Memories Of An Exit Row Hero

**As you may recall, I was planning to use this post to share some of my foolproof online dating tips. Unfortunately, since true love doesn’t care about promises I make on my blog, I haven’t had time to finish it. The good news is that because my dating tips are so effective, I’m currently in the middle of a messy love triangle with a guy posing as two different guys.

Only time will tell if I choose the right one. In the meantime, I thought I’d use this opportunity to give back, by republishing an old post that I really think brings out my charitable nature.


Exit Row Hero


If I had to pick one word to describe me, it would be Humanitarian.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a passion for rescuing others. While my friends had dreams of marrying Johnny Depp; I dreamed of finding him in cardiac arrest and shocking him back to life with a defibrillator.

Recently, while on a flight to San Francisco, my dreams of becoming a real-life hero finally came to fruition.

When I checked in for my flight, the attractive agent asked if I wanted to sit in the exit row. “We usually charge extra,” he said. “But I’ll waive the fee this time.”

Thanks to Cosmo I’m really good at reading between the lines. “Is that because you want me to have sex with you?” I asked, casually tracing a figure eight stretching around both my nipples

He said it was because there were seats available and most people preferred the extra leg room. But I could tell by the way he refused eye-contact that he was hiding his true feelings.

Shortly after boarding, the crew started their in-flight safety demonstration. Because I don’t like listening to boring things, I grabbed my iPhone to check my messages.

“Excuse me miss.” I looked up and saw a flight attendant standing over me, giving me the evil eye. “I must insist that you listen to the safety announcement.”

I told her I had faith in the pilots’ abilities and if she didn’t then perhaps she should look into another line of work.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You’re in the exit row. That means you are responsible for opening the hatch if anything happens.”

She handed me a safety brochure. “Read this.”

While skimming through it, my eyes zoomed in on the following:

You might suffer bodily harm as a result of performing one or more of the emergency exit functions listed on this safety card.

I handed it back. Then I politely explained that while I had no problem doing her job for her, my condition prevented me from performing any potentially dangerous activities.

“I…have…type…two…Asthma,” I said, coughing between words. “It’s malignant.”

“If you don’t agree to the terms, I am going to have to move you to another seat.”

“But you can’t!This seat was given to me by the ticket agent as a token of his wanting to have sex with me.”

I told her that one of the symptoms of my disease was impulsiveness, and if she made me move I might accidentally announce over the loud speaker that she was racist against Type-Two Malignant Asthmatics. Then I rested my head on the shoulder of the old man next to me and pretended to pass out.

Shortly after the plane left the tarmac, I noticed a young boy sitting across the aisle. He was covering his ears with his hands.

“My ears!” he screamed. “Mommy my ears are hurting!”

His distressed-looking mother gave him a stick of chewing gum. He chucked it to the floor.


She told him to calm down. He responded by spitting on her fake Lululemon pants. (I know they were fake because I’m a label whore.) Visibly frustrated, she grabbed him by the arm and started scolding him.

Because I watch a lot of hidden camera shows, I could tell this was a set-up. It was obvious that John Quinones was somewhere on the plane, waiting to film my reaction to everyday dilemmas that test my character and values.


Since I had no intention of being known as “Asshole Who Sits There And Does Nothing” I grabbed the kids’ other arm and pulled it toward me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The mother asked. She started pulling his arm harder.

I stood up to get more traction.

 Eventually, she lost her grip.  I yanked the hysterical kid away and sat him down on my lap.

“Don’t worry, ” I said, petting his tear-stained face.  “Everything’s going to be okay. I’m your mommy now.”

When he wouldn’t stop crying, I gently placed the oxygen mask over his mouth. Then I told Pussin Temple Drive (Named after my old cat and the street I grew up on) that he was coming to live with me and that he would never have to feel ashamed again because his new mommy was a MILF who only wore real brand name yoga pants.

Just as I was about to give Pussin a snack, two burly-looking men sitting a few rows ahead stood up and walked over.

“What seems to be the problem here?” the least-hot-one asked.

“She took my son!” Pussin’s old mother said, pointing at me. “And now she’s trying to breast-feed him!!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.  As I re-fastened the buttons on my shirt, I explained to the men that everything was under control and it would all make sense when John Quinones came out and revealed himself.

In the end, it turned out there was no hidden camera. Apparently John Quinones was away on vacation and the whole messed-up scenario had been legit.

Deep down, I was relieved. I knew in my heart that I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Not to mention the fact that because I live in an adults only building, Pussin would have had to sleep in the shed.

Still, even though my heroic efforts weren’t aired on National television, that doesn’t make me any less of a hero. If anything, I think it makes me an even bigger hero, since I was unable to use my selflessness to promote my still undetermined (but open to offers) career.

*FYI- While the airlines have yet to send me a letter of recognition and/or lift my three-year flight ban, I know they appreciated my efforts.


Looking for my soil-mate.

Recently, while walking in the park, I noticed an elderly couple sitting on a bench holding hands.

Like most people do when they see old people in love, I tried to picture them having sex.  But then I started to think about soul-mates.

A few weeks earlier, I had broken up with a guy I’d been dating. He was nice, but he had this annoying habit of introducing me to hot guys as his girlfriend. Also, because of his insecurities, he would harass me with countless pathetic text messages while I was out on other dates.

At first, I let it go. But after he freaked out when I asked if he had any single, less effeminate-looking brothers, I knew I had to end it.

Still, I missed the companionship. The feeling of knowing that if worse came to worst, I had someone to pick me up from the bar after last call. Or of waking up and smelling the pillow that would have his lingering scent had I actually let him stay long enough to need it.

As I ogled the geriatric couple from behind a nearby tree, I felt a renewed sense of hope that my true love was still out there. So, after spending the next few hours convincing the police to drop the senior citizen harassment charges, I went home and began my search.

In an effort to get the ball rolling, I decided to visit one of the dating sites I frequented to see if I had any new messages.

Instead, I found this:


Screen Shot 2013-05-07 at 6.31.22 AM copy.

I  didn’t know what was worse. The fact that I could no longer contact any of the guys wanting to pamper me, or that this “Support’ contact that the site referred to didn’t exist.  Knowing I would never in a million years pay to date a man-child led me to believe it was the former.

I felt like I had been mislead. I never would have joined the site had I not received the following message in my inbox:


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Since I wasn’t even a member of the Adult Diaper Dating community, I knew it was fate.

The sign-up process was exhausting.  They asked me about fetishes I’d never heard of. They used acronyms I didn’t understand.

Fortunately, because I’m an anal-retentive puritan with the street slang of a Femdom Sphincterphile Cunnilinguist, I was able to wing it.


123*I typically play the part of “Vertigo-Challenged Woman With Gluten Allergies and a Micropenis”
**So what’s the big deal it’s not like I’m going around engaging in group sex with a bunch of random strangers
***Don’t know what this is
****Don’t know. But as long as there’s munchies, count me in
****Though I’m not familiar with mating rituals of  the animal kingdom,  if the rooster expects the bull to put out I feel like he should at least put in some effort.


Given that 90% of the guys weren’t even potty-trained,  it made sense that their communication skills were lacking. Most of the conversations went something like this:

Him: Hi
Me: Hi
Him: Mommy/Nanny
Me: No/No
Him: S&M
Him: Bondage?
Him: WTF?
Him: Bye
Me: Bye-Curious

But over time, I did manage to meet a few potential connections. (See below)


adultdiaperfetish copy




adultdiaperslamaze copy copy




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adultdiaperkidshavingchildren copy




adultdiaperinde copy




adultdatingcribormine copy


Sadly, given the circumstances, I may never find out if there was potential for a long-term relationship. Still, I haven’t given up hope.

If you happen to known any of the guys above, please tell them to email me at  Except babyinvegas. (No offense, I just find sissy babies to be a real turn-off.)