Crappy updates are better than nothing?

I received a comment recently that contained some rather shocking information - "it's been 8 months since you posted". Son of a bitch...really?

I haven't forgotten about this blog or any of you, I swear. I want to write again, the way that I used to, but I'll be honest: I don't know when that will be. Maybe if I bring you up to speed, you'll at least understand why I've stayed away so long and why my involvement here will be limited for the foreseeable future.

Let's see...when last you heard from me I was relaying the story of my England trip. I, regrettably, never finished telling that story but it's on my To Do list. Suffice it to say, it was wonderful and so were all the people I met. It was a blogger's meeting on steroids: Philip, Sharon, Kelly, Nathan, and some guy at a pub in Kent that was happy to randomly be introduced to "The Sex Blogger". I had no idea I was known as such, even by one person, but hey...the important thing is that he seemed pleased.

After I returned from England, I spent the summer preparing for college - getting all the stupid paperwork together and drinking a shit ton of booze because, obviously, there would be no time for that come August. At the end of July I started a new job in a completely new field that I had, technically, no experience in...but they offered me nearly double what I was already making so I said, "Fuck yes" and turned in my stilettos for steel toed boots. I don't actually do physical labor, but I work in a building out in the middle of hundreds of men that do physical labor. Which, by the way, is a blessing and a curse. It's like one of those wading pits of plastic balls - men are everywhere, smothering you, smelling weird and alternately making you want to dive in or go wash you body with Clorox.

In October I MOVED OUT OF MY MOTHER'S HOUSE. Some of my long term readers will know that this is a huge deal for me. After 8 years of absolutely no privacy and constant bitching, I'm enjoying my peace and quiet more than previously imagined. I've had a great few months of decorating and arranging, sitting on my new couch and watching what I want, throwing dinner parties and walking around in my underwear. But the best part is: I can masturbate without any interruptions. Actually, I may have overdone it the first month. I now probably own more sex toys than is strictly legal, but in my defense, if you were dying of thirst in the desert and suddenly got rescued, wouldn't you drink water until it was squirting out of every orifice? Yes, it was like that.

The same month I started seeing someone and...(cue drum roll) I'm still seeing him. He's someone that I used to date on and off a long time ago and, now, I'm all mature and shit so I can handle the serious relationship that he's always wanted and I've always been deathly afraid of. He's sitting on the other end of the couch now, watching the Super Bowl and occasionally looking at me like, "What are you doing? Why aren't we banging right now?" He likes me a lot, not just my vagina, and I like him too. It could be a serious thing, we'll see. And...he DID manage to change my mind about oral sex. I've decided that I do like it and Michael Bolton can go straight to hell.

Right now I'm in my second semester at a technical college, working on enough credits to transfer to one of the larger institutions here that offers an MFA program in creative writing. I completely abandoned my original plan of going to school to get a degree that was going to make me some money and do what I really wanted. It's terrifying and I hope I don't regret it. Last semester I only took two classes, but I quickly realized that I would be there forever if I kept going at that rate. So...I'm currently working 10-12 hours a day, then going to class Monday through Thursday from 6-9 for a total of four classes. One of those classes is Public Speaking and it sucks a giant donkey dick. As a matter of fact, my boyfriend (how fucking weird is that??) thinks I'm writing my first speech right now. I should be, but I miss this. Well...not THIS exactly. This isn't a "post", this is an update. But still, you know what I mean.

You're all a bunch of fuckers because you don't have to stay awake for 17 hours a day, stand up and speak in front of 18 year old recent high school graduates that hate everything, and fight with your mother over why she can't have a key to your house. But I love you anyway. And I miss you. And one day...one day I'll come back and write something amazing and you'll say, "Ah, THERE she is."

I do answer emails, so, if you want to keep in touch on a more regular basis...send me one. I'll reply and it might be more interesting than what you've just read. Now, you'll have to excuse me...the Super Bowl is apparently no longer that interesting and it's my turn to Hail Mary.

You are NOT the father!

I’ve been dicking around for at least a week now – starting posts, then scrapping them and getting caught up in reading other people’s blogs. Or maybe I’ve been reading more of my own blog than I have anyone else’s. Is that not the height of vanity?

It really wasn’t meant to be that way. It actually started because I wanted to jog my creativity, maybe pull some new ideas from the dregs of old posts. But it ended up with me sucking down diet Pepsi and tweeting about “Extreme Masturbation” in between rereading posts from a year ago and wondering what happened to that girl. She wasn’t having sex very much, but she was funny. And she certainly didn’t have writer’s block.

I know the part of the above paragraph you’re most interested in is “Extreme Masturbation” and honestly, I have no clue where that idea came from. But suddenly I got a mental picture of the sport they call “Extreme Ironing” and I thought, “How fucking badass would it be if they made a reality show about people that masturbated under extreme circumstances? Like parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing, scuba diving, race car driving, or getting arrested.” Just imagine – if a dude can keep it up (and finish!) through conditions like those...then he’s bound to be worth a ride. Or a laugh.

Then, of course, I thought it was most likely a moot point. The Japanese probably came up with that idea ages ago.

Anyway, since I can’t come seem to complete a nice, streamlined post, I figured I’d just give you a few updates on the dating front:

I’m no longer seeing Sam because he is a self absorbed bore that wouldn’t stop trying to put it in my butt. Seriously. I’m done. The man is completely incapable of compromise in the bedroom. I asked him to pull my hair once and he acted as if he were completely offended. After things were done and we were just lying there I said, “What is your problem with hair pulling or slapping? Why are you so against it?”

“It’s really just not my thing”, he said. “Plus, when someone asks me to do it...it just seems really stupid and awkward to me.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to ask you to do it if you would’ve just tried it, at least once. Besides, you certainly had no qualms about “asking” to put it in my ass. And pardon me, but that’s really not my thing and I find that stupid and awkward.”

Then he posted a series of rude, racist, and misogynistic “notes” on Facebook. And that, friends, was the cherry on top of the end of my first, ill fated, online dating relationship. But you know what? You live, you learn, and you start sleeping with someone that has your blog address and knows exactly what you like sexually...and has no problem giving it to you.

I mentioned this very briefly several posts ago (only one line, in fact), but yes, it’s true. There’s a man I know in real life that actually has this blog address. It was a bit of an accident, really.

See, he was really the match of a friend of mine that’s been doing online dating too. But after meeting, they decided to just be friends. One night she and I planned to meet for drinks and she invited him along.

We all hung out – eating dinner, drinking, and playing pool. And my friend, not thinking anything of it, mentioned my writing. At first I was a bit surprised. I’m not used to talking about my blog in public. But in the end I decided that it didn’t really make a difference whether he knew about it or not, since he wasn’t a romantic prospect.

But after a night of incessant drinking, laughing, and sharing every embarrassing sex story ever to grace this blog – I somehow ended up in his bed. And there wasn’t much sleeping involved.

Then, obviously, I was faced with a dilemma I’ve never had before. I always write about my encounters, but under a comfortable layer of anonymity. The thought of having the subject of a post analyzing every word I wrote about him was a bit daunting.

I thought, “Well, of course that means I just won’t be able to write about him.” But recently he informed me that he has in fact read my blog, and he has no problem being the topic of discussion. Something about not wanting to hinder my creativity...

My first reaction to that was, “Sweet! A free pass!” But after thinking about it a little more, and actually attempting to write an entire post about him and him alone, I was stuck. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he may not agree with my assessment. And while I’m still unable to go into the amount of detail I normally would, I can tell you this:

The sex was fantastic. All of it. And he’s rather insatiable. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I suppose I’ve been mistaken in the assumption that older men have lower libidos. He’s 43 to my 25 and I’m not sure what he’s like the next day, but after I leave his place I’m exhausted for the next 24 hours.

However, I can’t really give him complete marks because he was practically given a roadmap. He knew just about everything I liked and disliked from our hours of talking shit at the bar. As a matter of fact, I actually told him the face slapping story. And he, unexpectedly, gave it a go...even though we both dissolved into laughter immediately afterward.

We went out to dinner a few weeks ago and I watched the SEC championship game at his house. He makes me laugh when we hang out and it’s actually kind of nice not to worry about what he thinks of me...because he already knows all of the bad stuff. I can just be myself.

I’m under no illusions that he’s a one woman man and I couldn’t say how long this...mm, tryst, of ours will last, but right now I’m just enjoying it. (Except maybe that one time when he kissed me, then said in a rather terrible Darth Vader voice: “Ally, I am your father!” Umm...well, you could be.)

Tomorrow night we’re supposed to go out for drinks and, I think, play a few games of pool. Maybe it’s like drinking beer – the more you drink, the easier it goes down. Maybe the more time I spend with him, the easier he’ll be to write about.

Or, maybe I should just ask him to stop by and give his side of the story – “What it’s really like to sleep with the woman who writes about her sexual conquests, yet never gives them a chance for rebuttal.”

Perish the thought.

Coitus Interruptus (Err...me.)

I’m sitting on the hood of a car. It’s boxy, like a Cadillac. My hair is loose and wavy around my shoulders and I’m wearing a light blue, calf length dress that buttons all the way down the front. It’s made of a thin material that billows in the slight breeze and the top few buttons are undone, the material gapped to expose the lacy edges of my bra. I’m leaning back on my elbows, bare feet propped on the grill and legs slightly open so that the dress pools in a V between my thighs.

He walks toward me across the full parking lot, smiling in anticipation. I smile back. We both know what happens next.

Stopping in front of me he slides his hands over my knees and up my thighs. The dress rides up his wrists, stopping with his hands at my hips. He pulls hard and we’re suddenly against each other. Lips brush my ear, my neck, my collarbone. One hand grabs my hair and pulls while the other gathers the back of my dress in a tight fist. He bites the top of one breast and I grab him and pull his lips to mine.

As we kiss his hands fumble with the button on his pants. I pull away and lean back to allow him time. We stare at each other while he pulls down the zipper. He smiles, opens his mouth and says,

“MAMA! I WANT COFFEE!”

I tilt my head in confusion, hearing but not really understanding. “Hmmm”, I say.

He opens his mouth again and says, “MAMAAAAAA! I. SAID. MAKE. ME. SOME.COFFEE!”

His form wavers in front of my eyes before completely dissipating into darkness. I hear an insistent tap, tap, tapping near my head. Light starts to seep around the black edges as my eyes flutter open. I squint, my dry contacts rejecting any attempt to open my lids further.

The kid is standing by my bed in her pale green Tinkerbell pajamas. Her hair is stuck to one side of her face and she’s peering at me in irritation. “Mom! I need you to turn on the TV and make my coffee.” She taps the bedside table with her plastic Tinkerbell wand, emphasizing each word. She presses a button on the handle and it makes a “brrrrrriiiiing” noise, giving off a feeble flicker of light in its clear, star shaped tip. The batteries are almost dead, thank gawd. So much for getting laid, I think as I force myself up and out of the bed. Interrupted.

*******

Alone time is not something I take for granted. Alone time means sex – whether it’s with myself, just a dream, or, miracle of miracles, with another person.

As most of you know, I moved back in with my family when I had my daughter almost five years ago. That means that at any given time there are four other people, two cats, and a dog always encroaching on “me time”. When I was seeing the fireman, and by seeing I mean banging, it wasn’t really an issue. For about four years I would stay over at his place, have marathon sex, then go home and bask in a few days of post coital bliss. Rinse and repeat.

However, now that I’m not seeing anyone, and by seeing I mean banging, things are a bit more stressful. And when things are stressful and there are no sexy time opportunities on the horizon, my hand and/or ‘piece de resistance’ and I become infinitely more acquainted.

There was a time when I would never admit that to anyone, stranger or best of friends. Masturbation was a dirty, dirty word and if people knew you were doing it they would make an “ew” face and act like they’d never once tried it themselves. Liars! Hypocrites! Baptists!

Anyway, so now that I’m on a penis sabbatical I’m all about the (whisper) masturbation, dirty dreams that won’t fucking quit, and sometimes the phone sex. This is fine. It doesn’t really bother me. Except for one thing...

Bitches are always interrupting my groove!

Take the intro to this post as the first example. If I had a nickel for every time in the past few months that someone (mainly the kid) has interrupted my dreaming at an inopportune time, I could pay a hit man to put me out of my misery.

My family doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “privacy”. If my door is shut, they bang on it and fire questions like missiles, or worse, just walk right in. If I’m in the shower, they pry the locked door open and sit down to chat. If I’m on the phone, there’s another onslaught of questions: “Who is that, what are you talking about, are you going to be on the phone all night, are you sleeping with him, what’s his name, is it a girl, are you a lesbian, how much motherfucking wood could a woodchuck chuck before you went ape shit and stabbed us to death? Huh, Al? Huh, huh?!”

It’s like they’re all conspiring against me, plotting to keep me and myself apart.

The other week I stayed home sick. Alone on the couch, I decided to pop in one of my favorite movies: Unfaithful. Diane Lane getting raunchy with Oliver Martinez never fails to make me hot.

When my favorite sex scene came on I was sitting cross legged on the couch, leaning forward and clutching my pillow, ready for it. I bit my lip and happily watched while he nailed her in the public bathroom stall, glad that I didn’t have to look like I wasn’t very interested. Had anyone else been home, I would have smoothed my face into one of relaxed disinterest.

I clutched the pillow harder, wiggling with excitement. Suddenly there was a loud TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP by my head. I whipped around to see my little cousin standing in the window right behind the couch. He gave me a big thumbs up and pointed to the door, signaling me to let him in.

And come in he did...and he stayed for two hours, yapping my ear off about stupid teenage girls. By that time my sister had made it home with the kid. Sigh. No getting off that afternoon. Interrupted.

The most recent incident was just last night.

After work I had a few errands to run on the opposite side of town so mom agreed to pick up the kid. I got home around 5, settled on the couch and started watching a movie.

Around 6:45 or so, I realized I hadn’t heard from anyone. I called my sister and it turns out all of them decided to go out to dinner and they were just sitting down to eat. I was ecstatic. Having the house to myself is a luxury.

I happened to be texting my friend when I found out about their delayed arrival. When he asked what I planned to do, I invited him to join me for the phone sex. The first time that late night whispering wasn’t necessary.

It took a bit of time and playful banter before we got down to the business at hand. Sometimes he can be a bit shy.

I’d guess maybe 10 minutes had gone by and things were at that point. You know, eyes rolling back in the head, legs jerking kind of point. By request I was in a...precarious position, when three sets of car lights flashed across my darkened bedroom window. FLASH FLASH FLASH.

“Oh gawd!”

He made a noise of agreement.

“Shit!” I tried to get off the bed, but somehow ended up tangled in a sheet and toppling to the floor. The phone went across the room and I jumped up, trying to pull on my pajama pants. Car doors slammed and I panicked, trying to stick both feet in the same pant leg and falling over again in the process. I managed to flick my light on and yank my pants into place right as the front door opened and my mom’s boyfriend walked in. (My bedroom door is right by the front door.) Interrupted.

He looked at me, the expression on his face clearly saying, “What the hell are you up to?”

My shirt and pants were twisted, my ponytail halfway falling down, and my eyes squinty due to going from semi-darkness to bright ass interrogation lights. I immediately looked down at my phone to avoid confrontation and went directly to the bathroom.

After dumping contact solution in my eyes and straightening myself, I walked back out. The rest of them were coming in the door when my phone rang. I answered, told him to hold on, and said hello to everyone. Then I went outside to explain.

Lighting a cigarette, I told him what happened, unable to keep from laughing. “Did you get off”, he asked.

“Yes”, I said, but I tried to explain that it hadn’t exactly been ideal because at the moment of euphoria, I was toppling off a 5 ft. high bed, terrified that my mom’s boyfriend would find me with my bare ass in the air. He laughed at my relayed antics, but I still detected a note of bitterness there because I finished and he didn’t. Poor thing.

“Maybe I can do it while you talk normally...about the weather or something”, he said.

I laughed. “Yeah. I could talk about big, fluffy, sexy, white clouds.”

He laughed too, thank goodness, and I promised to call him back later.

When I walked back in the house mom was standing at the kitchen counter in her short, hot pink nightgown with big black stars all over it, glaring. “What are you doing”, she asked.

I gave her my practiced look of relaxed disinterest. “Nothing”, I said innocently.

Her eyes narrowed further. “Humph”, she said as I walked away. Always suspicious, she’s the Masturbatory Gestapo. I can picture her in a suit made of bubble wrap, clutching a bottle of disinfectant and muttering, “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, I’ma catch a bitch with her pants on the ground...”

So...I’ve been looking for my own place for a few weeks now. I’m working hard so I can (hopefully) move out by the fall. Fingers crossed. Because this shit has got to stop.