Unwitting Homewrecker

Picture it…

Full moon, in the middle of the Mexican sea. Somewhere between Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlan. Cute girl stands at the rail overlooking the adult pool and stalking watching the adorable waiter that has come to know her quite well. Vodka tonic with a twist of lime. No card is needed. He knows her by name and automatically knows who to bill. With a wink and a nod, the order has been placed.

Across the deck, a good looking guy stands also looking over at the same pool.

Eye contact is made. Another wink and nod and it’s been determined that vodka isn’t the only thing coming that night.

Good looking guy walks over to cute girl and makes idle chit chat. They exchange pleasantries and he tells her how great her ass looks in “those pants”. He asks if they can go to her room and if she has condoms. And with the subtlety of a true gentleman, his intentions are made known. Who said romance was dead?

With that, CG and GLG head to the casino. A few shots and a Dos Equis later, GLG and CG are feeling quite chummy. Brief kisses and promises of what’s to come later while at the slot machine ensue.

Then these lovely words are spoken over CG’s left shoulder:

“Would you kindly take your lips off my husband? We are on our honeymoon.”

With a brief explanation and apology, CG grabs her beer and with head hung in shame leaves the casino and the now fighting couple, sure to need security intervention shortly and heads back to her room. Alone.

By the way, in case you all hadn’t guessed yet, cute girl was me. That was me being seduced by a married man. A man that was not wearing a wedding ring. He hadn't even been married long enough to get a wedding band tan.  A man that said he was there with friends. That was me being accosted by a pissed off wife. And that was me becoming the punch line for every argument they ever have until their almost certain divorce papers are signed. I will forever be THAT girl that GLG tried to cheat with on his honeymoon.

Born with a guilty conscience, I’ve replayed the evening’s events in my head countless times wondering where I went wrong. This hasn’t been the first time my need for penis has gotten me into trouble.

On my walk of shame I felt sorry for the newlywed bride. If that night was any indication of their future together, she may as well be looking for her next husband and I should have thrown his ass overboard when I had the chance and done the poor lady a favor.

After the feelings of sorrow and guilt subsided, I was filled with anger and resentment. How dare GLG interrupt my flirtation with the cute little Indonesian waiter with perfect teeth to bring such unneeded drama? It was MY vacation too and now I would be spending the remaining 3 days trapped on a ship looking over my shoulder and not standing too close to the edge. Just in case.

The next day, while in the hot tub playing a game I like to call “how long can I keep my hands all over your six pack” with my new friend, Hot Coco, Married guy decided to join us. Great.

Not particularly in the mood make the wife’s acquaintance once again, I firmly insisted that married guy go visit the other hot tub as he was not welcome in mine. After explaining myself to other inhabitants as to why I had just told this man to get the fuck out leave I was given high fives and a few “nicely handled”s. Mostly from the women.

I’ve often joked that I’m catnip for married men, however, I would never knowingly fuck around with one. That’s just plain bad karma and I’ve got my hands full with that little bitch already.

For the record, the next evening, I went back down to the casino alone. I sat down at the very same slot machine and I won $40. I'll be damned if I had auctioned off a kidney to pay for my first vacation in almost two years just to go into hiding, when for once, I hadn’t done anything wrong but try to get a little cruise ship tail.

But, next time I meet a man, I will be insisting on a background check.

With the exception of that little *cough cough* debaucle, the rest of my time on board lived up to everything you all have to come to expect from me. I drank too much, I smoked too much, I ate too much and I tried to seduce every man I could find that had 36” biceps. I don’t even know the meaning of the word “moderation” and I’m in no mood to learn about it now.

The Proposal

Before I begin, let me apologize for this post being so disjointed.  It was difficult for me to figure out how to cram so much bullshit into one entry ;-)


How It All Began

A year ago I received an email from Loverboy through Plentyoffish. He thought I was cute and I wholeheartedly agreed. Loverboy was supposedly a wannabe Hip Hop artist. Meaning he was unemployed. Our first phone conversation was nothing short of boring and blasé. After that I pretty much wrote him off as I wasn't particularly interested in getting to know a starving artist with the personality of a stop sign, regardless of his amazing abs. He called back a few times but I never felt the undying need to answer and continue our conversation about paint drying and grass growing.

BUT, when I get bored I tend to look for something to amuse me. In other words, that's when I get myself into trouble. I know the signs and I know the results and when I hear the little voice in my head that says "read a book", "take a bubble bath" or "go for a walk around the park" I usually tell it to fuck off because I'm a big girl now and can do whatever I want.

So, against my better judgment, I called Loverboy back and said I could be over in an hour. My first thought when seeing him was YUM! I smirked and told the little bitch inside my head that I was right, she was wrong and neener neener. She'd be thanking me later when we played naked Twister. Without the mat.

The evening went far better than expected. We talked, we made out and he asked me to come back the following evening. I was smitten.

But my gut told me something wasn’t quite right. It was that stupid little bitch in my head again saying "run", "get out" and "don't look back!" To which I replied, "Shut up! He has a 9" dick! I'm not going anywhere!"

The Beginning of the End

Driving out to eat one night in Loverboy’s Tokyo Drift Mercury Cougar, he had the volume of his radio set to approximately 43,000 decibels (which is about 307 times louder than a shotgun blast. I checked). As dogs howled and car alarms went off, I shouted above the song regaling me with tales of slapping bitches and Hennessey reigning supreme, to ask if he could turn the music down. Loverboy gave me a look that said “Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?” and reluctantly turned the radio down just as we pulled into the Pick Up Stix parking lot.

Not since being dropped off for school in my step dads ’73 Ford pickup truck with a Hound dog tied to the bed have I been so mortified. I’m sure we made quite the pair. He in head to toe FuBu and me decked out in Old Navy getting out of a racing car arguing over why or why not it’s for the best to turn the radio down when I’ve heard the word cunt one too many times. He barely spoke to me the rest of the evening.

The relationship took a steady downward spiral after that and it wasn't long before I had to finally concede to that voice inside my head and admit she was right. Loverboy and I were both hard headed and stubborn. I should have known we were doomed from the start. The fact that I later found out he had two baby mamas and a record didn’t help matters either.

The End

I never did find out what he did for a living other than pursuing his dream of being the next Tupac. The one song he actually did play for me was awesomely stupid. It was quite difficult to keep a straight face while listening to it. Even though he claimed to have written it for me I was far from flattered. He couldn’t understand why his early declarations of love were falling on deaf ears and I couldn’t understand why a 36 year old man had a drifting car.

When my fascination with the dick wore off, I split. That was nine months ago.

The Proposal

Every few weeks since I went Houdini on him, he would call. He never left a message and I never answered. I had no desire to go hang with him and his buddies crying over MJ’s death and smoking weed. But, as happens every time I get bored and horny, I do something incredibly stupid and this time was no exception.

I returned Loverboy’s call.

In the time apart, we had both moved locations and gotten new jobs. And when I say “we got new jobs” I really mean “I got a new job”. He seemed almost giddy to hear from me. I decided to stop by and see him after work. He said he missed me like crazy and apologized for not “being the man he should have been” when we were together before. He said things were different now, blah, blah, blah.

I went back and spent Sunday, the 4th of July with him. We basically did nothing but watch bad TV and fuck. It was pretty much how I prefer to spend all my Sundays. Again, he started in with how things were different now and how much he felt he’d been given a second chance and didn’t want to screw it up.

Then, out of nowhere he asked me marry him. He said I was so amazing that I “should be somebody’s wife”.

Did anybody else just pee a little because I sure as hell did. What does that mean anyway? Does he even know me? I sport fuck for fun. I laugh at people that trip and I think that most babies are assholes. What part of that says “Wife” to you?

Shell-shocked and thinking of no less than 49 ways to reject his proposal, I simply told him I didn’t want to get married right now. At all. To anyone.

It was also explained that I needed to take him up on his offer before I got too old and wrinkled and he became famous. Hell, when he puts it that way it’s almost poetic.

The shit I put up with for a decent lay. I’ve clearly gone off my meds.

Pants Party

I’m gonna jump on the penis bandwagon here, no pun intended. There’s penis in the air lately (again, no pun intended). Lots of articles asking “does size matter?”

Well, I’m here to tell you it does. To me, at least.

Being a self proclaimed penis connoisseur, I’d like to consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. I’ve dealt with teeny peenys, pencil dicks, crooked cocks and donkey kongs. There isn’t a whole lot I haven’t seen. I’m not bragging, I’m just stating fact.

I’ve dealt with minute men, marathon men and men going soft. Men that are cut, men that are not. Men that are shaved and men that don’t bother.

From what I’ve seen, the line between men and women has been clearly drawn in the sand. Women that enjoy an adequate member and how it’s used and men that claim it isn’t the size of the trouser snake but how it moves.

I’m here to say that I’m a size queen and proud of it. I make no apologies. It’s strictly a matter of preference. Go big or go home. That’s not to say it’s the only deciding factor when I meet a guy but it is most certainly a bonus.

So how does a woman preferring a larger penis differ from a man preferring larger breasts? A certain hair color? A certain race? Body type? I don’t think it does. People all have things that turn them on. Some things are stranger than others. Some people are into kink, bondage, feet, food. You name it, there’s somebody that wants it.

When a woman mentions liking a man of “size” I hear a lot of excuses. “Just because he’s large doesn’t mean he knows how to use it.” “She must have a huge vagina.” Retaliation by many (mostly men) countering with bullshit somehow insinuating that just because she enjoys a large cock she’s shallow, a whore or doesn’t enjoy all the rest that comes along with being intimate with somebody. I understand that there isn’t a whole lot a man can do with what he was born with but again it’s a matter of preference. He can’t change his size anymore than I can change into a petit Asian woman. That doesn’t make me bitter or insulted towards any man that happens to prefer all the things I’m not. I’ve dealt with bad lays on both ends of the spectrum but if I had my choice I’d still stick with the foot long over the finger pecker.

So why the bad rap for women that enjoy huge cocks?

I will, however, agree with most that it shouldn’t be the only factor when determining a man’s worthiness for bedding. It’s also nearly impossible to determine the size of a man’s goods until it is literally out in the open. Not from lack of me trying, of course.

I’ve heard the myths. I’ve checked them all out. I’ve dated 6’4” men with cocks the size of a thimble. I’ve dated men shorter than myself sporting 8” plus. Big noses mean nothing. Big feet just mean big shoes. Want to know a sure fire way to tell if the man you are with is sporting a baby shark? When he pulls down his pants and he has a 10” wiener. That’s how.

Moral of the story? People like what they like. Everybody is different. Some people are good in bed and in tune with what makes them and their partner feel good. And sadly, some people just aren’t.

Pocket Rocket aside…seriously ladies, when was the last time you purposely bought a dildo that was only 4”?