Tag Archives: good times

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.

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Le Swoon

13 Feb

You guys!! YOU GUYS!!  That gif was totally me at the end of my date last night.  Holy Lord almighty.  Swoon.  SWOON, you guys!!  Are you swooning?  I’m still swooning.  I want to spend the entire day just melting and turning into a giant puddle on the floor.  Then I’ll pick myself back up and melt all over the place again.

God bless, #4.

We met up at a restaurant near my house.  I was early, as per usual, and was the only customer in the place.  He walked in and I thought to myself, “hot fucking damn, he is fit as fuck.”  He knows how to fill out a polo shirt.  Looked way hotter than in his pictures.  Like, I felt my ovaries beating hot.  I had to restrain myself from asking him to father my children.  He sat down and immediately faced the bar and I thought, “Fuck, he’s totes not into me.”  Whatever, we’ll have a few drinks and then I’ll go home and line up the next date.

We drank, we ate, we talked politics, family, dating, traveling, pizza, drinks.  I don’t know.  We talked, and he was interesting, and smart, and funny.  And I poked him in the arm and it was rock hard and then I thought, “stop touching him!  He doesn’t like you,” because he was facing the bar.  AND THEN he nudged my leg and I thought, “I’m going to touch his body.”  And then we talked some more, and then I poked his arm again and my ovaries started beating again.  And then he lodged his leg next to mine and my immediate impulse was to pull it away and I thought, “do not move your fucking leg.  You will leave it there touching his.”

But then he asked for the check.

[SAD FACE]

It was a little after 7:30, we’d been there for 2 hours – I could have sat there for 2 more days.  Okay, fine.  Read all the signs wrong, clearly if he wanted to leave then that meant that he was over it.  He was naturally charming, and was being polite in hanging out, and he was ready to go.  And I was bummed.  Then he said, “can I walk you home?” Obviously, I said yes.

So here’s this handsome, younger gentleman walking me home and I had that inner dialogue with my slutty self.

  • Slutty Self (SS): You should just sleep with him.
  • Rational Self (RS): Do not do that.
  • SS: Don’t you want to see him naked? Imagine what he looks like under that shirt?
  • RS: You playing the long game here, or do you want him to touch you all over and then never hear from him again?
  • SS: Is that a bad thing?  Because look at him.  Invite him in the house.
  • RS: Do not invite him in the house.
  • SS: Don’t you want to touch his peen?
  • RS: If you wait, maybe you can touch it more than once…

There we were on my porch and he was looking at the house, and I knew he wanted to come in – but I was not going to invite him in.  Instead, he kissed me on the porch.  I wanted to maul him.  To climb him like a god damn mountain.  I restrained myself.  So he kissed me again, and my inner slut yelled to me, “you’re five feet from the couch, you could be on top of him in less than 2 minutes.”  I thanked him for a good time, bid him adieu, and went into my house where I melted onto the couch.

Of course I needed to immediately start thinking, “WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NOW?? IS HE GOING TO CALL ME?? WHAT IF I NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN??”

Five minutes later he sent me a message in the dating app (because I hadn’t given him my number) thanking me for the date and saying even if I wasn’t sure about a 2nd date, that the kiss is something important to check out.  I immediately wrote back and told him I had a great time and gave him my number.  And in the first few official text messages he wrote, “You were as good a kisser as I imagined.” And that’s when I died. I am dead.

I mean, like, what?  WHAT JUST HAPPENED??

Of course my head told me to take a deep breath and calm down, my throbbing ovaries were making plans for where we were going to do it, and my heart is making plans of its own.  Here’s the thing: this (if there is a this) will be a casual thing.  It will be nothing more than that.  It will burn hot, and it will burn fast.  We all know that the hotter the flame the faster it burns, and I need a slow burn. As much as I may want it to be more than casual, it will not be. So I’m going to keep going out there, and meeting other guys.  The Tutor and I are going out again tomorrow.  I will not get my hopes up (haha, who am I kidding?).  I will let this play out.

And I’ll keep checking my phone to see when he’s going to respond to the text that I sent him this morning.  It’s been 2 hours and he hasn’t responded.  I’m never going to hear from him again.

I ordered a few new bras.  You know, just in case.

Why hasn’t he responded to my text?? Oh wait.  He just did.

Securing My Place In Hell

23 Feb

Lent is just around the corner.  In just two days, Christians from all over the world will be heading over to church and getting ashes smeared all over their foreheads.  I’m halfway tempted to organize a big fat Happy Hour and then proceed to take pictures of everyone and post them on facebook.  Is that wrong?

My sister and I were not raised with any religion.  As heathens, we never learned about the purpose of Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and Easter.  All I could tell you about them is that:

  • Ash Wednesday takes place on a Wednesday and involves walking around with a dirty forehead.
  • The only thing good about Good Friday is that I don’t have to go to work.
  • Easter is when Cadbury brings back the Cadbury egg.

My very Catholic grandmother is probably turning over in her grave right now.

The nice thing about being pre-selected to spend eternity in the fiery pits of Hell, is that I don’t have to give anything up for Lent and I can continue to eat meat on Fridays (twss).  It always brings me great pleasure to torture my friends that do this.  My friends that give up candy are suddenly surrounded by all of their favorite sweet treats (and no, I don’t mean my cans), those that give up booze are invited to have a free round of drinks.

When I was in college, my roommate (Trash Whore Bitch or TWB for short) was one of those friends that I “supported”.  Every Friday we would venture to the cafeteria where I would wait until she’d taken a bite of her hamburger or chicken sandwich.  Right after swallowing it, I would yell, “It’s Friday!!  You’re not supposed to eat meat!”  I know, I know, but I’m already predestined to burn for all eternity, so why not have fun with it?  I’m supportive.  So supportive.

For those of you that are still hoping to make your way through the Pearly Gates one day, what will you be giving up for Lent?

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8 Jan

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Meme’s And Tags Are For Suckers, I Guess I Can Suck It

5 Jan

The tagging and meme’s are to blogs as chain letters are to email.  Take that analogy, SAT professor.

Usually when someone decides that I’m worthy of a tag and/or meme, I pretend like I didn’t notice it or that I’m too busy and important to bother carrying on the tradition.  Recently, however, Acorn King tagged me and the concept is a good one.  The tag has evolved as each blogger has decided to give it their own spin.  When Father Muskrat had it, he changed it to 7 random acts by 7 random whores.  Acorn King decided that he’d change it to 3 embarrassing sex stories involving his friends.  Oh, and I decided to change the tag all over again.  Now it’s 3 stories that involve my exes making jack asses of themselves.

I’ve dragged my feet at getting the post up, but mainly because I was trying to come up with good stories to share.  You’re in luck, kids, I finally have the stories!!

Sleeping In The Wet Spot

My college boyfriend, Smalltown Boy, is now a professor at our alma mater.  I’m sure he would be more than delighted to know that I am sharing this story with you and the rest of the free world.  One night in the fall semester of our Senior year, Smalltown Boy and his roommates decided to throw a huge party-which they pretty much did every single weekend.  On this particular night, Smalltown Boy got butt wasted.  So wasted that I had to take him up to bed early.  After some unsuccessful attempts at groping me, Smalltown Boy passed out with his hand down my pants.  I quietly cursed him, removed his hands from Vageena Davis, and rolled over to my side of the bed and fell asleep.

A few hours later, Smalltown Boy woke me from a dead sleep by crawling on top of me.  I thought that he was trying to start things up again, and promptly told him to get off of me and let me sleep.  “I want to sleep on your side of the bed.  I need the window,” he told me.  “Bastard is going to get sick,” I thought, so I let him roll over me to get to the window.  As I made my way to his side, I suddenly felt it: a giant wet spot.  “Did we secretly have sex in the middle of the night and I just don’t remember?” I asked myself.  Nope, the wet spot was way too big for that.

I think you know where this is going.  That’s right, he peed in the bed and he wanted me to sleep in it.  Look, I’ve heard about sleeping in the wet spot before, but there’s no f’ing way that I was going to sleep in someone’s pee.  I got up, got dressed, andwalked home (thankfully, we lived on the same street about 3 houses apart).  The next day when he came to find me he looked awfully sheepish.  He pretended not to remember anything that had happened the night before.  Nice play, but I didn’t believe it for a second.

How to Make a Peen Turn Blue

In the two-some years that Un-boyfriend and I dated, we only went away on vacation one time.  One miserable time.  We took a week long trip to the beach.  I was so excited!!  In preparation for our trip, I went out and bought all sorts of accessories: gold circle coin condoms, flavored ones (not that I was going to stick them in my mouth), ribbed ones, and green ones.  As far as I was concerned, we were going to be spending the bulk of our time knocking boots.  Unfortunately, he seemed to have other plans…

The second we got to the hotel room, I started getting undressed, and he turned on the TV.  He completely ignored me for 2 hours because the NBA playoffs were on and he’s totally gay for the NBA.  No, really.   After 15 minutes of trying to “talk him” into turning off the TV, I ended up throwing a fit and then reading my book.

Blah, blah, boring details, it was finally time to hit it.  I chose the green condom for our first romp of the trip.  About 18 seconds into it (literally), he started saying, “Ouch, this hurts!”  Puzzled, I told him to shut up and keep going.  “NO!!  This really hurts!!  It feels like it’s ripping off my skin!!”  He climbed off the bed and went running into the bathroom with the green (glow in the dark) condom on his upstanding citizen.  We both cried: him like a baby and me from the hysterics I was in.

“It won’t come off!  I can’t get it off!  What did you give to me??”  I fell off the bed laughing.  “I’m losing sensation!  I think I might have to go to the hospital!”  More weeping from me as I got off the floor to try to help him.  He was buck naked in the bathroom, hunched over his Oscar Mayer weiner, trying to pull the condom from the tip.   The second I saw him standing in the bathroom trying to take the thing off, I lost it all over again.    “It’s not funny!  It’s turning blue!”  I swear I have never wept like that before.

Remember the Time We…

Mr. Big X and I loved going to New Orleans together.  The first time we went was about 6 months into the relationship: it was our Valentine’s gift to one another.  Bliss.  It was bliss.   Months later we broke up.  A year later, we got back together.  We were living in different cities at the time, and decided it would be romantic to meet up in New Orleans to rekindle the romance.  We booked the same hotel, and met at the airport.

The 2nd trip was just as great as the 1st one.  The hotel was beautiful, the food was delicious-as was the sex.  We spent the days walking around the French Quarter, and the evenings locked in our hotel room.  On our 4th night there, after a toss in the hay, we were laying in bed.    I was sure that I was laying in the arms that I would one day marry, and remember thinking that life couldn’t get any better than this.  “This reminds me so much of the last time we were here,” he said to me.  I asked him to expand.

Mr. Big X: Don’t you remember?  It was that night that we went to [insert restaurant night here].
Me: What restaurant?  I don’t remember that.
Mr. Big X: How can you not remember!!  We had that bottle of wine and that really funny waiter!
Me: Nope, no recollection.
Mr. Big X: The day we went to the aquarium?
Me: Um…no.
Mr. Big X: Come on!  You loved that place.  You had that martini with the candy in it.
Me: I’ve never had a martini with a candy in it.
Mr. Big X: Of course you have!
Me: No.  I have not.  I would remember if I had had one of those.  I think you’re confusing me with someone else.
Mr. Big X: NO!!  It was you!
Me: No, it was not.  Oh, and I hate to tell you, but I’ve never been to the aquarium here.
Mr. Big X: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah, I think I’d remember spending the day with a bunch of fish and then having some candy martini.
Mr. Big X:  I thought it was you…

For about an hour he tried to convince me that I was totally wrong.  Until it all came spilling out.  Such a gentlemen.  Mr. Big X had confused me with his last girlfriend.  Who he had just happened to also take to New Orleans.  And stayed with in the very same room.  Man, was it fun trying to see him dig himself out of that hole.  Such a wonder that it didn’t turn out…

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I’m not one for tagging, but I’m dying to know what Pistols would have to share with the world.  Do with this as you will.  Write about 7 whores a whoring, 3 embarrassing sex stories involving your friends, or 3 stories in which you illustrate how your exes were jack asses.  Or do something different.  Get all Nike up on it (ie: just do it).

Pistols, don’t say I never gave you anything.

Graduation Day

21 May

I can tell you exactly where I was, what I wore (white pique sleeveless dress with black piping, and black sued pumps-don’t ask), and who I slept with 13 years ago today.  At this very moment, I was sitting in the Dining Hall with my family and friends celebrating my college graduation.  As a matter of fact, I believe I was on my 7th 8oz glass of lemonade.  Thank you, Alma Mater, for only offering small glasses for our drinking pleasure.

Let me tell you 4 college kids that read this blog something important: commencement is not what it’s cracked up to me.  It was so hot out that day and we had all had about 3 hours of sleep the night before.  Here’s the thing: no one bothers to mention that sitting outside with a terrible hangover on a hot day in a black freaking robe is the epitome of “miserable times”.

So you listen to me, college kids, and you listen carefully.  You need to smuggle in some stuff.  Are you taking notes?  Damn it!  Then grab a piece of paper and your #2 pencils.  We’ll wait for you while you go get that stuff.

[insert elevator music here]

Okay, now that you’re ready, here’s your list of commencement essentials:

  1. Sunglasses.  The sunlight will make your hungover, bloodshot eyes bleed if you don’t have these.
  2. Bottled Water.  The last thing you want to do is pass out on stage when they’re handing you your diploma. Granted, this would never have happened to me because there were 1400 of us and they didn’t give us this treatment.  I could, however, could have used some water because I was hot.  And parched.  And very hungover.
  3. A fan.  Did I mention how hot it is out there?

Oh, and let me tell you how awesome it is listening to people drone on and on about the future and blah, blah, blah.  It’s hard to listen to that boring ass crap motivational stuff when you are hot.  And parched.  And very hungover.  Here’s what you can do instead of trying not to die.  The second your friend falls asleep in the heat, nudge them awake and remind them how very “important” this moment is and that you don’t want them to miss anything.  Then totally ignore the angry glare they fire in your direction.

One of the best parts of graduation, aside from waking up at 7:00 AM, standing around in the parking lot for 4 hours waiting for the ceremony to begin, and trying not to die of heatstroke, was the big fat nap I took later in the day.  Nothing like a nap to celebrate your achievements.  Later that night I would end up at Plum’s one last time.

And after that I’d find myself in the arms of the Firefighter.

Dear College, I freaking miss you.

The College Years

20 May

Had I known in college what I know now, I would have whored it up way more back then.  Good god it was easy to hook up back then.  All it took was 3 Miller Lites, an invitation to listen to a new CD, and my pants would be down around my ankles.  Hooking up wasn’t the only thing I did during college, I’ll have you know that I also enjoyed my booze, and sleeping in.  My Senior year in college I spent most of my time doing two things: drinking and lusting after several fellow classmates.  One of those was Lawman.

Lawman was 6’4″, had one blue and one green eye, and was hot as sin.  Dirty, dirty sin.  Christ was he hot.  And dirty.  We had known each other since Sophomore year and were close friends-though not quite close enough for my taste.  For most of the time that we knew each other he dated Psycho.  Holy crap was she insane.  They would break up, she’s have a psycho episode in the student union and yell at him in front of everyone, he’d sleep with someone else, and then they’d get back together.  She was crazy.  Unbalanced.  Not sane.  One night, I even thought she was going to take a swing at me in one of the local bars.  This was about 20 minutes after she had thrown herself on the sidewalk and beat her fists on the ground.  Crazy.

There are certain nights that are still clear as a bell, and others that are just as hazy now as they have always been.  I clearly remember several occasions at the end of the night when I was saying goodbye to Lawman and his 2 hot friends.  At some point in the night he had touched the nape of my neck and I had pushed him off of me.  He was stunned by my reaction and demanded an explanation.  Fact is that it drove me absolutely insane (still does to this very day).  He laughed and left me alone-until the end of the night.  They all thought it was extremely amusing to each kiss me directly under my right ear.  I just about died right there.

The place to go back then was a bar in the Commons called Plums.  The smart thing to do was go relatively early and get a table.  You’d have the perfect spot as the entire college seemed to walk by your table.  Being in my early 20’s, I thought it an extremely smart thing to do to begin my evening with either a shot of Gold Schlager, or a Mind Eraser.  It’s no wonder that 1/2 of my Senior year is a complete freaking blur.  The environment was ripe for making bad decisions, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up pregnant or with a case of the clap.

We did, eventually, end up having a very “romantic” romp on a night that I was bombed out of my mind.  Oh those were good times, times.  But that’s a story for a rainy day…