“Another version of me..is she perverted like me, would she go down on you in a theater”……. Oops, time for a station change….”U got it, U got it bad. When you miss a day without your friend, your whole life’s off track”

I laid in bed last night coming up with the whole new blog entry in my head. Except, today I’m writing something different than I envisioned.  Alanis Morrissette was going to be my theme song today.    Because the little demon in my head was trying her (my demon is a chick that I picture as Elizabeth Hurley in the movie Bedazzled) best to convince me that CS was out getting fucked by someone else. (He wasn’t). I got in my own head and came up with a whole post about getting played emotionally this time and how much worse it was than being used for sex.  And then I was wrong. So I had to blog about what’s in me that causes my vivid imagination to make up the worst case scenarios instead of just laying back and using a toy while thinking about the way it felt when he kissed me that afternoon.

I haven’t mentioned much about CS yet, I think for fear of jinxing it.  And this post isn’t really about him, but about me. But here’s the background: He’s 6’3, hot, and has a big dick. He is great at foreplay and keeps my mind blown and head spinning at the multiple orgasms.  We talk almost everyday, which is where Usher comes in, (actually on the phone, heller 1994!), connect like hell mentally too, and is the first guy that seems to be as crazy about me as I am about him. He’s my guy, I’m his girl. (We mostly forego the boyfriend/girlfriend label as we are at the age where we are getting asked to leave bars for getting fingered rather than the homecoming dance.) He drove to my “Cheers”, met my friends. On a side note, we are waiting to have sex. Which is terrifying. and exciting. I keep having this whole Baby from Dirty Dancing moment in my head. Because I think that’s how I might feel afterwards.

So what’s the problem? Me. I have Post Traumatic Swiping Disorder. (There’s a whole market you haven’t tapped for DSM-IV diagnoses American Psychological Association).  On the outside, I’m fairly confident. I’m pretty hot for my age. I’m fairly smart. I’ve got my shit together. But such bad dating experiences has my inner, insecure needy bitch surfacing as soon as I stepped into some feelings.   CS has had such extreme patience and understanding but I know it can be frustrating for him sometimes. Because for the first time I didn’t hear from him for hours, I’d already envisioned me on the couch crying with chocolate ice cream and watching a girly movie, instead of taking him at face value when he said he was truly busy.  How do you overcome such bad experiences and not take it out on the next?  I think the antidote is just time.  And trying to vent to my girlfriends when crazy, inside, demon bitch tries to take over.

I love bad bitches that my f**ckin’ problem, and yeah I like to f**ck I got a f**ckin problem….

 

I wanted to have some fun with tonight’s post. Warning, if  you couldn’t tell by the title,  this post is going to be rated MA-for mature audiences only.  I think every woman goes through their wild child phase, usually after something significant happens in life. Maybe not every woman, but it should be. The only problem is still the “slut” title. Yet, men are considered playas.   I’m going to share my bad girl moments. Yes, some are dumb. Yes, I realized how unladylike this is.

Let’s start with the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.  I swiped on a really hot younger guy. He swiped right back on me.  We began chatting one morning about sex and sex only, very minimal personal conversation. We talked about what a great fantasy would be and he mentioned he always wanted dressing room sex.  A plan was made. We met at a department store near both of us after work.   I grabbed a men’s shirt off the rack and went into the handicapped men’s dressing room. I then messaged him I was inside waiting. I stripped down to nothing but my six-inch heels. He came in, I got on my knees and made him hard. And he was huge. It was a nice one.  I bent over the bench while he pounded me from behind. He finished. Smiled and walked out. We never said one word to each other. We did add each other on SnapChat and chatted a few more times but nothing ever came of it. I will admit I did some hard research based only on his snapchat username and found out who he was. Yeeeaaahhh…. he’s young, hot, and really rich. Or else his daddy is.

Another day I matched right with a guy who I noticed was less than a mile from my office. I asked him where he worked. It was literally the  next office building over. Lorna talked me into inviting him over to our office.  He was young, hot, and really rich with daddy’s money too. (See a pattern here? I’m a good Cougar). We chatted over a couple of days and I did notice immaturity, but damn that body.  We decided to take a lunch break at the same time and I blew him in the back of the office complex. He said that was the most awesome thing that had ever happened to him.  We chatted a couple of more times, mostly out of his amazement of my bad girlness, but it faded and his company eventually moved.

Now for the dirty. The dirty, dirty. The back door. (Lorna don’t kill me when you read this, I know you said girls don’t talk about poop.)  Until I entered the dating scene again after years of hiatus, I did not realize how popular the booty was.   I’ll start with Mama’s Boy, or M as I’ll call him here.  I drove to his house at 1 AM to hook up. M is hot, great body. No fat anywhere. We went to his rather messy room and began to mess around, moving back to the shower, then back to his room. He proceeded to finish with the rear door entry. Then I heard one of what is my favorite sayings from any hook up: Wow, you took that like a champ!  He offered to go down and get me something to drink before coming back for round 2. He was down there awhile and comes upstairs and suddenly says “Are you ready to go? I told you I was housesitting for the weekend!”  Lo and behold, the truth eventually came out. He lives with his parents. He will still send me a message every now and again to inform me his “roommates” are out of town if I’d like to come over.  Him and I have remained friends though.  When the bad hook up prison guy happened, I told M all about it. He was there for me and checked on me on a daily basis.  He’ll make someone a good man one day. Hopefully they can help him keep his room straight when they move into his mama’s house.

RG is the only person I’ve ever enjoyed back door with. I don’t know what he does different but he is wonderful. Here is where the dirty comes in.  After our first time of letting him in the back way,  I noticed something else minimally came out too. It was minimal, but it was embarrassing. I called Marley mortified who calmed me down saying that was to be expected. The funny thing is when we saw each other two months later, he made it into a joke and called me his ‘dirty girl’.  That’s all it took for me to be comfortable again.

The advice from this column is-Experience shit (no pun intended). Don’t worry about societal issues or what’s right. Just be safe.

Always-Ellie

“Wouldn’t you like to get away…Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name”

If you’re lucky you have a Cheers. I do. My weekly bar where the bartenders are like brothers.  I love my bar. Tandy started out being a regular with me. We have Jesus dressed up like Don Johnson. Dred guy that can sing the fuck outta some Korn along with his Barbie looking girlfriend who is one of the sweetest bar girls I know.

My bar however is cursed.  I have never had a successful date there.  Or one that turned out to be successful.

Guy 1: I was really into TJ. We chatted for weeks. All day, everyday. He was cute. He was successful. He was my age.  After three weeks of chatting, he met me at my bar. At about 1 A.M. (He was a gum smacker though). He walked me outside and we ended up making out like crazy. He really is a terrific kisser. We ended up screwing in the backseat of my car like teenagers. Laughed like hell about it, texted until 4 AM. Then, he disappeared.

Guy 2: Guy 2, who I can’t even give a fake name because I don’t even remember his real name, was recently divorced and quite a few years younger.   Everything I said, he compared to his ex-wife. For example, I mentioned I had a 125 pairs of shoes. He immediately said his wife had 130.  It bordered on obsessive. The only saving grace to this date was it was made about 30 minutes into chatting. No wasted time.

Guy 3:  Guy 3 was nice, but not much personality.  He turned his nose up at my bar.  But alcohol makes anyone more interesting. I went home with him.   He was trying with me, I will give him that. Offered me use of his condo in Florida and season tickets for baseball season (months away). I saw why.  Size is of course not the only thing that matters. Skill does make a big difference.  And attitude.  It wasn’t the fact that the condom was too big that was a huge turn off. It was the “Please, more gently” as I was blowing him.  I will give it to guy number 3 though. He does still keep in touch. It is to complain about everything in his life but he does keep in touch.

Cursed bar girlfriends but I won’t dump it. However, the embarrassment of bringing so many different guys so many weeks in a row has caused me to take a break.

Blog lesson for this Sunday: Bringing a date to your home bar is the same as bringing someone home to meet your family. Don’t do it until you’re comfortable enough to bring them around Uncle Harold who has no teeth and mashed potatoes are hanging off his chin. And to my own personal Sam and Woody…… Love ya’ll

Always–Ellie

“Just a small town girl, Livin’ in a lonely world….”

These lyrics have nothing to do with this post necessarily. It’s just the fact that you cannot go see a live band without them playing this Journey classic. Marley and I had our girls night out last night. It was a blast.

It was a smoky bar, big but with the old biker dive bar feel. The crowd ranged from a guy who probably took his first date to see Wizard of Oz when it first came out to a kid who I am sure grew his first pubic hair only last week.

Marley looked fabulous, she can fit in anywhere with grace. I looked like the kinda chick you’d fuck in your backseat.  We got on the dance floor. I bumped into a Brendan Fraser from the 80s, curly locks falling over onto one eye.

So here begins the story of GK , named because neither Marley or I can remember what his real name is.  In tradition of ancestors from years past, I met a guy in person. Picked him up in a bar. How unbelievably old fashioned of me.  I offered to buy him a shot, he does not drink liquor so he in turn bought me one instead. I am all for that.  There’s a big but here with GK.  He violates the first of three rules Lorna and I came up with.

  1. Thou shalt not drink bitch beer.
  2. Thou shalt love dogs.
  3. Thou shall go down and be a good eater

GK was drinking Ultra. The ultimate bitch beer. As bad as drinking a pretty mixed drink.  He also had not much of a personality but stood there with his arm around my waist as if we’d been together for years.   I actually made the comment to Marley that he gave me the impression that he would cry during sex.

I walk GK out to his car. We made out like crazy.  He tried to convince me to come home with him.  But here again is where I reiterate one of my most important blog points: Never ever ever pick a man over your girlfriend. Marley, bless her heart, does understand the draw of a cute guy. She offered to drop me off at his place provided she was allowed to snapshot his drivers license.  He didn’t answer his phone so it did not happen.

I did receive a message at 4 AM from him. Then again at 9:30 AM. Then again at 11 AM asking me to come over. I eventually texted back around 5 saying no. He then asked me to come over tomorrow and he’d help me with my homework. Then an hour later texted me again to ask if I still liked and wanted him.

Girls, maybe we can be as complex as men say. We don’t hear from men (no RG since Thursday night) and we are sad. We hear from them too much, we see them as needy and clingy and whiny little princesses. Where’s the line?

Always–Ellie

“I feel it coming baby…”

 

Marley is my 911. My fairy godmother. Without realizing it, she makes me feel as I have glitter raining all over my head.  She knows me all too well. So well she already has a speech prepared for the inevitable falling into feelings that are going to happen with celebrity look alike, or RG. Preventive is always the best cure right? It’s always said that men think with their dicks and not their brains. Guess what ladies? We are just as guilty. Except it is worse with us. Men see tits and want to fuck. We experience a man that can make our O face happen several times in a night and the next morning our minds go into fantasies of him cooking bacon in our kitchen and weeklong vacations to Mexico.

The Weeknd sings “You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you. You don’t have to run I know what you’ve been through. Just a simple touch and it can set you free.”  That’s how we feel after getting screwed over and still want to be screwed. That’s where the mythical friends with benefits relationship comes in. Of course movies make it look so simple. It ain’t sista.

RG is the sensitive type. The kind that makes ladies cream their panties. (Shut the fuck up, I know it’s vulgar but you haven’t experienced him and I have).  We stayed up late into the night the first night we matched months ago discussing music.  He turned me on to different music (Try FM-184 Goodbye).  The first night we were together he sang to me and actually cried while listening to a song. In the coming week after that, he also told me to “fuck off” for going longer than ten minutes without texting him back. He lamented that I am just like all the other women that fuck him and ghost him. In other words, he was a lot of drama even for me. But there’s something about that broody Heath Ledger movie type.

A week ago when Goodbye came up on my playlist and I was rather lonely, I sent the text to RG, opened up that again.  When I saw him after the couple date disaster, he talked to me and let me know how he’d changed. That when he dated me prior he was at the point of drinking himself sober. That night became the best sex I’d had in my entire life.  I saw him again a few days later. That topped the previous sex.

This brings me back to my friends with benefits point. RG has told me “let’s just have fun, I’m still working on me.” Gotcha RG-no attachment.  Until the rules of fuck buddies start to get broken. We are opening up to each other. We cuddled. He asked me to come over last night (that would’ve made three times in less than a week). He finally ended the night with the text “Let me know when you’re ready, I want you all night long.”  Uhhhhh—– do fuck buddies have sleepovers?

This is going to be an interesting ride.  My fingers  have been itching to send a good morning text all morning. Can I trust that he’s really changed? If he has, can I get over he’s not my tall, dark, scruffy manly man type?

 

On a lighter note: Best pickup line goes to my new match who said “Would you mind if I copy your pics to send to Santa so I can show him what I want for Christmas?”

Happy Black Friday dear reader.

 

always–Ellie

PS: RG  has me in his phone as a nickname he gave me months ago.  He incessantly calls me babe. I asked and found out last night that he didn’t remember my real name. (Alcohol kills brain cells). Can I forgive that? Yep, that tongue action can have me forgiving everything but running over my dog