Warning: This post will probably be quite graphic. I don’t really know since I don’t plan my posts before I write them, so we’ll see how it turns out. I will try my best to be as tasteful as possible, if you can call it that…
You should thank all of the bitches that I have in my life…
A Place I’d Like to Forget Well since I warned female hockey fans of the folly of dating hockey players, I figure it’s only fair that I target hockey media next. Sure, a soured relationship with a member of the media is not really going to do much to damage your relationship with hockey itself. Media guys don’t really get in the way, unless, of course, they are TV broadcasters, and will make your game watching experience a bitter affair once things go south, as they say.
Sports industry guys, whether media or front office, tend to have something to prove more so than the hockey players themselves. Think about it. These are the guys that didn’t make it, but continue to “chase the dream” from behind the safety of a desk or video camera. They subscribe to the Tao of Hockey Players even more than the actual players do. These are guys that are constantly surrounded by, and in the shadow of, dozens of hockey players who have women throwing themselves at them all day, every day, and you know insecurity has probably led them to tell the occasional oblivious gold-digger that they, too, suit up on game day. And let’s not forgot that most of these guys are ravenous jock sniffers that put even the most desperate of puck bunnies to shame.
Like I said in my previous posts, I’m not really sure if I 100% fit the puck bunny mold. The biggest reason for this uncertainty is that I don’t really go out of my way to meet hockey players or exclude men that can’t skate. The reality is that I’m very much involved in hockey. It’s kind of my life (or at least it was), if you haven’t noticed. So, since I’m always at the rink or on the road to the rink, the guys I tend to meet are players, coaches, fans, media, and management, and I’ve definitely “dabbled” in a few of those categories. What would you have me do, be celibate because I don’t have other options?!? That being said, for the record, I tend to find “regular” guys that aren’t hockey fans to be my best matches – crazy, I know, and definitely hard to find in Canada. Anyway, it is due to my restricted dating pool that I am able to educate as well as horrify with some more of my inappropriate tales of lust and romance. So pay attention ladies, and don’t let this happen to you!
*Sigh* Some people feel that I am scaring off all my “potential suitors,” who will inevitably read my site as a way to pseudo-stalk me, and then get put off by the fact that they, too, will someday wind up a Psycho Lady Hockey spectacle. So let me put all your insecurities to rest, if there is actually a guy reading this who is crazy enough to want a Psycho like me. There is a surefire way to make sure that this doesn’t happen to you – Try not being a douche bag. To be fair, not every guy I’ve ever known ends up on this site. Some just don’t have a story worth telling. And let’s not forget that I never use names! 
As you can probably guess this story begins at a hockey game – one of The Evil One’s actually. I was hanging out in the media room when the two TV guys doing the, I don’t know, what is it called in hockey, rink side reporting (?), started chatting me up. Sure enough the “star” of my story followed me around throughout the game, and even interviewed the girl I was with on air after I refused to be a part of it – I really hate cameras! And of course, he made sure to get my number before the final buzzer sounded.
I gave him a shot. Besides what could go wrong on an innocent drinks and a movie date? Quite a bit, as it would turn out. First there was the obvious discrepancy in the value placed on said date. To me, it was a casual thing, but most things are casual with me. I don’t really have a fancy bone in my body, so I wasn’t dressed up or anything – just wearing my standard jeans and plain black shirt. He, on the other hand, was dressed to impressed to the point that when the tail lights of his BMW had turned off of our street as we drove away, my old Spanish yaya promptly crept down the road to my aunt’s house to inform her that a very good looking man had just picked me up, “And do you know something? He wass wearing a suuit!”
The date itself was a bit awkward. The guy was seven years older than me, which was a much bigger gap at the time than it would be today. However, he appeared to have the maturity of a seven year old. I found this especially off putting because of our age difference, as I wasn’t quite sure if he was patronizing me, or just naturally retarded. And when I say immature, I mean IMMATURE! Here is a sample of what a conversation with him was like:
Me: Oh, that’s a nice shirt.
Him: You’re a nice shirt!
Me: Hmm OK… Umm.. Wow, are you getting the popcorn? It looks big.
Him: You’re a big popcorn!
If his dazzling conversational abilities weren’t enough of a turn off, the fact that he literally kept poking me throughout the night didn’t help either. Don’t get excited, I don’t mean THAT kind of poking, I mean actually poking me in the arm with his finger and then turning away quickly like he didn’t do it. Anyway, our special evening culminated with him driving around the parking garage trying to use his bass to set off other people’s car alarms, which was amusing for the first 5 minutes, not so much after 45.
I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that I didn’t bother with a second date, or at least I didn’t for several years. In those early months of 2010 I had gone through another one of my phases where I felt like the reason I was single was because I didn’t bother expanding my horizons from guys that could skate or lived in Arizona. I decided to give some other guys a shot for once (these phases usually last about a month), and I’m not sure how or why, but this guy was sniffing around again at the time.
We went out a couple times before I moved to Korea, a fact I had actually forgotten until I started writing this post. I vaguely remember M&M and banana pancakes being involved. Anyway, I guess the reason I had given him another shot was because I figured time (and hitting his 30’s) would have been enough to tone down the schoolyard-like immaturity – silly me. “You’re a big pancake!”
I should pause for a moment to say that I’m not writing this post to be a bitch, or get back at this guy. The fact of the matter is that my life has been one big ridiculous moment after the other. It’s like nothing ever happens to me without hilarious side effects. You have no idea how often people tell me to write a book about my own life, and my encounters with guys like these are the very reasons why.
Back to my story. After an epic defeat in regard to the Arizona Prophecy, I went on a bit of a vengeful tear of fornication. The tear lasted well into Korea and basically continued right up until the moment that I moved to Japan. It is probably a good thing that I live in Japan and there are no men around because all those “super reliable” online tests claim that my “sexual addiction” has reached a dangerous level, and that I should seek help LOL. However, after spending a year in this country, I probably wouldn’t even know what to do with a naked man if I was to get my hands on one – something tells me it’s not like riding a bicycle. Anyway, I say this not to darken the story, but rather to make an excuse for why I even bothered to give this guy yet another shot, and this time in the more carnal capacity. I can guarantee that you will question my logic once you read what went down that night.
Like I said, I pretty much had an unhealthy dependency on sexual activity in the post Arizona period. It’s embarrassing to say, but I got very disgruntled if I went even a week without it at that time, and I definitely hit my peak in this phase in the post-Korea pre-Japan period. So, I guess due to this dependency, this guy was starting to look pretty damn good to me in the sense that he was a man, and he was alive.
Even though I was in a permanent state of “business” mode, I still felt a bit awkward driving over to his beast of a house that night last winter. I mean this guy’s child-like innocence isn’t exactly what the doctor ordered to get the blood pumping, if you know what I’m saying. I really hope I’m not one of those girls that can’t proverbially “get it up” for nice guys, because he is a nice guy, he’s just “special,” too. Anyway, I planned to counter my lack of mental attraction to this guy with a lot of alcohol. As long as I could get a good buzz going all would probably be fine – that is if he didn’t pull a retarded stunt before I could get to the bottle… And, of course, he did.
As I was taking my shoes off the mayhem began. A series of “throaty,” gassy sounds started emanating from him followed by hysterical giggling. He then produced a handheld whoopie cushion, which he seemed to think was the greatest invention since sliced bread. He has henceforth been affectionately known as Fart Machine in the circles I run in, which I suppose makes the story sound worse than it actually is. Anyway… Obviously, this succeeded to stifle my red hot urges, but given the state of me, and that I’ve always believed in that old adage, “Sex is like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s still kind of good,” I decided to shut the door behind me, and proceed into the dark recesses of his home, as synthetic wind passing followed behind me.
If I was ever fully turned on that night (i.e. before I got there), then the fart machine incident ensured that I was only about 50% good to go when the next bomb was dropped. It appeared as though the guy was scared of me. Either that or maybe I wasn’t much to look at that night, and he wanted to stall – I have no idea. I don’t think I’m all that intimidating, but whatever. I, a willing female, drove all the way to his place around 11PM at night. I’m sorry but at 11PM no one is coming over for dinner and polite conversation. Plus he doesn’t even have obliviousness as an excuse, since I had clearly outlined beforehand why I was coming over. Anyway, he managed to put the fart machine down for all of two minutes to reveal that he had decided to change our game plan for the evening. Instead of doing, well, me, he decided that what he now wanted to do was… wait for it… GO BOWLING. “Uhh,” I remember saying totally dumbfounded, “It’s nearly midnight. Where exactly would we be able to bowl?” Apparently, he hadn’t considered the time, and proposed Plan B – pizza and a movie.
Well I was probably running on a 20% desire rate at this point, which basically meant that if sex was still on the table, I’d probably go for it, but I was no longer motivated enough to take charge and go after it. I mean, come on, first whoopie cushions, and now he’s declared that he’d much rather go BOWLING than see me naked. It’s a miracle I didn’t just leave, which a smarter woman probably would have done at the initial presentation of the fart machine. Now, I wouldn’t have a problem making the first move normally, but at this stage it was actually unclear to me if he even wanted me to. The pizza did sound good at that point. I did go all that way, and, like I said, sex is like pizza, after all. So, it was decided we would order pizza, and watch Easy A of all things.
Two hours passed, the movie ended, the pizza had been consumed, and the adult beverages did nothing to inspire amorous feelings within me. I was ready to make my move towards the exit, when out of nowhere a hand had somehow found it’s way into my pants. I had no idea how it got there, but I wasn’t about to move it either LOL! Suddenly we were back in business, and I was firing on all cylinders, but, as you can probably predict, things weren’t going to run smoothly for long.
Up in the boudoir things took a monumental turn for the worst. I’m not one for too much talking in bed to begin with, but when someone can’t even hold a non-insufferable normal conversation, as I previously illustrated, they are the last people who should be chatty between the sheets. “You’re a big penis!” For the first time ever I was becoming progressively turned off the further we went. Due to the commentary, I was starting to feel like I was in bed with a child, which should be a mood killer for anyone who isn’t a raging pedophile. Furthermore, I did not approve of his manties. Before that night I had no idea that I was a man-panty snob, but, evidently, I am.
Luckily, I didn’t have to feign interest for long, as… how shall I say this?… he didn’t quite have the same stamina as his hockey playing counterparts, whom, in my experience, have been able to at least put in that standard 45 seconds of ice time, if you know what I’m saying. He would then tell me that I only had myself to blame for what went down, or rather, how quickly it went down – whatever that’s supposed to mean! The one good thing about this was that I was able to make a swift exit within no more than 60 seconds after the 30 second performance, despite his offer to “finish the job.” No… That’s OK. I had suddenly realized I had left both the oven and coffee machine on at home, and it was imperative that I go back and turn them off. Besides my clothes were already back on and I was making the mad dash for the front door.
I rushed like hell to put my shoes back on, as I wanted to be able to escape before yet another awkward moment befell me. But, of course, as soon as my hand touched the doorknob, my ears were treated to the bellowing encore from the fart machine, which had reappeared to kiss me goodnight.
As the door closed behind me, I slid across the icy driveway to where Lynxie was waiting for me. I knew that I was never going to make a point to call this guy again (this time for real), and that I had suddenly become that prick that goes in for the kill, and then disappears for good. I felt bad, just like I feel kind of bad writing this post, but I do it not to mock him, but rather to mock my sad life. He wasn’t my first media guy, and if I ever get off this rock, he probably won’t be my last either. The good thing was that I didn’t have to go very long without satisfaction, as a Stanley Cup literally just fell into my lap a week or so later, and I was taken care of right up until I moved to Japan. Anyway, as I drove away that night, the first song to come on my iPod was MGMT’s The Youth, and I actually still cannot listen to that song without getting creeped out. In fairness to him, the following day he did do the gentlemanly thing by contacting me. However, this mainly involved sending me a series of emoticons with a heavy preference going to the shocked and winky faces. To be nice, I didn’t respond with a frown.
