Ice Cream Social

I had a party.  It was called “Ice cream social with a kick”.  Booze and homemade ice cream, what could go wrong?  A lot.  #72 came.  Everyone else that attended knows about our “issue”.  I have a big fucking mouth (obviously) and I panicked.  What if someone said something?  I’ve run into this problem before and apparently never learned my lesson.   So it’s understandable I was more worried about what my guests would say  than if they were having a good time.

I remember what Ex-Husband said once.

“I don’t want to be known as Lynn Halsted’s husband.”

To which I replied, okay, now you’re going to be known as Lynn Halsted’s Ex-husband.  And so it came to pass.

I‘m just glad my friends are old enough to have the discretion that I don’t seem to.  No one got stupid drunk but me, and no one said anything bad.  If they had, it would not just end my relationship, but it would be so hurtful.  No matter how much I bandy the idea that I’m going to end it, I would never do anything to hurt him.  He’s too nice and doesn’t deserve that.

It’s hard because I’m an open book, but how open should I be?  It was easier when #72 and I had a distance in our “relationship”; separate lives.  It’s what we both wanted.  Then I wanted to be more a part of his life and now it’s all blending together.  Beware of what you ask for.

I invited 20 people and 12 showed up, which aren’t bad odds for LA.  But the bummer was, I made 8 quarts of ice cream and had about 5 quarts remaining after everyone went home.  If I thought I was fat before, this just made it worse.  And it makes me wonder, have I let myself go because I’m 45 or because I’m in a relationship?   Maybe I should pretend to break up with him so that I can motivate myself to work out should I need to find new cock.  I’m basically too self conscious to even consider being with anyone new.  Or I can just sit back and have another bowl of ice cream.

Moral of the story, don’t talk with food in your mouth or if there’s a dick in your life.  And please pass the chocolate chocolate chip.

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So today was an adventurous day.  I went and got a vibrator to use with #72.  We have talked about it a bit and even though he had said he’d take care of it, but that was months ago.  So I got my shit together and went to The Pleasure Chest.  But not alone.

I went with my lipstick lesbian friend and HER bull dyke friend.  Or is it just butch?  I’m not sure, but she wears a strap on sometimes and her hair was short and her voice, a little on the deep side.  Anyhow, she came along because she is a sexpert apparently and was more than happy to share her expertise.

Even though she was from San Francisco, she marched into the joint like she was a regular.  She took me right to the rabbit section.  She was telling me how to get an intense, mind blowing organism like I’d never had one before.   I felt a little judged to be honest.  She never had a conversation with my snooch and doesn’t know what it’s seen, heard or experienced.

As we walked towards the back of the store, I saw the whips and riding crops and got a little nostalgic and warm between the thighs.  I ignored the nipple clips and spiked cock rings and reminisced about Ex-Husband #1.  Our sex life was a 10 on the richtor scale and never needed a rabbit vibrator to get there.  So take that!

I’m not expecting mind blowing sex with #72, but I can get some mind anything I’ll be happy.   Tomorrow night I’m going to The Hotel with plans to play with my new toy.  I decided not to open it until I see him.  For a couple of reasons; the whole thing makes me a little nervous, oddly enough.  And two, I don’t want him to think it’s used when I get it to him.  I’ll say this much, when we break up, I’m taking it with me.  $60 worth of “let’s really try to work on this so all my friends stop telling me to leave you” is not getting left behind.

The specifics:  it’s slightly soft, kind of silky texture but not in a plastic kind of way.  More in a “head of the cock” kind of way.  And while it’s fashioned after the shape of a penis, it doesn’t look like one.  Those fake cocks are disgusting.  I would not want one in me.  If I want something that looks like a dick in my snooch, it’d better be a dick.   I’ve got a few people I can call if need be.  That’s my threat to myself, I can make a call and get someone over here in an hour.  But I could be delusional. 

I wonder how true that is.  Maybe I should contact #71 just to let him know I’m alive.  I won’t, but I’m thinking about it.  He said he wanted to do whatever I wanted to do, go as kinky as I wanted to go.  It makes me think.  Think about why I’m still with #72.

Maybe tomorrow night, with a little pink/orange, battery operated action, I’ll know.

Moral of the story, not sure how far $60 will get you in the bedroom.  Last I heard, it’s more than $100 a pop for a blow job.

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Oddly enough, I’ve been comfortable with my sexual prowess but not my body.    Like, I like being touched and fucked, but standing around naked is not my favorite pastime.  Even now, I get nervous when I’m dressing or undressing in front of #72.  (a good example of why is because it was a little dark and I put both legs in the same panty hole area)  going to a spa is the ultimate in testing my naked confidence.  I do it, but not without some walking fast in front of the mirrors.  I like to go to a spa with fat women.  At least then I look skinny.

That said, I’ve never been that comfortable with my rag.  I started it late and my mother only explained that when the time came I would be using a sanitary belt.   Yes it was the 70’s.  But that wasn’t my plan.  The minute I knew my period was coming, I bought a small box of tampons and was ready for whatever was going to come my way. 

Of course I had no idea how to use one.  Luckily I had a good friend that was a pro.  She’d gotten her when she was 13 so knew what she was doing.  We were on the phone and she told me exactly what to do.  (She’s a lesbian now, so I guess it was like an “in the closet still” turn on for her).  I didn’t get it all the way in the first time.  But after a few tries, success.  I’d say I was good at it by the time I was 25.  Even going “au natural” with OB’s. 

This was the beginning of a lot of embarrassing period stories.  There was #1.   He knew I was a virgin because when we turned the lights on there was blood on the sheets, but when I went to the bathroom the next morning, my period had started.  I started thinking, maybe his cock was so big it started my period.

On the flip side, # 50 had the smallest cock I’d ever been with and my rag started once in flagrante.  I was mortified.  It was full on, “we’ve got to get the sheets in hot water, NOW!”. 

There have been off and on times when sex and periods have been combined, but I try to keep them apart as much as possible.  I won’t even go to #72’s  house during that time.   I still get a little anxious when I have to buy tampons and I’m 45.  (Yeah for Xanax).  It’s like those cultures that make the women leave the house when the gash is leaking.  I don’t go anywhere.  Especially not The Hotel.  Sure I don’t get coffee in bed, but I’m teaching Dave how to use a French Press.

Moral of the story, I’ll only go to a Red Tent if they’ve got cable.





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I’ve had three men be honest with me in my life about my weight. 

#1 – #49 (Ex-Husband #1) – “You definitely went through a fat phase in college.” (mind you, he saw a video of me and the camera adds 10 pounds.  I’m just saying”

#2 – #60 – (Ex-Husband #2) “Yeah, that kind of makes you look fat.”  (mind you, I held that over his head for years.

#3 – #72 – (Current boyfriend) “Yeah, I’d say you were skinny fat, too”  (mind you, I said it first, but still)

Now, I divorced the first two fuckers and am not ready to dump the third one yet, but he’s a little on the chubby side, so it’s kind of fucked up for him to say that.  Both husbands were going through their own fat phases, too.  Amazing how the kettle likes to call the pot black.  (or the other way around, I’m trying to be cute). 

Here’s the thing, I KNOW I’m skinny fat.  (Thanks to a work mate giving me that description of self).  Depending on what I’m wearing (baggy clothes preferred) you’d never know there was a circus sized ring o’ flab around my waist.  Yes, I use the excuse that I’m 45 and entitled, but really, it’s grossing me out.  Luckily I’m not getting laid really at the moment.  I can’t imagine someone else touching me there.  Or riding them and having my pouch hit their nicely toned stomach. 

It really was driven home when I went to the Korean Spa.  I had been there before and gotten a scary massage so this time, I decided, a scrub.  How bad can that be?  Physically, no real pain;  emotionally, I needed a scotch. 

You’ve got a towel over your eyes and while you know it’s clean, it’s about 100 years old so you can peek at the woman on the other side of the room who’s hip bones are sticking up as she lays on her back.  And then I felt the scrub brush trying to make it over my stomach which was NOT sinking down like my friend to the left.   I was surprised the scrub brush did not get swallowed up by my marshmallow of a belly.   And when she had me face down, she seemed to enjoy washing my ass, which just made me think that it took a while to get in all the nooks and crannies of my cellulite.  Why not just use a toothbrush at that point? 

So today I did 20 minutes of Pilates (because I’m an athlete) and am now enjoying my second glass of wine.   I’ll eat a cucumber for dinner and call it a night.  But not until I have another glass of wine.  Which is only fattening when you combine it with pasta and two orders or tiramisu, which I did the night before.  Hey skinny fat means you look skinny with clothes on.  I don’t have a pool anymore, no one else is going to see me.

Moral of the story, I might not have a lot of willpower, but I think I can stop myself from going to another Korean Spa.

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I used to pride myself on giving a good blow job.  I’m out of practice.  As you know #72 has issues.  Some women would be relieved, but I miss having a cock in my mouth.  Or should I say “hard cock” because a soggy one just feels like having the flab off someone’s arm wobbling down your throat.

The first time I gave a blow job, was really an attempt at a blow job.  In terms of my sex progression I pretty much ran a double from second and slid into home plate.   But #3 was an instructor and after going down on me, he kind of expected something in return.  I was game for something new, but scared.  If memory serves me correctly, he had a biggish cock.  But then I have a horrible memory so it might have been small. AND I wasn’t a connoisseur of cock yet so there you go.  We will never know.

I remember taking his cock in my hands and kind of inspecting it, the way you would for herpes sores.  It was just, I’d had his dick in me but had never really SEEN it.  Or any for that matter and especially not that close up.   So my first time giving head was more of an experiment and I guess I did okay after that.  Not great, but okay.  Since then, I like to see how far down my throat I can get a cock.  I don’t have the gag reflex, but haven’t been able to work out the breathing thing.  I’m a bit of a mouth breather by trade and getting turned on and breathing through your nose is hard.  And when you try to breathe with a dick in your mouth, you start panting and while that might be sexy when you’re fucking, in this case it sounds like a cat trying to cough up a hairball.

I remember #61 once saying that what I lacked in skill, I made up for in enthusiasm.   On one level I was happy with that assessment.  Yes, I am an over achiever and aim to please, but if I really dig deeply, that was an asshole thing to say.  I take compliments where I can get them (oh look that dog is sniffing my crotch, I must look hot in these jeans) so I just ignored the put down.  I think that I do that a lot.  Is it insecurity or just a form of desperation?  I have no idea, I’ve tried to block it out of my mind, but as I go through my list, it comes up a lot.  At least I don’t have any of those problems with #72.  Well, he can’t really talk about my blog jobs anyway since he’s not able to appreciate them. 

Will my skills go away?  Is it worth blowing a dildo?  I mean, it can’t tell you how good you’re doing.  Or how much enthusiasm you have. 

Moral of the story, if someone’s going to complain about your blowjob skills, they shouldn’t have their dick in your mouth.

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The Hotel

I’m not sure if this is Dave’s cockblocking or if #72 just doesn’t like staying at someone’s place, but when we do an overnight, it’s always at his house.  He calls my apartment Animal Planet because of the three mammals that reside here.  It’s cute.  We call his place The Hotel because he owns it and it’s much bigger.

Because #72 won’t stay over, I’ve never been able to conduct the “fuck in front of the dog” experiment.  Or even sleep with someone.  I mean Dave likes to lay next to me when I masturbate, what would happen with another human sharing the bed?  I think and hope I’ll be single and whoring around again before Dave dies (10 years is way too long to be in this relationship), so eventually the answer will be revealed.  I just have to be patient.

But for now I stay at The Hotel.   And it really is like a hotel.  Room Service, free weed, the sheets are fresh, and I don’t have to make the bed.  (Although I do half the time because I’m nice that way).  I hate to admit it, but staying at the hotel is also a nice reprieve from waking up with hairy creatures next to me. (although #72 is a little hairy).  We have check in at 6:30pm on Friday or Saturday nights.  There’s no check out policy, but I always leave before 11 so it’s never an issue.

So last Saturday night, I was at The Hotel and went to pee before we left for dinner.  I turned to the left (and it’s a hard left because the roller is way far behind you)  and took a quick gander at the roll before I ripped off about 7 squares.  (You need about that many when you’re a chick.)   So check this out, the edge of the toilet paper was folded into a triangle.  It was one of those little touches that make it hard to dump him.  (now that I’m thinking about it, maybe his housekeeper did it and he just hadn’t used it before I got there…. No, I’ll keeping thinking he did it).

When I got home, I tried to do The Hotel toilet paper move.  It’s a little more intensive than I thought it would be.  You have to fold it just right or it isn’t even and looks bad.  I also did it WHILE I was peeing so I had to use the triangle a moment later.  I think that makes it clear that I’m a bit of a retard and that I’ll never have a housekeeping career.  (Although I sweep regularly and 409 is my best friend).

Moral of the story, thoughtfulness can buy you more time.



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I’ve been masturbating since I was about 6.  My first real recollection of it was when I was with my cousin, and we were sleeping and I was rubbing one out.

“My mom calls that masturbation.”

And I said, MY mom calls it the same thing, maybe it’s their special way they say things, family lingo or something.  And then I finished myself off.

I was definitely more sexually precocious than a lot of little girls my age.  I was always playing with myself, and was happy that I had my own room.  But once in a while my mom would walk in on me. 

“Are you masturbating?  Stop it.”

After that I become an under the covers deviant or at least until I moved into my own apartment that had curtains or blinds you could close.  I might be a lot of things, but I’m no flasher.

My most creative form of masturbation was using our family’s fancy wooden chess set as inspiration.  It was the black team against the white team, so obviously, the boys against the girls or not.   The kings and queens were racist and did not intermingle, but the pawns were very progressive and didn’t mind going the interracial route. I had two pawns in particular that I liked the most.  I never stuck them in me, but while we were playing around “me alone, them a little “pawn on pawn” action)  I wanted to make sure that I always used the right couple, so I took a pen and marked them on the bottom.

One time my mom knocked over the chess set and all the pieces hit the floor.

“Why are these marked?” 

I said I didn’t know and offered to go and get her some ice cream, her favorite, Jamoca Almond Fudge.  I was told I couldn’t play with the chess set anymore, so I just played with myself reading Our Bodies/ Ourselves.  I’ve always like some inspiration and hadn’t even kissed a boy so my imagination needed a little help.

Moral of the story, at my house, you didn’t have to be good at chess, just creative.


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I grew up a few miles from UCLA so a lot of times, students would live off campus in my neighborhood.  There was one house in particular that had a revolving door of hot guys.   I was in 4th Grade and weighed about 70 pounds, but that didn’t stop me assuming the role of :welcoming committee” where I’d wear short shorts and parade in front of their house.

I’m not sure what I wanted out of it other than attention, and I definitely got it.  At first the guys thought I was funny and cute.   My favorite guy had a bushy mustache.  He indulged me and my friend with joking around and letting us know we were cute, but he made it clear we were not on their list of potential fuck partners.  Not that I even knew what I’d do in that situation, but it was good to know.    It didn’t matter, these were older guys, college guys, thought we were cute so that was good enough for us.

Until they stopped hanging out with us.  They suddenly were too busy with studying or drinking or just not home.  So we started stalking them.   We’d watch for their cars from across the street and knock on their door when the car was there.  If they shooed us away, we came back and hid under the bushes, listening in.

I remember once looking in the guy with the mustache’s window.  He was in his white briefs and walking towards us.  We screamed and took off, dragging half the bush with us.  We were too embarrassed to go back there after that.  I mean, we’d seen him ALMOST naked.   We went back one other time.  We stood on the stoop while mustache said he’d seen us in the window and we had to stop doing that.

We never saw the moving truck or mustache and his white briefs again.  Oddly enough, I’ve hated white briefs ever since then.  Maybe it was my first taste of rejection, or maybe they are just ugly foul things, but if I find out you’re wearing them before I took you home, you’d be taking a cab in the other direction.

Moral of the story, nothing makes me happier to have a naked guy in my bed and a pair of boxers on the floor.  (but they have to pick them up in the morning, I’m not a fucking maid)

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Here I am getting all confessional on you, but I figure, jump right in.  So, I’ve been with #72 for over a year now.  I feel awful that I’ve stymied my quest for triple digits, but alas, he’s a good man.  Not good in bed, but you’d never know as we never have sex.  And when we do, it’s so vanilla that I want to add chocolate chips and a waffle cone.  Isn’t this ironic, me, Lynn Halsted, in a sexless relationship. 

I keep telling myself, I’ve had A LOT of good dick in my 45 years (well, the 28 that I’ve been having sex) and maybe it’s okay to be with someone who is just a great guy and good to me.  And then I tell myself that no, it’s NOT okay, but I’m just not ready to break up with him.  I’m actually WORKING on this with him.  I’m being PATIENT which is so unlike me.  And yet, here I am, being that way.

So I’m in this fucked situation where I’m really happy but not getting laid.  I’m celibate and not by choice.  Is this what happens in marriages?  Not MY marriages.  But then again they only lasted 2 years each.

I’m torn by the whole thing.  We’ve tried to talk about it, and he says he’ll do better, but he hasn’t.   Every few days he’ll finger bang me, but it’s just not enough.  I’m going to buy toys, but will he even use them or is that too avant guard for him.  He thinks it’s naughty to slap my ass while I’m getting dressed.  It’s like, get me naked with a collar and push my face into the bed while you do me from behind and THEN slap my ass.  THAT would make me happy.

But he’s interested in making me happy in every other way.  He’s the perfect boyfriend… but kind of a platonic one that I get to kiss and sleep in bed with.   I just don’t know at the moment.  We had a nice dinner last week.  We held hands.  Yawn

Moral of the story, keeping a relationship up doesn’t really work unless he can keep it up. 

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Back to the Basics

The readers of this blog have often asked if everything I write about is true.  Well readers, yes it is.  All of it.  But maybe there has been something lacking in all my exploits, and I plan to share that with you now.  Dare I say it?  A little reality.   Crass, always, funny, hopefully, raw, definitely.  But Lynn is going to become 3 dimensional and after almost two years, it’s about time.

So we’ll start from the beginning and revisit how those actual numbers have affected me.  Not only back then, but today. 

So here we go, I’m Lynn Halsted, I’m 45 and live in Los Angeles with a cat named Ike and a dog named Dave.  I think I look like I’m 37.  (or so I tell myself as I drink a Slurpee.  Do 45 year old women drink Slurpees?  Especially ones that don’t have kids?)  I’ve been married twice and divorced twice.  Thankfully since both guys were cocksuckers and one for real.     

I’ve had some really good fucks but I wouldn’t say they added to my life that much just my Excel spreadsheet.   Not that I feel bad about good dick action, but when I think I’ve only had 4 real boyfriends and two of them turned into marriages, that’s not a good number of actual relationships.  Sigh.

So here we go, as they say on Iron Chef America, “with an open heart and empty stomach, a la cuisine!”   Or as I like to say, “I have condoms.”

Moral of the story, if you open your life, in addition to your legs, you can have more blog traffic.  (or so we hope)

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