Tag Archives: love

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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Manners

I’ve always been a dichotomy;  in high school, on the cross country team, I’d be a sweaty mess at the end of a workout, but be disgusted if the guys were hocking loogeys.  I’m not saying I’ve never stood on a bridge and spit on passing cars, (or even from a balcony) but it’s the kind of thing you do in front of a select audience.  To me, the same applies towards burping.

 

I get it, you eat or drink too fast and you feel a little extra air rising in your throat.  In my case, I try to swallow it.  I’ve found if you catch it fast enough, you can pass it off as a hiccup.  I know sometimes you can’t help yourself.  We’re all human. But it should be a once in a while thing.  Burping all the time is not becoming on anyone, especially in front of someone you’re fucking.  Take heed #61.

 

#61 was also a dichotomy.  He would hold the door open for me, paid whenever we went out and always let me cum first, but then he would burp.  Loud.  And often.  And sometimes when we were fucking.   But there was nothing I could do.  I mean, what do you say?  You’re a fucking pig and I can’t believe I’m letting you keep your big, hard dick in me for hours at a time?  I mean, I’ve got manners.

 

Luckily there came a point in our relationship where it was either going to have to go further or end.  So we ended it.  It wasn’t dramatic.  Basically we both stopped calling.  It’s sad when your major memory of someone is their lack of manners.  Sure it’s funny when my Pops burps my name, but #61, you didn’t make up half my DNA.

 

Moral of the story, the only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth is how tight my pussy is.  If you feel that requires a sound effect, turn up the stereo.

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I’ve tried reading porn on my computer, but getting hot and bothered in my desk chair is not conducive to maintaining the leather.   Besides, most of the internet porn I was reading wasn’t that good.  I decided I needed something more portable.  Conveniently enough, I discovered “Under the Roofs of Paris” by Henry Miller.  Part of the reason I like Henry Miller is his reputation.  In the 30’s and 40’s  his books were banned and deemed obscene.  He was a literary rebel.  He also used words like cunt and cock and whore, sandwiched between some multi-syllabolic SAT words.

I was taking  a short trip from LA to Denver and didn’t want to dive into a novel.  As I perused Barnes and Nobles, I saw a collection of Henry Miller short stories and thought it might be a perfect way to pass the time at 32,000 feet.    I had no idea what was to be found inside.

I had a middle seat, but it was at the bulk head so it wasn’t too bad.  To my right was a businessman, (not cute) and to my left, a nun.  She was wearing a full habit and smiled at me when I squeezed into my seat.  I get a little motion sickness so I decided to wait until the “fasten seatbelt” light went off before diving into my book.

The first short story was about a whore watching a father inappropriately touch his young daughter.  Incest, child pornography and an illegal (in most states) profession, all before Page 3.   The fact that I was sitting next to a nun didn’t help, and I kept wondering if she was reading over my shoulder.  I was curious about how much more depraved Henry could get.  Turns out, a lot.

Now I have no desire to fuck a midget (little person) or have a drunk Frenchman piss up my ass, but there was some good fucking in between the lines.   And that’s what I focused on.  So it should be a shocker that I was getting turned on.  I looked to my left, and the nun smiled at me.   I blushed.  Yes, Lynn blushes sometimes.  But the immortality started to get to me and after a few more pages, I had to put it back in my bag. I promised myself I’d never read it again.

Some promises are meant to be broken.  Since then, “Under The Roof’s of Paris” has been my go to porn book for around 10 years, hidden in the back of my nightstand.  When I tell people I masturbate reading Henry Miller, they think I’m cool.  Obviously they haven’t actually read much Henry Miller.

Moral of the story, after writing this post, I think I need some new late night reading material….

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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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The Next Day

Whether it’s a one-night stand or a longer affair, there is something that every woman appreciates after spreading her legs; the next day phone call or text.  I’m big on traditional chivalry and I think fuck chivalry is just as important.  If not more so.  You’ve just opened yourself up, literally, and that should be acknowledged.  Just a quick thank you to let me know you weren’t that drunk the night before.  (unless you didn’t exchange names or numbers and then you’re excused.)

I realize that this is not the sort of thing you are taught by a parental figure, but it should be passed amongst friends.  I remember #64 texted me after our one night stand.    The sex was amazing and having him recognize that was touching.  Granted, after his text, I thought he wanted a another round but eventually realized it was just a one off deal.  What can I say, I love good sex and always want more.

I was still asleep when #16 departed after our first night together, but he left me a note to thank me for a great night.  He at least mentioned that he wanted to see me again.   His penmanship was structured and simple and I liked it.  Kept that note for a few weeks just to remind me someone had class.

I’m all for gender equality and if I’ve had a good time, I’m not afraid to text first.   A quick “That was fun” is always appreciated.  It’s also important to keep it as light and friendly as possible so as not to alarm the recipient you might be a stalker.   It’s also a great way to show that you’re interested in a repeat performance.  

Of course if the sex sucks, you never want to hear from them again.  That’s when you delete them from your phone and avoid answering calls from unknown numbers.    

Moral of the story, saying thank you is the best goodbye.

 

 

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The Early Years

It’s not uncommon to see little kids unconsciously touching themselves.  It’s usually discouraged, especially in public, by parents who are slightly embarrassed to see that display of sexuality in their 3 year old.  Not surprisingly, I did it a lot.

My earliest memory of masturbation was when I was 4 and sleeping at my cousin’s house.  We were under the covers and I was touching myself.   I’m not into incest so it wasn’t like she was turning me on, but we’d had a good day and I just wanted to make it better.

“What are you doing?”

I told her that I was making myself feel good and that my mom called it masturbating.  She said that her mom called it that, too.  I felt a little cheated because I thought it was a special name for a special activity, reserved for me.    But as long as we kept to ourselves, I didn’t mind sharing the concept.

The facts are fuzzy but I know that once I discovered masturbation, I did it a lot.  There was more than one occasion when my mom walked in on me, face down with my hand between my legs.  Luckily, my door squeaked so I was able to feign sleep when she’d come in without knocking.   But the danger of getting caught definitely kept me on my toes and forced me to do the job in a more timely fashion.

I was a latchkey kid and had the house to myself after school and before my mom came home.  I would routinely lay on the living room floor and give myself rug burns.  It was almost a daily thing and by the time my mom pulled up in the driveway, I had a smile on my face.

While I didn’t get my cherry popped until I was 18, I was no stranger to the orgasm.  I think that hyper sexuality from an early age made it easier for me to get off as soon as a dick was introduced to my repertoire.   I’m sure some guys have assumed it was a result of their prowess that I’m able to come so fast, but actually it’s years of intense study.   And it can definitely moisten any dry spell and keep you on your toes.

Moral of the story, practice makes perfect.

 

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Hoodlum

My pops has always been a gun enthusiast and because of this, I’ve also been a big supporter of the 2nd Amendment.   When I was a kid, we’d shoot riffles near our cabin in the mountains and when I was 16, I shot his 22 revolver at the range.   I grew up knowing the dangers of guns and the proper ways to use them.  But back then, I didn’t know that guys used them to pick up chicks; namely me.

I’ve been with a few guys that owned guns, but they were all registered with the state, and legal.  #33’s was not.  Mainly because he wasn’t allowed to have a gun in his possession.  He’d been convicted of a crime and sent to jail.  Twice.

Now, I’m not a gangster bitch by any stretch of the imagination.  Even with jumping on the back of stranger’s motorcycles, I consider myself pretty tame.  I mean, I like fucking cops, but I wouldn’t want to be handcuffed by one while fully dressed.

#33 didn’t seem to care that he’d spent some time behind bars.  He told me about his time in the slammer on our second date.  I appreciated his openness and a part of me wanted to save him.  The part of me that didn’t mind his dick was the size of a straw.  Obviously he needed a better influence.  I didn’t even drink and drive let alone snort hundreds of dollars worth of coke up my nose.  But it was not meant to be.

One night he was going down on me and in between orgasms, asked me to pretend he was a chick.  Right then, I knew that our time together had come to a close. If I wanted to be eaten out by a woman, I’d have one between my legs.  Alas, I didn’t.   I’m not sure where he got that line, maybe in jail, getting a blow-job.  “Pretend I’m a chick.”  It makes sense.

I suppose every woman has a “bad boy” experience.   I’m older now and usually if I’m dating someone who challenges the law, it’s probably just driving with a bit of weed.  And even then, he’s probably got a medical marajuana card.   As much as I like to watch prison shows, I don’t’ want to date a felon.

Moral of the story,  my standards aren’t always that high, but I like my conquests to have the ability to vote.

 

 

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The River

Sometimes I like just getting behind the wheel of my car and going for a drive.   When I lived in the Midwest, you kind of had to do that to get anywhere interesting.   But contrary to what people think, there are some great places to go in Middle America and the Mississippi River is one of my favorites.

The first time I went to the great Mississippi River was late one night with #5.  He told me that he wanted to take me somewhere special and I was ready for an adventure.  Was it a new bar?  A hotel?  He wouldn’t tell me.  We drove for a long time and I started to get impatient.  Where were we going?  When would we get there?  Will there be a bathroom?

“Shh, you’ll like this, I promise.”

We were on I-80 and I saw a bridge in the distance.  And beneath it, darkness.  He pulled off the highway and drove down a small road.  He parked and as soon as we got out of the car, he took my hand.  I saw this vast expanse of water and my heart caught in my chest.

The Mississippi River.

It was so big and powerful that you could just feel it pounding against the river bank.  We could hear it lapping at the sides and he walked me over to the embankment.  We sat down and he held me close.   It was emotional and I blamed the tears in my eyes to the strong wind that was blowing around us.  I’m not big on nature, but this was so powerful and yet contained.  (until a series of floods a few years later).   I felt small and vulnerable and for a change, I liked it.

I’ve driven on I-80 numerous times over the years and always make a point of crossing the Mississippi.  Each time I do, I lose my breath a little and I remember #5.   He was a nice guy and had introduced me to one of my favorite places on the planet.

Moral of the story, sometimes the best experience isn’t between your legs but on the state lines of Iowa and Illinois.

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17 Steps

I’ve been madly in love three times.  Madly.  The kind that makes you a crazy person when it’s over.  Yes, Lynn Halsted has debased herself to stalker status.  Don’t be alarmed, no tires were slashed and other than a few too many phone calls and internet searches, no real harm was done to any of the victims.  But yes, it’s happened.

The first time was with #40, in Chicago.  I was madly in love with him and felt tricked when he ended it.  Regardless of his looks (which weren’t that stellar), I was flattered that he was instantly in love with me, but I was too superficial and just wanted to be friends.   And when I moved into his building, we became even better friends.  There were only 6 apartments in the building;  I was on the 2nd  floor, he on the 3rd.  There were 17 steps separating us and that number alternated between being small to very large.  Kind of like the breakfast table in Citizen Kane.

#40 and I were self-employed so we were able to spend a lot of time together.  And once we had consummated our relationship, we used that time wisely.  We’d have sex for hours and if we happened to fall asleep, his toothbrush was only 17 steps away.  This was great for about 3 weeks.  Then, suddenly, he decided that it was too intense for him.  That this love was too much.  He wanted to go back to just being friends.

Um, Lynn doesn’t play that game.

Instead of backing off quietly, I made both our lives a living hell.  Being right downstairs, I was able to listen for his comings and goings.  I’d watch him from the roof and since we worked together sometimes, I’d show up early and leave late.  I wrote him poems that I’d leave under his door and made excuses to borrow things.  But those pleasantries only lasted so long.  He got impatient and I got more determined.

After a few weeks it got really ugly.  I lost a dangerous 20 pounds and respect from everyone I knew.  It took me another month before I realized the only way to get over this was to leave town.  For good.  Not one of my prouder moments, to be sure.  I left without ever saying goodbye.

I’ve had other affairs, other disappointments.  But I was always able to make amends with those unfortunate numbers.  But not #40.  Our paths never crossed again.  Until I saw we had mutual friends on Facebook.  He was back on the East Coast.  I decided that I had to do something.  For over 20 years, I felt horribly guilty about my behavior.  It took another year until finally got the courage to email him and apologize.  He never responded.  Fucker.   17 steps or 17 states, that door is finally closed.

Moral of the story, a journey to insanity can begin with a single step.

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My relationship with #72 is moving along nicely.  I’m having fun and regular sex is always a good thing.   He also has a really nice house and whenever I stay over it feels like I’m on vacation.  Massive bed, rustic ceiling, coffee delivered while I’m still under the sheets.  It’s a weekly retreat I look forward to every Friday night.  (Dave gets in the way of going during the week).  #72 is considerate and a romantic; bringing me flowers when I made him dinner and making sure his freezer is stocked with m&m’s (which I love frozen.)   Suffice it to say, he treats me well.

Last week, I went directly to his house after work.  He granted me access to his shower and when there’s the prospect of getting some action, I like to make sure the important and hopefully soon to be used area is clean and fresh.  He was, of course amenable to that.

I started stripping in the bedroom and walked into the bathroom in my bra and lace thong (matching of course).   He made some comment about how hot I looked and went about getting the water to the perfect temperature.  As I climbed into the shower he left me to do what needed to be done.

The green and black tiled shower was comforting and so masculine that I started to get turned on just thinking about what was in store when I got out.  I finished quickly, wanting to get to the action asap.  I turned off the water and looked around for a towel.  None.  I called out to him, asking where my towel was.

“Hang on a moment.”

So I waited a moment.  And another.  I’ve stayed in some dumpy hotels but considering this was more like the four star variety, I was getting annoyed.  I don’t like to drip dry.   I yelled out, “The service here sucks.”  In two seconds, he came into the bathroom with a towel.  A freshly warmed towel.  Just out of the dryer.

I’m not sure when it was that he called me an ungrateful bitch, but it was done with a smile and a hearty laugh.   As he wrapped the towel around me, I realized that this was a one off event.  Because of my reaction, it would probably never happen again.  At least not with me.   But then I thought, if it did it would be an even bigger surprise.  And he’d have learned to move faster.

Moral of the story, it’s better to have a dick in your mouth than your foot.

Towel Service

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