How You Doin’ Blondie?


Pretty In Pink
April 19, 2008, 10:11 pm
Filed under: Anger, Life, Lonliness, Loss, love, Pain, Reality, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I went to Barnes and Noble’s today, and for the first time in my life, I was disgusted by books. Disgusted. Everywhere I looked there was pink and white and cursive script and cutesy designs; “Blonde” and “Sex” and “Beautiful” and “Affair”; skin and breasts and lips.

It made me so sad. And so angry.

Every author was competing for the coveted distinction of being the most renegade, the most taboo.

“Oh, Oh, I know! I’ll write from the perspective of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of the current wife, who approves of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of a single woman who has anonymous sex with multiple partners!”

“Well I’ll be a kept woman”

“Well I’ll be a stripper!”

“I’ll be an prostitute!”

“I’ll be a porn star!”

And on and on and on and on until I just wanted to stand in the middle of the bookstore and cry. I wanted to sob, big heaving sobs that rack your whole body and make you gasp for breath and send torrents of wet, hot, salty, tears running down your cheeks and your lips and your neck.  I wanted to destroy; I wanted to tear each and every single book off of the shelf and rip the pages from their bindings and shred each word, each paragraph into little tiny pieces of confetti and then spit on it, I wanted to spit on all of it. I wanted to cause destruction and turmoil and pain. I wanted those authors to see the fruits of their labor – their lifeblood – desecrated and defiled. I wanted the authors to be hurt, I wanted them to feel violated. And I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos and scream at them

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT A GAME! You take the one thing that brings me joy, you take my one escape, you take the only constant that I have to cling to and you USE it, you USE it and you CHEAPEN it. You CHEAPEN it in the name of your precious creative genius. You enclose yourself in your edgy little writer’s retreat and you say to yourself, ‘How can I be dramatic? How can I be poignant? How can I be utterly unique?’ And you start to brainstorm and the wheels start turning and you start thinking ‘outside the box’ and you start to think about what’s hot and what’s fascinating and how can you really grab someones attention, really force them to look at you and suddenly you think, ‘Sex!’  You think, ‘One of the most forbidden topics!’ You think ‘I’ll write about sex and sluts and prostitutes and adultery, but I’ll disguise all the turmoil and strife and make it cutesy and humorous and lovable, even! I’ll be a real insurrectionary!’

BUT YOU’RE NOT. Are you listening to me? YOU’RE NOT. You write about all these things that you know nothing about and you make your busty blonde protagonist sarcastic and witty and sometimes insightful and largely happy go lucky, as if sure, she knows she might not lead the most normal, average, lifestyle, but she’s happy because she knows what she’s doing isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

And then your book hits the shelves and people love it, they go crazy for it. You’re on Oprah and The View and Good Morning America and The Late Show and people are just in LOVE with your book! How could they not be? Just look at what you’ve done! You’ve made them fall head over heels for the whore of Babylon! You’ve made them root for Delilah! And you’ve done it all without making them feel anything unpleasant, no despair or defeat. You’ve romanticized everything. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve made it digestible. You ‘left out’ the part where the ‘other’ woman cries herself to sleep at night over the unrequited love she has surrendered her soul to. You ‘forgot to mention’ the part where the prostitute falls in love with a regular guy but watches the relationship deteriorate before her eyes because she doesn’t enjoy making love to him, she’s not even sure what ‘making love’ is.

You make it acceptable and understandable. You rob it of it’s realism. You’re a liar, a thief, and a whore, in every sense of the word.”



Protected: Flying Solo
April 16, 2008, 1:50 am
Filed under: lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , ,

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My Kingdom For Which Search Engine This Guy Used
April 12, 2008, 4:19 pm
Filed under: Humor, lust, Query, sex | Tags: , , ,

I shit you not, this inquiry returned my blog:

“how do i make myself cum harder”

Seriously ya’ll, my kingdom.



To Catch A Pseudo-Predator

I overheard this man remark that Bob Saget’s HBO special was deplorable and tasteless, that he crossed far too many boundaries.

Please, Bob Saget wishes he was that opprobrious.

Saget’s special was sad; if you squinted your eyes and cocked your head to one angle, you could just barely make out the superimposed image of a man bailing water out of a rapidly sinking dingy.

I mean, talking about wanting to fuck your daughter’s underage friends? Really Bob? Admitting you lust after minors is so passe; do you not watch Dateline? 



Whore Redux

Today; “Search Engine Terms: define whore”.

Really?

It was vaguely amusing, now it’s just mildly insulting.

…Oh and honey? If you’re concerned enough to research the formal definition, you’ve probably already been immortalized by Joe Francis.



Ladies and Gentlemen, Poet Laureate Robert Sylvester Kelly:

    I heard a song the other day, and the lyrics in the opening chorus gave me pause. The name of the song [and I use the term very, very loosely] is “Make it Rain”; penned by Messrs. “Lil’ Wayne” and “Fat Joe,” featuring a guest appearance by R.Kelly. As a woman, I should be offended by the chauvinistic and frankly degrading lyrics Mr. Kelly is crooning; but as someone who considers themselves a novice at the game the big boys play, I was highly entertained by the song’s stark materialistic and animalistic overtures:

“I be drilling these chicks like Major Payne
When I make it rain, they be like ‘Kell… do it again’
From the club to the coupe, inside my gates
Up in my bedroom screaming each other’s name
They was perty perty, and I was flirty flirty
Lil’ dro, lil’ bub now they gettin’ dirty dirty
Don’t ask me what my name is, stupid bitch I’m famous
You gon’ make me aim this, leave your ass brainless
I’m tryin’ to stay R&B but these streets is a part of me
So don’t get it twisted
You see I order one bottle, then I talk with one model
Then I order more bottles, now I got more models
I’m from that city where them niggas don’t play me
I take a chick to my room like cave man
So ask your girlfriend my name, I bet she go
‘Skeet Skeet Skeet Skeet, Weatherman ’bout to make it rain!’”

 

I particularly enjoy the line wherein Robert raps incredulously, “Don’t ask me what my name is, stupid bitch I’m famous.” I simply must find an opportunity to use that line…perhaps during my tete-a-tete with Diane Sawyer when I’m identified as [insert powerful man’s name of your choice here]’s proverbial “side dish”…



Running Errands Is Depressing

I was walking out of the grocery store parking lot today, and this woman with a thick Scandinavian accent and an SUV full of family stopped and asked me for directions to a store on Rt. 70. I knew exactly where she wanted to go, and I knew exactly how to get her there, but I was concerned that she’d get turned around in this murderous Yankee traffic. I didn’t have anywhere to be, so I told her that I was going by where she wanted to go, and she could just follow me if she wanted to.

As we were pulling up to her destination, she pulled up along the right side of my car and thanked me profusely for my kindness. I told her she was very welcome and as she pulled away everyone was waving and smiling, sincerely grateful for my help. It made me feel genuinely happy that I was able to help someone, even if it was with something small like directions to a shopping center.  In that fleeting instant, as the woman pulled away to make her turn while I remained stopped at the light, I felt like maybe everything isn’t as dire as I make it out to be. Maybe I’m capable of leading a normal life, maybe I could start over somewhere as Suzie Homemaker who bakes cookies for the neighbors and gives good directions to out-of-towners.

So I’m stopped at the red-light, and I’m thinking all of these things and watching the woman’s tail lights disappear through my lowered passenger side window, and I’m in an almost happy place. Then a shiny, big, Ford F-150 pulls up beside me carrying a cab-full of construction workers. I usually avoid eye contact in these types of situations, but I wasn’t on guard, and I accidentally locked eyes with the driver.

In an instant, every little daydream I’d been having about cute pink aprons and two car garages, his and her sinks and a loving, lasting marriage; evaporated. Every last one. Gone.

I looked into the eyes of that driver, and the eyes of his passengers, and I saw lust, greed, and hunger. And then I remembered who I am, what I do, and how lonely I am. I remembered that men don’t see me as mother, or someone that they could introduce to their mother, but as an object. An object of lust, greed, and hunger. Those 3 things have given me so, so much, but they’ve taken even more away.

It’s a bitch, grocery shopping.



Question: Tell me what you think about this

After it’s all said and done, I’ve used them as much as they’ve used me.



You Got To Make That Money, Honey.

Another little fun discovery: the phrase  “assholes ‘men relationships’ ” returns my blog.

Why would you enter those words, in that order, into a search engine? What are you hoping to discover? That you’re not alone? That there are other women who think that the men they are engaged in relationships with believe their partners are assholes too?

Honey, that’s a given.

What you should have entered, instead of “assholes ‘men relationships'”, is “assholes ‘gifts he gives'”. Because all men are assholes, and all men know it. So it’s not about whether or not your man is an ass, it’s whether or not you make him pay for it. If he crushes your soul on a weekly basis and you’re not walking away with a minimum of 10,000 a month in un-taxable income, that relationship just isn’t working, sweetheart.



Familiarity Breeds Contempt
November 21, 2007, 12:24 am
Filed under: dating, Life, love, lust, Men, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , ,

      “And when you were done, you actually felt a little guilty, even you. You looked at her (she looked right back, looked right into your eyes with your cock still inside her, with arms still around your shoulders, looked right into your eyes and shoved her hips forward and when you nearly collapsed because she did that, when your knees nearly gave out because you were so sensitive, she opened her mouth wide and laughed a hard, happy laugh, smiling and snarling all at once, all with her mouth open wide) you looked at her and thought, ‘This girl has a problem. This girl is addicted to sex. This girl likes fucking strange men and if she gets paid for it, so much the better.’ You looked at her and thought, ‘This girl was probably repeatedly molested when she was a child.'”

      “And that time and the last time, after you were done, again the guilt came back, the concern for her. Yes, concern. But then you put your hand on the bone of her hip, saw the curve of her ribs on her side beneath her right breast, saw the back of her knee, and you had to have her again. And every time you reach over to take her again, she laughs that laugh, that cold, hard, satisfied laugh.”

      “When she leaves the next morning, sore, walking carefully, her pussy like a wound, you give her double what you agreed on. You do it because she was good, because she earned it, but also because you wanted to make her life better. Because you do feel sorry for her. But when she takes the money, she is not surprised that you have given her twice what she was supposed to get. She doesn’t even think you’ve made a mistake.”

Kelman, Nic. Girls. 1st ed. Boston: Little Brown, 2003.



Trophy Girlfriend 101
November 17, 2007, 7:50 pm
Filed under: Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , ,

“She gives you a ring or a bracelet that says ‘Peace,’ or, ‘Dream more.’ And you wear it. You wear it even though your friends see it and say, ‘What the hell is that?’ and, embaressed, because you know exactly how ridiculous it is, you say, ‘She gave it to me,’ and then they say ‘Oh,’ and leave it at that because now it makes it sense. Yes, you wear it all the time. But you know it will not work. That is what she is for.”

 

Kelman, Nic. Girls. 1st ed. Boston: Little Brown, 2003.



What A Rip Off

I only got enough money out of him to reimburse me for the cab ride and cover the emergency contraceptive I had to buy.

What part of “Sugar Daddy” did he not understand?

I hang on your arm, make you look good, act like you’re a sex god, you buy me things! This is not a difficult concept! Her name was Anna Nicole Smith, google her!



He said “I’d really like to take you to bed.”
November 9, 2007, 10:06 pm
Filed under: love, lust, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , ,

He really caught me off guard when he asked me how much he owed me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, re-fastening the ankle strap on my stiletto’s (I kept them on as per his request, but they got a little jostled during doggie) and he was just watching me. Then he murmured “You’re incredible baby,” then when I leaned in to kiss him goodbye, he wedged a roll of 100’s into my cleavage. He thought I was hooker. He tried to pay me, like I was some sex-starved, money-hungry blonde bimbo. I was so insulted, I threw the roll in his face and stormed out.

Oh please, get real.

5,000 g’s babe. Tax-free. Degrade me all you want, honey.



It’s Only Gay if Balls Touch…
November 4, 2007, 9:34 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, love, lust, Men, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , ,

I’ll be honest, I don’t particularly mind being involved in a love triangle involving me and two incredibly good-looking, very fuckable, firefighters. Of course, I use the term “love” very loosely, since I’m fairly sure this is more of a sex triangle than anything else (which again, with two firefighters, is not a horrible thing).

Do you remember that I told you S. admitted his original intent was to hook me up with his friend, Keith? Do you remember how I thought it was funny, even a little cute, that he decided to keep me for himself instead? Turns out it wasn’t that funny, because guess whose throwing his hat in the ring now? Yes, Keith. I’ve run into him a bunch of times during my nightly walk up to grab some dinner and this last time we ran into each other I made a parting remark that I’d probably see him tomorrow to which he replied, “Yeah, now that I know what time to show up.”

He and S. are very close friends, so this means one of two things:

1.) S. has given him the green-light and obviously has no intention of ever making a move and possibly even regrets the moves he did make

OR

2.) S. has filed me under the category of “girls men fuck” rather than “girls men bring home to mom” and has decided to share a little bit of the wealth with his best friend.

OR, a third option that really isn’t an option at all because it’s only feasible in my little fantasy world where I’m treated like a nice, decent girl:

3.) S. isn’t aware of this little development in mine and Keith’s relationship and once he becomes aware of it he will realize he needs to stop dragging his feet and MAKE A MOVE.

OR option 4.) which consists of me getting double teamed at the fire house 😉



If Only My Hand Could Buy Me Nice Things, I’d Give Up Men
October 30, 2007, 9:32 pm
Filed under: dating, games, Life, love, lust, Men, neighbor, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

We ran into each other today, he was running errands on his lunch break and I was heading to class. He stopped and made small talk, asked me if I was going to be selling my car because he saw me taking pictures of it yesterday. Then he said he had a meeting in an hour and really had to get going so he could finish running those errands. That’s what he did do, now here’s what he didn’t do:

He did not ask me out on date.

And the rest of my day was directly affected by it, EVEN AFTER I swore I wouldn’t care. Even as I type this, I’m still upset that I’ve been rejected/dismissed [again] and embarrassed that I keep opening myself up for it. I’m also a little disappointed in myself, because I think the reason he doesn’t want to get involved is because of the type of girl I appear to be. He’s very concerned with his son’s well-being, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he doesn’t want his son to hear people talking about that bimbo on Daddy’s arm.

I’ve come to this conclusion by process of elimination really, because I know that his failure to make a move isn’t that he isn’t attracted to me; that one night we went out together, he definitely tagged second base. He was also very quickly sliding into third but the only thing that got off was my shirt and my bra, and since dry sex doesn’t count, he officially only got to second base.

So I know he’s physically attracted to me. But I don’t think he expects or wants a connection beyond that. To his credit, he tried very hard not to seem incredulous when the conversation turned to my education, but I still felt the disbelief. He seemed uncomfortable talking with me about anything other than my experiences as a cheerleader.

But you know what the biggest red flag should’ve been? While were cuddling on the couch, he said that we were going to have to be “discreet” because he was very concerned with what his son might find out about. I immediately sat up and started putting my shirt back on while saying “Oh, so you’re only looking for a fuck buddy?” And there was a beat of silence, not a big beat, but a beat nonetheless, before he said “No, no, not at all,” and then started talking about how he really wanted to get to know me better.

With any other guy, I would have seen all the warning signs and ended things before they even started, but not with him. He wasn’t arrogant or cocksure, he even admitted to being surprised that I was interested in him at all [which was incredibly flattering], I thought he was different from all the others. I thought I had a shot at a relationship that didn’t involve a Sugar Daddy.

Guess not.



Addendum to a Missive
October 29, 2007, 4:24 pm
Filed under: dating, games, Life, love, Men, relationships, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Of course, after having declared it officially his move, I should probably explain that although this seems like a very rational, healthy, adult thing to do, it isn’t [this is me we’re talking about here, have you learned nothing?] If he isn’t consumed with jealously by the way his friends flirt with me and doesn’t swoop down to claim me, I will will probably crumple like a rag-doll and within the next two weeks be involved in a relationship with a wealthy, arrogant, egotistical, older man.

You know, it’s not just those who are ignorant of the past that are doomed to repeat it…those of us that wrote the book are susceptible too.



So Tell Me, Why Can’t This Be Love?
October 28, 2007, 3:33 pm
Filed under: dating, dirty, Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , ,

Every time I’m out with a man I’m really attracted to, at around 1 o’clock in the morning I get incredibly, insatiably, horny. We could have had a perfectly nice, respectable evening but it doesn’t matter, at 1 o’clock I’m arching my back seductively and pretending I don’t notice the neckline of my shirt creeping lower and lower. At 1 o’clock my tone of voice changes subtly to something darker and sexier. At 1 o’clock I toss my hair and stretch like a cat, causing him to imagine me stretching the same way much later that morning, in his bed, naked. My favorite part is right before they break, when their erection is straining against their zippers and I’m frustrating them to no end because I’m pretending like I don’t notice it. I always smile to myself when the kiss finally comes, because it’s never slow and gentle like in those old black and white movies. Instead it’s always forceful and urgent, and their hands are everywhere.

The funniest part about it is, before they make a move to start seriously rounding some bases, they always do a quick test-grab. It’s always really quick, so if I’m not receptive they can pretend like it was an accident. When they do that I always have to make a conscious effort not to laugh, because after they realize I’m willing, all pretense of respectability and restraint is abandoned.

And that’s what makes me the horniest of all.

Why can’t this be love, indeed.



But Now That I Think About It…
October 26, 2007, 11:11 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, love, lust, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , ,

…before I’d made that comment about her tits [or lack thereof], I should have asked where she got that t-shirt. Can you imagine how dirty the sex would be if he saw me in that? Mmmm…



I Like It Deep [and disgusting]
October 26, 2007, 9:06 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

She was so obviously a poseur, it made me sick. Her t-shirt read “Beat me, bite me, whip me, fuck me, cum on my tits, then get the fuck out!” The way she was standing, her chest stuck out, hip cocked to one side, bored expression on her face; I could tell she wanted everyone in that Wawa to be shaken from their morning routine by disgust, rendered mute by the way she flaunted her self-hatred. Well I wasn’t disgusted, I was angry. I was angry that this barely-legal poseur was trying to insinuiate herself into a world she knows NOTHING about. This is MY niche, MY lot in life, I’M the one who has cornered the market on emotionally unstable trophy girlfriends, this is MY turf and I have the therapy bills to prove it. If she really thrived on being depreciated, defiled, corrupted, adulterated, truly objectified by men, then I’d have met her already. I would’ve seen her on the arm of one of my boyfriend’s friends, or a few stools down from me at the bar in the country club. No, this girl was a poseur, and it made me so angry I wanted to punch her heavily made-up eyes out.

Instead, I just stared at her until she made eye contact with me. Then  I pointedly glanced at her t-shirt and then back at her eyes before saying cooly, “What tits?” 

Score 1 for Blondie, still nonpareil.



[S]he’s going the distance
October 25, 2007, 2:02 am
Filed under: Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

I wore a hot little black outfit today and did my little walk in front of the firehouse. It felt so good, they pulled the ambulance out to respond to a call but stopped dead in the middle of the street, just to watch me walk by. And when the firefighter driving stopped and waved, I waved back. When they’re at the bar later, talking about me, and S. tells them who I am, I want them all to look at S. incredulously and say things like “You’re letting that get away?”



“You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is ‘never try.'”
October 24, 2007, 3:22 am
Filed under: Life, love, lust, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

Well at least he didn’t say hell no. In fact, he didn’t really even say “no” at all, he just kind of cut if off at the knees. Now I’m more confused than ever, because his reasons for not being available tonight are legitimate. So do I try again? I’m begining to get tired of all this indecision and self-doubt. It would be so much easier if I could dismiss him and the things he makes me feel, but every day I don’t have him makes me certain I need him all the more. I don’t just want him anymore, I need him. I need him and everything he makes me feel, everything he represents.

And I still don’t know if he wants me too. “You shouldn’t let a man control you’re emotions like that! This is the 21st century, girl power!” Sister, where have you been? My apparent purpose in life is to set the women’s rights movement back at least as far as it’s come.



Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
October 23, 2007, 12:58 am
Filed under: dating, Life, love, lust, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , ,

I want him. Badly. I want his lips on mine. I want his hands up my skirt. I want to feel him get hard through his jeans. I need it.

Very rarely do I actually pursue what I want. I let things happen to me. I let men choose me. I let relationships develop that I know won’t amount to much.

Well I’m done.

I’m done scheduling my day around hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of him. I’m done with becoming incredibly depressed if he doesn’t wave to me when he drives by. I want a to get to know him better. I want a romantic relationship to develop between us. I want a sexual relationship to develop between us.

I’ve decided to just go for it. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do, but I’m going to do something. I’ve never made the first move before, and I’m scared as hell. But I’m more scared of standing on this street forever, waiting for the other guy to draw.

Dr. J is encouraging me. He thinks that maybe by taking the initiative for once, I’ll break the chain of destructive relationships.  He says the fact that I feel something different than I’ve ever felt before could be my subconscious telling me it’s time to end some of my emotional struggles…he must be almost done with his car payments or something.



de • grade – verb [used with object] 1. to reduce; to decompose by stages.

Sometimes I feel like my love life is so pathetic it’s tangible. Like people can see it just as clearly as they could see a piece of lettuce in my teeth. My relationships with men are so twisted and unhealthy, I don’t ever fully confide in anyone about them, not even Dr. J. And I don’t lie because I’m afraid of what people will say about my lifestyle, I can handle being looked at as the obligatory bimbo indicative of a man’s mid-life crisis. What I can’t handle is people seeing how much of my heart I put into being objectified. On some level, I know he doesn’t really love me, I know I’m just another accessory he bought, but the part of me that wants so badly to be loved, lies to the part of me that knows that I’m not. It’s sick, it’s sad, it’s disgusting, it’s deplorable; I should know better, I deserve better, insert the self-empowering lie of your choice here. But for all those things, for all those wretched, dirty little things that define my relationships with men, the worst, the very worst thing about it all: this is the way it has to be. I am only happy with a man when he devalues me as a person.



People’d call, say “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”

To the men I date, I am their trophy. I am tall, I am blonde, I’ve got the measurements women take out second mortgages for. I look good in their recently acquired late model luxury car (usually red), and I look even better on the deck of their yachts that managed to escape the hatchet in divorce court. I’m intelligent, so when they dress me up and show me off to their friends, I don’t embarrass them by saying something vapid or staring vacantly into my wine glass. They love the way the men in their social circle congratulate them discreetly, and the way the wives of those same men glare at me with unadulterated envy and scorn. Everything I do is cute, every idea I have is refreshing. Anything I express even a mild interest in, I get.

But I am never introduced to their children. I am never invited to family functions. Pictures are taken of us as a couple, but they never manage to make it to the coffee table or the wall. Though I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with Bachelors degrees in both Applied Mathematics and History, I am rarely asked for my opinion concerning business or social matters. I have never made it past the engagement phase. I used to give the rings back when the wedding plans fell through, but now I keep them. They never ask for the gifts back, so I never had to make a conscious decision to keep them. I own more luxury cars than Shaq, and I have more bling too. My baubles make the Hope Diamond look like junk from a vending machine.

But I’ve never had a wedding. I’ve never had a man look at me with hopeless love and devotion. I’m an object. A symbol of a phase of their life they’ll laugh about someday with their second wife, a woman older than me and probably not as attractive.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a twenty something home-wrecker, I see a little girl who wants so desperately to be loved that it hurts sometimes. On the few occasions my family gets together, I can’t bear to look at Dad’s new girlfriend, can’t stand to see how beautiful, how young, how intelligent she is. But the worst part, the part that is truly sick, is that I’m content being an object. Actually, I’m more than content, it thrills me. I get an indescribable sense of euphoria from being that hot thing hanging off some middle-aged millionaire’s arm. But what happens when I’m not young enough to be a trophy anymore? Then what? How do I find someone to love me? Do I just raise my age requirements? Start dating men that are older than the ones I date now? What happens when I’m 40 years old and my friends all have husbands and families and daughters old enough to be trophies themselves? What happens when all I’ve got to show for all my relationships is things, things that can’t talk to me or touch me or love me?

With this new man, this one I’ve been writing about, I sense that things will be different. His attitude is different from all the other ones, I can actually picture myself saying “I do.” That’s why he’s so important, so very, very important to me. I don’t want to be alone, living in the shadow of my “Daddy Issues” forever.



Prince Charming Drives A White H3
October 19, 2007, 3:21 am
Filed under: love, Men | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s the little things he does, like spend a little extra time outside when he knows I’m watching. Or driving the hot little black sports car because he thinks I disapprove of his new H3 (I don’t care). Or checking me out when he thinks I’m not looking, or finding excuses to touch me or talk to me. The last one is the one that bothers me a little bit, why does he think he still needs an excuse to talk to me? We’ve kissed and he has my phone number, I’m pretty sure that elevates him to the Cut-The-Innocent-Chit-Chat-Ask-Me-Out-Already level. He texted me yesterday, said his week has been busy as hell. I guess that’s his way of explaining why he hasn’t contacted me. I was so happy to hear from him! It was just a simple hey-how’s-your-week-going but it meant so much, it means he’s thinking about me. And Heaven knows I’m thinking about him…a LOT, I even dream about him, I’ve got it SO bad. He’s a devoted father, incredibly intelligent, very handsome, and he’s got that quiet confidence I always thought was a myth. When he touches me I melt, and when I just think about him touching me I melt too. He’s just so perfect. Cue the cheesy sigh.