Tag Archives: relationships

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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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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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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The Hotel

I’m not sure if this is Dave’s cockblocking or if #72 just doesn’t like staying at someone’s place, but when we do an overnight, it’s always at his house.  He calls my apartment Animal Planet because of the three mammals that reside here.  It’s cute.  We call his place The Hotel because he owns it and it’s much bigger.

Because #72 won’t stay over, I’ve never been able to conduct the “fuck in front of the dog” experiment.  Or even sleep with someone.  I mean Dave likes to lay next to me when I masturbate, what would happen with another human sharing the bed?  I think and hope I’ll be single and whoring around again before Dave dies (10 years is way too long to be in this relationship), so eventually the answer will be revealed.  I just have to be patient.

But for now I stay at The Hotel.   And it really is like a hotel.  Room Service, free weed, the sheets are fresh, and I don’t have to make the bed.  (Although I do half the time because I’m nice that way).  I hate to admit it, but staying at the hotel is also a nice reprieve from waking up with hairy creatures next to me. (although #72 is a little hairy).  We have check in at 6:30pm on Friday or Saturday nights.  There’s no check out policy, but I always leave before 11 so it’s never an issue.

So last Saturday night, I was at The Hotel and went to pee before we left for dinner.  I turned to the left (and it’s a hard left because the roller is way far behind you)  and took a quick gander at the roll before I ripped off about 7 squares.  (You need about that many when you’re a chick.)   So check this out, the edge of the toilet paper was folded into a triangle.  It was one of those little touches that make it hard to dump him.  (now that I’m thinking about it, maybe his housekeeper did it and he just hadn’t used it before I got there…. No, I’ll keeping thinking he did it).

When I got home, I tried to do The Hotel toilet paper move.  It’s a little more intensive than I thought it would be.  You have to fold it just right or it isn’t even and looks bad.  I also did it WHILE I was peeing so I had to use the triangle a moment later.  I think that makes it clear that I’m a bit of a retard and that I’ll never have a housekeeping career.  (Although I sweep regularly and 409 is my best friend).

Moral of the story, thoughtfulness can buy you more time.



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Here I am getting all confessional on you, but I figure, jump right in.  So, I’ve been with #72 for over a year now.  I feel awful that I’ve stymied my quest for triple digits, but alas, he’s a good man.  Not good in bed, but you’d never know as we never have sex.  And when we do, it’s so vanilla that I want to add chocolate chips and a waffle cone.  Isn’t this ironic, me, Lynn Halsted, in a sexless relationship. 

I keep telling myself, I’ve had A LOT of good dick in my 45 years (well, the 28 that I’ve been having sex) and maybe it’s okay to be with someone who is just a great guy and good to me.  And then I tell myself that no, it’s NOT okay, but I’m just not ready to break up with him.  I’m actually WORKING on this with him.  I’m being PATIENT which is so unlike me.  And yet, here I am, being that way.

So I’m in this fucked situation where I’m really happy but not getting laid.  I’m celibate and not by choice.  Is this what happens in marriages?  Not MY marriages.  But then again they only lasted 2 years each.

I’m torn by the whole thing.  We’ve tried to talk about it, and he says he’ll do better, but he hasn’t.   Every few days he’ll finger bang me, but it’s just not enough.  I’m going to buy toys, but will he even use them or is that too avant guard for him.  He thinks it’s naughty to slap my ass while I’m getting dressed.  It’s like, get me naked with a collar and push my face into the bed while you do me from behind and THEN slap my ass.  THAT would make me happy.

But he’s interested in making me happy in every other way.  He’s the perfect boyfriend… but kind of a platonic one that I get to kiss and sleep in bed with.   I just don’t know at the moment.  We had a nice dinner last week.  We held hands.  Yawn

Moral of the story, keeping a relationship up doesn’t really work unless he can keep it up. 

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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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Despite the fact that am now considered a lazy pig, I was a runner most of my life.   While running might be good for a high ass, it’s not conducive to having pretty feet.   And while I’m happy I’ve maintained the elusion of a runners body over the years, the ugly “runners feet” have also remained.   And it’s been a problem.  A manicurist once told me I had the worst feet she’d ever seen.  After that, I refused to wear anything but closed toe shoes and socks to bed, even in the summer.

But then, a few years ago, my mother dragged me to Q Nails in Thousand Oaks.   I told my mom what happened but she said I was full of shit and over dramatic.  She shoved me into a spa chair and waved, cute, petite Cindi over.   I slipped off my white Crocs and Cindi looked at my feet.  Miraculously she didn’t vomit, she only told me to pick a color.

Getting a mani/pedi with my mom has become our “thing”.  It’s fun and not only because most of the time she pays.  We gossip, look through magazines we’d never even think of admitting we read and get high on the smell of polish.   Sometimes a little too high.   I don’t shock very easily, but every once in a while, my mom throws me a curve ball.  A few weeks ago, she pitched a doozy.

“How do you have sex from behind?”

I don’t fancy myself as a sex instructor; if you can glean some tips from my escapades, more power to you but that is not the intention.   I just like to share.  But when I looked into my mom’s eyes, I knew she needed some clarification.  I tried to show her the move with my hands and fingers, but that was proving difficult.  So, as I explained how the woman is on her knees with her ass in the air and the guy is behind her, I demonstrated the move on my chair.

“What if he’s fat?  Does his belly get in the way?  Can you still do it?”

The specifics made me suspect.  Not only is my stepfather 83, he’s slightly infirm.  It was obvious my mom was having an affair and she wanted tips of the trade.  I confronted her and she adamantly denied it.  She just wanted to know, for her own edification.   But she didn’t use that word, she just said, forget it.  I can’t.  It was proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Moral of the story, I’m too tall and young to be a Dr. Ruth impersonator.

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Even though I haven’t been a “girlfriend” very often, I feel that my two marriages, however short, have given me some street cred when it comes to talking about intimacy.  I think there are a lot of levels of openness in a relationship, but some of them should stay closed.

I’m not big on bodily functions.  Sure we joke about it in my family.  Farting is one of our favorite topics, but no one I’m fucking needs to know this.   I understand, once you are living with someone, you can only hold it in for so long.  But there are certain things you should NEVER do in front of anyone else.

Ex-Husband #2 and I were at his parent’s house in North Carolina for Christmas.  We had just fucked on the fold-out bed and were feeling pretty lovey dovey.  We had to get ready for lunch and we were in the bathroom together.  I had to pee, (which is something you can easily do in front of someone after a month) so I sat down, naked on the toilet, while he brushed his teeth.  Something about the sitting and the recent fucking and all the coffee I’d drunk that morning, I needed to do a little more.  Immediately.  I told Ex-Husband #2 that he should get go get dressed, and close the door on his way out.    He asked me why and I said just go. 

Things were getting serious and I knew there wasn’t much time before I couldn’t hold it any longer.  I told him again, leave or you’ll be sorry.   He refused and laughed.  No matter what I did, he would not get the fuck out of the bathroom.  But he wouldn’t.

I waited as long as I could.  Until I couldn’t.  So I did.

“Are you shitting?!  You totally are.  That’s disgusting!  I can’t believe you’re shitting in front of me!”

I reminded him that I told him to get the fuck out and he wouldn’t.  That this was his fault.  He just laughed.   I was mortified.  Obviously we’d broken through the final barrier of gross.  Soon after that, he started texting me pictures of his shit before he flushed.  This kept up until we broke up.  Thank god for small favors.  And the delete button.

Moral of the story, just because you’re in a relationship doesn’t mean you should do everything together.

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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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One of my best features has always been my eyes.  They are light blue with a ring of yellow that gives them a splash of green in the center.  Kind of unique and with long lashes, the highlight of my slightly quirky face.  I remember in high school, I was supposed to win the Best Eyes category for seniors but some bitch with colored contacts took that title from me by 10 votes.  But I’m over it.  Really.

In addition to the fact that you can actually SEE out of them, eyes are pretty cool.  And even though I’ve worn contacts (clear ones, just for the record, my eyes are NATURALLY blue, unlike some people I knew in high school) for years and years, I think it’s weird to have anything extra in your eyes; whether it be a contact lens, an eyelash, or sperm.

I like a pearl necklace now and again, but I think all shooting of your wad should stay below the chin.  I came to this conclusion the hard way.   After an hour or so of hard core fucking, my puss puss needed a time out.  Ex-Husband #1 decided it was the perfect opportunity to titty fuck me.   He climbed on top of me and squatted over my chest.  I laid back and let him do his thing.  Big mistake.

“I’m going to cum.”

It happened fast and I was freshly fucked so my reaction time was compromised.   Within seconds, he shot cum in my face.  Oddly enough, my mouth closed before my eyes did. My hands instinctively went to my face, but it was too late.  Sperm swam into my corneas and burned.  A lot.  It hurt so much it made a dirty contact feel good.  Ex-Husband #1 started laughing and I shoved him off me, threatening to never fuck him again.  At least not with my eyes open.  (Besides, I preferred being blindfolded anyway.  He wasn’t that cute.)

Moral of the story, lots of sports require protective eye gear.  Even fucking.

The Eyes Have It

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