personality defects (speaking about himself in third person, for instance.) But I don't think this is one of them.

Of course the blog is manipulative. That's what makes it fun to write.

Take the Gabriela story, for instance. If you boil it down to what actually happened, it's not all that exciting. A girl I tried to meet on Ashley Madison later discovered this blog and we met in person and then had sex a bunch of times. It's a pretty short story if I tell it that way.

But it was way more fun (for me, at least) to first tell you about Sexy Fairy (Gabriela's profile name on AM) and make you believe (like I did at the time) that things were going great and we were going to meet. Only for things to not work out as I hoped. Then, rather than jumping right to the part about her finding the blog, I told a couple intermediate stories about Vanessa and Kylie. To keep you off the scent.

You have no idea how fun that was for me (as well as Gabriela, who of course knew the whole story) to be holding back like that. Maybe it's just me, but manipulating the audience is what makes storytelling fun.

Even with Hannah, it was still always my intention to do a couple false starts. That way, when I really did start her story (with the "Pay to Play" post,) you wouldn't know I was starting her story. I wanted that last line, "But my name isn't Janet. It's Hannah." to be a total surprise.

Riff Dog is a manipulatin' mofo.

One of the best live songs ever is Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." First, it's anthemic in it's arrangement. Second, the crowd feels a part of it and the whole crowd chants the "tramps like us" line. It's that American underdog thing, where we all identify with being "tramps." It's cool as hell.

But my favorite part is the instrumental interlude that comes after the bridge. (I'm not going to bother posting a link. We'll get to that in a minute.) The band plays this descending line that ends on a hold, where the band holds this note (chord, actually) for a long time. Everybody's waiting for the snare pop that leads to the last verse, but it doesn't happen. Bruce is milking it, and stays on that chord, essentially whipping the audience into a frenzy.

It's masterful. Audience manipulation at its finest. I wish I could say I've accomplished the same level of controlling an audience on stage, but sadly, I haven't. (Not getting booed was usually our main goal. Ah, memories of being an opening act.)

I bring that up because I tend to write from a musical perspective. I don't think of readers as readers that I'll never see, I think of readers of this blog as an audience. I wish I could see how each line is received. Did it work? Too silly? Too pretentious? Was it a surprise, or did you see it coming a mile away?

That's why I like getting comments. It's the only feedback I have. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for line by line analysis. A simple "Nice post!" or "This post sucked!" tells me what I want to know. And I really don't mind the "This post sucked!" comments, by the way. In fact, I kinda like them. The worse response a band can get is a smattering of polite clapping. Better to be booed than ignored. That's no joke.

As an a example of this, in my "Ashley and Me Theme Song" post, I got a lot of really nice comments. That was nice, because this was the first time I actually recorded a song for the blog, so it was kind of a big deal to me. (You know how musicians' egos are.)

But then, I got this comment from, oh, lets call her Veronica. You know, since that's her name.

When are we gunna hear the rest on Hannah?? I'm dying over here!

Now, note that Veronica didn't chime in after any of the Hannah posts. No "Oh, this is good! Keep them coming!" Nope. None of that. Instead, she waits until I post I song I wrote and lets me know that *that* is most certainly not what she wants to hear. Fuck your music, get back to Hannah! Pronto!

This cracks me up. It's like if Bruce is playing, "Ghost of Tom Joad," and then in the middle of the song, some guy yells, "Hey Bruce! Play 'Born to Run!'"

But it gets better! Knowing that Veronica didn't really mean it the way it sounded, I teased her with:

Not a music lover, eh?

But I guess she didn't get the hint, because she responded:

Oh, I am! I just want the good stuff.

I'm not makin' this up! This is just too good to not post. (Sorry, Veronica.)

I guess I'm supposed to take this as a compliment that she likes the Hannah story so much. (Although . . . maybe telling me so *during* the Hannah story might be a better way to pay the compliment.)

Hmmm . . . maybe I should try this technique myself. Next time when my wife serves some casserole or something, I'll say, "When are we gunna have meat loaf?? I'm dying over here! " Or maybe when she's trying on some new outfit and it's just a teensy bit tight, I'll say, "When are you gunna get back to your summer weight?? I'm dying over here! "

(Sorry again, Veronica. Riff Dog is mean sometimes. What do expect from a guy who speaks in third person?)

Do you know what I think happened? I think Veronica didn't listen to the song. I think Veronica saw a post titled "Ashley and Me Theme Song," and figured I just linked some YouTube video of the Gilligan's Island theme song, or that Cee Lo song that Art linked. So, not trusting that her old pal, Riff Dog, actually puts effort into his posts, she simply skipped it.

Why do I think that? Well, first, my incredibly oversized ego forbids me from believing anyone could listen to my musical masterpiece and not be dazzled beyond words.

Second, I keep a Statcounter on this blog.

Now, for those unfamiliar with statcounters, here's the deal. Most bloggers eventually put a "statcounter" (statcounter.com or sitemeter.com are two of the big ones) on their blogs to tell them if anyone is actually reading these damn things. They give you all sorts of useless information, like what city the readers come from (which is wrong half the time, by the way,) or what site they came from (if they clicked on another blog's sidebar to get to this blog, as opposed to using a bookmark or typing in the address) or even whether the reader is on a Mac or a PC.

Like I said, useless information.

But it's addicting, because all of a sudden, you start to care about how many readers are in Arkansas, and whether anybody gets to your site through a sidebar link on Suburban Hotwife's blog, and what Google searchwords people typed that led to your blog, and all sorts of other stuff that really doesn't mean anything. But it's still fun, because it's not like these blogs really mean anything in the first place, yet here we are.

So anyway, since I hosted the theme song on an outside site that keeps track of how much bandwidth I use, it lets me know how many people listened to the song. How many, you ask? A few hundred. Not bad, but considering the number of people who read (or at least clicked on) the post itself in those first few days was well into the thousands, something must be going on that only about 10% clicked the song.

Of course, some of the people who came here didn't really plan to come here. They were visiting some other site, saw a link that said "Ashley and Me" and clicked on it, hoping to see naked pictures of Ashley. (Suckers!) Of course, none of those people are going to give a rat's ass about some theme song.

But crazy as it sounds, even discounting those people who were fooled into coming here, there is still a fair amount of people who actually came here intentionally. I know that sounds nuts, but it's true! I know this because on my statcounter, a large number of people have "no referring link." That means they didn't click here from another site, they actually typed my address into the address bar, or else clicked a bookmark to get here.

On that Monday and Tuesday (the day of and the day after posting the theme song,) there were about a thousand of these sick individuals. (Seriously, to actually bookmark Ashley and Me??? That's gotta be one one of the signs of the coming apocalypse!) Yet, even amongst the people who came here on purpose, the vast majority had no interest in clicking on the song.

That kinda bothered me. No, it didn't "kinda" bother me, it really bothered me.

I get that people have their own reasons for coming here. And I get that not everyone hangs on every word I say. Heck, even I don't read half the stuff I write.

But wouldn't more than ten or twenty percent want to hear a song I wrote? (And recorded, which I can tell you was no small fete, considering I couldn't use anyone I know to sing it. I had to record everything anonymously over the internet, paying them with my bandit PayPal account.) I'm not saying it's the greatest song ever written. But still, weren't more people at least a little curious? Even to see if it was bad?

Manipulation . . . fail.

This is what I hate about "writing in the dark." My stats might tell me that there's a room full of people here. Hundreds, thousands, whatever. A full room is always nice. But are they listening? Or are most people complaining to the bartender to tell that damn band to turn it down?

I'm not sure that I can ever really know. But if nothing else, it does make me appreciate the people who do comment here. Thank you. You too, Veronica.

And if you didn't know there was really a song there, scroll down a bit to the theme song post. Give it a listen. After all, my songwriting can't possibly be any worse than my blog writing, right?

Meet Your New Personal Trainer - Riff Dog!

2011-01-17T06:01:00.000-08:00

And just in time for those New Year's resolutions, too! You know, with this still being January. (As promised! Screw you, Ms Inconspicuous!)

Anyway, I was at the bank today, doing a bunch of bank stuff (which is why I went to a bank.) I was dealing with an associate (or whatever the heck the people who have desks there are called) named Yolanda, this cute girl in her 20's. I'm going to guess she's Persian.

All I needed to do was sign a few papers, which took less than two minutes. But either Yolanda didn't feel like dealing with whoever might have been after me, or maybe she just liked chatting with Riff Dog, because she was in no hurry to hand me the papers I needed and send me on my way.

I was on my way to the gym, so I was in my workout clothes and wasn't wearing my wedding ring. And she was doing that thing where she twirls her hair on her finger, so I kinda like believing she was flirting with me.

Anyway, she mentioned that she wished she could get back into going to the gym. Apparently she tried for just one day last year, but never went back. She's very thin, but said she'd like to get into it because she's heard it makes you feel good. She asked whether I thought that made sense. (I swear she's gotta be flirting with me.)

I said that indeed, working out is great for you mental state. Then I said I bet I could guess why it didn't work out for her last year. And I was basically right. Here's how her one day at the gym went:

A friend of hers is a personal trainer, so he "helped" her on her first day. (I didn't guess that this personal trainer was a friend, but this being Los Angeles, I knew she'd want a personal trainer on her first day.) This first workout was two hours(!) long. (My guess was one hour, but since it was a friend, it looks like she got extra value.) He had her try lots of machines and her do lots of reps, even encouraging her with motivation like, Come on, you can give me two more!" (I guessed this exactly right. Almost all trainers idiotically do that on the first day.)

The next day, she could barely move. She couldn't even lift her arms to wash her hair. (I guessed that exactly right as well.) And of course, she never returned.

I'm a bit of a gym rat and I've witnessed this a thousand times. A newbie (man or woman) will come in with a trainer and do this monster workout. You know, to "get them started on the right path." 9 times out of 10, I never see them again.

Lesson One - Most personal trainers are idiots. Yes, they took a couple courses on nutrition and muscle dynamics, so they can tell you super secret stuff like "Eat vegetables" and "Working out burns calories." But you don't need these morons to tell you that stuff. Heck no! You've got Riff Dog! Your own Personal Moron . . . errr . . . I mean "Trainer."

Now I know people out there are always writing useless workout articles or posts that are really nothing more than the writer showing off what a tough workout they do. But that's not what this post is about. I'm gonna give you the same straight scoop that I gave Yolanda.

Lesson One - Most personal trainers are idiots. Yeah, I know I already said that, but I didn't really finish. They actually do know some useful stuff, specifically the proper ways to use the machines when your workout starts getting more serious. So they do have their uses. Just don't hire them until you've been working out on your own for at least a few weeks.

Lesson Two - Here's what your first day's workout should be in four easy steps:
1. Walk to front desk. Casually flirt with the person behind the counter, telling them it's your first day. Making friends or at least finding a couple men or women that you enjoy watching is going to be part of your motivation to keep you coming back.

2. Stretch. I don't care what stretches and I don't even care if you do them first or last in the workout. Until you've started to build some muscle, stretching is really more about general loosening up than it is about specific muscles being stretched. A couple minutes of this is about all you need.

3. Cardio. This is either the treadmill or bike or elliptical trainer. If you've never used one before, don't do the Stairmaster, because it's kinda tricky. Not sure how any of these particular machines work? Then choose one next to somebody else (preferably somebody cute) and ask them. Trust me, *everybody,* even the 'roid boys, is happy to help a newbie. Seriously, everybody is pulling for you to do well. The most 'roided out guy there was at one time either a fat guy or a skinny guy. People in a gym may look intimidating, but trust me, say hi and even the roughest and most tatted guy there is going to be friendly. I guarantee it.

How long should you do your cardio? 5 minutes. Less if it's hurting. Yeah, I know "the book" says you need at least 20 minutes, but how many minutes did you do yesterday? None, right? Last time I checked, 5 is more than 0, so take your time with this. The goal is not to do a lot today, the goal is to make it so you'll come back again in two or three days.

Next time you come in, try 7 minutes. Next time after that, maybe 10 if you're feeling good. Or stay at 5 or 7 if you're not. Our goal is not to hit a magic number, our goal is to not hate the workout.

4. Choose six machines:
a. Some sort of arm "press" machine. This is any machine where you "push." This works your triceps. It doesn't matter which machine. Pick one next to the cute guy.
b. Some sort of "curl" machine. This is any machine where you pull (or curl.) This works your biceps. I don't care which one you use. They're are valid choices.
c. Some sort butterfly machine, which is any machine where you slowly "flap your wings" in one way or another. This works your chest and/or back muscles. I don't care which machine.
d. A leg machine. I don't care which one or which particular muscles it works.
e. Another leg machine. I don't care which leg muscles this one works either, so long as it's different from the other one.
f. Situps. There are machines for this, or if you can do them without a machine, that's even better.

Are the machines confusing looking? Most have diagrams, but I always recommend asking for help, not from staff, but from other members. Like I said, anyone is going to be more than happy to help, because everybody wants you to do well. I can't emphasize that enough. I know these guys look intimidating, but believe me, they're truly on your side. The intimidating appearance is 9 times out of 10 due to shyness, rather than actually being a "tough guy."

Plus, the more people you meet, the better. The next time you come back, if you see one of these people again, they'll give you that little head nod. After a few more times, a "Hey, how ya doin'." After a couple months, a "Hey, you're lookin' great!" At that point, you will be addicted.

Anyway, on each of these six machines, find a weight setting that is just a little difficult, but don't knock yourself out. Do one "set" of ten "reps" (repetitions) on each one, but stop sooner if it's difficult. (If you can handle it, do 15 or 20 reps on the leg machines.) Take it especially easy with the situps if you have back problems.

If you're a little sore the next morning, then at your next workout, do just one set on each machine again. When you get to the point where you're not sore the next day, go to two sets. Then finally three sets. By then, this will start feeling good and you can look at the diagrams and add (or trade) machines that focus on different muscle groups.

Here are a few secrets. This based on science, as opposed to just repeating what people have said over and over for years:

The first 1.5 to 3 pounds of weight loss (depending on your height) aren't real weight loss, meaning it's not fat that you lost. Your body keeps this reserve supply that it can burn before it starts burning fat. This is why people who go on religious fasts for a day or two at a time don't really lose any weight in the process (other than a temporary loss that comes right back.) I'm way oversimplifying, but the bottom line is that real weight loss doesn't begin until *after* the first couple pounds.

Working out helps weight loss in two ways. First is the obvious way that you're burning calories as you work out. Everybody knows that. But the secret benefit is that as you build muscle, then you actually burn more calories even when you're sitting on your lazy ass reading Ashley and Me. That's because even at rest, it burns more calories for your blood to flow through muscle than it does for fat. Cool, huh?

In that same vein, leg muscles burn calories faster than arm muscles (because they're bigger,) so don't skip the leg exercises. They're your best bang for the buck.

It's not possible to "target" your weight loss, by the way. To lose weight in your abs, it doesn't matter whether you specifically exercise your abs or not. Running will be just as effective as situps. That's because your body stores fat wherever it's programmed to store fat (which is determined by your individual genetics.) When fat's being burned, your body doesn't care whether it's being burned by ab muscles or by leg muscles or by arm muscles, it's still going to take (or deposit) fat from whatever place(s) your body likes to store fat.

Think of your body like UPS. If you send a package from one side of Los Angeles to the other side of Los Angeles, it doesn't go straight there. It goes to St. Louis first, because that's where everything goes, then it goes back to Los Angeles. It seems silly, but overall it turns out to be efficient in the big picture.

Just like your body. If you're burning calories doing situps using tummy muscles, those muscles get their energy from your blood vessels. But those blood vessels aren't in a direct route from your tummy fat, they come from your heart (St. Louis.) Your heart and lungs and organs decide to get the needed energy from wherever it is they decide is best. Your stomach if you've eaten recently, or fat supplies from wherever your body likes to get it's fat supplies. It doesn't give a rat's ass whether tummy muscles are close to tummy fat. Or whether your thigh muscles are close to your fat thighs. It's going to make it's own decision on which fat stores to use, based on the genetics of your body.

This isn't really a beginning workout point, but it's a pet peeve of mine: Fellas, don't "swing" weights on cable machines. Nobody's fooled that you're really doing sets at 200 pounds on a pulldown machine if you're just leaning back and swinging it.

When you get to the point where you're doing two or three sets on each machine, you don't actually have to sit like a lump "resting" between sets. If you're short on time, rather than sitting there like a lazy dumbass listening to your iPod, go right to one of the other machines that does a different muscle group. Your muscles from Machine #1 will get plenty of rest during this Machine #2 workout. This is called "Circuit Training" because you're doing a circuit of the machines, then repeating the circuit for the second round of sets. The order doesn't have to be the same, just move to whichever of your machines is empty. The main benefit to circuit training, besides being faster, is you get a better cardio workout with it, since you're not resting so much.

Muscles need a day of rest, which is why people generally do their arms on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and do their legs on Tuesday, Thursday and possibly Saturday or Sunday. Personally, I have an easier time doing three long workouts rather than six shorter ones, so there's no reason not to do both legs and arms on the same days. Obviously your own schedule determines what's best for you.

You want working out to become a habit, so the more consistent your schedule can be, the better.

So there you have it, your first session with your personal trainer, Riff Dog! No charge.

Although ladies, tips are gladly accepted.

And What Do YOU Want for Christmas, Little Girl?

2010-12-15T06:01:00.000-08:00

A few peaceful weeks of not having to read that stupid "Ashley and Me" blog? By golly, I think that's something Santa can deliver. Especially since I'm gonna be out of town for a while anyway.

All the exciting "Ashley and Me" action will return in January.

The "Ashley and Me" Theme Song

2010-12-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

I finally figured out what this blog needs. Okay, besides better writing. And besides a more disciplined posting schedule. And besides more focus and fewer tangents.

Hmmmm . . . so now that I think about it, I guess this blog needs a lot of things. Most of which I have neither the time nor the talent to fix. Damn.

But the one thing I am going to address today is the total lack of a theme song here. It's disgraceful! You have no idea how many emails I get from readers complaining about it. Like this one:

Dear Riff Dog,

How come your blog sucks so much? Isn't there something you can do to make it better?

See? Clearly this person feels the blog needs a theme song!

Well, addressing blog shortcomings is job one here at "Ashley and Me" headquarters. You ask, we deliver!

So without further ado, I hereby present our new theme song:

As if we needed further proof that my self indulgence knows no bounds.

NOTE - If the player doesn't appear on your browser, click this link.

Meet Hannah - The Kiss

2010-12-08T06:01:00.000-08:00

I pull behind the obviously disabled car, get out and announce, "Hey! You're not allowed to park here. Move it or I'm calling the cops!" (Oh, I'm such a jokester!)

Cheryl, Yolanda and Hannah seem to recognize me and give me the appropriate courtesy laugh. Cheryl, whose car this is, tells me, "It just like . . . stopped running. Please tell me you know about cars."

"I know a little." The truth is that I know a lot. I grew up as a car nut. But having opened the hoods on more than my share of cars that stopped running for one reason or another, one thing I've learned is that there's hardly anything you can ever do, especially with modern cars, unless you've got a lot of specialized tools with you.

Sure, if you can see that a spark plug wire somehow got disconnected, you can hook it back up and look like a genius. But something obvious like that never happens.

So the drill is this: You look under the hood, asked the person to try turning over the engine. You jiggle a few things here and there, then declare that you think it's either an ignition problem or a fuel problem. Neither of which is there any hope of fixing right here on the street. I've done this a dozen times and only once was there been anything I could do.

Sure enough, I have absolutely no idea what's wrong with Cheryl's car. The engine turns over with no problem, so the battery's fine. (It started fine when they left the club, so that's ruled out anyway.) I don't smell gas, so it's not flooded. (Hint: If you do smell gas, then stop cranking the engine. Let it sit for a few minutes so the gas can evaporate. The longer, the better. Then try it again.)

I could pull the spark plug wires off and see if they'll arc, so I can see if the ignition is okay, but that would be just for show. It's not like I can actually do anything with the information.

But a funny thing is happening. I'll be damned if Hannah hasn't taken a sudden interest in auto mechanics. "What does this part do?" And "How does the engine work?" Hmmmm . . . okay, so maybe I will take off a plug wire and make it arc. That ought to be good for an ooh or an ahh. Especially at night, when the spark really puts on a show.

As I tell Hannah about the various parts, I can't help but notice how she looks first at my eyes, then to my lips. Then back to my eyes. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I always take this as a good sign. (Assuming I haven't been eating broccoli or something.)

I have to finally concede that, not surprisingly, I don't know what's wrong. No matter, because Cheryl has AAA and already called them before I even got here. I hang out with the girls while they wait for the tow truck. You know, because I'm such a gentleman.

The tow truck arrives. He doesn't even bother seeing if he can get her car running. He hooks up Cheryl's car to his truck and in minutes, is ready to go.

Garages aren't open right now, so the plan is to tow it to Cheryl's house tonight, then figure out where to take it tomorrow. Of course, Yolanda and Hannah would have no way to get home, unless . . . well, shucks, maybe I could give them a ride.

Yolanda and Hannah and I follow the tow truck to Cheryl's house. It might be a little overly chivalrous, but what the heck, you never can tell if a tow truck driver might be a serial rapist or something, right? We get to Cheryl's house, say our goodbyes to her, then back into the Riffmobile to take Yolanda and Hannah home.

"So where do you guys live?" (Please let Yolanda live closer. Please let Yolanda live closer. Please let Yolanda live closer.)

"I'm in Venice," Hannah answers.

"Take a left on Robertson and I'm about a mile south," Yolanda answers.

Ha! See? Chanting silently to yourself does pay off!

So off to Yolanda's we go. Luckily, we get to Yolanda's pretty quickly, because she's in full cockblock mode, asking me questions about groupies and whatever else she can think of to make me look like some sort of . . . dog! The nerve on her!

Thank God we get to Yolanda's house quickly. She gets out of my car and thanks me for the ride. Then says goodbye to Hannah. But not without giving her a look that says, "You just met this guy. Don't do anything stupid."

We pull away. "I don't think she trusts you," Hannah says.

"Me??? I'm more worried about whether you can be trusted. After all, I'm just a poor defenseless country boy!"

"Oh, I'll bet you're defenseless. So tell me more about the groupies," she teases.

"Groupies? Well, as I was saying, I've heard that in *other* bands . . . "

Okay, can I admit something to you, dear reader? I can trust you, right? Good. You see, groupies aren't a reality for your old pal, Riff Dog. Yes, groupies exist and can be (I'm told) almost as much fun as in the movies . . . provided you play in Metallica, or U2, or Guns and Roses, or Red Hot Chili Peppers. But Riff Dog successes are juuuuuust a bit more modest.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I haven't enjoyed a "fringe benefit" or two after a show. But it ain't nothin' like Yolanda was suggesting.

The funny thing is that although flocks of groupies aren't a reality for me, it's not necessarily a bad thing if Hannah thinks they might be. It's a fine line, because I don't want Hannah to think I'm sleazy, but at the same time, I'd like her to believe (rightly or otherwise,) that other women are throwing themselves at me. So I basically evade the question and just make suggestive jokes that neither confirm not deny.

We get to Hannah's house. "I should walk you to your door."

She smiles, but answers, "No, you shouldn't."

"I dunno, looks like a pretty rough neighborhood."

Hannah's no dummy. "I'll be okay," she smiles, knowingly. Damn. There will be no goodnight kiss (Riff Dog keeps his goals within reason) at Hannah's door. Damn.

But . . . she's not moving to open the car door. Apparently a kiss isn't out of the question after all. It just won't be at her front door.

"I'm glad you decided to come," I say, moving a little closer to her. She's still not making a move to open the door.

"Me too." Those green eyes moving back and forth between my eyes. The right. The left. The right. The left.

"Me three." My words are on autopilot. I'm moving closer to her.

"Me four," she says, barely audible.

I touch my left hand to her cheek. I stroke it softly. Her skin so smooth. I move still closer, our lips now just inches apart. She's there for the taking.

I kiss her. Her lips soft against mine. We kiss for just a few seconds before I pull back just a bit.

Wow. That was nice. I slide my hand from her cheek to behind her neck, then move in to kiss her again. She's kissing me back and reaches with her right hand to pull me closer to her. I slide my right hand behind her back and pull her into me.

Our lips are locked, but mouths opening and closing, as if devouring each other. No tongue, just lips on lips. Damn, this girl can kiss.

Her body feels so good against me. I feel her breasts against my chest. As I stroke my hand against her back, I feel her bra strap through her top. My fingers tracing the lines. God, I love feeling a bra strap through a woman's clothes. It's like I've snuck into some forbidden zone. Her clothes still on, but my hand knows what she's wearing underneathe. It's so intimate.

I slide my hand up her back and into her hair. Not pulling, just weaving my fingers into her soft brown hair. Still kissing. Our lips sliding against each others'.

I start my tongue into her mouth. She takes it instantly and sucks it in, moaning as she does. She sucks it hard, as if she wants to pull me into her.

I take my left hand to her waist and pull her tighter into me. Closer. She lets go of my tongue and now her tongue is in my mouth. She still moans. I suck her tongue into me. Then give her mine again.

She still moans. Such a feminine voice. I could get used to this.

I pull away suddenly and look straight into her eyes. She looks straight back at me, breathing hard, eyes locked on mine. Her look daring me to kiss her again. But I don't. I keep looking into those beautiful green eyes. I move my mouth closer to hers, but hesitate. Hovering so close, our lips barely an inch apart. But not touching her.

She moves her head up, trying to catch my lips, but I pull back. Teasing her. I again move closer, then hesitate. She closes her eyes, as if in surrender, and gives me the slightest little moan. God, she's so beautiful like this. So . . . mine.

I can't hold back any more. I kiss her and she immediately takes my tongue as our mouths twist back and forth, our lips sliding hard against each other's. I can't believe how perfectly we fit. And oh, that voice as she moans so sweetly.

I start to slide my hand up from her waist to her breast. She doesn't stop me. She's letting me do this. Her breast feels so nice. So soft through the lace of her bra. I moan approval as we continue to kiss.

I can't believe this is happening. I really had no expectations for this night except to play some rock and roll with some friends. And now I'm here kissing an amazing girl.

We stop kissing for a moment and Hannah says, "We can't do this."

"Can't do what?" I ask, right before I kiss her again.

Hannah pulls away. "Can't do this," she laughs. "This is nice. Really nice . . . but I have to say goodbye now."

"Well, I'd better at least walk you to your door, then."

Hannah's way too smart for that one. "No, I don't think so," she smiles.

"That's a long way, though! What kind of guy would I be if I let you walk all that way unescorted?"

"I think I'll make it. She pecks me on the lips and whispers, "But you can call me."

I look at her for a minute as if I might have another trick up my sleeve. But alas, I don't. I find a pen and she writes her number on the back of an envelope. Even her handwriting is pretty.

We kiss one last time. She gets out of my car and I watch her walk to her door. What guy doesn't love watching a girl walk? She finds her key, opens the door and waves as she walks in her house. No pantomiming a hand in the shape of a phone, as if to remind me to call her. This girl is confident. Rightly so.

I wave back, then drive off. Thinking about all that's just happened.

And wondering if it's really that big a deal that she doesn't know my full situation.

Meet Hannah - Better Lucky than Good

2010-12-06T06:01:00.000-08:00

"But my name's not Janet. It's Hannah."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought she said Janet."

"That's okay. But don't let it happen again!" she teases. Hannah has a great smile. She has a great everything, actually, but her easy smile is magnetic. And confident. I don't think Hannah gets flustered very easily.

She's wearing jeans and a white loose fitting top. Simple, but this outfit is definitely working. And as I said, she's very pretty. Green eyes, slightly curly longish brown hair and just a hint of freckles around her cute nose. She looks very much like Kate from Lost.

"So you played in a band with Aaron and Luke before?"

Now, this is what I call good news. Apparently Stacie has already told Hannah (and presumably Jenny and Yolanda) a little something about me. I always knew I liked that girl! (Although I wonder if Stacey also included the part about how I'm not exactly what some people might consider "available?")

The bad news is that the band playing right now is pretty loud (although we'll be even louder,) so it's hard to really have this conversation with Hannah right now. But try I must.

"Yeah, it was the first band I ever played in when I came to L.A."

"Were you guys any good?"

I smile and don't say anything, making the obvious inference that we weren't. The truth is that we really weren't that bad. At least that's what I like to think. But we'll soon find out, since 3 of the 5 original members are about to get on stage.

I think I catch Hannah glancing at my left hand for a ring. Silly Hannah. Most guitar players don't wear rings on their left (fret) hand or bracelets on their right (pick) hand when they play.

Assuming she was looking for a wedding band, I do have to wonder what effect that would have. After all, there are some single guys out there who actually put on a fake wedding ring when they're meeting girls. The theory being that the ring makes them more attractive. First, because it makes the guy seem forbidden, and thus more desirable. And second, because it's indication that at least one other woman out there has given this guy the stamp of approval. Both are powerful factors.

On the other hand, having a wife or girlfriend does introduce a moral hurdle that can be difficult to overcome with most girls. So I'm not sure whether being "attached" is overall a plus or a minus. I tend to think minus, so for now, I'll keep certain personal facts about my situation to myself.

The band onstage finishes their last song. Finally we can talk at a near normal level (only near normal, because the guy running the P.A. is playing music during the break,) but only for a minute, because I do have to get set up.

So with this opportunity, I dazzle Hannah with my conversation skills, "So, have you been to the Vodka before?" (With killer lines like this, really I should write a book!)

"A few times. We used to hang out on the Strip when I was in high school."

"You're an L.A. girl?"

"SaMoHi!" She does a little cheerleader move as she says this. SaMoHi, for you non-locals, is what they call Santa Monica High School.

"A cheerleader, no doubt?" I smile, teasingly.

"Aren't you supposed to be getting ready?" she evades.

She's right, but I still throw it back to her, "Bored with me already, huh?"

"No! I just didn't want to be keeping you." She puts her hand on my forearm as she says this, as if to emphasize that she's really not trying to get rid of me. I must say, I do like the added little "emphasis."

"You're right, I do have to go set up, Hannah." I start towards the stage.

"Break a leg."

"Thanks." I start patting my pants pockets, getting a panicked look on my face. "Uh-oh! Do you have a pick?"

To Hannah's credit, she recognizes that this is a joke, lame as it is. I'm liking this girl.

The 15 minutes between bands at these clubs is really a marvel of efficiency. The sound man (guy behind the P.A.) does not play games with how long you get to play, so if you're not ready to go in 15 minutes, you just wind up playing a shorter set, because even though you start late, your ending time stays the same. And he *will* kill the volume on the P.A. if you keep going past the time he signals you.

The drums are the trickiest part, along with keyboards, so we all help with that. Then we do a quick tuning, a quick "Testing, one, two. One, two" to make sure the mics are correct, and showing our veteran status, we're ready to start our first song right on time.

This is not a bad sized crowd at all, by the way. Nobody's crowding the stage or anything, but this is nice. The whole set goes well. We play eight originals and two covers (Black Sabbath's "War Pigs" and Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog.") A lot of these people know Aaron and/or have heard his previous bands, so they know some of his songs. That's a big plus when an audience knows your material.

This is mostly guitar riff oriented stuff, so it's a lot of fun for me. Lots of guitar solos, and yes, I admit to doing a little posing here and there. (I can be pretty shameless.) But I draw the line at flicking picks into the audience. Not because I'm above such things (this blog kinda proves I'm not above much of anything,) but I'm not willing to risk the very distinct possibility that tossed picks would just be ignored as they fall to the floor. That would be more than a little embarrassing.

I keep my eye out for Hannah. She seems to be enjoying the set. She's not rushing the stage or anything, but she's not checking her watch either. We do make eye contact quite a few times. I must say, if there's an ideal way I'd like a woman to be introduced to me, it would be like this. This is my turf.

We finish the last song and get a great ovation. I notice Hannah joining in with the Whoo!" screams. I could get used to this.

We're not allowed off stage until we've gotten our gear off. I start thinking of what I'll say to Hannah when I get back. That's trickier than you might think, because I don't want to make it all about the band (and me,) but at the same time, it would be a little weird to ignore the fact that we just played and that's why we're here. I think I'll go with a "Were we loud enough?" joke. Or maybe, "I wanted to play Olivia Newton-John songs, but they wouldn't let me!"

But my thought process is interrupted.

"Hi!" It's Hannah.

"Janet, right?"

She laughs. "You guys were great! You're really good!"

"Thanks. We were about to do our Olivia Newton-John medley, but we ran out of time." (Can't go wrong with the Olivia Newton-John joke.)

"I'll bet. Cheryl has to be at work early, so we're leaving. It was nice meeting you."

"It was nice meeting you, too," I respond, tongue tied for anything better to say. We shake hands. Not even a hug. And she's gone.

"It was nice meeting you, too?" Seriously??? Is that really the best I could come up with??? "It was nice meeting you, too?????"

Fuck. Why couldn't I have thought a little quicker on my feet and said, "You don't have to go, Hannah! Stay here a while. I can give you a ride." No, I couldn't say that. That would sound kinda presumptuous. And desperate. Our conversation was friendly, but we weren't really to the "Your place or mine" stage.

"Wait, Hannah! Let me get your number." No I couldn't have said that, either. That would sound . . . hmmmm . . . wait a minute, maybe I could have said that. Yes, I could! I'll say it now . . . except she's already almost to the door. Fuck. I'd have to shout. Boy, would *that* make a scene and let everyone know what kind of guy I am.

Okay, I'll just go catch her and be all casual and stuff as I ask her for her number. Hmmmmm . . . has Stacie told her my situation? How much does Hannah actually know??? Fuck, this is tricky. But it's now or never. At least if it winds up being weird ("My number? But you're not single!" *slap!*) it will just be the two of us and embarrassment will be kept to a minimum.

I barely start towards the door to nab Hannah when I hear, "Dude! You gotta get your stuff off!"

Fuck. It's a major no-no to leave the stage before your stuff is cleared. It's not something I can do. This opportunity is gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Next time I have to think quicker on my feet.

I finish packing up and load my gear into my car, holding some hope that maybe the girls haven't left yet and I'll spot them still gabbing by Cheryl's car. But alas, I don't see them anywhere. Opportunity . . . gone.

I remind myself that that's not really why I came here tonight, though. Keeping things in perspective, little snafu with Hannah aside, it was a fun set. You don't get that many opportunities to just play out purely for fun like this, so I really had a good time.

I say goodbye to Aaron and Stacie and Luke and the guys. I get into my car and start heading home. A lonely drive home. Not that I was going to convince Hannah to ride home with me, but damn, at least I should have gotten her number.

I guess it just wasn't my night. And it's my own fault. Call it "game" or whatever you want, but tonight I didn't have it. Sometimes you're good, sometimes you're not. Tonight I wasn't good.

As I head west on Sunset, I've only gone a few blocks when I notice three girls on the sidewalk. A blond, a redhead, and a brunette. They look a heck of a lot like . . . nah, it couldn't be.

I've already passed them, so I make a U-Turn, backtrack, then make another U-Turn so I'm approaching them again. I pull right behind a car with it's hood up. Not really parked normally, more like it coasted to the side of the street. Looks like someone is having car trouble.

All three girls look at me as I pull up. I'll be damned, it is them. I'm not sure if Cheryl or Yolanda recognize me. But the smile and mock look of "Are you stalking us?" on Hannah's face tells me she does.

Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

Pay to Play

2010-12-01T06:01:00.000-08:00

I'm minding my own business one otherwise fine evening when the phone rings. It's a male voice. He sounds pissed.

"Is this Mr. ***** ******? Listen, asshole, I found out you've been fucking my wife!"

"Well, someone's gotta do it! Her husband sure isn't gettin' the job done! Hey Aaron! How've you been?"

Aaron is a bass player and semi-decent singer from the very first band I played in when I came to Los Angeles. Nothing ever came of the band. We had a few conflicts and the band split up after just a couple months. Our career paths went in two very different directions from there, but Aaron's a good guy and we'll talk from time to time. Any time he calls, he always has to start with some gag like this.

"I'm doin' all right. Hey, what are you doing next Tuesday night?"

Classic sucker question. Answer with "Nothin' much," and you'll find yourself carrying his couch and refrigerator into a moving van. Or worse, you'll find yourself sitting in some theater, thinking you're there for "entertainment," only to realize halfway through that you've been duped into attending a Scientology recruiting event.

But none of that is Aaron's style, so I tell him the truth, "Not much. Why, is your wife lonely?"

"You wish! Nah, don't laugh, but I have an 11:00 slot at the Vodka. Long story short, the band I was playing with split and we're not doing the gig. Usual fucking drama. But the slot's already paid for. No point wastin' it, so I thought it would fun to get some of the old guys together and just jam for the hour."

Now, before I continue our story, I should stop for a minute and explain why a time slot is "already paid for." You see, the Vodka (Don't Google it. I changed the name. Slightly.) is one of a handful of Hollywood clubs that has what's called a "Pay to Play" policy.

What's "Pay to Play," you might ask?

Well, let's suppose you're a young pup who's just arrived in Los Angeles, 6-string in hand, ready to seek your fortune as a rock star. Everybody back in Smallville says you're great and tells you you surely you can't miss. Well, everybody except your parents, who think you should have stayed in college. You make them feel a little better by lying that you'll re enroll in a year or two if things don't work out. They don't really believe you, of course, but what can they do? So off to L.A. you go.

You hook up with a bunch of guys, form a band, write some songs, rehearse, take some promo pictures, rehearse some more, kick out the drummer because he can't seem to keep decent time, find a new drummer, rehearse some more, get new pictures with the new drummer, realize half your songs suck (actually more than half, but I'm trying to stay positive here,) write some new songs, rehearse still more until finally, you're ready to play that first gig.

But where?

Well, that depends. What kind of band are you in? I don't mean "Are you rock or R&B or country?" I mean what are the goals of the band?

You see, there are two types of bands in Los Angeles. Original bands and cover bands. Cover bands play covers, which means they play live versions of songs that have already been recorded. These are the bands that play songs like "Brick House" at your cousin's wedding or "I Kissed a Girl" at a high school dance or "Born to Be Wild" at some dive bar that has "Live Music Saturdays." Fun and sometimes profitable. Modestly, at least.

But record labels don't sign cover bands. And you didn't come to Los Angeles to make a few hundred bucks a week playing for tourists at the Holiday Inn Lounge.

You're in an original band. Original bands don't get paid. To add insult to injury, your list of possible places to play is waaayyyy shorter than a cover band's. And unlike most cities where cover bands outnumber original bands, in Los Angeles, there are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of original bands making serious efforts to be "discovered."

Most clubs that feature original music are open 6 or 7 nights a week and feature 4, sometimes 5, bands per night. 45 minute sets with 15 minutes for the old band to tear down and the new band to set up. Usually the club has a policy where the band gets a percentage of the bar or the door, but a certain threshold amount has to be hit. No band I've ever played in has hit that threshold amount.

So you're playing for free. Which is cool, because what you're really playing for is to develop a fan base and make a name for yourself, as well as to hopefully be seen by some record label A&R guy who is either there to see you or one of the other bands playing that night.

Are you following so far?

Now, nightclubs are not charities. They are usually run by people who really do love live music, but they have bills to pay, just like any other business. So they need a full club so that they can sell lots of drinks and put a little money in their pockets.

The problem is that most bands can't bring in a very good crowd. These are all unknown bands. Sure, some bands have played long enough to have a small name for themselves locally, but those bands are rare.

So the band can't count on people "just showing up" to their Wednesday at 1:00 in the morning gig at Madame Wong's. (You can Google that one. It's real and sadly, recently closed.) They have to beg their friends to come. That's a lot harder than you might think. Especially when you're begging those friends to come a second and third and fourth time.

So a lot of bands play to an empty room. Clubs don't like that, obviously, so they don't invite you back. Consequently, getting gigs is more a function of whether a club thinks you're going to bring a crowd, rather than whether you're very good. (In theory, those two would go hand in hand, but that's only the case after a band has been playing clubs for at least a few months.)

There's another option. A minority of original music clubs, basically the more glamorous of the clubs in Hollywood, have an alternative way of doing things. Rather than listening to you swear that your band will pack the house, they make you put your money where your mouth is. They make you buy tickets up front.

It works like this: You buy tickets to the club from them at half price. In advance. $500 worth. If you sell them all at face value, you'll collect $1000 for a $500 profit.

Good luck getting your loser friends to pay face value for these tickets. In fact, considering that these clubs also have two drink minimums, good luck getting them to pay even half price for these tickets. Save yourself the trouble of even trying and go ahead and give them away. And hope that even with free tickets, your friends will show. Because if they don't, the club will make you buy even more next time.

Welcome to the wonderful world of "Pay to Play."

Was that my longest tangent ever? Sadly, as anyone who's read this blog for very long can tell you, it's not even close.

Anyway, Aaron's band was booked at the Vodka. Admittedly, he's a little on the old side to still be playing places like the Vodka, but that's one thing I like about Aaron. He just loves the music and doesn't give a fuck about norms.

So Aaron's (now defunct) band has already paid for their tickets. The Vodka isn't gonna give them their money back.

Also of note is the fact that the Vodka, as well as the other Pay to Play clubs on the Sunset Strip, are indeed a little more fun to play, just because of the history of these clubs and their general "big time" vibe. And it *is* the Strip. So Aaron wants to gather some friends and just have a good time playing whatever.

"That sounds fun. Who've you got playin'?"

"Well, Luke on drums, of course. Then hopefully you. And me. There's this kid that plays keyboards who might be a good fit, and we could ask Danny to play guitar, too.

"Sounds cool to me. Might be fun to throw in a couple covers and play some Zeppelin or Sabbath, too. Yeah, count me in."

So we're set. We do rehearse once and come up with a 45 minute set list. This is all pretty heavy rock stuff, so the songs are easy. A few more rehearsals would make things tighter, but this gig is going to be all about having fun.

The night of the gig, I show up around 10:00, which is about an hour early. I put my gear into the special staging area, tune my guitars (yes, I'll retune right before we play, but you want to get them close beforehand. Trust me on this,) and head to the bar and grab a Heineken.

By now, the band before us is already playing. It's loud enough that conversation is difficult, so the routine is to find your friends, grab a beer and talk between songs. Curse the bands that have a tight show where the songs are bang, bang one right into the other!

I find Aaron and Luke (the drummer.) "Dudes!" By musician standards, that's considered "conversation." At least in the din of noise while this other band is playing. It's fun seeing these guys again in this setting. Adrenaline is already starting. We may be light on rehearsals, but we're gonna kick some ass.

Aaron's wife, Stacie, is with him. I've always liked Stacie. She's cute with a fun sense of humor. She'll even sometimes play along with the whole "sneaking off with Riff" joke, although we never really had sex or anything (that's a line I would never cross,)

I hug Stacie and we do the Hollywood cheek kiss. (Yep, that's how Riff Dog rolls. Oh, so chic!)

"******* couldn't come?" Stacie asks.

"Yeah, where's the old lady?" Aaron chimes in with his usual grin. "Didja tell her to stay home, because you knew she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off me?" Damn, I've missed this guy. Yeah, our shared sense of humor is childish, but it's a lot of fun hanging with him.

"Nah, there's no way she could make a Tuesday night this late," I explain.

Now, just between you and me, that isn't actually true. If this were a real gig, as opposed to a pickup gig, she might make it. But considering she's heard me play plenty of times before, this night isn't exactly a "You gotta be there!" situation. No offense to Aaron.

The band on stage is pretty good. Sort of a bluesy rock thing with a white girl singer. Kind of a Joss Stone vibe, but a little jazzier. I think I've seen this girl before. We watch them for a few songs. How do I know this girl . . . how do I know this girl?

Luke's (the drummer who also played in that first band) girlfriend finds us. I've never met her before, but it's still hugs all around. No Hollywood cheek kiss, though. Hmphh! She and Stacie seem to be good friends and they're chatting away.

The band is nearing the end of their set. More people are coming into the club. I guess Aaron gave away all his tickets and these people are coming to see us.(!) At least I'd like to think so.

A group of three girls I don't know head our way and are all smiles as they find Stacie. Apparently Stacie did her part in the tickets giveaway. Did her part very well, I might add, because all three are cute. She introduces me to her friends. No lie, they're a blond, a redhead, and a brunette. The band is playing, but I can still make out their names. Cheryl, Yolanda and Janet.

This isn't a hug situation, so I extend my hand for the usual polite handshake. "Hi Cheryl, I'm Riff." (I repeat my name, because with the loud music, who knows if she caught it the first time.)

Then "Hi Yolanda, how are you doin'?"

Then to the girl with the longish brown hair, who is the prettiest of the three, "Hi Janet. Ready for a little rock and roll?" Yes, it's a cheesy line, but considering I have to practically shout it just to be heard, it's about as good as I can do.

Janet shakes my hand and smiles. "I hope so!" I can tell immediately that I like this girl's vibe. Very upbeat and bright.

And I especially like the way she looked at me when she said that. She has these sparkly green eyes that are absolutely magnetic.

Then she leans to my ear and adds, "But my name's not Janet. It's Hannah."

Fun With Copyrights!

2010-11-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

Do you mind if I go waaaayyy off course for a moment? Yeah, yeah, I know I promised to talk about Hannah, but I'm still recovering from the holiday weekend. Besides, there are some misconceptions about copyrights that I keep seeing over and over again in the blogosphere and I keep telling myself, "Some day, I need to write a post about this." Well, by golly, today is that day.

Now, copyright law can be kinda technical (read: guy) stuff, so to make sure there's a little somethin' for the ladies, too, we'll start with a discussion on spelling. Ooooh, I can tell the ladies are already giddy with excitement!

Note that a copyright deals with "rights" about who can copy your work. It has little to do with "write." So the past tense (copyright is both a noun and a verb) is spelled (and pronounced) "copyrighted." Not "copywritten," which will make you sound like a goober.

Okay, with that out of the way, who's ready for some misconceptions?

Misconception #1 - I have to register my stuff with the guv'mint to obtain a copyright. - Nope. There's no need for that. A work is automatically copyrighted once it's either written onto paper or hard drive, or recorded onto tape (I'm so old school) or any storage medium. This entire blog is copyrighted, whether I send in copyright forms or not. Cool, huh? (This is all strictly United States law, by the way.)

The reasons for sending in forms are for purposes of proving you wrote something at a certain time, in case someone else claims to have written the same thing before you did. (Lying bastards!) But even that's usually unnecessary if you have witnesses or something was published (Google Reader, for instance) or all kinds of other ways of proving a date of creation.

The main reason for "registering" a copyright (sending the forms and some money to the Copyright Office) has to do with some technicalities when pursuing legal action (suing someone.) While this is a great protection to have if you're writing music or screenplays or books, it's less of a concern here in blogworld, because:

Misconception #2 - If someone steals my shit, I can sue their ass! - Technically this isn't a misconception because indeed you *can* sue them. Even if you didn't register your copyrights, you're still covered and can sue. But from a practical standpoint, no you can't. At least not unless you're ready to drop some major cash.

IP (Intellectual Property) attorneys start at $300 per hour and will want about ten grand just to get started. If a case actually goes to trial, your attorney fees will be 100 grand, minimum. And unlike slip and fall or car accident attorneys, IP firms don't take cases on a contingency basis unless they think the case is worth at least half a million. I'm not making this shit up. Why do you think bloggers never get sued for stealing pictures or song lyrics and posting them on their blogs? Which leads me to:

Misconception #3 - If pictures are originally posted in public places, they become "Public Domain" - Way, way, way, waaaayyyyy wrong. This one bugs me the most, because so many blogs make this big point on their sidebars about how their blog is copyrighted, don't steal any of it, blah, blah, blah, and then they'll justify posting various pictures they lifted by making some claim about them being "Public" or something. It just strikes me as weird to make an issue about not copying *your* work, while giving a bogus reason for copying some photographer's work.

Here's the deal on Public Domain: The only songs or pictures or books or whatever that are public domain are works that were created before 1923. The reason for that particular year is complicated and has to do with grandfathering previously PD works when the Copyright Act of 1998 was passed.

The bottom line is that if a work was created after 1923, then it doesn't matter how many times it's appeared in print or on the internet, it's still owned by the original creator (or publisher if he sold his rights) and still covered by copyright law. It doesn't matter if he didn't place a little "circle c" symbol next to his work (that hasn't been a requirement for decades,) it doesn't matter where or how many times it was used, he still owns the copyright.

Again, I should point out that I'm just talking about U.S. law. For most of the rest of the world (including in the U.S. for works created from 1923 onward,) the copyright term is live of the author plus 70 years. So "Purple Haze," for instance, won't be public domain until September 18, 2040, which is 70 years after Jimi Hendrix's death.

Misconception #4 - Song lyrics are okay though, right? - No. In fact, for a while, record companies tried to put a stop to lyric websites. But it got very expensive because there are about a ziliion of these sites and since most of them are very small, there's no real money that they can be sued for, so they kinda gave up. Not that most artists or even record companies are that upset about lyrics (when properly credited) being posted on the internet, it's just that there's a little quirk of the law that if you don't make certain efforts every so often to protect your works, then defense attorneys can later claim you abandoned them. Copyright law is weird.

Anyway, if you're going to copy and paste song lyrics and call it a post, at least credit whoever wrote it (often not the same as who recorded it, by the way.) It still isn't technically legal, but at least it shows respect. Especially if you're going to make this big deal on your sidebar or "About Me" page about how nobody better steal *your* work.

Misconception #5 - But when *I* use it, it counts as "Fair Use," doesn't it? - The Fair Use provision is one of the most misunderstood aspects of Copyright Law. That "misunderstanding" is often very expensive. For example, the TV show "Extra" was successfully sued a few years ago for millions of dollars when they were using music that they (incorrectly) claimed was covered by Fair Use. In a nutshell, Fair Use means that minimal portions of a work can be used in certain educational, news or critique situations. This means that you can indeed post part (but not all) of a song or lyric or video or picture if you're truly critiquing it. "I like this song" is not considered a critique, by the way.

Fair Use is way too complicated to explain in a couple paragraphs, but suffice it to say it rarely applies in any of the blog applications I've seen.

Now, before you start thinking you should delete lyrics and pictures from your site:

Misconception #6 - Damn, since when did Riff Dog become such a Boy Scout??? - Well, I do make my living from copyrights (royalties) and there are certain "works" I"m kinda proud of, so I tend to get a little touchy about this stuff. But with that said, I (as well as practically everyone I know) really don't care if you post lyrics on a blog, or if you post a YouTube video of you lip syncing to a song, or do your own remix and post it. Personally, I love it when I see that happen. It's flattering as hell.

Where I take issue is where songs or lyrics are uncredited. More than once, I've read a post where I thought the author had written a poem, only to later find out it was a lyric that someone else had written. That's where it becomes uncool.

In my case, I do pay for the pictures when I can. I paid a fee to iStock and Dreamstime for my banner picture and a couple of my sidebar and other pictures. But that's just me and that's not to say I think everyone else should do the same. Especially since it's really not practical for the very limited audiences (as well as budgets, ha!) we have. Truth be told, there have been a few pictures I couldn't get cleared but used anyway. Honestly, I don't consider it a big deal. Just don't get all high and mighty about how precious *your* work is.

Here are a couple little odd facts that might be fun to know:

Happy Birthday was written in 1924 and is therefore still copyright protected. The estates of the Hill sisters make about $2 million a year in license fees and royalties from that song. Every time someone sings that song in a TV show or movie, they have to pay a fee to the publisher. That's why you often *don't* hear the song actually sung on TV in scenes where you would normally expect it. Tightwad TV producers.

By the way, singing it, or any song, at home is completely legal. Copyright Law only applies when there's either a profit involved, or if there's public distribution, or in cases of performances or exhibitions in public venues. The internet, for instance. That's why YouTube pulls videos when requested by the copyright owners.

Remember that Bruce Springsteen song you heard on that commercial? You don't??? Well that's because Bruce Springsteen doesn't allow his songs to be used in commercials. He's been offered millions (can you imagine how many companies wish they could use "Born in the USA?") but he doesn't want his music used that way. I love that he (and a number of other artists) has the right to keep his music pure. To me, that's the best thing about copyright law.

Pretty Woman - 2 Live Crew was sued by Roy Orbison's estate for their rap song, "Big Ugly Woman," which blatantly lifted the melody and partial lyric from "Pretty Woman." Orbison's estate won, but appeals went all the way to the Supreme Court, where they overturned the award, buying 2 Live Crew's argument that "Big Ugly Woman" was a "critique" of Pretty Woman and therefore Fair Use applied. Personally, I like the decision because I think people sue too much over songs (I've been sued myself . . . and cleared!) but my opinion is that the Supreme Court's logic is wrong on this one. I could write a whole chapter on this case. Lucky for you, I won't.

He's So Fine - George Harrison got smacked for ripping off "He's So Fine" when he recorded "My Sweet Lord." People get sued all the time, but I mention this particular case because it's the most commonly referred to case regarding copyright infringement in music. Partly because it's such an old case and everybody knows both songs, and partly because it's such a slam dunk example of two songs being alike.

Ghostbusters - The producers originally wanted to use the Huey Lewis tune, "I Want a New Drug" for the film. Huey Lewis declined, so they hired Ray Parker Junior to come up with something close. Which he did. Too close, apparently, because he got sued and lost a ton of money on this one. Had the Ghostbusters producers not first contacted Huey Lewis and made it clear they wanted his tune, the songs probably wouldn't have been deemed close enough to warrant judgment, since any given song is at least slightly similar to all sorts of other songs. It's the old "There are only 12 tones in the scale" argument. But that initial contact by the producers to Huey Lewis proved to be the smoking gun which proved intent. Once intent is established, the rest of a case is easy.

Alone Again, Naturally - Another rap song, which is not surprising, because back in the early days of rap, it was fairly hazy in which cases an artist needed permission to use a sample from an existing song and which cases he did not. Since early hip hop was made entirely on turntables using existing records, and many people (like me, for instance) believe these hip hop songs are creative expression and a "new" creation, then it was hard to say exactly where a line would be drawn. For instance, does a rapper need permission for a single snare drum hit? (It's largely accepted today that he does not, although that's not hard and fast.) How about a snippet of a beat? How about the famous and ubiquitous "Amen Break," which is the foundation of all drum 'n bass tracks? It turns out that rappers have *generally* not been sued over beats.

But melodies seem to be where the line gets drawn. Vanilla Ice got nailed for ripping off the bass line from Queen/Bowie's "Under Pressure" when he did "Ice, Ice, Baby." Cypress Hill got popped for "Duke of Earl." The list is endless. Normally the consequence is the court will award all the writer's and publishing royalties to the claimant, which most people (myself included) feel is fair.

But the most extreme verdict was when Biz Markie did a song called "Alone Again" which was him wailing over the Gilbert O'Sullivan song of the same name (and melody.) The judge not only gave the writing and publishing royalties to O'Sullivan, but also the artist royalties, which is unheard of in these cases. As if that weren't enough, he then ordered the record label to have all copies pulled from the shelf, and recommended criminal charges be brought against Biz Markie.. Yowza!

I'm guessing the judge was not a hip hop fan.

Ready to Meet Hannah?

2010-11-24T06:01:00.000-08:00

It probably would have been more honest to title this post, "Meet the Cast," but if I had done that, would you have read it? Besides, I really did change a bunch of it, just for this special time right before we start our Hannah story. You don't want to go into Hannah being all ignorant, do you? Heck no!

So as a special Thanksgiving treat, I offer up this handy way to get all caught up on our story without having to go back through the archives and read about a hundred boring posts. Instead, you just have to read one boring post. This one!

Okay, getting ready for Hannah isn't the only motivation behind this post. You see, I'm a bit concerned that many people seem to have some misconceptions about me. They've jumped to some erroneous conclusions and are judging me unfairly. Yes, some people have started to think I'm sort of . . . dog! The nerve! Frankly, I'm a little insulted.

Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. So with this post, I hope to address both of these issues. Ready? Okay! Let's look at our cast of characters so far:

Riff Dog - That would be me. And as you're about to learn, I am poorly named. "Riff Gentleman" would make much more sense. Or if you really feel the need to focus on my flaws and weaknesses, then maybe "Riff Only Human." But "Riff Dog???" What the heck was I thinking when I came up with that name??? Sure, I might have an occasional affair that my wife doesn't know about, but . . . well . . . read on, dear reader, read on.

Various women before Josette - I don't know why I even mention these, because I figure the statute of limitations has run out on all of them. We're talking over four years ago, after all! There weren't even that many anyway (depending on how you define the word "many.") So let's not concern ourselves with any of these women. Besides, most of them, like Takira, were strictly oral sex only. If Bill Clinton taught us anything, it's that oral sex does NOT count as "sexual relations!" So I think we can all agree that I start this off with a clean slate: Riff Dog = Not a dog.

Josette - Okay, now here's where it starts to become clear what a good husband I really am. Seriously! Hear me out on this. Now, keep in mind, my wife's best friend, Sherry, is exceedingly hot. And don't even get me started with the other moms at my kids' schools! I'm surrounded by temptation!

But do I fuck any of these women? Heck no! What do you think I am? Some sort of . . . dog??? Silly reader. Being the good husband that I am, I know better than to go anywhere near that!

Still, I am but a mere man, in possession of a functioning penis. So I need a way to keep my mind off Sherry and all these school moms. A "pressure release valve," if you will. Plenty of those at the strip club, right? Enter . . . Josette!

You see, dear reader, I don't have sex with Josette because I want to have sex with her. I have sex with Josette so that I won't have sex with Sherry or the hot school moms! Do you see now? It's all just a matter of me going out of my way to do the right thing! Heck, if my wife ever found out, I'll bet she'd thank me for my thoughtfulness! I envision the conversation going something like this:

"Oh my God!!! I can't believe you've been cheating on me and fucking that . . . that . . . that stripper!!!"

"Well, technically, she's more of a waitress than a stripper, but . . . "

"Waitress?!? Stripper?!? What fucking difference does it make?!?!? You were fucking some other woman!!! You obviously don't care about me!!!"

"But honey, you're focussing too much on the negative here. I didn't fuck . . . uhhhh . . . which one is it you found out about again? Ah yes, Josette. Anyway . . . I didn't fuck Josette because I didn't care about you! I fucked her because I do care about you! Very much! You see, it was either her . . . or Sherry! And I knew how hurt you'd be if I fucked Sherry! There was no way I could do that to you! So I fucked Josette instead. Because I care so much about your feelings!"

"Oh Riff! You're always so thoughtful! How could I have doubted you? I feel like such a fool! Forgive me?"

"Of course, honey. Come here."

Then we kiss and have amazing make up sex.

Yep.

Then again, my wife isn't always the most logical person in the world, so it might not go exactly as I scripted it. Therefore, Josette and all other women (of which there are very few!!!) shall remain our little secret. But at least you, dear reader, see that I'm really doing this for all the right reasons, right?

So I think we're all still in agreement here: Riff Dog = Not a dog.

By the way, if you want some good tips on how to pick up strippers, check out Chapter 7 - Josette on my sidebar.

Surfer Girl - My first Ashley Madison encounter. This one's way back in the archives. Chapter 2, I think. A pretty quick read, by the way, because it's before I started thinking I'm James Michener , so you might want to check it out. (Look at Riff Dog talking about authors and stuff! See? I told you this was a high brow blog!) But if you're too lazy - errrr, too busy - to read it, then here's the short and quick of it: It was short and quick.

Yes, Surfer Girl was a one night stand. Or more accurately, a one horrible night stand. (Go ahead, read the chapter.) Very nice girl, but honestly, I only had sex with her because I didn't want to hurt her feelings by rejecting her. Yep. Do you see how considerate I am, dear reader? Tugs at your heartstrings, doesn't it? Heck, Hallmark should make one of their movie specials about me!

So you're still with me, right? Good. So our Dog-O-Meter still reads: Riff Dog = Not a dog.

Sandra - If you only read one chapter, read this one. It's my favorite one (except for Gabriela, but Gabriela is really two chapters, because . . . well, let's not get ahead of ourselves.) But I admit it's a little long, so the Cliff's Notes version is this: Within a few days of Surfer Girl, Sandra and I dated a few times, then had sex once a week for a couple months. Our personalities meshed really well. I liked Sandra a lot. She's very funny and quick witted, as well as being very pretty and incredible in bed. And she loves to kiss and does it well (my numero uno requirement.)

But . . . she's also one of the most uncaring people I've ever met. Zero sympathy for people who work for a living, for instance. That, combined with her occasional bizarre behavior made it so I was tiring of seeing her.

The breakup was unpleasant. No yelling or attacks, but she did a very callous thing to me, which I took as my opportunity to end things. She had a change of heart and wanted us to keep seeing each other, but I did not. Which she got pretty upset about. I felt bad, but I was firm in my decision to end things with her, largely because by then, I was already dating . . .

Connie - For the last month that I was seeing Sandra, I was also seeing Connie. I guess this is where my argument that I'm not a dog gets a little weak. But it was only a month of overlap, so it's not really that bad, right?

Connie is single, professionally successful, very bright, very caring and a prototypical MILF (Mom I'd Like to Fuck.) I swear her picture is in the dictionary next to the word. Sandra is pretty. But Connie is someone you look at and flat out wanna fuck. Beautiful straight brown hair, dark skinned (for a white girl,) pretty face with bedroom eyes and a voluptuous body. And a speaking style similar to Samantha from Sex and the City.

We had sex once a week (barring schedule problems, which were many) at a hotel near where I work. She offered "free delivery" by driving here to pick me up each time and even brought lunch because she wanted the whole afternoon to be undisturbed sex.

Connie is what you hope for when you sign up on AM. Great conversation. Loves to kiss. Great sex. No commitment. She's basically . . . perfect!

Except she's single and decided to re-enter the legit dating scene. She thinks it's bad karma to be dating a married man while trying to find an honest man, so she gives me the boot. But don't shed too many tears for me, because if there's one thing you're going to learn about Riff Dog . . .

Monica - Okay, I know what you're thinking, "What the fuck, Riff Dog? If Connie was so perfect, then what's up with Monica???" Well . . . uhhhh . . . okay, so maybe my "Not a Dog" case has a few holes in it. I really have no excuse for cruising profiles while I'm with Connie, but . . . dammit, Ashley Madison is addictive!

I'll be sitting here, innocently minding my own business. Perhaps a little bored with what I'm supposed to be doing (work, for instance.) And I start to think, "Hmmm, I wonder if anybody interesting has signed on to AM recently? I'll just take a quick little look. Just the first page of profiles, that's all!" Totally innocent and harmless, right?

Well, before you know it, one thing leads to another, and all of a sudden, there's some Latina hottie on my pinball machine moaning, "Fuck me, Papi." How can this be considered my fault???

Anyway, Monica is a single Latina with a daughter she's raising herself. She's very sweet and I like her a lot. We had sex one night in January. She decided seeing a married man wasn't such a good idea (thanks to some meddlesome gay guy where she works) and that was it. But the door wasn't closed completely, because we did meet again a couple months later. I'm hoping that door opens yet again.

Cutiful Girl - We never had sex or even met in person. I only include her here because she's one of the chapters and you might have thought I left one off. The only reason she has a chapter in the first place is because I thought some things about our emails were amusing. Plus, some guy in Texas ripped off my opening email to Cutiful Girl word for word, so at least one guy thought it wasn't a total waste of time.

Paige and Rebecca - A couple weeks before Connie actually gave me the boot, I logged on to Ashley Madison just to see what's out there. Of course, being pure of heart, I had no intention of sending out any messages. I was still technically with Connie, so being not a dog, I would never do that! But . . . my fingers may have accidentally typed a few messages and hit a few "Send" buttons. Fingers can be unruly that way.

I met both Paige and Rebecca this way. Well, "met" is the wrong word because it turns out they were both Email Queens. Paige being the lying type of Email Queen, complete with fake pictures, while Rebecca was more honest. I liked Rebecca, but I don't do the cyber-affair thing, so that was that. Although she did offer to come to Los Angeles . . .

Anyway, both were pretty heavily into dominant/submissive stuff and I thought some of the email fantasies were kinda cool, so I went ahead and wrote chapters for them.

Amy - Sharp-eyed readers will notice that I started dating Amy before Connie actually dumped me. But in my defense, only for a month! Really, that's not so bad, is it? Heck no! Besides, I started dating Connie a month before I split with Sandra, so I figure Connie owed a month on the back end anyway. You know, to kind of balance things out.

Amy is very pretty and great in bed, as well as being very funny. (Read this chapter if you want to read some fun emails.) After a few dates, she tells me, "I like it when you get a little rough with me" and sometimes has this doe-eyed "Please Big Bad Wolf, don't hurt me" look that knocks me out. Amy is a keeper.

A few weeks after we started dating, she kicked her husband out and started divorce proceedings. I'd like to think it's because after a couple evenings with me, she decided she couldn't settle for anything less anymore. (You know, "Once you've tasted Caviar . . . ") But it turns out it had nothing to do with me. ~sigh~ She didn't have to laugh when I told her my theory! Women can be so cruel sometimes . . .

Anyway, things with Amy were going great. But a few months later, being newly single and all, she started legit dating and got serious with an English guy named Timothy. Serious enough that she arranged to meet me for lunch to dump me. Poor Riff Dog. Except . . . she changed her mind and decided she didn't want to dump me after all! Lucky Riff Dog!

Except . . . things are just a teensy bit complicated . . .

Sexy Fairy - Seriously, you should read this chapter. It's short and the rest of the story is much more satisfying if you do.

~~Too lazy?~~ Don't have time? Okay, I'll give you an overview. Sexy Fairy is a Latina I emailed a few times and really wanted to meet. (Yes, while I was dating Amy. So sue me!) Unfortunately, we never did meet and she's forever gone from our story. ~Sigh~

Vanessa - A couple weeks before the lunch where Amy was going to dump me, I logged onto Ashley Madison and I met Vanessa. She is very funny, very cute (although she doesn't like being called cute,) and . . . well, if you must know, we went to a hotel and had sex. This hotel encounter occurred six days before that lunch with Amy.

Kylie - Vanessa wasn't the only woman I met in those couple weeks before my lunch with Amy. Kylie is a striking woman, half white, half aboriginal with a hint of an Australian accent. Very sexy. Her husband is a total douche and is verbally abusive with her. We (meaning Kylie and I, not the husband and I) had sex here at my office four days before my lunch with Amy (that would be 2 days after the hotel encounter with Vanessa.) Yeah, I know, things are getting complicated. But I still haven't told you about -

Gabriela - Did you read the Sexy Fairy chapter like I said? Then you should read the Gabriela chapter. Seriously. At least read the first two posts. That, along with the Eva reveal, might be my favorite part of the whole blog (so far.)

~~Too lazy again?~~ Don't have time again? Okay, I'll give you an overview. Sexy Fairy somehow stumbled across "Ashley and Me" (the blog you're reading now.) She figured out that Riff Dog is the same guy who emailed her a couple months earlier. She emailed me and after a little back and forth, we met for lunch. When? The day before I met with Amy at the same restaurant (same table, even.)

Yes, I had dates with Vanessa, Kylie, Gabriela and Amy all in one week. Although the date with Amy was just so she could dump me (not for sex,) so it's not as dogly as it sounds. Then again, Amy wound up not dumping me, so . . .

Anyway, I'm not really the harem type, so I put Vanessa, Kylie and Amy on waivers (sounds so much nicer than "I dumped them," doesn't it?) Gabriela and I dated for over a year. I can't say how much over a year because we still need to meet -

Hannah - Can I be honest with you about something? Writing "Ashley and Me" is a lot of fun, but it is very time consuming. So much so that I've had to take a few breaks here and there. (Those breaks are so few and so short that you probably didn't even notice, right?) The truth is that I probably should have stopped writing the blog quite a while ago. But there's one reason I didn't. It's that I hadn't yet told you the Hannah story.

Trust me, you're gonna want to read this one.

"But what about the Dog-O-Meter?" - You're right, I almost forgot! Let's see, last we checked was after Surfer Girl, when it clearly indicated Riff Dog = Not a dog.

So what about with Sandra, Connie and Amy? Well, you'll note that except for a month of overlap here and there, I've been practically monogamous (at least with mistresses) with each of them! Yes, maybe I poked my nose around to see what else is out there a time or two, but many of those (Cutiful Girl, Paige and Rebecca) didn't even work out, so obviously those shouldn't count.

Monica sorta counts . . . but only two nights? A guy's gotta have some fun, doesn't he?

Now, about the Vanessa and Kylie and Gabriela situation. Some may erroneously think that this situation is proof positive that Riff Dog is indeed a dog. Silly readers. In fact, the opposite is true!

Remember, Amy was dating single guys at the time, so my days with her were likely numbered. So really, this was just a matter of me being practical and thinking ahead! Come to think of it, isn't the Boy Scout motto, "Be prepared?" And wasn't this just a case of me "being prepared?" Indeed it is! So when you really think about it, it's clear that Riff Dog is actually more of a Boy Scout than a dog! Right?

But enough of this silly nonsense about me being a dog. We have more important things to talk about . . .

Be Free and Prosper (Guest Post)

2010-11-22T06:01:00.000-08:00

Editor's Note - Art Manly is not one of our contest winners, but offered to write a guest post anyway. He leaves very funny comments, so I figured this should be good, plus I can't turn down an opportunity to let someone else do my work for me, so I took him up on his offer. Take it away, Art -

I had to say goodbye today to Alex last week. Well, it wasn’t so much a goodbye, as it was a good luck. She was the first girl I met on AM, and she exceeded all of my expectations. Young. Gorgeous. Southern. Independent. Smart. Wealthy. And, not surprisingly, married. I’ve known her for over a year, and our relationship grew into a friendship. A good friendship. A trusting friendship. We shared many things. Yet, often, we shared nothing. For so many reasons, she was my perfect AM match. We had some great times together, from dinners on Capital Hill to theater in Old Town Alexandria, to weekend trysts in New York City, to dance clubs on U Street to passionate sex on a rooftop overlooking the Georgetown Harbor. She is, perhaps, one of the most gracious, understanding and generous people I know. I mean that. She also has the best breasts I’ve ever seen or felt, and the most perfect ass..... but I digress…..

I saw Alex at most once or twice a month over the past year, and it was always very intense, and she always went out of her way to come to me. Sometimes, we met half way, but not often. We have chemistry and we’re dear friends. But it had to end. I had to let her go. My choice. Not hers. She broke a rule of AM. Or at least my rule. She became “un-married.” Yep, she divorced her husband, or to be technical about it, she filed for divorce. Sure, it was probably a long time coming. I don’t really know. Or for that matter, care. All I know is that she is now single. And I’m not. And. That. Is. The. Problem. Single people scare me. It’s all about agendas and expectations.

Let me rewind. And I’ll be as brief as possible. AM is my best and worst friend. I’ve had, by anyone’s account, very good success on the site. My profile describes me. It talks about my love of cheerios and wine, and how I love puppies and helping old ladies cross the street (*I don’t discriminate based on age……). My profile pretty much lays it all out there, in a humorous, professional manner. And I always contact AM prospects via real, paid messages. I spend time crafting my words (often cutting and pasting from previous messages, but I still take time to make sure there’s no typos, and that there’s a bit of humor to the message. That’s important, in my opinion.).

In my first message to Alex, I ended it by asking her if she preferred Zebras or Giraffes. That was the final line of the message – “Do you prefer Zebras or Giraffes.” Her response back, in its entirety: “If we’re going to talk about stripes versus spots, I’d prefer we focus on shoes, not zoos.” I liked her from that first message.

I remember the first date. We met at hotel bar, in downtown Bethesda. I got there early. She got there late (a theme repeated, over and over, in my relationship with her). I went straight from work and was wearing a dark blue, pinstriped suit, with a crisp white shirt and a great pink/blue tie from Saks. Alex showed up, overdressed in a blistering hot Lanvin dress and gorgeous Tory Burch shoes. She definitely stood out in this business-class hotel. There was an immediate attraction. She was exactly what I was looking for, in terms of looks and sex appeal. Conversation flowed. No gaps. No pretense.

We ended up having sex that night, in the back of her SUV. It was completely unexpected. It just happened. It was exactly as you’d imagine . Memorable. Hot. Passionate. Pleasing. And exactly what you wouldn't expect.... Totally comfortable. One never knows precisely what to expect in those situations. But I certainly didn’t see that coming. Alex was trouble. I liked her. A lot. Her olive skin. Her big brown eyes. Her perfect ass. Her perfect breasts. Her southern accent. Her views on life. Everything.

But not anymore. I can’t like her anymore. She’s playing by different rules now, and I’m going to miss her. When she told me last week that she had signed up for match.com, I knew we were over. It has to be this way.

-Art Manly

Editor's note - Sadly, this is the last of our guest posts, so on Wednesday, we're back to me doing the writing. On the bright side, no more big words! Heck, I'm still Googling half the stuff Octotherp wrote.

Return of William Shatner! (Guest Post)

2010-11-17T06:01:00.000-08:00

Editor's note - Octotherp isn't the only Contest Winner to have an update. Scott, a fellow Angelino whose Ashley Madison profile name is "William Shatner" (brilliant profile name, if you ask me,) has a story to tell as well:

When we last saw our hero, he was in the midst of danger and mayhem… (See this post for Scott's previous report.)

Having narrowly averted a first date with Candida, faithful listeners will recall that our protagonist met “Sherry” at a Borders bookstore in the Valley for coffee, discovering that Sherry was: (1) nicely shaped; and (2) a little flaky. The two met again at a bar, after which our aspiring philanderer did not make the same mistake as he had outside Borders, and kissed the lass – whose ample and extremely soft lips made for very sensuous kissing and seemed to hold the promise of future blowjobs. But her flakiness frustrated further attempts to arrange a “hotel date” and the fuse on this stick of dynamite fizzled out.

At which point Scott could have been forgiven for deciding that the cost/benefit ratio of this thing called Ashley Madison was not really worth his already overcommitted time. But again and again (usually on Mondays and Wednesdays) his thoughts returned to the question, “What would Riff do? Quit? Inconceivable! Besides, if he were to quit now, Scott would NEVER have a chance to meet Eva!" (You faithful A&M readers know her as Gabriella.)

And so Scott returns every so often to his Ashley Madison profile and William Shatner’s improbable career continues. Then one day in July while compulsively winking and favoriting every attractive seeming AM profile in the greater LA area, Scott gets a fateful message, short and to the point, providing a non-AM email address and suggesting an exchange of pictures. Scott sends her a key to his private picture on AM and then begins composing an email from his mischief email address to her mischief email address. . .

[At this point in the broadcast, the Narrator’s voice recedes and the listener can hear Scott speaking in the first person.]

She replies complaining how small pictures on AM seem, then tells me to stand by for a picture of her. She sends me one from her phone. She’s petite and, as I tell her in reply, “potentially sexy.” See what I did there? In a move I hope would make Riff proud, I kind of compliment her while sounding aloof enough that she will certainly not think that she is out of my league. It works – she is playfully offended by the suggestion that her sexiness is not conclusively established in my mind, and she treats it as a challenge.

The ensuing fussilade of email messages back and forth begins to establish a very enjoyable flirtation. (I still enjoy re-reading them, and this confirms that the initial thrill of the meeting/pursuing part of AM is a pleasure unto itself. Although like most things, it looks better through the steamy haze of a subsequently completed conquest.) It doesn’t hurt that she sends me a BUNCH of pictures, in many of which she is wearing lingerie or other skimpy, dressed for sex get ups. If this is really her, she is hot.

About a week later, we meet for drinks. I am very pleasantly surprised. I see her from behind headed to the entrance of the dimly lit downtown bar we have picked to meet in – she’s very petite (my wife is tall) but perfectly proportioned. I go inside and quickly spot her (at 3 p.m. it’s just me and her and the bartender, because they just opened). Dark hair, dark eyes, strong features (in a good way) and a great little body. She regards me with a not quite raised eyebrow expression that seems to say “hmmm, I’m sizing you up.” I buy drinks at the bar and we head to a leather couch . . . an hour and a half and two drinks later, she is holding my hand and sitting closer as we both grudgingly admit that we each need to head home. I walk her to her car . . .

Over the weekend, I can hardly stop thinking of . . . let’s call her Yvette . . . her warm touch, her fantastic accent and her refreshingly direct and honest personality, and of course the sexy pictures (since now I know it’s really her and she really looks like that). I drop her a quick note letting her know that I enjoyed meeting her. On Monday, I send her a short email, asking at the end “. . . let me know if you want to get together again.”

She responds asking “what do you have in mind for our next encounter?” To which I reply “I had something a little more intimate in mind, and hopefully long enough that we're not rushed at the end.” And she replies “sounds like a plan. xoxo” I have apparently passed the test.

Over the ensuing weeks it proves to be difficult to arrange a liason, between work and vacations, etc. And the fact that I don’t have an office with a couch and pool table etc. certainly is a liability in this regard. But we get together again for drinks and lunch and there is a steady stream of erotic email flowing back and forth, so I am not getting the flaky vibe like with Sherry. But I am getting very horny.

Finally, almost eight weeks after her first email, we have planned a real rendevous. That morning I get an emal from Yvette in which she writes “Looks like a great day for a tryst!” Gotta love this girl.

As a diligent reader of Riff Dog’s “Dangerous Liasons for Dummies” I have kept all communications to mischief email and have now arranged for a nice hotel room all in cash. (Sidenote, the female front desk employee who I would love to fuck, upgrades me to the concierge/club floor. Does she know? Does it matter?). I meet Yvette at the appointed time in the lobby, we head up to the room (where I have already put some wine on ice, along with condoms and lubricant) so she can stow her luggage (she brought several “outfit” changes and lots of footwear) and then to the bar downstairs for a drink, to relax a bit before taking this show back upstairs.

When we return to the room, she asks me what kind of outfit I’d like her to wear first. Inside, I am weeping with joy. Dealer’s choice, I tell her, and a few minutes later she emerges in a perfect slutty schoolgirl outfit. At this point, I should share that Yvette looks an awful lot like Lea Michele (aka Rachel on Glee), and she especially looks like Lea Michele as photographed in the November issue of GQ.

In the next five hours, she wears and then doesn’t wear three different outfits, each different, each awesome, and we have a lot of fun with some light role playing, some spanking, a lot of kissing and a fantastic amount of oral sex. Yvette smells and tastes faintly of orange when I kiss her, and she is a ravenous kisser. Her waxed pussy with a perfectly trimmed little landing strip is smooth and tight and makes me want to keep my face buried in it forever. I love that she proposes putting the hotel room furniture to good use so that she can mount my face while sucking me and I still remember the feel of her shuddering as she climaxed on my face.

Holding Yvette naked in bed while she relaxed afterwards is wonderful – like time stopped moving in real world outside that room. We take a break to indulge ourselves in the club floor’s offering and then we return to the room for more of each other. When at last I have to leave for the night, I am really reluctant to go.

Postscript – Yvette and I saw each other again after that for non-sex get togethers, but before we could get together for another playdate, she drops the bomb on me by email that she needs “time to do some thinking” and to focus her attentions on her home front. So Yvette becomes my first AM success and my first AM “breakup” if that’s the right word.

FWIW, I think most of what Riff preaches is the truth, at least to the extent that you can control certain variables (other stuff is just luck, and you can’t do much to change that) like your profile, your pictures, how you choose what profiles to spend a custom message on and the importance of confidence and (rational) persistence when pursuing women. Yvette, for example, replied to a wink I sent for free, and it would have been easy for it never to have gone beyond one or two meetings for drinks. AM definitely takes effort on your part as a man, but those efforts are sometimes richly rewarded.

Stay tuned for the further adventures of Willam Shatner!

Return of Octotherp! (Guest Post)

2010-11-15T06:01:00.000-08:00

Remember our Australian friend, Octotherp? Seems he has an update for us:

We interrupt our regular broadcast to bring you this important News Flash:

Picture this: Me in a Sir Galahad pose bathed in a golden shaft of light emanating from rent dark clouds, holding aloft the Holy Grail with the Heavenly Host crowded around singing, with gusto, the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah.

(For those younger readers who are not au fait with Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur picture this: Me in a Mario pose bathed in a golden shaft of light emanating from rent dark clouds, holding aloft the Power Star with the Mushrooms crowded around singing, with gusto, some weird Japanese Tune from Nintendo’s Mario Brothers game.)

I have done it, I had reached the AM pinnacle. But perhaps I am ahead of myself. Let’s jump into the Doc’s DeLorean DMC-12 and head back in time by a few months.

Well dedicated readers, I guess you are all wondering whatever happened to your sometime antipodeans correspondent (remember me, Octotherp?) Well I thought I would drop you a line to let you know what’s ‘app’ning.

As reported to you all some months ago in this post, I had thrown up my hands in disgust and had turned my back on AM thinking that I did not stand much of a chance of getting anywhere.

As you know there’s a scene in Aronofsky’s film “π” (i.e. “Pi”), where the protagonist, the mathematical prodigy and chronic introvert, Max Cohen, trepans himself with a power drill to destroy his own genius. As the camera zooms into his face you realise that he has become one of us mere mortals.

After my last experiences in AM-world I was left wondering if I was trying too hard, and needed to take a leaf out of Max’s life manual. Maybe I should remove all the high brow references to Pushkin, Tolstoy, Chekov and Dostoyevsky (yes Riff - dead Russian literati), to the French existentialists Marcel, Sartré and Camus and visionary movie directors like Leone and del Toro; and become a “Joe-Blow”.

Well I didn’t, and I left my AM profile up as is, after all surely this was the stuff that made me stand out from the crowd. Anyway, I would occasionally sign-in just to keep the “last log-in” ticking over. But beyond that I did not bother to actively pursue any ladies.

Well about three months ago I got an unsolicited message from, let’s say for the sake of this blog, a lady named “K”. She had attached her Private Showcase key and a message along the lines that she liked my profile and if I liked what I saw to contact her. You see my Profile had a one-two punch, something that I can’t remember Riff ever suggesting in his Handy Hints. I have a witty remark as my tag-line which ties in nicely to my public photo – a bit like a caption to a funny photo. “K” later told me that it was this combination that really caught her attention.

Well – her photos (five in all) were really appealing, nothing particular naughty; but one in particular, posed in such a way as to capture her mischievous personality, really got me going. I had to at least meet this lady to see if what was being portrayed in the photo was really her.

We meet for an introductory coffee, and….

Many, many years ago, my grandfather purchased a dilapidated beach-house, and renovated it into a comfortable, laid-back holiday cottage for relaxing and getting away from it all. As a kid, the family often used to go there for summer holidays. It’s a great spot, the house is isolated, largely surrounded by native Australian bush, and backs down onto a quiet, sandy stretch of beach. In my childhood, many a hot day was spent running amock playing pirates, building sand castles, and, when older, spying on the sister’s girlfriends sun-baking topless. Ah, those were the days.

I was very close to my grandfather. Anyway, without plummeting into the depths of sentimentality, he passed away a bit over three years ago, and guess who got the beach-house. Yep, me. The house is largely empty throughout the year due to its isolation, except on the occasions that my own family, or blood-sucking relatives, head up there. In short, it is a perfect, clandestine setting for a bit of surreptitious action. It is only a couple of hours drive to get there, so it is not too difficult to get to. Riff Dog may have his favourite “ask-no-questions” motels, his sound-proof recording studios and his pool tables (the felt of which must be highly stained these days), but I have my secluded private love nest overlooking a yellow sandy beach, gently lapped by the azure Pacific Ocean.

I told “K” about this spot and she was very interested in spending a weekend up there with me. We headed up early one Saturday morning. What a weekend! – it was of such excess that even Keith Richards would baulk at it for being “a little over the top”. Me, being the gentleman that I am, will only say that we didn’t spend too much time out of the bedroom during the two days we were there. You will just have to envisage images of water fountains a-spraying, corks popping from bottles and champagne frothing and erupting.

“K” and I are still “seeing” each other.

So what are the salient lessons here concerning the AM site. After all, my initial experience was not flash and was unsuccessful even though I put in a considerable amount of effort. And yet, here I am with a success story with the expenditure of very little effort (excepting regularly logging in just to keep my “last-log-in” ticking over).

Confused? Well, here is my take on it. (~warning philosophising ahead~) I think the key here is that after women get sick of looking through all those winks and pass-keys and messages from all the “try-hards.” they do go through the profiles themselves. “K” told me that a lot of the messages and pass-key photographs were extremely explicit, and a real turn-off, so much so that ultimately she gave up looking at anything in her inbox at all (maybe some of Riff’s female readers can confirm whether this reflects their own experience.)

So, if women are actually going to go looking for themselves, then you must put your best foot forward through your Profile. You must make it stand out from the crowd. The million dollar question is how do you do that? Riff has made some good suggestions in this Blog - the way the public and private photographs are composed, the witty words, the tag line – these are the only things you have to work with in your Profile, so think long and very carefully about what you show, do and say here. Sure, each woman has different turn-ons and not one profile will attract all women, so these need to be reasonably realistic, or at least as plausible as possible.

But remember ultimately it will be your own persona that will dictate if you will get laid or not. A good AM Profile will get your foot in the door, but then it is up to you to close the deal at that first critical meeting. AM will only get you as far as the first meeting, it is up to you after that. And how you handle yourself in this forst meeting, my dear readers, is over and beyond anything that either Riff or I can tell you about.

For me, the effort that I put into my profile really paid off, but it was my own persona that “K” fell for. So, just like Sir Galahad, I have attained my Holy Grail:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall!
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall.

(from “Sir Galahad”, Alfred, Lord Tennyson).

We now return you to normal scheduled programming.

(Editor – Actually, we have one more of these. Scott (William Shatner) also has an update he’ll be sharing on Wednesday.)

Cleaning Out My Locker - Part 3

2010-11-10T06:01:00.000-08:00

She Revoked my Passkey!!! - I always find it a little comical when women revoke their Passkeys. It's usually meant as an indication the we've pissed her off in one way or another, but rather than telling us, she passive aggressively revokes her Passkey, undoubtedly thinking, "That'll teach him!"

Silly girl. The first thing I do when I get a Passkey is to drag the picture(s) into a special folder on my mischief computer. Not so much because I worry about the key being revoked, but so I don't have to keep logging onto the damn site every time I want to see her picture. I also copy and paste her profile onto a text document for the same reason. It's handy, because sometimes I get details mixed up from one woman to the next, so if a girl pulls her profile (usually to show she's "serious" about our relationship,) I still have the profile to refer to so I can remember details i may have forgotten.

Amy's Date With the Guy Before Me - I'm amazed at how many first dates I'll go on where the woman will have stories of guys she already met, but who didn't quite make the grade. What's amazing is the absolute ineptness of some of these guys. One of the worst examples was when Amy told me about a guy who told her, "Wow! You're so beautiful, I can't believe a girl like you would go out with me."

This is a textbook blunder on two levels. I'll deal with the lesser error first: Never gush on a first date. The words, "You're so beautiful" should not come out of your mouth until you're actually in bed with her. Instead, you can say something like, "You look great!" But deliver the line in such a way that it sounds like women you meet often look great. Remember, you're a high quality guy, not a dweeb. So act like it.

When I say, "You look great!", the message I want to convey is "You've passed the first test. I hope you keep doing well, because so far, I like you." I'm not joking about this. If you go into a first date with the mindset of I hope I'm good enough, I hope I'm good enough, I hope I'm good enough," then you're gonna lose. Instead, you have to be confident that you are good enough, and instead need to hope *she* is good enough. *That's* the mindset that will get you laid. Make her wonder if *she* is playing her cards right.

Back to Amy's loser friend and his blunder, the larger (and unforgivable) error is the "I can't believe a girl like you would go out with me" part. I'm sure the guy thought this was a great way to amplify the compliment of how beautiful she is, but it doesn't even accomplish that. Instead, he's implying he's a loser that beautiful girls wouldn't normally go out with. What woman wants to go out with *that* guy?

Never, ever, ever paint yourself as a guy who women wouldn't want. Women want a winner. It's programmed into them through years of evolution, where the females want the alpha male. I'm not saying you need to jump on the table and start pounding your chest, but if you start acting like you've accepted your lot as an inferior, then all you're accomplishing on this date is making it easier for me to fuck her when I meet her in a couple weeks. So now that I think of it that way . . . thanks, dude!

Confidence - I once met a fellow Los Angeles blogger named SO@24 for drinks at a local pub. Really great guy. He wrote about our meeting in this post. What struck me most about his post is when he wrote about me: "He oozes of confidence." It always surprises me when people say that about me, because I generally try to carry myself as a humble guy. I'm convinced that my self confidence, more than anything else, is why I get laid when other guys don't. The topic of confidence could (and should) be a post of it's own, but for now, a paragraph will have to do.

How Come They Don't Have Garanimals for Adults? - I'm not allowed to dress myself when we go out. Well, that's not literally true, because I actually do get to choose what I wear. For the first attempt.

But then my wife looks at me and says, "You're not wearing that, are you?" At which point I've learned to say, "Nah, I was just kidding around with this. Uhhhh, what do you think I should wear?"

It's sort of a ritual we have.

Classy Lady - I came across a profile where the woman wrote this: 'If you are interested in me, please send a face picture only. No cock shots please. You must be a gentleman first and foremost. No vulgar men!"

I wrote her a nice message and gave her my picture passkey, which indeed, had pictures of my face and nothing "vulgar." She apparently approved, because she wrote back and included her picture passkey. Which included *three* full on beaver shots of her sitting on her bed, legs spread wide. I kid you not.

If nothing else, there is a lesson to be learned from this: Fellas, don't believe everything a woman says in her profile.

Timing Is Everything - Many women with profiles are already close to "sealing the deal" with somebody else. I can't even count how many times I've messaged some woman, then the next day clicked on her profile to see if she's logged in . . . only to find her profile deleted! Which basically means I was "too late."

Or . . . perhaps my profile and message to her was so awful that she decided to swear off men completely.

Preparing for Your First Date - It's important to properly prepare for that first date. You'll want to brush your teeth. Wear a clean shirt. Maybe even wash "down there" if you're feeling extra optimistic. But that stuff's obvious. You didn't come to this blog to read the same trite nonsense that Cosmo will tell you.

The *real* preparations you need to make have to do with what the fuck are you going to say to her? How are you going to keep the conversation moving in a way that's favorable to you?

Simple. Have your stories pre-planned and ready to go. Of course, you're not going to hog the conversation, but there will come a couple times when a story is just the ticket. Preferably a story that makes you look good, without looking like bragging.

Personally, I always tell the Claire story. It shows I'm a man with a plan, plus it shows I can laugh at myself.

The other story I usually tell is the Surfer Girl story. Now, I know what you're thinking. "But Riff Dog! You can't tell the Surfer Girl story! She'll think you're some sleazeball!"

Maybe. That is certainly a risk. But I think it's outweighed by the entertainment value of it, and most importantly, by the underlying message she won't consciously even notice, which is this: Out of the hundreds of guys who were after Surfer Girl, she chose only one guy. Me. Then, after more or less handing herself to me on a silver platter, it was me who was disinterested in her.

Did you catch that? You see, my date is learning, subconsciously at least, that I'm a discriminating guy with high standards. More importantly, I'm a discriminating guy with high standards . . . with options. I can fuck girls like Surfer Girl if I want. Sure, she had her flaws, but the fact remains, of all the guys who wanted her, she chose Riff Dog. And here's why the story is magic: normally if you tell a story where a girl chooses you out of all the other guys, it's going to sound like you're bragging and trying to impress her. But not this story because I never make that the point. I keep the point focused on the humor and the self-deprecating elements of the story, so instead of appearing to be bragging (which is what I'm really doing,) I sound like I'm poking fun at myself.

Thanks for the Advice - One thing that surprised me after my "Why Did You Take the Blog Private?" post was how many people felt the need to tell me how I should write this blog. (It's a long post, so if you didn't read it, the gist of it is that this blog is fun to write, but only if I feel it's "connecting." Otherwise I feel like I'm playing in front of an empty room and there's no fun in that. Egotistical? Yes. But it's my blog and I can decide for myself why I write it.)

Several people, no . . . make that *a lot* of people suggested that I shouldn't spend as much time as I do on each post. That I should write more "off the cuff." Presumably because then if a post isn't well received, it will be no big deal since I didn't spend that much time on it.

No offense, but that's one of the most idiotic things I've ever heard. (Hey, I did say "No offense.")

Don't get me wrong, I understand that for most people, blogging is a way to vent or express feelings or share thoughts or all sorts of completely legitimate things for which writing unedited and straight from the heart is absolutely the right way to do it.

But that's not what this blog is. You'll notice I don't talk about my kids or my job or the Lakers or any of that.

I write this blog as a challenge to myself to see what I can make of it. I'm not joking when I say I'm not a real writer. So Ashley and Me is my opportunity to take a crack at seeing if I can tell my story in a creative way that people might actually want to read. It's a personal challenge. For me, that's fun.

So why would I want to put a half ass effort into that? What would be the point of that? "Sure, it's mediocre, but at least I didn't spend that much time on it!" What the fuck?

What's the Protocol with Washing Your Hands? - Okay, so we're having sex. And being somewhat adventurous, oral sex is part of the equation. And being somewhat more adventurous, tonguing her ass is part of the equation, too.

So now it's time for lunch. Now, considering the fact that my tongue has just been in her ass, is it really all that important that I wash my hands?

Riff Dog Writes Too Much - Yeah, I see everyone nodding their heads with this one. Admittedly, my posts are a little long. But believe it or not, it would take *more* time for me to make them shorter. You see, the way I do it now, I just write down all the ramblings that comes out of my head. In the order they come out. For me to edit these ramblings and put them into a form so that they would sense would be huge task indeed. Plus, if I took out all the dumb stuff, there wouldn't be any blog left.

But I'm not talking about the blog here. (See? A perfect example of how nonsense just rolls out of my brain and I go ahead and write it down even when it has nothing to do with my real point.)

I'm talking about messages that I send on Ashley Madison. You see, you're actually better served (as the male) in this little game by being more on the brief side, rather than the long winded side. Mind you, you have to write enough so that you get her attention, but in these messages, it might be best to go easy on the length.

There are a couple reasons for this. First, a lot of times when I read back what I've written, I start thinking that with the mountain of words I've written, I could look like I'm trying too hard. Trying too hard indicates desperation.
Desperation is bad. Yes, the ladies enjoy all the attention they get as loads of men fawn over them, but 9 times out of 10, they're going to ultimately choose a guy with swagger who doesn't seem to need to try so hard. It's Jungle Law. The girl monkey wants the boy monkey that all the other girl monkeys want.

Second, you don't want to look like a chatterbox. The image doesn't suggest "studly lover."

I bring this up because as I was compiling our little review (you do understand that those were reruns that I ran here from July to October, right?) and rereading some of the emails I'd send to these ladies, I was struck by how damn long a lot of my messages were. Of course, some of the single messages you'd see here were actually several message combined so that the blog would be easier to read, but still, I couldn't help but shudder a little at the length of some of them.

It's a tough game. In this setting, writing is all we have, so I tend to write a lot in these first messages because I think it increases my chances of getting noticed and making the first cut. I dare say this method has served me pretty well. But I'm starting to think I might do even better if a trimmed a sentence here and there. It would look manlier. Something to think about, anyway.

As far as trimming the blog goes . . . dream on!

One Liners - I never did get a chance to use any of these, so here goes:

* You'll find yourself smack dab in the middle of Fuckedville. (Not to be confused with the much more pleasant town of Fuckville.)

* Heck, I memorized all the characters' names in Sex and the City. Shouldn't that be enough???

* I only take bets I'm 99% sure I'm going to win. Then, when I take those bets, I win about half the time. So what does that say about my overconfidence?

* I wonder if girls named "Claire" are getting fewer responses than normal because guys reading this blog refuse to take a chance on sending a message to me.

* I saw a woman with an "I Heart My Cat" bumpersticker. Seriously, what are the odds that this girl's had even one boyfriend in the last 5 years? Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with loving cats. But to actually get a bumpersticker???

* "wemen fucks hers dogs." This was a Google search phrase that led someone to my blog. I get lots of these, but this one in particular cracks me up.

* There was a woman on AM with the profile name, "Smartwater." Her profile kinda sucked, which was too bad, because I wanted to write, "I have to ask, what's the difference between Smartwater and Dumbwater?"

* What's the most valuable part of your body? Your mouth. Because that's what you lie with. (I was in one of "those moods" when I wrote this line.)

* I'm not the type to say, "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before!" Because then she's going to expect me to fuck her like she's never been fucked before.

TIVO - You know that feeling you get when your TIVO says you still have six episodes left of "Heroes," but you're tired of watching the show because as promising as the first season was, it's really jumped the shark. Yet . . . you kinda feel like you have to watch the remaining six episodes because you've already invested this much time into it.

Remind you of any blogs you know?

Cleaning Out My Locker - Part 2

2010-11-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

What If I Were Busted and my Blog Was Discovered??? - I think the worst thing about my blog ever being discovered would be all the resulting talk amongst our friends and acquaintances.

"Damn, did you hear about Riff? Not only was he cheating on Xxxx, but he has a blog and he wrote about it!"

"A blog? Riff can write?"

Even my real life friends have such low expectations of me.

These People Clearly Have No Taste - Here on "Ashley and Me," on very rare occasion, you might actually find a joke. Yes, it hardly ever happens, but every so often, Riff Dog makes an attempt at humor. Usually a poor attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

For instance, if you take a peek at my sidebar, you'll see where I have my "Followers" section. See the title? "These People Clearly Have No Taste." Get it? You see, I'm making the joke that if you would voluntarily choose to follow a blog as low rent as this one, then you clearly have no taste. Humour at it's finest! Okay, well at least *I* thought it was funny.

But at least one person didn't. She signed up as a Follower of the blog, then was none too pleased to see herself referred to as someone with no taste. Got pissed about it and even wrote me an email to tell me so. She seriously thought I'd looked at her picture, didn't like it for one reason or another, then decided to put her into this special group to be ridiculed for having no taste. (Apparently not noticing the 400 other people who were in the same group.) She not only wrote me an email about it, she posted about it in her own blog.

Oh, and guess where she works. Go ahead, guess. Did you guess Ashley Madison? Because if you did, you would be right. I'm not making this shit up!

No wonder that site is so screwed up.

Speaking of Sidebar Jokes - At the bottom of my sidebar is a picture of a blond woman in a bed, next to a guy with a balloon head. I happen to think that picture is hysterical, but I've gotten several emails asking why I have such a dumb picture there (this was mostly before I did the blog redesign and the picture was at the top.) You see, I think some people think I'm trying to imply through the picture that I'm a balloon head or something.

But that's not it at all. I'm gonna 'splain it for those of you who don't get the joke here.

You see, the blond woman thought her husband was right where he should be, in bed right there next to her. She probably said something like, "Riff, I'm thirsty. Could you get me a glass of water?" (Women are such lazy fucks, aren't they?) When she doesn't get a response, she nudges "me" and something doesn't feel right. So she lifts the covers and . . . Hey, this isn't Riff!!! Where did that dog sneak off to??? This is straight out of one of those prison breakout movies where the escapees put stuffing under the covers so the guard (wife, in this case) doesn't notice they're gone.

What takes this picture from being merely funny to being hysterical is that the guy actually took the time to draw a face onto the balloon head. You know, to make it more believable, since a ballon head with no face on it would obviously be fake. I still laugh every time I see it.

Ladies, Don't Work So Hard - Although the vast majority of women don't send polite rejections or acknowledgments of any kind to guys' messages, there are a few ladies who feel they should. They feel that it's the polite thing to do.

My advice? Don't. It will just put you into a bad mood because of how much time it will take, not to mention the fact that many guys will consider this their opening and pounce on the opportunity to write you even more, telling you what a prize you just missed out on.

Trust me, it will wear you out and that will take away from the fun. And if you're not having fun, then you're going to become annoyed even with the guys you do like. That ain't good because then you won't fuck those guys either. Seriously, it's best for all concerned if you don't feel obligated to answer every freakin' message. We guys know the situation.

Life Isn't Always fair - It would be nice if success on Ashley Madison, or any dating site, for that matter, was based on effort and a good plan. But it isn't.

Dating websites reflect the same biases and unfairness that you see in real life. Wait, no they don't. They *amplify* the unfairness that you would see in real life.

You see, there ain't nothin' fair about how things work on Ashley Madison. Most guys don't get laid at all. Most guys don't even get a sniff. Not even a meet for coffee.

And then there are the guys who manage to get laid. The sad part is, that guy who can get laid once, probably gets laid *a lot!* If one woman thinks his pictures look good, well, it's a good bet that most women think his pictures look pretty good. If one woman like how he writes, then it's a good bet that most women will like how he writes. And if one woman is charmed by how he handles himself in person, then it's a good bet that most women are going to fall for his charms.

Life isn't fair, but this is reality.

Height - When I said that dating websites *amplify* the unfairness you might see in real life, it's because they have to distill us into cold statistic filled profiles. Ask most women what they're looking for in a guy and she's unlikely to start off with height, weight, race, city and age requirements. But that's the first thing she sees when she looks at a profile on a dating website. Before she reads a single word you wrote, a first impression has already been made. Too old, too short, too fat, too black . . . you could be vetoed for what would ordinarily be a trivial characteristic.

At a party in the real world, you can charm a woman past just about any statistical deficiency. But online, it's a colder game. Your height or race or age are the first (and perhaps only) thing a potential lover sees, so the weight given those stats is greatly amplified.

I'm convinced that a lot of my success is due simply to the fact that I'm tall. I know that there are many women who won't look at a profile that's under 6'0". In real life they would, but since dating websites make it so easy to make blanket decisions to exclude shorter guys, they do it. Some won't go under 6'2". So my competition is automatically lessened. I'm well aware, of course, that there are lots of women who don't want a tall guy, but overall, I think dating websites skew disproportionately in favor of the tall guys. It isn't fair, but it's the way it is. If there's one stat you might want to fudge, I'd make it this one.

The Price of Meet Brenda - I knew I would lose some readers after the Meet Brenda post. And I knew I would be deleted from a few blogrolls. What I didn't expect was that some bloggers would delete me, then add me again, then delete me again. Then give me these long winded explanations of whether they think I'm an okay guy or not. The sociological experiment of the post and it's results fascinates me. I wish I had to time to go into full detail about the whole thing, as well as the fallout from the post where I explained that I like getting comments. If you ever want free personality assessments/critiques from complete strangers, then write a post like that. It's like they'd been waiting forever for the opportunity to tell me what they think is wrong with me.

The Proper Way to Think of Women - This was actually the beginning of a post I was going to write, but I never finished it. I still like the beginning and hate to waste it, so here you go. Ladies, you probably shouldn't read this one:

All right, here's the deal, fellas. You wanna get laid, right? So you cruise profiles and select suitable candidates to send messages to.

Now, as you read these women's profiles, it's only natural to start imagining them as "human beings," right? Don't feel bad. I fall into that trap sometimes, too.

Lets say you check out a particular profile and see that some woman is 5'6" and weighs 130 pounds. Sounds great, right? Because now that you think about it, this woman standing in line in front of you at the 7-11 was about 5'6" and 130 pounds . . . and she looked amazing! Why, I'll bet this Ashley Madison woman looks just like her!

So now, in your imagination, you've put a face to the profile. But wait, there's more! She's checked some boxes for Likes Oral Sex, Discretion a Must, and Good Personal Hygiene. By golly . . . those are the same things YOU like! It's almost like you're soulmates or something! It's destiny!

But the perfection doesn't stop there. She also writes a few sentences in her own words. She says she doesn't want to leave her husband, it's just that his libido is long gone and she just needs a special friend. She also says she's not into "drama!" Not only that, she'd like to "take things slowly at first."

My God, this woman is exactly what you're looking for!

That's absolutely the wrong way to think about them. By doing this . . . by thinking of these women as "human beings" . . . you're setting yourself up to get your head all fucked up when she doesn't respond to you in any way. Because trust me, the vast majority of women are not going to respond to you in any way.

So for now, when you're checking out these profiles, don't get too invested in thinking of them as "human beings." Nope. That's a recipe for emotional frustration.

Instead, think of these women's profiles (note I said "women's profiles," not "women") as faceless "investments." Think of them as . . . commodities. "Pork futures," if you will. (This metaphor works best if you come from a neighborhood like mine where "pork" was a euphemism for "fuck." And on the flipside, if the rejections mount, it can be comforting to think of "pork" as in "pig." The perfect sour grapes variation.)

Remember, Ashley Madison is ultimately a numbers game. So carrying on with our metaphor, we're in the business of investing in a shitload of pigs. With a little luck, one or two of these sows is going to win us a prize at the county fair! (The metaphor sorta has to end there because we don't want to actually fuck a pig. Although with some of these ladies . . . )

I know this sounds harsh, but trust me, it's going to be much easier to handle the inevitable rejections if you think of the process this way and don't get too invested in single profiles.

Meet Boomhauer - This was another post I never did finish, and It's kind of on the same topic:

MEET BOOMHAUER

Don't worry, I'm not about to fuck a cartoon character.

For those of you why don't watch King of the Hill (an animated primetime cartoon on Fox,) Boomhauer is the neighborhood playboy. He's always got some hot girlfriend and seems to pick up women easily.

So one day, Hank and Peggy Hill notice that their Junior High aged son, Bobby, is having no luck with the girls. So they enlist Boomhauer to help him with his game (they don't use those words, but that's what they meant.) Bobby is excited because he's about to learn all sorts of smooth technique from the master.

Boomhauer takes Bobby to a women's shoe store to show him how it's done. Bobby watches as Boomhauer approaches a woman and asks her out for drinks. Rejection. Undaunted, he sees another woman and suggests they meet later for dinner. Rejection. He approaches yet another woman. And gets another rejection.

Bobby can't believe that Boomhauer, the neighborhood lady's man, apparently has no game at all! He keeps watching as Boomhauer continues to strike out.

Until . . . he sees him approach yet another woman, who giggles and writes down her phone number.

Afterwards, Boomhauer asks Bobby if he saw the magic technique.

Bobby: "What do you mean? You got rejected 23 times!!!"

Boomhauer: "Watchoo talkin' bout, rejection? D'jou see how beautiful she is? Dang ol' got her number!"

Now, most of us don't have the nerve to walk up to dozens of women we don't know and ask them out. But on the internet . . . where we're basically anonymous . . . now that's a little easier!

Welcome to Ashley Madison.

Damn Locker STILL Isn't Empty! - Okay, one more day. I needed a Wednesday post, anyway.

Cleaning Out My Locker

2010-11-08T06:01:00.000-08:00

It's about time, don't you think? To be honest, I thought I was going to post this way back in June, at which time "Cleaning Out my Locker" would have made a lot more sense. Damn delays and going private and a bunch of other stuff totally screwed up my timing.

I tried to think of another metaphor (look at me using the fancy writer words!) that would work instead of "Cleaning Out My Locker" for this post, but I couldn't think of one. At least not in the limited amount of time that I devote to thinking of ideas for this blog, so let's just roll with the original idea and pretend school lets out in November.

Okay, so the final bell rings. The camera pulls back from the classroom door as all the kids rush out. Last out the door is Riff Dog. A couple of the other kids yell over to him, "Hey, Riff Dog! Aren't you coming with us?"

"I'll catch up," he answers. And he heads towards his locker. He works the combination one final time, opens the door, and looks at the pile of notes and papers. It would seem to be nothing but a mess of papers no one would want, but Riff Dog is sentimental. He gathers them all together and holds in his hands this collection of now-useless notes.

What notes, you might ask? Oh, I guess I should explain. You see, sometimes I'll have a joke or an idea or something that I think is kinda cool (you know, as opposed to the usual drudgery I write here,) but unless it's something I can use in the particular post I'm writing at the moment, I'll just save it for later and put it into this big master document where I keep all my "In Progress" stuff.

I like to imagine that this is how real writers work, by the way. Or at least how they should work. Heck, imagine how much better "Grapes of Wrath" would have been if Steinbeck had kept a notebook full of dick jokes he could throw in when he needed to lighten things up.

Anyway, the truth is that I hardly ever use any of this stuff. Plugging in an out of context, pre-written joke doesn't work as well as you might think when you're doing real writing. Or even in "Ashley and Me" writing. So here I am with a locker full of notes I don't need anymore.

So where were we? Ah yes, Riff Dog gathers his papers all together and holds in his hands this collection of notes he'll never need. And in classic teen movie fashion, tosses them into the air . . .

One Advantage of Dating Married Women - There is one advantage to dating married women. Unlike their single counterparts, who have all sorts of hopes and dreams and even expectations of what a man might be like, a married woman's dreams were shattered by a stiff dose of reality long, long ago. Nice, isn't it? Yes fellas, we have their husbands to thank for lowering their expectations. Thank you, husbands! Almost makes me feel guilty about fucking their wives. No, it doesn't.

How Do I Know If He Really Likes Me? - Simple, ladies. After we fuck you, if you don't hear from us again, then you know we were lying when we said we really like you a lot. But if we *do* try to fuck you again, then you know we were being truthful.

Simple, right? Mind you, this attempt to fuck you again must come within a week or so. Hearing back from a guy a month later just means he hit the Reset button on the Desperation Gauge.

Subsequent Messages Are Free - A lot of people don't seem to understand this and I think sometimes women don't respond to a message because they think they have to pay to do so, so I'll repeat: Subsequent messages are free. Meaning, ladies, once a guy has written you a Custom Message, you can then write anything you like to him (and vice versa,) as many times as you and he want, all at no additional cost to you or to him.

Try, Try Again - Fellas, if a woman doesn't respond to your first message, then don't be a pussy and give up. Like I just said in the previous paragraph, subsequent messages are free, so send her another one! And don't apologize for it, either. That would be wimpy, and wimpy isn't sexy.

Say something like, "Lucky you, your profile has inspired me to send you another message." Then actually write a new message, not just another boring invitation to check out your profile. Heck, if she still isn't responding after two messages, go for broke and send her a (pre-written) fantasy. Why not?

Worried the ladies might think you're being too pushy? Fuck them if they do. But again, don't be wimpy and worry about stuff like that. Consider this: A few weeks ago, the very sexy "Me" of "The Secret Life of Me" started a post about "Mr. Thongs" with these words: "Yesterday at the end of the afternoon I log into this adult dating site to find 3 new messages from the same guy. I find his persistance cute, so I decide to chat up with him for a bit . . . "

Don't Say Things That Are Already Implied - Bad title, but bear with me. The worst thing you can do in the "courting" process is appear desperate. You want to make the woman think you're a man with options. You know, because all the other women are after you. You know how it works: once a guy has a girlfriend, *that's* when all the other girls want him.

So you want to avoid making it look like you're desperate or pinning all your hopes on this one girl. Instead, you want to present an "I could take you or leave you" attitude. One easy way to do this is to avoid saying things that are already implied, like "I hope you'll write me back!" There's no purpose to a statement like that. Since you sent her a message, then *of course* she knows you want her to write you back, so you don't need to say it. By actually saying the words, you make yourself look a little desperate. These are the kinds of subtle hints that a woman subconsciously absorbs as she determines whether you're wheat or chaff.

Priority Messages - I used to send all my message Priority when I first started on Ashley Madison. What a waste of money (they cost 5 credits each.) It turns out that women don't get so many Custom Messages that you need to make it "Priority" in order to get noticed. Save your money.

And be advised that under certain circumstances, messages *default* to be Priority Messages. So keep an eye out that the Priority message box is unchecked, otherwise that message will cost you a couple bucks more than you expected. It's happened to me a few times when I wasn't paying attention.

Closing Time - I'm not trying to be mean, but one day I'd like to do an experiment and see whether heavy women get more messages as the day (evening, actually) gets later. Kinda like closing time at a bar. Again, I'm not trying to be mean. I just wonder.

Bizarro World - You know how in real life, a girl who's a 5 hooks up with a guy who's a 5, and a girl who's an 8 hooks up with a guy who's an 8? Ashley Madison doesn't work that way. Because the male/female ratio is so ridiculous (about 8 to 1,) women get tons of messages where the guys, desperate to say whatever they think might help them get into a lady's pants, will lay it on thick, telling even the beastliest of beasts out there how beautiful they are. Amazingly, these women start believing it, despite any mirror telling them otherwise.

The result of all this delusion is that women who are 4's or 5's expect to hook up with men who are nothing less than 7's or 8's. Women who are 7's expect men who are 9's or 10's. And women who are 9's or 10's get . . . Riff Dog! I don't really have a point here, I just like that joke.

Compliments - Compliments are tricky. The general rule of thumb is to go easy on the compliments with a girl who's an 8, 9 or a 10, because these girls are used to being barraged by dweebs showering them with "You're so purty! Hyuk, hyuk." You don't want to mimic dweeb behavior (that statement deserves it's own bullet point.) High quality women are going to want to be with high quality men, and high quality men aren't so easily impressed.

However, on Ashley Madison, we're dealing with women who are likely being ignored by their husbands, so even the 9's and 10's will appreciate the boost, so long as you say it in such a way that you appear high quality yourself. So, adjusted for our situation, give good compliments to 8's, 9's and 10's.

Give good compliments to 6's and 7's. If you're a high quality guy, this will do wonders for her self esteem and she will love you for it.

When dealing with 1's through 5's, you normally need to be careful that you don't compliment too glowingly, because a 3 generally knows she's a 3, so she'd know you're laying it on thick just to get into her pants because you're probably drunk and/or desperate. But again, we have to adjust for the Ashley Madison factor. These 1's through 5's are getting complimented like crazy, so they no longer think they're 1's through 5's. They think they're 7's. So they expect full on compliments from you as well.

The bottom line is that for all women, whether they be 1's or whether they be 10's, we give good compliments. Which certainly makes the thinking part of all this easier.

You Don't Want to Mimic Dweeb Behavior - Hey, I said it deserves its own bullet point, so here you go. I never got around to writing anything for it, though. Yep, even the gum wrappers are getting cleaned out of this locker!

Ass Kissing - A woman loves to have her ass kissed. But she's probably not going to fuck the guy who kisses it. Women are sexually attracted to the guy who doesn't kiss her ass. I know that contradicts every "How to Pick Up Women" article that women write, but ask any guy who actually picks women up and he'll tell you I'm right.

It's Not Possible to Please Everyone - Honestly, the more blogs I read, the more I'm convinced it's all just a big crapshoot. One commenter here once wrote:

"Some guy told me he was so impressed with my profile that he wanted to give me a reward - a date with him! I was so disgusted that I didn't bother to look at his pictures."

Maybe it's just me, but I happen to think the guy's line was pretty funny. But the lesson here is that there are a lot of variables involved. Some women simply aren't looking for funny (or more likely, don't understand a joke when they see it.) Some aren't looking for sexy. Some aren't looking for "a nice guy." Some aren't looking for the "bad boy."

I have a few theories, but the truth is that even on my best days, 3/4 of my messages get no response. So while I want to write the best possible message I can, I'm also fully aware that no matter what I write, I may be simply too old, too young (yes, I've really had that happen,) too tall, the wrong race, the wrong time, the wrong sense of humor . . . there are a zillion possible reasons I could be rejected before I've written a single word. I don't take it personally. You shouldn't either.

Not So Many Custom Messages - The fact of the matter is that women don't get that many Custom Messages. Tons of winks and picture requests, but very few Custom Messages. One to three per day is typical. What's amazing is that of these Custom Messages, most are just two or three lines and are along the lines of, "Hi Claire. I saw your profile and I think we might hit it off. Please check out my profile and write me back." Our competition is a lot less than we might think.

Then Why Such Modest Results? - So if women get so few *real* messages (contrary to what many ladies will claim,) then why does a guy like me who (stupidly believes he) knows the game pretty well still only get a 20% or so response rate? Lots of reasons. Of course there's the too old/young/tall/short/etc thing. But another big one is that I believe half the women on there are either just curious or are just there for the thrill of seeing men send them messages. They're never going to respond to *anyone.* Brad Pitt wouldn't get a response either. And another reason, of course, is that there are numerous:

Fake Profiles - Ashley Madison does indeed have a few planted profiles of their own, and they will indeed send you messages from these fake profiles, but they're pretty rare. Maybe once or twice a week. And *only* if you don't check the settings option that says, "Check this box if you do not wish to be contacted by Market Researchers or Online Hosts." To Ashley Madison's credit, they check that box for you by default, so you'd actually have to manually uncheck it yourself in order to start getting fake messages. I'm actually surprised they're so cool about that. But still, I find it deceiving.

I've tested this several times, by the way, so yes, I'm sure this is how it works.

The fake profiles are really good, by the way. The women don't look obvious at all. Very "wife next door" looking. Always cute and almost always reasonably thin, but not *too* hot (like some Maxim model somehow stumbled across your lame profile and just has to meet you,) so they're very believable.

Looks Aren't Important - There are some women who don't care at all what a man looks like. It's completely unimportant to these women. There's a term for women like this. We call them "full of shit."

Damn Locker Still Isn't Empty! - Stupid locker had more in it than I thought! I guess we'd better do the unthinkable and have another post tomorrow (Tuesday,) so we can finish this up.

Letter K

2010-11-03T06:01:00.000-07:00

"Letter H." A tall black woman waits for someone to respond. No one does. She looks at her clipboard, as if to check she has the right letter.

She tries again, "Letter H. Does anyone have letter H?"

Like everyone else in the room, I double check that I'm not holding lucky letter H. But it's the same letter K in my hand that the guy behind the reception counter handed me when I walked in. Well, not really when I "walked in," but after I filled out the 5-page questionnaire that he gave me.

There are about ten people in this waiting room. It's a big room that could probably hold 30 or 40 people on a busy day. It's nicely decorated with colorful yet tasteful chairs and tables and there's some really nice artwork on the walls. Leave it to the gays to know how to decorate a waiting room.

"Letter I. Letter I?" It's the same black woman. This time someone does respond. A white woman, I'd guess mid 30's, thin with a Reese Witherspoon look. She's pretty. She looks at me with a half smile. She's nervous. I smile back. I know how you feel, sister.

One nice thing about living in a city like Los Angeles that has a strong gay and lesbian community is that it's really easy to get an HIV test. I just drove to my nearest Gay and Lesbian Center, hopped up here to the fourth floor where they do various medical things (including HIV tests,) filled out some paperwork and then wait for my letter to be called.

I did this once before, a few years ago. Got a clean bill of health.

Surely it will be the same this time.

"Letter J." This time it's a short white woman holding the clipboard.

A young black man gets up. "Wish me luu-uuck," he sings to his friend. I kinda don't think they're lovers, but they're definitely gay. I start wondering how often would a sexually active gay man typically get tested for HIV? Does this guy do this once a year? Every five years? Every few months?

I'll be called next. I can still leave if I want. And I'm thinking I do want to. I'm just here as a formality anyway. Just to be completely sure I don't have HIV.

Because I definitely don't. I've read about AIDS and HIV and it's not all that easy to get. Yes, I've done a few risky things I shouldn't have, but statistically, my odds are so low that this test is really unnecessary.

And really, let's suppose I'm HIV positive. Would I really want to even know? And then have to tell, well . . . everyone? Especially my family? Seriously, the odds are so low that I think I'd rather continue to just assume that there's no way I'm HIV positive. It's easier this way. I don't really need to know for sure, do I? I've been perfectly happy just assuming I'm clear.

Ignorance is bliss.

"Letter K?"

Fuck. I guess I'm gonna do this.

I'm taken to a small private room where Rodney, a very short, pudgy Latino asks me to take a seat. His name is about the only hint that Rodney is a man. His voice is high and soft, he sorta has breasts (which I think are more than just his chubbiness,) and he has a very feminine way about him. At the risk of being completely politically incorrect, I like this guy. If there's one person who's not going to judge people, it's Rodney.

"Okay, I need to confirm the last four digits of your social security number."

I give him the digits. It's not the first, nor will it be the last time today I'll be asked for this. Making sure people's results don't get mixed up is apparently a pretty high priority here. I can imagine why.

Rodney asks a few preliminary questions, then gets to the good part, "So why are you here?"

I know this is a question I already answered when the receptionist gave me those forms to fill out so I could get my letter K, but this is not the time to be a smartass, so I answer, "I'd like to get an HIV test."

"Okay, good. Have you been tested before?"

"Yeah. Maybe two or three years ago. Maybe four, I can't really remember."

"And it was negative?"

"Yes. It would be pretty wishful thinking if it was positive back then, and then I'd come back and hope it's negative this time."

Rodney laughs. "I know, but these are all questions I have to ask so we can keep our funding."

"No problem, I'm just giving you a hard time." I wonder if Rodney sees me as the calm and relaxed guy I'm trying to present myself as. Or if sees me as the uneasy guy I really am right now, trying to convince myself I'm calm and relaxed.

"Have you been involved in any drug use involving needles since your last test?"

"No."

"Have you had unprotected sex since your last test?"

"Yes."

Rodney doesn't even flinch at this. Amazingly, Rodney doesn't ask "With how many partners?" Seems like it would have been an obvious question. You know, so they can qualify for funding. I start figuring this out in my head, even though he didn't ask.

Let's see, there was Connie. We never used condoms. At all. She doesn't like them and it didn't take much to convince me not to wear one. I know I may have said in that original "Meet Connie at the Hotel" post that we used condoms, but this is the post where I'm gonna come clean on all this, so . . . Connie and I never used condoms.

No condoms with Amy, either. Same story. She doesn't like them and hey, if a girl's gonna let me go bareback, who am I to refuse? Oral, vaginal, anal - raw dog all the way.

Are you getting a sense for why I thought maybe I should come here today?

I'm not done. Gabriela and I *did* use a condom. The very first time. And that was it. Bareback from there on out.

Same with Angela. Condom the first time. Then she "trusted me." I remember the look on her face the first time I slid my bare cock into her. A look of "Oh God, are we really doing this???" She actually said, "This is so irresponsible." Right before she pulled me closer to her and told me to fuck her harder.

That's not the end of the list, but you get the idea.

I'm not proud of any of this, by the way. I'm really not, but like I said, this is a "cards on the table" kind of post. You'll see why in a minute.

Rodney asks a few more questions, then sends me to the room where they draw the blood. Here, they again ask for the last four digits of my social security number, confirm that I'm here for the basic HIV test, and before I know it, a needle is in my arm and there's no turning back. The nurse takes the needle out of my arm, puts a Bandaid on it, and sends me to a different waiting room where, she assures me, someone will give me my results in 20 minutes or so.

This is a smaller room. All padded benches, no chairs. There are five people waiting here, including the gay black guy who had letter J and his friend. I don't recognize the other three people. I don't see the Letter I woman.

There's a plasma screen with CNN on. Something about Afghanistan. I'm not sure what, exactly. I'm too busy preparing my reasons why I definitely can't be HIV positive.

Yes, I've had some unprotected sex, but I've read up on this. Getting HIV is hard. Especially for the man. And Connie's clean. And Amy's clean. And Gabriela's clean. And Angela's clean. They have to be. They told me they were.

If the test comes back HIV positive, all I have to do is explain this. All I have to do is explain how yes, I may have had some unprotected sex, but only with girls I was sure were clean. So any test saying I'm HIV positive would have to be wrong. It would have to be. I can make a great case for why I don't have HIV.

I really shouldn't have gotten this test. I felt much better when I could just convince myself logically that I'm fine. An actual test is much colder. It doesn't let you argue your case. There's no appeals process. Fuck this test.

How long have I been here? Four or five minutes? Damn, this is gonna be a long wait.

A short Latina woman and young black man come into the room. The man is chatty, remarking about posters on the walls and chiming in with his thoughts on CNN's Afghanistan reporting and whatever else seems to come into his head. This guy is obviously here for moral support. The woman is quiet. Sitting and staring into space. This girl is really nervous. I wonder what happened that made her decide she needs to get tested. I'll never know. This is not the sort of situation where you ask questions like that.

But she's really looking nervous. Already I'm not liking her odds. For me, this is just a formality, because I'm definitely clean. But for her, God only knows what happened that's making her look so nervous. I wish I had the nerve to walk over and tell her everything is going to be okay. I wish I could know that everything is going to be okay.

Letter J (the gay black guy) gets called and taken into a private room. The Latina woman and I watch him go in. He's going to get his results. We make eye contact. I smile, trying to look reassuring. She smiles back, weakly.

Fuck, it's not even 10 minutes, yet.

I start thinking about how many previous lovers did Connie and Amy and Gabriela have? In Gabriela's case, I learned from her blog that the real number was considerably more than she originally told me. Would the same be true for Connie? Or Amy? And am I really the only one who they didn't make wear a condom? And what about their husbands? How safe were those guys? Can I really be sure Angela's husband hasn't been out fucking prostitutes, then fucking Angela? Who then fucked me?

No, no, no, this is silly to think about. The odds are on my side. The articles all say that it's hard for the male to actually contract the HIV virus. I'm just going to make myself crazy thinking about things so extremely unlikely.

Letter J comes out of the little room, smiling. "I'm negative, baby!" he sings to his friend. The contrast is striking with how happy this guy looks. The friend gathers his things and they start out the door. The relief is obvious as Letter I tells his friend, "I'm telling you, from now on, I'm not taking any chances!" I'll bet that's a promise that gets made a lot here.

The Latina and I again make contact as they walk out of the room. Surely our news will be good, too.

Even as I look at my Latina friend, and even as I look around the room and see other people here, people who are just like me, I feel very alone. My family doesn't know I'm here. Not even a single friend knows I'm here. I can't share what I'm going through with anyone I know. It's a consequence of cheating. Secrets are isolating.

I wonder how many other people in my shoes, people who lead secret lives, go through this same thing. I wonder how many people will find out they're HIV-positive, then have to tell their spouses?

I start thinking about, of all things, this blog.

My friend Semele used to have a blog called "Sheltering Semele." She wrote a post once about a few of the "infidelity blogs" out there. Of this one, she wrote, "You will scan "Ashley and Me" in vain for emotional outpourings, guilty handwringing or (much of) a troubled soul." I've always loved that quote because it's exactly what I was trying for here. No boring depressing stuff, just completely shameless fun with no apologies.

It's kinda like action movies, where our heroes never really get hurt. No matter what the real dangers may be, they just make some wisecrack remark, then go ahead and do whatever they're gonna do, and everything always winds up okay. Including that they always get the girl.

But unfortunately, this is real life stuff I'm writing about. And what winds up being completely ignored here are the risks. Very real risks.

I don't feel so good about myself. I don't feel good that I've put myself into a position where I have to be here in this room right now, waiting to find out if my life, and the lives of people I care very much about, are about to be turned upside down. And I don't feel good that a blog that I've been having so much fun with may have been that last little bit of encouragement that puts someone else here.

The whole thing has me feeling very philosophical. People have been fucking around long before "Ashley and Me' came on the scene. Heck, people have been blogging about fucking around long before "Ashley and Me' came on the scene. It's not like I invented any of this.

But people do read this blog. At the risk of being immodest, a *lot* of people read this blog. So I do wonder what my responsibility is?

A tall body-builder-looking black man comes through the waiting room with a folder in his hand. He knocks on the door of one of the offices. Rodney answers and the man enters the room, closing the door behind him. I check my watch. It's been a little over 15 minutes. That's gotta be my folder. He's probably telling Rodney he's got some good news to give to lucky Letter K.

I'm staring at the door, waiting for Rodney to open it and invite me in. But it doesn't open. A minute passes. What the fuck are they doing in there? Why is my case taking extra time? Two minutes. Open the God damn door and call me in, Rodney!

This is not how it went for Letter J. No big mystery with him. They just called him in, gave him his news, his good news, and that was it. What the fuck is going on with my results???

Finally, the door opens and both men walk out. They're joking around about something. Apparently that wasn't my folder after all. Rodney sees me. "It should be any minute," he assures me.

"No problem," I lie. At least now I know they weren't gathered behind the door, asking each other what's the best way to break bad news to the tall, white guy holding Letter K.

The Latina watches this conversation, then looks at me, seeming to understand exactly what I just went through. She smiles weakly. Her friend is gone. I never even noticed when he left. I smile back at her. Letter J had good news, surely our news will be good as well. Right?

But what if it isn't? I start wondering how I would handle telling my family if the news isn't good. There's no way to sugar coat this one. A couple bloggers have mentioned friends, or spouses of friends, who found out they were HIV positive and how it completely wrecked their marriages. I don't even want to think about that.

What about "Ashley and Me?" What would I do with it if I found out I was HIV positive? This would really change everything in the blog. I mean everything.

I couldn't just continue my story and pretend everything is as it always was. As if everything is completely normal. That would be pretty dishonest. More than just dishonest, though, it would be weird.

I couldn't just kill the blog without saying anything either. That always pisses me off when other bloggers do that. I do feel a responsibility to let readers know what's going on.

I'd have to say . . . something. I'd have to be honest and say what really happened. But it's not the kind of thing I'd want to just blurt out. For better or worse, it's not my style to have a post with the subject line, "Oh My God! I Got Bad News Today!" It wouldn't feel right to me.

So if I don't just blurt it out, then how do I say it? What's the best way to say something like that?

Maybe I could just tell the story of how I found out.

Rodney returns through the waiting room, folder in hand. He goes into his office and closes the door. It's been well over 20 minutes. This has to be me. It has to.

After a minute or so, the door opens. He sees me and waves me in. I'm trying to read his face. Nothing.

I walk into his office and take a seat. Rodney closes the door. I want to make a joke to lighten the mood, but I've got nothing. Rodney is focused on his computer.

"I need to confirm the last four digits of your social again."

I give him the numbers. Rodney starts typing on his computer. Apparently the results aren't in the folder he was carrying. He eventually stops typing and looks at the screen. "Riff, right?"

"Yep."

He scans the screen a little more. "It's negative." Quick as that, he says what I'd been hoping to hear.

It's hard to describe the feeling of relief I have. I'm clean. Goddammit, I'm clean. To know this for sure is an incredible feeling. If I were alone, no lie, I would do a little dance right now.

I resist the temptation to tell Rodney that from now on, I'm going to be a good boy, if only because I know he's heard it a million times. But I really do feel that way.

I thank Rodney. As I walk back through the waiting room, I see my Latina friend watching me, knowing by the look on my face that it's a good day for me. She smiles at me, but with that same uneasy, nervous look she's had since she got here. I wink at her, hoping she might get some comfort in the next few agonizing minutes as she waits to be called in for her own results.

I'll never know if it turned out to be a good day for her.

Meet Angela

2010-11-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

NOTE - Before I start on our Angela story, I need to clear something up about last Wednesday's post: They Got Me At #35. While the vast majority of people did seem to get that it was a joke, I think there were a few people might have taken me seriously on it. To be clear, I'm not really upset about only being ranked #35. Heck, I'm honestly surprised I made the list at all!

And regarding the two "sex writing" examples I gave? You know, the ones where first I showed how I write now, then a second one where I "girl it up?" If you couldn't tell those were jokes, can I ask a favor of you? Just one tiny favor? Please stop reading this blog. Just stop. Trust me, it's only going to frustrate you.

Okay. Now I feel better. So are you you ready to meet Angela? Yeah, I know I promised Hannah, but you're gonna have to trust that I have a plan here. Everything will become clear very soon. So with further ado:

MEET ANGELA

I don't consider myself a "player." I really don't. Sure, I might have sex with a few women here and there. And it's often pretty "one night" oriented. And I do enjoy the game. But I'm not a "player" because . . . well . . . because I'm just not!

But even though it's quite clear to you and me, dear reader, that I am most certainly not a player, from time to time a woman will express concerns that I might be one. Making it sound like it's a bad thing!

It kinda pisses me off, to tell you truth, because I've spent countless hours fine-tuning my interchangeable email templates and figuring out exactly which lines women do and don't want to hear. Not for myself, mind you, but for them! You know, so their reading or conversation experience might be more enjoyable, hence increasing the odds of them eventually experiencing what surely must be every girl's dream: sex with me!

You'd think a little appreciation would be in order.

But nooooo. My reward for all this hard work is to be accused of being a player??? I need a good attorney who specializes in slander cases!

One such woman was named Angela. During the early email stage, I thought I was doing great with her. Until one day when we were talking on the phone and I was (in what I thought to be) top form. But I guess it was a little too top form, because she said I sounded like I might be a player and she didn't want anything to do with that.

Well, I can't have her thinking nonsense like that, so I explained that, heavens to Betsy, nothing could be further from the truth.

This is tricky, by the way, because you don't want to go too far and say you're *not* good with the ladies, because that's a turnoff in itself. Women don't want a guy who's a loser. They want a guy that all the other women want . . . but is somehow a one-woman kind of guy. They want a guy who has player potential, but hasn't actually turned the corner. Silly ladies.

Anyway, the key is to not say too much. (By the way, "not saying too much" is the key to *a lot* of situations.)

My exact words were, "Ha! No. Someday I'll have to tell you a story." How do I remember those were my exact words? Because I use that line all the time for lots of different situations. It gets me out of all sorts of binds.

And of course, I rarely even have a relevant "story." But that doesn't matter. I've implied I do, and she's gonna think it's not only interesting as hell and she wants to someday hear it, but she's also already believing it proves whatever vague point she doesn't even realize I haven't made.

By the way, I can hear some of you laughing at the notion of *me* espousing the benefits of "not saying too much," what with my habit for long winded posts and such. I have to admit, I'm kinda laughing at myself, too.

Anyway, Angela is satisfied that I'm not a player and we email a couple more times. She's taking things really slowly. She has yet to "close a deal" on Ashley Madison and I know better than to push. At one point I write her a fantasy that involves finding that spot on her neck that would drive her wild when I kiss her. It was actually custom written (my emails always are, by the way) although admittedly, it's based on a scenario I've written about more than once.

She likes the email and jokes that I shouldn't write songs, I should write romance novels. I respond with:

I like the romance novel idea, but I'd need to test whether the scenes would make sense in real life. Wouldn't want it to sound fake, you know. Know any necks I could test this on?

Which I guess must have raised red flags with her, because she wrote back:

Humm I'm still questioning the player issue. I'm not sure of how far I'm willing to go but I'm not interested in being one of many!

Damn. I thought I'd already handled that. So I wrote . . . oh wait, before I post the email I wrote, I should mention that as I dug this up from my "sent" folder on my mischief computer, I couldn't help but notice that it was sent on the same day that I sent emails to three other women I was pursuing at the same time. Yeah, I feel kinda guilty about that. But in my defense, it's not like I was fucking any of them yet. Plus Angela is really cute, so . . . well . . . anyway, this is the email I sent her:

The player issue returns. Wait, I have an idea: let's cue up the scary movie music, then the title flashes on the screen; "Return of Player Issue!" Bum - bum - bummmmmmmmm.

Here's the deal with me. I'm not a "harem" kind of guy. I'm way too old for "notches in the belt" or any of that. (By the way, "way too old" is meant in a mental maturity way, as opposed to a "Martha, where are my dentures?" kind of way.)

If we one day meet, if we decide we have chemistry, if we "take this to the next level," then indeed, I'm not into the "one of many" thing either. How to explain . . . how to explain . . . hmmm . . . all right, here goes . . .

In all modesty, I have pretty good success getting women to talk to me by email. For a guy, I'm pretty lucky that way. I like to think I'm a fairly decent writer (as well as being handsome as hell, obviously!) and I've always been a natural flirt, so I think that's what's raising red flags with you. I do like to joke around, I do like to flirt and ever since this Ashley Madison girlfriend I had a couple years ago, I've liked writing erotica. (I had never written anything like that until an email I sent her one day.)

But that whole "get the women to notice me" thing is just step one in the Ashley Madison game. I have to do all that just so I can have the tiniest of selections of who I might want to actually meet. Men come to you in flocks and you have lots to choose from to narrow your choices down. For me, I have to write and flirt like a maniac to get half the choices you get.

And then . . . well, not to sound shallow, but the majority of women with great sounding profiles are simply not my type when I finally get to the stage where they send me their pictures. And many of these women are absolute nutballs. Seriously, there are some women that would scare the hell out of me. Someday I'll share some emails with you.

If I'm lucky, I maybe find a lady or two I'm willing to meet in person. Now, as you probably know, considering the fact that you met some guy for coffee and he wasn't exactly a "Love Connection," great emails or great pictures don't necessarily mean great chemistry in person.

I'm rambling, but the bottom line is that meeting someone I'd actually want to hang out with is difficult. So if I find someone I hit it off with, I have no interest in going through the process AGAIN just so I can have two. If nothing else, it just isn't practical from a time perspective, what with me having to actually work every so often.

I like talking to you. And I like your picture. And I'd like to meet you in person. Believe me, that's rare for me. Since logging back on to AM about a month ago, I have met a total of zero women in person. And my profile had been completely inactive for almost the entire year before that.

Anyway, I suppose I'm starting to sound defensive and I don't mean to sound that way. And if I were in your shoes, I would DEFINITELY be wary of players as well, so I don't take any offense whatsoever at your questioning.

I just wanted to explain my situation. In a rambling long-winded email that unfortunately, has practically no jokes and zero romance! Damn, I'm never going to get you to meet me now! ;-)

Riff

I almost felt guilty writing that, but the guilt dissipated when she wrote back, "Great answer!" and suggested we meet for drinks. Which we did.

We also fucked that very same night, which was an absolute shocker on my part. She was so cautious and conservative in her conversations up to that point, that I assumed she would take at least two dates to "close the deal."

Now, the perfect ending to this story would be that after I fucked her, I never did see her again, since I got what I wanted and had other girls to move on to. Pump and dump. That would have been classic.

But alas, there's no such poetic ending of dogliness here. That's right, her fears of me being a player were completely unfounded. You see, she turned out to be really cute and pretty damn good in bed, so I did continue to see her for two whole months.

Along with a couple other girls she didn't know about, of course.