How You Doin’ Blondie?


Heart of Darkness
May 30, 2008, 2:38 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Body Image, Life, Random, sex | Tags: , , , ,

I was walking by a construction site today, and as I passed I heard “CLANK,” followed immediately by “Damn!” and “Yeah baby!” and “Mike, check this one out!” and a whole slew of wolf calls.

And you know what? I was embarrassed. I wanted to start running at break-neck speed to get the hell out of there. I envisioned that all the people around me were thinking, “Ew, why are they whistling at her?” I was almost 100% convinced that the construction workers must’ve been making fun of me, like “Carrie” for the working class.

Once I got past the construction site, I had to cut through Rittenhouse Square. As I walked through the concrete courtyard, through the middle of the park, I had to pass through park bench after park bench of businessmen taking their lunch break. As I’d approach a bench I’d listen to the low murmurs of conversation and then as I’d pass by, I’d listen to the conversation stop. Men just literally stopped and stared. And you know what I was thinking? “My face must be all shiny and red from walking, I must look like a mess, sweat must be making my shirt stick to my body, my stomach fat must be jiggling, they must be making fun of me – ‘she think she’s so hot, what a cow’ “.

People assume I must get compliments all the time, I must be up to my EYEBALLS in compliments. They assume my ego must be so inflated, one more compliment and I’ll just burst, like a giant Barbie balloon -and they aren’t about to feed anything else to this conceited monster, so they just stare. Every time I go out with a guy, any type of flattery is always followed by, “But I’m sure you hear that all the time.” Well, then you “sure” would be wrong, sweetheart.

I have my good days, every woman does – those days when you just feel good in your skin, when you feel like the hottest bitch on the block. But usually, when I look in the mirror, I see the overweight, homely, insecure little girl I was in grade school. And when I walk down the street, or past a construction site, or through a park, I feel like everybody else sees that little girl, too.

It’s awkward when pretty people have depth. 



Same Shit Different Day
May 29, 2008, 7:49 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, love, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

So S. has made his official return to relevancy in my life.

We ran into each other this morning, I was walking up to the train station to head into the city for the day, and he was driving to work. He stopped and asked me if I wanted a lift and of course I accepted. So the whole ride over we talked about the MOST boring shit in the world (of course) but the whole time I’m thinking “Ask him out, no wait for him to ask you out, drop him some hints, No just ask him out, ASK HIM OUT ASK HIM OUT ASK HIM OUT.” So I screwed up all my courage and said, “So, I see you got a new truck, what happened to the white Hummer?”

Yeah, balls of steel. That’s me.

So anyway, we finally pull up to the front of the station, and I turn to him and say, “Thanks for the lift,” but really all I wanted to do was kiss him. He smelled SO good, and his voice, oh that VOICE. I haven’t spoken to him in so long, anytime we see each other we just wave – so I’d forgotten how yummy that voice is…

I want him so bad it hurts. So what do I do?

On the one hand, we have the fact that he and I have been out together. Once. In October. 2007. And then – nothing. I got like 2 text messages, and then – nothing. He’s had all this time to make a move, and he hasn’t. So he’s obviously not that interested.

Which, to be totally honest, really does upset me. He was so much fun to hang out with, such a down to Earth guy. If only I knew what the fuck I did to turn him off. Sigh. I am NOT a happy camper.



The Bonfire of the Vanities
May 27, 2008, 3:23 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Men, Reality, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

I went to lunch today with my friends, and I seriously thought it would never end. It was torturous. My friends are all beautiful and successful, but they can’t seem to cultivate a healthy relationship with a decent man to save their lives. Of course, I can’t either, but I know this, I’ve accepted this. They, on the other hand, insist on blaming their failed relationships on male incompetence.

 Well today I finally had it up to here. I decided I was sick and tired of listening to them sit around and complain about being single, and double standards, and how men just don’t understand, and all that “female empowerment” bullshit…So I decided to offer my humble advice and said;

“Look, guess what, ladies? Men are not that complicated. 99.9% of the time, you’re the one who fucks things up. So check this out:

 If you don’t want him to treat you like a slut, don’t sleep with him on the first date.

If you don’t want him to tell you your ass is big, don’t ask how you look in those hot shorts.

If you don’t want him to check out your hot friends, don’t invite us over. Or get uglier friends.

If you don’t want him to cheat on you, find out what the fuck it is he’s not getting from you, and give it to him.

And also, ladies, while I’m at it, those women’s magazines you read? Ditch ’em. Don’t believe the hype – you’re not as great as you think you are.”

Picture, if you will, a turd in the town well. That is how it went over. So fuck them. I like hanging out with the angry old men at my local dive bar more anyway…at least those guys don’t buy me drinks with fucking fruit in them.



Red, White, and Blue Balls

I promise I’ll start talking about sex again soon, I just figure that every once in while I should get off my back and do something for a soldier other then make him cum. 

Today, I’m not asking for money, I’m asking for words. Please click the link below to send a message of support and encouragement to our soldiers, please. Picture me down on my knees begging you to – that’s how important this is, because I don’t get down on my knees for much [insert here the obligatory snarky remark about what I do get down on my knees for].



I am Jack’s Broken Heart
May 22, 2008, 11:24 pm
Filed under: Break Ups, Life, love, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , ,

The guy I was dating, the one I called my “friend”? He ended things today, said that “everything was getting too crazy”.

Fuck that. “Everything was getting too crazy” always means one of two things; either 1.) “The wife is onto us” or 2.) “The sex isn’t as explosive as it used to be.”

I’d like to think of something sarcastic to say about our relationship, but the truth is,

I actually liked him.



Reviving The Old Art Of Lying
May 18, 2008, 2:49 pm
Filed under: Dishonesty, Family, Friends, Humor, Life, love, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

I hate parties. I never know what to say. And I hate introducing myself to people. I can usually solve this problem by only going to parties as the date of some guy, that way I don’t have to worry about starting conversations by myself. Every once in a while though, I think to myself “it sure would be fun to have a little soiree with only my closest friends.” And then I remember that, strictly speaking, I don’t have any. I do have friends, but they’re friends that I could never in a million years have in the same room as each other, because then they’d eventually unravel all the little lies I’ve told. I lie a lot when I meet people, not to impress them – mainly just to cover shit up.

For instance, I have one category of friends, and they’re known as “Friends Who Have Seen My House.” This group consists mainly of people in the neighborhood (so I’m using the term “friends” here loosely), but there’s also a couple of people from the Garden of the Month club in there too. The lies I’ve told this group were created in an attempt to explain why a young, single woman who spends far too much time around the house to have a traditional 9 to 5 job and who keeps very, very odd hours; can afford to live in a 6 bedroom house. The lies vary from “My husband is an officer in the Marine Corps, he’s currently in Iraq,” (which is actually my favorite and the easiest to remember) to “My uncle died and left me this house,” (which I only use when I’m talking to a man who could possibly ask me out and all other good lies have escaped me).

Another group of friends is “Friends Who I’ve Met In An Academic Capacity.” These are people I either went to college with or met through some University alumni function (this group also contains my old Mathalete team mates). In addition to the “personal” lies I tell the “Friends Who Have Seen My House”, I also tell this group “career” lies. For the most part, my friends in this group are all in the same tax bracket, so living a life of luxury, in itself, is not going to raise many eyebrows. But these are the “elitist” friends, the “intellectuals” – so they don’t necessarily care what you have, but how you used your superior education and brainpower to acquire it. To these friends, I’m a mathematician crunching stats and formulas for a defense contractor (which serves the dual purpose of impressing them AND preventing further questioning, because you know, defense contracting is all hush, hush).

And the problem with all this lying is not the big lies that I’ve told, but the tiny little “supporting” lies. Because if you want to really sell your story, you’ve got to have background information…and I get a little carried away with my “background” information. I can’t even remember all the jobs I’ve had, men I’ve been in relationships with, or reasons I’ve moved to the area. I should have started writing it all down so I could reference it all in a pinch, but I didn’t, and now I just have to avoid small talk. And parties.



I Was Reading “Men’s Health” In The Bathroom Today…
May 17, 2008, 2:25 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Hope, Life, love, Marraige, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

…and I stumbled upon an article written by Hugh O’Neill entitled “The Hottest Sex Tip Ever: Don’t believe what you’ve heard. Your lifetime of great sex starts when you stroll down the aisle.” The article’s main focus was debunking common myths (and fears) that men have about marraige; “Myth 4: She Has To Have It All” is what made this post-worthy (though it could be argued, by citing numerous posts of mine, that I really don’t have very stringent guidelines for what makes it into a post and what doesn’t…but I digress…)

“Many a man balks at pulling the marraige trigger because he appraises a woman the way he’d size up an applaince and then decides she just doesn’t have all the features he’s looking for. Well, here are the answers to those questions tumbling around in your head. Yes, she’s pretty enough. Yes, she’s smart enough. Yes, she’s funny enough. Moreover, all those questions are irrelevant. It’s like asking if a car floats. Most often, your anxieties are less about her then about how others may view your choice of a partner. A woman doesn’t need great beauty or brains or wit to be a fabulous partner and a person very much worth loving throughout your life. Think of it this way: if she’s less then perfect, well, that’s just something else the two of you have in common. Everthing that’s beautiful is cracked, Leonard Cohen wrote, and that’s how the light gets in.”

Even though I think the overall gist of the paragraph was “it’s ok to settle” (which, once you reach a certain point and you’re that just-a-little-to-old-to-be-in-the-club guy, I guess it is), I really liked that Leonard Cohen quote; “Everything that’s beautiful is cracked, that’s how the light gets in.”

Weird, the places hope derive.



What is my mother going to say?
May 16, 2008, 11:15 pm
Filed under: Discoveries, Life, sex | Tags: , ,

Oh shit. I think I have a crush on T.I. How did this happen? I was a Southern beauty queen! My first boyfriend drove a pick-up truck with a Confederate flag affixed to the rear window!

This isn’t good, this isn’t good at all.



Never Had So Much Fun In Yo Life
May 16, 2008, 11:07 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, Music, sex | Tags: , , ,

I have come to the realization that, deep down on the inside, I like rap music.

At least 3 of the 10 available memory buttons on my car radio are programmed to hip-hop stations.

I can accurately sing the lyrics (in the correct tempo) to multiple rap songs, usually without the aid or accompaniment of the song itself.

My favorite rapper is T.I. who began his illustrious career as “Tip” but due to his heavy Southern drawl,  “Tip” was often misheard as “Chip”. He began pronouncing each letter individually, and became known as “T.I.P.”, which was later shortened to “T.I.” T.I.’s newest song is actually a collaborative effort between Young Jeezy, Usher, and himself, remixing Usher’s recent hit “Make Love In This Club.” I experienced difficulty attempting to upload the music file to WordPress, so I found the song on YouTube and posted it instead. The man you hear sing first is T.I.  (and in the video, T.I. is the one on the far left with the chain around his neck). Sigh, what a wordsmith.

 

 

I am not so far gone, however, that I actually purchase any albums that would in anyway contribute to the financial gain of any of these “trap stars” [trap star: verb/young man or woman who is successful in the urban trade of illicit goods]. I figure, if I don’t actually buy the music, I’m not actually supporting their greedy, misogynistic endeavors, right?

 



“Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world…”
May 15, 2008, 9:29 pm
Filed under: Gossip, Jealousy, Life, Rumors, sex | Tags: , , , ,

There’s a scandal brewing in my neighborhood, instigated chiefly by a single post in the “missed connections” section of Craigslist. The original post reads as follows:

We’ve both caught each other checking each other out so the question is…where do we go from here?

Even though we’re neighbors I don’t know anything about you, other then the fact that you look really, really yummy without a shirt on. I don’t know if you’re married or involved, I think there’s a woman that lives with you, but I don’t know what your relationship with her is…but that’s not really important. What is important is this: I want to fuck you. Well actually, I want you to fuck me, nice and hard, from behind. The tricky part is figuring out how to bridge that awkward gap between “admiring each other from afar” and “you drilling my brains out.”

Ordinarily, I would just casually walk over one day and ask to “borrow a cup of sugar”, but the problem with that seems to be the fact that with my luck, your wife/girlfriend would answer the door. And I’m not interested in fucking her.

So where do we go from here? I think the first step is a clear signal from your direction…find a reason to talk to me, any reason – and find a way to work in the topic of sugar. I don’t care what context you use, just be sure at some point you mention “sugar.”

If you’re willing to do that, I promise it’ll be worth it – I want to fuck so hard I won’t be able to walk right ;-).

The backlash from this post has been absolutely amazing, probably because although we are geographically located within 5 minutes of Philadelphia, we are still a very, very small town. But the best part of all this hasn’t been the shock and horror all my fellow resident’s have reacted with, but with the new kinds of stares and glances I’m now recieving. I’m the newest addition to this little ass-backwards town, ipso facto, I’m also the most mysterious (wiggle your fingers and say “Oooooo”, here”). I don’t socialize with the locals, not as a general rule, but because no one has really made an effort to get to know me. So no one knows much about me other then I live alone in a big old house on the corner of the street, and you could set your watch by my dog-walking schedule.

I imagine that’s what happening is one by one, each gossipy little housewife is reading this post and talking about amongst themsevles and they’re saying, “It’s that blonde little whore on the corner.” I base this assumption on several factors: 1.) I’ve read the responding posts, there are little clues these women leave that indicate they think it’s me and 2.) There’s been a decided shift in the neighborhood dynamics, from the women and the men, it’s very tangible.

I’m not mad, per se…I’m more amused. Their judgement was amazingly swift and final. Like a capital murder trial in Texas. Done. Finito.

I guess if an angry mob shows up at my door, I’ll know that’s my cue to ride off into the sunset.

 



Bitter? Oh, juste en peu
May 14, 2008, 10:16 pm
Filed under: Freedom Fries, International, Life, sex, Translation | Tags: , ,

So check this out: someone used the Google Language toolbar to translate my post “Once Upon A Time, There Lived A Princess,” into French. My anger has gone international, I have truly arrived.

A few fun facts: there is apparently no French equivalent for the word “bitter” when it is used in place of “resentful”; the French word for “fucks” (when used as an action verb) is “chevaux baise; and the phrase “in the ass” in French is “dans le cul.”



Just Drifting Through
May 11, 2008, 8:55 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, Life Experiences, lust, Media, Music, Quotes, Random, random musings, sex, thoughts, Volvo | Tags: ,

“Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I wonder where all the porn stars go
‘Cause when you need one, they are never aroundI think they moved out to the suburbs
And now they’re blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives
They all have blonde, bland, middle-class Republican children
Blonde, bland, middle-class Republican lives

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I think I know where all the porn stars go
They all become Volvo-driving soccer moms”

 

Sometimes, though, there are such things as Volvo-driving porn stars. I substantiate this claim with the red Volvo S40 currently parked in my driveway.



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.”



Money hoes and clothes
April 18, 2008, 5:01 pm
Filed under: Greed, hip-hop, Media, money, Music, Rap Music, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

Of all my automobiles, my favorite is my Volvo. It’s a 2006 S40, passion red, and it’s essentially a crush-proof box. The first car I ever owned was a Volvo, and I really fell in love with them. It’s an odd car for your average twenty-something single to own, Volvo’s are notorious for being the ride of choice for the stodgy white-bread class…which is the bulk of it’s appeal. I hold a considerable amount of contempt for these kids today, with their flashy Acura’s and Lexus’ (Lexis’s? Lexuses?) who will spend $600 for a pair of sunglasses or $1000 for a pair of sneakers just because they bear the Louis Vuitton stamp. They acquire and acquire and acquire all theses THINGS, all these status symbols, and they don’t realize that they look like fools. They’re so ridiculous, they’re caricature’s of themselves.

So I enjoy my Volvo; I take great pride in the fact that my neighbor, the one with the musical career of dubious distinction, has never once expressed even a remote interest in my S40. I like that I’ve yet to see a Volvo cruise slowly down the street with base music reverberating from the speakers and chrome monstrosities affixed to the wheel-wells. But perhaps the key ingredient to my Volvo enthusiasm has been the fact that never, not once, have I ever heard a Volvo be mentioned in any capacity in a rap song.

Until today.

I turned on the radio in my car today in time to catch the following line:

“…pimpin hoes that drive Volvos and Rodeos…”

I later identified the song as “Niggas” by the Notorious B.I.G.:

“To all my Brooklyn ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Uptown ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Bronx ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Queensbridge ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
‘Nigga nigga nigga..’

Back up chump, you know Biggie Smalls rips it quick
and kicks it quick, you know how black niggaz get
with the hoods fatigues with the boots with trees
Smokin weed, flippin ki’s, makin crazy G’s
Hittin buckshots at niggaz that open spots
on the avenue, take my loot, and I’m baggin you
Pimpin hoes that drive Volvo’s and Rodeos
Flash the roll, make her wet, in her pantyhose
Damn, a nigga style is unorthodox
Grip the glock, when I walk down the crowded blocks
Just in case a nigga wanna act out
I just black out, and blow they motherfuckin back out
That’s a real nigga for ya

[Chorus]

When we smoke spliffs, we pack four-fifths
just in case dread wanna riff
He get a free lift to the cemetary, rough very
Not your ordinary, we watch you get buried
That’s a real nigga for ya
Get mad do a quarter flip the script, and rip your lawyer
Spit at the D.A., cause fuck what she say
She don’t give a fuck about your ass anyway
Up North found first stop for the town
of fist-skill, where the hand skills are real ill
You’ll be a super Hoover doo-doo stain remover
Ha hahhh, yo G, pass the ruler

[Chorus 2X]

Money hoes and clothes
Blunt smoke comin out the nose, is all a nigga knows
Flippin on foes, puttin tags on toes
Watchin the stash grow, clockin the cashflow
The neighborhood gravedigga
Gettin paid so much, all the bitches wanna see a nigga
I guess they figure I’m paid, I wanna get laid
or since I got loot I wanna knock boots
I’d rather beat my dick than trick
and if she don’t suck then we don’t fuck
I’d rather make a buck, drive a fat-ass truck
Grab the 9, two clips, and run amuck
Yes, flex at the two or three Benzes
I wreck shit, what the fuck you expected?
A fly guy? Well fuck it, I’m the high guy
from Bed-Stuy, puttin the swellin on your eye
and your nose even, when I choke ya you stop breathin
And when Jake come, I’m leavin!”

I am indescribably depressed.



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

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So, To Summarize Thus Far…
April 14, 2008, 9:45 pm
Filed under: Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

“Somewhere, sometime, somehow, you lose something or see something lost.

If you are lucky, it was when you were young. If you are lucky, you saw your parents divorced. If you are lucky, your high school girlfriend died in a car crash. If you are lucky, you saw your little sister lose the use of her legs because your family couldn’t afford the right health care.

If you are unlucky, it will happen when you’re older. If you are unlucky, you will see your son lose his place at the college of his choice to a man richer then you, rich enough to donate some new lab equipment. If you are unlucky, your wife of thirty-seven years will develop bipolar disorder and have to be hospitalized after you come home from work and find she has opened her wrists with an electric meat carver. If you are unlucky, you will lose your job after twenty-two years of service and be too old to find another.

If you are unlucky, you will realize too late that the way you thought the world worked was just an illusion. If you are unlucky, you will become afraid too late.

But if you are lucky, you will become afraid when you are young, afraid of the unexpected changing of your life for the worse and not having enough power to set things back the way you wanted them to be.

And then, if you are lucky, you will pursue power from that day forth. You will lead armies into Gaul, you will take on a colony in a new world, you will acquire money, you will only maintain relationships where you have the upper hand, only stay in jobs that can eventually lead to you being the one in charge. And you will do this because if you are lucky, you will know that power means you don’t have to be afraid. Power means you can do what you want when you want to. Power means you can have what you want when you want it.

If you are lucky, you will do this because you will know it is really Power that is worth any sacrifice, that it is really Power without which you can’t live, that it is really Power without which you can only eat and breathe and sleep and sometimes not even that. You will do this because if you are lucky you will know that when we say we’d die for Liberty we’re really saying we’d die for Power.

Except that in the pursuit of Power one of the things you will have to sacrifice will be the ability to enjoy the thing you lost or saw lost.

So even if you reach that point where you aren’t afraid anymore, that point where you can relax, that point where you are free, that point you never reach, even if you reach that point, you will realize that you weren’t so lucky after all.”

Kelman, Nic. Girls. Boston: Little Brown. 2003.



A Rose By Any Other Name…
April 14, 2008, 12:19 am
Filed under: Life, Men, Reflections, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Went to a strip club with my friend the other day, and when I stepped outside for some fresh air, I noticed some prick had parked his Dodge Viper right in front, in the fire lane. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, and obviously thought his car was too precious to park in the spaces reserved for us mere mortals. So I just kind of stood there and stared at the car, fuming silently. My friend was standing next to me, having a cigarette, and is apparently clairvoyant because he reached over and rubbed my shoulder while saying, “Calm down baby, just relax, don’t say anything,” (obviously his wife has made him sit through Steel Magnolias, he knows how Southern girls are). I quelled the urge to point out that the Viper parked by the curb wasn’t worth as much as any of my automobiles, and I turned to walk back inside. My path was immediately blocked, however, by a man striding brusquely through the doors wearing an outfit he purposely bought a size too small so as to showcase his physique. I took one look at the guy, and his tribal arm band tattoo, and I leaned in and whispered in my friend’s ear, “All the tea in China, that’s his Viper.” My friend rolled his eyes, kissed my mouth gently, and then shushed me; but we both turned to watch where this guy went. Sure as shootin’, Slab Bulkhead swaggered right on down to that Viper and threw a pack of cigarettes through the open sunroof. I groaned loudly and my friend pinched my ass and said “Shhh baby, watch this.” As Butch Deadlift is making his way back into the club, my friend does one of those cool, aloof, guy-nods in the direction of the Viper and says “That your ride, man?” (A  question which elicited the mother of  all eye-rolls from me, which went largely unnoticed as Splint Chesthair had obviously already made the incorrect assumption that I was one of the dancers and thus unworthy of legitimate conversation). Stump Beefknob then stopped, and without any hesitation or trepidation at all, of any kind whatsoever, replied, “Nah man, that’s my mom’s. I drive an XJ-8.”

Then he went back inside.

I waited for my friend to finish his cigarette and then we followed suit. Later in the evening, we got to talking about Dirk Hardpeck and I realized my initial irritation had been replaced with a sort of reluctant respect. The guy might have been a douche-bag, but he had the stones to admit his was driving his mother’s car. I don’t know many guys whose precious ego could sustain that kind of blow – and Gristle McThornbody made the omission in such a nonchalant, almost dismissive manner.

As obnoxious to the core as I’m sure he is; big ups to Blast Thickneck for being a momma’s boy and owning it. You go on now and do your thing, Brick Steelflex.



Bill Has An Interesting Way of Indexing Things
April 12, 2008, 4:35 pm
Filed under: advice, Humor, Query, sex | Tags: , , ,

Found it. Searched “how do i make myself cum harder” using Windows LiveSearch. My blog is returned as a result on the second page. I’m a little surprised by that, I was expecting to be more like a 5th or 6th page result. Am I really of second-page relevancy to “how do i make myself cum harder”?

Well, it’s certainly funnier then “define whore”, but definetly lacking the dramtic irony.

And since I’ve obviously been given some type of authority on the subject, allow me to weigh in: stroke harder, kid.



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.



So I’m channeling an adolescent male’s sense of humor, sue me
April 5, 2008, 9:27 pm
Filed under: Entertainment, fun, Life, lust, Men, Reflections, sex | Tags: , ,

 



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.



Somewhere Otis Redding and Lou Rawls are Weeping Quietly

I’m telling you, this urban demographic and their music industry, it’s a Grammy  goldmine! It’s a regular chart-topping factory! Especially with this character I’ve been hearing about lately, this “Fat Joe,” my he is quite the wordsmith. I stumbled upon another gem of his, this one entitled “Still Not A Player,” featuring Monsieur “Big Pun.”

Does this gentleman have a fan club? How might I gain membership?

 

 

And yes folks, he really did just say “I’m not a player, I just fuck a lot.”



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.