Monthly Archives: May 2012

4 Day Weekend

I’ve been a freelancer off and on for my entire working career, which means that I work weekends.    But it’s always nice when your co-worker is on the same schedule and you can mix business with pleasure.  Especially when it’s a four-day weekend.

The attraction between me and #42 was instantaneous.  We saw each other and the moment he spoke, with that slightly southern drawl, I knew he was fuckable.  Couple that with his floppy curly hair and perfect smile, he had earned enough points to spend a little time in my pants.

Even with his happy go lucky energy, #42 was a little shy, and it took a few drinks until he was comfortable with my hand on his thigh.  We were working so even though we were in a bar, we had to maintain some decorum.   But the minute we got in my car, all bets were off.  Unfortunately, all he wanted to do was visit second base and when I got back to my room, I was forced to take care of myself.

On Day Two, I invited him to my hotel room and he dove between my legs.  He was quite the swimmer and I was very happy.   But I need some substance to my orgasms and grabbed at his pants, trying to get them off.   But he backed away and continued with what he was doing.   I questioned his reasoning, but decided to lay back and enjoy.  Besides, there were two more days.

On Day Three #42 let me take off his pants.  I was relieved that it was a happy medium and pulled him close to me.  He slid in for half a second, but wouldn’t stay there.  This was maddening, but I figured being teased was part of the fun.

On Day Four he bought a box of condoms and we used three of them.  The sex was fun and sweaty.   We fucked around for hours and in the morning, when he woke up next to me, we did it again.  It was worth the wait for sure.  I was sad when we had to part ways, but ended up running into him a few years later.  By that time I’d moved on, but those four days made for a happy memory.

Moral of the story, some things are worth the wait.



I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I remember a time before the personal computer.   I got a plastic manual typewriter for my 10th birthday and an electric one when I turned 14.   My first computer came when I was 23 and I migrated to a laptop around 26.    But even with all that changing technology, one writing device has remained constant.  The Pen.

I’ve never been that into the ball-point variety; I’m more of a rollerball girl.   So I was really happy when #43 gave me a beautiful pen as a going away present.  It was faux retro and blue.  I loved it.  It had just the right amount of heft and came with a fitted wooden box.  I used that pen for years.  Still have it, but now it’s in the back of my pen drawer.  Yes, I have an entire drawer full of pens.

I was in Charleston, South Carolina with Ex-husband #2 when he bought me a blown glass calligraphy pen.  It is green and white and the tip is also made of glass.  It came with blue ink, which I promptly opened and knocked over.  (Luckily, it was on a notebook and didn’t stain the table, only my fingers).  While I only used the pen once, to write an “I Love You” note to Ex-Husband #2, it was a nice gift and a lasting one. I might not have a marriage, but I still have the pen.

I primarily write on the computer now, even my journal has become virtual. But I still maintain some of my previous adoration for the written word.  I edit on paper.  Once I write a blog entry, I print it and then get to work.  I do an elementary school teacher impression and mark the piece up with a felt tip pen.  Today I’m using a red one.  If I had to grade this post, I’d give it a D for being chaste and an A for being different

Moral of the story, a good pen never goes out of style; plus it doesn’t need a power cord.


I was listening to NPR a few weeks ago (I’m trying to seem cultured) and there was a story about a man who calls a Farmer’s Market in San Francisco his office.  He sits there with an old school typewriter and sells instant poems to tourists and other passerbys.  I think it’s brilliant.  The poems he read were great and I remembered what an art poetry is.  Good poetry.   Unfortunately a lot of it’s bad.  Really bad.

My writing has changed over the years, and I had my poetry phase.  It started when I was six and ended at about 30.  Not sure why, that’s just when some poets get started.  Anyhow, I liked my poetry, and would let my numbers read them and they’d get turned on.    Which was great.  But I had talent.  #50 did not.

It came in the mail, written on a page of a map.  He loved to travel and I thought it was very sweet.  And then I read what he wrote.  It was so syrupy, it was sticky.   Horrible.  He had just shit on an art form.  Granted, he was a business guy, managed bands, but know your place.   The closest he came to art was a signed Sarah McLaughlin CD Cover on his wall.    I you’re going to write me a poem, it better be good.   And this wasn’t.

So I told him.  I did.   I’m a bitch, I know.   He was hurt.  I didn’t care.

“I know you’re the poet, but I just, I felt this and had to write it down.”

I told him that he was better in bed than on paper and he should stick to that.    He wanted to know if I appreciated the effort.  I didn’t.  But I had done enough damage for one night.  I said, sure and took off my clothes.  When I went home the next morning, I wrote him a poem to show him how it was done.

Moral of the story, my standards in men aren’t as high as the one’s for poetry.

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I’ve been giving blow jobs since I first started having sex.  I like to think that I’ve perfected it over the years, but it has not been without a little guidance.  I have to admit, my first forays into oral sex were not that great.  But that all changed when I was in college and hung out with a blond, gay republican gent (I know and this was the 80’s).  Being in a learning institution, I figured being schooled in the perfect blow job should be part of the curriculum.

I was still new at the whole process and I couldn’t relax my throat enough to take a lot of cock.  This became a problem when the guy was on the larger side.   My friend said this was not a problem and held up both his hands.  I was confused.

“The two handed blow job”.

He instructed that in addition to your mouth on the tip, it’s important to grip the cock; a nice combo of gentle yet firm.  Without stopping your oral magic, you can move your hands up and down the shaft.  A kind of jerking the guy off into your mouth.  I thought this was brilliant.   He said that for a smaller guy, fingers would do the trick.

My friend also told me not to forget about the balls.   He said that cupping the ball sack was helpful in getting a guy off, but cautioned to be gentle.   I started to get overwhelmed, but he reassured me that this was the perfect opportunity to give yourself a rest.  Mouth tired?  Use your hands.  Wrists getting sore?  That’s what the tongue is for.  Multi-tasking is a skill that you can apply to any avenue of your life.

Because none of my jobs has ever required a college degree, my brother always said that going to college was a waste of time and money.    I beg to differ and I assume so do the 72 guys that I’ve fucked over the years.

Moral of the story, idle hands are the devil’s playthings.

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I drink a lot of water.   It’s my favorite beverage other than scotch and a lot more acceptable to down while at the office.  It’s good for your skin and also the rest of you.  The only problem with drinking a lot of water is you have to pee all the time.  In general, I’m not big on bodily functions.  While it’s obviously a byproduct of being human, the call to nature can be a major pain in the ass.  Especially for a woman.  Especially when there’s not a bathroom around.

Because of this, I have penis envy.

As a woman, I have to drop trou whereas a guy can just open his fly.   This might not seem like a big deal in the spring or summer, but in the dead of winter, it’s a real bonus.     A guy can whip it out and take a leak anywhere at any time.  Camping?   Turn your back to the trail.   Road trip?  Get out of the car and stand by the side of the highway.    Drunken night on the town?  Take a quick trip into the alley.  Convenient.   And you never need to find a substitute for toilet paper.  I’ve used newspapers, magazines, and even a seat cover.  None of these feel particularly good and there’s always the danger of a paper cut.

What makes matters worse is that I’ve actually experienced what it feels like to piss like a man.  Kind of.  Twice.  I’ve held each husband’s dick while he has peed.  It’s an interesting experience.  First of all, the dick is limp, which doesn’t usually happen when I’m around.  And then you have to work on your aim.  As this was a one time deal, Cheerios in the toilet weren’t an option.

But my envy stops there.  As much as I like having one in me, the penis is not really an attractive appendage.  It just hangs between a man’s legs, flopping against the thighs.   It always needs to be adjusted and scratched.  I prefer my package to be neat and tidy.  Compact.   I guess it’s true, the grass is always greener; unless you’re peeing on it.

Moral of the story, we all have to sit sometimes.


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I’ve been with some pretty egotistical guys.   With numbers like mine, you’re bound to get a few of them.  The worst offender had to have been #70.  He was so blatant about it.  He would tell me all the time how great he thought he was.  So great, that every woman he was with, fell in love with him.  That is until he met me.  I was going to be a challenge.

I’ve been in hardcore love three times.  More than some, less than others.  I’ve had a few medium loves and lots of fuck partners.  But for me to actually fall in love with someone, they have to impress the hell out of me on a lot of different levels.  The only thing that impressed me about #70 was his fucking skills.  I’m not discounting the obvious plusses of that, but the only way I was going to really fall for him was if I tripped on my way to the bedroom.

I wouldn’t say that my heart was broken three times; it was shattered.  Because of this, it’s going to take a lot more than a big cock and good pussy eating to get me to venture back into that emotional cesspool of potential hurt.  I told number #70 this.

“You’re just saying that.  You’re a girl, you fall in love.”

I explained that unless I really cared about someone, I was more like a guy.  No emotion?  No problem.  But he insisted I’d capitulate.  It became a major turn off.  And that defeated his purpose.   You’re a Boy Toy.  Your place is between my legs, not my chest.   Now shut up and fuck me.

Moral of the story, just because I bang you for a few months doesn’t mean you’re anything more than a one night stand.

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Playing it Safe

My introduction into bondage and mild S&M was unplanned.  It was just rough sex and I liked it.   And conveniently enough, other than a few bruises and red hand marks on my ass, I’ve never really had a problem with a guy going too far.  But then again, I could consider myself lucky.   All my rough sex numbers have been in tune with what I can and cannot take, and how far I’m comfortable going.  But some people go further and those people need Safe Words.

Safe Words are non-sexual phrases or words that inform your partner that they need to ease up a little bit on the hard core sex.     One of the first Safe Words/Phrases that women used was “I have a headache.”   This doesn’t really work for people who are actually fucking at the time, but  more as a way to avoid sex all together.   Who wants an excuse not to have sex?  I’ll take it whenever and wherever I can.

I think it’s important to choose your Safe Word wisely.   Using “Disneyland” will not only stop him from going too far, it will destroy the mood.   If you’re not that well endowed, thinking about the “It’s A Small World” ride is only going to give you a complex.   Keep the words edgy and fun.  I had a safe phrase that once stopped Ex-Husband #1 in his tracks.  “My period’s late.”  But we only stopped long enough to get a condom.

I think Safe Words are important things to have when getting involved in extremely rough play.  While it’s fun to test your boundaries, going over them can ruin the experience.  So if you’re thinking of getting really kinky, pick a word or a phrase and go over it with your partner.  It will make sex more fun and safer.  A word to the wise, it isn’t going to work if you’re tied up, blindfolded and have a ball gag in your mouth.

Moral of the story, when fucking, it’s important to differentiate between a synonym and an antonym.

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Working Girl

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m proud of my non-gold digger status; I prefer to work for my money.  The other day, I did just that and it was fun for everyone involved.

It was my second time naked with #72.   For some reason, the conversation just flows with him and we’re really comfortable with one another.  It’s a nice change for me and we’ll see what happens.  I’m still hoping to get to 100 before I die, but for the time being, I’ll plateau here.

I’m not sure how the conversation came up, but for some reason I asked him if he’d ever paid for sex.  He said yes.  Once.  Just for the experience.  An experienced man is a good man and it also gave me a something to strive for.  I need to be a better fuck than a prostitute.  I informed him that I’d never been paid for sex, but that I’d blow him for a dollar.

“That’s it?”

I said, yes.  This was more of a lark and not a money making venture.  And I’d already blown him twice for free.   I’ve been a mistress and degraded before, but never paid.  I told him I wanted the money up front and he walked across his bedroom, naked with a hard on.  He came back a moment later with a shiny, new dollar coin.

I gave the coin the once over and put it on the nightstand.  Then I got to work.  But by this time I had major hot pants and decided that I’d rather fuck him than blow him.   So I jumped on his cock and made it all about me.   He didn’t seem to mind.    Besides, a dollar only buys you so much.

Moral of the story, you get what you pay for.

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Having traveled throughout the United States, I managed to have some good experiences in a lot of different cities; sometimes with the same number.   While it’s not prudent to fuck a co-worker, a lot of times it’s inevitable.  Especially when they are great in the sack.

#38 was based in Los Angeles, but he had to come to Chicago a lot for work.  That’s where I first met him.  While we hasn’t my type per se, we had some great chemistry and therefore, when I finally got aquainted with dick, was very happy.    And the fact that he had to come to Chicago every few months made me happier.  And more satisfied.

He had a house in Los Angeles so whenever I’d come home for a visit, I’d also make a stop chez-#38.  Or two stops.  Or more, depending on how long I was staying in town.   His house was small but cute and we fucked in every room.  Unfortunately, condoms don’t work well in water, so the Jacuzzi was just a way to take a break from the action.   But that’s what the rest of the house is for.

It was a total fluke that we both found ourselves in Clearwater, Florida the same week.   I wasn’t that into seeing him though, as I was still pretty messed up about my first love, #40.  But I had needs and we did have a good time together, so when we went swimming and he put his hand in my bikini, I got out of the pool and followed him to his room.

I kind of lost interest after that trip.  I was going to move to New York and wanted to start a new life, sans attachments.   #38 was disappointed.  He liked me more than I liked him.   Besides, I thought the location trifecta was enough.  Now if he had invited me to the Cayman Islands, it would have been another thing altogether.

Moral of the story, good sex can easily cross state lines.

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When I first broke up with Ex-Husband #2, I was pretty devastated.  It ended in a very messy way and I just needed to get out of Los Angeles.  Really out of Los Angeles.  I had some extra frequent flier miles and an empty passport so I decided to go somewhere tropical.  Two weeks later I was bound for Barbados.

I was used to traveling on my own but had never been on vacation by myself.  I was too distraught to be nervous and once I got to the hotel, I made a beeline for the bar.  I parked myself on the stool closest to the pool.   I had no expectations other than to get tan and drunk, and decided to get started right away.

I was lounging on a chair with my third daiquiri when a nice couple and another guy sat down next to me.   They were from Michigan and all worked together.  I was impressed the single guy had the balls to be a third wheel and felt an instant connection with him.  I was happy when they struck up a conversation.  Besides, he was kind of cute and I was going to consume a lot of alcohol.

The three of them took me under their wing and we ended up having dinner together every night.  We went on a snorkeling adventure and it was fun.  The guy was nice enough, but I could tell he was an amateur.  I had asked him how many women he’d slept with, and he said five.  But I was alone and drinking a lot of rum, so when he asked me to go on a evening walk on the beach , I said okay.

We walked about half a mile, our feet in the surf, and he asked if he could take my hand.  The sky was beautiful and I was prime for a rebound fuck, so I figured things were moving in the right direction.  When he pulled me into him, I was even happier.   And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t even vanilla, it was like ice milk.  Yawn.  But I was determined to enjoy the night.  The hotel was filled with newlyweds and he was my best bet.  So I kissed him again, lightly biting him on the lower lip.   He jerked away and I became instantly turned off.   I had brought condoms but obviously wasn’t going to use them.   I didn’t care enough to be disappointed and was actually relieved that I was leaving a day later.   I had brought a pussy to Barbados, I didn’t need another one.

Moral of the story,  vacation fucks are better when someone’s actually fuckable.

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