Archives for July 2015

Vicariously Single

vicariouslyMy lovely niece (20-year-old, and stop it) joined me for dinner last night. I have this thing about eating at the bar. Guess I’ve grown accustomed to the plus-zero. We sat next to a married couple who was fifty-ish.

Much as a committed woman has a way of inserting her boyfriend into conversations with me, I make it known that the specimen on my left is related to me—not a bed-warming woman of low self-esteem or mail-order bride. Guess I could wear a t-shirt saying “I’m with Relative,” to avoid all the nose wrinklage. Meh. Fuck ’em.

Anywho, this isn’t about incest; it’s about the married couple. The wife sat on my right, smiled a greeting my way (after realizing I’m not boinking an infant), then eavesdropped like no other. I guess like so many others in marital Blissville, she chose opportunity over boredom. My niece continually rolled her eyes as she watched the wife react to every statement. Her husband sat there contemplating a large slice of cheesecake laced with morphine.

I assured my niece that wives like her are as prevalent as white Prius cars here in San Diego. I can spot them from across any bar, attending the dreaded date night with a festering boil. Some wives are able to hide their disdain with vodka. Others sit there in an emotional state similar having their teeth cleaned.

Not only can I spot these unhappily married peeps, I can read their minds.

Wife:

“Twenty years of marriage should be more than enough. I should have gotten out at ten.”

“Maybe if I have a little side thing like Janice, I won’t need all those painkillers.”

“I wish my husband were called away to work. Then, this guy next to me would be treated to one helluva cock draining sex rodeo.”

“All I need right now is a hot bath with Vogue magazine and my waterproof vibrator.”

Husband:

“Why can’t Kemp hit fucking home runs at Petco?”

“If this guy is banging that 20-year-old, he is my hero.”

“If the wife orders dessert again, I’m buying another watch.”

“Wonder if I could sneak a fart out, and blame it on the bartender.”

At one point, ESPN showed a baseball player getting beaned. I told the niece the best place to take it is “in the ass.” As soon as the words left my lips, I cringed at the innuendo. The silence in the bar was deafening, but I’d bet anything the wife got a bit dewy by the thought of something new.

Radio Silence

silenceThis is one of my specialties, also known as the smoke bomb, walk-off, or fuck-n-duck. I’d say it’s around 50/50 on how many times I’m been on either end. Like Don Miguel Ruiz says, don’t take it personally. Some people like closure; some people like silence. I’m the latter—numb from unwanted feedback.

Here’s the main thing to remember when you are the dumped: the limit is two unanswered text messages. That’s it. You send one, send a follow up to make sure it wasn’t accidentally sent to the bit bucket, then move on. When you send text number three, or (horrors) call the dumper, you approach the line called pathetic. Don’t.

There could be any number of reasons for the *poof*. If you don’t nag the dumper, you won’t need to hear the reason, which means you can make up your own. Perhaps you are too wonderful—penis is too large, vag is too tight, etc. Place those thoughts in your brain locker, and leave your ego unscathed.

I’m convinced that part of the reason for my latest mate’s disappearing act was (aside from my writing, which slams a lot of doors) because of my reaction to her suggestion about getting tested for STDs. Allow me to rant thereabout.

People, any medical test is effective up to the point it was taken, and even the best medical test has a margin of error associated. I could have blood drawn as I’m balls deep in the nurse’s ass.

Now, some would argue that any test is better than no test, to which I say, “Blah.” There’s little or no truth to that because the people who get tested most are probably the people who have reason to be tested often, hence the most sexually active, hence the most likely to be diseased.

If you say you were tested two months ago, how do I know:

  • You’re telling the truth?
  • The results were not forged?
  • You haven’t been infected since?

I don’t.

Look, if you’re so worried about banging a Petri dish of sexual calamity, then insist upon a condom. You should be aware that to the man, a condom is as enjoyable as taking a bath with your socks on or getting a shoulder rub through a ski jacket. This may delay his ejaculation, which may be wonderful for you (if damp), or horrible (if not). This may also cause an instant deflation of the erection. Or, he might ask for the check and move on to a less hypochondriatic nymph.

Enough on silly tests. Back to the blow off.

Have some dignity, girl. Just shrug, and walk away. You don’t need to know his reasons. Light up your vacancy sign, and be excited by the opportunity that awaits you.

She Likes The Fifty

fiftyWhen a new woman asks where I work, I usually say, “At home. My boss is a prick.” Once she realizes I am unmarried, and the prick is me, the next question concerns my occupation, then what I’ve written, and what the books are about. I can usually find common ground around The Fifty Shades of Grey, since I’ve written parodies thereof. I always ask what she thinks of the original. Her reaction gives me substantial insight.

The woman last night said she wasn’t crazy about the writing, but loved the sex parts.

“Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!” said Phil’s willy.

Above the waist, I wasn’t quite ready to display my leather case of clamps and such. I inferred her kinkiness because she liked the sex parts, which were (*yawn*) kinky. I wondered to what extent.

Be thankful, dear reader, that when you meet the fleshy version of me, I’m somewhat filtered. In print, I’m less filtered, and inside my head, it’s a fucking free-for-all.

Hence, my bone bowl of gelatinous, yet amateurish kinkery (a.k.a. gin-soaked brain) told my mouth to present the following options:

  • “Awesome! Can I stick it in your pooper?”
  • “Ever had someone pee on you?”
  • “I will pierce your nipples with rusty thumb tacks.”
  • “Bartender, hand me thy muddler. I’m gonna pound me some punani.”
  • “Hey, let’s grab a fat chick, and go play doctor in the bed of my Tundra.”

Those were all excellent night-enders—lady repellants, if you will. But, I had cabernet left, and a wild hair on my scrotum. The thoughts were returned to sender, and I demanded kinder, gentler versions, which could ease insertion instead of a wine bath.

  • “Which parts got you dewy, darling?”
  • “Rich guys with whips have all the fun. Would you settle for a man swimming in debt holding a baseball belt?”
  • “If you let me tie you up, I promise to keep your face out of the pictures.”
  • “If I were the ideal penis, what size, width, and color would I be?”
  • “This face was made for sitting.”

Bad brain!

I said none of the such. Yet, I bet if I deployed a few, there’d be a slight possibility that she’d find my honesty refreshing, then offer to make a foot vagina. (I saw this on Playboy TV last night. Not sure how I feel about it. Athlete’s Cock sounds horrible, does it not?)

Alas, harmless, boring banter is all there was. No ball gags, dildos, or trampolines. Sometimes my life is dull as missionary.

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Thoughts of a Purse Dog

pursedogChrist, I have to piss. This sucks. Can’t even lick myself. Fuck. Yes, lady, I know I’m cute. Lovely. Want to trade places? You sit your baby-talking ass in this leather cell, and see how you like it. Nope, can’t bring your chardonnay with you. Just you. Oh, you’ll get your head shugga-shugga’d occasionally. You might even see some dried wonder meat if you keep quiet. I need doggy Xanax.

Look, why did you bring me into the restaurant, anyway? The owners don’t want me here. The patrons don’t want me here. Guess what? I don’t want to be here either. Fucking noisy place, and I’m tortured with the constant scent of food I’m not allowed to eat. Hate this joint. I’d rather you leave me in a hot car to contemplate my miserable existence without awful karaoke to drown out my thoughts. At least pour me a bowl of 151 rum.

What idiot told you we dogs like being toted around? Was it some legless twat? Must have been a cat. Fucking cat always messing with me. You know what I like to do? Run around. Shocked, are ya? Try to run in a hammock. Can’t fucking do it, can ya? How about a simple thing like scratching your ass. Can’t do that either. Nope. Just have to sit here in this sock house and hope my lower extremities fall asleep.

Couldn’t you hire a dog-sitter? I just need some water and an occasional squat. Ten minutes would do. The rest of the time I’ll just cruise around the house sniffing things. Maybe chase my tail. Fuck. Can’t do that in here either. In fact, where is my tail? Oh, I’m sitting on it. Wouldn’t know that because I’m fucking numb. God damn it.

So, you got me this fancy vest now. Great, another body tourniquet. What’s this writing? “Service Dog?” Jesus fucking Christ! I’m seven pounds! What service could I provide a hundred-twenty-five pound (I’m being kind) human? You can see and hear just fine. What’s that? I provide psychological benefits? Horse shit. I’m not your shrink. I’m simply here to get your over your failed relationships. I’m someone to love who won’t leave you. You’re taking therapy from me? I pissed on my leg last night, ate some vomit, and barked at a shadow. You’ve hired ME as your life coach? Ass wad.

What’s this now? Oh, I finally get out of this cave. You’re awesome. What? You want me to drink from that bowl outside the door? You first. That water has been sitting there so long, mosquitoes won’t even bathe in it. Look at the green slime ring. Fuck! Some goober Labrador slobbered in there. I’m not drinking it. Nope. Damn, I’m thirsty. I hate you. Fine. *Slurp, slurp, slurp* Yep, tastes like fermented goat semen. How’s your margarita? Lovely.

Back in the bag? Sure, nothing I’d rather do. Swing me around some more. Nah, I won’t get dizzy. Look, there’s another dog lover. Come scratch my chin. Ahhh. Thanks, mate. Now, fuck off! Don’t touch my nose. God damn it. How about a little behind-the-ear work instead? Much better. Can’t reach there because my front paws are pinned. Yep. My nails have curled and are now growing into my palm. Not at all uncomfortable.

Finally, we’re home. Someone please invent doggie suicide. Call it end-of-life therapy. Whatever. I’m so giddy, I want to crawl into the microwave and press “Start.” I’ll just curl up here and dream of a life less confined.