Inhale Deeply

A reader of my blog wrote to me the other day. He was extremely concerned about my well-being after reading I was taking prescription meds for funsies. Apparently, he thinks taking a pill to aid sleep or to calm one's nerves when having a chunk of your neck removed shows weakness. You should only consider taking such drugs if you are about to hurl yourself off the tallest building in your city.

I thought about him yesterday and wondered what he would think of me as they put the gas mask on me at the dentist for my 6 month cleaning. My last 2 visits at another dentist’s office have been horrifying. Like straight out of a horror movie horrifying. Scraping that was so loud and hard I swore the tooth was going to come right out of my jaw. The blood and pieces of flesh flooding my mouth were making my heart race and then I fainted at one point, the bright lamp over head proving too much heat. I was lying down already and, honestly, welcomed being unconscious for a while.

I do not need to go through that when there is perfectly good nitrous available to me for only $30 extra. And I didn’t feel high, per se, but I was feeling absolutely in love with my hygienist. I thought, as she flossed me, maybe she might like to come over for dinner sometime or perhaps go out for drinks, which I think in and of itself proves I was feeling pretty good.

I don’t remember much of our conversation but she talked to me the whole time. She explained she was going to “probe my gums” and then made a few off color jokes about probing in general. At one point she had me laughing so hard the hygienist across the hall stepped away from her patient, shot us a dirty look, and then shut her door. “Well, I guess she doesn’t want to come to this party” my hygienist said, causing me to laugh even harder. Then the dentist came in to see what all of the ruckus was about. I explained that I have a very hearty laugh and asked him to please not shut off the gas.

I’m kind of looking forward to spending an hour with Dianne again in June.

The gift that keeps on giving

I’m getting a new pussy for Christmas! No, not a kitten; I hate cats. I am not quite ready for vaginal rejuvenation either, having bore zero children thus far.

This holiday season I have been blessed with the gift of laser hair removal, zapping all my pubes into oblivion. I like it to be go-time all the time, just as much as the next 30-something in her sexual prime. However, shaving my muff daily has really become a drag, and God forbid I try to get a piece after anything more than 24 hours after my razor has traced over my lady parts. It reminds me of Sir-Mix-a-Lot "trying to get the friction on".

I would have been mortified in past years if any man in my life offered to treat me to a smooth beaver - What? Am I not running a tight enough ship down there? But, with age comes a comfortableness and grace that says: If you would like to A) shell out the cash; and B) save me the time in the shower, then, why yes! I'd love to have a stranger poke at my genitals, causing me a great deal of pain, as I inhale the scent of burning hair.

Sushi

During my recent trip to San Diego I was meeting S&P's mom for the first time. One day we were out sight seeing and she asks from the front seat, "Do you like sushi?"

"Yes, I could eat it everyday."

Then S&P interjects, "I like sushi, too, but I like Liz’s sushi best."

My jaw landed in my lap, and my eyes got a little teary. I give him the full on death look, wondering why in the world he would bring up something like this with his MOTHER!

She turns around and says, “Son, even I know what that means.”

And I sink even further into the back seat, completely humiliated. The car was silent except for his incessant giggling. Every time he opened his mouth, I pointed my finger and mouthed through my gritted teeth, “You better shut the fuck up!”

Soon we arrived at the look-out, where you can see a 360-degree view of the city. I tell S&P to get out of the car and quickly start walking away from the vehicle so his mother and stepfather do not hear the throw down that’s about to go down.

I gave him a quick one-two to each cheek with my open palm and said, "What the fuck was that?? What the fuck were you thinking, talking like that to your mother? I am so embarrassed."

My slap had not affected him at all, nor did my mortified outcry, and he was doubled over grabbing his sides, laughing so hard his face was soaked.

Once he caught his breath, he said, "Baby! On our second date I ate all your sushi. I didn’t realize it sounded like a pun until you went white and my mother turned around. I kept trying to explain myself back there, but it looked like you were about to punch me."

Well boy, did I feel like an asshole.

Anytime the plan is to share food, he ends up eating any portion that was supposed to be mine. I am trying to train him and some progress has been made. So, the whole him-eating-all-of-my-sushi thing has been a joke between us. But that is not where my mind, nor his mother’s, was that day.

I love drugs

I had a very early flight a couple weeks ago out to San Diego. Woke up at 4 to catch a 7 am. I will reiterate again, I am not a morning person. So I was none to happy about driving to the airport with out at least seeing the sun. The night before, S&P promised me he would give me a Xanax as soon as we were on the plane, telling me I would be completely knocked out and totally catch up on my missed hours of sleep. All was right in my world and that seemed like a great plan. I was not a bitch at all that morning. I was all smiles, waiting on that glorious pill to knock me out.

I have never fallen asleep with the TV on, I need complete quiet. I'm generally a very light sleeper and the racket on a flight isn’t conducive to a restful sleep for this finicky thing. So, imagine how pleased I was when S&P tapped me, saying we were landing in a few minutes. I didn’t remember the safety advisory with the mask coming out of the ceiling and reminding us there’s a flotation device under our seats. I didn’t remember taking off. Wow. I could really get used to this shit!

The last time I took an anti-anxiety pill was in preparation for to have a cyst removed from my neck. I asked a friend if she could spare one of her Ativans. The procedure was done right at the dermatologist, but I was sure I’d faint and cause a scene if I didn’t keep calm. Well, I caused a scene in another way, snapping numerous photos of my cysts in its little container to be sent to the lab. I was out of my mind loopy.

In both cases, I slept for hours and had a chaperone with me at all times, which means there is no way I could be on these pills on a regular basis. But it’s really nice to take a vacation from reality for a few hours and check out. This holiday season I will be accepting any of your muscle relaxers and or anti-depressants. Thank you in advance.

7 am

I have an unconventional relationship with the chiropractor I work for. He is much more of a friend than a boss. Which might have made it hard for him to reprimand me when I misread the schedule twice on Friday, showing up late to both appointments - but that’s neither here nor there.

A month or so ago I checked the schedule on my Google calendar before going to bed. This routine gets my mind right on exactly what I have going on the next day. I see to my horror he has me down for a 7 am. My heart starts pounding fast in my chest, the thought of waking up before 9 am seriously causes my blood pressure to rise. And then I remember him saying as I walked out the front door earlier that day, “see you at 7, bright and early!" To which I responded by giving him my middle finger and a “yeah right.”

So I text: Robert Duvall is on my schedule for 7am. What the fuck is that??? I totally thought you were joking when I left there today.

This guy lives and dies by his cell, and 12 minutes later when he hadn’t responded, I wrote again: I’m going to bed. I will be in for my 11 am appointment. I never work before 10, you know this and did not have a lengthy chat with me about me coming in that early. So I am assuming this is a mistake.

14 minutes later I still hadn’t heard back from that bitch. I was having a mild panic attack, envisioning this new patient sitting in the lobby at 7:10 and the Dr. with his hands up saying, “She should be here, I confirmed with her yesterday.”

I text again, since I’m laying there thinking did he REALLY schedule me a 7am!?!? Dude, I never ever get up that early. I'm not even close to functioning at that hour. I am shocked you didn’t talk to me about this.

And finally he answers with: Gotcha!! Robert Duvall is an actor from the Godfather. See you at 11.

I replied: You Fucker.

I wonder how many people are able to  say something like that in one breath and then ask for their check in the next.

Nice ride

I met a guy on Yahoo Singles years ago. Our first night chatting by instant message was a long night of exchanging our life stories, dating trials and tribulations, future expectations, etcetera, etcetera. After learning so much about someone, it seemed silly to let the fact he lived in Chicago keep us from being friends. I have a strict 35 mile radius dating-sphere, so a relationship of that sort was out of the question.

Once a month or so we will catch up in the Yahoo chat box. Recently, he was telling me he had just gotten rid of his moped. I didn’t know he had one in the first place. “You must not get to ride very often with that weather, huh?” “Hahahahahaha” was his response.

Then he says, "you have never heard the term huh? A moped is a girl that’s fun to ride until your friends see you on it."

WOW. I was speechless. That cuts like a knife! Poor girl… God, I hope I have never been anyone’s moped. Just goes to show guys are horny bastards and will hump anything.

Since I love me that urban dictionary, I’m sending you the link to moped.

Unfortunately ladies, it's a very real term.

A little bit of crazy goes a long way...

Neuroses are a funny thing.

It was pointed out to me the other day that I have a few. In all honesty, really, who doesn’t? I prefer the term "quirky" but that's here nor there.

PETA has brain washed me and I will jump through hoops to spare a poor chicken cramped living quarters. I limit my dairy big time, thinking somehow I’m causing sores on one less cow’s udder. However, I did ask for a bee bee gun for Christmas so I can eradicate the squirrels that hang out in double digits in S&P’s back yard. I hate cats and birds and would do the same to them if they started coming around in numbers that large.

I really watch what I eat to maintain my petite frame. I avoid white carbs like the plague. The 4 mini pieces of candy I had this Halloween will be the only candy to pass these lips till next October. I can’t tell you how many years it's been since I had a soda. With this said, you cannot pay me to drink a light beer. You can take your Bud Light and sit and spin, that's all its good for if you ask me. I require full calorie, full bodied deliciousness. I’ll just throw away the bun that my veggie burger comes on to compensate.

I have been making the switch big time to more natural ingredients in all of my toiletries. Your skin is, after all, the biggest organ. Parabens and sulfates are in so much of our lotions, shampoos and conditioners. But I am a crazy woman when it comes to candles and I burn them at an alarming rate. These are not the organic soy candles. Oh no. These smell up the joint with toxic fumes so pleasant I almost want to cry. I can only imagine what they are doing to my lungs. I might as well light a cigarette for funsies.

Just when you think you have me figured out, I'll do, say or think the exact opposite. The chatter up here in my melon justifying these things to myself can be exhausting. So thank you all for dealing with my cray cray.

Special Delivery

We have all been wronged by another at some point. Your boss may have brought you close to tears over something that was in no way your fault. A friend you have loved for years, perhaps got catty and took half of your circle of friends with her as she exited your relationship. Or maybe someone stiffed you on some money they owed you.

I could go on all day.

I’m ashamed to admit the hours I have spent envisioning the perfect revenge for such people as a dose of good old fashion shit. I have often thought, how funny would it be to put a little paper lunch bag, perhaps with a little bow, on someone’s front steps? Can you imagine the look on their face when they unrolled the top to find a bag of feces?! That would be amazing.

I have laid in bed many a night wondering if opening up a company sending anonymous poo-grams would be a viable option. Could there really be a need for this service?

My employees would be under strict instructions to never reveal the identity of the sender, making the general public feel confident in sending a big old bag of Fuck You! to whomever had crossed them, while quite possibly sitting in the cubicle next to them the next day. But then, what if the poo-gram beneficiary stalked my employees and threatened to kill them, as they walked to their cars at the end of their shifts? Do I really want that weight on my shoulders?

A friend recently told me about smelling shit as she walked to and from her car. As she pumped gas and was standing beside the vehicle for a lengthy amount of time she realized there was dog shit placed on the under edges of her windshield wipers. I could hardly keep my reaction P.C. I did, of course, think it was horrifying and I definitely dry heaved a little, but more of me thought, wow; that is a brilliant idea.

I'm happy to say it has been years since the last person pissed me off badly enough to warrant a shit bag. But man...did hearing her story really bring me back.

Beginner's Porn

S&P was on a business trip in Kansas for two weeks. We talked and texted every day. One morning we were instant messaging on Facebook when the computer screen told me he was calling. Who knew you could video chat on FB? So, I quickly installed the program and within 2 minutes I was able to see him smiling at the things I was typing. It was like a sappy commercial for Hallmark, I swear.

There was a slight delay and it was a little grainy. I told him this video quality wasn’t going to be the best for beating off while he was on the road. He then likened it to scrambled waves of Skinamax back in the day. I hadn’t thought about that in YEARS!! I had a good little laugh and reminisced for quite some time about 18 year old me with my first vibrator, the purple monster, given as a gift from my fellow classmates at massage school.

I would put a rolled towel on the floor in front of my bedroom door, as to kill the glow of the black and white soft porn. I would shake the T.V. and pray for the squiggles to dissipate long enough for me to make out who was who and figure out exactly what was going on. Trying to hear a moan out of anybody in the scene would make my ears bleed since I was listening at the absolute lowest the volume would go.

I was convinced that my mother or her boyfriend would desperately need to speak with me every time I decided to have a Skinamax viewing. They had never come knocking on my door in the middle of the night, but it’s hard to think straight when you are under your parent's roof, trying to finagle your bagel.

Girl Crushes

I’ve been known to be attracted to super androgynous girls. When I see a girl with short hair, no makeup and boobies smaller than mine, my heart pitter-patters. And I have definitely been known to rub one out to "The L Word".

Earlier I was talking to someone I have had a girl crush on for awhile now, simultaneously assuming her sneaker-wearing and mostly shaved head were nods to her lesbian ways. In fact, I would have bet my left kidney that this woman was not in the penis business. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when she mentioned her boyfriend for the first time today.

The same thing happened to me a few months ago. She was an extremely athletic woman with a modified Bieber, and had artwork hanging in her home of both naked women and skeletons (not together, that would be weird!). One day I stopped by and there her boyfriend was, on the couch. I only hope my facial expression didn’t let on what was going through my head: “You whore!! I thought someday when I finally got the courage to dip my foot in dyke waters you would be there for me!"

Way to toy with my emotions, ladies! I wish there was some way I could tell who is worthy of my lesbionic day dreams. I’m not suggesting they all go out and get “L’s” tattooed on their foreheads or anything, but obviously fashion choices, home décor, and hairstyles are unfavorable clues on which to base the selection for my next crush.

The thing about king beds...

I had a girlie sleepover on the eve of my sister’s nuptials. We snapped a photo of the 2 of us all cozied up in their extremely comfortable king bed and sent it mockingly to my poor brother-in-law-to-be, who was exiled to his parents house to sleep on a futon.

I always feel the need to let my affection be shown a little more when I’m in a king with someone. I share the pillow with S&P most of the night. Otherwise, I’m over in no man’s land and could just as well be at my own house. In my queen bed though, I am perfectly happy to just touch my foot to some part of his leg and feel like that is a completely adequate way to say “I’m glad you’re here.”

This night here I found myself sharing the pillow with my sister, as well. I kept my head on half of a large pillow, my back was to her and my feet were well into my brother-in-law’s side of the bed. She didn’t seem to mind me wanting to be close and we both fell asleep pretty quickly.

In the middle of the night, I basically mounted my unsuspecting sibling. I stroked her hair, which is my signature opening in my "wee hours of the morn, I’m so happy to be cuddled up next to you" move. Then I leaned in for a smooch. Thank god she woke up - and quite startled, I might add.

She raised her hand, as if to say “get the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch” and I immediately realized I was trying to give sweet kisses to my sister and not S&P. I apologized profusely, but she had already fallen back to sleep by the time I was half way through explaining what had happened.

I rolled over as far as I could and lay shamefully, waiting for the sun rise.

Someone stinks!!!

The night before my sister's wedding we went out for dinner and took home a container of the various shrimp, scallops, mussels, fish, and clams left over between a few of our meals. The seafood was just too good to leave it behind. Later that night, a few of her friends came over to offer advice on the make-up trial run we were attempting. I'm not sure who, but one of those girls absolutely reeked of fish. I was repulsed. Everybody went to high school with a girl who hadn’t quite wrapped her head around feminine hygiene and I was pretty sure one of these girls was “that girl”.

The next morning I threw on my clothes from night before, knowing I'd soon be showering and getting in my dress. Holy Moses! The fish aroma almost gagged me. I brought my sweater up to my nose thinking that maybe the restaurant's aroma was super strong and the fibers of my sweater soaked it in. Just then, mom walks in the front door and says she almost puked when she opened the car door that morning. The leftovers had spilled in the front seat and the stench was unbearable.

“Mom, there’s no way it could have spilled, I was holding it in my lap - I would have felt wet.” I argued.

She says, “Liz, I'm telling you, I scrubbed the marinara out of the upholstery with a wet cloth. Bend over!”

I eagerly bend over, spread eagle style and grab my ankles, looking upside down at my mother, who begins to point and cover her mouth while jumping up and down, as tears form in her eyes. That can’t be good, I think to myself.

Sure enough, I had red film and tiny tomato seeds dried into the crotch of my jeans. That is what you could see. What was invisible to the human eye, were the juices from all the treats from the sea that were in that sauce. I felt like a real asshole thinking quite mean spirited things about my sister’s odoriferous friends the night before.

How I didn’t notice I was sitting in what was essentially a fish stew, I'll never know. But I do know you don’t want to go for a spin with my mother anytime soon.

Time for a talk with my eggs...

I’m flying back home to Massachusetts tomorrow morning for my sister’s wedding, but not before doing a stop off in Boston to visit with the first of my high school friends to spawn.

There is much anticipation behind meeting the new baby. I’m curious if seeing him will stir up something inside me. As far as I know, my uterus has zero interest in housing something for 9 months. I do not have the desire to hold, feed, change, dress, or play with a baby full time. Nor pack lunches for a kid, watch his soccer games, cart her around town, or pay for someone else’s college education. But then again… they CREATED this human. I mean how freakin’ cool is that? A new little person with both of their features; it’s amazing.

Although now that I think about it, all they really did is what I do a lot. I just take every precaution short of wrapping both our junk in cling wrap to be sure I do not procreate.

I was in Toys R Us a few weeks ago for someone else’s baby shower and the place made me want to sew my vagina shut. I was just short of a panic attack in there. Row after row after row of all this stuff, most of which I have no idea how to work, or what it’s for. Everybody pushing either a stroller or a cart and the walls were closing in on me big time.

If holding the baby and seeing my friend in all her glory jolts my womb into mommy- mode, I have got some serious accomplishments that need to take place pronto. Finding a rich sperm donor to take me in is no easy feat.

Now, I am kind of nervous I’ll have a nightmare tonight about kidnapping him, doing so by shoving him up my vajay.

God help me.

I slept with two guys Friday night

It was your typical happy hour Friday night; I joined S&P and his friend for a little pre-partying before we went to the Hard Rock for a show. The 3 of us stopped off along the way to pick up an extremely last minute date that had agreed to join.

She wasted not a single second during our first potty break together to inform me that she absolutely would not be going home with the friend. As soon as she left us to get another round of drinks I was sure to place a bet with him that he would not be staying with Blondie, as he had planned. He was certain he was crashing with her and bet me dinner.

After the concert we dipped into a karaoke joint for a hot minute. Even though the beer was flowing, the distance between the two was becoming more apparent. I was the designated driver and the 3 of them were really putting it away.

Soon Blondie was ready to go and I dropped her off at home, stoked I had won dinner. Sweet!

It was just me and the guys again and we were hungry, so we hit up Pom Pom’s for some grub. As soon as he took his last bite, S&P’s friend went out to the car to sleep. We finished up as fast as we could and got him home right away. I put him to sleep in my spare room and S&P and I were out cold within 30 seconds of getting to my room.

Some hours later S&P is nudging me, telling me to move over. Move over? Why? I was very much on my side of the bed. Confused and realizing I could use water anyway, I get up. Now… I am legally blind and it was hella dark, but when I got back to my room there seemed to be already be a second body in it.

“Ummmm. Is that your friend?” I asked. “Yeah he came in here about an hour ago.”

Ok.

1. I am the lightest sleeper I know. If a fly farts, I hear it. How I missed my door opening and a second guest joining us is beyond me.
2. I love that S&P couldn't have cared less about being cuddled by his friend.
3. I cannot believe there were 3 grown-ass adults sleeping in my queen for God knows how long.

I quickly talked some sense into my obviously very drunk boyfriend. We got up and moved to the spare bedroom, which was now vacant.

Watching his friend’s face as he opened my bedroom door the next morning to join us in the living room was priceless. He was embarrassed to come out in just his skivvies, but had no problem spooning S&P hours earlier.

A little jizz can really ruin your day

In retrospect of this totally awesome work-week I have had, I would like to tell you about a totally awful massage appointment I had once.

I was called out to a hotel for a company I sometimes sub-contract for. The guy getting the massage told me he didn’t want anything too deep and just wanted to relax - which absolutely equates to “I just want to be rubbed by a chick.”

As soon as I made my way to his thighs he started some mild pelvic thrusting and told me it felt so good.

Gross. This is so not what I went to school for. My job has nothing to do with making a guy horny.

He had a chubby - not pitching a full tent, but there was definitely a swell of sorts happening. And then, out of no where, he splooged. There was zero contact to his member whatsoever, just a few firm strokes to his quadriceps. I am gonna go ahead and take a stab in the dark and say that this guy is not very good in bed. Really guy? You just blew your load in my sheets over that?

So, it made for a quite awkward next 25 minutes as I finished up the massage. I’m not accustomed to staring at a wet spot while I’m working. Washing my linens later that day, I was really bummed out to have to bring a stranger’s semen home with me.

Honestly though… I don’t know who I felt worse for… him or me.

The freaks come out at night

Sorry I have neglected you people the last couple of days. Clients have been coming out of the wood work for massages and I have been all too happy to take every appointment possible.

This weekend I went to see a musician play at a local bar. The guy's name is The Sauce Boss. He was old as day. That old fucker was all about the ladies though. His opening song was about some chick's claws in his back. His gimmick is making a huge pot of gumbo on stage during his set. He wears a chef’s hat and sells his own line of hot sauce during intermission as well. It was a great show and the people watching was even greater.

There was one couple that completely captivated the entire joint that night. There was a little Korean woman and her man moving around the impromptu dance floor in a way that can hardly be called dancing. If I could only figure out how to post a video to my blog, I would gladly get the group I was with that night to do a demo. She made Elaine from Seinfeld look like someone worthy of performing in the Nutcracker. She kept a very stern face the entire time, even though it was pretty obvious she was having the time of her life. She would raise her arms out to the side kind of like a teenaged kid looking to 'front with some other punk, crossed with a bird ready to take flight. She seriously looked like she was about to cut a bitch and yet doing an aerobics move. Her white-haired lover would then run his fingers through her hair vigorously. It was like they were both on ecstasy, although their age and the given venue made it hard for me to believe that was the case. It was the strangest shit I’ve seen in quite some time.

I turned and opened my mouth to comment to my friends when one of them said exactly what I was thinking. “Can you imagine what they are like in bed? What a freaking train wreck that must be.”

The Sauce Boss called them up on stage and thanked them for their “interpretive dance” and gave her a free bottle of Liquid Summer.

I regret with every fiber of my being not following those crazies home that night and trying to peep in a window. I’m pretty sure they would be excellent material.

Skins

New Guy has well over a decade on me and his hair is starting to go gray. I sometimes call him the silver fox. From this point forward I will affectionately refer to him as S&P, for salt and pepper.

We were over in Tampa this weekend for a friend’s birthday. We got back to the condo at 3:30 am and there was no way I was going to be able to go to sleep. Lucky for me there was a strip club four stop signs away. I told S&P I wouldn’t mind checking it out. And so, we were off again, headed to Skins.

Well, folks. I saw some things that night. Things I really wasn’t prepared for. At first, I eased into the new atmosphere by sitting a few rows back from the stage. The acrobatics these girls were doing on the pole were very impressive, indeed. I particularly enjoyed the part where 2 girls spun on the pole at once and then the little one on top stood on the thighs of the other one, as she circled the pole, parallel to the floor. It was like she was riding a surfboard, naked… kind of. Then they would spray down the pole with disinfectant and towel dry it for the next girl. There was vajay everywhere.

After I sat through 3 sets, I got a little braver and told S&P I would like to go sit up at the stage and give some cash to these girls. The problem was, they ripped their panties off so quickly there really was no place for me to PUT the money. The guy next to me had pressed a few singles up into this one stripper’s coin slot, but that was way over the top for me, this being my virginal experience with an all nude strip joint.

So, I found myself just throwing money on stage as they moved in ways that basically allowed me a thorough visual rectal exam. It was a lot to take in. A lot. Once they started opening up their orifices, there was a big switch in me and I started looking at things more clinically than sexually. I guess I associated what was going down with a trip to the gyno. Although looking back, that was NOTHING like my annual...

Duck!

I'm sure most of us have that person we dated where we felt like we dodged a bullet by ending things before they got too out of hand. Beyonce’s new song “The Best Thing I Never Had” reminds of a real pain in the ass that I couldn’t be happier to have not ended up with.

I found immediate chemistry with this person. I basically wanted to inhale his farts. He was very funny in a dry way and this girl loves a guy that makes her laugh. However, we fought like cats and dogs, over things like who said they were going to call who back first, what time we were supposed to meet, and all sorts of logistical stuff like that. And basically, it came down to I didn’t trust that bitch as far as I could throw him.

So, one Monday morning I stopped by after we had fought all weekend. We stood in his kitchen making up and making plans to have dinner that night, when he looked out he window, panicked, and pulled me to the floor with him.

"What the fuck?!?" I yelled.
"My ex girlfriend just pulled up," he explained.

Just then, the door bell rang and he whispered to just be quiet. I said, in a normal tone, "does she have a gun? Are you worried she is going to kill us?" I'm really not in the habit of sitting, hiding on floors, and was wondering if I should be scared.

Once she went back to her car to just wait for him to come out, he told me he had seen her over the weekend for a “closure dinner”. I asked, "did you tell her you were dating someone new?"

"Yes, she saw your toothbrush in the bathroom."
"Oh great, I'm sure she scrubbed the toilet real quick with it. I'll be sure to chuck that one."

Her even being in the house at all was completely sassy considering the affection he had been expressing for me at that point in time.

After 15 minutes of playing stake out, it was getting time for me to get to work. He told me to get to my car as fast as a could. I thought he was overreacting a little, but I guess he knew that little spit fire better then I did. He opened the door and got about 5 ft out into the yard when she hurled herself onto him, swinging like a champ.

"Who the fuck is that?!" She was screaming and punching. Watching her completely crazed on the front lawn, I was guessing she hadn’t fully accepted the new person in his life.

Wow, this guy had a type; she was 5 ft nothing, like me; brunette with brown eyes, like me; long hair pulled back in a bun, like me. Key difference: I’ve never been a fan of domestic violence. I drove away thinking they were perfect for each other.

I sent him to voice mail the next 80-plus times he called. He left some real doozies. My neighbors and I would have a few beers and listen to his messages and laugh at what a complete dick head he was.

Get away from there!

In one of my very early sexual escapades with New Guy, I stopped him mid-thrust to caution him about his hand placement. His fingers were wandering dangerously close to my purple starfish and my blood pressure was rising, so I warned him to stay away from my rear end. I told him that was off limits until further notice - he'd have to be my boyfriend to be poking around back there.

Well, things have progressed quickly and we have been spending lots of time together. He told me yesterday he would like to call me his girlfriend.

"Listen," I said. "I’ll be your girlfriend but I’m still not ready for any action to my back side. I need to be completely mentally prepared for such happenings."

I think he was puzzled that my mind immediately went to the dark place and assured me that my butt had nothing to do with us going steady. Way to turn a tender moment into scary visions of anal beads dancing through my head.

So, I reached out and shook his hand as we drove down the highway, agreeing on a rectified version of “rules and regulations according to me”.

Looks like I've got to come up with a new name for New Guy now that he's my boyfriend and all.

The Italian submarine

My buddy Ben and I were bellied up to the bar last weekend when a much older man stepped into the space right next to me. He ordered another beer and asked the bartender to reuse his glass. I turned to him and complimented him on reducing like that. I heart Mother Earth and had never thought to do that before.

Instead of talking about the environment, the conversation immediately changes to him telling me how beautiful I am and asking if Ben is my boyfriend. I say “yes” and Ben says “no” in unison. The older guy leans in, confused by the conflicting answer we have just supplied him. I give Ben the stank eye, grit my teeth and, under my breath, beg him to get this guy away from me. Ben basically feels like since I will not be sleeping with him, he shouldn’t have to perform any chivalrous actions, like defend my honor to this 60 year old.

"So is she your girlfriend or what?" he presses again.

"Yes she is."

I smiled and mouthed a "thank you" to Ben.

"How much?" the old dude asks.

And without skipping a beat, Ben starts a negotiation with this guy about what a night of passion with me might cost. I totally felt like Demi Moore and believe me, this was a very Indecent Proposal.

"Well that depends on what you are looking for. Lights on? That’s an extra $50 right there; that’s industry standard. Are you looking to video? Because that’s gonna cost you, too. What about a dutch oven? Really the possibilities are endless...are you interested in the Italian submarine?"

Old dude says, "whoa, whatever that is, it sounds fun."

Ben had just made it up - he is insanely quick witted like that. I sat there as these two guys discussed things that would just thrill my parents.

Finally, he told the old guy we had been fighting earlier and needed some alone time to try to patch things up. The would-be Robert Redford went on his way, but not before giving me the universal “call me” sign with his fingers to his pinky and thumb and giving a nice wink to Ben.

Things that make you go hmmmm

I had an unexpected stay at New Guy’s. I had my bathing suit on under my clothes and was kind of stressed about what I would sleep in. Call me crazy, but I have to be pass-out drunk to sleep naked. I like something between my cooter and the sheets. So, he tells me not to worry - he has a pair of underwear for me…

Then he pulls these out:

"They were a gag gift," he says.

Ummm…?

My mind starts racing about all the possible inside jokes that could be at the root of this gag:

Did some ex-girlfriend think he laid pipe like Clark Kent?
Did some chick tell him he threw her around like Super Man?
Had some woman finally figured out his kryptonite?

Like I said, call me crazy. Girlfriend needs to get out of her head. One thing I know for sure, his ass was never in these things. They were snug as a bug on me.

But seriously…why does he have Super Man undies?

Stage 5 Squirter

I was out having a few brewskies with a guy friend of mine this weekend and we got to talking about what we always talk about - a derivative of something sexual.

He was telling me about his first experience with a squirter (I am fascinated by the whole concept). Years ago, he was living over in Daytona with a few other guys. During Bike Week, one of the guys’ girlfriends brought a group of her friends over to party for the night. The couches were full and there were a few air mattresses full of bodies, as well.

A girl that had been particularly fond of him earlier in the evening surprised him with a visit to his bed when the lights went out. They hit it and she expelled a large amount of bodily fluid. Oh god, I am dry heaving just typing this.

In the morning, the girls all packed up to go - and his bed was still completely soaked. The second he heard the front door shut he started running through the house gathering all the guys.

"I had a squirter!! You have got to see this!!"

He was holding up the duvet and showing the 3 roommates the foot and a half wet-spot when the girl walked back in his room, her words stopping short as she said she forgot her purse. There he was, hands clenching and lifting a wet blanket, showing his trophy to a room full of men.

Suzie Soak the Sheets ran out of the house without saying a word. He shamelessly called her later to see if she would squirt him, I mean see him again. Needless to say, that was a lost cause.

Stupid boys.

Lost another bet...

Anybody who knows me, knows I always lose a bet. Believe me, you want to bet against me. I’d say my average is 9 times out of 10, me: wrong. It’s to the point now where I just offer up my left kidney, because I'm pretty sure nobody is willing to carve me up as part of their win.

The other night was no exception. I have listened to Jay-Z's and Kanye’s new album, Watch the Throne, at least 50 times thus far. In one of the songs, Niggas in Paris, there is a sample of dialogue between two guys. One says “I don't even know what that means.” And the other answers “Nobody knows what it means, but its provocative; it gets the people going.”

I thought for sure it was Seth Rogan. Just sounds like something funny he would say. New Guy says he is certain it is Will Ferrell. Well, nothing tickles my fancy like a good bet. So, we pondered over the stakes for quite some time and once we had each chosen our sexual favor for the win, he looked it up online. Sure enough, it’s a clip from the hilarious movie Blades of Glory, where Will Ferrell is that ice skating dude. God damn it!!!

“Looks like I’m meeting the rabbit!” he said, with a big smile.

My losing ensures him a private viewing of the rabbit and myself in action. I am definitely going to have to do some heavy drinking to loosen me up the night he decides to redeem his win.

Poo Anxiety

I had my first sleep over with the new guy. We planned for dinner Saturday night and then to head to the beach early Sunday morning. I was in full panic mode as Friday night came to an end. I was telling my friend about my morning routine and how a house guest really throws a wrench in it.

My intestines and I run a tight ship. Every morning before I even take my first sip of coffee, I need to poop. My place is little and there’s only 1 bathroom, which shares a wall with my bedroom. I feel like there is just no way to hide what’s going on in there.

My friend suggested sending him out to the grocery to pick up beach nibblies, providing me the privacy I needed. However, that was not conducive to the roll-out-of-bed-and-get-onto-the-road-quickly type of morning we had planned. So, with rumbling bowels and tiny beads of sweat forming on my forehead, I got into his car and we were off.

Public pooping is even scarier for me than doing so in my own home with a guest, but I couldn’t wait to get into a stall. I made a mad dash when we stopped for bagels and coffee, but another lady was right on my freakin' heels. I couldn’t drop a bomb and then have her walk in after I was done. So I just let her go in and I left. Surely once we got the beach I could go there. But alas, we met up with his friends on a stretch of beach with no bathrooms. Just a port-a-potty.

He got his surfboard and headed to the water and I got a napkin and willed myself to do the inevitable. On the 5 minute walk to the blue outhouse, I had a pep talk with my butt like no other - the effects of which were quickly diminished as soon as I stepped inside. Who was I kidding? There was no way on god’s green earth I was gonna drop a deuce into a huge bucket like that.

I had a hard time forming sentences the rest of the day as I was trying to be a conversationalist with him and his friends. All I wanted was to be home alone for five minutes with all my doors locked.

I snuck off at one point while the 3 of them were chatting back at the friend’s beach house. Late lunch was coming together and it was a perfect time to run inside to the upstairs bathroom and make it happen. But at that point, my poor bung was in a deep depression. Sunday was a long day.

Half a cookie

I was visiting a friend at her high rise downtown. She enticed me with promises of dinner and pot-cookies. After we finished a late dinner, we went to go pick up the guy with the cookies. He was looking to go to the clubs downtown and we figured we would save him the cab ride and get the goods quicker. Win-Win!

I ate a cookie right in his driveway, as his eyes bugged out of his head. He explained that he and all of his friends only do a half a cookie. I told him the last few times I had ingested food infused with weed it was pretty mild and I would be fine. Once we dropped him and his crew off on Orange Ave. I convinced my friend to share yet another cookie with me.

After about 23 minutes from my first chew I was tripping balls. My head had floated off of my body and I was easily able to see millions of stars and galaxies. My poor friend kept telling me her head felt huge and she could hardly hold it up. The next thing I knew, she literally melted off the couch and onto the floor. I lay down next to her, feeling very much responsible for getting us THIS stoned. My whole body was buzzing. I could feel my chest roaming through the lobby, 14 floors below.

“Come on, I'll put you to bed,” I said, trying to pull her up off the floor. It was like she was dead, except she was able to tell me, “Please just leave me. I can’t move." I knew we were going to be in this condition for a while. I got a body pillow so I wasn’t lying on the cold, hard tile floor. I woke up an hour later in a puddle of drool.

I switched the pillow around, pulling the dry part my knees where squeezing up to my head. Exactly an hour later I woke again with a wet knee. As out of my mind as I was, I knew that was an insane amount of drool to soak through my jeans and wet my leg like that. What the hell? So, I sat up and smelled the wet spot. It took me a minute to realize what I was dealing with: pee.

It seems her dog had pissed on the pillow at some point earlier in the evening and I took a nap in it. I started freaking out. "My God!! My face was just in your dog's piss!!" She just groaned something inaudible. Finally at 6 am she stirred and was able to make her way to her bed. She told me she felt so bad about the dog pee and that she wanted to cry for me when I told her what had happened but, she was completely unable to speak at that point.

It was a solid 24 hours before we were able to laugh about any part of the night before. That guy was right, though; half of a cookie is the perfect amount for a very fun night. I had many fun nights this summer on just half a cookie.

Drowning in your ocean

Seriously… when did it become ok to sing and or rap about pussy juice?

I came across what I consider to be a truly offensive and plain absurd song, in my humble opinion, a few nights ago. It is call “Wet the Bed”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOskd7Xsudk. You don’t have to listen/read for very long. You’ll get the idea very quickly. Although the Ludacris part further in does make me giggle.

But it wasn’t until I heard three songs in a row in the car last night that it became very clear to me that this has become a mainstream topic in many hip hop songs.

First Lil Wayne was talking about turning his girl in to a rainforest and he wants her to rain on his head; that’s what you call brain storming.

Then, Plies sang about giving a girl the nickname "Wet-Wet", because when they are finished she has messed up all the bed sets. Let me tell you what…if someone called me “Wet-Wet” I would punch them in the face.

And then somehow this awful song, complete with dripping faucet sounds, and which I totally thought was a joke the first time I heard it, has somehow made it to the radio airwaves. Is nothing sacred anymore?

Gyno 1

Really people, this is the best name you could come up with? I was driving over by Curry Ford the other day when this sign stopped me dead in my tracks. I had to turn the car around and snap a picture immediately.

I've spent much of my morning researching the company. Through this, perhaps I have helped them come up quicker in internet searches when people are looking for local, new construction or to have their place renovated, since I can't imagine anybody is searching by the name! I thought surely the owner's name would be Tom Gyno. But it doesn’t seem so. Then I thought, maybe they sell gynecological equipment. You know, reclining tables and speculums and such. But no. It just seems they are general contractors.

I couldn't bring myself to be an asshole and call to find out why in the world they chose to go with Gyno-1 as their company name. But I am pretty sure I am going to lose sleep over this tonight.

So, if anybody is in need of a major remodel, here you go:

www.gynoone.net

The new guy

I went out on a first date a few weeks ago. As we sat at the bar at Season’s 52 he asked me what I do for fun. I told him I had recently started to blog and loved having it as an avenue to write and express myself. Once we were both home he texted to say he had a great time and that he would like to read the blog and I should send him the link. I replied that there was no way in hell I wanted him reading this ever-so-telling information about me at this point in time, that he was not “blogworthy” yet.

He replied he understood and would patiently wait until I was ready to share. Two weeks later I hand selected the sugar scrub post and emailed it to him. I found that one to be non-incriminating. It had nothing to do with me being gasey or dry humping.

He referred to me as “Little Miss” in the next text message that day and told me not to worry, he wouldn’t tell my mom! (Which is a reference to me masturbating in grade school from a previous blog post). My heart sank. I knew I never told him the name of my blog. Apparently, he went all internet ninja on me and googled a line of text from the blog and voila had access to my last 20 plus posts. I was absolutely mortified. The new guy I am dating is so not the audience I am going for.

So this whole blog thing is a bit of a game changer here. I’m gonna have to try and keep my lips zipped through the first hour of conversation with new potentials. Me and my over sharing. Le sigh.

10 Deal Breakers

I have complied a list of things I find to be extreme turn-offs. The other day my girlfriend asked me if that guy wanting to wear my panties was a "deal breaker" and oddly enough, it wasn't. He wasn't a viable dating option for a myriad of other reasons. So wear my panties all you want... but here are some things I just can't deal with:

1. If you are missing any teeth. Let’s seriously take the money you were going to put down on dinner tonight and put that towards getting that grill taken care of.

2. If you have multiple cats. The fur, the cat food crumbs, the copious amounts of shit in the litter box, dirty paw prints from said box. One cat is more than enough.

3. If your car does not have A/C you are not taking me for a ride anywhere, especially in my bed. It’s fucking hot out. Get your shit in order.

4. If you have a mustache. It is imperative you have other facial hair, like a goatee in addition to that Chester Molester. How this look is making a come back with the hipsters I’ll never know.

5. If you pop your collar. Polo’s are a great look, classic and easy. But you look like a complete douche when you lift the collar. Don’t be hollerin' at me.

6. If you are a ginger. You and your fire crotch frighten me beyond words.I am bringing segregation back and you only get to do the nasty with other red heads.

7. If you wear skinny jeans. No man should wear skinny jeans. Ever. Nut huggers are hands down the single most unattractive thing I have ever seen on guys.

8. If you are shorter than me. If I think I have a chance at beating you up, my libido is non existent.

9. If you own transition lenses. The ones that turn into sunglasses when you step outside. I understand you are being practical. But you will never have sex with a woman under age 60. Trust me.

10. If you are not manscaping. Come on guys it is 2011. You need to be trimming that shit on the regular. I personally like it when you take an inch or two off the hair in your pits too.

Where shopping is a pleasure

Anybody remember this song from Sesame St.?

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn't belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

I went to Publix to get some fruit and veggies. Girlfriend likes to juice everyday, and I had run out of pretty much everything. There is always an end cap right near the produce section that is full of the most random items on clearance. I once got a pair of purse slippers off of this end cap. At the grocery store? Crazy but true.

This particular Sunday morning it was condoms and lube galore on sale. Every size, shape, color, and flavor you could imagine. Kind of progressive of you, Publix.

And so, I got a value pack of trusty Trojans and everything I needed to make a vitamin packed, super healthy beverage. On the way home I broke out into song, singing the very same song from my childhood. Oh how times have changed.

FB Friends

Am I the only person with stringent Facebook policies when dating someone new? My answer has been the same for the last hand full of guys that have asked, no, I do not want to be your friend. I do not want you seeing that picture of me splayed out on the sidewalk passed out drunk. I don’t know what you’ll think of the status update about how much I hate children. Or a plethora of other things that are all very much me, all true to my being, but seem less shocking once you get to know me better.

I’ll just go ahead and admit that if I were to accept your friend request I would read every single comment, going as far back as FB would let me. I am ashamed of how many times I have hit the "older post" tab. Then I will look at all your pictures, and will be on your page 8 times a day from that point forward. I am just not ready to commit that much of my time to you yet. I’ll want to know who that girl is and what the hell does that comment she left you even mean? How long ago was this picture taken of this broad kissing you on the cheek? Who was that you checked in with at Chili’s on Saturday night?

The comment could have been an inside joke from a co-worker, and the chick in the photo may have been your cousin, and you may have gone out for dinner with a girl from your kick ball team. But I’m certainly not going to ask because then you would know that I had been stalking you. So I will just dwell on these thoughts and they will fester inside. It will severely interfere with my ability to trust you and all you wanted was to be Facebook friends.

OR here’s a novel idea. I can talk to you and over time learn all about your friends, particularly the attractive female ones. I know my limitations. I am not generally a jealous person, especially when there is nothing to be jealous over. So getting to know you through your page is worlds away from the way it is supposed to be. It definitely takes some time before I’m willing to be your friend.

You wanna wear what?

I hit it pretty hard a few Thursdays ago. A girlfriend and I went out for dinner and shared a bottle of wine. We decided to head downtown to see what was going on and ended up at a ladies' night with free Cosmos. Then we headed over to a bar where a friend was bar tending and had a few more on the house.

The details of bumping into him, the plans made, and the half an hour it took him to get to my house are an absolute blur. I do, however, remember him walking through my front door and us hitting the floor of my living room in about 38 seconds.

I have known this guy for years. Never thought twice about him, but that vodka makes a lot of things seem like a really great idea.

So we are rolling around, getting rug burn on pretty much every inch of exposed skin, which honestly wasn’t much, if you’ll refer to my previous blog about fully clothed dry humping. I had no intentions of dating this person. Thank god for some moments of clarity, even in a vodka haze.

We moved for a softer landing - the bed. This was seriously intense making out. He was being very verbal about what he wanted to do to me. This is actually new to me and I like hearing what a guy’s plans are. He demonstrated on my neck the 2 different ways he could go down on me if I let him. He could do it this way or that. HOT. Oral , however, is not available on the dry humping menu.

Then he asked me to tell him what I was going to do to him. The cat definitely got my tongue and I had a small case of verbal diarrhea. (*Note to self: work on your bedroom talk.) Then…he told me he wanted to wear my panties. To work. He told me it would be sexy if I came into his establishment downtown and only he and I knew he had them on.

I swear the best stuff happens to me sometimes. He was certainly thin enough to fit in my underwear. I had never heard this special request before. I was horrified and yet ever so slightly turned on at the same time. He left just before sunrise, and I am hoping, empty handed.

The humpty dance is your chance...

When you are dating, and turning and burning through a new person every few months, it’s really easy to rack up those notches in the head board. Good old fashion dry humping is the perfect antidote to this. Everybody gets hot and bothered, feel-good endorphins still kind of swirl around, and yet you didn’t even take off your pants. Sometimes you don’t even need to shave, so long as the petting remains on the outside of the clothing. It’s a win-win really. It buys you some time as you feel out the other person (no pun intended) to see if they are someone even worthy of sleeping with you.

Oddly enough, just a few weeks ago, within a few days of each other, me and one of my girlfriends each had a pretty hot dry hump session. Her evening had taken an unexpected turn and she was sporting a 70’s bush. She was in no way prepared for full on visitation. And for me, my new motto is “you put in the time, to do the crime”. We were emailing back and forth in an email with some other friends, sharing all the details of our experiences. We both said it had been awhile since we had done it and that it felt like we were in high school again.

Our homo-rrific friend chimes in and asks “what happens when you dry hump? does the guy cum in his pants, or does nothing really happen at all?” My girlfriend and I nearly peed our pants. 99% of the time he is just one of the girls and it’s rare that something comes up proving otherwise.

My best girlfriends are all up in Boston and he is in Europe. But email chains like that make me feel like we were all sitting together having cocktails.

Try it, You'll like it

There is a restaurant here in Orlando called Mr. Sisters. It’s a hip place for the gay boys to Sunday brunch, or get their dance on when it turns nightclub. It’s a really versatile space, as well, with a huge outdoor patio on the lake, a crazy lighting system for when they do drag shows and a room with a few pool tables, where I’ve heard is where the mean lesbians hang out.

This place has a pretty amazing bathroom. As with all the gay establishments I’ve been to, the bathroom is unisex, which never gets old to me. It's just so scandalous to pee with boys around. The walls are painted with the chalkboard paint and you can leave all sorts of fun messages. But the best part of it is the mirror. It’s actually two way glass! So from the inside you could be squeezing a zit or checking for bats in the cave while everyone in the hallway watches.

My friend told me about his first time there for lunch recently with his co worker who gladly gave him a tour of the joint, especially excited to show him the restroom. And while he is completely down with the gay community, my friend thought it would be funny to draw a picture of a vagina on the wall and write “try it, you’ll like it”. It didn’t take long for his work to become defaced; someone did the whole circle with a line through it and wrote “gross”.

OMG?! How old are these men? This story totally cracked me up. I told him I didn’t think I had ever drawn a vagina. He said it was the first he had drawn too. Much more difficult than a penis, he added. Let’s be honest people: we can draw those with our eyes shut; am I right?

We were supposed to have a vagina drawing contest that night, but somehow the drinking got in the way and we totally forgot. But he did scan this and email it to me today.

Makes me feel like I was there. Just one of the guys.

This shit is bananas B-A N-A N-A-S

Friday night I found myself late night dining with some friends at Banana’s. This is a place that’s open 24 hours on the weekend and has an amazing gospel brunch where drag queens sing soulfully on Sunday morning. Very entertaining shit.

You can get away with a lot of mediocrity when you're one of the few joints open at 2:30 am. But it’s also nice to have some slight pride in what your serving up and who’s serving it to the public.

When we sat down, my 2 friends warned me that they had the same queen serve them last time and she was most definitely on her period then. Well it must have been exactly a month ago because she was a biatch this time, too!

My fish sandwich came out on a naked bun. I walked over to a bus boy of sorts and asked if he could get me some tarter sauce. A few minutes later he came back over to say they didn’t have any. But the menu says it comes with tarter sauce, I said. I know, so they are making it from scratch.

Oh God. I never send stuff back at a restaurant. Ever. And while whipping up a quick tarter sauce is not rocket science, I was nervous about the extra work going on in the kitchen just for me. I have a huge complex about someone spitting in my food, blowing a snot rocket, or perhaps scratching their balls then touching the food. Given the consistency of the condiment we are speaking about I’m having visions of one of the cooks adding a dollop of his own baby batter into the mayonnaise.

As I am waiting for the tarter sauce, I broke off a piece of the very generous sized fried fish. It tasted like the swamp. I have never had fish that tasted so fishy, but yet also like dirt and pond scum.

My friend sitting next to me tells me that my sandwich smells like a stinky va jay. Nothing like a good vagina reference to really stimulate your appetite. Oh did you take a bite? I asked, thinking maybe I missed it while talking to our other friend. No, I can smell it from right here, he says. Now that’s a pretty tall order of cooter if you ask me. Needless to say I was officially done eating the fish after that comparison, just in time for the tarter sauce to arrive.

We all dunked a fry in the thick white mess just for funsies. It was much more like crisco than mayo. Nobody dared eating it, since I shared my delusions over the shenanigans that could possibly be going on in the back.

Call me crazy, but I prefer a meal where my mind stays completely clear of pretty much everything I've talked about here.

Pepe le pew

One year ago today I was in Paris. I’m gonna cut right to the chase. The myth that French people stink is no myth at all. It’s August and its freakin' hot in the city. My friend and I took a bus over to the Père Lachaise Cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried. The bus was packed like sardines and many of us were standing at the back. Everybody’s arms were up, holding on to balance, exposing the very ripe under arm of the Parisians.

That night after a really wonderful dinner, the 3 girls I was traveling with and I went out to a few bars. As you can imagine 4 American girls can draw quite a crowd and the guys were on us like white on rice.

I had a few in me and my filter isn’t as spot on as it could be. I tell this lovely French man about our stinky ride and proceeded to ask what the problem is? Do you just not use deodorant? He was happy to engage me on the topic, and said he had definitely heard this stereotype before. He explained, yes, he did wear pit stick everyday (my words not his, obviously!!). He told me he had contemplated going home that night before hitting the bar to apply another coat, but decided the trip would be unnecessary.

And then he asked me if I would mind giving my opinion on his own personal body odor. Wow. I mean how often do you get the opportunity to help a stranger out in this fashion? And so I leaned in, and took a nice big sniff. Good God Almighty!!!! What was I thinking?? I delivered a verdict of: Yes, there is something pungent going on here. You might want to think about a second swipe halfway through your day. But I softened the blow by telling him you had to get right up in it before it was really an issue. He handled it like a champ. Then we made out.

Me Tarzan, You Jane

Guys, let me ask you a question. When has a woman ever stopped walking and approached your car when you are honking your horn and hollering things like, “Shake it baby!”? Oh that’s right. Never.

How about when a woman is on a jog, all sweaty, and you yell “Sexy”? Does she stop her work out and say “Oh hey there, do you want my number?” No she does not and it’s never gonna happen. So why men insist on trying to get our attention this way is beyond me. It seems a little caveman to me.

When has a woman ever said “I really like it when you plunge your tongue deep into my mouth”? She hasn’t. We don’t like it and wish you would stop doing it. It feels like a flailing salmon trying to swim to the back of our throats. Not hot at all.

Also we want you to stop emulating what you see in porn. No lady wants to be jack hammered like that. I think I have only seen one or two things that looked like they may be worth trying out in one of those videos. Its probably best to leave what you saw up to the pros.

Lastly, it’s never a good idea to come up to a woman who is on the dance floor and rub your dick in her ass. I haven’t allowed that ridiculousness since I was in my early 20’s! I can't tell you how many times I finally turned around after said booty bump and grind to find Quasimodo behind me. Make sure she eyeballs you and gives you the go ahead before you start doing your thing back there.

In short gentleman, sometimes it’s nice if you are just that. A gentleman.

Nosey Neighbors

I’m buddies with my upstairs neighbor. I hear a lot of what goes on up there. I’ll knock on his door to give him hell on weeknights if it sounds like a bowling alley. There was one night where I got up to pee somewhere around 3am and I heard his stream of piss hitting the bowl directly above my head. What are the chances of that!? So I texted him right away about the kismet event. I'll even bust his balls the morning after for making too much of a racket when he stumbles in from a wild night out.

Last night I was having a particularly difficult time reaching orgasm. Normally I can get the job done in no time and go about my day, or fall asleep quickly. But no such luck this go around. So my trusty rabbit got some company, and I brought out the silver bullet as a sidekick.

Now I was getting stimulation from multiple areas and all was well except, damn, it was loud. I had two apparatuses buzzing along and soon became very self conscious about the noise. What are the chances he can hear this right now if he is lying in his bed directly above mine?

Just as I reached a body convulsing and toe curling O, my cell chimed. You have got to be kidding me! I ran threw all the things he might have said. “Getting lonely down there?” “Have you rubbed your clit off yet?” I thought I might die right then and there.

When I checked the phone, preparing for the worst, it was just a face book notification.

Whew…. And I vowed to myself, right then and there, from now on, you only get one toy at a time.

Fatty boombalatty

A friend rented sumo suits for her birthday party this weekend. I have always wanted to slip inside of one of those fat suits and barely be able to move around.

When it was my turn to give the wrestling a go, I nervously looked around the party to find an opponent of my stature. Normally that would leave me a child, preferably under age 10, or a midget. Neither of which were in attendance at this party.

Who was there, however, was the cutest little twink. He was hoping to try out for the part of Peter Pan soon. I thought I’d probably feel less guilty about laying out this well dressed and seemingly hairless beauty, as opposed to my other two prior options. However, I am not ashamed to admit I have arm wrestled and foot raced many a young children, never letting them win just because they are kids. Hey, it’s a cruel world. Better to learn it now peanut. It’s hard for me to excel on most physical challenges, so I definitely prey on the weak.

He had no idea what he was in for when he agreed to partner up with me. I mopped the floor with him. I got a big kick out of just laying on top of him far longer than necessary after each take down because we were literally three feet apart with all the padding between us.

I mean really, when do you get a chance to roll around on little gay boys while you are in a sumo suit? It was like a dream come true.

Girls don't fart.

Oh yes we freaking do! But I must admit, there is something so special about the beginning of a relationship when you clench your butt hole tight, praying to God nothing squeezes out. I proudly have never let anything slip in my last 6 years of dating. Except for that one time in my sleep. And boy, did he let me know about it the next day. He was sure to remind me every few days for the next few weeks.

I went out for dinner to a Thai restaurant with a group of girls this past week. I had to give a massage afterward and the rest of the girls were going out for a walk around the lake. I spent much of the 90 minutes I worked on this new client on high alert, making sure nothing was going to escape back there.

I met up with the girls later in the evening and asked, "is anybody else farting up a storm after dinner?" and I kid you not, all four of them said YES. In unison. For some reason, I felt as relieved as if I had drunk a bottle of Mylanta. There was something comforting about knowing they were suffering, too. Although, they admitted to letting it rip all night as they walked. Lucky bitches weren't trapped in a hotel room like me.

Someone call Webster's quick!

I would like to start a movement. I’d like to introduce you all to a new word.

It's one of the hip words you get by combining two words together. You know like Brangelina and Californication.

It’s chirl. It’s a mixture of child and girl. However it is most definitely used when speaking to a grown woman. This new word is said with a long rolling “r”. For example, if you love the dress your friend is showing you, you might say 'Girrrl, I love it!' Or maybe its been a while since you got her on the phone,“Hey girrrl!”

What most of us white women do not have enough sass to pull off saying is something more along the lines of “Honey child, you know that man is no good for you.” or “Child, please tell me you are not going to wear those shoes”

Chirl adds just that little extra emphasize, that je ne sais quoi.

Your friend meets you for lunch looking fabulous; you say “Chirl, did you just get a Brazilian blow out or what?” When someone is thinking about sleeping with their boss, you might ask “Chirl, have you lost your mind?”

The word simply used on its own, lets your girlfriend or sister know, any and all of the following:
I love you.
You are crazy.
Everything is going to be okay.
You are drunk, we need to go home.
I told you so!
Did you just see that totally hot guy?

Chirl should only be used towards your peers; i.e. don’t go calling your grandmother or your supervisor chirl. Lastly, the occasion when it would be appropriate for a heterosexual male to use this word is extremely rare.

Until next time chirl!!

*thanks Tola