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Laser Beams

2 May

One of the most fun parts of hooking up with someone new is discovering their body for the first time.  It’s like unwrapping a present – you never know what you’re going to get until all the wrapping is off.  I tend to be like a kid a Christmas, ripping all the packaging off the gift and diving right in.   Usually you’ll get an a “Oh! I love it! It’s just what I wanted!” from me.  On some occasions there may have been an “Oh.  Not what I was expecting, but it will do.”  Mind you, the last reaction is never spoken aloud.

The reaction to the package, so to speak, isn’t just about size or shape.  Much of it has to do with the grooming which has or has not taken place.  I appreciate when a man takes care of his business.  Rifling through a forest of pubic hair is not my idea of a good time.  Just as we ladies are expected to keep our lady parts groomed, I expect my men to do the same thing.  Manscape the shit out your stuff, dudes, it’s common courtesy.  No one wants to be choking on pubic hair during a blowie.  Hooking up with 3D was like being lost in a deep dark forest, I forgave him because the package he carried was pretty substantial and he knew what to do with it.

In this most recent round of dating I’ve found men to be far more concerned with the way they present their junk, and for that, I say “thank you.”

We ladies have all sorts of options these days: stay full, trim it, landing strips, bald eagle.  You have to figure out the best way to make your lady bits shine in the way they should.  Maintenance can be a bit of a chore, but it’s always worth it.  You can shave it, tweeze it, wax it, or laser it.  Shaving is great on day 1, then the damn little red bumps make their appearance.  Waxing makes me want to die on the table, and when it’s time to regrow the hair it’s so damn itchy.  It’s what I imagine crabs to be like, only more uncomfortable.  Tweezing takes an eternity and you end up with the same regrowth issues as with waxing.  And that, my friends, is why I have decided on laser hair removal.

Two weeks ago I had my initial consult.  It was quick, they showed me lots of pictures of options (bikini, landing strip, full Brazilian), we talked about the process, and I signed on the dotted line.  6 sessions, every 2 months to kill all those pesky hair follicles.  Ridiculous amount of money to get it done, but it will be worth it.

Last week I went to my first appointment.  I was dead nervous as during the consult I had been told it the process would take 40 minutes.  I’d read the sensation felt like rubber bands snapping on skin, and that sensation on my most sensitive parts for 40 minutes didn’t seem like something to look forward to.  People, it was worse than snapping laser bands.  There are certain parts of your lady bits which are super sensitive and the technician told me it would feel really “spicy”.  It felt like someone was pinching as hard as they possibly could – I don’t know about you, but I’m not down with pinching my privates.  There I was on my back, naked from the waist down, legs akimbo with a complete stranger, trying not to sweat and cry.  Kind of like a first hook up only not as fun.  All because I want to be properly groomed when I hook up.  Talk about vanity.

Thankfully, the process only lasted about 10 minutes.  There was no pain after the session.  I was told it would take about 2 weeks before the shedding phase, then I’d be hairless for a few weeks, and then the sleeping follicles (they go through growth cycles) would activate.  I’ll keep you posted on progress.  We’ll see how things go.  So far, I’m not seeing anything new.  Monsieur le Baguette is eager to see how everything works out.

Operation #laseredladybits is in progress!

The Chess Player

17 Mar

You know sometimes on a Friday all you want to do is crawl in bed. As you’re settling in for the afternoon thinking about what you’ll do for dinner one of your friends calls and convinces you to go out for a drink.  So you grumble under your breath while you get dressed and do your make up and say yourself, “I’m going to stay out for max two drinks, and I’ll be in my flannel jammies by 8:30.”  You drive downtown because uber is stupid expensive due to peak hours and think that driving will make it easier for you to sneak out early.  And oh look, a princess parking spot in front of the bar!

You’re winning already.

You head upstairs, see your friends and think it’s a good idea to start with a gin and tonic (extra limes) because your friends have been drinking beer since noon and you kinda feel like you should catch up even though you’re going to stay out for max two drinks.  More people start arriving and it turns out they work for your old company and so you start making all of the connections and someone asks you why your drink is empty and you order some water because you’re pacing yourself because you’ll have to drive home later.  And then it’s time to order an orange crush and you are talking to your friend’s boyfriend and he asks what you’re drinking and when you tell him he tells you you’re “crushin it” and you can’t help but lolz.

That’s when he introduces you to the tall drink of water who just moved to the area a few months ago.  He’s 33.  He’s smart.  He’s interesting.  You casually sip your drink while you flirt with him for awhile.  You’re introduced to other people who end up standing between the two of you so you move on and glance over every once in awhile and he keeps looking at you.

You’re finishing your drink and it’s time to go home.  Some of your friends are getting ready to leave for another bar and you’re going to go ahead and go and then the tall drink of water asks, “are you coming?” as he’s being dragged out the door.  Game time decision here.  That’s when you say to your other friends, “let’s go for one drink.”

So you find yourself walking 10 blocks to the next bar and when you get there he’s saved you a seat and asks you if he can buy you a drink.  Meanwhile you’re thinking, “what the fuck is happening and why the hell not?”  Because when was the last time you went out to a bar, met someone who was cute and charming who wanted to buy you a drink and who you wanted to flirt with?  You sit down and order the drink and he sits next to you.  When two more seats become available he holds the seats and your friends try to cock block you and you say, “no, no, you sit here and I’ll move down,” so you can sit next to him.

You sit your ass down on that barstool and you order another drink.  You find yourself talking about travel, and work, and family, and regrets, and basketball, and moving to a new city, and all sorts of stuff while he gazes at you with his blue eyes.  You start talking about chess and find out he’s one of those guys who can read all the moves in advance and you ask him if he can do that in life and he tells you, “usually.”  You wonder if he already knows how this is going to play out and if he’s calculating what moves he’ll make to get the outcome he wants.  You ask yourself, “I wonder if he knows how old I am?”  Obviously you look for an opportunity to drop it into the conversation and when you do he doesn’t blink an eye, he just goes with it.

Your other friends decide they’re going to leave, so only the two of you are left.

The Chess Player keeps gazing at you and he grabs your hands, and he gives you this look, and you ask, “what’s that look?” He responds, “I’m thinking about kissing you,” as he tugs your hands towards him and you lean forward.  That’s when you start making out at the bar.  In the middle of March Madness.  Surrounded by people cheering on UMBC.  It’s just the two of you.  Suddenly it’s 10:30.  You’ve been at the bar over three hours.  Where did the time go?

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.  You find yourself saying, “yes”.  He picks up the tab and you walk the 10 blocks back to your car to drive to his place.  You’re thinking, “am I really going home with this guy?  Yes, yes I am.”  When was the last time you went home with someone you met at a bar?  Was it college?  Shortly after, at least 10 years ago.  A lifetime ago.  Sure, you had an exceptional romp the night before – thanks to Tinder – but this is the type of chemistry real life has produced.

Why not just go with it?

You’re at his place.  It’s pretty swanky.  Incredible view of the city.  Then you’re on the couch and your top is on the floor, quickly followed by just about everything else and he says, “we can always go in there,” gesturing to his bedroom.  You hop off his lap and lead him into his room and crawl into his bed.  There you proceed to lose every last stitch of clothing and remain for the next couple of hours.

When it’s done, he wraps his arms around you and you lay there and talk about work and whatever and nothing and he says, “you’re hot, you know that.  Right?”  You say, “thank you.” and think to yourself, “maybe I’m kinda decent looking if I’ve made out with four guys in eight days and ended up in various states of undress with each of them.”  You ask him if he had played this out and calculated the moves it would take to get to his bedroom.  He says, “yes.”  He tells you he’d read the signals.  There were only two options, yes or no, and the signals all pointed to yes.

He says, “you can stay.”  You get up and get dressed, he asks for your number.  You walk out.  He texts you before you get to the car.

You think to yourself, “I’m a fucking sex panther.”

Reset the counter.

Protected: My favorite city

16 Mar

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It’s raining men

15 Mar

Dear sister, go away now.  Don’t read this post.  You should probably be doing something with Damien since he’s on spring break.  Bet he’d love to go see Black Panter again.  Oh, or I know!  Maybe you can plan a nice date night for when my bro-in-law gets back in town.  Mom and I can watch the kids on Saturday night.  You should work that shit out.  Also, go away.

Continue reading

So

11 Mar

I’m in love and we’re going to get married*. Greatest first date ever.

Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s that he’s awesome. This is going to go somewhere. I can feel it.

*bone

Saving first base

2 Mar

Warning for my sister, stop reading.  I think there’s something on the stove that needs your attention.  Or maybe you left the water upstairs running, you should probably go check it out.  By the way, are you going to mom’s house for dinner tomorrow night?  What do you think she’ll make?

Stop reading now, you can go away.

At a party last Saturday, surrounded by friends, one of them announced, “Catherinette has great tits.”

Having boobs is a glorious thing.  At a d cup mine fit my frame.  Yes there are times when my button down shirts start to gape.  Or when I suddenly get uniboob at the gym and I go from having 2 to just one giant one in the middle.  They’re heavy sometimes, and they can be uncomfortable during the summer.   But for the most part they are a glorious sight to behold.  If they’re out on display, people will look.  Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes not so much.

This afternoon I get the joy and pleasure of having my boobs smashed like tiny pancakes.  It’s mammogram time.  I’m excited about it.  No I’m not.  As a female with boobs, though, it’s my duty to go and get them checked out.  Gotta save first base and keep motorboating alive.  This time around, however, it’s gonna get real awkward with the technician.  You see, they’re not in their typical state.

Tuesday night, #4 couldn’t get enough of them.  On our first date I had worn a pretty conservative top which accentuated them, but didn’t show any cleavage.  I caught him sneaking some glances, and called him out on text messages later on.  Over the course of our text exchanges he mentioned how excited he was to get a hold of them – so to speak.  Obviously we were both aware of what was gonna go down on Tuesday, so I wore something low cut so he could see what he was going to get himself into later that night.  Once we were back at my house he manhandled them like no one’s business.  For 3 plus hours.  After he left they were so sore it hurt to wear a shirt, and laying on my stomach was close to impossible.  The next day as I was inspecting them in the mirror I noticed there were marks all over them.  A hicky here.  A welt there.  A hole lot of redness.  Was that a bite mark?  3 days later and they’re still sore and some of the marks he left are still visible.

I’m super stoked to take my top off and then have to explain to the technician that, no, they typically don’t have those marks.  And that, no, that welt on the bottom of the left one isn’t usually there.  And also, no, they’re not usually bruised it’s just a hicky on my god damned right one.

In hindsight perhaps I should have scheduled the appointment out a bit further…

 

 

Age is just a number

27 Feb

I am 44.  #4 is 38.  That’s a 6 year age difference.  Really, he’s probably too old for me anyway.  I’ve always had a preference for younger men.  At my age thinking about dating someone who is in his 50’s makes me feel yucky.  Feels too old for me.

Over the weekend a friend of mine told me I should date much younger because I had a young spirit, and so I had to find a man who had one too.  He thought that 27 would be good for me.  First of all, I love him.  He’s great.  High five.  He’s like a great older brother who I never had.  Second, if the dude is 27 I’m technically old enough to be his mom, that feels a little yucky.

I have not embraced my inner Cougar.  I should.  Thanks to my friend who reminded me that the Cougar rule is 1/2 your age + 7.  That means my limit is 29.

Date #7 (Civil Servant) is lined up for Saturday.  He’s 32.  #4 is a fling.  Casual.  We are free to see whomever we want.  If a 32 year old has a hot body and wants to mess around, who am I to say no?

Online dating is fun.  You should do it.