Monthly Archives: February 2012

Burke Williams

Contrary to my numbers, I haven’t been on that many dates.  I’m just not good at it.  I don’t like to play games and I’m not good at making small talk.  I guess that’s one of the good things about internet dating, you can get to know someone a little bit before you meet, albeit electronically.

#69 emailed me first.  He was gorgeous and I was glad when he started texting me.  His texts were abrupt and racy.  I loved them.  The main through-line of those texts was that he wanted to go down on me.  Apparently that’s all he wanted to do.  Now, I like pleasure no matter how it’s achieved; oral, fucking, candy.  Whatever.  But I was confused.  I mean, all he wanted to do was go down on me!  I suspected some foul play.

When he realized that I wouldn’t just let him go down on me without having gone out with him at least once.  The next day, he told me to meet him at the day spa, Burke Williams in Sherman Oaks.  He had scheduled separate massages for us and we sat together in the waiting room, naked under our robes.  I moved my leg to touch his, and he let it sit there for a moment, and then moved it away.  I was confused.

My name was called and I went in.  The masseuse was nice and asked me if it was my first time at Burke Williams.  I told her no, but that this was the first time I was here on a date.   I told her how weird I thought it was that this guy didn’t seem to want to have sex with me, but brought me here just the same.

“If he’s paying, just relax and enjoy it.”

I tried to, but I was all distracted by #69’s motives.  Would he be a number or just a fun experience?  What did he want?  Meanwhile my masseuse was digging into my muscles and I was glad it hurt.  Kept me from thinking about how #69 looked under his robe.   Afterwards he took me to dinner, but didn’t kiss me goodbye.  I just couldn’t figure out his game.   I chalked it up to a cool date with a weird guy.    To my surprise, he came over a few days later and gave me a different kind of massage.  It was fun, but he disappeared right after that. And came back a year later.  And disappeared again. Like a bad penny.   I think he’s married.

Moral of the story, being touched on a first date is nice, no matter who’s doing it.

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Birds

There are a lot of nice things about being a woman.  You get to wear makeup and men don’t mind if you’re a little soft.  I like having long, painted nails and not feeling weird buying a bunch of hair products.  But one thing I’m not thrilled with in the woman department is being on the rag.

I know it happens to every woman, every month, but it can sometimes put a damper on your sex life, especially if you’re single.  Once you’re in a committed relationship or married, it’s fair game, but there’s nothing sexy about putting down a towel when you’re about to start fucking.  One of the cool things I learned in college was if you’re wearing a diaphragm, you don’t’ even need a towel, but it’s a bit of a horror show when you take it out.

After all these years, I’m still not 100% comfortable with my period and I still get embarrassed when I have to buy tampons.  I have issues, so you can imagine my surprise the first time a guy wanted to go down on me, when I was on the rag.  I think it’s disgusting but a man who has his Red Wings is usually a keeper, at least for that night.

I’m surprised at how many men don’t mind doing some diving when there’s blood involved.  Granted, he’s probably not that excited about it on Day One of your period, but the idea that he wants you so bad he can’t wait a week, is pretty flattering.   That kind of bravery will get you a second fuck for sure, and probably one that doesn’t include a red background.

I’ve had my period many times over the past 44 years, and had many men who offered to go down on me no matter what time of the month it was.  However, I’m still hesitant to do it.  So guys, if I let you fuck me when I’m on the rag, it means you’ve given me such hot pants that I don’t care how messy it’s going to get.    And that’s saying something about both the guy and your hotness.

Moral of the story, if you’ve got the stomach for it, sanguine sex can be good.

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Last Tango in Paris

I love the movies but don’t go enough.  I’m always struggling to catch up with what’s current so it’s no surprise that I’m also a little behind with older films and the classics.  I wasn’t able to see R rated movies until I was 17, so I was at an even bigger disadvantage.

I was a mere 18 when I met #3.  He was my private acting coach and as he was one of my first fucks, I was pretty impressionable.   He was in his 40’s and a natural born teacher.  Not just in acting, but also in fucking.    He taught me how to enjoy sex.  He is the first guy to have gone down on me and taught me to go down on him.  We fucked all over his house and it was great and passionate and I was having a lot of fun.

Because #3 was so much older and obviously wiser, there weren’t a lot of boundaries.  I pretty much let him do what he wanted to me.  And for the most part, I found that it was a good decision.  I was coming all over the place and it was great.   Until he put his dick near my ass.  I didn’t know much about sex but I knew I didn’t want that.  He was so insistent that it scared me, a lot.  He made some joke about butter, but I had no idea what he was talking about.  But saying no pissed him off and put a damper on our future encounters.

It was fine, I was going off to school in a few weeks and didn’t like where the relationship was going.  At all.   I didn’t really understand why until I found myself watching The Last Tango in Paris a few months later.

I finally got the butter reference, but that wasn’t all.  I recognized the manipulation Brando did and how vulnerable the girl was.  I saw how he had taken advantage of her and overstepped his boundaries.  I felt that she was a victim of his experience and sympathized with her.  And then myself.  I burst out in tears.

I was seeing #5 then and rushed over to his house.  The minute he opened the door, I ran into his arms and sobbed.  He didn’t really understand where I was coming from, but it didn’t matter.  He was there and he loved me.  I didn’t want to have sex that night.  He didn’t care.  Instead I crawled into bed with him and let him hold me.

Moral of the story, butter should be used in the kitchen, not the bedroom.

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Marking Your Territory

I’ve given some of my numbers fun monikers over the years.  Recently there was “bad kisser”, we’ve got “maybe married model”, and “Personal Trainer”.  Some of those nicknames are better than others, but I think the most embarrassing name came from a real experience.  I’m going to tell you why #67 is called “Piss Boy”

Piss boy was about 49 years old and had just broken up with a girlfriend of seven years.  I didn’t care.  He wasn’t that cute and I was only going out with him because I was bored.  He took me to nice places, but he drank way too much. And coming from me, you know it was bad.  He would get so drunk that he kept telling me he loved me, after just dating for a month.  And there was that one night that he was so plastered he was spitting food over himself.  Really pretty.  It was no surprise that I wanted to dump him, and even less shocking when I was glad he ended it with me first.

We had a date for a Saturday afternoon and he flaked on me.  Not a big deal, the least amount of time I had to spend with him the better.  He called me the next day and said he wanted to meet me at our favorite bar.  Oddly enough, Piss Boy only ordered a coke.  He was pretty shaken up and I was ready for a good story.

Apparently he went to his ex-girlfriend’s house, drunk, and discovered that she had a new boyfriend who was living with her.  Some guy from Costa Rica.  So Piss boy decided to mark his territory and proceeded to PISS ALL OVER THE GUY’S CLOTHES!  Literally took his dick out and let it spray.

Now, I’m not sure what is more disturbing;  that he did this, or that he told me that he did it.  Either or, this was the last time I saw him and talked to him.   I’m not sure who ended it, him by saying he wanted to get back together with her or me taking an easy out.

Moral of the story, if you’re going to pee in the house, do it in the toilet.

 

 

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New York

I grew up in Los Angeles but always wanted to live in New York.   I had never been there and yet, it was my ultimate dream.  And luckily one that I was able to realize later in my life.  But I never forgot that first trip.

I was 18 and staying with family in Jersey.  My cousin told me she was going to take me into the city for the day and I was shaking with excitement.  It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and we walked through Washington Square Park.  There was a crowd of people gathering around an odd looking man.  He was cute in his ugliness and for no descernable reason, I was instantly attracted to him.   He was a stand up comedian and when he started doing his act, his charisma was palpable.

He noticed me right away and did a double take.  He felt the attraction, too.  It amazed me that with the hundred people gathered, he had picked me to focus on.  Someone gave him a flower which he promptly handed it to me.  When it came time to “pass the hat” (it was actually a bag) he had me hold it for him.  Apparently attraction also includes trust.

After the show, we talked for a while.  It was getting darker but I didn’t care.  Neither did he.  But my cousin was waiting for me and he had a girlfriend uptown.  I walked him to the subway and we stood close against a handrail.

“You have great lips.”

I told him it was a shame I couldn’t use them.  That’s when he leaned in and kissed me.   It was magical and not just because we were in New York.  The chemistry between us was intoxicating.  I was instantly wet and when I leaned up against him for another kiss, I felt that he was hard.

Time stood still for me, but reality hung heavy in the air and we knew we had to leave each other.  He walked away and then came back for another kiss.  And then he left me again.  I watched him jog through the subway tunnel.  And then he was gone, out of my life for good.

I saw him on TV a few times and then in a couple of movies.  I always got excited when I did, remembering that amazing Saturday afternoon.   When I finally got to New York I’d go to Washington Square Park hoping to run into him again.  But by that time, he’d moved to LA.  And soon after, I found out he died of a drug overdose.  I was sad, knowing that he was part of the reason I was in New York and I never got to thank him.

Moral of the story, New York is a city with endless possibilities, even if it’s just kissing a stranger in the subway.

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Expired

Like any independent and health conscious single woman, I keep a collection of condoms in my lowest dresser drawer.  They are mixed in with my scarves, gloves and a knit hat.  I like them being in the lower drawer because when I reach down from the bed, it stretches out my body and I look thinner.

My platonic best friend was over and he asked me if I had condoms.  This seemed strange to me for a number of reasons.  First of all, neither one of us had any use for them in the last few weeks.  Secondly we are just friends and probably wouldn’t be fucking for at least three millenniums, give it a decade or two.  But he asked, so I pulled them out.  I had a big box of Magnums and numerous strips of my favorite Trojans. (The regular size that comes in the blue packages).  As I pulled them out from my drawer, I realized that I had way too many and should get to using them asap.  Not only because I need to get laid, but also, there’s a danger of them expiring.

Unfortunately, I’m a little behind the 8 Ball on this.  The Magnums had expired along with a small strip of my blue Trojans.  Both were depressing, but the loss of the Magnums bordered on devastating.  I prefer a nice medium to a monster cock, but I wouldn’t say no to either.  And now, should a well endowed man come over, I was not prepared.

My friend pointed out that any guy who comes over with the intention of fucking, should bring his own condoms.  Especially if they need Magnums.  I’m not sure why that would make a difference, but in his mind, having a big dick comes with more responsibility.    I’m not sure I agree and up until yesterday, when I discovered they expired, I was prepared either way.  Now, not so much.

My current stash of regular blues are good until June, 2013, and I intend to use them up before that date.  Jesus I hope so.  I hate for perfectly good condoms to get thrown away, unused.   Not only is it a travesty, it also brings up a very important question.  Do you put them in the recycling bin or the regular trash?

Moral of the story, having condoms in the house doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having sex.  Which sucks ass.

 

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Flattered

I was recently emailing with one of my readers and he mentioned that he had gotten turned on while reading the blog.   While I like to stress the humor of the my writing, there’s no avoiding that titillation is a byproduct of my entries.  Hopefully.  And I like that.  A lot.

Every since I was in high school, I knew that guys were whacking off thinking about me.  The first time I heard about it was from my first teenage love who was Mormon and unable to have sex with me.  He told me that some football players were talking to him in the gym about how hot I was and how they would whack off to me.  My teenage love thought I’d be offended but I took it as a compliment.  And still do.

As I explained to my new email buddy, I’m not sure how often the whack off inspiration happens now.  I’m older and out of the loop a little bit.  I don’t wear as many short skirts and my bikini body needs a little work.  But I have fond memories of guy’s admissions how they got off without me ever being in the room.

Without sounding too egotistical, I’m sure I’ve been the fantasy of quite a few men; I talk about sex and have both long legs and long curly hair.  But no one talked about it more than #20.  We had fucked off and on for 20 years and during our interludes, he would tell me how he would whack off thinking about me.  It got a little old until he admitted that he’d sometimes do it while at work.  Now that was hot.  One day, I had him bring the phone into the bathroom with him.  That lasted about 2 minutes, which was not always much longer than his performance when I was actually next to him in the bed.

Both Ex-Husbands have admitted to whacking off to me post divorce which I find very touching.  And an incredible compliment.  Our marriages fell apart but not their memories of me naked with open legs.

As I write this, I wonder if my new email buddy will be doing some jerking off in my honor.  I’m sure he’ll tell me if he does.  Or at least I hope so.

Moral of the story, who needs to watch porn when you’ve got Lynn Halsted on your mind?

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Sight of Shame

A lot of attention is given to the whole “Walk of Shame”; walking home after a one-night stand.  But what happens when you just happen to run into this one-night stand a few days later?  Or a few weeks?  Or years?   Suddenly, you are going about your business and there he is, the guy that you fucked and never heard from again.  You aren’t interested in him, you’ve got someone else in your bed, but still, you see him and there’s that rush of something.

Sometimes it’s excitement, other times it’s panic.  But there’s something that happens to your body that makes you sweat just a little bit more.  That happened to me the other day.  I was in Starbucks, diligently working away on the blog when I heard a voice.  #71.   I knew it had to be him.  From the corner of my eye, I looked.   Yep, cute, young and not noticing me.

Then the questions started coming.  Did he see me?  Was he ignoring me?  Do I say something?  This was a strict booty call situation and we’ve never been in public together before.  I didn’t even know what I would say if he came up to me.  There was nothing else to say but, “do you want your dick in my mouth again soon?”

As these thoughts went through my head, I wondered, what the fuck am I feeling here?  I don’t give a shit if I see him again, there were no hard feelings, but still my heart is pounding.   I couldn’t wait for him to leave.  And yet, when he did, I was disappointed he didn’t say hi.

I have experience with the “Sight of Shame”.  It’s one of the reasons I had to leave Chicago back in the 90’s.  I was in a bar one night and ran into 10 guys that I had fucked, or wanted to fuck.   That’s a good indicator you’ve exhausted the possibilities in one place.  So far there are only two ex #’s who frequent my Starbucks, so I figure I’ve got a ways to go.  Either or, I make sure hair and makeup are perfect before I leave my apartment.  You never know.

Moral of the story, if you’re going to have a one-night stand, try to do it outside your zip code.

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Opening Lines

I like a good story as much as the next person, and when it’s my own story, it makes for good blog entries.  When you’re in a long-term relationship with someone, especially if they become your husband, there are a lot of good stories.  Some of my best were with #60 aka Ex-Husband #2.

I met Ex-Husband #2 in Myrtle Beach.  I was working down there and surprisingly enough, found myself in a bar.  The good thing about being in a bar in South Carolina is they don’t do pours, you have to buy those individual airline size bottles so it’s easy to get fucked up fast.  I was well on my way when I met Ex-Husband #2.  He sidled up to the bar and asked me if he could buy me a drink.  Without looking up, I said,

“I don’t fuck people on the road.”

His mouth dropped open.  I might not have any tact but even he had to admit that was a hell of an introduction.  I was sure it would scare him away.  It didn’t.  He just laughed and sat down on the stool next to me.  He he was a newspaper man.  That was intriguing.  I had a book I wanted to get published and started thinking he might be able to help me.  At least it was worth finding out.

The conversation flowed as smoothly as the drinks and soon enough we were both drunk.  He tried to move his leg closer to mine, but I moved away.  I had just gotten divorced from Ex-Husband #1, and I was a little bitter.  A lot bitter.  And like I had informed him a couple hours before, I don’t fuck people on the road.

We started talking about failed love affairs.   I asked him if he’d ever really been in love, the kind of fucked up love that makes you leave town or lose 30 pounds when you shouldn’t.  He said no.  I told him that he’d never really loved anyone and got up to leave.  But not before giving him my email address.  I mean, maybe he could help me get published.

While the publishing thing didn’t pan out, the romance certainly did.  Enough to get eventually get hitched.  But that’s another story, or five.  Stay tuned.

Moral of the story, to make a good first impression, you need a killer opening line.

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Crying

I think sex is a good time and I love having it.   It’s a great release and a wonderful excuse for changing your sheets.  Over the course of my life, I’ve been able to do it with minimal feelings.  Sport fucking.  But I’m human and I’ve been in love.   This totally changes the dynamic of the activity and what was supposed to be a good time can turn emotional.

 

The first time I cried during sex was with #5.  We loved each other and it was nice.  I felt so connected with him that one night, the tears just flowed.  It was nice.  I knew that crying while having someone inside you was a big deal.  It was the pinnacle of intimacy.   You had to really love someone to let your defenses down that much.  And I did.

 

#26 was a different story.  It was my first foray into rough sex and I was so affected by it, that I cried.  As the tears fells, I turned away, totally confused.  This guy was just a fuck and crying in front of him went against everything I knew.  If there were only physical feelings there, why was I so emotional?  It scared me and I felt very out of control.  Kind of like when he was fucking me.

 

With Ex-Husbands, yeah, of course you cry, they cry.  It’s a tear fest.  Put a ring on your finger and get some Kleenex in the bedroom, it’s going to happen.   You exchange “I love you”s and wipe each other’s eyes.  Through whispers, you tell each other that you’ll be together forever.  And then, you’re not.  What do you do after that?  In my case, it was fuck #20.

 

#20 has gone in and out of my life for 20 years and conveniently enough, whenever I’ve  broken up with someone important, he’s been there ready to console me with his cock.   Unfortunately, his cock wasn’t that great.   But he was physically there and my husbands weren’t.   The reality of the situation upset me more than the bad sex.  So I cried.  Both times.

 

As I laid there, feeling his boring dick go in and out of me, my anxiety grew.  I mean #20 and I knew each other for years and I was a mess.  How was I going to have sex with someone I didn’t know?   Would I ever care about someone like that again?  #20 kept on thrusting and I kept on crying.

 

I suppose there’s some rule about a time frame between a hard core relationship and a new cock, but I still haven’t learned it yet.  Maybe the third times a charm.

 

Moral of the story, if your mascara is going to run during sex, it should be from sweat and not tears.

 

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