Tag Archives: dogs

On the Cusp

I went home Friday night because #72 fell asleep on the couch and I knew I wouldn’t be getting any action.  I was done.  It felt slightly liberating but sad and myriad other feelings.  I felt like I’ve given him so many chances and as amazing as he is, he had used them up.

On Saturday #72 called me while I was at the park with Dave.  Dave and I were at the park watching this amazingly large wedding party take family pictures.  I looked at all the people who were happy today, knowing that divorce, anger and lawyers were in their future.  Isn’t that for everyone?   

I told #72 I couldn’t do it anymore.  He thought I meant the falling asleep and I said no, the lack of sex.  (I never in A MILLION years thought I’d be saying that.  Not me.  I have a reputation.)  That I can’t wait anymore.  He asked me for another chance, the last one.  He wouldn’t expect anymore and that he knew what he had to do. 

“Hand jobs aren’t going to cut it.”

“I’ll let that slide.  No, I know what I need to do, give me a chance to make this right and take care of you the way you want.”

I think he understands that means taking a nose dive into my snatch while playing with my clit.  Anything less is going to not be enough.   But then, today, with a hangover, I know it’s not going to be enough.  If he had wanted to please me in that way, he would have done it by now.  It’s been two years.   There is no miraculous fix to this and I don’t want to pretend there is.

I’ve only broken up with one other person in my life and I didn’t really care about him.  AND I had Ex-Husband #1 giving me the best sex of my life.  Cumming non stop makes any dumping decision easier.  But right now, I don’t have any kind of Band-Aid.  I can’t use #20.  There has been so much damage in our relationship that even though we said we were going to start from scratch, it’s got failure written all over it.  That said, will #20 and I try again?  Maybe.  If he asks me to dinner, I’m going to go.  I don’t have to fuck him, we can just have a couple glasses of wine or something.  We can try to be friends first.  He likes to say we were always friends, but there was always that sex thing looming over our heads.  Maybe this time will be different.  He lives down the street from me.  #72 is a mile south, #20 a mile north.  Both are walking distance away. 

Moral of the story, maybe I should explore numbers who live East or West of me. 

 

 

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Period

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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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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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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Guy Bait

There’s been a little too much time in between numbers so I’ve decided that I need some new tools.  Guy Bait.   One of the best ways to meet people is with a dog.  So against my better judgment (and consideration of my status as a cat lady) I got one.

His name is Dave.  He’s got a big head, stumpy legs and is so funny looking he is hilarious to look at.  Definitely a conversation starter.  It’s only been 24 hours, but each person I’ve met so far (and there have only been a few) has asked me what kind of dog he is.  They start naming different breeds, which is waste of time.  He’s like five different breeds rolled into one.  He’s a mutt to the 100th power and perfect for my needs; Guy Bait.

I saved Dave from the shelter knowing it would help my fuckable cred.  I look like a hero for adopting him.  Not only do I put out, I’m a good Samaritan.  Sexy and selfless.  Who needs a big rack when you’ve saved a life?  I’m not sure how much of a draw it is to have a baggie of shit in your hand while you look for a trashcan, but I’m going to assume that my conquests also have dogs, so it won’t be an issue.

Tomorrow Dave and I are off to Runyon Canyon.  It’s chock full of hot guys and I’m officially on the prowl.  I know that Dave is going to be enough of a draw that I’m not going to need a short skirt or my big, floppy hat.  (who wears a skirt to go hiking anyway?)  Oh Dave, I think we’re going to be very good friends.

Moral of the story, some people will do anything to get laid.

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