Ok, Kinda Creepy

Today I met one of Beehive's friends who has a booth at the Union Square Holiday Market.

He thought I was Beehive's SISTER.

Funnily enough, I don't think this is the first time someone has mistaken us for brother and sister.

I can't imagine why.



We don't look the slightest bit alike.

A Woman's Work

I always joke that whenever I make my yearly trip to the gyno, I deserve dinner, or at least some godamn flowers, for all the violating that takes place.

The above flowers are NOT from my gyno, but rather from a certain Beehive, who was feeling a bit sickly this morning after a night of mixing cocktails on an empty stomach.

I'm happy to report that I was indeed a very good girlfriend, and nursed my boy back to health last night, making sure that he did not choke on his own vomit or crack his head open while passing out on the bathroom floor. I was on hand to pile on the blankets when he was freezing, and to remove them when he was burning up.

At one point, he was lying on the floor, completely naked, half asleep. He wouldn't let me move him, so on the floor he stayed. I snuck a peek, quite inappropriately during his drunken strife, and damn if I didn't become slightly aroused at the sight. The date rapist in me started imagining all of the things that I could do to the hotness that laid on my bathroom floor. Thankfully, he started barfing again, snapping me back to reality.

Yea, I earned those flowers, fair and square.

Get 'Em While They're Young

Falling asleep on the couch last night, the boy and I were half-watching The 40 Year Old Virgin on HBO. Steve Carell is about to learn the hard way that he doesn't know how to use a condom.

Beehive: This is a good scene.
Me: Why?
Beehive: She (Catherine Keener)is in her underwear.
Me: So?
Beehive: She looks really good in her underwear.
Me: You know who else looks really good in her underwear?
Beehive: (without skipping a beat) You?

It's good to see that I have taught him well.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

When I moved into my new apartment,9 months ago, the boy and I christened pretty much every room in the place. Including the kitchen floor. Sans curtains. Windows open wide. Lights on. Might I add, many of my windows face another building, in which if I reached out to touch my neighbor, I could actually grab him by the scruff and pull him in to join the sordid festivities, if I so desired (for the record, I don't desire).

I do fancy myself an exhibitionist of sorts, but I am not thrilled at the prospect of my neighbors seeing and hearing every move I make, especially of the sexual variety. I have been meaning to purchase blinds for months now, but somehow this proves to be more frustrating to me than trying to solve an algebraic equation.

I have since gotten new neighbors across the way, and my intention was to get blinds BEFORE they witnessed any of my sexual acrobatics, so that we could start off on the right foot, and if I saw them on the street, I wouldn't have to run and hide in shame.

Of course this never happened. And so, last night, while woozy from the weekend and chilling with Beehive watching football, I started to get randy on the couch. Before the poor boy knew what was happening, I was straddling him, and bra and t-shirt were being pulled off and thrown around the room like confetti.

I wanted him on that couch, and nothing was going to stop me.

"Lemme go turn off the lights" I purred as I slithered off of him, covering my tits with his white t-shirt. As I reached down, in front of the window, to turn off the lamp, I look up and see my neighbor, sitting in the window, looking right at me. And there I stood, frozen, my tits only partially covered, my pants unbuckled and about to slide down to my ankles.

Nice.

We decided to forgo the couch and snuck over to my bedroom, where the frolicking continued.

This morning, I took out the garbage, and there was my lovely neighbor, standing out on his stoop, smoking a cigarette. Wouldn't you just know, as I opened up the lid of the trash can, a gold foil Magnum condom wrapper flew out of the bag and landed right at his feet.

I am SO getting blinds tonight. And big, wraparound sunglasses.

I am SMOKIN'

I've never been a smoker in the true sense of the word. I would bum one here and there from someone outside of a bar, or if I was feeling really naughty, I'd buy my own pack and stick them in a drawer...pulling them out as needed. A pack could usually last me a week or more (yes, I have been known to smoke stale old cigs. After a few vodka tonics, you just start to not care!)and sometimes I would even forget that they were there.

Two or three weeks ago, I was going through some personal stress, and the first thing I did was start smoking. I sat in my apartment one day and just sucked down those babies one after the other until I couldn't stand the scent of myself. My own sister, who smokes a pack a day herself, walked into my apartment and choked. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she spit as she readjusted her gas mask.

I wish I knew.

For now, dear friends, I have become a smoking fiend.

Of course, I think I'm being all sly about it. I sneak out at work and walk out the side door, where none of my coworkers will see me, lest they actually find out I smoke (cuz, you know, they can't smell it on my clothes or anything). I shove one into my mouth as I'm walking from point A to point B, because if I'm walking, it doesn't count!

This morning, as I did a pseudo walk of shame from the Beehive's house, I lit one up as I exited the subway to go back to my apartment. It wasn't even 9am...and because I am not a "real" smoker, I have forgotten the wonderful side effects of a morning puff--instant laxative! I found myself three blocks from my house and a dire need to poop..so not only am I disgusting, I am also about to shit my pants.

I think it's time to quit.

My latest fear is that I will stroke out in the middle of puffing away one night, and my decaying corpse will be found weeks later, the poor cat having eaten half my face off, a half smoked pack of American Spirits at my side.

It's DEFINITELY time to quit!!!!!

Edited to say that I just got carded in a deli for buying cigarettes. Good to know that the cancer sticks haven't aged me yet.

Tits Ahoy!

I woke up this morning in a complete haze. This haze was caused by a multitude of things...too much red wine with Lesty....crazy graphic dreams, probably caused by aforementioned red wine...and my goofy cat waking me up every five minutes or so.

Above picture is me, and how I looked upon waking up this morning. Check out that cool 'do. Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

At any rate, due to the fact that I was in a fog this morning, and in a hurry to get to work, I pulled on some clothes that were sitting in a pile on my dresser. Nothing to get too excited about...a black top, jeans, and some boots to complete the outfit. My usual "i dress like i'm not going to work" look.

Tossed on my puffy jacket (sans cupcake frosting, thank you very much) and was off.

At some point during the morning, I needed to pee, and was thankful for a reason to get up from my desk. I sauntered through the halls, and was perplexed at the attention I was garnering from men in the office that don't normally think I'm all that, or who never really feel the need to say hello to me, etc.

I opened the door to the bathroom and in the full length mirror I saw exactly what was causing all the broohaha. It was most indeedy the low cut, backless number I had thrown on in my sleep coma. This is a top that most definitely should never make an appearance in the office. I do believe that this is a top that I wore on my first date with my current BF, the one that is not only severely low cut, but also see through.

Oy.

I scurried back to my desk and thankfully found a hoodie hanging from the back of my chair. That fucker slid on quite nicely, and I zipped it up and went about my day, as if I hadn't just flashed my tits at the president of my company, and everyone else in between.

Note to self...get some fucking SLEEP at night!!!!

Edited to include a fairly recent picture of me, all nice and cleaned up. A girl's got SOME pride, you know!

A Tricky Dilemma

There is nothing worse than sitting at your desk, minding your own business, when suddenly you are hit with the BIGGEST desire to have mind-blowing sex, and it can't wait. You need it, and you need it NOW.

In an instant, I am overcome with the most OVERWHELMING bout of horniness, the likes of which you do NOT want to be experiencing while staring at your computer in the middle of the workday.

All I want to do is take care of the problem. I want to run into the women's bathroom and lock myself into a stall and rub one out. Oh God how I wish I could do that! Unfortunately, I am not one of those women, and the last thing I need is for someone to walk in while I am in the midst of having the Big O. I think that would be slightly more horrific than being caught having a good cry in stall #4.

So what's a girl to do?

I'm trying to think about anything, ANYTHING other than what is going on in my crotch right now. It's not easy.

Any helpful hints would be greatly appreciated.

Awkward Moment #1,309.876

Strolling hand in hand through the Brooklyn Botanical Garden with my boyfriend, we were accosted by two women with a digital camera. "Excuse me" they called after us...we expected them to ask the usual "can you take our picture", and then I would do that thing I do...grab the camera out of their hand with a slightly annoyed expression and act like I'm doing them the BIGGEST favor on earth.

"We're making a video for our friend's wedding shower," the one holding the camera said. "We were wondering if we could record you giving out wedding advice to our friend."

"We'renotmarried" Beehive spit out.

The women looked at us and tried to hide their amusement. "Well, could you at least give out some relationship advice, thoughts, anything?"

Beehive and I looked at each other, and I stammered, "We are not in a position to do that right now" and we tore off.

What I really wanted to say was, "Can I take that video recorder and kindly shove it up your ass?"

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.