Tag Archives: Humor

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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Phone Sex

As promised, I’m going to break the ceiling open on phone sex operators, defy the code of cumming and share with you a few of my experiences.  But first a little backstory.

I get paid by 15 min. increments.  If they “get off” sooner, I still get the same amount.  I’m proud of the fact that I’ve ended calls after 3 minutes.  More than once.  I’m that good.  The quickie calls usually don’t say goodbye, they just hang up.  Not quite the reaction you’re looking for when someone is shooting a load because of you, but still.  It works.

My handle is “Dawn”.  Only slightly slutty if you look at the picture of a nubile young woman in a thong and no bra.  “Dawn” is laying with her ass in the air on a white bed and looking back at the camera.  At YOU, disgusting phone sex guy.  While there are 50+ of us on at any given time only three show real photos.  The rest of us fall under the category “some of the pictures are simulations”. 

For a guy not to know that I probably don’t look like dear “Dawn” is ridiculous.  I don’t make enough money doing it to afford the professional photographer and all the airbrushing that would be needed.  Some of them told me they whack off to my picture.   Which picture, which year?

Most of the guys ask what I really look like.  Those are the ones I start out liking.  It gives me a chance to revisit Lynn 1999.  “I’m 5’9”, I weigh 135 lbs and I have lots of long, dark curly hair, very blue eyes and pink lips that don’t need lipstick.  

“Very nice.  Is your cunt wet?”

Now let me introduce you to Lynn 2014.  Um, somewhere along the line, I dropped an inch and added a few around my waist.  Eyes are still blue but it’s hard to see them behind glasses.  And in terms of the long, dark curly hair, it still exists with the help of Greg, my stylist.

“Yeah baby, is your dick hard?”

Here’s the neat thing about Lynn 2014.  I know stories.  Lots of stories.  And while I can’t really use many of my own,  (they aren’t depraved enough for these sick fucks), I have a good and disgusting imagination.  Also Lynn 2014 has an incredibly deep and sexy voice thanks to years of drinking scotch. 

Moral of the story, you can get “Dawn” everyday, no matter what year it is.

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Fire and Water Don’t Mix

You know that old adage, play with fire, you get burned?  What if the fire is contained and patient?  What if you were going to end your relationship anyway and thought this would be a great rebound situation?    

I contacted #20, again.  That was final step that I am ready to leave #72.   For all his faults, #20 has always been there to pick up my pieces.  I know that even if he hasn’t seen me in over 2 years, he’ll think I’m hot and want to fuck me.  (who wouldn’t?) (oh right, #72).  Even with an extra 6 pounds I discovered at the doctor’s office (fuck those calibrated scales), it won’t matter.  #20 will think I’m hot.   

It’s been two years with #72 and I can no longer be in a sexless relationship.  As much as I care about him, I can’t be faithful to him.  But I’ve never cheated on anyone before and I don’t intend to now.  There will be a discussion that we’ve had many times before. 

I’m tired of it and want to move on.  He’s PERFECT in every other way, but after two years and cob webs it’s time to get some heavily missed pancakes.

The best way to break up with someone is to say you met someone else.  So I texted with #20 tonight.  And I got a glass of water splashed in my face, if not the whole pitcher.  He was the first person I called after Ex-Husband #1 and then again after Ex-Husband #2.   I was always his first call after making a relationship mistake.  So even though I’d judged him repeatedly, I realize now, it was unfair.  We are no better than the other.  All that blame and fire I sent his way was my own drama and tonight I paid for it.

Somehow, he found out about the blog and the book.  Was hurt (understandably) and told me to stop being a victim and blame everything on him.  Which was also valid.  So any hopes of fucking my way out of #72 with him were dashed, as was my mascara.  Suddenly I was devastated.    I hadn’t felt this kind of hurt since Ex-Husband #2.  This is why I’ve stayed with #72, so avoid crying and feeling.  To avoid someone really sticking you with a dagger because they’ve been equally hurt by you.

Tonight sucked ass and not even the caller who likes women to fart in his face and call him “a little sinker” cheered me up.  Hopefully this double pour of Johnny Walker Black will.  And if not, there’s always soma.

Moral of the story, even the best fart jokes can’t always make you laugh.

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Wake Up and Smell the Lattes

I’ve been absent from my blog for way too long.  And I know you’ve missed me.  I’ve missed me.  Its been exactly 2 years in and I’m still with #72.  And still no action.  Although this morning he smacked me on the ass with a wooden spoon.  It was cupped and not flat so the impact was pretty good.  It stung like a mother fucker, but it didn’t really turn me on. Probably because he apologized but it was the most sex we’ve had in months, unless you call kissing gently on the lips, sex.  I’ve lost my mojo and it doesn’t surprise me. 

A friend of mine keeps asking me why I’m still with #72 when obviously he’s slowly draining me of any sexuality.   And he is.  I don’t masturbate as much, my “toy” remains in its box instead of mine.  I bring the little dynamo to his house every time I stay there, but it never gets used. The past few month my thoughts have revolved around my espresso maker and not the hot and heavy.  I’m getting tired of the compromise.   Really tired.  My pussy is so lonely, things have to change.

In order to regain some of my dwindling fuck power, I decided to use some of my better skills; my imagination and my voice. 

I’ve become a phone actress. 

That’s what they call us, actresses.  I have a “model” name and a land line. I’m represented with provocative pictures of someone who’s name I don’t know.  She probably has a fake name, too.  She’s not super skinny, as a matter of fact, there’s a bit of flab on her legs and her ass.  Her tits are small (mine aren’t that big either) and she’s got brown hair.  We have so much in common, except for one tiny detail.  She’s taking porn shots and I’m just talking about it.  Oh, and she looks about 22.  (Just a few years younger than me.)  (Multiplied by 5).

 It’s easier to deal with these callers if I have a little scotch in me.  Of course t’s a lot healthier at night than when I’m on in the morning.  Even though most of the callers are gross, I do find I’m getting turned on a little bit.  All that sex talk just affirms I can’t stay with #72 much longer.  But until we break up, this new career will be about making money and having more content for the blog. 

Stay tuned.

 Moral of the story, I think it’s time to put down the lattes and bring out the Johnny Walker Black.

 

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Medium Cups

I’m due for some new bras.  I tend to keep the old ones a little too long.  I’m really not a big lingerie person except right now my new thing are character panties.  Like from the teen section at Target.  Cookie Monster and the Paul Frank monkey to name a few.  I feel slightly pedophilia-ish doing it, but I don’t flash 15 year olds anymore, so there you go.  And luckily, I have some bras that go with them.   Like the one I’m wearing right now, my push up red bra.   (is it really little if it’s a 36B?  By LA standards for sure, but it’s a handful I’m happy with) 

I was trying to think about blog ideas and grabbed my own left boob.  I wish I could say, Oh, I was at a baseball game and had my hand over my heart, but no, I just wanted to feel my boob in my bra.  Just to see how much boob there was filling up the bra.  I was disappointed to find not that much.  Truth be told, my tits don’t entirely fill the whole bra.  There’s some gappage.   Like a handful of extra room.  Which goes to prove that 1)  This bra is too big for me and 2)I don’t know how to buy bras.  But the red one is in my rotation and I’ll keep wearing it. 

Now, I like a lot of security in my rack.  Sure, walking Dave at midnight, I’ll forgo the pushup and wear a tank top and a sweatshirt to hide the swinging.  But it’s 1pm and I have to slightly presentable because I’m going to meet my mom later.

Here’s the thing though, which brings me back to my feeling myself up.  The bra is kind of hard which makes me think of fake tits.  I’ve felt a few in my day, more investigative than sexual.  Kind of a poke and wow, that does feel weird.    This bra, I’m wearing, is giving my fingers the same sensation.  And if I do it enough, I’ll have a bruise, which in my mind, is kind of sexy.

I think first of all, I need to go on a bra expedition.  My next vacation destination, Nordstrom Rack (good deals, long lasting bras).  I’ll keep you posted.

Moral of the story, too big doesn’t work for bras or dicks.

  

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Baseball Games

The other night #72 and I went to a Dodger game.  It was one of the worst games in Dodger history, but it was fun being at the stadium.  I’m not really into sports, unless it’s sport fucking, but since this is a real relationship with a guy who loves sports, my affinity for them is a natural state.  I even watched some of the NBA championships.  (Of course when quizzed about whom the Heat was playing, it took me a moment or two to remember).

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my best friend and he said that I deserve more than I’m asking for in this relationship.  I had to agree with him, but then, after last night, I started thinking about the things that #72 and I have done together.   We might spend most nights watching movies at his house and eating popcorn, but we’ve gone to some sports events, a few concerts at the Hollywood Bowl, a trip to Yosemite and to Disneyland.  That’s not bad for over a year.     

The thing is, I never really knew what I deserved.  It had never occurred to me.  Like, okay, fuck me proper and that’s all I need.  But in this situation, I’m not getting fucked proper or at all, really, and I have to figure out what else there is, or I what I should be expecting. 

I decided I needed flowers sometimes.  He responded the next day coming over with a bouquet of daisies.   Then I decided I needed to spend more time with his friends.  A week later the three of us were seated in the stands behind first base.  He came to my party.  What more could I ask for?  Or should I ask for?

We all know that everyone is different.  Some women like guys to buy them lots of stuff, They want and want and want.  Fancy restaurants all the time, bubble baths and champagne.  I don’t like champagne and I haven’t taken a bath in years.  The litter box is in the tub and the idea of sitting in the same area as my cat’s toilet grosses me out.   He mentioned taking a bath at his house, or him giving me one to be specific.

I think I’m happy with where we’re at.  Once in a while a good date.  Seeing each other a few times a week.  I really don’t need much more than that.  And whether or not I deserve more is irrelevant.  Just because you deserve something doesn’t necessarily mean it will make you happy.

Moral of the story, if there are enough base hits, you can still make it to home plate

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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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Toys

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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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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Flab

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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