Monthly Archives: April 2012

Crest

Yesterday morning a great thing happened.  I finished off a tube of toothpaste. Toothpaste always seems to last forever and as someone who likes to shop for beauty products, to need a new one was exciting.

Because of our litigious society, everything now has plastic safety seal on it.   But toothpaste doesn’t.  Its pretty much open for contamination.  You just unscrew the cap and go to town.   I felt brave squeezing it onto my toothbrush and realized that starting a new relationship is similar.  There’s risk, there’s anxiety, and yet at the same time, it can leave you feeling refreshed.

Of course, I’m a firm believer that opening toothpaste is a lot easier than opening yourself up.   My best friend, fresh off a bad marriage, is falling for someone right now.  I think it’s great, she’s so excited.  It makes me a little jealous, to be honest.  When you’ve been around the block as often as I have, truly unique experiences are hard to come by.    I’ve had affairs, both big and small, lots of sex, lots of flirting, and some heart break.  And lately it feels as though it’s blended together like the whitening agent, the cleansing, and the fresh Scope gel of my Crest toothpaste.

The thing is, I’m not even looking for the next “big thing”.  I’m happy with the relationship plateau I seem to have reached.   Its safe and I like it that way.   But I met someone a few weeks ago, and it’s got “potentially serious” written all over it.  I’m conflicted because I’m not sure I want it.  It would be a big step, to actually admit someone was more than just a fuck.

And then I think about last night, brushing my teeth with a fresh tube.   There was no safety seal, but nothing bad happened.  I got water on my shirt.  (I use my hand to get rinse water.  When I try to use a cup, I gag.  Apparently I can only calm that reflex when there’s a dick in my mouth.)  And I think, maybe it’s time for a fresh start, a new tube of relationship.  Maybe.

Moral of the story, it’s hard to be bitter when your breath is minty fresh.

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Pancakes

#72 – stay tuned

12 Hours

I’m a firm believer that you should always put on fresh face of makeup when leaving the house.  You never know who you’re going to run into.  This is especially important when you fuck people in your neighborhood.  If you might want to bang them again, these spontaneous encounters can make or break your sex life.

As much as I love having casual sex, fucking the same person with no emotional attachment can get boring.  If you’re not going to open more than your legs, you at least want the excitement of new cock.   For this reason, I did not respond #71’s recent booty text.  The sex was decent but I was ready for something new.

And then I yesterday, I ran into him in my complex.  I had just come home from work and was walking Dave.  It had been a long day and even longer since I’d put on my makeup.  12 hours.  And it showed.  Mascara was smudged and there was no lipstick to be found.  My foundation had disappeared into my skin and my perfume had evaporated at noon.  But there he was, looking fresh and perfectly coiffed.    Before I could stop myself, I told him he looked adorable.

“You look pretty, too.”

This is LA and empty compliments are as common as traffic jams.  I couldn’t be sure if he was just placating me or if he meant it.  Worse yet, it actually matters because I want to get naked with him again.  I still feel it’s inappropriate for me to be fucking someone 20 years younger, but that cute smile made me a little tingly.    Besides, its time for a little dick play in my life.  I texted him when I got home and now the ball’s in his court.  And if he’s lucky, my mouth.

Moral of the story, the natural look is only sexy when you don’t have something to hide.

Shoes

I’m not really a clothes horse.  I have my faves and a few others and that’s about it.  I’d say, in total, I have about three weeks of outfits, some nicer than others.  I had 12 pairs of shoes and boots.  Had.  Dave ate five pairs last night.  Five.

I was on a date with potential #72 (and it’s looking good) and was gone for five hours.  Apparently each hour merits one pair of shoes.   Now, I know that I’m an interesting person to be around, my cat has loved me for years, but come on.  Five hours on your own and you go on a shoe rampage?  The date went great, but was it worth $300 in footwear?  TBD.  We did have a pretty good make-out session, which was Dave’s only saving grace.  I was in a good mood and didn’t pick up one of the left over sandals and assault him with it.  (No that I do that, but you know, mentally and hereto, virtually)

There was one pair of green loafers that I haven’t worn in 3 years, so maybe it’s better they’re gone.  And then a pair of slip ons that were looking a little worse for wear.  So that was good.  But two pairs of summer sandals and my clogs is unacceptable.   And it’s hard for me to find sandals that are light and airy and yet cover my hideous feet.   Even after being sedentary for the past 10 years, I still have bony, runners feet.   They are hideous and to make it worse, I have this enormous big toe.  Well I have two of them, one on each foot.   They’re like thumbs.  I’m proof that evolution exists, I’m the missing link.  I don’t jump into bed, I swing.  Some people wear rings on their toes, I need a bracelet.  And it’s dangerous.  Last year some guy made fun of me by the pool.  I kicked him in the ass; choked him.

When I meet a new number, I wear boots for the first date.   When I fuck them, I have to keep them on.  Not only because it’s hot, I don’t’ want to ruin the moment by taking off my socks.   And I need a pedicure.

Moral of the story,  Dave, I know you like kissing my feet, but if this behavior keeps up you can just kiss my ass.

 

 

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Traitor

I’ve moved a lot in my life; from state to state and neighborhood to neighborhood.   I always found that redecorating is easier with freshly painted walls and a new address.   Sometimes you also need to move because you’ve been fucking someone in your building and it’s gone sour.  That happened to me in Chicago.

#40 and I had broken up, gotten back together and broken up again.  Not only did we live in the same building, we worked together; so our fights were legendary.  And numerous.  In addition to nasty words in public, there was colorful drama where keys were thrown back and forth.  I’m not proud of my behavior, but I was young and figure that’s a good enough excuse.

We had a lot in common, one thing being a mutual love for my cat, Bradbury.  When things were good and I had to leave for a few days, #40 would cat sit and grew quite attached to her.   The feline attraction was mutual but once we broke up, I put an end to it.  Like any good parent, in retaliation, I refused to let him see her.

This was fine in theory, but one day the cat disappeared.  She had roof access but when I looked for her, she was nowhere to be found.  In a panic, I rushed upstairs to #40’s apartment and crying hysterically, pounded on the door.

“What the fuck?  What’s wrong?”

I explained that Bradbury was missing and I was convinced she fell off the roof.  Then I heard a meow.   He opened the door wider and there she was, sitting calmly on his couch.   I ran in to get her and when I turned to go, I saw something disturbing on his kitchen table.   A box of cat food.  He was luring my cat up to his apartment.  And the greedy bitch was falling for it.

I promptly took her back downstairs and shut the window she had escaped from.  If I couldn’t have the bastard, neither could she.

Moral of the story, no matter how bad the breakup, the guy is still going to want to play with your pussy.

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Grace

Being 5’9” has a lot of advantages; I don’t need to invest in a step ladder, a few extra pounds doesn’t show up on my frame and I look good in a short skirt.  But there are some drawbacks with being tall.  Namely, when you fall, the trip down is a lot longer and with more momentum.

I’m a klutz.  I go from standing to prostrate in a matter of seconds.  And it’s rarely when I’m naked.  Some of my more notable displays of grace;

At 15,  I fell down a flight of stairs.  Amazingly enough, I landed on my feet.

At 18, I was in a Fatburger and had just told #2 to go fuck himself.  I turned on my heel, which promptly turned on me.  I went tumbling down.  Actions speak louder than words and I was the one who looked like an asshole.

At 27, I tried to run down the concrete stairs of my 5th floor walk up to let the pizza guy in.   I was wearing socks on a stone step, which is a bad combination for any normal person, but for me it was an ego death sentence.  I ended up going down the last two flights butt first.    Ex-Husband #1 was very relieved I feel before picking up the pizza and that dinner was still intact.

Let’s not forget the more recent face plant two weeks ago in front of the maintenance man and three cute guys.  I was walking my dog, Dave and talking on the phone to Ex-Husband #2.  My ugly clog turned on a curb and I did the dance of the idiot.  My knee buckled and started my descent.  I tried to balance myself but the fall was eminent.   My fancy footwork didn’t buy me time, it just made the embarrassment last longer.

On Monday it happened again.   I was walking Dave and talking to my potential new number on the phone.  It was our first call and I was doing my best to impress him with my sparkling personality and wit.   I told him how I was wearing a short skirt and dress boots and looked relatively hot.  He was intrigued.

Then Dave pulled to the left and my feet moved to the right.   I ended up on my knees in the middle of the street.  This is not a position you want to be in unless there is a guy standing in front of you with a hard cock.  With my fall came a slight shriek and an “Oh my god!”

“Are you okay?”

I looked up and down the street before answering because the only thing worse than a broken kneecap is an audience.   After looking up and down the block and not seeing anyone, I told my new gentleman caller that I had just fallen on my ass and that it’s something I do on a regular basis.  I explained that the only time I wear heels is when I’m on my back.  He seemed to like that.   Said something about taking me shoe shopping.   My kind of guy.

Moral of the story, if God bestows grace, it’s obvious I’m a heathen.

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Naive

I left Los Angeles when I was 19 and didn’t come back until I was in my 30’s.  Because I was away so much, I rarely brought anyone to meet my parents.   #58 was an exception.

I was living in New York and just visiting LA for a week when I met #58 through a mutual friend.  He was hysterically funny and smart. Big turn-ons.  Which he needed since he wasn’t so easy on the eyes.  But I gave him my number because he was a great flirt.  Also I was headed back to New York and wouldn’t have to look at him.

We talked on the phone a lot and through IM.  It was fun.  Conveniently enough, he had planned a trip to the East Coast and I was there, waiting for him with open legs.  It was only so/so.   But #58 was so charming, I thought I’d give him another chance.  That came a month later when I went home to LA, for Christmas.   He had nothing to do for the holiday so I invited him to dinner with my family.

He offered to bring wine and I informed him that my parents loved wine, especially good wine.  He didn’t bat an eye.

“Of course.  I know just the vintage.   I’ll get two bottles.”

I was excited.  Not only was he interesting and funny and smart, he had class.  Or so I thought.   He didn’t have a car, so he borrowed his ex-girlfriend’s New Beetle and headed to my parent’s house.  And when he got to the door, he was empty handed.  He told me that he had dropped one of the bottles when he was getting it out of the bag and then, the other one when he was trying to clean up.

I’ve been lied to before but I was filled with the Christmas spirit and chose to give him the benefit of the doubt.  I like to temper my aggressive personality with a little naiveté.  I think it makes for a nice mix.  Over dinner he regaled us with tales of the winery and the year.  We all said it was a shame and opened another bottle from my dad’s cellar.

After dinner, I walked him to his ex-girlfriend’s car and fucked him in the front seat.    Liar or no liar, I was drunk and horny.  While he might not have had wine, he had a perfectly good cock and that was enough for me.  Merry Christmas.

Moral of the story, an imaginary Rodney Strong is better than a physical Three Buck Chuck.

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Okay, Here Goes.

While I haven’t had that many “love” relationships, once I get in one, I’m reticent to leave it.  No matter how bad it is.  Because of this, I’m usually the one who’s dumped.  Worse, I bemoan that failed relationship for a long time.   The only good thing about being that much of a doormat is that you lose a lot of weight.

I’d have to say the most devastating dump was Ex-Husband #2.  We were the perfect couple; we looked good together, we “got” each other, and we loved each other.  A lot.   At my wedding, no one placed bets on how long we’d last.  This time it was going to stick.

We didn’t really fight and other than wanting more sex, I was happy with him.  Because of this, I was shocked to shit when he told me he wanted out.  It was completely unexpected.  It didn’t make sense. I begged him to go to therapy, anything, but he didn’t want to.   He was done.

I moved out a few weeks later, totally confused.  This just didn’t add up and I struggled to understand what was going on.  I was devoted and we had been happy.  This was so out of character for him.  I decided it had to be that he met another woman.   I was only half wrong.

Transsexuals.  He liked transsexuals.

He’d been hanging out  in these bars with a guy that was into them, too.   It brought up feelings that he’d pushed aside for a long time.   He had discovered that he was gay, or bisexual or whatever.   I had discovered that my marriage was over.

Now, Ex-Husband #2 had fooled everyone, even my gay friends.  He was straighter than a ruler, but apparently one that had been warped.  I was crushed.  I immediately went to the internet to do some research and get some reading material.  It was the only thing I could do to remain sane.  There was a book that I didn’t have the patience to order online.  I went into my Barnes and Noble, but couldn’t find it in the aisle.  I went to the counter and asked the woman if she had the book, “My Husband’s Gay.”  She looked me in the eye and said.

“That’s not good.”

No shit, Sherlock.  Why the fuck do you think I’m crying?  The last thing I needed was flippant commentary on my new situation.  But then it got worse.  That afternoon I had to fly to the Midwest for work.  I boarded the plane in tears.  I tried to cry as quietly as possible but my seatmate still noticed and was concerned.   Without thinking I told him that my husband had just told me he was gay.

“You’re better off.  He’s going to hell.  God hates homosexuals..”

I spent the next hour trying to defend my husband and his newfound sexuality.   To say I was devastated is an understatement.   There was no  easy way through this and it now, 6 years later.   I’m not sure I’ll ever completely give myself to someone else.   I still feel lucky to have loved so completely, even if it didn’t last.   We are still vey close which makes me think true love does last forever.  It just doesn’t always work out the way you think it will.

Moral of the story, there are some women you just can’t compete with.

Evicted

I’m a renter.  Always have been.  Even as a kid, we rented the back part of my grandparent’s duplex.   When I went off to college in Iowa, my first apartment was actually a room in an old lady’s house.   She had a broccoli fetish and cooked it almost every night.  There were four of us girls living upstairs and sharing the bathroom.  It only had a tub, which was a nightmare as I have long hair.

 

Luckily #5 had a shower.  A big one.  We used to fuck it in on a regular basis.  And I could wash my hair without worrying that my head would get sucked into the drain.   We were slightly serious, but I knew I didn’t want to move in with him.  I just wasn’t ready.  So when I decided I couldn’t handle another year sleeping in broccoli fumes, it was clear I had to find a new place to live.

 

I met this chick in the theater arts department.  I have no idea what her name was, but I remember she had sliced three fingers off her left hand the year before.    She told me there was an open room in her house and that I should move in .  I was going on summer vacation, but she wanted a guarantee to hold the room.  #5 was moving out of his place, so he offered to rent my room until I got back.  It was the perfect situation.   I left for LA,  kissing #5 goodbye and promising to be faithful.  After a month, I got a phone call from my new roommate.

 

“Lynn, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to find a new place to live when you get back.”

 

I was confused.  What had I done?  My shit was already in the house.  I had done the change of address.  I was set.  I wanted an explanation and was unprepared for the one she gave.

 

“I’ve started sleeping with #5, but he’s still in love with you and I just don’t feel comfortable having you here.”

 

What the fuck?!   I’ve heard of cock blocked but cock evicted?  That’s bullshit.  And he was in love with me?  I might be homeless, but I’m not an idiot.  I told him to go fuck himself and hurried back to Iowa City.  But by the time I got back there, everything had been rented.  Everything but a small house near a cemetery.  With a girl I didn’t know.   We didn’t like each other, but at least she had her own boyfriend and didn’t eat that much broccoli.

 

Moral of the story, when it comes to stealing boyfriends, sometimes a five-finger discount only requires two.

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Big Red

I might not be a “10”, but when you factor in sex appeal, I’d say I’m relatively close.   I’m not sure if it’s the hair or the legs, but getting laid has never been that difficult for me.   That said, sadly enough, I haven’t always gotten the guy I wanted.   Case in point, my step-mother’s best friend.

He wasn’t that great looking, but he was profane and bawdy and I loved that.  My dad didn’t.   He tried to be shocking and offensive, but really he was just an asshole.  My pops was patient when he would make jokes about fucking my father in the ass to shut him up and make a point.  Can you please pass the butter?    Suffice it to say, our holiday dinner conversations were always colorful.

I’d known him since I was 10.  Luckily, back then he wasn’t at all attracted to me.  He was a pig, not a pedophile.  At 21, I figured I was old enough to be thought of as a potential something or other and wanted to offer myself up.   I was home from school was asked if I’d drop something off at his studio.  I jumped at the chance, making sure I looked good when I went.

We were joking around and he tried to insult me with an offhanded comment about blowing him.  Since I’d been perfecting just that skill, I said okay.    He did a double take.  I don’t think he’d ever really thought about me with a dick in my mouth, let alone his.  I smiled at him and took a piece of Big Red out of my purse.  He watched as I opened it and then folded it slowly into my mouth.  I asked him if he wanted some.  His mouth dropped open and it took him a moment to collect himself.

“Uh no, yeah, I got to um get back inside.  Uh, you tell everyone I say, hello, okay, Lynn.  Yeah, bye.”

I practically skipped to my car.  He was all talk and I was action.   Sure, he didn’t become a number, but at that moment, I had taken control of the situation and asserted myself as a woman and a sexual being.   I felt empowered and knew I didn’t need to have sex with him; I’d just fucked with his head.   And over the years, it became clear it was for the best.

Moral of the story, Big Red does more than just freshen your breath.

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