The Dating Game

Scene: A stage. Three chairs on stage left for bachelors. Two chairs on stage right- one for host, one for bachelorette. Large divider between.

Host: Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve met our bachelorette. What do you say we meet our bachelors? And heeeeeee-re they arrrrrrrrr-re! Bachelor #1, sum yourself up in one sentence.

Bachelor #1: I’m tall, good-looking and fiercely intelligent.

Host: Excellent. Bachelor #2?

Bachelor #2: I believe Sarah Palin should be our next President and global warming is a myth.

Host: Conservative, interesting. Bachelor #3?

Bachelor #3: I’m pretty flaky and rarely sober, but I love music.

Host: Well, that is our men summed up. Bachelorette, would you like to ask the Bachelors a question?

Bachelorette: Sure. I’ll ask the same question to all of the men. Describe our first date and our first kiss.

Bachelor #1: Well, it won’t really be a date. I’ll call and invite you out to see a band. Get you into a sold out show, VIP section. In the middle of the show, we’ll hop over to another venue to check out another band. When we’re in the car, at the first stoplight we get to, we’ll start making out, and we will keep kissing until the car behind us honks.

Bachelorette: Wow. Bachelor #2?

Bachelor #2: Well, you’ll invite me over to your place and you’ll cook dinner. At some point in the conversation you will be so desperate for me to shut up about my conservative politics that you will kiss me. I’m great in bed so you’ll likely decide to keep me busy there so I’m not talking.

Bachelorette: Ok. Hmmmm. And bachelor #3?

Bachelor #3: We’ll meet at our local bar. Super low-key. And I’ll convince you to come back to my place to listen to the musician I am obsessed with. That’s when I’ll make my move. But I’ll have had enough to drink that we won’t have sex because I won’t be able to get hard.

Host (chuckling uncomfortably): Well, Bachelor #3, it’s not Thursday yet. Maybe you should keep that TMI to yourself. Does our Bachelorette have another question for our men?

Bachelorette: Gentlemen, I’ve been burned in the past by long distance relationships. So, short and sweet, tell me how far away from me you live.

Bachelor #1: 100 miles.

Bachelor #2: 60 minutes. But I don’t mind the driving!

Bachelor #3: You can walk to my place.

Host: We have time for one more question. Bachelorette, what have you got?

Bachelorette: Well, we all have strengths and weaknesses. So, sum up for me, why shouldn’t I pick you?

Bachelor #1: You’ve already slept with my cousin.

Bachelor #2: I think I already mentioned that I want Sarah Palin to be our next President.

Bachelor #3: Well, like I said, I’m a little flaky. I mean I’m single, but I’ve been seeing someone. But by seeing someone, I mean sleeping with them. But we’re not exclusive.

Bachelorette: (Speechless for a moment.) This is tough. I mean none of them are right. Can’t I just keep them all floating around for a bit? Let survival of the fittest work its magic?

Host: Well, of course, you can do whatever you want. In fact, if you wait until next weekend, we have a tall, good-looking 22-year old for you to ask a few questions of! So, ladies and gentlemen, thanks for tuning in and we’ll see you next week!

i adore you.

I wasn’t expecting to take you home.

Even though before, I’ve seen you naked, touched you naked, slept beside you naked and more.

I wasn’t expecting you to let your friends all leave without you. I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me at the bar in front of the bartender who knows us both so well. I wasn’t expecting to take you home.

I am so glad you came home with me.

You are so fiercely intelligent. I not only respect you. I adore you.

I know all too well the gazillion ways that we are not compatible. I know I am too loud, too opinionated, too liberal, too tall in my 4 inch heels for you. I also know that when it is just the two of us, all that changes.

The way I talk about sex bothers you. Yet you can overlook that just the night before, I brought a different boy home. My forward nature doesn’t impress you. Until I take my top off and stand on the balcony wearing nothing but jeans and a glass of champagne and we talk. And talk and talk.

I have to make a case for sex. Explain away how this will change the two of us in the future. How it will affect our mutual friends who may or may not know the ways we know each other. I state my case. I win.

I know I have written about you in the past; I know I wasn’t generous or kind. If I could take it all back, I would. In its place, I would write how the way you kiss makes me wet. How when I kick off those heels and we see eye to eye, all I want is for my nakedness to be entwined with yours. The way you talk about my body, the way you appreciate it, the way it responds to you, I can’t help but want you.

We can laugh while fucking. We can carry on an entire conversation during sex. I can smile. Then after, when we’ve found satisfaction and need a glass of water, when I open the drawer to slide on boy shorts, you pull them out of my hand, toss them to the floor and say, “Why put those on? I’m going to fuck you again.”

Oh. My. God.

I don’t want to be your girlfriend. I do want to be your friend.

And I definitely want to fuck you again.

TMI Thursday: That Florida Chick With the Depends Wasn’t So Dumb After All

Hi, everyone, I’m Kimberly! I knew I needed to share this, but my own site is no place for it, so here we go…

Ironically, this TMIT takes place on a Thursday about five weeks ago.  My parents were visiting from Arizona and staying with me so we decided to go visit my grandma, my Dad’s mom, before they flew back to AZ.  My grandma just turned 87 so we were going to go see her and take her to out to lunch to celebrate.  Even though my grandma lives only 2 hours or so away from me I never visit her.  I know, I think this TMI may be karma kicking me in the ass, literally.

So, off we went.  FYI, the town she lives in? Is notoriously known as a hub bub for senior citizens, therefore totally lame.  So we get to Grandma’s house and after all the hello’s, we ask Grandma where she wants to go for lunch.  Now, my Mom had warned me that my Grandma really liked going to this super nasty restaurant and would probably want to go there.  She was right.  My Dad tried to convince her that we would take her to the casino, AKA nicest restaurant/buffet in town, and get her a really nice lunch there but she wasn’t having it at all.  Just gave my Dad a blank stare until he realized that she was holding her ground.  So we were off to the super nasty place, but I thought, how bad could it really be?

We pulled up to the restaurant and I shit you not, I thought that it was closed!  It looked all dark and there was not one car in the parking lot. Not a good sign at all!  My Mom just kept saying over and over again how bad this place was, it was open and she really didn’t want to go in.  Finally, we go inside and I instantly knew this was not going to be good.

This restaurant was an American style restaurant run by ASIANS!  Don’t get me wrong, I love Asian food.  But Asians trying to cook American food? Mot so yummy.  I could not decide what to order off of the menu, because everything sounded disgusting.  Finally after everyone else put in their order I decided to go with the same as my Grandma, deep fried prawns and fries.  I figure she’s 87, she eats this all the time and she’s okay so it must be a safe bet.

I slammed the food down as best I could, as did my parents, and we left that nasty joint $70 later.

Here’s a little tid bit of info about me… if I eat something that makes me sick it usually only takes about 45 minutes to cycle through, and this was no exception.  I could immediately feel something brewing, something bad.  So before I left Grandma’s I decided to use her bathroom and drop a few kids at the pool to ease my queasiness.  Have you ever tried to poop when you really don’t feel good but nothing comes out?  That was me.   What did come out wasn’t much and I still felt sick to my stomach. So I thought well, maybe it will be okay once I can relax in the car while I am driving.  Get some fresh air and stuff.

So off we go, I’m driving and my Dad is in the front seat next me.  We are on our way out of town and I am doing my best to ignore the feelings of nastiness brewing inside.  As I am listening to my parents talk about Obama’s health care shit for the 100th time I am getting a little nervous that I may need to make a pit stop sooner rather than later.  Finally I tell my parents to shut the hell up because I can’t take the conversation reruns any longer and I needed to find a bathroom or there were going to be dire consequences.  Naturally my parents are freaking out reminding me that this is a two lane highway, there are no bathrooms or restaurants for at least 20 more minutes.  As if I hadn’t noticed!

At this point I am in a panic.  My stomach is turning and churning something awful, and finally,  I realize that I have one of two choices:  poop in my pants or pull over and pop a squat on the side of the road.  It’s probably not helping that I am driving behind a semi truck with an advertisement on the back of a big juicy burger and four different marinades. At this point my Dad is frantic because I’m pretty sure that he was scared by my facial expressions and the thought of me pooping my pants right next to him.

After what seems like an eternity I finally find someones driveway to pull off to on the side and jump out of the car with a kleenex box in my hand.  Thats right, I said kleenex.  I cant go number three and not wipe!  I ran around the car frantically thinking, oh shit, where in the hell am I gonna go without everyone driving on the highway seeing me take a dump!?  While keeping it together, literally, I direct my Dad to turn the car sideways and park it so I was pretty sheltered from the traffic on the highway.  Finally as comfortable as I can possibly get for this situation, I pop a squat next the passenger front tire and settle in to do my business.  I was pretty confident that my Dad couldn’t see what I was doing, but my poor Mom had a front row seat.  I hope she didn’t watch but I’m pretty sure that she glanced.  My Mom is sick like that.

Did I mention that I was doing the deed on the side of someone’s driveway?  I could see their house sitting on the hill with the living room that was a wall of windows overlooking, you guessed it, the driveway.  I was trying so hard to get everything out before the person that lived there decided to look out and notice someone taking a disgusting runny poop on their driveway.  Though, I was pretty proud of myself though that I managed to keep clean and not get any poop on my clothes.  I finished dropping bombs and then I looked down at my mess covered in Kleenex, it was still pretty nasty.  I felt so bad for shitting on someones driveway I couldn’t just leave it there.  I grabbed a bunch of Kleenex and grabbed at it to throw it in the sticker bushes behind the car.  That’s right I’m polite!

When my poop stop was complete I climbed back in to the car to face my parents.  My Dad could not stop laughing and being grossed out at the same time.  The rest of the ride was an onslaught of poop stories and the like for the rest of the way. At least these stories were way better than hearing about Obama and his healthcare plan for seniors.

Now here is the fucked up part.  As soon as I got back into the car after my incident  I was cracking up to myself thinking that this was a great TMI Thursday and I should tell LiLu.  How great is that I nearly poop myself and I think of LiLu.  Sorry LiLu.  So, so sorry.

TMI Sunday that I’m Sharing on Tuesday

Jordan: When did you decide this, at what point did you conclude that you wanted to break up with me?

Me: Jordan, I don’t know that I’d call this a break up.  I mean we’ve been out a few times and have had some fun together but I didn’t think that either of us was that invested.

Jordan: Call it what you want, call it whatever makes it easier for you.  But I still want an answer.  Was it before or after we fucked last night?

Me: It was when we watched that stupid Kevin Costner movie.  I knew that I’d never kiss you like that.

Jordan: Just get the fuck out.

Me: Jordan, we’re at my place.

Smiling on the inside

Saw the ex yesterday for the first time in forever.

She came over to pick up a couple of her things that had lingered at my place since we split. You know how that happens.

Anyway, we had nice little talk, the kind of talk you have with your ex: How you doing? How’s work? How’s your mom and dad? This, that and the other.

There was one thing I left unsaid, however. One thing I just couldn’t say to her face.

Her now considerably more round face. The face whose cheekbones are now obscured by the weight she’s put on since she cheated on me and moved in with another guy.

Is it wrong I was smiling inside knowing that in the time since we split up she’s gone from relatively in shape and having a great ass, to having a puffy face and a sizable belly straining the waistband of her skirt?

No, didn’t think so. Seriously, I’m not kidding, I’m smiling even now as I write this.

- S.R.

The Question I Can’t Ask

“Do you know why I was on the couch when you woke up” Jordan asked via text message hours after I had left their place.

“I was wondering about that.  You were kinda icy when I walked out.”

“You confused me with someone else.  You said someone else’s name in bed with me.”

There is no recovery from such a mistake.

Besides not remembering, the worst part isn’t that it happened.  The worst part is that I am more curious about whose name I used than having any desire to fix it.

i hate your blog.

your blog makes me cringe.

you’re certainly not a great writer. you aren’t even a particularly good one. 

i’d rather hear about the shit you took this morning and the line at your starbucks than read about the oh so very important issues and topics you think you are addressing.

your perspective is so blurred, it isn’t truthful. you should be in serious counseling rather than venting to strangers. the best thing your blog could bring you is the realization that you need help.

i’ve kept it hidden if from my friends. i hope you end it. change your mind. give up. i hope you finally realize how you are embarrassing yourself.

i keep reading. every day i visit. because i have to know how you humiliated yourself today. i have to know how you mortified me today.

the only thing

It started a decade ago. 

John told me that he was going to breakup with her. So, I fucked him in a room at the Doubletree hotel. Two weeks later they were engaged.

The first time I kissed Dave, he was already engaged. I had known him for ten years before I kissed him. The first night I kissed him was also the first night I saw him naked. We were trashed. Too many dirty martinis. We would have fucked. But he couldn’t get it up. Now, Dave only calls after midnight. He warns me not to answer the phone if he calls after midnight. Sometimes I don’t, but sometimes I do.

I fucked Keith in college. Not a good lay. His ambition was too big; his penis too small. I never slept with him again. He has his first child now, so I only see him for happy hour. But on the rare occasions he makes it out for a late night, he texts at last call. I don’t respond.

Jake was married the night I met him. Short with shaggy hair. I wouldn’t have given him the time of day but he was the one on the trip with the best pot. So we smoked and shed some clothes with no sex. He still IMs me every day at 4:20 pm.

Last night Brad held me. He embraced me in the parking lot beside my car.

“You are one of my best friends, and I thought you might never speak to me again.”

We haven’t spoken in two weeks. Ever since our friendship swallowed a sour mouthful.

He texts me all night every night. He says “love.” He kisses me on the lips sans tongue. He holds my hand. He knows me. He wants me. I want him.

I don’t care that he is married.

The only thing that keeps me from having him is him.

TMI Thursday: Do NOT Google This

I’ve been wanting to do something wild for my upcoming 30th birthday. Something crazy and out of character to mark the occasion and soften the blow. It was then that a friend of mine got a vertical clitoral hood piercing. In case you didn’t know, that’s a bar or ring that runs through the top of the hood of skin that the clitoris hides under. Vertical piercings have the incredible benefit of laying right on top of your magic button. Can you think of a better birthday present?

I’m a wimp. I’m not a piercer. I have my ears pierced three times in my left ear and twice in my right- I couldn’t stand the pain of the third piercing in the second ear. Somehow I ended up with a tattoo, and I think the only reason I made it through was that I went numb about five minutes into a good twenty minute tattoo. This piercing intrigued me for reasons beyond the obvious. It was well off my beaten path. It was highly private- a dirty little secret that only myself and a few select people (to include the blogosphere at large) would know about. So I started the whole Google research process. The pictures (and let me say right now, there are some ugly effin’ lady parts out there!) were pretty cool, I liked the way they looked. The pain was supposedly minimal, as was the healing time. Disturbing things I ran into during my research: instructions for a diy VCH piercing, bondage tips (as in, how much weight will the piercing bear before failure.. *shudder*), rumors that these piercings would give you orgasms just from walking, and a few explicit descriptions of infection. Still, when I was done Googling, I was ready to make an appointment.

That’s when Mother Nature brought me my monthly gift. Oh, the joy. When Aunt Flo left town, I made plans to go the very next day. The friend who has this piercing offered to take me as an early birthday present, because she rocks. I wasn’t nervous. Well, I wasn’t that nervous. I knew it was going to be weird, and that it was going to hurt, but not that bad, and I also knew that the worst thing I could do was spend the whole day anticipating. I did have two shots of vodka before we left for the shop, because the idea of being completely and totally sober was a little intimidating.

When we walked into the shop, I was feeling warm and rosy from the vodka and a little nervous, and a lot excited. I filled out my paperwork, and one of the best female piercers in the state took me back into the piercing room. After all, you don’t let just anyone drive a needle through your lady bits.

Just like at the gyno, I had to strip from the waist down and lay down in the chair, where she had me scoot further and further down until she could easily get into my business. I was glad to see her gathering her supplies quickly, because being naked from the waist down in a black leather chair in a room with flowers hanging from the ceiling and a girl wearing a hippy dress was bringing the reality of the situation home awfully quickly.

She cleaned and inspected my delicate flower, slipping a cotton swab up into my hood to make sure I was suited to the piercing. I had done this two weeks ago in my bathroom, so I knew I was good. She marked her target, cleaned a little bit more, and peeked up from between my knees.

“Okay, we’re ready. Whatever you do, do NOT clamp my head between your knees or thighs. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth and focus on your breathing.”

My heart raced as I envisioned my knocking her out with my kneecaps,  needle still shoved through my junk. I dismissed that thought and put my arms up over my head and grabbed the headrest of the piercing chair, hoping to prevent any issues with my legs slamming shut like a vise.

I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out my mouth. As I exhaled, she drove the needle through the top of my hood and into the receiving tube.

It hurt like hell for all of two seconds. Literally, there was an awful, awful poke and then nothing. Until she inserted the curved barbell and screwed the balls on the ends. At some point in this process, she pinched me and I gasped. It was like skinning my knee but it was my delicate flower instead. Not cool.

She gave me an aftercare sheet and a pantyliner. I put my pants on and left the room. This is about the time it occurred to me that I felt really high. Endorphins and adrenaline and all.

Most people would have gone home. I went to an antiques auction and then went home with my friend. We stopped at the drug store and I bought some first aid saline and a spray bottle of bactine.

The next two days I spent at home, mopping and drinking and roasting hot dogs by the fire. I was careful when sitting down or getting up, and there were moments when it was a little sore. By Day 3, I could start to feel the sensation of that bar riding on my clit. It was by no means overwhelming, just a little zing when I moved a certain way. Days 4 and 5 were itchy days, but I can’t really complain about scratching that itch…

For the first six days, I used Bactine on the piercing twice a day, and saline in between a few times a day, when I thought about it.  I think what I was most grateful for was that it never developed “crusties” like some other people said theirs did. If there’s one place you don’t want crusties, it’s probably your pink places.

At almost two weeks, I’ve completely disregarded the care sheet and am having no problems whatsoever. A ton of fun, but no problems.

I would do it again in two hot seconds.

It’s completely healed as far as I can tell, and I’ve already broken it in, but that’s another post!

Judge Away. I’m Ready.

Only one person knows this about me.

I have lied to every single other person, because I know they would pass judgment on me.

But the truth is, I’m not really ashamed at all, despite the pressure from my family and friends to be ‘educated’ and ‘involved’ in our nation’s path forward.

So, here it is:

I have never voted.

For anything. Not once. EVER.

I just don’t care. I can’t help it. I don’t believe in our system- I don’t believe that I would make a difference.

Additionally, the only issues that truly stir my heart are a woman’s right to abortion, and that my gay friends are afforded all the same rights and privileges in their love that my straight friends are.

I’m not ashamed that I don’t vote.

But I am ashamed that I am not ashamed of it, if that makes any sense.

I am sorry that Sarah McLachlan’’s ASPCA commercial moves me more than any political speech or agenda.

I am sorry that I’d rather talk about Real Housewives or Daisy of Love than Obama’s plan for Iraq.

I am sorry that I read blogs and celebrity gossip instead of the latest bill up for the vote.

But no, ultimately, I do not believe that I, my feelings, or my vote make one bit of difference. So I choose to spend my time on things that affect me directly.

And I am sick of pretending otherwise for everyone in my life.