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Posts Tagged ‘espresso’

Okay, it was Wednesday and totally NOT on the game plan. The day started as normal as most of mine do. My pup was out to meet with her canine boyfriend for a playdate, I had a client meeting, and then after a long look in a mirror, that is when things got interesting. I noticed my grey was more noticeable than my highlights, at least to me. Jesus Christ, time for a hair appointment.

I always forget that my hair stylist  is constantly booked. She IS amazing, but considering I live my life in a constant state of spontaneity, it sucks to have to plan. I also forget that she doesn’t work on the days that are usually best for my schedule. I called the salon and was told that she had some appointments on Saturday. Ugh, the problem with that is this, once you have noticed how bad your hair looks, there is NO going back. You feel awful everyday until it’s rectified. I realized that I would be ending my day a bit earlier than expected so I called to see if there was a way to get squeezed in at some point in the late afternoon. Turns out she had an opening at the end. THANK YOU GOD!

Hmm, so then I started thinking, well damn, my hair looks SO good after a cut and foil, shame to let it go to waste. No, really, it looks HOT. I texted Cooper Fiennes to see what his availability was for drinks after work. Turned out he had a soccer match in the park so he wanted to make it a dinner and drinks scenario later, if that would work for me. Hells yeah!

Now, I don’t have much of an excuse these days to get really sexy. What I do for a living, what I do for fun, it’s all fairly casual. Wednesday night though, I wanted to feel like a sexy woman, so I ran by three resale shops and found a dress that I was semi on the fence about when I tried it on… consider that my legs were furry, my hair still grey and shaggy, and I wasn’t wearing the right undergarments or shoes or makeup. There was SOMETHING about it though. It had this rouching to it that gave the illusion of curves to my no T and no A body…and a neckline that kicked ass! Did I mention it was $24 ?! Score. Maybe it could produce a miracle and make me feel hot even though I was day 4 of my fucking period. So, unfortunately, no sex was on the table. I don’t fuck when I am bleeding.

I had two hours to get my dog home, shave (I know! This girl is having issues affording the professional waxing though), grab my makeup, the shoes, and jewelry and get to the salon for my hair appointment. I decided I would apply the makeup and get dressed after my appointment and then meet him at a local bar. I had considered that it would be hot to do a little role-playing. Pretend we are strangers, etc. Alas, by the time he told me he was headed home to shower after the game and I was still getting my hair trimmed and blown out,I found myself a bit tired, so I decided instead for Starbucks.

As per usual, my stylist did an AMAZING job. I love you, you know who you are and eventually you will read this post, when you have some free time and can catch up! Sadly she ran out the door as I was getting ready in the dressing room, so she missed the final look, but BRAVO! I paid, ran out to CVS to grab some polish and touch up my fingernails since there was no time for a manicure with his arrival in T minus…. x amount of minutes. The nails got painted in an alley way and the iced Americano imbibed while trying to look nonchalant yet sexy while reading the New York Times. I refused to look up at the door each time i heard it open. I hate public transportation because it’s so reliably unpredictable. I made it through all the interesting segments of the Times and was just headed into the mind numbing part when C.F. was standing over me with a grin from ear to ear. When I looked up,” wow”, was the only thing he could say. Yay! Now THAT is the response most girls want when they get sexied up, right?!

We wandered over to a local restaurant that I had previously had really great experiences with. Wednesday night however, I had the waiter from hell. Disinterested, unattractive, unfriendly and just hilariously awful. He didn’t ask what we wanted to drink, he didn’t mention specials, he didn’t say hello, instead, he lumbered over to the table, stood too closely and just stared at us. Umm, ok. I have a food allergy, so I asked him to ask the chef what would be appropriate, instead he told me that I should just tell him what I like, and the chef will make me something special. I don’t want that. I just want to know what 4 dishes on the menu are safe. He should know this automatically. That is HIS job. Anyway, the service just kept getting more and more laughable. I asked for my mussels and my heirloom tomato salad to come together, the salad gets dropped off first. I moved it aside. The other server notices and asks if I want my mussels to come out with C.F’s steak frites. Umm, yeah, that IS why I asked for them together in the first place. After we finished our meals he stood over us and asked,”yeah?” as we looked at the dessert menus. Seriously, Gordon Ramsey would make this fat man cry if he were ever to serve him! At the end, C.F. asked how much we liked him, “10% “, I replied. Then C.F. asked what we were doing next. “Going back to your place?”, I replied with the added stipulation that we could only do 85% because of my bitch ass period.

After an eventful train ride that provided a lot of amusement from the drug and alcohol fueled patrons, we arrived at our stop. I quickly switched from the heels to my flats for the walk to his sublet. The 15 minute walk took 30 because of all of the times he stopped to push me up against a building or tree and kiss me. Awesome awesome. Not complaining about that. Not complaining about the molestation in the elevator or the hallway or even that we weren’t in his place 5 minutes before he had picked me up and thrown me on his bed. Okay. Sure. So, long story short… aside from a 20 minute mood kill when I noticed the lighting in the room shift and glanced behind me to see the computer scrolling through a  photo slide show that was resting at an older fat photo of his best friend, we had 4 hours of total naked hotness. He asked me later how it’s possible that I give such good head, having been a lesbian for 12 years. I replied that it must be kinda like riding a bike… you don’t really forget. He accidently gave me a hickey on my neck (definitely NO dates for a few days. Thank GOD Type Geek is in Europe drinking beer right now and not here!) and I was feeling a little grrrr-umbly about that until I looked at his bed sheets and saw the hand prints. One thumb nail sized hickey versus bloody hand prints? Ha Ha Ha. I think I got the better end of the deal. Obviously I eventually decided to fuck him, regardless of my rule about my period. I looked too good. So did he and honestly, at a certain point… you aren’t feeling self conscious anymore, you just want to fuck. And fuck we did. Thank you my Spaniard friend. I will gladly give up 4 hours of sleep every night to be thrown around by him.

What does everyone think? Do you or don’t you when you or your partner is in period hell?

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Can I just start this post by saying, NO, I most certainly did NOT get fucked last night. SIGH. Future Lawyer is a sweet, romantic Rilke loving, red rose buying, back massage giving ivy league preppy. It’s so cute and if his lips weren’t so good, it would be too cloying for me. Generally, I would be frowning upon such behavior, as it has always felt so trite and contrived, however Future Lawyer is genuinely that guy. The Rilke on his bookcase is well-worn, not placed there just to impress the ladies. He has cried during more episodes of NPR’s This American Life for god’s sake than I have watched romantic comedies.

He met my dog and I at the train station and we quickly walked over to Starbucks for something hot to keep the bitter cold at bay for the walk back to the dorms. Coffee in hands, we  wandered through the maze of university buildings until we reached his Hall. As we walked in, he gave me flowers. My first internal reaction was that of mild discomfort. I have never liked to be given roses by anyone because they always seemed so formulaic and pedestrian. (Pedestrian is a word my ex fiancé used. I actually find it to be one of the most insulting words. She once said how much she hated that our problems were so pedestrian. What did she want? Some epic dilemma and great struggle?) I took a breath, shut down my inner dialogue and looked at him and how sweet, kind, AND sincere he was and then kicked my inner dialogue in the shin and put it in time out for the night. He hung my coat, poured me some wine and showed me around his suite, which was roughly the size of a small NYC one bedroom, minus a kitchen. We then picked out Slumdog Millionaire, since neither of us had seen it, and curled up on the couch in the dark. Occasional kisses were had. Wine was drunk, Michel Cluizel Grand Noir 85% chocolate was consumed and the dog was walked far enough to find my Future Lawyer a slice of pizza at midnight.

When we walked back into the suite, he disappeared for a moment to use mouth wash after the pizza. I really didn’t mind. I like spicy pepperoni. I laughed at him and wiped the wet bit off his lip. His embarrassment quickly departed as I started to kiss him. Remember, we were kicked out of a mall last week for making out. He may be schmaltzy, preppy and shorter than what I have gone for BUT he has a set of lips on him that just don’t quit. We kissed for a few minutes but then were distracted by the undergrads screaming outside his door. Music was a necessity, and somehow Mahler ended up being chosen.  As the music intensified, so did our kissing and eventually he backed me into his bedroom and locked my dog out with the door. She was horrified as she isn’t used to being separated from me by a closed-door. The lights went down and the next 45 minutes ranked up there as one of the hottest make out sessions in my history. Thank you Mahler. Eventually the composition changed however and it started to ruin the groove. I gave him the link to my online Trip Hop Playlist and ran into the living room to grab a hair-clip.

I patted my sad puppy on the head, dug in my purse and grabbed a hair clip. Prior to coming over I had tried to wax my legs a bit, so they wouldn’t be so bad on the likely chance that we ended up in contorted naked positions. I couldn’t do anything about the Brazilian. Those are NOT DIY jobs. I also bought a box of condoms, just in case. I know that most men purchase grocery store or drug store condoms, so I stopped by the sex shop and bought some Kimono Micro Thin japanese ones. When they make thin condoms, why do men go for regular? It’s better to be prepared and it isn’t the mans responsibility to worry about my sexual health and wish to stay childless, so I tossed one in my jeans pocket as I head back into the bedroom, hair pulled up for better long-haired girl on top make out action.

Back in the bedroom we find our groove again with the help of Morcheeba. Now, my pants come off, as do his and then he says it, after I am so turned on that I can’t see straight. He tells me that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for us to have sex tonight. He wants to wait a little longer. AAACK! I am wearing one article of clothing, sprawled out with mussed up hair, looking at him in shock and disbelief through sexually charged eyes and thinking he might be kidding. He might start laughing at any moment and just take me. But he doesn’t, and I whimper, and we continue to make out for a while but some of the sheen is gone.

I stayed the night and I slept like I do at home, nude. If you want to wake up to a naked woman whom you have called gorgeous several times over the last 12 hours and feel tempted, that’s your fault buddy. Within an hour of waking up, we were out the door and parting ways at the train. I made a quick detour and grabbed an americano for the ride.

On the train ride home I was incredibly, ridiculously, crazy horny. I texted my Internet Sex man from NYC and made a fleeting playful remark about how horny I was and  why wasn’t he local? Surprisingly, I received a message back within moments. Apparently he found the timing of my message fitting as he had just been thinking of me. He checked Skype and I wasn’t there and assumed that he would be having a solo session. I laughed when the next text message was a photo of his erection. He has the perfect match of voyeur and exhibitionist traits to my own and along with my Pac NW man, they are my sexually deviant saviors on this journey. When I am not getting laid locally, I can sign into Skype and get some virtual action with a non stranger. It’s a wonderful set up that ends in my napping happily and a bit less frustrated than I had a few hours earlier. Sweet live kisses and hot internet sex. The world was a beautiful place today.

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The weather was so great yesterday, a reprieve from the month of bone chilling temps. I awoke in the morning with multi-layered guilt. It was a guilt trifle, if you will. My pup has had cabin fever from a lack of canine fun and I had stood up the Turk numerous times, so I decided to combine the two and remove the guilt in one train ride. The pup and I met the Turk outside Starbucks and proceeded to walk and talk , get a tea, then walk and talk some more.We ended up back at his house eating some sautéed shrimp, drinking some wine and making out, with my having to lay down the law on 2nd base making out only. He was pouty about this but dealt with it.

He’s nice, young, eager, stable BUT…. there is always a but, isn’t there? I don’t feel it. My toes don’t get all curly when we kiss like they did with the Peruvian. I am also fairly confident in my belief that he is a bit of a player. That, in and of itself, is fine, however, don’t play me. If you want to have sex with me, DON’T feed me a line of bullshit to get me to go to bed with you. I will if I am interested and I won’t if I am not. While I am not easy, per se, I don’t play sexual games of cat and mouse if I want someone. The only time games are introduced is if they are naughty and sexy and mutually agreed upon. So, why do I think he is a player? Aside from the truth of the night we met and that we were both making out with numerous people, his words feel too rehearsed at times and he has condoms everywhere in his house. A ridiculous amount of them stashed everywhere. I lost one of my diamond earrings when we were making out and realized it a couple hours later when we had moved from the living room into the bedroom. He has condoms under his bed pillows, stuffed in the couch cushions and under the couch. At all times. Just in case. In case of WHAT? In case of the need to relocate your building?!  He has enough condoms stashed to be a live action version of the film Up, if he were to inflate them all with helium. At least he is into safe sex, but oy vey!

I guess my general feeling of Meh in regards to the Turk also stems from many superficial things that I can’t seem to get past. He razors his head… like Yul Brynner. He shaves his back, sometimes (what about the rest of the time?) because he admits to being a “really hairy guy”. BUT, he doesn’t wax his one giant eyebrow. Really? Why not? Oh, and there is a weird thing he did when we were making out at his house. Not that WHAT he did was necessarily WEIRD,but that he chose to do it so soon and without testing the waters. He is a tit slapper. What in the fuck is with that?! Yeah, no, I don’t like that. That’s distracting and silly to me. Stop that.

So, I have a general degree of meh-ness when it comes to him. I’m not excited about him, at all and that seems unfair to him, however, I don’t think he necessarily cares HOW excited I am, as long as I am willing to make out with him. I am however finding myself excited when I think about the Musician,Writer,Assoc Prod guy. I need a new name for him, any suggestions? Even though our date had to be delayed on Friday, I find our gmail chats to be refreshing and something I look forward to. He has a sweetness about him that makes me smirk. A smirk is a very good thing.

All in all, a slow week. The foreigner friend of mine and I are headed out for cupcakes to soothe my menstrual craving, nomnomnom, and perhaps a hazelnut mocha as well.

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These dating sites use an algorithmic approach to matching its members. Sometimes it works, some what. Other times it thinks I should date the 5’7 fattie with horseshoe pattern baldness and a desk job at a tech company in some suburban office park. Whooot! Yup, that’s my match alright! Well, last night it matched me with this man who has eyes the color of Australia’s famed Coral Coast and a face full of angles and bones and absolute brilliance. He’s 200 miles away I noticed, so the algorithm failed BUT, I decided that if I could do it for a year with my exfiancé, I could do it for a man whose eyes burn through you.

So, I  IM’d him. For those of you unfamiliar with internet lingo terms, that is Instant Messaged. There was a ten minute delay in his response, I assumed the distance was a turnoff. When he did respond we easily fell into a friendly rapport, that shifted once I asked his first name. I found his name peculiar, so I googled it in hopes of finding a cultural lineage association. When that search turned up nothing, I added his city, NOT ever thinking the first site that wouldappear would be his website. Suddenly I was intimately familiar in a painfully voyeuristic sense, with many aspects of his person, including his cock. Which, upon seeing, might I add, I suddenly clicked back to his profile and looked at his face and sighed. I then asked him, after remembering what he said in his profile, if he is culturally Jewish. He stated he was an atheist and I didn’t assume by his facial features, I didn’t see it UNTIL I saw the picture of his cock. Then I knew. I should just assume that if I find them attractive… probably got some Jew in there somewhere. My track record is Ashkenazic, I do NOT know why. I don’t go forSephardic or the Egyptian or African Jew, it must be Eastern European. Some people are Anglophiles, apparently I am a Judaiophile. What are ya’ gonna do? Sit around and kvetch about it or find some nice Jew schlong? Excellent choice.

I think I need to clarify WHY he has explicit photos of himself posted on-line. Aside from being an exhibitionist (SCORE!) and a voyeur (SCORE x 2!) he is also an established mixed media artist. He works in interactive visual realms such as video, and performance, as well as, creating through painting, writing, and photography. Hence, the nudity with such robust sociocultural statements attached.

Because I had now seen him in his full glory, I felt as if I was being unfair if I didn’t send over some pics of myself.  An eye for an eye, a tit for a cock? So, we began some in-depth chatting of our particular sexual proclivities and predilections. His proclamation of ALWAYS being a top is quite exciting actually. Now, how to get him a few hours closer?

Eventually all things must cum to an end, so we switched to Skype. I brushed my hair as I hadn’t yet taken off my winter hat and was sporting the worst hair EVER and changed out of my grandma sweater. This video call was NOT about me doing anything except watching. (clap clap clap) So, I watched. Oy vey, did I ever. We signed off so we could both get some work done, that we had happily avoided for hours, however I was not incredibly turned on and wanting my own personal happy moment.  I wrote out a fairly descriptive scenario to get my mind working, emailed it to him so I could think of him getting excited reading it, and set sail for my own little journey.

This morning I received an email from him explaining how, between our conversation, the webcam voyeur /exhibitionist play, my pics and my story, he had masturbated no less than 4 times… in under 9 hours. He slept for 6 of those. I felt very proud of myself. I still do. Of course we know that the chances of hot virtual sex ever being nearly that good in person are rare. I am definitely interested in getting to know this one a bit more though. I told him that I would be interested in actually spending time with him, in addition to shtuping him. He seemed to agree, but the afterglow of 4 orgasms might have him confused and easily agreeable.

Now, after a canceled date with a turk, which I will explain next post, and too many shots of espresso, the aggravation of two playful mice that are running around my kitchen and NOT getting caught by either my dog or my traps, and finally, a really hot shower, I am going to go to bed.

Ciao.

Update: I received an email letting me know that in under 24 hours the total number rose to 5.  Almost 6, but he “didn’t have the time to fully commit to it.” I like someone who shows passion and commitment to the things that are really important , don’t you?

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There are so many douche bags on these internet dating sites. Tonight there was one instant messaged me and said, “Hey Sexy Baby”. The kicker being, the dbag is 22. I am almost 13 years older than him. I had sex before he knew how to read. Click, Hide, Block, Buhbye

On one of the sites I belong to, I have had an onslaught of older men approaching me. On one of the others, a myriad of boys in their young 20’s. When I told one that  “I don’t DO guys in their twenties”,  (I know, I wasn’t listening to it as I typed it. I meant it like… I don’t do black coffee, I don’t do mornings, etc)  of course he responded that “if you change your mind, I sure would like to do you”. Oh my GAWD. Another youngster, 23 years old, tells me that he would like me “to be his older experience”. No thank you. A 25-year-old boy from England tried to chat me up by telling me that “a) age is just a number and b)that’s what planes are for. Where there is a will, there is a way.” Supposedly, he had decided that I was the older experience he wanted to do and was willing to deal with visas and security lines to get to me. I’m good, but I am NOT that good.

I am tired. I spent 5 hours staring at the different sites, trying to get inspiration for tonight’s post when I was feeling completely frustrated by the lack of interesting men out there. I understand that interesting is highly subjective, however, honestly, they were NOT interesting. But then as I troll the sites, the nasties see I am online and start coming out of the woodwork as if I am a fish with a paper cut swimming through their nasty shark infested waters. They can smell my blood through that little paper cut and want to pounce. Luckily, my new laptop is perfectly designed for quick manuevers out of undesirable IM chat discussions. And click and hide and block and gone. It’s becoming a dance move almost.

Did I mention how incredibly tired I am? Tomorrow is going to be a triple shot day. My ass is numb from sitting on my yet refinished couch and I am just staring off blindly as I see chat windows blinking in my periphery. 25-year-old law school student who likes the naughty librarian look. 32-year-old straight edged punker with full sleeves, and back. That is interesting. I look very mild now, almost conventional. I blend in. Interesting that he would see past that and still say hello.

I am signing off. I am going to bed. I am going to snuggle with my puppy while all the 20 something and 50 something sharks swim through the waters of the virtual dating world as I sleep safely tucked in and away from them and their wish to put their testicles all over me. You know, like an octopus. Yes, tentacles, big difference. Except to some of these boys, not much.

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