Godamn, I Miss Drinking!

Every year, as I've mentioned in one of my 500 blogs, I partake in what is known as "detox January." This has been going on for quite some time now, and I'm not even really sure what this has done for me in days of yore, since come February I go right back into that swinging, alcoholic lifestyle everyone loves me for.

I guess it's more of a mindfuck thing...if I don't drink, then everything else in my life will become healthy by association.

I will say, it's been 11 days and I am quite enjoying the mornings of waking up without a hangover, and not smelling like American Spirits Lights mixed with bar sweat. I have more energy, and, since I am not smoking, I can breathe again.

However, I picked up my latest copy of Time Out NY--that rag of all things hip and trendy--(insert facetious tone here) and I was salivating at the description of all of the new bars and drinking holes that were listed.

I started getting that anxious feeling, you know the one...like when you step into semi-annual shoe sale at Bergdorf and you want to buy everything? And your heart starts beating madly and you sweat a little? Yea, that was me on the northbound B train while going over the Manhattan Bridge this morning. I read about a new wine bar on Atlantic Avenue, and another place in Dumbo, and places with fireplaces and places that serve drinks with paper umbrellas and places with longass happy hours and places that would be perfect to molest my boyfriend in...

Fucking detox January. Who are we fooling, really? I mean, the minute the clock strikes midnight on February 1st, I'm going to bathe myself in 10 gallons of Bluberri Stoli and rub lemon twists all over my naked ass self.

Or maybe, just maybe, I can learn to sit in a bar and sip seltzer. That would be something new and different, eh?

I'm not pregnant, either.

For quite some time now, I've had various issues with my "down there".

Some of the issues have since been resolved, but there were a few that were lingering, that I was afraid to investigate..smart, I know. I mean, why stop the possible cancer that could be growing in the depths of my loins, when instead I could just drop dead from it one day without ever knowing I had it?

I never said I was a RATIONAL woman.

I finally grew some balls and got myself to 83rd Street Radiology to get a sonogram. I figured it was pretty harmless--how hard could it be? I get undressed, they rub a thingie over my stomach, look at some pictures, and they give me a week to live it up before they deliver the a) bad news: I'm completely barren; and b) good news: it doesn't matter, because I've only got 4 weeks to live!

Piece of cake!

A lesbianic looking woman named Jean took me up to the radiology area, and showed me the dressing room. Waiting for me was a paper gown, and some blue shower caps. "What do I do with the shower caps?" I asked, novice that I am.

"Oh, those are for your feet. Keep your socks on."



Sexy, eh?

So I made my way to the radiology room in my paper gown and my sexy new slippers, and Jean informed me that not only was I getting a pelvic sonogram, but they were gonna do a vaginal one as well, to "get a better look."

Huh? I never signed up for that! What did they need a better look for? Couldn't they just tell me I was dying from a good look at the pelvic?

Jean pulled out the hoochie-reading apparatus, and I relaxed a little...it looked like a slightly larger vibrator. I can handle this. Until it actually goes in...and I realize that I am being totally felt up and fondled by a lesbianic woman named Jean. Was she SUPPOSED to be moving it around like that? And, wait, why is she rubbing my clit with the damn giant vibrator? Is this really supposed to take this long? Methinks Jean was getting WAY to into it.


Just when I am about to tell her that she could have at least bought me dinner first...she announces that it's time to call the doctor in so he can take a look as well, and give me my prognosis.

So, I don't even get a week to live it up. I'm going to find out, right here, right now, that I'm dying. And I'm not even wearing fucking underwear.

This is when I started to get really nervous.

Dr. Mr Man walked in and smiled warmly at me, as I lay there, feet in stirrups, cooch exposed to the world. Jesus Christ why didn't I use VEET this morning?

The bigger than normal vibrator remained in my hoo ha, and he jiggled it around and around as he examined the monitor. In, out, around, no one was talking. I wanted to scream at the both of them, "Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?" I bit my tongue to keep quiet...and just when I decided I didn't want to keep quiet anymore, Dr. Mr Man smiled again and said, "You look Mahvelous."

I do?

I'm not dying?

"You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."

Wha?

Tears came to my eyes and, oblvious to my naked nether regions, I sat up and shook his hand. "Thank you, Dr Mr Man!"

"My pleasure," he replied.

Yea, I'll BET!

PS Dear Beehive, I apologize for having yet ANOTHER almost girl-on-girl moment without you.

Congratulations are in Order

This weekend will mark the one year anniversary of when the boyfriend and I met at "Maxfish", fucked each others' brains out most of the night, and proceeded to keep fucking each others' brains out until he had the nerve to say the L-word 5 months later, and we finally started referring to each other as b-friend and g-friend.

Can't wait to tell THAT story to my grandchildren one day.

Happy Anniversary of the first time we had sex, baby!

;)

I'm Ready For My Close Up Now

So, for the first time probably ever in my adult life, I followed through on something I vowed I was going to do.   I don't know why such things are so difficult for me…I get these ideas that seem BRILLIANT at the time, and then I let them fall by the wayside.

Thankfully, this particular idea involved a second party, who was really game to assist me make it come true, and she sort of cornered me into it one day.

"So," she said in her voicemail.  "Let's take nudie pictures of you. Tomorrow."

I consented, knowing that if I said tomorrow wasn't good, I just wasn't ever going to do it.  And she was willing and able. And I didn't have any plans tomorrow other than watching DVR and picking lint out of my ass.  So what the fuck.

The day of, I was nauseous as all get out.  I looked in the mirror and saw a circus freak looking back at me.   I felt like I must have gained fifty pounds since the day before.  How in hell was I going to let someone shoot me naked? Was I nuts? The answer is most definitely yes, I am nuts, but there are so many other reasons for my being nuts besides posing in the nude! :)

Livvy showed up with her photo gear, and we turned my apartment into a makeshift studio.  I had gone out and purchased some taffeta curtains to throw over my couch to give it some drama (more on those later) and we moved the couch up against my exposed brick for the perfect groovy backdrop.

We started out with me in my underwear.  It was weird, at first, and I could feel my face clench up with each click of the shutter.   "not so scared!" she would yell at me, and I would stretch my face like silly putty, willing it to be more happy. 

"So. You gonna take off your top?" she hinted.

My top?  My top was a Victoria Secret push up bra that was the only protection between my boobies and the open air.   The only protection from my boobies possibly being circulated around the internet by perverts who might hack into Livvy's computer and find pictures of said boobies.

"Uh. Ok." I stammered.  Bra came off.

And then we made out.

Ok, ok, we didn't make out, but for a second there I thought how interesting it would be if we did, and what a great story it would make.   But in the meantime, this is all I've got.

I became slightly less self-conscious with each take, until I felt like an old pro. The bottoms came off, and I just pretended like it was just a regular old day, and regular old me was just sitting around my regular old apartment, doing regular old things, and not lying slightly spread eagle on my couch, with just a tuft of bush covering up my female bits.

Except for when my Livvy would yell out, "Nice boobies! Nice ASS"

And then I would snap back to reality…

I was almost sad when I was told "I think we've got enough".  I was beginning to enjoy the freedom I was expriencing, flashing tit and ass at all sorts of angles, feeling like I didn't have a care in the world, and that I was a goddess, and my body was to be worshipped by all.

The next day, I folded up the taffeta curtains, remembering the good times that were had on them...and then returned them to the store I bought them from.
Yea...those curtains that I was rolling around on, naked, were taken back to the store, and most likely put back on the shelf. Sorry!

So, the moral of the story is, don't buy curtains from a certain discount store on Atlantic and Flatbush. Oh yea, and definitely go out and be naked. It rocks.

Too Close For Comfort? Never! Just Roll With It.

One of my bestest friends in the whole world lives upstairs from me, which is absolutely positively my favorite thing about where I live, hands down.

We share food, clothes (well, the ones that we can...she's 5'11 and a size 4...I'm 5'3 and, well,not a size 4)booze, computers, you name it. On any given day, I will get a text from her asking if I have yet again "stolen" her laundry room keys, because I can never seem to find mine. Sometimes I go into my cupboard, knowing that I have just bought a jar of peanut butter...not seeing said jar, and unable to figure out what the hell I did with it. Was I drunk and ate the whole thing? Did I dream that I bought a jar? Uh, no. Lesty snuck in one night and took the jar, along with your only roll of toilet paper. Good times!

We joke that I am the Resident Advisor of our dorm, since I am older, and try to be the responsible one.

Lesty was hosting a New Years Day brunch, and needed somewhere to house two giant gallons of Edys ice cream. Her freezer wasn't working, so we put the ice cream in mine earlier in the day.

The brunch started at 3, which in my mind means, show up at 4. Never mind that I live downstairs and don't even have to put on shoes to get to her place. I am a big fan of the late entrance, shared living space or no.

In addition, I became a bit distracted, truth be told, while showering with the boyfriend. Funny how that happens.

Somehow, before I knew it, I was kneeling over the Beehive, my face firmly planted in that perfect bubblebutt you all know I can't resist...and then the doorbell rings.

The ice cream! Fuck!

I know I have to answer it, the poor girl is trying to hold a brunch for God's sake, and I'm ruining it with my unstoppable sex drive. I removed my face from Beehive's ass, threw a towel around me, and ripped open the door.

"Oh God....you're having sex" she stammered. "Oh God Oh God"

"No worries" I said. "Just take what you need and I'll see you later. Oh yea, and if you need to come back down, gimme about half an hour" I winked.

I thought she was going to puke as she exited the apartment...it was almost akin to walking in on your PARENTS. Poor thing.

After falling asleep, waking up and realizing it was well past four, we threw on our clothes and hightailed it to the brunch.

"We were wondering where you were!" people greeted me, with knowing looks.

"We fell asleep" I explained.

"I'll BET you did!" one drunk fuck replied.

Hey! At least the Resident Advisor is getting laid!

Parents are so *cute*

My parents live in a large co-op complex in Brooklyn, and have had not much luck with the neighbors upstairs.

Unfortunately, the apartments are not very soundproofed, and even with carpeting on the floor, they can hear all of the comings and goings of the family above them.
The husband, a doctor, is a resident at a hospital in Virginia, and only comes home on weekends, apparently.

Christmas Day, I was asking about the neighbors.

"Oh, he comes home every Friday night from his residency" my father says.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"Because every Friday, we hear them making love until the wee hours of the morning!" my father states proudly. "They have a very squeaky bed!"

I'm still processing the fact that my father says things like "Make Love", when my mother decides to put her two cents in.

"The guy next door, he used to have this girlfriend, and we would hear them going at it all the time," she giggles.

I don't want to ask, but I have to. I just have to. "And you know this because...?"

"Well," she said while doling out whipped cream for our tiramisu, "his girlfriend used to scream SO LOUD, it would keep us up at night. I thought that only happened in the MOVIES."

Yea Ma. Only in the movies. *wink*

I wonder if they think I'm still a virgin?

We'd Better Get a Drink in You

New Years1998.My boyfriend at the time (let's call him John) was REALLY into Bed and Breakfasts. I myself never got into the concept of such things, as I prefer my privacy, and am not all that big on eating breakfast at a big table with strangers. But for the sake of love, I gave in, and we spent the weekend at an inn in the Berkshires. It was large enough that I felt I could be anonymous, but it had that small Inn feeling that made the boyfriend happy. One big New Years compromise for all.

Sadly for me, the Innkeeper, a bearded fellow named Steve, was all about the "small town" feeling of a Bed and Breakfast. He greeted us upon arrival, and made sure that we knew where to find him at all times.

Thanks, Steve.

We were in the honeymoon phase of our relationship, this particular boyfriend and I, and we spent a lot of time, er, in the boudoir. We only came up for air for food, and maybe a good bottle of wine here and there.

In the bedroom, there was a working fireplace, and we were hellbent on getting the fire going, so to speak, and spending New Years Eve alone, in bed and thereabouts.

I found myself on the floor in front of the fire, my boyfriend's head between my legs, when there was a knock on the door.

"John! John! Would you like some champagne?"

Bearded Steve was on the other side of the door, apparently with some bubbly for my lover and I, because you know, we were just sitting there, WAITING for him to arrive.

"John" looked up from my crotch, and said calmly "No thanks, Steve. I think we're good."

"Ok then. Happy New Year." Steve yelled jovially from the hallway.

And that was the end of the obsession with Bed and Breakfasts.

Happy 2007 Y'all!