Sometimes I can’t even process how fortunate I am to have friends who understand me so completely that they are able to anticipate my needs. If I didn’t have Mr. WPT in my life, I would have never known about this.
It’s been a busy couple of weeks and I’ve had my ass handed to me on many levels, but I won’t bore you with the navel-gazing details here. I simply have not had the mental energy to put up my usual mediocre/C- posts, so I’d like to apologize to my 2.5 readers out there for being such a slacker.
The truth is, I think I’m slipping into a bit of a depression because Rock of Love 2 is officially over. Sunday night, a week ago, I was prostrate on the living room floor and completely inconsolable after Bret picked his rock of love. I was hoping he wouldn’t find love because that would mean the season would never end! When I realized there wouldn’t be a new episode of Rock of Love 2, I started sweating like Ambre during final elimination in Mexico.
During the reunion Rock of Love 2 show last night, I had a flash of inspiration. I think they should have a Rock of Love 3 and I think they should call it Rock of Love3(some). I’d like to see chicks with big hair compete to be Bret and Ambre’s girlfriend. It would be an interesting twist that I don’t think I’ve seen on any basic cable reality shows. Then again, I could be wrong about that since I just got cable a couple of years. I’ve missed out on a lot of reality TV, but I’m more than making up for it lately.
Anyway…back to threesomes…
The thing about threesomes is someone’s usually left holding the lube. And if you’re not the one left holding the lube, there always that nagging feeling like maybe you’re being secretly critiqued on your floor exercises by the Romanian judge. Perhaps worse than being secretly judged is being micromanaged by the lube holder. Nag nag nag nag nag. If you were all that, you wouldn’t be on the sidelines. Critics are just frustrated artists.
Odd numbers are always a bit tricky in group sex situations. With even numbers, people can pair up then switch up and no one feels left out. With that third person or fifth person, etc., someone inevitably feels like that red-headed* kid picked last for kickball, except with the added insult of having your bits and junk flapping in the wind. Of course, I’ve gathered all of this from friends who have friends who know people who’ve had friends who’ve been in group sex situations in various denominations. I wouldn’t know anything about this kind of naked mathematical craziness. Recently.
So yeah…Rock of Love 2 is over and I’m feeling empty. I’m trying to fill the void with Miss Rap Supreme and Viva Hollywood, but it’s just not the same. I feel like a fraud. I feel like the person left holding the lube.
*I have much love for the burning bushes and fire crotches out there, so relax.
When we were little kids, my younger brother and I seemed to have unlimited access to fireworks and kerosene. You could say we lead a mostly unsupervised childhood. It was the 1970s - before playing outside was considered dangerous and before parents had ADHD on which to place all blame for their children behaving badly.
Because I was the only girl, I always got the bitch Star Wars action figures. By bitch action figures, I mean Yoda, Princess Leia, C-3PO, Walrus Man, Ewoks, etc. My brother was the only boy and he got Han Solo, Darth Vader, Boba Fett, stormtroopers, and all the related ships that went along with them. Neither one of us wanted Luke Skywalker though because, even as elementary school kids, we knew he was a total nelly bottom.
The relationship my brother and I had as kids was contentious at best. His passive-aggressive way of displaying his anger toward me started with him secretly switching the heads of my action figures and super-gluing them to the wrong bodies. Just imagine Yoda’s head super-glued to Princess Leia’s body and vice versa. I used to keep my action figures in my retired Star Wars lunch box. I say “retired” because my brother had gotten all Crips versus Bloods on it with his magic marker graffiti. I couldn’t take my tagged lunch box to school anymore because I couldn’t handle the shame and embarrassment of walking though the cafeteria with it all carved up like that. When I’d come home from school, I never knew what kind of scene was waiting for me in my lunch box. It was like a Jack-in-the-box that never popped open. It’s traumatic for me to think about, even to this day.
When I pretended like it didn’t bother me that Yoda’s head was forever fused to Princess Leia’s body, it pissed my brother off even more. He would kidnap my action figures and take them up to the basketball court in the park. In the 1970s, there were no such thing as Amber Alerts - not even for prized Star Wars action figures. Once in the park, my brother would duct tape bottle rockets together and then duct tape my mutant action figures to the bottle rocket bundles. Then he’d launch the bottle rocket bundles out of one of those yellow Tonka Toy dump-trucks. The result was usually anti-climactic because the mutant action figure rockets were heavily weighted on one end and wouldn’t go very far. They’d usually hit the ground after twenty feet with the rockets still blasting the bastardized bodies until they fizzled out. Rather than have Hoth Princess Leia and generic C-3PO, I had Burn Unit Princess Leia and Burn Unit C-3PO. After several attempted launches into White Trash orbit, I was left with Torso Princess Leia and Stump C-3PO. What was I going to do? I was the big sister and I was supposed to set the example and be above such things. Besides, whenever I did tell my parents what my brother was doing to my action figures, they asked me what I did to upset him. And so it goes.
The action figures are long gone and I’m not sure what happened to the Tonka Toy dump-truck, although I’m fairly certain it met with an unfortunate M-80 accident at the same basketball court. I’m pretty sure if I went to the basketball court today, I’d still see the scorch marks on the asphalt and detect the unmistakable chemical smell of charred Hasbro remains.
I think I’ll have to save the stories about kerosene for another day.
Do you ever have sex dreams about your friends and/or coworkers? I’ve been having them lately and it’s really awkward. Since I rarely sleep, I rarely have dreams. When I do have dreams, they’re usually pretty generic. If they happen to be porno dreams, they usually involve nameless, faceless people. Lately I’ve been having porno dreams about some of my friends and this is quite disturbing. I am not naming which one of you girls and boys I’ve gotten to know in the Biblical sense in my dreams, but if I blush the next time you see me, it’s a safe bet that you were in at least one of my porntastic dreams and are forever stored in a grainy, X-rated VHS loop in my mind.
One time I had a sex dream about a cubicle neighbor and the dream was so hot that I couldn’t even look at her for weeks. Awkward. Fortunately, this particular cubicle neighbor was very funny and super sexy in real life. All of the boys and girls in our department had a bit of a crush on her. The porno dream I had most recently involved an old friend. (Old as in years we’ve been friends, not the friend’s age). When I told Lady Friend about the dream and the person who starred in it, she laughed out loud. This is much more effective than a cold shower.
I do have some general observations of my dreams that I’d like to share here: I’m really impressed with some of you. I had no idea that you had the potential to be so hot! And what a bonus that some of you possess the flexibility of Romanian gymnasts and also speak other languages. Seriously! I’ve woken up in a daze on several occasions wondering how I was ever going to face you again because you somehow manage to make me forget my own safeword.
The rest of you? I have to say I’m really disappointed. I thought you knew me better than that. You should know that romance is for people lacking bitterness and resentment. Please don’t ask me how I feel or where I see things going between us. And please don’t tell me your hopes and dreams when we are doing impure and unnatural things to each other in my porno dreams. This is a major distraction for me and I am not a strong multi-tasker. Besides, if you knew me as well as you say you do, you’d know your mouth ain’t for talkin’.
I feel it’s important to mention that I am as just as lacking in skills and abilities in my sex dreams as I am in real life. What I lack in these areas I do make up for with undivided attention and honest-to-goodness enthusiasm. A- for effort. D- for execution. I guess this makes me an all-around C student, even in my porno dreams. Oh well…no porn star left behind, I guess.
After a stressful week, going to the range and giving my guns a workout is quite relaxing. It’s also extremely important to maintain my skills because not doing so would make me an irresponsible gun owner (and who wants to be one of those douche bags?). The range was packed and a total sausage-fest, but LF and I each had our own lane and spent an uninterrupted hour there. I’m happy to report that my trigger finger still works, but I can hardly move the right side of my upper body today from shooting the shotgun. I looks like I have a giant hickey on my shoulder from where the butt of the shotgun was braced against it. I definitely fit in here in Pigtown with my random hickey. I wish it was warm enough to wear a wife-beater tank top so I could stagger up and down Washington Blvd showing it off.
Get out the pinking shears because here are a few more items for the scrapbook:
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I have all kinds of skeletons in my closet and there are some things I will never admit to no matter how many drinks you feed me. When I actually get up the nerve and let a skeleton of two out of the closet, it takes a load off of my guilty conscience and I am once again thankful that no one had digital cameras back inna day.
Here is my Friday Confession: I own this movie on VHS and DVD. It simultaneously repulses me and gives me extra special tingles in my No-No places. I forced this movie on innocent, unsuspecting people last night and for that I am sorry and ashamed. There is no such thing as “hitting rock-bottom” when it comes to my self-loathing:
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While walking my dog around Ft. McHenry, I watched some tourists sitting in a minivan innocently toss a piece of bread crust to an innocent looking squirrel. I’m sure they had no idea they were going to trigger a Lord of the Flies moment, but they did. Before the bread even hit the ground, the bread crust and the van were bum-rushed by a stunning cacophony of aggressive harbor ducks, gimpy seagulls, and obese squirrels. Looking at the that poor piece of crust, I imagined that’s what a Jager bomb feels like when someone puts one down near a group of lacrossestitutes in Canton Square on any given Fri/Sat night.
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I observed the city police tell (via bull horn) some kids playing basketball to put out their cigarettes because they were on school property and tobacco use is illegal. This confused me. I think it’s great that kids are actually doing something other than dealing drugs or playing video games. Positive activities, like playing real basketball on a real court with a real ball and with other real kids, should be encouraged and not micromanaged. It also think it’s praise-worthy that they are playing a fast-moving sport while smoking and not even burning themselves or each other. It’s a different kind of athleticism and I appreciate their unique skills and abilities. But how is it the police can spot a lit cigarette in broad daylight from two-hundred feet away yet somehow manage to not see the busted prostitutes staggering in and out of the same playground when I call 911?
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After 2+ years of being closed, the Monroe Street exit of off NB 295 is officially re-opened. Now I can take the bridge over the railroad tracks without the fear/dread of getting c-blocked at a crossing. I think some of the creepiest experiences I’ve had have occurred while sitting at the crossings on Warner, Bush, or Bayard streets waiting for freight trains to pass. If you’ve ever gotten stuck at any of these locations after dark, you probably know what I mean.
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Scooter season is here once again and so are my fantasies of clotheslining kids off of them as they come down my street.
