Guest Post: Halloween Rabbit in New York City

A few years ago I was on a business trip in the US which included a 2 night stopover in New York before pressing on to Dallas Fort Worth. At the time I was working for an online travel company and travelled quite a bit visiting our offices from London to Singapore. Apart from the obvious “perk” of being able to see the world at the company’s expense, there’s not much else going for business travel because you rarely get any time to yourself.

This trip to New York was exciting because New York is exciting, even if you only have 5 minutes to yourself. This trip to New York was also the most outrageously brilliant business trip I think I have or ever will experience… and not for business reasons, but because of the rabbit incident.

Upon reaching my hotel from the airport I had bags of jetlag, but also an appetite to dump my bags and explore the city. I wanted to enjoy a bit of New York while I had the precious time available to me on these trips for exploring. To finish the day I sought a bar close to my hotel so that I could roll my jetlagged self a short way to bed once the night was done.

I found a bar that was, like all the others, suitably decorated with Halloween fixtures and which included other essentials like friendly staff, good beer and a couple of TV screens to stare at.

After a few pints, a couple sat down next to me at the bar and upon hearing my English accent struck up a conversation with me as he too was an expat living in New York with his American girlfriend. They were also friends with the bar staff and were all gearing up for a Halloween party later that night.

As the evening progressed, more and more party goers were arriving in their costumes and we were treated to a fashion parade of naughty nurses, French maids and a dominatrix outfit. My new friends weren’t wrong when they said, ‘Halloween is the best time to be here because all the girls love to dress like sluts!”

One of the naughty nurses was carrying a rabbit vibrator round her neck and after a few drinks started waving it around and simulating fellatio with it as the party goers danced to a selection of music from the jukebox that ranged from Bon Jovi to Bob Marley. And then it happened…

It was nearing closing time and most patrons had moved on to other Halloween parties. All except my new friends and the troupe of slutty girls, including the naughty nurse with the vibrator. Now I have played my fair share of drinking games, but nothing I have ever witnessed comes close to what I was about to see.

The girls were all sitting around a long table against one of the walls and were ordering shots of tequila and who knows what else. They were playing a drinking game that I have absolutely no recollection of the rules, but the outcome of which resulted in them taking turns to expose their breasts and later removing their underwear. Then the girl with the vibrator held the rabbit in the air like Excalibur’s sword, switched it on and slowly lowered it under the table where she began to work on herself in front of her friends who were egging her on.

Before long she reached climax to shrieks of delight from her audience and then slumped back in her seat with a ridiculous grin on her face. It was at this point that I realized the girl next to her in the French maid’s uniform had commandeered the vibrator and was now pleasuring herself.

This went on to at least two more girls before I had to quietly leave the pub as the spectacle was becoming too much for a sensible business traveler like me. I paid my tab and left enough to buy the girls a round of drinks as a special thank you for my evening’s entertainment

Guest Post: What WON'T You Do in Bed?

Well, shortly after I wrote my last post I contracted a double cock-punch of the flu and a strep infection -- none of which, I'm sure, has any connection to the woman I was rimming just two nights prior. Anyway, I apologize for the lack of posting and figgered I'd kick off the return with another scintillating guest post. This one's from the lovely Simone of Skinny Dip. And it's damn good:

* * * * * * * *

What won't you do in bed?

I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to Sex. My whole philosophy is "everything is worth trying at least once" (well, almost everything). When Ken asked me to write this post about Sexual Deal-breakers, I actually had to sit down with a drink and ponder, "What exactly WON'T I do in bed?". After some deep soul-searching and a couple of glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream, I've come up with my master list of Sexual Deal-Breakers. In other words, "a list of stuff that the mere mention of is guaranteed to turn my girl parts inwards" or alternatively titled "stuff to do if you want me to kick you out of bed". Drum-roll please!

1. Water-Sports: The thing that you have to understand about me is that I am your text book Virgo. I love cleanliness, I love order, I love crisp white sheets. I'm kind of obsessed with all things bedroom and bedding related. I make my bed every morning as soon as I get out of bed because if I don't I feel like it sets a bad tone for the day (I even do this when I stay in hotels, even though I know I don't have to). I lust after designer duvet covers & keep my bed in tip top shape because I want it to always be this fresh, fluffy, cozy oasis for sleep & sex. With that said, any kind of sexual activity that involves urination will never take place chez moi. Its not so much the idea of peeing on someone or having someone pee on me (no, wait I TOTALLY DON'T WANT ANYONE PEEING ON ME) its more the clean-up factor. If you think you're going to get me to pee on you while you're lying on my 300-thread count Hungarian down duvet you're out of luck. The only way it might work is if there was extensive plastic sheeting laid out before hand. But, who really wants to stop mid-sex so they can create a condom-like bedroom environment? Which brings me to my first rule of thumb when it comes to sexual experimentation: If a sex act requires me to make my bedroom look like one of Dexter's "kill sites" or involves extensive "clean-up" afterward, its not happening.

2. The "Hot Lunch" or the "Blumpie". Rule of thumb #2: if a sexual act requires me to do a search on Urban Dictionary to find out what it is, its also probably not happening. This is definitely the case with the "Hot Lunch" and the "Blumpie". Did you read the definitions?! Are you throwing up in your mouth yet? ARE YOU?! Because I am. Also, I think the inclusion of both of these on the Sexual Deal-breakers list is pretty self-explanatory. Sex and making a shadoobie are two things that in my opinion just shouldn't go together. I know there is a bumper sticker that says "Is Sex Dirty? Only when its done right!" however, the "Hot Lunch" takes that to a whole new level. I'm guessing post "Hot-Lunch" probably involves some pretty interesting clean up. The only good that has come from learning the definition of a "Hot Lunch" is that now whenever I pass that diner in my hometown that has a sign that says "We specialize in Hot Lunches", I burst into hysterics.

3. Furry Sex: Once again I had to consult Urban Dictionary for this one. "Furry" sex is a term usually used to describe the act of two people having sex with each other while dressed in furry animal costumes. I think its pretty obvious why most people wouldn't be into this. Lots of people fantasize about having sex on a bear skin rug, very few people fantasize about having sex with a bear skin rug. I mean, I'm not even into chest hair - the last thing I want is for you to try and bone me while you're dressed as Tony the Tiger and I'm wearing a fuzzy unicorn one-sie. Furry sex mystifies me more than anything. How does one actually have sex while also wearing a fuzzy animal costume? Do the costumes include some kind of "trap door" like those old school pajamas with the bum-flap? Or, do they work more like a giant pair of fuzzy crotchless underwear? Where does one buy a crotchless animal costume? I guess I could Google this but honestly I'm afraid to find out.

4. Rape Fantasies: Besides the obvious power dynamics at play here, I've never understood why guys have the fantasy of sleeping with a woman who's pretending to not want to sleep with them. I love to please my partner & I'll gladly act out most fantasies (as long as they don't involve an animal costume) but, this is one I just can't do. The only time I've tried this, I felt like my skin was crawling & I was going to throw up. I don't mind a little bit of hand-cuff play & light spanking but, generally I don't like to be dominated. I'm more of a "tie you to the bed with a pair of my thigh highs & do naughty things to you while you beg for mercy" kind of girl. That's just how I roll.

5. Biting: Years and years ago, I dated this guy who would try and bite me every time we were in bed. After we broke up I found out he belonged to a group that put on "Vampire Role Play parties" and that he was a two-timing creep who liked to have his cake and bite it too. Now, whenever I feel teeth brush against my neck or any other body part I get this sicky feeling and I am reminded of that guy, his basement apartment that smelled like marijuana, his creepy friends & the fact that he kept a life sized stuffed plush tiger on his bed. Wow, that's a lot of deal breakers in one paragraph! Simply put, I just don't like biters (or adult males who own large stuffed animals). This also applies to the guys who think its OK to use their teeth while going down on a girl. I've had enough experience to know that treating my lady parts like you are eating a cob of corn at the State Fair does not constitute "doing it right".

I realize that this list is completely subjective. What makes me cringe, might have the complete opposite effect on someone else. Some of you may think this list makes me incredibly close-minded. There are no right or wrong answers here. Everyone has their own tastes & preferences. That's what makes sex so fascinating.

What are some of your sexual deal-breakers?

Guest Bloggess: Turkey vs. Pussy and 11 Other Reasons Why I Love Ken

Today's guest post comes from Skye Blue from Met Another Frog, a woman whose talent and humor and mad writing skillz are equaled only by the unstoppable awesomeness of her derriere. And you're damn right I always find a way to mention the ass, because if there's one thing that all of the fine female bloggers who've been checking in here at LustMongers have in common, it's a majestic bum. But Skye owns a special chunk of my heart, as she's the one who stepped forward and offered to help corral our various guest bloggers when Ginger moved along. She's also hot and Canadian--the winning combination. So, naturally, I am smitten.

Anyway, just when I thought I couldn't love her any more, she sends me the following post. Now I've got the full bug. Skye, if you're reading, my standing offer of three hours of unreciprocated oral has just been upped to five. Come, throw off the shackles of your job, and meet me in an abandoned alley for some hot snogging and gratuitous ass grabbage.

I'll let Skye take it from here.

* * * * * * * *

Okay, so there I was sitting in front of my computer on US Thanksgiving morning, wondering what the hell I could write that would be worthy of being featured on the awesomeness that is Lustmongers. At first, it was a bit of a struggle. Nothing juicy enough was coming to mind. But then, as I started to think about:

1. The fact that I had made a commitment to my good buddy Ken and I couldn’t let him down; and

2. The many reasons why I think he’s the bees knees, the cat’s meow, the shit, so to speak.

The bestest idea ever (at least IMO) came to me. Just. Like. That.

“Skye, you adore the guy. Why not write a piece celebrating Tenacious and oh so delightfully Salacious Ken?”

Now I could’ve tackled this subject from many angles, most of which would include a whole lot of gushing – but even I don’t want to read that. So, I decided to let Ken and his words of wisdom, what I like to call @Tenacious_Ken-isms, highlight all the reasons why I have come to love the tall, pale, dorky, Irish redhead behind this insanely funny blog...

He’s the HPIC (that’s Head Perv In Charge):

Kissing and telling is awesome. Especially when you just bypass the "telling" entirely and replace it with dry-humping.

Even at His Day Job.

Facesitting. In the office. Man, I love when the boss is away.

If productivity was measured in sheer horniness, I'd be, like, the office's top performer today.

Seven hot girls from accounting in a closed-door meeting. I just KNOW part of the agenda is a banana-eating contest. Gotta be. Right?

He Takes His Role as Office Perv Seriously, Because He Knows There is No “I” in Team.

Think it's easy being the office perv? Some women get pissed if you check em out as they walk down the halls; others get pissed if you don't.

What this office needs is legalized prostitution. As a morale booster.

He Worships at the (usually while lying on his back with his face smothered beneath it) Altar of Ass.

Ass. Is awesome.

Let me clear off a place for you to sit. ::Lays down on floor, brushes off his face::

He Readily Admits His Frailties and Is Quite Appreciative of Others’ Strengths.

The way a coworker's ass is moving under her skirt has literally rendered me incapable of rational thought for the balance of the day.

The ass-in-the-face maneuver. Always a classic. And my weakness. Well played, new girl from accounting.

He’s a Hard Worker. Really, Really Hard.

Struggling with the embarrassing all-day hard-on at the office. So I reach for the handy FedEx box whenever I have to head down the hall.

Not sure what's worse: walking around the office all day with a raging hard-on or no one noticing. I'll guess the latter.

He Unabashedly Enjoys a Good Round (or 10) of Self-Cultivation.

Just had breakfast. Now ready to masturbate for the fourth time this morning. Man, I love vacation days.

Dying to start jerking off in the office so that when someone comes by and asks what I'm doing I can simply say, "Oh, just masturbating."

He’s Always Game for a Little Field Work in the Name of (un)Science.

My extensive research has led me to the conclusion that receiving a blow job is pretty fucking awesome. Like, ridiculously so.

My recent not-so-scientific survey tells me that getting laid is way, way better than not getting laid.


Word on the Street is He Has a Hurricane Tongue (which I have yet to experience. FML! And, yes, me and my girl parts are pouting).

2 months into dating, an ex told me "you've had your tongue up my ass more than you've had your hands on my boobs." #notmuchofaboobguy

One of my exes during dinner this weekend: "You were like a magical, pussy-eating robot." Wasn't that also the name of a Neil Simon play?

I can literally perform oral on women for hours. Hours! If a woman is kind enough to let you pray at the altar, you have to deliver.

He Knows How to Make a Girl (and all her female tweeps) Feel Special:

#FF I pray to be reincarnated as these women's jeans:
@skyemetafrog @thenakedredhead @elizabethrose_m @missalphawrites @_Lola_Nicole_

@elizabethrose_m I love you, Elizabeth Rose. Though that could be the lust talking.

#FF vibes to @man_shopper, whose underwear I am profoundly jealous of. And "profoundly" is worth 36 Scrabble points, mind you.

He’s Lived Out His Dream (he survived a face-sitting session with a porn star).

@SinnamonLove just finished an awesome smothering session @tenacious_ken w/some excellent Tease & Denial. Silly boy kept choosing breathing over a handjob.

Just had my goofy white boy face buried between the spectacular buttocks of @SinnamonLove. Now I can die a happy man.

He Understands that There Are Times in Life You have to Make Sacrifices.

Turkey vs. Pussy. Only one can win.

He’s Among the Very Few People Who Know the Truth About Thanksgiving – That it Has Absolutely Nothing to Do with Native Americans, Pilgrims or any Kind of Harvest.

Man, do I love Thanksgiving. And by "Thanksgiving," of course, I mean "going down on women."

Guest Bloggess: The Truth About Brazil

Today, in the wake of a turkey- and ass-induced haze, I am happy to present yet another spectacular post by another fine female guest blogger. Today, it is the stunning Elizabeth Rose of Met Another Frog, an English lass who has conjured many a British-school-marm-and-undisciplined-punk fantasy in my fevered brain. Sit back. Soak it in. And see if you, too, don't fall under her spell.

* * * * * * * *

Brazilian women. Only Swedish women may come close to having the same mythological aura. It is a legendary level of hotness. Something mere mortals cannot hope to aspire to.

Or so they say.

I visited Rio de Janeiro recently and before I arrived I was worried about what such specimens would do to even my infallible confidence. I flew with my beloved British Airways, and had a very pleasant flight by any standards. By business class standards even – Elizabeth Rose does not fly economy – I was actually bemused by being served both lobster and steak on an eleven hour flight.

My flight landed late, and I hurried to join my friends for our first (Saturday) night in Rio. As it was, we managed to check off one vacation “must-do” that night: doing the waiters of the local bar. I wasn’t paying much attention, but I don’t remember seeing any “Giselle”-like stunners around to eclipse my dear friends and me.

The next morning, I was in the arms of a waiter checking off another vacation tradition; taking a romantic walk to watch the sunrise. And later that day after some rest, hydration and a long hot shower our bikini-clad bodies headed to the beach.

It was during the first leg of this constitutional that I became aware of one of my favourite aspects of Brazilian culture: Perving.

It is entirely acceptable to stare openly and appreciatively at others’ anatomy. The lewd looks our little trio scored from the men about were quite soothing to the ego, I must say.

I did my fair share of perving too. There were some truly delectable male specimens along Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. Made all the more enjoyable to the eye as they were often found at the exercise stations working out. Mmmm…rippling muscles overlaid by tans and tattoos. (As you can imagine, I have quite the “scenic” vacation album from my trip.)

After taking a whiplash inducing stroll of the beach, it dawned on me...

“Where were all these undiscovered supermodels of Brazilian lore?”

There were pretty girls; there were average girls; there were stunners; and those who hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down. In short, there is the same glorious mix of looks, shapes and types of women as can be found in any city of the world. Really not the intimidating glimpse of Amazonian perfection I was led to believe existed there. Quite a relief all told.

However... Brazilian men are fine.

They are tanned. They are toned. They are tattooed. They are the undiscovered natural resource of that wonderful country. This isn’t something I had heard tell of before; which leads me to conclude that there may be a very cunning conspiracy by Brazilian women afoot...

In order to keep the abundant fineness all to themselves, they have created this beauty myth, scaring other females away from their “sperm bank."

And now that you know the truth about Brazil, I’d like to encourage you all to pack you tiniest bikini and book the next flight to Rio so we can all share in the testosterone available. Just don’t show up when I’m there – I’d like them all to myself.

Guest Bloggess: Shopping for the Ideal Man

Today, we come to yet another guest post, this one from the unstoppably awesome Man Shopper, checking in from her base of operations in Paris. While I have always been a fan of MS's prose, I am particuarly fascinated by her appreciation of the derriere, which almost matches the intensity of my own. And though I could go on about how I've filled many nights with dreams of lounging with her on the banks of the Seine, my head resting comfortably on her buttocks as I feed her bread and wine, I'll just cut right to the chase and get on with her spectacular post:

* * * * * * * *

If you look only at my blog entries, you’d think that I spend 100% of my dating time being a brutal buzz-saw – that all I do is gut my Parisian victims as if they were animal carcasses in my own personal slaughterhouse. I’m terribly offended that anyone could possibly think this of me. Unlike my mother, who was born without tear ducts, I am somewhat human, and I am here on Lustmongers to combat these vicious assumptions.

For the record, I only spend 99% of my time being the Man-chopper, so to speak. There is a whopping 1% of positive thinking that goes on, I swear. To prove it to you, this post is dedicated to unveiling the Man-shopper’s ideal man.

Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t focus ALL my energy on finding fault with my men. Even though I find myself assuming the worst of Parisian ‘gentlemen’, there is an itty-bitty-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini part of me that still holds out hope that my ideal man is out there.

Who is this fairy-castle-in-the-sky of a man that I’m looking for, you ask? Brace yourself. This list is so profound that it very well may change your life.

He adores me.
Duh.

He makes me laugh.
Not fake laugh. LAUGH. Even better, he makes me giggle. Dear readers, I don’t giggle. If I giggle, that means that I’ve got a severe case of totally-into-him. I make it a point to be disgustingly healthy, so this is a rare affliction for me, but it’s been known to strike me down from time to time.

I make him laugh.
He needs to think that I am drop-dead hilarious. What can I say? I’m vain. Besides, I AM hilarious, dammit.

He has a certain appreciation for my nerdly pursuits.
These include but are not limited to activities like crosswording, popular science books, obscure documentaries, Scrabble, and partitioning my hard drive (no, that is NOT a euphemism for anything; get your minds out of the gutter, you gutter-dwellers!).

He is adventurous and physically fit enough to keep up with me.
Aside from the obvious sexual innuendo that can be read here, I also mean that he would go cycling with me, go rock climbing with me, be my sparring partner, or at least go to the gym with me.

He has broad shoulders.
I need to have a good spot to lay my head when I snuggle with him. It’s MY SPOT.

He wears sweaters.
Sweaters are adorable. If you disagree, go away. I love a man in a manly sweater. Moreover, I like to wear his sweaters when I want to feel thin.

He has a great butt.
I just like a nice bum. Ken understands. I would have put this at the top of the list, but I didn’t want to seem too superficial.

He likes dogs.
I love dogs. I intend to have one soon, and he is going to be a French bulldog named Pickle. If I were forced to choose between some dude and Pickle, I’d choose Pickle. Pickle may be strange-looking, slightly incontinent and incapable of controlling his snoring, but he would never betray me. Pickle adores me. And he wears sweaters.(Don’t pity Pickle, he loves wearing sweaters. It’s not animal cruelty, I swear.)

He likes to clean.
I like to cook. I believe this to be a reasonable and reciprocal arrangement.

His mother loves me.
Hey, I did warn you that this is a list of IDEAL characteristics, not ACHIEVABLE characteristics.

He is faithful.
Like I said... IDEAL characteristics. I’m going to have to move out of France to get this one checked off my list.

He has a great butt.
I thought that this point deserved reiteration. Moreover, this is Lustmongers, and I believe it to be my solemn duty as a guest blogger to take another moment to give another nod to the ass-worship for which Ken is so famous.

And there you have it: my list of the thirteen essential characteristics of my ideal man. The number ten is so... jejune. So I came up with thirteen for you.

It was exhausting for me, so I hope that you all appreciate my efforts to think in positive terms instead of making a list of things that I DON’T want in a man.

THAT list is actually going to be my great American novel, so stay tuned.

N.B. Big shout-out to Skye for the idea for this blog post! She is goddess.

Guest Post: Treasure Down Under

The parade of awesome female guest bloggers continues. This week, it's the scintillating and verbally dextrous Zia, who turned down my every request that she use my face as her personal sofa, but did offer up the following post. After reading it, I want her even more.

* * * * * * * *

When you think about all the things we name, you start to wonder: why do we do it? We name pets, cars, GPS systems (mine is Betty), and tons of other inanimate objects. Why? It shows ownership, pride, and a connection. So naming your “family jewels” or “lady business” should not be any different. You own it, it’s definitely connected to you, and even though it is usually inanimate, it has moments of animation which you take pride in and, in turn, want to show off its talents.

In general, you may have a codename for how you address all people’s parts. For example, the grandmother of a girl I knew in high school addressed the female southern region as a twidgette. I personally use hoo-ha. A college friend of mine refers to the male southern region as accessories. But when it comes to naming your own, there are a few different approaches.

Some people like to go with a one-name approach. My dear friend, Mama J, addresses hers by Flower—a name that’s simple, clean, and implies that it smells nice. Her husband, Hubby J, on the other hand, prefers the two-name tactic and calls his member Papa Rocks. Papa gives a, how shall we say, “grandness” or “commanding” presence, while Rocks, in the vernacular, implies that it is a good time.

In my naming research, I found that some people like to use the word “ the” to help clarify their name. Normally, we use the word “ the” for specification. So in translation, when Sarcastic Bride calls her area The Zone, it makes it sound like it’s the one and only place to be.

A few people choose to add the honorific Mr., Ms., or Miss, giving a more professional attitude to their bits. However, I found many of my female friends prefer the possessive “honorific” - My. I have heard My Valentine, My Christmas, and My Princess.

The most unappealing use of “my” was my former college roommate – My Stuff. Really? Stuff is defined as an unspecified material substance. Unspecified? What’s the use of using an honorific if you are showing no honor to your hoo-ha?

Living with her got me to thinking and that is when I came up with my name. Well, names actually. I use a multi-name method. How could I choose just one name when this area has many different moods, emotions, and situations? Think about it: if your significant others’ name is William, you may call him William (professional), Bill (casual), Billy (youthful), or scrap them all and call him Sweetheart or Honey (endearing).

So, with this in mind, I came up with My Happy, in general or after a good roll in the hay. If the roll in the hay was exceptional, My Dopey pays a visit. When I find myself in a position where the guy has no clue what he’ s doing down there and I need to give directions (a.k.a. a prescription to make things better), My Doc is in the house. My Bashful walks into the gynecologist and My Grumpy walks out. My Sleepy appears when I’m in between “ action” (current status), but if it ever becomes My Sneezy, I’m seeing a specialist.

Everything I Know About Love & Sex I Learned From Pop Culture

Last month, with the help of the glorious and all-too sexy Skye from Met Another Frog, I recruited a number of impossibly cool female bloggers to help balance out the massive amounts of testosterone flowing through this place since Ginger left. This week, I'm happy to present a post from the brain behind No One Reads the Copy. I have dubbed her The Greek Goddess of Awesome, because she is hot, funny, well-read in all areas of pop culture, and also because I desperately want to eat ice cream off her ass.

So here we go.

* * * * * * * * * *

I know a lot of things.

Admittedly the things I know are stupid inconsequential things mostly related to pop culture. The only time this ever proves to be actually useful and not just something I can secretly gloat or feel superior about is when I’m trying to win a free round of drinks at Trivia Night in a bar.

When girls my age were turning to Cosmopolitan to learn the feminine art of “pleasing your man” and reading guides to giving the perfect blow job, to make the all-important pubescent transition to womanhood easier, I regarded another publication as the holiest of sources for all the information I needed: Entertainment Weekly.

So as I sit here, a mild to moderately attractive (depending on how much junk you like in a lady’s trunk) perpetually single female in my late 20’s, who knows a whole heck of a lot about The Bachelor (even though I’ve never watch it – I SWEAR) and can speak eloquently about the metaphysics in LOST, I can’t help but wonder:

How did the nerdy 14 year-old who translated Shakespearean English into contemporary English for, you know, FUN, end up having every romantic situation of her adult life feeling doomed from the start? Relationships that are the source of lots of tears and self-doubt and self-loathing, and on occasion, a shoe thrown dramatically across a room? And of course, a ton of emotional and/or passive aggressive texts and emails?

Where did I go wrong?

My therapist and I sit together pondering that very question every week, and we’ve concluded that it’s because everything I know about love and sex I learned from pop culture.

And besides I’m a writer. Drama is kind of my thing.

Here is the number one (just the top one really. There are a lot more examples. But save something for the book, right?) thing that I believe has shaped my love life and ultimately made me a very frustrated person.

It’s not real love if it’s not very, very, VERY dramatic.

If your current love interest is not:

-- exorcising a demon/the Devil out of your body - Days of our Lives;
-- running dramatically across a field with his hair waving in the wind as he offers his life for yours to a Indian chief - The Last of the Mohicans;
-- plotting to steal your virginity but then falling in love with you and appearing mostly-non-creepily at the top of an escalator - Cruel Intentions;
-- defying the laws of nature itself and traveling through time to leave you love letters in a mailbox that should not in actuality exist - The Lake House (I don’t have to actually enjoy a movie like The Lake House to have it affect my psyche and expectations of a man).

Well then... I guess he’s just not that into you.

Honestly though, I still think it’s gonna happen for me one day.

Guest Post: I Still Got It

As you may or may not have noticed, the lovely Ginger has been absent from these pages for some time now, as she pursues other ventures. For fear that this blog may start bursting at the seams from all the testosterone I'm pumping into it, I reached out to the lovely Skye at Met Another Frog, who helped me recruit a dazzling array of fine female bloggers who have agreed to contribute some guest posts, provided I cease and desist with my constant begging for them to sit on my face. With that, I give you the first of these guest posts, from Lucky Girl of the blog How Very Lucky:

* * * * * * * * * *

There’d been too much disappointment. Heartbreak. And far too many 60-something comb-overs wearing mom-jeans trying to enter my digital domicile in the online mating marketplace.

No, sir. You do not look young. You look exactly your age. Maybe even older. The fact that your ex-wife and last girlfriend were both 30 years your junior doesn’t at all make you more marketable in my eyes. It makes you creepy.

When I find it rising in me, that cynicism, like a pot of rolling milk, rising, erupting into to an overflowing boil, it’s time to remove the pot from the stove. I needed a break. To reconnect with myself, to restore my faith and optimism. To remember that I am not a magnet for losers. But that the interweb sometimes is. Right?

So began my dating vacation.

My allergies were bad that Friday. I decided, impulsively and impetuously as I am wont to do, that a major spring cleaning was the solution. I put on the 30-something girl’s equivalent to my grandmother’s housedress. Minus the dress part. The point is, it wasn’t meant to be seen by anything other than the tile floor I was scrubbing.

But then I decided to wash the rugs and curtains. At the laundromat.

I walked out of my apartment. An unkempt, caramel-skinned man stood on the corner, singing. I smiled. He shifted to Sam Cooke’s “Cupid”, and followed me on my journey to the laundromat. I felt like the Pied Piper.

It was a moment that I should have appreciated. Normally would have appreciated. But instead I was annoyed. Who follows a girl that looks like she should be cleaning your toilet singing “Cupid”? Apparently, this guy does.

I quickened my gait and turned the corner nearing the laundromat. But not before a man sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette and talking to his friend stopped me.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Ugh. What does he want?

He rose. What I’d hoped to be “Can you tell me the time?” or “Do you know how to get to _____” turned out the be this man’s poor attempt at a pick-up.

"So. Um. Yeah. Um."

He was a close talker.

"Yeah. Um. I just wanna talk to you. You know? Um. Yeah. Do you have a quarter?"

Wow. I’m standing there holding a huge bottle of Tide, two rather large and heavy rugs wrapped in a pair of brown silk dupioni curtains (which, incidentally and much to my dismay, later proved their dry cleaning tags correct), and a couple rolls of quarters in plain site. This sucked. But giving him one would be easier than saying no.

I couldn’t quite see over the heaping pile of laundry in my arms, but managed to free a quarter from the roll and hand it to him. And that’s when I saw it. He was holding his penis in his hands, smiling.

"You know what? A simple thank you woulda done it."

Unbelievable. In broad daylight! Jesus.

I duck into the laundromat. I drop the motherload in my arms onto the floor with relief and proceed to pack the rugs and curtains into three super-sized machines, plugging each of them full of the 22-quarters they required. I added detergent and grabbed the small bag I’d brought along. There were three empty seats along the east wall. I chose the middle seat. I reached into my bag, placed a ball of yarn on the seat next to me and started to knit. Yeah, so I’m that lady now. Single. No prospects. Proud cat owner. Proud cat owner who knits.

I know what you’re thinking. Prize. Clearly.

Anyway, I’m minding my own business when a man walks in. There are other seats surrounding the laundromat. All of which are empty. But he has to have the one next to me. The one with my knitting supplies. Damn it.

I begrudgingly move them and slide down to the next chair.

"Excuse me. Miss?"

Jesus, really? Can’t a girl just do her laundry and knit in peace? Did I really just think that? God. I did. This is why I’m on vacation.

I look at him. With attitude.

"Yes?"

"I just want to talk to you. You’re a really beautiful woman."

Oh god. I ignore him. Slip. Slip. Knit. Yarn Over.

"Miss? I said you look beautiful."

Seriously? Pony-tailed, no make-up, dirty yoga pants and a gray t-shirt with a stain looks beautiful? Well, I did get a serenade and a strip tease...

"Thank you."

He goes on. I’m trying to count. I’ve already fucked up this baby blanket three times and had to start over.

I look at him. I look annoyed.

"Please. Just stop…"

But before I can finish, two cops enter. My wishful boyfriend jumps up. He walks coolly around the folding table to the other side of the room, clutching a large gym bag. The officers approach slowly, taking position on opposite sides of the folding table. My laundromat libertine is cornered. He pauses for a moment and then takes off in a tornado, running full-speed into a woman in his path who is slowly sorting whites from colors. She wobbles like a Weeble but thankfully is left standing, terrified and stunned. The cops sway side to side like linemen ready for a tackle. One goes for the bag, the other for him. The Don Juan of Detergent gets away. They get the bag.

I return to my knitting. I guess I can add petty thief to today’s list of Lotharios.

So in summary. I still got it. I don’t need the interwebs. I can attract losers everywhere.