The Beautiful Kind

Oooh tonight it’s 20 degrees out and snoowing. My friend J has an outdoor hot tub, so you better believe I stripped down to my nekkidness and lounged in the blue glow. I gazed up through the mist that rose to meet the snowflakes tumbling silently down in a gentle torrent, to be instantly extinguished in the hotsy water. Each flake that hit my face felt like a tiny nip, and it gathered in my hair to create a sparkly crown of ice.

Most delicious shivery calescence. I swear to you it felt like -

it felt like -

Han Solo stuffing me in the steaming guts of a tauntaun.

Ooh I got pics back from my photo shoot earlier this month! I’m thinking of using this one for this year’s holiday card. It seems a nice, warm contrast to all the snow scenes. And the card can mention something about stocking stuffers…

So the other night around midnight, my mom had a bad dream and thrashed around and fell out of bed. My dad woke up and went to help her. He tried to get her up and back in the bed but she cursed him and told him to leave her alone.

So he did.

She remained there unmoving and unconscious until 4pm the next day, when she finally managed to rouse herself and crawl back in bed.

My sister and I would call and check in periodically. “Is she still on the floor?”

“Yessss,” my dad would report. “I thought about calling an ambulance, but I don’t feel like spending hours in the E.R., and the last time they couldn’t find anything wrong with her anyway…”

“Has she even gotten up to go to the bathroom?!”

“Welllll, since you asked…”

(And they’re not even from me!)

Check out this list of notable blow jobs my friend has compiled:

On a couch
On a bed
In these restrooms…Hollywood Video, New York Burrito, Hardees, KFC, and Plaza Frontenac (very nice) (Ed note: What- the blow job, or the restroom?)
In a Chevy Celebrity (my first car)
Forest Park (under the Pavilion)
On ALL (Ed note: emphasis mine) 18 holes of a local golf course
In a White Castle dive thru…that’s a good one (Ed note: Is the typo intentional?)

Other interesting facts…
I’ve had BJ’s on Easter, Labor Day, Halloween, New Years, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, and my Birthday. (Ed note: This guy is festive!) Also BJ’s on Jewish and Muslim holidays, but I only count them if the girl is of that religion.

Most bragged about BJ? From 2 girls at the same time! Ashley and Nadia…I was responsible for hooking them up! I knew they would make a good couple and never have I been happier for being matchmaker.

All this is great, but I’ve ALWAYS wanted a BJ in a movie theater!! It just never happens

What do you think - should I make him buy me popcorn in exchange for crossing this one off his list? But it would have to be a stupid movie, so that I wouldn’t mind missing part of it…And then I want to look up and yell, “This movie BLOWS!”

My dear friend had a first experience the other day:

to buy something from behind the glass case of a Goodwill.

And it was a gift for me.

How did he KNOW I was in need of a traveling bar?! GOD just look at it. A plain brown case from the ’60’s, perhaps to carry toiletries, and then you open it up and whoah! Superhero!

The note attached to the gift read:

…Just think of where that bar has been….

Cheers, dear. And yeah, I’m goin’ your way…

I went to the History Museum last month with my ex-boyfriend.

While we made our rounds, he confessed to me, “You know, the last time I was here, I was 24 years old, and my girlfriend at the time was a 36 year old woman. The only thing I remember about that visit is that I had an erection the entire time we were here. Every time we turned a corner, she would rub up on me and kiss me, and I couldn’t think of anything except getting back to the car. Oh, and I died of the influenza at the Back in Time exhibit.”

We left and when we got back in the car, he said, “LOOK, see, it happened again!” And he whipped out his pink torpedo to show off the Pavlovian turgidness.

“Jesus would you put that away!” I exclaimed. Then, as an afterthought, I muttered, “And don’t give me the goddamn flu, either.”

Oh wait, that was my vibrator…

OH MY GOD that Lolita. A woman after my own heart. She has formed a love triangle with Gomer and Mayor Scottie! That MINX! I asked her who she would end up settling with and she replied, all saucy-like:

“Hello! It’s 2007, I don’t HAVE to choose. Besides, I dig the contrast.”

Fair enough…

I had a first date with a weird guy I met off the internet. We went to dinner and afterwards he asked what we should do next.

“How about we go to the Chocolate Bar for a nightcap?” I suggested.

He made a face. “Nah…how about a whorehouse?”

“You know where one is?!” I exclaimed. I had been to my share of strip clubs and adult theaters, but never a whorehouse. (Well OK, there was that one time in Mexico…)

“Oh sure,” he said, “I used to work as a bouncer at one on Tuesday nights, but it burned down when one of the whores got pissed and threw a lit cigarette into another one’s purse. You know, all that hairspray and wigs, very flammable stuff.”

I considered my options for a second, decided a whorehouse was way more bloggable than a trendy bar, so agreed to an east side field trip. (For those of you who are alarmed at this, you can kiss my ass, and here’s why: I drove alone to the east side every day to work as a stripper for a year when I was a teenager.)

We made the drive from city to seedy. He pointed out the turnaround spot where you can score crack or a blow job for $25, or trade one for the other. We drove by the place where I stripped years ago. I still shudder when I pass it. I think it’s a daycare now, and the sleazy owner Tom Venezia ended up getting busted for racketeering and spent some time in prison before shooting himself and some 21-year-old chick. I wonder how many other women were as delighted as I was to hear that, as The RFT described it, “he went out with a bang.”

We arrived at the sex shack and my date pointed out the burnt out shell of the former joint behind it. Nice. Inside, the place looked very much like a typical cheap strip club - wood paneling, a stage with a pole, black lights, a juke box, bar. We ordered drinks from my grandma who was bartending.

Oh wait, that wasn’t my grandma, my grandma had more teeth than that sweet old lady did, and she didn’t usually have her saggy breasts stuffed into a bikini top when she served drinks.

We grabbed a seat at one of the shoddy tables and surveyed the scene. It was a Monday night, so the place was dead. Besides us, there were three male customers and four women workin’ it. Sheesh I hoped that the two younger men there had a GILF fetish.

The women: there was granny bartender, a brunette woman shaped like a cello with a tramp stamp and a white thong up her ass, another old woman with cotton candy blonde hair and a shiny red “dress” an African-American girl with pigtails and zero tits or ass wearing a white costume that contrasted beautifully with her dark skin and flashing teeth, and a woman who very much reminded me of the burnt out shell out back. Her voice sounded like she had been in the place as it burned, her lungs sounded scorched. She played a video poker game at the bar and, you guessed it, smoked.

The two younger guys were the typical baseball cap/sports jersey types, and the old guy had beady eyes squinting out of his porcine face and clutched a beer. As we drank our beers (Miller Lite!) he sidled up to us and asked me, “This your first time in a place like this?”

I said, no, that I had worked in a place like it many years ago. That got him excited, I mean, if he could have popped a boner he would have. “Oh? Thinking about getting back in the business?”

I smiled and said no, I had a good job and was fine where I was. Trying to decide what a “good job” for a woman would be if she wasn’t stripping, he asked if I was a secretary.

My date noticed the woman with the cotton candy hair and red dress gyrating sloppily on a guy’s lap at the stage, and said to me, “Do you ever get the feeling you know someone but you can’t quite place them and you try and remember their name?”

“No,” I said.

“No?” he repeated incredulously.

“Well yes I get that feeling but I don’t try and remember their name. Chances are I want to forget.”

“Oh. Well I think I know that woman over there.”

Sure enough, when the song was over she climbed off the guy’s lap and hightailed it over to my date. “HI HONEY, where you BEEN?”

They embraced, and she introduced herself as Debbi and shook my hand. “Who is this?” she beamed.

He introduced me and announced it was our first date, and she winked and said, “Classy!”

She sat down with us and the creepy old man took the opportunity to sit down, too, you know, join the party. He asked me, “So, are you thinking of getting back in the business?”

I said, no, I lived too far away.

I got a good look at Debbi. I guessed she was about 50. (In truth, she was two years older than me - 36.) I couldn’t get over how frizzy/curly/white blonde her hair was. She had false teeth, lots of makeup, flesh spilling out of her red dress, nothing sexy here. But of course she was sweet and nice.

“Debbi worked at the place that burned down,” my date told me.

“YES,” she said, “And you better believe I cried my eyes out when it happened. ALL my shit was in there, ALL my shit - my costumes, my wigs, god everything up in flames!”

The old man stared at me from across the table. “Are ya thinking about getting back in the business?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“You can make good money,” he offered.

I glanced around the empty shit hole. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“Well not up here, in the back,” he said, motioning with his beer to rooms beyond the bathroom.

I just stared at him.

Changing tactics, he said in a low voice to my date, “Think we can get her up on the stage?” My date told him he didn’t suppose so, not tonight anyway.

I asked Debbi where the bathroom was, and she pointed towards the back. My date warned me not to go in the wrong door or else a man would try and have sex with me, possibly while I was urinating. He added that if I did go in the wrong door, to at least get a good price. While I was relieving myself in the bathroom decorated with fake plants, a country doll perched on the paper towels, and an ashtray within tapping distance of the toilet, Debbi and the two men discussed the going rates they charged here relative to what they used to charge at the old place.

When I got back, Debbi launched into her sob story as the African-American waif wandered by, asking for a tip for being mostly naked. She got a dollar. Debbi talked about how she worked at a thrift store during the day making $9 an hour, which was really good, and how she had to miss this here night job sometimes but how the owner was understanding.

“The owner of this place used to be a customer,” she announced. Everyone acted like this was a fabulous accomplishment. Well I guess it is pretty nice when you can go from tipping the women as a customer to owning them.

Debbi sure opened up to me. I wondered if it was because she found a sympathetic woman who could relate to her, as opposed to all the guys who looked at her and saw a tree stump with three holes and a wig. Did the guys not pick up on the grief radiating from her? Fuck, it seemed anything but sexy.

She went on to talk about her kids, getting a divorce and being free hot damn! And how the owner was kindly, unlike the last owner who would give you shit for drinking too much or doing lines on the job. “I have a right to my drink and my lines!” she said indignantly.

“So, are you thinking of getting back in the business?” creepy old man asked me yet again.

I sat up straight and said, “Oh YES!”

Everyone at the table looked surprised at my response. Old man even managed to widen his beady eyes ever so slightly.
“Really?” he asked.

“SURE, totally, oh wow, I’m going to quit my job right now and start next week, I can’t WAIT!” I said with enthusiasm.

I let that sink in and then explained to the table of confused faces, “Well it was obvious that the last three times I answered that question I didn’t give the right answer, so I thought I’d just say what he wanted to hear.”

I glared at him, then crossed my arms and smirked. I guess the stupid cheap idiot thought that if he kept asking the same question I would maybe change my mind because I’m a girl or forget the last 15 minutes of our conversation, ooh he’s sly!

He actually had the good sense to look sheepish and finally shut up.

Since I can’t masturbate or look at porn at my new job, I’ve had a few people ask what I DO all day. Here’s a typical day:

- Arrive at security gate. Swipe security badge.
- Park in huge parking lot and walk a far ways to get to fortress.
- Once in fortress, swipe security badge again to get past second security checkpoint.
- Take elevator to 3rd floor. Navigate through cubicle maze to arrive at assigned cubicle.
- Turn on computer and either jump onto a conference call or check email.
- Go for coffee run.
- Go for bathroom run.
- Check email.
- Shuffle papers.
- Have more training. Wonder why the fuck the intro slide to the PowerPoint presentation features a mountain. Wonder if the acronym NMFY within the presentation stands for “No Mountain For You.” Guess on other acronyms: EHW (”Eight Hours Wasted”) HHYS (”Ha Ha You Sucka”) LPO (”Let’s Play Office”)
- Attend a meeting that makes no sense. Notice how person conducting meeting admits it makes no sense, that they’ve been there three years and it’s STILL confusing to them.
- Check email.
- Avoid people.
- Walk by huge picture window overlooking the lake and look for patterns in the ducks and geese. Imagine flyiing over the rippling lake like they do.
- Stare at people in disgust because they have bad taste.
- Check email.
- Gossip with former boss who also works there.
- Lunch. Either eat at desk or venture down to cafeteria to find something vegetarian in a sea of steak sandwiches and chicken salads.
- Prepare to stomach afternoon block by thinking mean and dirty thoughts.
- Check email.
- Wonder when I’ll get some real work to do.
- Have a phone conference about something that makes no sense. Seriously.
- Go for coffee run.
- Go for bathroom run.
- Get some personal writing done.
- Check email.
- Notice that so and so is ugly.
- Sign up for more training classes next week.
- Observe that other people are also just going through the motions, but admire the ones who actually look like they give a shit. Wonder what drug they are on.
- Check email.
- Get excited when it turns 4.
- Start goofing off in earnest.
- Not be able to stand waiting til the clock turns 5, leave at 4:53, giddy.
- Bolt down the stairs.
- Exit fortress, look wisftully at sun setting, think about how I can’t get to my car fast enough.
- Get in car.
- Scream.
Repeat x5 each week.

Here is the latest sock monkey to join the gang: Lolita. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked in on her trolling the internet for dates. She didn’t learn that from ME, did she?

My friend was showering with her husband. They were making out and getting frisky. Her husband reached down to slip his hand between her legs, but she had to fart. She fleetingly considered moving away, but didn’t want him to think she wasn’t down with where things were going, so she let him part her legs slightly and…a big wet fart reverberated in the shower.

She was mortified, but they had a good laugh over it. Then she offered to let him cum on her face to make up for it. Ooh he didn’t get to do that very often, so he took her up on it. Afterwards she asked him if it was hot. His reply: “Well, the anticipation of doing it was good, but then when it actually happened, your eyes were squinched up so tight that it was just funny.”

A friend of mine contacted me on behalf of his wife to ask me where I scored this pair of underwear from my Panty Parade. I told him Target (more than half my undies come from that brightly lit establishment).

His reply?

Holy crap!

Target. Man, if they had a lingerie line, they would have the perfect name for it!

I walked into the break room at work to reheat my Afghani leftovers, and this is the scene I entered:

- An incontinence medication ad playing on the television mounted on the wall next to the soda machines.

- A woman intently reading a Nora Roberts paperback.

- A guy in tassel loafers eating bacon. (As Malcolm X would say, “ONLY WHITE MAN EATS THE SWINE AND WOULD HAVE US DO SO AS WELL”)

- A woman eating McDonald’s.

Do you too see what all these things have in common? That’s right: IT’S ALL TRASH.

Moral of the story: I am superior.

My friend shared this bus story with me:

He was sitting on the bus reading his newspaper, when the guy sitting next to him hung up his cell phone, turned to my friend and said, “Ever been arrested?”

My friend said no.

So the guy said, “You are goin’ places, nigger.”

My friend said, “Thanks.”

Then the guy laughed. After a moment he remarked that his girlfriend was 25, had three kids, and that her vagina was tight.

My friend said, “hmm.” (He wasn’t sure how to respond to that one.)

Then the guy asked my friend if he ever had sex with a woman who had a kid.

My friend looked up from the paper and said “Yes.” (Note: this is my cameo!)

And then the guy laughed again and said, “You are goin’ places!”

Then my friend got off the bus.

OH MY GOD an ALBINO sock monkey!!! Combining two of my favorite things like this makes me giddy beyond measure, like that pez dispenser with the biker moustache…god I need a cocktail to calm my nerves. Perhaps a White Russian?

My daughter has designated Scottie Mayor of Sockville. Stay tuned to see who he hooks up with, jesus it’s a sock monkey soap opera around here…

Every Friday, this really sweet woman I work with instructs me to have “a wonderful and blessed weekend.” This is as opposed to the standard “nice weekend” most people get told to have.

Uncomfortable with such a weighty request, I looked up the word “blessed,” and sure enough:

1. to consecrate or sanctify by a religious rite; make or pronounce holy.
2. to request of God the bestowal of divine favor on: Bless this house.
3. to bestow good of any kind upon: a nation blessed with peace.
4. to extol as holy; glorify: Bless the name of the Lord.

Clearly, I don’t deserve such a weekend. And I always feel like a douche when I respond to her with, “You too!”

Sigh.

(BUT check out these folks who know all about being blessed! You have to listen to the whole song!)

I have a friend who teaches at a university, and one time he went to the communal men’s bathroom and found a note on the toilet paper dispenser. It read: BLOW JOB SUN 6PM

When I asked him if he came back at said time to see what was going on, he admitted he was tempted, not because he is gay and wanted a blow job, but because he was so curious to see who in the world on campus would be so bold as to offer anonymous oral. But, he ended up staying away, and he gave two reasons for this:

- How weird would it be for him, a professor, to be caught lurking in the men’s bathroom during designated gay bathhouse hours?

- He was worried the note leaver would turn out to be his Research Assistant. Awkward sitcom moment!

I’m reading this fascinating book about sperm by an evolutionary biologist named Robin Baker. I never thought about how “dirty” a word sperm is, until I began reading it over and over. I don’t get used to it; happily, it still feels thrillingly naughty each time.

I’m not the only one who thinks this way. Baker was interviewed on several radio stations when the book came out, and he was instructed to not use the word sperm in his interviews. !! More than once the interview had to be cut short and music played to fill in the gap. I mean come ON, that’s like discussing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and not being able to mention the word chocolate!
According to Baker:

- Men can change the content of their semen as quickly as they can deduce whether they will ejaculate inside a woman or finish themselves off by masturbating. They can unconsciously control the amount of egg-getting sperm, fighter sperm, or guard sperm, to name a few.

- Men can also adjust the number of sperm in their ejaculate based on when they last had sex with their partner. If they haven’t had sex in a week, they’ll have around 500 million sperm in their semen. If they haven’t had sex in three days, they’ll have 300 million; three hours, 30 million. The aim is to “top off” their partner and ensure she has a certain amount of semen in reserve inside her in case another man’s sperm is introduced. Then he’ll have a microscopic army inside her ready to fight a sperm war.

- Men masturbate in secret so that those around them won’t know how aggressively fertile they are. Masturbating doesn’t waste sperm per se, it actually enables the man to reload with fresher, younger, healthier sperm.

- One of the most common things a woman looks for on a man to know if he might be a good person to breed with is his ass. “The best indication of a man’s health and hormones is the ratio between his waist and buttocks. Ideally, they should both measure nearly the same.”

- We have oral sex as a way of testing our partner for health and infidelity.

Man cleavage is when a guy wears a button down shirt, and you can see chest hair peeping out the top. It’s just beggin’ ya to unbutton and explore the steamy jungle. Shockingly, I can’t find an example in my stash, so one of you hairy gods will need to volunteer for a photo shoot so we can update this posting with visuals…