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 5^th 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.

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.

The Play

One of the ways I’ve justified being broke most of my life is that I like to think of myself as an artist.  Not quite starving, although I’ve skipped a few meals here and there, but enough that I’ve struggled.  And I’ve deluded myself for the past 100 years that one day, I’ll hit the mother lode.  At 44, I’m still waiting.  If you’ll notice, this blog is free and the $35 I made when I was 22 and sold Penthouse a story, only covered a night of drinking.

That said, I like to consider myself  more of a literary and performing person, by trade.  As you know from 190 blog entries, one might say I have a way with words and with my overly dramatic personality, a bit of a love of the stage.  It’s no surprise that while I lived in New York, I tried to combine the two and write a vehicle for myself.  And since Ex-Husband #1 was also pursuing an acting career, I decided to write something for him.  For us.  

A play.  A porno play.

I was working a temp job and like most temp jobs, I had nothing to do.  The internet wasn’t around so I had some time on my hands.  And a good imagination.  And an over whelming sex drive.  It was a match made in heaven. 

There were only two characters in the play and it had to be performed in the bedroom; on the bed.  The lines were appropriately cheesy and the stage directions, specific.  There was a copy for each of us and the dialogue was highlighted in yellow.  When I gave him his sides, he started to read through them.  I guess he was trying to get into character.  I just wanted him to get in my pants.    (Which according to the story, they would be coming off in the middle of Page 2).

We didn’t make it through the whole play.  He was a method actor and soon went off script.  I didn’t mind.  I was never good at reading upside down with my legs behind my head.  I liked how the papers crinkled while we fucked on them. 

Moral of the story, live theater is sexy.

Tracking the Action

When it comes to heterosexual sex, there are two main components.  A hard dick and a wet pussy.  This makes the fucking a lot easier.  Luckily, whenever I’ve been engaged in my favorite activity, I’ve had both.   But in contrast to my obvious “kissing and telling” I don’t always like to advertise that I just got laid.

I don’t have OCD and my apartment is not spotless, but the minute the guy leaves, the condom wrapper is off the floor and in the trash.  (and condom if he was rude enough not to flush it himself)   Luckily, this requires little effort.  A lot less effort than changing the sheets.

Whether I’ve been getting action or not, I change my sheets every Sunday. (I also make my bed every morning.  A made bed is more welcoming than a messy one)  Fresh sheets are a great way to welcome the week, but also a necessity if you’re fucking more than one guy at a time.  It’s just common courtesy to not make your conquest roll around in another guy’s sweat.  Besides a guy can usually tell if you’ve recently gotten some action.   Mainly because of fuck tracks.

Fuck tracks are a tell-tail sign that you had a decent enough time the night before.  I mean, you got turned on enough to get wet, that’s something, right?   But having it look like an enormous snail traversed my bed is not my favorite thing.  I learned early on that the best way to combat this problem is to have white sheets and a white duvet cover.   It can buy you a little time between changing your linens, which is a good thing if you’re busy looking for new numbers.

I do a lot to make fucking me a pleasure.  I wear makeup every day and get pedicures.  If I think I’m going to get laid, I always shower and shave.  And I think that having a neat and clean bedroom is just an extension of the pride I take in my appearance.  And while the guy is hopefully distracted by the prospect of pussy, he’s going to check out his surroundings on his way out the door and I want them to be a nice as possible.  Especially if you want him to come back.

Moral of the story, if I want to be reminded of the night, I’d rather have a sore pussy than a dirty, spoogy bed.

 

Eagles

While I’m not Japanese, for a good portion of my life, I slept on a futon.  They are cheap and easy to move around.  But when I got married to Ex-Husband #1 (#49) we got a bed.  We had our choice of what kind of bed we wanted and it was an easy decision; one that you could tie someone to.

 

We had the kind of bed that had rungs on it, perfect for my fur covered handcuffs or rope.  While we usually took advantage of the headboard, Ex-Husband #1 liked to tie my feet as well.  One afternoon I was spread eagle on the bed and his face was spending a little quality time between my legs.  I was loving it when suddenly there was a pounding on our door.  He got up, put on his boxers, wiped his mouth and went to answer it.  It was the super and apparently someone had set off their smoke alarm and we had to evacuate the building.

 

So #49 did.  Alone.  He left me there, tied to the bed.  I couldn’t even yell or anything, with the scarf that he had put in my mouth.   Luckily the smoke was coming from the first floor and the firemen didn’t have to come up the five flights of stairs to find me in that compromising situation.  When Ex-Husband #1 came back upstairs 20 minutes later, I was pissed.  And I needed to pee.  But before he’d untie me, he had to fuck me again.  It was good so I forgave him.

 

Moral of the story, always have an escape plan.

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56 Men and Other Mistakes

 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/56-Men-and-Other-Mistakes/349730388378680

(I’m a dolt when it comes to websites, so you’ll have to cut and paste. i’m good in bed, doesn’t that count for something?)

Office Visits

I’ve gone through myriad jobs in my life, ranging from waitress to executive assistant, teleprompter and even writer.  They all had their perks; free food, free office supplies and best of all, free time.  While there is a lot of financial anxiety that comes with being self-employed, it can be great for your sex life.

I was waitressing in New York when I met #56.  He was a freelance comic book writer and did pretty well.  Not only did he live on Century Park East, he had his own office space in Midtown.  He was rich, successful and married.

Our relationship grew slowly.  I met him at a party when I was dating Ex-Husband #1.  He wanted to go out with me, but I said no.  I might be promiscuous when I am single, but once I make a commitment and I stick to it.  Even though there was an obvious connection, I told #56 I couldn’t see him anymore.  Even as friends.  Mainly because we both knew, with our chemistry, we wouldn’t be just friends.

Oddly enough, the minute I got divorced from Ex-Husband #1, #56 called me.  It was totally out of the blue but I was totally available.  He wasn’t, but that didn’t stop him from hooking up with me.  We’d fuck at my house and that was fine, but he was so busy, he couldn’t always leave the office.  So I’d go there.

His office was basically one room in a small suite, so while there was privacy, the walls were thin.  This made fucking difficult as I tend to express myself when I’m coming.  Luckily he didn’t.  So for the most part, fucking was out of the question.  But blow jobs were okay.  I mean, I can get off giving a blow job, but with a dick in my mouth, I’m slightly muffled.

And so it became a regular thing.  I’d show up at his office with little notice, pull him to the couch, pull down his pants and do my oral magic.  Then I’d get up, straighten my dress and without another word, leave.   While I might have been slightly unfulfilled physically, I felt powerful and self assured.  I made this choice, I did what I wanted, and I left on my own terms.  Sure, it was great for him, but I’m the one who was in control.  And I liked it.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to make an office visit since then, but if given the opportunity, I’d jump on it.  Or kneel in front of it.

Moral of the story, sometimes working in an office can get you more than free pens.

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.

Wimp

I haven’t had a lot of long term, committed relationships.  I’m not sure if it’s the caliber of men I’ve chosen to spread my legs for, or if I’m actually not good girlfriend material.   Regardless, I have few regrets about my life.  That said, I do have some.

I lived in a shitty, East Village 5^th floor walk-up and meeting someone who had an elevator in their building was always a turn on.   #45 came from a good family and he and his roommate lived on the top floor of a swanky West Village apartment.   The only thing cooler than the view was the fact they asked everyone that came over to sign their bathroom wall.  When you went to pee, you could see signatures of both regular people and those who were slightly famous.

Apparently #45 had noticed me weeks before we actually met.  I like being admired as much as the next person and when he complimented me, I ate it up. I went to a party at his place and we spent most of it making out in his room.  After about half an hour, he asked me to dinner for the following night.  I happily accepted.

I’m not one to waste time and on our second date, I made it clear I wanted to fuck him.  He was surprised, but glad.  Who wouldn’t be, they were my hot years.   His hands were shaking when he removed my clothes and his lips tentatively traveled over mine.   Needless to say, it wasn’t the most exciting foreplay.  As I laid there, I wondered if there was someone cuter I should be naked with.  Then he brought me back to reality.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What?!  I know I’m good in the sack, but this was too much.  Second date, first fuck and he’s pulling this shit?  #45 was obviously fucked up or too lonely, or both and I wanted nothing to do with him.

Rather than go out with him again, I made up excuses whenever he called.  I already have plans.  I have to work.  Blah, blah, blah.   But he didn’t get the hint.  He became more and more pathetic and desperate to see me.  After a few weeks, I decided I had to put him out of his misery.   I couldn’t bear to see him again, so when I ended it, it was over the phone.  Yes, I’m an ass, a wimp, a deplorable person.  I was glad I couldn’t see him in person, the way his voice caught in his throat, I thought he was going to cry.

I’m not proud of what I did.  I obviously took the easy way out.  I tried to rationalize that he should be glad I told him at all.  I knew lots of guys who wouldn’t even do that.  And there wasn’t anything there to remind him of me.  I never signed his bathroom wall.

Moral of the story, the only thing you should love in the beginning of a relationship is my pussy.