Few things confuse me more than math and Paris Hilton's popularity. But there is one thing that tops that list and that thing is Men. Lately, my brain has turned into a clusterfuck of confusing innuendos and out of control hormones. However, I can explain the cause for this in three little words. Hot Bicep Guy.
HBG has not been an easy man to conquer. He runs hot and cold with little more than a few hours to distinguish between the two. One minute I’ll receive text messages and phone calls in rapid succession then won’t hear a word for days just to have him hound me down again the moment I ask myself, “Hot Bicep Guy who?”
He’s interested and I know it. To be honest, I’m truly enjoying the built up sexual tension that’s emerging from our little game of Cat and Mouse. At the peak of insatiable lust and desire I’m certain he will be the best lover known to man with a cock the size of Mr. Ed’s. But when he goes MIA I’m positive he has a little penis and is suffering from erectile dysfunction. Funny how my mind works sometimes.
Had he given into my whims and desires from the start I no doubt would have bored of him quickly and moved on to some other member of the male species. By him playing Keep Away with his genitalia I’ve driven myself mad trying to figure out ways to make kidnapping legal.
With my patience nearing its expiration date, last week I told him I had waited long enough and it was time for him to prove he wasn’t just all talk.
About 9:30 that evening HBG pulled up wearing little more than a pair of shorts and tennis shoes. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt which I more than okay with. After giving me a hug, I led him down to Fantasyland intentionally walking behind him so I could take stock of the fine definition of his back and ass. I was going to savor every single part of this evening. After months of seduction this was finally going to happen!
As he lay on my bed and mindlessly droned on about work and other nonsense I tried my best to keep my fangs and claws hidden. Seeing him topless on top of the covers without having to worry about any unwanted distractions was almost too much to bear. I was ready to pounce.
Then he said he was tired.
I turned out the light hoping that “tired” was code for “sexy time”.
Then he turned away from me and got under the covers.
???
Occasionally, HBG would turn over and look at me, only inches from my face and say something uninspiring. It was becoming painfully obvious that if anything was going to happen I was going to have to make the first move. Pansy.
Not being able to contain myself any longer I leaned over and kissed him. Kissing HBG was much like kissing my pillow. Soft and warm yet nothing in return. Not sensing any reciprocation I backed off quickly and he continued to mumble about dumb shit as though I hadn’t just leaned over and tried to stick my tongue in his mouth.
But it gets better.
He explained to me that he considered kissing to be a very intimate act therefore he didn’t do it a lot. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I was making out with Pretty Woman. He had, in fact, come over with the intention of penetrating me with his manhood yet swapping spit was crude and inappropriate? Mental note to bring my straight jacket out of storage.
That’s when the unthinkable happened.
He turned into a woman.
HBG: When you get what you want from me, you’re just going to kick me to the curb and never talk to me again, aren’t you?
Me: Huh? Where did that come from?
HBG: And I didn’t bring any condoms anyway.
This isn’t exactly how I had planned this evening to go. I’m not sure what part of “I want you to come over so we can fuck all night” gave him the impression that we wouldn’t be having sex and condoms wouldn’t be necessary. He apologized and told me I was a “funny and cool chick” that he wanted to see again. Gee, thanks.
Then, without warning HBG jumped on top of me and said he wanted to see what I felt like. He kissed my neck for a little bit, dry humped me like a fucking teenager, got me all hot and bothered then jumped off and turned away leaving me bitter, frustrated and wondering if I was capable of raping a man.
So let me get this straight. HBG drove a half hour to my place at 9 o’clock to dry hump and sleep. I must look damn good for my age as he apparently has me confused with a 15 year old.
5 minutes later…
HBG: If I had come prepared, we would be going at it till morning. When ARE we going to have sex?
Me: How about NOW, Motherfucker?
HBG: Sorry, next time I’ll come prepared.
Me: Go to sleep.
Another 5 minutes later (from over my shoulder since I had turned my back to him not being able to look at someone so dumb)…
HBG: You’ve never had this happen before, have you?
Me: If you are referring to a guy coming over to have sex with me then NOT having sex with me, then yes, you would be correct in your assumption.
HBG: Are you mad? You aren’t going to get crazy on me, are you?
Me: I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Driving 35 minutes to my place half naked at 9 at night for a booty call without condoms only to go to sleep. This isn’t a fucking slumber party. I invited you over so we could fuck around and you knew that.
HBG: Do you hate me?
Me: Yes.
I was pissed and my loins were on fire. I would have cut off my left arm to have somebody fuck me at that very moment. And the fact that HBG was able to drift off to sleep so easily pissed me off even more. If he wasn’t interested in having sex with me then why the fuck did he even come over?
Finally, hours after he had fallen asleep I drifted off myself only to be bombarded with wet dreams. Dreams so vivid I actually woke myself up once from my own moaning. At least I was getting some fucking action in my dream.
6:30am the next morning HBG came to sit next to me on the bed while I still lay under the covers trying to make sense of the previous night’s events. As he grabbed my hand and placed it on his erect penis he asked how I felt and what I was in the mood for. That’s when I told the Rocket Scientist to get out. He thought I was joking. I walked him out.
I can honestly say that I have never been so damn sexually frustrated in all my life. The rest of that day was a blur. I couldn’t concentrate on even the simplest of things. If he was afraid of me using him and then avoiding him he won’t have to worry about that happening anymore. Now I’m just avoiding him only I didn’t get the pleasure of using him first. What a waste.
The next day he called and texted but I’m over it. I’ll be damned if I let him over just so he can tease me again. I’m now in the market for a new Rabbit.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
VENEEReal Disease
“Do you consider oral sex cheating?”
I’m having déjà vu. I’ve heard these words before. Not only have I heard them before but they came from the same married jackass that spewed them 12 months earlier. Has he used this line so many times that he’s actually forgotten who he’s uttered this phrase too? Better yet, how many big busted, six foot tall blondes that he works with has he asked this question to in order to forget that he’s already broached this subject with me?
What makes this scenario particularly scandalous is that not only is the pint sized Puerto Rican married but he also has a kid on the way yet still finds it perfectly acceptable behavior to ask me if I’ve had sex in the office stock room. His wife is a lucky lady indeed.
Last year, it was a hot, sunny afternoon and I was alone in the officelooking up porn working diligently when in walked Erik (the pint sized Puerto Rican). He was a very cute, well built, olive skinned man. Hispanic with jet black hair and beautiful big brown eyes. I instantly wanted to devour him. Then he smiled and my mind switched from thoughts of naked debauchery to wondering if his teeth would glow should the power suddenly go out. His teeth were nothing short of ginormous. Like Hillary Duff’s and Dr. Phil’s wife huge. If he thought these were an acceptable look for grills, I can only imagine what they must have looked like before.
We talked, we flirted and I felt that rush that can only come from the chase of the unknown. I had found my new pet project and Eric Estrada was it. Doing my homework like any good school girl determined to ace a test, I went about finding out all I could from his friend, my boss. Then I heard the words that would stop me dead in my tracks and put a damper on any dreams I might have had of dividing and conquering.
“He’s got the greatest live-in girlfriend.”
Shot down.
I certainly wasn’t getting any hint of a girlfriend while he was asking me what I did for fun. Nor was I when he was asking if I had a boyfriend. But a guy with a live-in girlfriend AND big teeth? No thank you. I think I’ll pass.
A few nights later, a few people from work were gathering at a local bar to watch the game. I knew Estrada would be there but paid no mind since I also knew that bar + football = single, eligible men. I and my best push up bra would be there in full force rooting for the team with the cutest fans.
After the game, everyone in my party began to disperse. As luck would have it, I had parked in a different lot from most everyone else…except Estrada, who being the true gentleman he was, offered to walk me to my car. After he insisted I sit and join him for one last drink, of course. Personally, I would have rather had my appendix taken out by a spider monkey but unless I felt like walking back to the dark parking structure alone at midnight I was shit outta luck.
Being slightly irritated and defiant, I asked him what his girlfriend was up to that evening. I had, after all, heard that she was a really “sweet gal”. As he uncomfortably shifted in his seat he launched into his “woe is me” tale about his son (didn’t know he had one of those either), his first wife, his days partying and what led him into AA. Sure, this was an interesting story and all but still didn’t account for the fact that he was sitting alone, in a bar, with 38 DD’s while his good little girlfriend was at home ironing his shirts and taking care of his son by another woman.
Then like a true cheating douche bag with no inclination that what he was doing may be construed as highly inappropriate leaned across the table towards me. With a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face uttered the words that every woman should hear at least once in their lives…
“So, do you consider oral sex cheating?”
After I reminded him that things hadn’t gone well the way of Clinton and Lewinsky his face fell like a lead balloon and I got up to leave. I asked if he would like to take his Diet Coke to go. Apparently, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
A week later he proposed to his girlfriend. I wasn’t invited to the wedding.
So, why am I having déjà vu you ask? Because once again, I found myself alone with the arrogant philanderer. I had gone almost a year without seeing Estrada and the only thing that had changed was the tan on his left ring finger. Having come in to work on a project, I was left alone with Estrada while he boasted about how wonderful married life was yet asking if he could “show me something in the back room” while holding his fly. Watching his confidence level shrivel when I told him he held no interest for me and that no, he would not be seeing my goodies (nor I his) was worth all the vodka in Russia. Or my wet bar. Whichever is greater, it’s a close call.
Moral of the story: Never trust a man with Day-Glo teeth the size of cue cards.
I’m having déjà vu. I’ve heard these words before. Not only have I heard them before but they came from the same married jackass that spewed them 12 months earlier. Has he used this line so many times that he’s actually forgotten who he’s uttered this phrase too? Better yet, how many big busted, six foot tall blondes that he works with has he asked this question to in order to forget that he’s already broached this subject with me?
What makes this scenario particularly scandalous is that not only is the pint sized Puerto Rican married but he also has a kid on the way yet still finds it perfectly acceptable behavior to ask me if I’ve had sex in the office stock room. His wife is a lucky lady indeed.
Last year, it was a hot, sunny afternoon and I was alone in the office
We talked, we flirted and I felt that rush that can only come from the chase of the unknown. I had found my new pet project and Eric Estrada was it. Doing my homework like any good school girl determined to ace a test, I went about finding out all I could from his friend, my boss. Then I heard the words that would stop me dead in my tracks and put a damper on any dreams I might have had of dividing and conquering.
“He’s got the greatest live-in girlfriend.”
Shot down.
I certainly wasn’t getting any hint of a girlfriend while he was asking me what I did for fun. Nor was I when he was asking if I had a boyfriend. But a guy with a live-in girlfriend AND big teeth? No thank you. I think I’ll pass.
A few nights later, a few people from work were gathering at a local bar to watch the game. I knew Estrada would be there but paid no mind since I also knew that bar + football = single, eligible men. I and my best push up bra would be there in full force rooting for the team with the cutest fans.
After the game, everyone in my party began to disperse. As luck would have it, I had parked in a different lot from most everyone else…except Estrada, who being the true gentleman he was, offered to walk me to my car. After he insisted I sit and join him for one last drink, of course. Personally, I would have rather had my appendix taken out by a spider monkey but unless I felt like walking back to the dark parking structure alone at midnight I was shit outta luck.
Being slightly irritated and defiant, I asked him what his girlfriend was up to that evening. I had, after all, heard that she was a really “sweet gal”. As he uncomfortably shifted in his seat he launched into his “woe is me” tale about his son (didn’t know he had one of those either), his first wife, his days partying and what led him into AA. Sure, this was an interesting story and all but still didn’t account for the fact that he was sitting alone, in a bar, with 38 DD’s while his good little girlfriend was at home ironing his shirts and taking care of his son by another woman.
Then like a true cheating douche bag with no inclination that what he was doing may be construed as highly inappropriate leaned across the table towards me. With a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face uttered the words that every woman should hear at least once in their lives…
“So, do you consider oral sex cheating?”
After I reminded him that things hadn’t gone well the way of Clinton and Lewinsky his face fell like a lead balloon and I got up to leave. I asked if he would like to take his Diet Coke to go. Apparently, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
A week later he proposed to his girlfriend. I wasn’t invited to the wedding.
So, why am I having déjà vu you ask? Because once again, I found myself alone with the arrogant philanderer. I had gone almost a year without seeing Estrada and the only thing that had changed was the tan on his left ring finger. Having come in to work on a project, I was left alone with Estrada while he boasted about how wonderful married life was yet asking if he could “show me something in the back room” while holding his fly. Watching his confidence level shrivel when I told him he held no interest for me and that no, he would not be seeing my goodies (nor I his) was worth all the vodka in Russia. Or my wet bar. Whichever is greater, it’s a close call.
Moral of the story: Never trust a man with Day-Glo teeth the size of cue cards.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Dude, Stop Calling Me Dude.
There are three things that will guarantee a response from me. One, if you are hot (The Fireman). Two, if you amuse me (Willy Wonka). And three, if you piss me off. Yesterday, I was pissed off.
To make the long story short, I was first sent an email from Mr. Damn Obnoxious Uber Cocky Harassing Egomaniac (D.O.U.C.H.E) about nine months ago. I wasn’t interested the first go round after he bombarded me with emails asking if I could handle his charm, good looks and muscular physique. Had he actually been any of those things I surely would have handled him, and then some. However, the 30 year old, 5’10, 135 lb. Sales Rep with a Bachelor’s Degree just wasn’t doing it for me.
His barrage of one liner emails became so incessant that I finally responded by saying simply “Thanks but no thanks”. Of course he wrote back asking why. I’m sure his mind had been blown that I wasn’t swept away by what could only have been created by the Greek God’s themselves when giving life to such a perfect mortal.
If his pictures weren’t anything to write home about, his profile certainly wasn’t helping matters either.
Im looking for a cute and smart woman who I can have a connection with, date, and fall in love with. Chemistry and physical attraction should be there, as well as mutual respect.
I have a good job in sales which I really enjoy. I graduated from UCLA with a b. a. in political science and live in Newport Beach now. I want to buy my own condo soon. I like to work out, and it would be nice if that person keeps fit. Oh, and ladies, when I say Im 5ft 10, it does NOT mean Im really 5ft 7 lol.
I love to laugh so a sense of humor is a must. Intelligence is a turn on, I cannot stress that enough. Head games, selfishness, or flaky behavior is a turn off. I have a sarcastic and playful side, but I balance that by trying to treat people like I want to be treated. Lets meet for a drink and see if we click.
Read: Looking for love, chemistry, the Fountain of Youth and pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He loves to laugh? No shit. He's fit and wants you to be fit. Sense of humor, blah, blah, blah. No head games, or flakes, yada, yada, yada. Claims to be educated yet can’t seem to get a grasp on simple things like basic punctuation.
Generic pictures, generic profile. Where has this guy been all my life? Sorry I didn’t meet him sooner. We should get together ASAP so that we can knit potholders while watching Jeopardy and spying on our neighbors from rocking chairs. Perhaps for an encore we can discuss AARP benefits, fruit cake recipes and debate the pros and cons of providing condoms to high school students.
As tempting as that all sounds, I eventually found it necessary to block Mr. Douche. I’ve got better things to do with my time than to spend it dodging some prick that can’t take No for an answer. Moving along…
Yesterday, out of the blue, I had the pleasure of being bombarded once again by emails from Mr. D.
Mr. Douche: Still scared of dating cute guys with nice bodies?
Where is this mythical cute guy with a nice body that he constantly speaks of? I thought I had blocked this moron. Looks as though Mr. Persistent went and got himself another profile. Awesome sauce.
Me: Yes, clearly that's it.
Him: Well whats your deal then?
*Silence*
I’ve played this game with him before and I have no desire to play it again. Now he’s just getting creepy. I’ve taken to hiding my pots, pans and rabbits.
Him: Dude dont take this the wrong way but you're not exactly Angelina Jolie and you're so NOT out of my leauge. Why the whole arrogance? Are u only into guys who make you feel smaller or something?
*Silence*
Him: Not out of my leauge dude.
Now I’m ready…
Me: First of all, DUDE, stop calling me dude. Second of all, it’s quite apparent that in addition to not being nearly as attractive and in shape as you claim, you are also not a rocket scientist. To most people, the silence would be a clear indication of disinterest and let it go. You seem to be confusing my lack of interest for arrogance.
However, if I remember correctly, you hit me up a few months back using another profile name in which I did tell you I was not interested. To continue harassing me is a clear sign of your immaturity and ignorance. Also, I’m not sure of which league you are referring to but I highly recommend that the next time you try using such large words, learn to spell them correctly.
For you to actually write “Are u only into guys who make you feel smaller or something?” makes you an idiot. Get over yourself and find somebody else to bother.
And for the record, you are correct about one thing…I’m not exactly Angelina Jolie. I’m blond.
Then I blocked his ass. Again.
Only two things could have come out of this union. He’d either end up wearing me as a suit or I’d end up on Dateline sporting the latest fashion in orange jumpsuits. Either way, I’d lose.
**Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time somebody has mentioned this distinguished “League”. Jack from Brooklyn has also had the pleasure of being the receiver of such unfortunate and misguided spelling. I highly recommend you read his post discussing his participation in what he refers to as the “Age of the Internet”.
To make the long story short, I was first sent an email from Mr. Damn Obnoxious Uber Cocky Harassing Egomaniac (D.O.U.C.H.E) about nine months ago. I wasn’t interested the first go round after he bombarded me with emails asking if I could handle his charm, good looks and muscular physique. Had he actually been any of those things I surely would have handled him, and then some. However, the 30 year old, 5’10, 135 lb. Sales Rep with a Bachelor’s Degree just wasn’t doing it for me.
His barrage of one liner emails became so incessant that I finally responded by saying simply “Thanks but no thanks”. Of course he wrote back asking why. I’m sure his mind had been blown that I wasn’t swept away by what could only have been created by the Greek God’s themselves when giving life to such a perfect mortal.
If his pictures weren’t anything to write home about, his profile certainly wasn’t helping matters either.
Im looking for a cute and smart woman who I can have a connection with, date, and fall in love with. Chemistry and physical attraction should be there, as well as mutual respect.
I have a good job in sales which I really enjoy. I graduated from UCLA with a b. a. in political science and live in Newport Beach now. I want to buy my own condo soon. I like to work out, and it would be nice if that person keeps fit. Oh, and ladies, when I say Im 5ft 10, it does NOT mean Im really 5ft 7 lol.
I love to laugh so a sense of humor is a must. Intelligence is a turn on, I cannot stress that enough. Head games, selfishness, or flaky behavior is a turn off. I have a sarcastic and playful side, but I balance that by trying to treat people like I want to be treated. Lets meet for a drink and see if we click.
Read: Looking for love, chemistry, the Fountain of Youth and pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He loves to laugh? No shit. He's fit and wants you to be fit. Sense of humor, blah, blah, blah. No head games, or flakes, yada, yada, yada. Claims to be educated yet can’t seem to get a grasp on simple things like basic punctuation.
Generic pictures, generic profile. Where has this guy been all my life? Sorry I didn’t meet him sooner. We should get together ASAP so that we can knit potholders while watching Jeopardy and spying on our neighbors from rocking chairs. Perhaps for an encore we can discuss AARP benefits, fruit cake recipes and debate the pros and cons of providing condoms to high school students.
As tempting as that all sounds, I eventually found it necessary to block Mr. Douche. I’ve got better things to do with my time than to spend it dodging some prick that can’t take No for an answer. Moving along…
Yesterday, out of the blue, I had the pleasure of being bombarded once again by emails from Mr. D.
Mr. Douche: Still scared of dating cute guys with nice bodies?
Where is this mythical cute guy with a nice body that he constantly speaks of? I thought I had blocked this moron. Looks as though Mr. Persistent went and got himself another profile. Awesome sauce.
Me: Yes, clearly that's it.
Him: Well whats your deal then?
*Silence*
I’ve played this game with him before and I have no desire to play it again. Now he’s just getting creepy. I’ve taken to hiding my pots, pans and rabbits.
Him: Dude dont take this the wrong way but you're not exactly Angelina Jolie and you're so NOT out of my leauge. Why the whole arrogance? Are u only into guys who make you feel smaller or something?
*Silence*
Him: Not out of my leauge dude.
Now I’m ready…
Me: First of all, DUDE, stop calling me dude. Second of all, it’s quite apparent that in addition to not being nearly as attractive and in shape as you claim, you are also not a rocket scientist. To most people, the silence would be a clear indication of disinterest and let it go. You seem to be confusing my lack of interest for arrogance.
However, if I remember correctly, you hit me up a few months back using another profile name in which I did tell you I was not interested. To continue harassing me is a clear sign of your immaturity and ignorance. Also, I’m not sure of which league you are referring to but I highly recommend that the next time you try using such large words, learn to spell them correctly.
For you to actually write “Are u only into guys who make you feel smaller or something?” makes you an idiot. Get over yourself and find somebody else to bother.
And for the record, you are correct about one thing…I’m not exactly Angelina Jolie. I’m blond.
Then I blocked his ass. Again.
Only two things could have come out of this union. He’d either end up wearing me as a suit or I’d end up on Dateline sporting the latest fashion in orange jumpsuits. Either way, I’d lose.
**Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time somebody has mentioned this distinguished “League”. Jack from Brooklyn has also had the pleasure of being the receiver of such unfortunate and misguided spelling. I highly recommend you read his post discussing his participation in what he refers to as the “Age of the Internet”.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Nice to meet you, Butt...
Every so often I read a profile that absolutely deserves to be memorialized by Yours Truly. Butt Pirate had just such a profile.
ONLY IF YOU LOVE BACKDOOR ACTION
Are you a woman who just orgasms super hard when your loved in the booty? Are you afraid to tell anyone or just simply can't find a partner who understands or is private about it?
Maybe your married or just seeking a good ,(private) time. Whatever it is I would love to feel you by dipping my manhood as deep as possible into your chocolate factory. As deep as I can and as hard as I can until we feel your woman hood has been touched.
(I am not looking to be penetrated whatsoever).
I very much enjoy backdoor lovemaking and seek a woman who enjoys receiving this aquired taste...
My first love introduced me to this pleasure and I have engaged in it and have treasured it ever since. This doesn't make me gay, insane or indecent. I'm not into hurting women or anything. Not every woman enjoys this kind of lovemaking and I understand that, but I seek a woman who does.
I am also beginning to find interest is deeper taboos (are you too?) Maybe we can explore them together.
Communication is really important to me. I will always be truthful and honest.
I am not interested in game playing whatsoever.
You must be Sane, clean and STD FREE, Just like me.
Ask me anything. I look forward to meeting you.
I just adore how he talks about his love of nature and all things having to do with charity and helping mankind. How he wants a special woman to complete him and make him a better man. How he’s looking for the woman of his dreams and the future mother of his children. How he wants to hold you in his strong arms and make love…Oh wait, that wasn’t him. All this idiot can talk about is dipping his manhood into your chocolate factory.
I want this man nowhere near my womanhood. For once, I’ve found myself somewhat at a loss for words. How am I supposed to react when a man refers to the asshole as a “chocolate factory”?
I probably never would have stumbled upon this gem had he not sent me an overly tantalizing email saying “yummy”. But when I saw the picture of the olive skinned, brown eyed cutie I just had to check things out further.
So.
Glad.
I DID!
I love this man. Why? Because I haven’t laughed this fucking hard since I heard that Screech had a sex tape.
Here’s my take on pooper play. STAY AWAY FROM MY ASS. It’s as simple as that. I don’t want you looking at it, blowing on it, licking it, sticking your finger in and I especially don’t want you sticking your dick in it. Yes, I have done it “the right way”. Yes, I have “eased into it”. And yes, “I have used plenty of lube”. Please don’t insult my sexual knowledge as to insinuate that I haven’t tried something as common as anal sex. If there is a an erogenous zone to be found, I have tried poking it, prodding it, licking it, massaging it and vibrating it. Twice. I simply don’t garner any satisfaction from having that part of my body penetrated.
So, what did I do after reading the Edgar Allan Poe of the bum-bum? I wrote back to him, of course.
While I don’t particularly share your opinion of backdoor lovemaking as a romantic gesture, I must ask you a question. Not to mock nor in jest but out of genuine curiosity. Do you get a lot of replies or responses to your profile?
Within hours, I received this response:
Maybe average 3 a day. Usually 1 fat fat chick. Plenty cute girls that want it night and day. Some women do love anal you just have to find them. The rest can find a man who doesn't I guess.
The next day Willy Wonka closed his account.
Was it something I said? So happy he clarified that “1 fat fat chick”. He should be considered a saint to all fat chicks everywhere.
Now, there are plenty that do enjoy backdoor play and that’s awesome. Go to it. I don’t hold anything personal against the butthole. I don’t hold anything against those that like to play with the butthole. To each his own. Some people enjoy lobster. Some don’t. It’s all strictly a matter of preference. And yes, I just compared buttplay to lobster.
In closing, I must mention how much I love that he writes “I am also beginning to find interest is deeper taboos”. Was that supposed to be a pun?
ONLY IF YOU LOVE BACKDOOR ACTION
Are you a woman who just orgasms super hard when your loved in the booty? Are you afraid to tell anyone or just simply can't find a partner who understands or is private about it?
Maybe your married or just seeking a good ,(private) time. Whatever it is I would love to feel you by dipping my manhood as deep as possible into your chocolate factory. As deep as I can and as hard as I can until we feel your woman hood has been touched.
(I am not looking to be penetrated whatsoever).
I very much enjoy backdoor lovemaking and seek a woman who enjoys receiving this aquired taste...
My first love introduced me to this pleasure and I have engaged in it and have treasured it ever since. This doesn't make me gay, insane or indecent. I'm not into hurting women or anything. Not every woman enjoys this kind of lovemaking and I understand that, but I seek a woman who does.
I am also beginning to find interest is deeper taboos (are you too?) Maybe we can explore them together.
Communication is really important to me. I will always be truthful and honest.
I am not interested in game playing whatsoever.
You must be Sane, clean and STD FREE, Just like me.
Ask me anything. I look forward to meeting you.
I just adore how he talks about his love of nature and all things having to do with charity and helping mankind. How he wants a special woman to complete him and make him a better man. How he’s looking for the woman of his dreams and the future mother of his children. How he wants to hold you in his strong arms and make love…Oh wait, that wasn’t him. All this idiot can talk about is dipping his manhood into your chocolate factory.
I want this man nowhere near my womanhood. For once, I’ve found myself somewhat at a loss for words. How am I supposed to react when a man refers to the asshole as a “chocolate factory”?
I probably never would have stumbled upon this gem had he not sent me an overly tantalizing email saying “yummy”. But when I saw the picture of the olive skinned, brown eyed cutie I just had to check things out further.
So.
Glad.
I DID!
I love this man. Why? Because I haven’t laughed this fucking hard since I heard that Screech had a sex tape.
Here’s my take on pooper play. STAY AWAY FROM MY ASS. It’s as simple as that. I don’t want you looking at it, blowing on it, licking it, sticking your finger in and I especially don’t want you sticking your dick in it. Yes, I have done it “the right way”. Yes, I have “eased into it”. And yes, “I have used plenty of lube”. Please don’t insult my sexual knowledge as to insinuate that I haven’t tried something as common as anal sex. If there is a an erogenous zone to be found, I have tried poking it, prodding it, licking it, massaging it and vibrating it. Twice. I simply don’t garner any satisfaction from having that part of my body penetrated.
So, what did I do after reading the Edgar Allan Poe of the bum-bum? I wrote back to him, of course.
While I don’t particularly share your opinion of backdoor lovemaking as a romantic gesture, I must ask you a question. Not to mock nor in jest but out of genuine curiosity. Do you get a lot of replies or responses to your profile?
Within hours, I received this response:
Maybe average 3 a day. Usually 1 fat fat chick. Plenty cute girls that want it night and day. Some women do love anal you just have to find them. The rest can find a man who doesn't I guess.
The next day Willy Wonka closed his account.
Was it something I said? So happy he clarified that “1 fat fat chick”. He should be considered a saint to all fat chicks everywhere.
Now, there are plenty that do enjoy backdoor play and that’s awesome. Go to it. I don’t hold anything personal against the butthole. I don’t hold anything against those that like to play with the butthole. To each his own. Some people enjoy lobster. Some don’t. It’s all strictly a matter of preference. And yes, I just compared buttplay to lobster.
In closing, I must mention how much I love that he writes “I am also beginning to find interest is deeper taboos”. Was that supposed to be a pun?
Monday, August 30, 2010
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 andstalking 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 toget 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.
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
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
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.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Everything a Man Hates
See that title? Yeah, that’s about me. Or more specifically, that is what was written about me on my very own Facebook page:
“The more I read from you, the more I do not like you. You’re everything a man hates in a life partner and even a friend. See ya.”
Whoa, Nelly! EVERYTHING a man hates? Even in a friend? Wow. That’s a pretty strong statement there, Mister. Apparently, not only did I fuck his mom and not call her the next day but I also kicked his puppy. Of course, I beg to differ. By saying everything implies that man doesn’t care for my exquisite set of breasticles and derriere. Nor does man care for my sharp wit and ability to do the reverse cowgirl.
Also, earlier this week, on Twitter I was on a list titled “Lick My Ass: For people that can lick my ass all they want and I’ll still think they’re crap”.
While I can fully appreciate a good tossed salad and his ability to distinguish the difference between “there”, “their” and “they’re”, that’s not exactly what I would consider a good time. I don’t kiss ass and I most certainly don’t lick it. Especially the ass of an avatar with 97 followers. Save your lube for somebody else as you won’t be needing it with me.
And a year ago, a whole blog post was dedicated to what a cunt I was. The post was so well written that I was even quoted. I couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that homeboy had definitely done his homework. By the time I was finished reading War and Peace I was left speechless and defeated. But I need to thank the little asswipe for doubling my page hits and readership so in the end I was the victor.
Normally, I wouldn’t even respond to such nonsense on this blog but for some reason I feel compelled to do so now. Knowing that this may indeed open me up to even more unwanted scrutiny, I’m choosing to go forward with this post anyway. I’m outspoken on everything else so why not when it comes to somebody attacking my character?
These certainly haven’t been the only times since the inception of this blog that I’ve had to dodge hate mail and death threats and I’m positive it won’t be the last. I’m crass, I’m abrasive and I have an unfounded sense of self confidence. So fucking what?
I talk a lot of shit. I mean a LOT of shit. There’s certainly no denying that. I do not, however, turn around and send it to the people that I’ve written about. Unless I become notably famous, I seriously doubt that any of the men I have brazenly bashed and mocked for the benefit of humor will ever see or know that my amusement was at their expense. I would consider the above mentioned dickwads full of bravado if it weren’t for them hiding behind a computer screen under the shadow of anonymity.
The first time I received a negative reaction to my writing I almost quit. The thought that I had angered somebody so much as to turn their blog and my Twitter page into a battlefield was almost too much to bear. Having spent days fielding comments and DM’s from people asking why I was even alive definitely took the wind out of my sail and made me question if I was doing the right thing by putting myself and my inner most thoughts in such a public forum. I know I can be abrasive but wishing me death? Now that’s a bit extreme, doncha think?
So, to all those that feel the need to shit on my parade and try to make themselves feel better because they don’t agree with me and the way I relate to things I have this to say:
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
Now, I’d really rather prefer that this be the last time I need to address this issue. I’m much more a fan of talking about sex and dick then I am of defending my actions and sharp tongue. To think my words and this little blog about sex and dating have garnered such animosity is really fascinating to me but as a wise friend once told me: “If people aren’t talking about you then you are doing something wrong.” If this is any indication of things to come then I’m headed in the right direction.
And one last thing, don’t bother leaving negative comments. I will delete them. Why? Because I can. That’s why.
“The more I read from you, the more I do not like you. You’re everything a man hates in a life partner and even a friend. See ya.”
Whoa, Nelly! EVERYTHING a man hates? Even in a friend? Wow. That’s a pretty strong statement there, Mister. Apparently, not only did I fuck his mom and not call her the next day but I also kicked his puppy. Of course, I beg to differ. By saying everything implies that man doesn’t care for my exquisite set of breasticles and derriere. Nor does man care for my sharp wit and ability to do the reverse cowgirl.
Also, earlier this week, on Twitter I was on a list titled “Lick My Ass: For people that can lick my ass all they want and I’ll still think they’re crap”.
While I can fully appreciate a good tossed salad and his ability to distinguish the difference between “there”, “their” and “they’re”, that’s not exactly what I would consider a good time. I don’t kiss ass and I most certainly don’t lick it. Especially the ass of an avatar with 97 followers. Save your lube for somebody else as you won’t be needing it with me.
And a year ago, a whole blog post was dedicated to what a cunt I was. The post was so well written that I was even quoted. I couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that homeboy had definitely done his homework. By the time I was finished reading War and Peace I was left speechless and defeated. But I need to thank the little asswipe for doubling my page hits and readership so in the end I was the victor.
Normally, I wouldn’t even respond to such nonsense on this blog but for some reason I feel compelled to do so now. Knowing that this may indeed open me up to even more unwanted scrutiny, I’m choosing to go forward with this post anyway. I’m outspoken on everything else so why not when it comes to somebody attacking my character?
These certainly haven’t been the only times since the inception of this blog that I’ve had to dodge hate mail and death threats and I’m positive it won’t be the last. I’m crass, I’m abrasive and I have an unfounded sense of self confidence. So fucking what?
I talk a lot of shit. I mean a LOT of shit. There’s certainly no denying that. I do not, however, turn around and send it to the people that I’ve written about. Unless I become notably famous, I seriously doubt that any of the men I have brazenly bashed and mocked for the benefit of humor will ever see or know that my amusement was at their expense. I would consider the above mentioned dickwads full of bravado if it weren’t for them hiding behind a computer screen under the shadow of anonymity.
The first time I received a negative reaction to my writing I almost quit. The thought that I had angered somebody so much as to turn their blog and my Twitter page into a battlefield was almost too much to bear. Having spent days fielding comments and DM’s from people asking why I was even alive definitely took the wind out of my sail and made me question if I was doing the right thing by putting myself and my inner most thoughts in such a public forum. I know I can be abrasive but wishing me death? Now that’s a bit extreme, doncha think?
So, to all those that feel the need to shit on my parade and try to make themselves feel better because they don’t agree with me and the way I relate to things I have this to say:
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
Now, I’d really rather prefer that this be the last time I need to address this issue. I’m much more a fan of talking about sex and dick then I am of defending my actions and sharp tongue. To think my words and this little blog about sex and dating have garnered such animosity is really fascinating to me but as a wise friend once told me: “If people aren’t talking about you then you are doing something wrong.” If this is any indication of things to come then I’m headed in the right direction.
And one last thing, don’t bother leaving negative comments. I will delete them. Why? Because I can. That’s why.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
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 awannabe 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.
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
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.
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