Tag Archives: girlfriends

Scrabble

#72 loves Scrabble. He plays against his friends in person, via his iPad and in between, against the computer. He has such a great command of the English language I can’t believe I beat him the second time we played. (Although the word “myriad” was a bone of contention with us. He didn’t think I spelled it correctly. I got over 50 points for it so I’m taking the win).

A few days ago #72 sent me a text with a picture of his latest computer scrabble game. There were four words right next to one another. “Deranged. Babe. Dying. Cunt.” We thought it was hilarious. Of course at first I didn’t see the word “deranged” because that didn’t interest me as much as Babe’s dying cunt.

Is it dying? I think so. I got a little hand job after our swim in his awesome salt water pool, but I had to ask for it and it was a little awkward but it was something. Right? No, not anymore.

It’s been over 2 ½ years since I’ve been properly fucked. I’m going to be 47 in a few months and am worried that in a few years I won’t be fuckable at all. Not that I’m looking much worse than I did last year, but I can’t tell. But I’m sure that I’m not going to look better than I did a year ago, or today for that matter. Time’s a ticking. It’s not a baby clock. It’s a cock clock.

I had to end it. I tried, for a year and a half and he always begged me to give him another chance, that he’d do what I needed him to do AFTER this or that. And I know I picked the worst time possible, two weeks after his surgery, but I couldn’t take it anymore. He was lovingly calling me his girlfriend in his Norco stupor and where we’d go when he got better. And I snapped. I wrote him his morning email of support and happiness and then got a text from #71, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be his “girlfriend” anymore, I knew how much he appreciated me and cared for me. He said it all the time. But that morning, I couldn’t take it anymore so I ended it. Lynn said fuck this, the deranged babe’s dying cunt was going to get some dick.

It’s been almost 3 weeks and I miss him a lot. I do. He was a great guy and I do love him, but it’s time to love myself more. I’ve already set up a Tinder account and got 40 matches in less than a week. I finally have something to write about. List it as a favorite, tell your friends, Lynn Halsted is back on the market and on the prowl.

Moral of the story, depending on where you put it, “over” is worth at least 7 points.

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And She’s Back…

After a little over a month of retirement (or would it be a vacation?)  I’m happy to announce that I’m back online and blogging.  Rest assured, the pancakes have been regular; I’m still seeing #72.  It’s blossomed into a definite “thing”, but don’t’ worry, I haven’t softened that much.  I still have backup plans in place.  #66 has a spot in my phone and on my mind.  Can’t get “too” attached.   I gave up the condoms, not the realism that relationships usually end.

But for now, after 5 months, #72 deserves a more fitting title.   As boyfriend/girlfriend freaks me out, we refer to each other as boyfriend-y/girlfriend-y.   Makes it less scary for me and I like the letter “Y”, so whenever I can add it to the back of a word, I’m happy.

Being exclusive with Boyfriend-y  is an odd thing for me.  It requires patience and a little discretion.  When I start to talk about sex, he likes to say, “less is more”.   He’s not that interested in hearing about my past exploits and gets a little upset when I refer back to them.  Suffice it to say, he doesn’t read the blog.  Not sure if that’s a good thing or not, he could use a few tips here and there.

Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been blogging as much, the sex isn’t the best part of the relationship.   For the first time in a LONG time, I’m more interested in the other stuff he has to offer.  Don’t worry, the snark and stories will continue, I have more than enough of them to last another year (did you know the one year anniversary passed a few days ago?) I just have to go back through my Excel spreadsheet and maybe spend a few minutes under the covers with my hand.

What a great idea.  Is it 6pm yet?  Can I go home?

Moral of the story, getting off work isn’t as good as getting off at home 20 minutes later.

 

 

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