Monthly Archives: January 2012

Best Friends – no one cares

I have three best friends and a couple almost best friends.  One of my best friends is a guy.  He’s 16 years older than me, but luckily we’re both pretty immature and it works out.  We are writing partners, friends and also neighbors so we see each other a lot.   He’s a great guy, seriously.  Loves relationships, is generous and funny as hell.  A great catch.  For someone that’s attracted to him.


I’m not saying he’s ugly, but he’s less than my type.  Thinking of being physically intimate with him brings bile to the back of my throat.  And he feels the same way about me.   One day I met a friend of his and she was surprised that I was attractive.  The way he talked about me, she thought I’d be a troll.  So suffice it to say, we are never going to end up in bed, naked.


The problem is, other than my father, he is the most important person in my life and I talk about him a lot.  Even on dates.   I didn’t think anything of it, but now that the guy I dated a few times has stopped texting me, I’m thinking I talked about my friend too much.  In retrospect, I can see how that’s a turnoff.  Retrospect.  I totally cock blocked myself with my eternally platonic best friend.


Now, this date guy probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.  I think I freaked him out when I told him that I had a vinyl outfit once and that I’d like to be in a latex suit one day.  He was pretty vanilla, but it would have been nice to see him again.  We did have a nice time.  Twice.


I have big plans this weekend.  My best friend is coming over and we’re going to sit on the couch and watch reruns of Louie.  Yeah, so much better than going out for drinks with a guy and working on getting laid.   Who needs sex when you’ve got a best friend?  Me, that’s who.  Where’s #71 when you need him?


Moral of the story, recipe for getting laid, keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got a dick in it.


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The Rules

I know that my morals have been questionable at times.  I’ve had sex and messed around with men who were married or had long time girlfriends.  I’ve never cheated on anyone I’ve been in a committed relationship with, but I know I’ve aided others in their infidelity.  I’m not proud of this but it is what it is.

One thing that I’ve never done is encroach on friend’s boyfriend or crush.   If I know you and you’ve laid claim to a guy, I will keep my distance.   I feel this is common courtesy among friends.  A friendship is worth 100 times more than a potential fuck and needs to be respected.  It’s a rule I hold dear.  You don’t fuck around with a friend’s guy.  Ever.

The first time this rule was tested was in college.  I was madly in love with a brooding, brilliant film student.  We took a bunch of classes together which was great because it gave me the opportunity to stalk him.   My best friend was patient as I talked about him incessantly.  But when he asked her out instead, my world stopped.  She immediately told me about it and asked me what she should do.

I was torn.  On one hand, I was incredibly jealous.  I mean, I was the one in love with him.  But then, there was the whole possibility of living vicariously through her and finding out if he was any good in bed.   Now this was a jump, he only asked her on a date, not to have his children.  But you never know.  Look at my track record.

My best friend and I talked about it for days, going through all the possibilities and ramifications of her going out with him.   She was flattered at the idea of him liking her, but my feelings were the top priority.  I appreciated this and finally gave her my blessing.  Yes, you can go out with him, but you have to tell me everything.

In the end, she decided to turn him down.  Not only did it make her uncomfortable, she’d had the hots for his roommate and didn’t want to blow her chances with him.  While her loyalty didn’t surprise me, it took our friendship to a new level.  I knew I could trust her implicitly.   Forever.

The guy?  Neither of us ever heard from him again.  Our friendship?  Still going strong.

Moral of the story, while friends don’t get you off, they’re always more important than a fuck.

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The El

I love summer rain showers, especially when I don’t have an umbrella and am wearing a white T-shirt.  I found myself in this predicament after work one late afternoon as I was waiting for the El.

I stood on the platform, letting the rain soak my hair and clothes deciding that I probably didn’t need to shower when I got home.  If I ever made it home.  This train was taking forever.  I was standing next to an old woman and when she moved away, I saw #19.  He smiled at me and I looked down.  I felt like a drowned rat and was slightly embarrassed.  When I looked back up, he was standing next to me.

When the train finally arrived we got into the same car.  He sat across from me and smiled at me.   I pulled at my wet shirt and looked out the window.  When I got to my stop, he got off, too.  And when I started walking East, so did he.  I thought I needed to say something.   “Are you following me home?”


For some reason I was okay with that.   This had all the makings of a great story.  When we got to my apartment, #19 massaged my hands so deeply I was incredibly turned on.  I put them in his lap.  He said he had a condom, which was great except… it was orange.  Who fucks with an orange condom?  Apparently I do.   The sex was good.  Until it was over.

“What’s your name?”

Fucker, this was going to be perfect.  I told him that it would be sexier if we didn’t exchange names.”

“Okay, but can I have your number?”

Fuzzy with an orgasm I gave it to him.  I regretted it immediately.  Not only didn’t I want to see #19 again, the last thing I wanted was for him to call me.  My real life porn story was quickly becoming just another lame encounter.    I kissed him one more time and sent him on his way.  It was just my luck that 6 months later I ran into him at a coffee shop.  I pretended I didn’t know him.

Moral of the story, when making a porno, make sure your co-star doesn’t veer away from the script.



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Like most chicks, I’m big on compliments and if you are generous with them, you can get away with a lot.  Even having a small dick.

One winter evening I was writing in my favorite coffee shop, minding my own business when I ran into #13.  I knew his older brother and had the mini hots for him but since the brother wasn’t around, I talked to #13 instead.  He liked the way I’d always sit in the coffee shop write poetry.  In an effort to get laid, he even asked me if he could read some.  It was closing time and #13 wanted to know if he could walk me to my apartment.  I thought it was a lovely way to get to find out more about his brother and also burn a few calories.

But it was fucking freezing and when we saw a bus coming, we jumped on it.  We sat next to each other near the back and he brushed the cold off my jacket.  I tried to be coy and asked him about his brother.   #13 told me that his brother had a girlfriend and that they were planning on getting married in a few months.

Disappointed, I invited him into my apartment.  The minute I shut the door, #13 kissed me.  He told me how beautiful and talented I was.  He said that he had wanted me for a weeks and did I notice that he used to stare at me all the time.  No, but I noticed what his hand was doing in my pussy and suddenly that’s all that mattered.

I was enjoying myself thoroughly and couldn’t wait to get naked.  When he took off his pants and I was instantly disappointed.  I wondered if small dicks ran in the family.  This thought distracted me and then…

“Your pussy is really tight.”

Ding, ding, ding.  100 bonus points.   While he didn’t go down on me, he certainly had used his tongue well.  So what if the sex wasn’t stellar, I was completely satisfied and when he left, I was sad to see him go.  A few days later, I ran into his brother.  I asked him how his girlfriend was and when he was getting married.  He didn’t know what I was talking about.

Moral of the story, you don’t need a big dick to cock block your own family.

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Henry Miller

For a while I thought I was well read, but Stephen King is not an indicator of being literary savvy.  (Although he is by far one of the best modern writers out there.)  Now that I’m out of college, I am trying to catch up on the Classics but without someone to discuss them with, their intricacies are often lost on my distracted mind.

One writer that I understand and have an affinity for is my good friend Henry Miller.  One of the best and earliest writers of literary porn, he’s my hero.  His love of language supersedes his use of profanity.  He can use a four syllable SAT word and then follow it with “cunt” or “fuck”.   And the depravity that he wrote about has made me realize that even in the 20’s, people were having wild sex; threesomes, anal and fucking with objects.

I remember trying to expand my Henry Miller library and going online to buy the book “Under The Roofs of Paris.”  I loved how he was an ex-pat and also love Paris so I thought this would be a good story to get into.  I started reading it on a plane and ironically enough, I was sitting next to a nun.   I had no idea that “Under The Roofs of Paris” was a book of porn vignettes.  The first chapter was about a whore watching Henry fingering an under-aged girl.  I do not condone child pornography but I had to admit, it was a hell of an introduction.

Not to be deterred, I progressed through the book.  I read about how he fucked married women, midgets, and whores.  His choice in partners made me feel like that nun I was sitting next to.   Each time I read a chapter, I wondered how much of it was true.  I mean, I’ve earned all the entries in this blog, I assume he did the same.  But I recently saw a documentary about Henry and he said he’d only fucked about 40 women.  Was this in the research for this one book or in total?  I can’t imagine that I’m more promiscuous than Henry Miller.

While I didn’t play with myself on the plane that day, I do read this book when I need to get off on my own.  (Rub one out, as a good friend of mine likes to say)  I keep it in a drawer in my nightstand and pick it up when there are gaps in my pancake consumption.  And if you’re going to masturbate to a book, might as well make it quality literature.

Moral of the story, reading porn can sometimes be better than watching it.

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Fast Learner

I wouldn’t consider myself a cold hearted bitch, but over the course of my fucking career, I’ve been able differentiate between sex and making love.  As I’ve gotten older and have had more experiences, it’s been easier.  I’m not always sure this is a good thing, but it is what it is.

The first time I was able to separate myself from sex was with #6.   In retrospect, it’s a little disconcerting how early I started fucking for sport.  I rationalized that guys did it all the time, so why shouldn’t women?  It’s equality in the bedroom and I’m all for it.

#6 was tall and gawky and I wasn’t really attracted to him.  He wasn’t ugly, just not my type.  But he was hitting on me and the guy I was really interested in wasn’t paying any attention to my advances.  It had been a few months and I wanted some action.   So when #6 invited me to his apartment I said okay.

It was obvious this kind of pick up didn’t happen to him very often.  He was overly excited and tried to impress me.  He didn’t.  Then #6 tried to act all sexy.  He wasn’t.  I knew I had to get his clothes off fast, otherwise I’d get turned off and leave before I got my pancakes.

Having had a real boyfriend the year before, I knew what good sex was.   #6 was good.  But he ruined it by being too eager, too gawky and not cool.  When we were done he wanted me to stay the night, but I rushed out of there as soon as I could.  I was tired but didn’t want any trouble.  Attachment trouble.

The next night he showed up at my favorite bar and tried to kiss me.  I pushed him away.  I mean, we were in public and I didn’t want anyone to think we were together.  Or that we had even fucked for that matter.  The other guy was finally paying attention to me and I didn’t want to blow it.  #6 took me to the side, visibly upset.

“I thought we had a good time.”

I said, sure.  But it was a one night stand and now it’s another night so…  He was hurt and confused.  He pleaded with me to talk, but I told him I wasn’t interested.  I mean, he got off, what more did he want?  Apparently another round with me.   I went to another table and picked up my Southern Comfort.  When he sulked out of the bar, I high fived my best friend.  I had finally fucked somebody for sport.  It felt empowering and I was eager to try it again.  And so I did.  With #7.

Moral of the story, just because you’re a chick doesn’t mean you can’t separate your feelings when you separate your legs.

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Gold Digger

Sometimes I think I take the desire to be an independent woman a little too far.  I’m flattered when a guy buys me dinner, and when I’m on a drinking date, I usually pick up the third round.  I’ve never used a guy to pay my rent, buy me clothes, or anything financial.  And since I’ve moved to LA, I have learned that I’m a bit of an anomaly.

I know women who have gotten clothes, makeup and even cars, and they never even opened their legs.  I am torn between marveling these women and also being disgusted by them.  I think they give women a bad name but they also get a lot of nice shit.

I met #67 on  I hate online dating and was just about to cancel my subscription when he emailed me.  I decided to go out with him because he said I was pretty.  He took me to one nice dinner and then another.  I wasn’t really attracted to him but of course that never stopped me from fucking someone.  So on the third date, I did.

He was too white and had a horrible body.  His dick was small and I didn’t like the way he rammed it in me.  I wouldn’t say he was horrible but definitely not my cup of tea.  I realized I really didn’t want a repeat and tried to end it.  But he was insistent on dating me and begged me to let him take me shopping.  He was used to buying women’s affections.

I grappled with this for a few days.  I wasn’t working, could use some interview clothes and I had actually fucked him a few times.   If someone could get a Coach purse by just having dinner with someone, I deserved a new wardrobe.  I made up my mind and told #67  he could take me shopping.  We made plans for the next day.

I waited all morning for his call.  It never came.  The next day, he apologized and asked me to meet him for a quick drink.  There, he told me that he had gone to pick up something at his ex-girlfriend’s house and ended up fucking her.  They had gotten back together and he was sorry.  I was glad because that meant I didn’t have to see him again, but it also meant I left the experience empty handed.  I felt confused about the situation.  I’m not sure which is better, dignity or materialism.  I mean, this is LA.

Moral of the story, gold digging is a skill.  You snooze, you lose.  Apparently I’m a heavy sleeper.

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Blasts From The Past

I live in Los Angeles and really like my neighborhood.  I’m near a lot of stores and there’s a Starbucks just around the corner.  One afternoon I was getting an Izzie soda when I glanced over to the coffee bar and saw an older, overweight man in a sport coat and hat.  He looked slightly familiar.  I was wearing my big sunglasses so I could surreptitiously stare at him.  I hadn’t seen #24 in 20 years but I was almost sure it was him.

The minute I got home, I started searching for #24 on Facebook.  It wasn’t that hard to find him, we had a lot of mutual “friends”.  With nervous fingers, I typed him a quick message and got an instant reply.  He definitely remembered me and conveniently enough, does live in the same neighborhood.  So it was him at Starbucks.

A few days later, I met him at the Great Earth restaurant on Ventura Blvd.  When he jumped up to hug me, I was disappointed to find that he didn’t look any cuter in his Hawaiian shirt than he did in his sport coat.  He looked worse.  You could see his potbelly and without his hat, he was completely bald.

He thought I looked amazing though.  Told me I hadn’t changed at all, and I was both flattered and wary.  He said it too many times so knew it had to be a lie.  I mean, 20 years is a long time, I’ve been through a lot of shit and most of it has recorded itself into the wrinkles under my eyes.

We talked about his iPad and his acting career.  He asked me a lot about myself and was encouraging about my writing.   By the time our food came, he started talking about group sex.  He told me about a few of the mini orgies he’d been a part of and if his looks didn’t convince me I wanted to get out of there, his insistence that I should accompany him to one of these “events” did.  I was completely grossed out.

He walked me to my car and I went to hug him goodbye.  Instead he grabbed my face and tried to stick his tongue down my throat.  It reminded me of my first kiss when I was 15 and the guy bypassed my lips and dove straight in with his tongue.  Not the best first kiss on record and #24 was no better.  Uncomfortable, awkward and completely inappropriate.  I was disgusted out and told him I’d give him a call soon.   The minute I got in my car I deleted his number from my phone.  Some people are better left in the past.

Moral of the story, having a number doesn’t give you unlimited access to my pussy.

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Oral Hygiene

You inherit a lot from your parents and unfortunately one of the things I got was bad teeth.  My parents don’t look like they’re from England or Arkansas or anything, it’s just we are all frequent visitors to the dentist.  I’m often complimented on my “all American”, even and white toothed smile which is the result of braces, numerous root canals and one bridge. I have invested so much money in dental work that I’m allowed to advertise the million dollar blow job.

No matter how drunk I am, I always brush before I go to bed and floss at least three times a week.  I also always brush the second I wake up, especially when there’s a stranger in my bed.  But when you’re married to #60 Ex Husband #2 and the mood strikes you, you have to go with it.  It was a Sunday and I decided to give him an early morning blow job.

#60 was still asleep when I crawled under the covers and slid down his boxer briefs.  His dick stirred a little when I took it in my hands and stiffened when I put it in my mouth.  That woke him up.  He threw the covers off me and smiled.  I took him deep in my mouth and gagged.  Not because of the size of his cock, but I could taste my breath on it and was disgusted.

I jumped up and told him I had to brush my teeth.  He laughed as I ran to the bathroom.   I gave my teeth a thorough, if not fast, cleaning and rushed back into the bedroom.  Amazingly enough, #60’s dick was still hard.    I was flattered that I had turned him on enough that he still wanted me.  But then again, my mouth had been on his dick, not near his face.

I resumed my oral ministrations but minutes later, he pulled me up and sat me on his minty fresh cock.  I kissed him ardently while I rode him, confident that my morning breath wouldn’t be an issue for another 24 hours.  Now that we’re divorced and I’m dating again, I keep a box of Altoids near the bed.

Moral of the story, morning sex is better when there’s not a dragon in your mouth.

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Having traveled around the country for work, I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels rooms.   Some of them have been really nice (Intercontinental) or less than nice (Knights Inn) but usually it’s the company you’re with that makes all the difference.

I’d always liked to be manhandled, but I wasn’t really into rough sex until I lived in Chicago.  That’s when the bondage and S&M fascination began.  I think the best way to remember a sexcapade is with a bruise.  While I’d been experimenting for a while, it was kind of a new thing for #39.  He rose to the challenge beautifully.  Numerous times.

It was cold outside on this Sunday afternoon, but the heat in Room 537 was palpable.  We’d just finished a game of strip backgammon (we both won) and he was fucking the shit out of me.  I almost couldn’t take it anymore and got off the bed.  I needed to regroup.  He got up for some water and I sat on the floor, breathing heavy.

“Come here.”

I started to get up.

“No, on your hands and knees.”

I was panting like a dog, might as well walk like one.  I flipped my head back in an effort to get my hair out of my face, but kept my hands on the floor.  I crawled toward him and was so turned on I had to keep sitting back on my haunches to let the shuddering stop.  I had almost reached him when the door opened and the maid walked in.  I froze.  What the fuck, aren’t they supposed to knock first?  The maid surveyed the scene and backed out of the room, still watching us.  I was mortified, but got over it quickly and we resumed our fuck fest.

Moral of the story, Do Not Disturb signs are supposed to go on the outside of the door.

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