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I was free’d from the marriage of Beans in the Spring of 2011. I was 30 years old and a size 14. I looked and felt like shit. So I started walking.

Six months and sixty pounds later I decided it was time to start dating. I had transformed into a major babe and had reestablished confidence in myself. I even had an appointment for an audition with Playboy just weeks away (thats another story)!

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So, I did what any single, newly slender, desperate, money hungry, bimbo would do. I joined a dating site.

Once on I spent many hours creating the perfect profile. I uploaded several slutty pictures of myself and began my man hunt. Within 24 hours I had over 150 responses.

Let me give you a quick rundown of the online dating world incase you are considering trying it yourself. The majority of the men on the site have been on the site for years waiting for you. They have already had sex with or tried to have sex with every other woman who has a profile over a month old. They have literally been sitting in front of their computers just waiting for you to join. You are now FRESH MEAT. Not only this but I want you to know, men do NOT read your profile. They Have no clue what you are looking for, like a small child they only look at the pictures.

Being overwhelmed by all the attention, I decided to start at email number one. It was generic enough. I looked at his profile. Tattoos….OK, that’s my type. Income over $150,000 a year. Check. He said he was a Movie Director of sorts. We had dining in common. Hmmmm. The site says we are a match. He was a bit chubby but as a former fat ass myself, who was I to judge? I’m not shallow. So I wrote Butterball back.

Butterballs emails were funny, whitty, this guy had attitude! So I gave him my phone number and we started texting. One evening, after three solid days of conversation, Butterball sent me a picture. I opened it up. It was his prom picture! Butterball was dressed up like a pimp. I’m serious. He had on a leopard print tux, a top hat and was carrying a cane. Then I noticed his date. A stick-thin brunette who’s head looked to be photoshopped onto her body. I asked Butterball if his date was a real person. He said she was real, alright. As a matter of fact she was a real hooker!

A week after our initial online match making, Butterball and I met for lunch at a restaurant near me. It was New Years Day. What better way to start off the new year than by a first date!?! I didn’t know it at the time but Butterball had just traveled over 70 miles to see me (I had specifically requested in my profile that my dates live within a 30 mile radius, I didn’t know at the time men couldn’t read).

I pulled up to the restaurant and sent Butterball a text message saying I had arrived. He told me to meet him at the bar.

I checked my make up, got out of the car, adjusted my bra and made sure all my loose stomach skin was tucked into my jeans.

“Here goes nothing!” I thought.

I clanked up the steps in my six inch heels and into the restaurant.

That’s when I saw him.

His bulbous arm waved to me.

“OH SHIT! What have I done?” I thought to myself.

I confidently walked right over to Butterball. He was watching me approach with a twinkle in his eye.

I looked him up and down. Then, while looking him directly in the eye, I shook my head and I said,

“Nah, sorry!”

Then I started to walk away.

After a few steps I stopped. I turned around and started laughing so hard I thought I would piss myself!

I was just fucking with him.

Butterball was angry! Then he was confused! Then he was relieved! I have never seen so many emotions cross a persons face in so little time in all my life.

Butterball bought me a peach cider and he handed it to me just as we were following the waitress out to the patio to be seated. We sat down and Butterball complimented me on my “beautiful eyes” before telling me the story of how he had to hire a hooker to take his loser ass to prom. I must admit I liked the confession. I felt sorry for butterball. He deserved some free pussy (but not on that date, I never put out until at least the third)!

I sat across from Butterball, listening to him ramble on about himself for hours. As he talked I could smell the distant stench of rotting teeth drifting towards me. Butterball reminded me of a Thanksgiving turkey. He was fairly tall and almost just as round. He wasn’t fat per say, he was just really swollen. You know that moment when you remove your Holiday table centerpiece from the oven, the skin is golden brown and the juices are right underneath waiting for the first press of the knife to come exploding out. That’s what butterball looked like! Even the way the skin of a turkey has little bumps all over it from where the feathers were plucked out, butterball had those too! Only in the form of skin tags. All over his body. Even the creases of his eyes had skin tags dangling from them. His face was so swollen all that remained of his eyes were little slits. They looked like coin slots. I literally sat there wondering what would happen if I attempted to insert a quarter into one of them.

I noticed that the effort it took Butterball to make even the smallest movement caused him to sweat.

Butterball was also a Jew.

Flash forward: to my second date with Butterball. Butterball, being a hot shot “Movie Director” worked “on set”. He was very busy and his time was very limited. Still he made time to text me continuously through out the day. One fateful Friday he even had his assistant book him a room at a hotel near me. He said it was so he could take me out and not have to worry about making the long, 70+ mile ride home after our date.

I sent him a text saying,

“Ya, right! Don’t even think about it, bub! I’m not stupid. You are NOT getting any tonight!”

Butterball laughed and told me to meet him at the hotel at six pm and gave me his room number.

I replied,

“I’m not meeting you in a hotel room. You might rape and murder me!”

Butterball answered with,

“Please, everyone knows me! Besides there will be no raping needed!”

One of the things I really admired about butterball was his ego. He definitely had a warped sense of self and despite his monsterous looks, lived in the land of self delusion. He really thought he was famous (and probably good looking). I had already googled him. He wasn’t a convicted killer, he wasn’t famous either.

Despite my better judgement, I met Butterball in his hotel room.

I knocked on the door and was greeted with a glass of “Santa Margarita” wine! Pinot Grigio (my favorite). Butterball had class! I excitedly took it and sat on the sofa. Butterball took his own glass and laid on the bed. He turned on the TV.

After a few minutes butterball said to me,

“You can sit on the bed too you know. I won’t bite.”

I slowly got up and joined him. I stayed on my corner. Butterball had become transfixed in his program, E News. I, being a woman, LOVE that shit! I became transfixed on the celebrity gossip too. As I sat there silently watching I started to become bothered by a disruptive noise. It started off light but was quickly becoming more daunting. It was getter louder and louder.

“What the fuck is that?” I thought to myself. I looked around.

The sound was coming from Butterball. He was weezing.

After roughly an hour of mindless television, three hand smacks to Butterball (he kept trying to touch my legs) and two bottles of wine I reminded him we still hadn’t eaten. Lazily, he hefted his dying lungs and his water weight to the shower.

That’s when I noticed it.

Butterball painted his toes.

He spent another hour getting ready. By the time we were heading out to eat I was already drunk. We walked down the main city street and into the restaurant. There we ate and ordered two more bottles of wine. We took cigarette breaks in-between courses. Butterball talked about the shows he was directing, all the hollywood stars he was friends with and all the $1000 pairs of shoes he had boughten for his ex. He told me he loved to lavish gifts on women and that he was going to fly me first class to see him on set in Colorado when his movie was produced. I’d probably be sitting next to celebrity or two of course.

After dinner we walked back to the hotel (I stumbled, he rolled).

That’s where my memory ends.

4am I woke up naked in the hotel Room. Uh oh! What did I do? I was pretty sure I knew the answer. I removed myself from the beasts bed, threw on my clothes, gathered my things and high tailed it out of there before “it” awoke.

As I was walking through the lobby I looked at my phone. There was a voicemail. I called it, it was grandma. She had been watching my children.

“*****, where are you? It’s one o’clock in the morning. I was wondering where you are. Are you out drinking? You better not be drinking somewhere! You are an alcoholic! You better get your ass home! You, drunk!”

I told you I was a 32 year old baby!

I ran to my car. I got in. I attempted to leave the lot. I couldn’t. It had been valeted and now the lot was closed.

With my wrinkled clothes, smudged off eyebrows, JBF (just been fucked) hair and smelling like a mix between ogre semen and booze I went on a security guard hunt. After twenty minutes I found one and luckily he was able to open the gate to the lot without asking too many questions. Rushing, I got into my car and headed towards the freeway. I made a wrong turn. I ended up on a bridge. I couldn’t turn around. The bridge took me to an island.

Two hours later, as the sun was coming up I made it home.

Despite putting out on the second date, Butterball continued texting, just not as frequently. We had a few more dates, only now I was driving out to his place.

Butterball never bought me any shoes. Butterball never introduced me to any celebrities. Actually, Butterball even stopped buying me to dinner.

One morning, after a boring, four hour TV session aka date, the night before, Butterball woke up with his menorah lit. He was ready for action. Despite his foul looks and putrid breath I was still able to squeeze out some baby O’s from our sex sessions.

Butterball was not equipped with a lot. Actually, his penis kind of reminded me of the little plug that pops out of a turkey when it’s cooked. I don’t think Butterball had ever hit the right internal temperature because his little plug never really popped.

Butterball had me bent over the bed and was gyrating his little Jewish candle in and out of me while weezing and making his usual puddle of sweat on the bed, when it happened.

His ugly, little dog opened the slightly cracked bedroom door to expose his roommate on the otherside, with a video camera, jacking off.

Butterball pretended to be shocked.

“What the fuck is wring with you, man?”
He yelled at his roommate.

I put on my clothes and I left.

Anyway, I guess if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out…..theres that.

Today I Didn’t see any Kia’s!!

If you enjoyed this story, BUY the BOOK!

13 thoughts on “Www.Date-a-Douche.com

  1. Pingback: A Compilation of Bad Dates! | It's not my fault.

  2. Every woman knows this story and lit her own candle for getting home safe. The paw print of that ugly fucking dog is all over this. .

  3. Why would you have sex with him if he’s not at all attractive to you?

    Also, the extreme generalization of men on dating websites is very insulting. I’m on online dating sites and I never message a girl without reading her profile first.

    I will admit that I do need to have some sort of physical attraction on top of the rest, but some of us are not nearly so shallow as you would make us out to be.

    Your series of dates with this butterball fellow seem to have been a series of endless bad decisions, you don’t seem to be a very good judge of character.

    That being said I couldn’t stop reading this once I started. It’s enthralling in a morbid kind of way.

  4. Bad decisions to the left of her,
    Bad decisions to the right of her,
    Bad decisions behind her,
    Sloshed, bombed and drunk,
    Slathered with mayonnaise
    As harps and failed hope tell,
    Came she through the grasp of lunks
    Back from the mouth of Hell,
    All that was left of her,
    Holding our attention so well,
    Honor the charge of the teat brigade,
    Rippled or square honor the teat brigade.

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