Well, in true Lynn fashion, “Tinder 1” quickly turned into #73. Drinks one night, dipping his wick, one official date later. He invited me to dinner at 7:30, I said 5:30. Dinner could come later, I needed to cum now.

I didn’t even care that I didn’t remember what he looked like seeing as our meet and great was in a dark bar and by the time I got into the light those 3 Ketel Ones had hit me and blurred everything except that he was a man. I when I opened the downstairs gate, I was a little surprised. He definitely wasn’t my type, but he had a dick, brought a bottle of wine and I wasn’t wearing panties under my dress. Everything would be fine.

He opened the wine, Malbec. Then he looked at me and the next thing I knew, his tongue was in my mouth and his teeth on my lower lip. I was glad that I had dress appropriately. It was not long until he discovered my easy access snatch and promptly put his hand under my dress. But rather then go in for the kill, he touched everywhere but the hot spot.

Obviously this was going to take some patience on my part. But I went with it. He pushed me into the “couch of a thousand naps” but I knew any wet spots would be a bitch to get off, so I mentioned the bedroom.

I should have known by the kissing that he’d be good, but I was not prepared for what followed. His fingers were in and out of snooch the entire night, beckoning me to cum. We know that looking at me a certain way can get me wet, but when you add digits and tongues, it just ups the ante. And there was a lot of tongue. After all that time of no mouth to puss puss contact, I was eating this up, almost as much as he was.

I needed to get his dick in me to qualify for pancakes. And it’d been so long since any part of a man was between my legs, I was not going to blow this opportunity. His cock was a little nervous but come hell or high water, that dick was going to get hard enough and in my trap before the night was over.

Finally, entry! Not the largest of cocks, but I didn’t care. It was in me, it felt good and I was getting pancakes. After an hour I realized I was fucked out. It’s been a long time and the puss puss was out of shape so I sent him on his way.

Fuckadilio. An over fucked pussy, dry skin on my chin, chapped lips and amazing sex is a great way to reign some action back downtown. I might actually call him again. I mean it was the best sex I’d had in years. Actually it was the only sex I’d had in years.

Moral of the story, a sore pussy is better than a lonely one.

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Tinder 1

I went on a date last week the first one since breaking up with #72. Tinder 1 and I met through the phone app that’s replaced online dating. I had mixed feelings about it about dating again but the Ketel One and soda (with a lemon twist) I was drinking while I waited for him, kind of relaxed me. And I’m sure the half Ativan I took before leaving the apartment helped, too.

I put on my first date gear. Leggings and a flowy sweatery thing to hide the ring o’ flab and camel toe. And high black boots. And then, finally, my leather, beat up police jacket. I love that jacket. It makes me feel like the badass New Yorker I once was.

It’s been a week and I don’t 100% remember what Tinder 1 looks like. It was dark in the bar, but I could definitely see that he didn’t look like the pictures he posted on Tinder. Or maybe it was the half Ativan before drinking. What I do remember is his teeth were a little fucked up. I kept trying to look at his mouth while he was talking so I could check them out all the way, but I didn’t want to stare for confirmation.

Of course I made out with him when he drove me home. It was better than I thought and not as good at the same time. Sure he stuck his tongue in my mouth, and he has a big tongue, but he just kind of left it in there, almost choking me. I had to keep pulling back to breathe. But then he bit my lower lip and I thought there is some pancake potential here. Maybe I could teach him how to kiss, but the lip biting earned him points. Enough points to make up for the teeth and misrepresentative photos.

He sent me a text the next morning which is what #72 did everyday before noon. I missed those texts in the three weeks since I ended it. I was one of the nice things he did. Tinder 1 said that there are nice guys out there who will also fuck you. I realized he’s right and have already decided to test him out.

I still feel kind of bad about ending it with #72, but the 50 matches I have on Tinder make it easier. I’ll go out with Tinder 1 again, if for anything else, I want pancakes like, well, like a mother-fucker. And I’ll be that much closer to triple digits. Maybe being single isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Moral of the story, you don’t need a computer to meet people, an iPhone works just fine.

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#72 loves Scrabble. He plays against his friends in person, via his iPad and in between, against the computer. He has such a great command of the English language I can’t believe I beat him the second time we played. (Although the word “myriad” was a bone of contention with us. He didn’t think I spelled it correctly. I got over 50 points for it so I’m taking the win).

A few days ago #72 sent me a text with a picture of his latest computer scrabble game. There were four words right next to one another. “Deranged. Babe. Dying. Cunt.” We thought it was hilarious. Of course at first I didn’t see the word “deranged” because that didn’t interest me as much as Babe’s dying cunt.

Is it dying? I think so. I got a little hand job after our swim in his awesome salt water pool, but I had to ask for it and it was a little awkward but it was something. Right? No, not anymore.

It’s been over 2 ½ years since I’ve been properly fucked. I’m going to be 47 in a few months and am worried that in a few years I won’t be fuckable at all. Not that I’m looking much worse than I did last year, but I can’t tell. But I’m sure that I’m not going to look better than I did a year ago, or today for that matter. Time’s a ticking. It’s not a baby clock. It’s a cock clock.

I had to end it. I tried, for a year and a half and he always begged me to give him another chance, that he’d do what I needed him to do AFTER this or that. And I know I picked the worst time possible, two weeks after his surgery, but I couldn’t take it anymore. He was lovingly calling me his girlfriend in his Norco stupor and where we’d go when he got better. And I snapped. I wrote him his morning email of support and happiness and then got a text from #71, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be his “girlfriend” anymore, I knew how much he appreciated me and cared for me. He said it all the time. But that morning, I couldn’t take it anymore so I ended it. Lynn said fuck this, the deranged babe’s dying cunt was going to get some dick.

It’s been almost 3 weeks and I miss him a lot. I do. He was a great guy and I do love him, but it’s time to love myself more. I’ve already set up a Tinder account and got 40 matches in less than a week. I finally have something to write about. List it as a favorite, tell your friends, Lynn Halsted is back on the market and on the prowl.

Moral of the story, depending on where you put it, “over” is worth at least 7 points.

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Get the Fuck Out of Here


Okay, I have to get a better title than that, but last night I had a traumatic experience. I was kind of ready for bed, wearing the PJ bottoms that I call sweats so that I can wear them in public, a tank top and a pedicure. I’m not sure how I got into the bathroom to pee or how long I was in there, maybe flossing my teeth, I have no idea. What I DO know is this fucking Amazonian water bug (because I can’t bear to call it a cockroach) was blocking my way out of the bathroom. No one believes how big this thing was. It was the size of a newborn’s head. Slightly smaller than my fist and if it got into a fight with a kitten, the victor would not surprise you.

I was in a panic, understandably. My phone was in the living room. I forgot to pause True Blood. And I had a bowl of ice cream that was quickly melting. And who the FUCK did this bug think he was? He mocked me with his tentacles. I’m not kidding, they were waving at me, edging me on.

Now, I’ve killed bugs. I am a vicious ant murderer. I’ve got pretty good reflexes so those little fruit flies are killed an average of 35% of the time. But this no. I called the dog over, but he’s been in a shitty mood, looked at the bug and walked on. The cat looked me and was like, nope, he’s all yours. The thing was waving at me, taunting me as to my next move.

I was reminded by a incident when I lived in SoHo in New York. There were a couple of cockroaches (water bugs) in my sink. It was a kitchen/bathroom sink so it wasn’t like I could just go in the other room when I wanted to brush my teeth. But I had tools. There were pots and pans, knives. A stand up career that knew this would be great material. So I covered those fuckers with a pot and called my best friend to figure out what to do next.

Together we windexed them to death and then used an oven mitt (promptly thrown away) to throw the dead fucks out the window.

But here, I was as good as alone. It was 10pm and not a good hour to be screaming at the top of your lungs. Standing on my bathtub with no armor no windex, no shoes, nothing. (not that I would have ruined a good pair of shoes anyway. I think that fucker would have come through the bottom) I looked to the left and saw the shower door was open. Only one possibility, the fucker came in through there. Slammed through the shower door and was now keeping me prisoner in my own bathroom.

I looked around for something, anything. Perfume. It was all I had. I don’t’ use hairspray so it was going to have to be the perfume. I looked at my options, Viva La Juicy, I liked that one. Samples. No. And this big red bottle that I didn’t really like wearing anymore and have conveniently forgotten the name. So I picked that one up.

Still the fucker stared at me. That was it. This was war. I started squirting the FUCK out of this perfume right on him. The bug looked at me and then retreated. He was in shock. I kept going, squirting him into the hallway feeling more powerful by the second. Until he ran. Into my linen closet. I ran out of the bathroom and to my phone.

It was too late to call the bf and his car was in the shop anyway. I decided to take an Ativan and go to sleep. This whole experience was too traumatic. I got the dog into the bed and held him a little tighter than he wanted. The cat sat behind me and I cursed them both for being bigger pussies than me. But I needed their comfort now.

When I woke up, I thought it had been a dream. I have very lucid dreams. But I smelled the perfume, I saw the bottle overturned on the ledge and the shower door was still open. That’s when I called the bf. He had a business appointment but when he was done, he called me back.

“Did you find it?”

“When are you getting here?”

“You were serious about wanting me to come over?”

Fuck yeah. So now, I’m at my desk, writing in fear and waiting. Waiting for the terrorist to make another appearance before my boyfriend gets here armed with valor and a strong stomach.

Moral of the story, in spite of its performance in battle, it’s nice to know my perfume isn’t toxic.

Phone Sex

As promised, I’m going to break the ceiling open on phone sex operators, defy the code of cumming and share with you a few of my experiences.  But first a little backstory.

I get paid by 15 min. increments.  If they “get off” sooner, I still get the same amount.  I’m proud of the fact that I’ve ended calls after 3 minutes.  More than once.  I’m that good.  The quickie calls usually don’t say goodbye, they just hang up.  Not quite the reaction you’re looking for when someone is shooting a load because of you, but still.  It works.

My handle is “Dawn”.  Only slightly slutty if you look at the picture of a nubile young woman in a thong and no bra.  “Dawn” is laying with her ass in the air on a white bed and looking back at the camera.  At YOU, disgusting phone sex guy.  While there are 50+ of us on at any given time only three show real photos.  The rest of us fall under the category “some of the pictures are simulations”. 

For a guy not to know that I probably don’t look like dear “Dawn” is ridiculous.  I don’t make enough money doing it to afford the professional photographer and all the airbrushing that would be needed.  Some of them told me they whack off to my picture.   Which picture, which year?

Most of the guys ask what I really look like.  Those are the ones I start out liking.  It gives me a chance to revisit Lynn 1999.  “I’m 5’9”, I weigh 135 lbs and I have lots of long, dark curly hair, very blue eyes and pink lips that don’t need lipstick.  

“Very nice.  Is your cunt wet?”

Now let me introduce you to Lynn 2014.  Um, somewhere along the line, I dropped an inch and added a few around my waist.  Eyes are still blue but it’s hard to see them behind glasses.  And in terms of the long, dark curly hair, it still exists with the help of Greg, my stylist.

“Yeah baby, is your dick hard?”

Here’s the neat thing about Lynn 2014.  I know stories.  Lots of stories.  And while I can’t really use many of my own,  (they aren’t depraved enough for these sick fucks), I have a good and disgusting imagination.  Also Lynn 2014 has an incredibly deep and sexy voice thanks to years of drinking scotch. 

Moral of the story, you can get “Dawn” everyday, no matter what year it is.

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On the Cusp

I went home Friday night because #72 fell asleep on the couch and I knew I wouldn’t be getting any action.  I was done.  It felt slightly liberating but sad and myriad other feelings.  I felt like I’ve given him so many chances and as amazing as he is, he had used them up.

On Saturday #72 called me while I was at the park with Dave.  Dave and I were at the park watching this amazingly large wedding party take family pictures.  I looked at all the people who were happy today, knowing that divorce, anger and lawyers were in their future.  Isn’t that for everyone?   

I told #72 I couldn’t do it anymore.  He thought I meant the falling asleep and I said no, the lack of sex.  (I never in A MILLION years thought I’d be saying that.  Not me.  I have a reputation.)  That I can’t wait anymore.  He asked me for another chance, the last one.  He wouldn’t expect anymore and that he knew what he had to do. 

“Hand jobs aren’t going to cut it.”

“I’ll let that slide.  No, I know what I need to do, give me a chance to make this right and take care of you the way you want.”

I think he understands that means taking a nose dive into my snatch while playing with my clit.  Anything less is going to not be enough.   But then, today, with a hangover, I know it’s not going to be enough.  If he had wanted to please me in that way, he would have done it by now.  It’s been two years.   There is no miraculous fix to this and I don’t want to pretend there is.

I’ve only broken up with one other person in my life and I didn’t really care about him.  AND I had Ex-Husband #1 giving me the best sex of my life.  Cumming non stop makes any dumping decision easier.  But right now, I don’t have any kind of Band-Aid.  I can’t use #20.  There has been so much damage in our relationship that even though we said we were going to start from scratch, it’s got failure written all over it.  That said, will #20 and I try again?  Maybe.  If he asks me to dinner, I’m going to go.  I don’t have to fuck him, we can just have a couple glasses of wine or something.  We can try to be friends first.  He likes to say we were always friends, but there was always that sex thing looming over our heads.  Maybe this time will be different.  He lives down the street from me.  #72 is a mile south, #20 a mile north.  Both are walking distance away. 

Moral of the story, maybe I should explore numbers who live East or West of me. 



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Fire and Water Don’t Mix

You know that old adage, play with fire, you get burned?  What if the fire is contained and patient?  What if you were going to end your relationship anyway and thought this would be a great rebound situation?    

I contacted #20, again.  That was final step that I am ready to leave #72.   For all his faults, #20 has always been there to pick up my pieces.  I know that even if he hasn’t seen me in over 2 years, he’ll think I’m hot and want to fuck me.  (who wouldn’t?) (oh right, #72).  Even with an extra 6 pounds I discovered at the doctor’s office (fuck those calibrated scales), it won’t matter.  #20 will think I’m hot.   

It’s been two years with #72 and I can no longer be in a sexless relationship.  As much as I care about him, I can’t be faithful to him.  But I’ve never cheated on anyone before and I don’t intend to now.  There will be a discussion that we’ve had many times before. 

I’m tired of it and want to move on.  He’s PERFECT in every other way, but after two years and cob webs it’s time to get some heavily missed pancakes.

The best way to break up with someone is to say you met someone else.  So I texted with #20 tonight.  And I got a glass of water splashed in my face, if not the whole pitcher.  He was the first person I called after Ex-Husband #1 and then again after Ex-Husband #2.   I was always his first call after making a relationship mistake.  So even though I’d judged him repeatedly, I realize now, it was unfair.  We are no better than the other.  All that blame and fire I sent his way was my own drama and tonight I paid for it.

Somehow, he found out about the blog and the book.  Was hurt (understandably) and told me to stop being a victim and blame everything on him.  Which was also valid.  So any hopes of fucking my way out of #72 with him were dashed, as was my mascara.  Suddenly I was devastated.    I hadn’t felt this kind of hurt since Ex-Husband #2.  This is why I’ve stayed with #72, so avoid crying and feeling.  To avoid someone really sticking you with a dagger because they’ve been equally hurt by you.

Tonight sucked ass and not even the caller who likes women to fart in his face and call him “a little sinker” cheered me up.  Hopefully this double pour of Johnny Walker Black will.  And if not, there’s always soma.

Moral of the story, even the best fart jokes can’t always make you laugh.

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Wake Up and Smell the Lattes

I’ve been absent from my blog for way too long.  And I know you’ve missed me.  I’ve missed me.  Its been exactly 2 years in and I’m still with #72.  And still no action.  Although this morning he smacked me on the ass with a wooden spoon.  It was cupped and not flat so the impact was pretty good.  It stung like a mother fucker, but it didn’t really turn me on. Probably because he apologized but it was the most sex we’ve had in months, unless you call kissing gently on the lips, sex.  I’ve lost my mojo and it doesn’t surprise me. 

A friend of mine keeps asking me why I’m still with #72 when obviously he’s slowly draining me of any sexuality.   And he is.  I don’t masturbate as much, my “toy” remains in its box instead of mine.  I bring the little dynamo to his house every time I stay there, but it never gets used. The past few month my thoughts have revolved around my espresso maker and not the hot and heavy.  I’m getting tired of the compromise.   Really tired.  My pussy is so lonely, things have to change.

In order to regain some of my dwindling fuck power, I decided to use some of my better skills; my imagination and my voice. 

I’ve become a phone actress. 

That’s what they call us, actresses.  I have a “model” name and a land line. I’m represented with provocative pictures of someone who’s name I don’t know.  She probably has a fake name, too.  She’s not super skinny, as a matter of fact, there’s a bit of flab on her legs and her ass.  Her tits are small (mine aren’t that big either) and she’s got brown hair.  We have so much in common, except for one tiny detail.  She’s taking porn shots and I’m just talking about it.  Oh, and she looks about 22.  (Just a few years younger than me.)  (Multiplied by 5).

 It’s easier to deal with these callers if I have a little scotch in me.  Of course t’s a lot healthier at night than when I’m on in the morning.  Even though most of the callers are gross, I do find I’m getting turned on a little bit.  All that sex talk just affirms I can’t stay with #72 much longer.  But until we break up, this new career will be about making money and having more content for the blog. 

Stay tuned.

 Moral of the story, I think it’s time to put down the lattes and bring out the Johnny Walker Black.


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Medium Cups

I’m due for some new bras.  I tend to keep the old ones a little too long.  I’m really not a big lingerie person except right now my new thing are character panties.  Like from the teen section at Target.  Cookie Monster and the Paul Frank monkey to name a few.  I feel slightly pedophilia-ish doing it, but I don’t flash 15 year olds anymore, so there you go.  And luckily, I have some bras that go with them.   Like the one I’m wearing right now, my push up red bra.   (is it really little if it’s a 36B?  By LA standards for sure, but it’s a handful I’m happy with) 

I was trying to think about blog ideas and grabbed my own left boob.  I wish I could say, Oh, I was at a baseball game and had my hand over my heart, but no, I just wanted to feel my boob in my bra.  Just to see how much boob there was filling up the bra.  I was disappointed to find not that much.  Truth be told, my tits don’t entirely fill the whole bra.  There’s some gappage.   Like a handful of extra room.  Which goes to prove that 1)  This bra is too big for me and 2)I don’t know how to buy bras.  But the red one is in my rotation and I’ll keep wearing it. 

Now, I like a lot of security in my rack.  Sure, walking Dave at midnight, I’ll forgo the pushup and wear a tank top and a sweatshirt to hide the swinging.  But it’s 1pm and I have to slightly presentable because I’m going to meet my mom later.

Here’s the thing though, which brings me back to my feeling myself up.  The bra is kind of hard which makes me think of fake tits.  I’ve felt a few in my day, more investigative than sexual.  Kind of a poke and wow, that does feel weird.    This bra, I’m wearing, is giving my fingers the same sensation.  And if I do it enough, I’ll have a bruise, which in my mind, is kind of sexy.

I think first of all, I need to go on a bra expedition.  My next vacation destination, Nordstrom Rack (good deals, long lasting bras).  I’ll keep you posted.

Moral of the story, too big doesn’t work for bras or dicks.


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Baseball Games

The other night #72 and I went to a Dodger game.  It was one of the worst games in Dodger history, but it was fun being at the stadium.  I’m not really into sports, unless it’s sport fucking, but since this is a real relationship with a guy who loves sports, my affinity for them is a natural state.  I even watched some of the NBA championships.  (Of course when quizzed about whom the Heat was playing, it took me a moment or two to remember).

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my best friend and he said that I deserve more than I’m asking for in this relationship.  I had to agree with him, but then, after last night, I started thinking about the things that #72 and I have done together.   We might spend most nights watching movies at his house and eating popcorn, but we’ve gone to some sports events, a few concerts at the Hollywood Bowl, a trip to Yosemite and to Disneyland.  That’s not bad for over a year.     

The thing is, I never really knew what I deserved.  It had never occurred to me.  Like, okay, fuck me proper and that’s all I need.  But in this situation, I’m not getting fucked proper or at all, really, and I have to figure out what else there is, or I what I should be expecting. 

I decided I needed flowers sometimes.  He responded the next day coming over with a bouquet of daisies.   Then I decided I needed to spend more time with his friends.  A week later the three of us were seated in the stands behind first base.  He came to my party.  What more could I ask for?  Or should I ask for?

We all know that everyone is different.  Some women like guys to buy them lots of stuff, They want and want and want.  Fancy restaurants all the time, bubble baths and champagne.  I don’t like champagne and I haven’t taken a bath in years.  The litter box is in the tub and the idea of sitting in the same area as my cat’s toilet grosses me out.   He mentioned taking a bath at his house, or him giving me one to be specific.

I think I’m happy with where we’re at.  Once in a while a good date.  Seeing each other a few times a week.  I really don’t need much more than that.  And whether or not I deserve more is irrelevant.  Just because you deserve something doesn’t necessarily mean it will make you happy.

Moral of the story, if there are enough base hits, you can still make it to home plate

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