Tag Archives: sex

Sunday Sunshine

Oh, Sunday morning. You sneaky little bastard. Always coming far too soon and reminding me that my only weekend accomplishments were two inappropriate hookups and one load of laundry. Damn it.

Last night, as is becoming the Saturday night norm, I ran into three former flings. This town has got to get a better variety of men, because if this pace keeps up, I’ll be on round two by July.

First, I went to a friend’s housewarming at his sweet new downtown apartment. The co-worker I hooked up with on Friday was there, which was nice and cozy since half of my office was also there. Fun times.

Interestingly enough, the building my friend moved into also houses a certain Back Alley Way Lover. Approximately 10 seconds after I posted a picture of the view, he texted me asking if I was in his building. I stopped by to “say hi” on the way out. And I mean saying hi in the sense of making out in the hallway.

Later, I ran into poor Mr. Tomato Seeds. It was good to see him because he is such a sweet guy, but it was also a little strange. Primarily because he wouldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I looked and actually stroked my face longingly at one point. He will likely feel embarrassed about this when he remembers it today.

On a note that has nothing to do with this weekend’s shenanigans, here are five bits of sunshine making my Sunday less of an asshole:

[new favorite soup from whole foods – tomato zucchini. yum.]

[my super cool austin subway style prints from etsy, dressing up my red accent wall]

[refreshing raspberry gelato, looking extra appealing in a mini martini glass]

[festive spring flowers – one of my many impulse purchases from whole foods]

[new shoes for spring. damn you, temptress that is shoedazzle.]

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Welcome to the Office Slut Club

With the exception of my steadfast determination to hook up with San Fran Crush (one of my personal favorite tales of singlehood), I have made it a general rule not to hook up with co-workers.

As of last night, so much for that.

On a side note – it has come to my attention that some of my co-workers are also closet RFTL fans. (Hi guys! Yes, I know you’re reading.) As such, I am going to have to omit a certain level of detail for the sake of professionalism. And not having a line form for the office slut now that the rule has been broken.

Keep your inquiries to yourselves, gentlemen. This is not a circus ride.

So last night, I ran into a co-worker at a bar. We have known each other for a while, but never been single at the same time. Until now. He joined my group of friends, and we all had a great time hanging out. We flirted harmlessly, but I never found myself thinking “Gee, I hope I wake up with you tomorrow! That sounds swell.”

At the end of the night, one of my girlfriends got a little too tipsy. And by tipsy, I mean physically tipping while trying to walk. To prevent her from getting date raped, mugged, or carried off by a large bird, I decided to take her back to my place and put her to bed.

As I wrapped my arm around her and limped out of the bar, it was obvious that I needed some help. Enter: co-worker. He helped me get her the two blocks back to my place, and played with my dogs as I moved the trash can next to the bed for her.

Now, let’s be clear: we were both inebriated. Had this not been the case, I doubt he would have made a move. But when I went to sit near him, things escalated quickly. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a man who strokes my arm sweetly. Such behavior deserves reward.

To be clear for the inevitable office rumors I have just inflicted upon myself, we did not have sex. We did, however, go back to his place for some surprisingly great post-bar action. So good that I would be up for it again if the situation presented itself. Which is saying a lot because that’s the highest level of commitment I give.

It was actually really nice to wake up next to someone I knew was not a serial killer or rapist for once. We’re stepping in a positive direction, people. Be proud of me.

I have absolutely no delusions that this will turn into anything more than hooking up. I very much enjoyed it, but I think we are both on the same page with just wanting some action.

I really am every douchebag’s dream right now, aren’t I?

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Love, Unrequited

Last night, for the second time since my annulment, I went on a first date.

[this is the outfit I wore]

Leading up to the date, I was less than nervous. Probably because he kept sending me text messages telling me how amazing I was and how much he was looking forward to getting to know me. A normal lady might find this considerate and thoughtful, but it mildly induced my gag reflex.

An hour before the date, however, my suitor redeemed himself by prank calling me. He kept a stoic voice and accused me of already being late before cracking up and saying he’d see me soon. It was admittedly weird, but had me blushing with playful delight.

When the time came, I went to our designated meeting place by the plants in front of Whole Foods and waited for him to arrive. That’s when I spotted him. Not my date – Back Alley Way Lover. Yes, my first first date in Austin had the gall to purchase whatever bananas, eggs, and contraception he needed smack in front of the place I was meeting my new date. Plain rude if you asked me.

Being the dodger that I am, I instantly dropped about 3 feet attempting to duck behind the most robust bunch of thyme. I don’t think it worked, but my date managed to arrive before BAWL finished checking out and we walked away faster than you can say “awkward confrontation.”

[when all else fails, hide behind small foliage]

My first impression of new boy was: I should have worn flats. I know I had a lot to drink when we met, but could my depth perception have been that affected? Or had he possibly been wearing man heels? I mean we are not talking midget stature, but the man could use a lift.

About ten minutes into dinner, I had already decided things weren’t going to work out. He was a really nice guy, but just too outgoing and hyper. Look, buddy – that’s my job. There can only be one spotlight hog in a relationship, and it’s going to be the girl who blogs about her dates for attention.

That’s when he started rummaging in his pocket. “I almost forgot, I have something for you,” he said. “I couldn’t get you flowers because I knew we’d be walking around, but I know you like to cook so I got you these tomato seeds. Maybe you can give me one if you ever get around to planting them.”

[the actual tomato seeds. they can grow like our love.]

Oh Lord, I thought. This letting him down thing is going to be much more difficult than I thought.

I spent the rest of dinner sitting on my hands to prevent him from reaching for one. I don’t think he read the body language correctly. He didn’t want to end the night and I felt like a bitch telling him I was ready to go home, so we went down the street for a drink and some live music.

“I’m really glad I’m on this date with you,” he confessed.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“Aren’t you supposed to be glad, too?” he said with a wounded face, tomato seeds in hand.

Well, fuck. I’ve been caught.

Apparently that didn’t matter because he brushed off my faux pas in stride and went to get us drinks. Meanwhile, I crafted my exit strategy. Potential text messages with a firm, yet gentle let-down swirled through my head. And then a brilliant idea came to me.

I will scare him off, I thought. I will hit him with everything I’ve got, he will no longer be interested, and I don’t even have to send a break up message. How am I so fucking smart?

[muahaha, you’ll never want to date me now]

Suddenly, I was excited for his return. I couldn’t wait to share my secrets and go back to doing more interesting things, like folding laundry. It was every first date’s nightmare: not only would I bring up my ex, I would bring up my ex-husband.

I spilled the beans and waited. And then came the kicker.

Surprise! He was married before, too.

And now we’re bonding.

[they call that a backfire, folks.]

Things just went from “he’s way too into me” to “he thinks the fates have brought us together,” and I am in hell. He was so proud of me for how strong and brave I was for having the guts to tell him. We actually had a really nice conversation about our respective breakups and subsequent depression, but there was just still no spark for me.

When he finally walked me home, he gave me a hug goodnight, marveling at what an amazing time he had. Then he pulled me in for hug round two, because much like me, round one was just so special.

How do I let this sweet boy down gently? He even got a haircut just for the date.

Much like his poor little heart will soon be, I am at a loss.

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Textiquette

In my six months of singlehood, it has come to my attention that texting is the new mating call. And in a world where young people hook up at rates disturbingly close to those seen on Jersey Shore, knowing how to do it right is no joking matter.

It requires a delicate balance of tact and grammatical correctness to leap over the abyss of text failure and make it to the first date. And let me tell you, friends – nobody comes back from the abyss.

Now not everyone has the same rules for texting. Some women dismiss a guy who sexts (apparently I don’t). In any case, these are my rules. Gentlemen, grab a pen because you will be immediately dismissed for committing any of the following offenses:

1. Sending me paragraphs. It’s great that you have a really funny story to tell me. Now stop clogging my fucking inbox and tell it to me over dinner instead.

2. Using too many abbreviations. One fell into the abyss for this reason just last week. Y u no wnt 2 date? Because I’m not sure you passed preschool, that’s why.

3. Misspelling too many words. You get two strikes for the sake of autocorrect, but one man actually texted me to turn at a stop sine. Unless he’s being facetious about trigonometry, that’s a deal breaker. Though I do appreciate a good math joke.

4. Texting anything serious or important. Examples of things to talk about face-to-face: I love you, I actually like men, or I have chlamydia. Sorry about that.

5. Texting without reason. “Hello.” Goodbye.

You may wonder why I’ve got texting on the brain. Well, on Saturday night (before meeting my fake gay bff), I met a very sweet guy who also happened to be rather attractive. We chatted it up for about twenty minutes before I had to leave with my friends, and he got my number on the way out.

We have been texting back and forth since, and though he is coming on very strongly, he seems like a genuine guy who really wants to take me out and treat me well. His texts are quite frequent, but do not violate any of the above rules. So let’s give the guy a chance. Poor thing has no idea what he is signing up for, anyway. We’ll see how long he can hang, starting with dinner tomorrow night.

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Brains for Boobs: A Fair Trade?

Buckle your seat belts (or maybe your bras), because some highly disturbing new poll results have hit the streets.

A recent British study shows that if given the choice between brains or boobs, an astounding 41% of women go for the gazongas.

A third of women would even go so far as to trade their IQ points for larger breasts, to which I say: “Please reconsider. It is women like you who need all the IQ points they can get.”

Over half of women felt that men would be more romantically attracted to a better-endowed version of themselves, while roughly a quarter claimed that larger breasts would make them intrinsically happier. Because it’s widely known that extra pillows of fat bring women such joy.

Let me tell you something about boobs, ladies. Take it from a 32E: life in the fun-bag lane is a hell of a lot less amusing than the name suggests.

Before you think about putting your IQ up for auction on the cup-size market, consider the following.

Yes, bigger-breasted women may get more attention at bars. However, upon closer inspection, you will find that the attention-givers tend to ressemble either child abductors or the host of Tales from the Crypt.

Yes, bigger breasted women can fill out clothes. They also pop out of those clothes and get confused with prostitutes for sporting a normal tank top. In addition, they must special-order very expensive bras and bathing suits with 3-4 complicated hooks from a plus-sized catalog. How’s that for a confidence-booster?

Yes, bigger breasted women get attention at the gym. But working out also becomes awkwardly sexual. I hired a personal trainer right before my wedding, and he tried to make me jump-rope in the middle of the gym. Still uncertain whether my flailing breasts or my screaming refusal to do a second set was more awkward.

images from two beans or not two beans

Yes, big breasts imply fertility. They also imply a hell of a lot of back pain and unsightly sagging at a young age.

from someecards

Women of the world, I implore you. Think long and hard before deciding if larger breasts are the real key to your happiness.

Because it seems to me Victoria’s real secrets are the boatload of back pain she is hiding and her droves of pedophiliac stalkers.

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