For four years, I have been writing jokes about BlogHer, fantasizing about my dream to go to the conference and finally use my blogging popularity for some legitimate purpose — getting some hot action from some starry-eyed female fan. For twelve months a year, I work hard on my writing, and I deserve to be compensated somehow. Unfortunately, every year something happens that screws up my chance to attend the conference. Last year, was an infamous case involving a free ticket from JCPenney/Dockers which went sour.
This year, I have a ticket to BlogHer. I have a new haircut. I have bought new shoes. I have flirted with all sorts of attractive women online. I have made lists of women in my google reader categorized by DEFINITELY WILL DO ME, POSSIBLY WILL DO ME, and DO NOT READ OR COMMENT. Today, I was goofing around on Twitter, trying to ease some of the excitment building inside of me with only a month left to go, when I came face to face with the enemy. And it was Twitter itself, Facebook — social media in general.
Let me explain. Pundits and marketers are wild over social media. President Obama was able to rally large groups of supporters by using social media. A movie on YouTube can get a million hits within days. When a tragedy hits, online citizens worldwide can come together in support and organization.
But do we really want information spread so quickly ALL THE TIME? Do we want our lives to go viral, even the bad things? The very thought of being in the middle of 1000 gossipy female bloggers has given me pause over my plans of “getting it on” with some hot babe in her hotel room.
For years, I have been writing about my amazing sexual prowess, I have written about giving women orgasms by merely looking their way. In post after post, I give oral sex for three hours straight and entertain woman with a penis that sings, dances, and tells borscht belt Yiddish jokes.
The truth is, I have been with one woman, Sophia, for over a decade, and even that has had its ups and downs in the bedroom. If opportunity would arise, it might take a few tries before I get back into the groove, much like the Tin Man needs Dorothy to squirt some oil onto his joints before he could tap dance again.
But now I worry more about my reputation than actually getting laid. If I did get lucky, and I wasn’t very good, how long would it take before this information would spread across the blogosphere? Can you imagine how this would hurt my street cred?
“Hey, isn’t that Neilochka, the blogger/premature ejaculator?”
Ms. Sizzle and V-grrrl are long time blogging friends of mine who don’t read each other’s blogs. As a trial run for BlogHer, I want to see how long it will take for news about my performance in the sack to go from blogger to blogger, from Ms. Sizzle to V-grrrl.
Remember, just to be scientific about this — Ms. Sizzle is attending BlogHer in Chicago. V-grrrl is not. Ms. Sizzle lives in Seattle. V-grrl lives in Virginia. They do not know each other.
Here is the scenario. It is July, 2009. Chicago. BlogHer. Ms. Sizzle and I are at a party Saturday night, both of us drinking too much. I “accidentally” spill some wine on her skirt, and then accompany her to her hotel room to “change” while her roommates are downstairs. I compliment her beautiful glasses, and before we know it, we are in bed together, throwing the Harry met Sally “friends shouldn’t do this” rule to the wind.
Three seconds later, it is over.
“Oops, sorry it was so quick,” I say, sheepishly. “It must be the jetlag — you know, being in a different time zone.”
“Sure, sure, I understand,” she says with a warm smile, lying through her teeth, like most women do. “It was great. You were wonderful!”
“Really?” I say, my ego stoked. “I knew it! I really know how to please a woman sexually! I tell myself that all the time.”
I look down at my penis.
“You hear that buddy?! We rawk!”
“Excuse me,” she says politely, as she heads for the bathroom.
Once in the bathroom, Ms. Sizzle, quickly takes out her blackberry out from inside her pocketbook and sends a text message to Kris from Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino, who is her roommate in the hotel. She is partying downstairs.
MsSizzle: I just slept with Neilochka!
theWino: Oh my god! How was it?
MsSizzle: Awful. They’re gonna have to change Superman’s motto from “faster than a shooting bullet to Neilochka f**king style!” It’s taking me longer to write this text message than for him to finish.
theWino: Holy shit! Who knew? I always fancied him a total stud.
MsSizzle: I know. Me too! But he’s still a friend. So, please don’t tell anyone downstairs or Twitter about this to anyone or put this on Facebook or IM with anyone about it. OK?
theWino: Of course not. I’m a woman. Women don’t gossip!
OK, now here is the experimental part —
Remember the game, “Telephone?”
Who would theWino immediately tell about Ms. Sizzle and me, and how many degrees of separation would it be before V-grrrl received the information that I sucked in the sack via a DM on Twitter by someone else?
I say, it would take one hour.
The Power of Social Media. Screwing Up Sex Plans since 2008.