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JP [Steve Martin]

Steve Martin


Last Updated: 11/17/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 27
Sign: Cancer

City: ROCHESTER
State: NEW YORK
Country: US
Signup Date: 10/13/2005

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Monday, August 25, 2008 
Actor Gabriel Olds has dated his fair share of surgically enhanced women. Now he tells us why most men prefer the real deal—"flaws" and all.

I met Tessa* at a premiere party in Hollywood several summers ago. It was held in a decked-out airline hangar, and everything, from the stunning cocktail waitresses to the champagne fountain, was over-the-top. But even in the midst of all that glitz, Tessa was the main attraction. She was a slender, vibrant redhead in a bright orange dress—you couldn't miss her. After a few minutes of sneaking nervous glances in her direction, I got up the guts to approach. "You're wearing my favorite color," I said.
"I like orange because it rhymes with—"

"Nothing," she finished. The spark was undeniable. Tessa was smart—an investment banker—and had a great laugh. Somehow, she was still single. When she casually slipped me her card at the end of the night, I was ecstatic.


On our date the following week, things got even better. Tessa wore a clingy black dress, and over dinner she lit up with stories of four-million-a-minute losses in the futures market. Sexy. When she asked me back to her place after the check came, I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Soon, as we stood in her hallway, groping each other like teenagers, my hand fumbled to her chest, anticipating the plush, nurturing flesh of her…


Wait a minute. Was her breast rippled? As I felt the telltale implant bag under her skin, I thought, Damn it—fake boobs. My mind overflowed with images of hospitals and scalpels. I froze up, and Tessa noticed.


"You're acting weird," she said.


"I am not. I mean, maybe I am. It's just, um, are these, uh," I stammered, still sheepishly groping at her chest.


"Are you frisking me?" she asked.


I stammered on.


"Get out," she said.


Before I knew what had hit me, I was back in my car, driving away from the first woman who'd sparked my interest in months.
What just happened? Was I really going to let plastic surgery get in the way of my search for love—again?

That's right. Tessa wasn't the first surgically enhanced woman I'd dated, and she wouldn't be the last. Let me explain: I'm an actor in my thirties, and I live in Los Angeles, a town that seems overrun with silicone. Before I met Tessa I'd already dated women with nose jobs, huge breast enhancements and lips plumped to bee-stung proportions. With each of these women, I'd tell myself that what they did with their bodies was their choice, that it wasn't my place to judge. But then questions would fill my head: Is this woman really who she seems to be? Am I dating the person or the persona? Inevitably my attraction to them floundered, and the relationship did too. I had, it seemed, a real issue with all the nipping and tucking going on in the dating world. And this wasn't just an L.A. phenomenon either—I have college friends who've noticed the same trend in America's heartland. In 2006, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, there were nearly 11 million cosmetic procedures in the U.S.—that's nearly a 50 percent increase from 2000.


Certainly, men are partially responsible for this trend. We can be superficial creatures: abandoning faithful life partners for younger, prettier versions, TiVo-ing Skinemax movies and wondering why we, mere mortals, aren't married to the likes of Jenna Jameson. But as much as we lust after images of hyper-real beauty in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue or even in the apartments or cubicles next door, we don't quite know how to react when those unreal bodies actually belong to the woman in our lives.


Was surgery something I could handle? Or was it time to start looking for a "natural" woman, "flaws" and all? It would take me three more relationships and a handful of blunders to figure that out—starting with Mia…

I met Mia soon after the Tessa "frisking" incident, and I was relieved that all of her looked and felt natural. She was pretty and feisty, cracking me up with stories about her two schnauzers with rhyming names. Within weeks of meeting, we were an item, taking weekend trips and storing toothbrushes at each other's apartments. So imagine my surprise when, during a rainy day many months later, Mia decided to show me an old photo album—and I didn't recognize anyone in the pictures. "Where are you?" I asked.


Silence.


Finally, she laughed nervously and said, "I'm right there, silly." I looked closer.


Same hair, same smile, but when I finally focused between her eyes, I blurted, "You had a nose job?!"

I was baffled, and more than a little hurt. We'd been dating for almost a year. She'd trusted me enough to tell me about losing her virginity and her secret dreams of moving to Spain, so why hadn't she trusted me enough to tell me about her surgery? She made light of it, and insisted there was nothing to talk about, but I couldn't let it go. It seemed dishonest. A lie by omission, surely—but also a lost opportunity for intimacy. Why had she gotten the nose job? How did it feel before and after? These were things I wanted to know. And once I realized she didn't feel the need to share them with me, the trust between us was gone. Our relationship ended pretty quickly after that.


Trying to see past the nips and tucks

Not long after things went south with Mia, I met an ad executive who was elegant and quirky (one of my favorite combinations) and whose proportions seemed perfectly normal. I asked her to dinner, and we met a few weeks later at a Japanese restaurant. But something was different about her that night. As she nibbled at a bowl of edamame, I figured it out: Her lower lip seemed much fuller than it was the first time we'd met—it looked like the mouths of actresses I'd worked with who'd gotten collagen and talked about it openly.
And since those actresses were so comfortable discussing it, I felt comfortable asking the ad exec, "When'd you get your work done?"

"Work done?" she shot back. "Who do you think I am, a stripper?" I was beginning to get the picture: Women might chat about their surgery—or adventures at the dermatologist's office—with near strangers, but the new guy they're dating is probably the last person they feel like sharing with. If I wanted to know whether my date still had all her God-given parts, I needed to figure it out from visual cues alone. When it came to implants, if the boobs were pert with no bra: fake. If they were too rounded on top: fake. Needless to say, my obsession with all of this became a topic of great amusement for my coupled friends. "What was it this time, Gabe?" they'd ask when we gathered for dinner.


Then I met Callie, who didn't make me guess. She singled me out at a friend's birthday party, regaling me with childhood stories, most of which involved some sort of brawl. "By the way," Callie suddenly said, "these fake boobs are so not me." This was a change: I'd hardly had time to notice her breasts—all my attempts to check her out discreetly had been foiled by her gaze, and she was already revealing that they weren't real. Her forthrightness was a breath of fresh air, and I felt comfortable asking why she'd gotten fake boobs in the first place— if they weren't "her"? It turned out a former boyfriend had woken her up one morning with a very romantic question: "Hey, you ever think about getting better boobs?" Callie loved this guy, and after a series of failed relationships, she wanted to please him, so she went out and bought big, D-cup implants a few months later. Unsurprisingly, they broke up soon after that, and Callie was left with a very strange relationship souvenir. Some girls have tattoos of old lovers' names; Callie had an $8,000 pair of breasts.


I'd started to really like Callie. And as we talked about the problems her implants caused for her—the way people took her less seriously at work, the unsettling way she no longer recognized herself in the mirror—I came to a realization about why I was so wary of women with plastic surgery. As far as I could tell, almost all the women I'd met who had changed their bodies through surgery had either done it to bandage some adolescent body issue or to make themselves more attractive to men. I didn't like that—it didn't seem like a celebration of beauty, but a scrambling attempt to fix something. What I wanted was to be with a woman who worshiped herself as much as I worshiped her. I mean, come on, this is the female form here, the most beautiful thing on earth. To me, surgery somehow implied a lack of confidence. It was as if something purchased to say, "Hey, check me out," actually said, "I don't like myself very much." I knew that in some ways, this was a ridiculous generalization. Women get surgery for all kinds of reasons. Who was I to decide that every person with a chiseled nose also came with psychological baggage? But I couldn't help it; that's how I felt.


When I explained this theory to Callie, she said she understood. In fact, she told me, she'd decided to get her implants removed. Great, I thought. Callie would get back her real body, and I would get a girlfriend with natural breasts. But part of her transformation, apparently, included cutting me out of her life. I'll never know exactly why she disappeared without a word after her surgery, but I have a feeling she wanted to rethink her relationships with men—what they wanted from her, and what she was willing to do for them. I have to admit, I understand. And looking back now, I can appreciate what she taught me: that choosing to have surgery doesn't make you a dishonest person.


Understanding what I really needed

After that, determined to change my dating luck, I tried looking for women outside of my Hollywood circle—at the gym, at the grocery story, even at the library. That's where I met Kara. Kara was a novelist from New York who looked lean and fit and, best of all, completely real, in jeans and a T-shirt. When I thought about getting my hands on her au naturel parts, my mind reeled. During our second make-out session, she stopped me as my hands slipped under her shirt. "Don't get too excited," she joked. "They're awful." Were they? Well, one was noticeably larger than the other, and they didn't look like breasts I was used to seeing on lingerie billboards, but I loved that they were…hers. Kara turned out to be one of the great loves of my life. We dated long distance until the lack of regular contact drove us apart. Sometimes I think I'm still not over her.


In fact Kara (and her gorgeously imperfect body) helped me figure out that dating women who'd been under the knife would probably never feel right to me. There are a thousand enhanced goddesses out there who will one day make other men very happy. I know those women are worth dating, and I've fallen in love with a handful of them myself. But I'm pretty sure that the woman for me will deal with her physical peccadilloes with humor and self-acceptance, not surgery.


This is the part I think women don't understand. When a guy falls in love, his lover's body parts become bewitching. I'm not going to tell you that our heads don't turn when we see a stacked blond walking down the street. But when we fall for you—really, really fall for you—you hijack our sense of beautiful. What's sexy to us? You—in the "before" picture.


~-= =-~ ~-= =-~ ~-= =-~ ~-= =-~ ~-= =-~ ~-= =-~ ~-= =-~

After reading this, I realized that this was a very articulate way of verbalizing my own personal non-appreciation of surgical work done for vanity. Lemme know what you think on the subject.
3:36 AM 
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Sunday, June 24, 2007 

This goes out for my Brother, my Best Friend, my Cousin, my Uncles, and all the rest of you fighting men & women willing to put your lives on the line countless times to protect the lives, properties, & liberties of even those too selfish to appreciate it.

God Bless Our Troops.

 

 

What Is A United States Marine?

I am 232 years of romping, stomping, hell, death, destruction. I am the finest fighting machine the world has ever seen. I was born in a bomb crater. My mother was an M-16 and my Father is the Devil. Each moment that I live is an additional threat upon your life.

I am a rough looking, roving soldier from the sea. I am cocky, self centered, and overbearing. I do not know the meaning of fear for I am fear itself. I am a green amphibious monster made of blood and guts that arose from the ashes of my enemies, festering on anti-Americans throughout the globe. When ever it may arise and when my time comes, I will die a glorious and grotesque death on the battlefield, giving my life for the Corps, Mom, and Apple Pie.

I stole the Eagle from the Air Force, the Anchor from the Navy, and the rope from the Army. Then on the 7th day, while God rested, I overran His perimeter and took over the Globe and I have been protecting it ever since!

I live like a Soldier, talk like a Sailor, and slap the shit out of both of them. Soldier by day, lover by night, drunkard by choice, and...

MARINE BY THE GRACE OF GOD ALONE!

REPOST IF YOU'RE A MARINE, WERE A MARINE OR IF YOU JUST SUPPORT THEM

2:48 PM 
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Monday, May 28, 2007 
The Guys' Rules­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­
At last a The Rules of Man, although I strongly suggest that y'all realize that this is a work in progress, and that each man has the prerogative to add (+) or delete (-) rules as deemed necessary, as well as amending those already recorded. This is Merely a guideline.

Finally , the guys' side of the story.

We always hear " the rules "
From the female side.


Now here are the rules from the male side.
These are our rules!
Please note... these are all numbered "1"
ON PURPOSE!



1. Men are NOT mind readers.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat.
You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down.
We need it up, you need it down.
You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon
or the changing of the tides.
Let it be.

1. Shopping is NOT a sport.
And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want.
Let us be clear on this one:
Subtle hints do not work!
Strong hints do not work!
Obvious hints do not work!
Just say it!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do.
Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem.

See a doctor.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument.
In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

1. If you won't dress like the Victoria 's Secret girls, don't Expect us to act like soap opera guys.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are.
Don't ask us.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of them makes you sad or angry, then we meant the other one

1. You can either ask us to do something
Or tell us how you want it done.
Not both.
If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings.
Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color . Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched.
We do that.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong.
We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle, besides we know you will bring it up again later.

1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer you don't want to hear.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine... Really

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation,
or golf.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

1. Thank you for reading this.
Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight;


But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

Pass this to as many men as you can -
to give them a laugh.

Pass this to as many women as you can -

to give them a bigger laugh
2:49 AM 
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Tuesday, April 17, 2007 

I put this on here in specific recognition of the original 3 Amigos, George Kent, Mikie Oconnel, and myself, Steve Martin.  In fact, I would like this to also go out to the last member of our crew, who when he happens to be in the same state as us, the RAT PACK inevitably winds up drunk somewhere pissin someone off we've never even met. Our MIA man is none other than Fassil Shenkoru, more commonly known as FES due to his striking resemblance, both physically as well as linguistically, to the character played by Wilmer Valderama on "THAT 70's SHOW"

This goes out for you guys, and god willing, we'll all get together to cause a shit-load more of  'extra-curricular-activities-that-are-rarely-if-ever-seen-as-intelligent-or-even-legal-by-those-not-in-the-RAT-PACK'' soon enough.

FRIENDS: Tell you not to do something stupid when drunk

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will shine a spotlight on you while your drunk naked ass is taking a piss in the bushes.
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FRIENDS: Call your parents Mr. and Mrs

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Call your parents drunk as hell and tell them about the fat chick you tried to pick up

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FRIENDS: Hope the night out drinking goes smoothly, and hope that no one is late for the ride home.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Know some wild shit will happen, and set up rally points.

---------------------------------------------------------------
FRIENDS: Bail you out of jail and tell you what you did was wrong.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will be sitting next to you saying, Damn...that shit was fun "

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FRIENDS: Cry with you.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: laugh at you

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FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then give it back.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Steal each other's stuff so often nobody remembers who bought it in the first place.

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FRIENDS: Are happy that someone picked up a one night stand and leave them alone.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will Crawl naked into the room with a camera and hope for the tag team.

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FRIENDS: Know a few things about you.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.

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FRIENDS: Will leave you behind if that's what the crowd is doing.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will kick the whole crowds ass that left you.

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FRIENDS: Would knock on your door.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Walk right in and say, "I'm home!"

----------------------------------------------------
FRIENDS: Will try and talk to the bouncer when you get tossed out of the bar.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will buck up and go after the bouncer for touching you on the way out.

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FRIENDS: Will wish you had enough money to go out that night, and are sorry you couldn't come.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will share their last dollar with you, drag you along, and try to steal free drinks all night.
-----------------------------------------
FRIENDS: Will take your drink away when they think you've had enough.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will look at you stumbling all over the place and say, "You better drink the rest of that shit, you know we don't waste. That's alcohol abuse!!!" HAHAHAHA !!!!

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FRIENDS: Want the money they loaned you back next week.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Can't begin to remember who owes who money after taking care of each other for so long.

---------------------------------------------
FRIENDS: Will say "I can't handle Tequila anymore".

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will say "okay, just one more..." and then 2 minutes later "okay, just one more!".

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FRIENDS: Will talk shit to the person who talks shit about you.

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will knock them the Fuck out!!

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FRIENDS: Will tell you "They'd take a bullet for you."

TRUE ROCHESTER FRIENDS: Will actually take a bullet for you.

2:16 AM 
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Friday, April 13, 2007 

Ok, I know as a guy, big ta-ta's are supposed to  be great and all, and I'm not complainin. Their nice. But I was just lookin at one kids page from Sparks Nevada, and I stress kid here, she's just barely turnin 19. But if you go through the pics one by one you can see all of a sudden, she's got tits; hypothesis: boob job.

If you keep goin through the pics, one of the comments on one of her pics is from a 17 yr old girl, who goes on to say
". . .guess whos going to be top heavy like you soon...ME, you definitely talked to me into it that one night. . ."

What the hell?!?!
I mean I know it's definately not my place to critiscize anyone, but come on. 17 yrs old and wantin a tit job. Good friggin lord, I mean I am nobody's idea of the perfect male specimen, but I'm not about to run off and pay thousands of dollars so that I can appear ticked off at people for lookin at what I just paid for.

But seriously, these girls are barely out of high school, or in the 17 yr olds case, prolly not even out of it yet, and one of their top priorities seemed to be gettin rock-hard bigger tits. And if you look at the Sparks girls 'before pictures', she was flawless. I just don't think there's really any reason for these young ass friggin chicas to be gettin that kind of nonessential surgery.

I have nothin against well-endowed women, at all. I just think puttin that much emphasis on only one part of the body is worthless and more often than not self-depracating.

I really don't wanna sound like a friggin afterschool special here, but for Crissakes
Have some pride in who you are, not in how well your chest can keep you afloat in the event of a disaster.

I guess shit like this has just been gettin on my nerves when every other page you seem to see is of some 14 yr old girl, talkin about how she loves to get high and F*#%ed and prancin around in barely anythin with captions that claim she doesn't think she's attactive and needs 'someone to give me some love'

 That's it for right now, respond and lemme know whether you agree or not.

8:12 PM 
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