Bush, or No Bush?

A couple of weeks ago I decided that I needed to do something completely out of character for me. For some, this would mean making out with someone of the same sex, or jumping out of an airplane, or wearing a bright red sweater.

Of course, I have to take it to a whole new level, and decide that I am going to embrace my body for once and for all, and have nude pictures taken of myself.

I was out at a bar one night, surrounded by many of my photographer friends, and I mentioned this idea that I had, and several of them thought it was a great idea, and offered their services to me.

I had actually, at that point, already decided who I wanted to do it. He is a friend, but not a close one, he is a good photographer, and he is probably not going to pop a boner at the sight of my nekkid self. Which makes him the perfect candidate for this project.

I am seeing him on Friday, and we will be discussing the logistics of this venture. But here is my biggest question: which would photograph better? Bush? Or no bush?


Any thoughts?

I Got Myself A New Hobby, It Seems

I've never been a big fan of video games. I'm not really sure why. I grew up in the 80's, when Atari was like the hottest thing since peanut butter and jelly..but my parents, who considered themselves "intellectuals", wouldn't allow us to have one. I, of course, would get my Frogger or Space Invaders fix while visiting other, more lucky children who were allowed to have such things, but ultimately, I was more of a Barbie girl, and the whole video game obsession never really caught on.

Last night, I went over to visit my Beehive, after not seeing him for over a week.

After amazing, mind blowing sex, and me passing out like a dude, he made me a grilled cheese and said "wanna play Grand Theft Auto Liberty City?"

My heart raced. I started to panic. I know nothing about these newfangled video games. I can barely drive a real car, much less maneuver a CGI version through the dark streets of Liberty City. I stared at Beehive and stuttered, "I'll just watch you."

We flopped on the floor, me lying on my stomach, him cross-legged next to me. As he nimbly worked the controls, he explained every scene to me in great detail. It scared the fuck out of me. There's like 8 million buttons and knobs on the little console. Whatever happened to the one joystick and a red button? My head was spinning.

Suddenly, he is putting the controls in my hand. "You try."

I hesitated, frightened to touch anything. What if I blew up the whole house by pressing the wrong button? I did not want to be responsible for that.

With a little guidance, and switching me out of the hot sports car and into an old man type of car, I was on my way. I had no idea where I was going, or what my purpose was, but I was FLYING in my old man car. And every once in a while, I got out and punched an old lady, just because I COULD. Damn, I was COOL.

I got wasted a couple of times which was quite frustrating but did not stop me from going back for more. I was a Grand Theft Auto whore, there was no denying it.

Maybe next time, we can get a few rounds in BEFORE the fucking. PS2, it's the new foreplay.

My Cat, the Prude

Some of you are already aware of my cat, Igby the Codependent.
Igby and I came together through a strange twist of fate, and it's been an interesting ride ever since.

This cat is so needy, he insists on sitting on my lap at all times. He likes to lick, a lot. I don't just mean little licks on your hand, we're talking full out TONGUING. He gets in the position, which is usually on his haunches, both paws on my shoulders, and slides his nasty tongue alongside my face, my mouth, my neck, my hair. I've had DATES that were less persistent...I have to laugh at what my neighbors think, seeing me sitting on my couch through the window, fending off this giant bear of a feline.

I've recently discovered, however, that the one way to get Igby to back off is the appearance of my vibrator.

My BOB (battery operated boyfriend) has been making more frequent appearances lately, especially late at night when I've been tossing and turning for hours. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, wishing someone would come along and drop something on my head to knock me out, I reach into the nightstand and take out my trusty BOB.

The minute the thing gets turned on, the minute that whirring sound appears, and things get comfy, Igby gets up, sticks his nose in the air, and leaves the room.

Now, Igby doesn't have a problem when I am having frenzied sex with an actual person. I have to kick him out of the bed most times when I realize that he is sitting there, content as can be, when I am in the throes of ecstasy with a real live human. But take out a vibrator, and he gets all judgemental on my ass. I don't know if he is looking down on me for being so weak, or disgusted at my choice of apparatus (pocket rocket if you must know), or if he is morally opposed to masturbation. Whatever the case may be, I have definitely discovered a surefire way of getting the cat out of my hair, literally, for a couple of minutes.

And a surefire way of falling back to sleep.

Ah, the Romance!

Last night during one of many nights out this week, some friends and I sat around a roaring fire and drank tiki drinks, discussing the shit out of everything we possibly could, as girls do. Somewhere along the way, the subject of butt plugs was broached. I'm sure, knowing me, that I was the one to initiate it, but I digress.

Out of a group of four women, it appears that I was the only one that had actually owned and used, multiple times might I add, a butt plug on a man.

The look of horror on everyone's face was enough for me to drag out this little ditty. Enjoy, dear readers:

I used to date a guy who was very much into movie-quality romance. When the relationship began, I was showered with flowers, and gifts...love letters that were actually sent in the MAIL...a surprise trip to San Francisco for a birthday...you get the picture.

It was quite lovely to be so enamored of and doted on, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

One year, said boyfriend booked a trip to South Beach for Valentine's Day. The weather was gorgeous. We lollygagged on the beach, had sexy drinks at the Delano, took long walks along Ocean Drive. Dinner on actual Valentines Day was at a very elegant restaurant in a swank hotel. I dressed up to show off my new tan and felt so loved, and so lucky. Look at where I get to spend Valentines Day! Look at how my man loves me so!

Back in the hotel room, sated and tipsy, Mr Romance pulls out a box and hands it to me.
It was a rather large box, and it certainly wasn't blue with a little white ribbon around it.

I tore open the wrapping and pulled the top off the box. Lo and behold, I found myself staring at a large dildoe complete with balls, and leather strap-on harness. And I could swear it was staring back at me.

"Um..uh..well..wow!" I stammered.

He beamed from ear to ear "I knew you'd love it! Wanna model it for me?"

Uh. No.

I put it back in the box, kissed him, said thank you, and then had to cart that beast back to NY and there it sat, next to the bed, for the next several years.

When we were breaking up, he actually brought up the fact that I never used the strap-on. He was actually HURT by this fact, and quite possibly, could have even contributed to our breakup, by God!

I've learned my lesson. I now know that, the way to a man's heart is most certainly, through his butthole.

Why I'm Hot, Volume I

Last night after my aborted attempt to be a karaoke diva, I let myself into Lesty's apartment and helped myself to a pile of cupcakes that were sitting on the kitchen counter.

Funny how one can be covered in sticky, chocolate frosting when one is drunk and not even notice.

There is frosting on my doorknob. There was frosting on my cat. There was frosting on my laptop. I found frosting in my hair this morning. I was so covered in the goo I imagine I was starting to look like a giant vanilla cupcake.

On my way to work, I noticed that my puffy jacket had chocolate poo-like substance all down the front of it. Thankfully, dried frosting flicks right off...

Then, on the subway, a nice lady pointed out to me, with a disgusted look on her face, that I had "something" on my sleeve. I looked down, and it looked like someone had had the aftermath of a Mexican meal on my sleeve.

Of course, I feel the need to tell her that it's cupcake frosting. I tell her this whole elaborate story about how the cupcake frosting ended up on my sleeve. Which makes me look like I do indeed have poo on myself.

To her horror, I flicked it off my sleeve, and some of it landed on her chest.

I think it's time to take this coat to the cleaners. Let them think it's poo. I just don't care anymore.