Smoke 'Em if Ya' Got 'Em...

I couldn't tell you exactly how long it's been since the last time I pressed myself up against a man...I mean, if I had to guess - I'd say it's been close to a month, although it's likely been longer than that. But even more disconcerting than the sudden downturn in my once dependable string of liaisons, is the fact that I haven't been bothered at all, by my recent sexual drought...(and I do have a pulse, cuz I checked)

In the past, I would've seen - not getting laid for such an exasperatingly long period of time - as indicative of an indefinite cessation of my once active social life, the harrowing side-effects of which could portend the untimely demise of my beloved blog...which historically would've caused me to panic. But for some strange reason, I haven't been the slightest bit unnerved by my solitude...in fact, I've been rawther productive in the interim. The irony is - it's by my own doing that these last few weeks have been uncharacteristically quiet, namely because I've passed on multiple opportunities to fool around with two guys in specific...both of whom have put a significant amount of pressure on me to spend time with them...(*sigh*)...UH-gin. I do indeed have a sexual history (spanning varying lengths of time) with both men, but neither has me terribly motivated to wanna add to the annals of said histories. In this entry I'll explain what caused my eventual torpor in regards to the first of the two men...

A few weeks ago, following the disappointing Imposter debacle, I broke one of my cardinal rules when I agreed to go out with a (young) man who lives within close proximity to my home. I normally try to avoid dating guys from around here, for obvious reasons including: eliminating the potential for the "pop-in" and/or stalking, as well as the awkwardness that accompanies bumping into an old fling on the street, or at the store, especially if things happened to have ended badly. Against my better judgement, and partially out of boredom, plus financial woes and car troubles having suspended the luxury of leaving town for a date - I decided to pencil the Marlboro Man into what would've otherwise been, another empty Monday Night Date slot. I opted - helter-skelter - for a quick and easy date fix, over the sensible alternative of politely regretting a local fella's invitation to meet up...

Yes, young Marlboro Man and I had a pleasant enough time and yes, we hooked up - BIG surprise. But I skipped writing about him immediately following our date, because at the time I was still heavily embroiled in fleshing out the deets of the Imposter entry...plus, there really wasn't that much to tell...just that we met at a nearby bar, he's got interesting taste in music, I liked that he drinks and he smokes, we went back to my place, guzzled one final cocktail, and used up all of the condoms he'd brought...c'est tout...

So the next Monday, when he texted to see if I was busy and if I wasn't did I want to hang out, I was less than enthusiastic for a whole host of reasons. First off, there would be no thrilling element of surprise...I'd already learned as much as I needed to know about him. Additionally, I was completely up to my neck with my writing and my weekly self-portrait assignment, not to mention I was dealing with those painful injuries to my foot and my leg...like seriously - how the hell was I gonna be worth a good goddamn, with a freshly broken fibula and heel? Perhaps most damning of all though, was something the Marlboro Man had said at the end of our first date....which had me nervous that he might be in the market for a long term(ish) romance...uh oh...

As we lay in bed recovering from the morning installment of our premier stab at carnal knowledge with one another, the Marlboro Man shattered the silence with, "Mmmm...this is gonna be a FUN Summer ;)" Now to the naked ear, that might sound sorta sweet...not a threatening statement at all, right? But to someone like me - who these days recoils from anything remotely resembling a relationship - it screeched in my head like fuckin' nails on a chalkboard. In all honesty, it kinda freaked me out. I hadn't pictured us together any further into the future than up until he left to go home...

While on that first date with the Marlboro Man, I did the courteous thing by coming clean about my blog, and as I explained the general gist of what I write, I expected him to want to know more. But he asked me nothing...just kinda stared at me blankly, and so it was no skin off my back to drop the subject altogether. I did not however, cut corners when emphatically stressing that I had zero interest in striking up anything long term, with him or anyone else - which was why I was so startled by his nod to the notion that - now that we'd found each other - Summer would be so...much...more...FUN! I was there thinking, "Dude, don't even think about pinning that shit on me. I did not sign up to be your activities coordinator." (Lord knows I'm spread thin, as it is)

After waffling back and forth over whether to let the Marlboro Man come over again or not, a bevy of factors cast the swing vote...One: he had offered to bring a bunch of cd's that he thought I might like to hear (cool)...Two: despite my bum leg I figured, "Eh, how badly could it hurt to have sex?"...Three: seemed sorta mean to refuse him, with no real scheduling conflict to blame...and Four: even though I would've preferred to spend the evening fondling my computer keyboard, I reminded myself that if I kept up with all of the silly shut-in nonsense, I would eventually run out of stories to tell. My ambivalence towards the Marlboro Man had me nowhere near desirous of another visit, and yet I said he could come over anyway...

I think part of my problem is that I've become so insatiably addicted to habitually craving a taste of the unfamiliar, that if I have even an inkling that the best I can expect is a homogenous version of the first so-so date, then (in the absence of anyone new on the horizon) I'd rather spend my time all alone, doing something that I'm certain I'll enjoy...such as writing or wanking or working on my pics.. So when I caved and gave the Marlboro Man a second chance to visit, and it turned out to be a near carbon copy of the first, I was completely convinced that it would also be his last...and then he did something to set that in stone.

Immediately upon waking up in the morn, the Marlboro Man jumped out of bed with a start. Without explanation he threw on some clothes, frantically flew down the stairs and then returning to my room after maybe 10 minutes, he disrobed and lay down on top of me. Now it made sense, I could smell it on his breath. He'd gone outside (before sex, mind) to have a smoke - at 7 goddamn 30 in the morning...WTF?!

The whole time he kissed me I was completely grossed out by the lingering stench of that early morning cigarette, as it seeped out of his mouth and his nose, which - coming from a smoker, might sound hypocritical - but I mean come ON! Even I don't crave a ciggy when there's still sleep in my eyes. Furthermore, I always take a pull off the Listerine bottle before kissing a lover in the morning. I couldn't even imagine brazenly belching cigarette pollution directly into his mouth, first thing. What do you think? I mean, is it just me? Or is that shit seriously fucking weird...weird AND rude...weird and rude and disgusting! I'm here to tell ya', I was so repulsed by the whole ordeal that I vowed to quit smoking then and there...and I did! Of course that only lasted for about 24 hours...but still, you get what I'm sayin'.

It gets better though, see - after the deed was done, we went downstairs to set a spell before saying goodbye and all that. I made a pot of coffee, asked if he'd like a cup and he said, "Nah, I might just have a beer instead...that ok?"...that's right, he wanted - a beer...at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning, neato.........I told him, "You're an adult, you can do as you please. You don't have to ask me for permission" Meanwhile I thought, "Just don't expect to be invited back..." Ok, so by this point I'd decided to not only quit smoking, but to also quit drinking, as well...

As the Marlboro Man hugged me goodbye (for what I knew would be the very last time) I reminded him that he'd left his cd's upstairs. "Oh right, no biggie. I'll just grab 'em when I come back the next time"...ah yes, the old collateral trick...a most effective strategy for ensuring at least one more future visit...I picked up on his transparent scheme right away, but was in such a big hurry for him to beat feet on outta there, that I decided I'd deal with it later.

After enduring several subsequent weeks of the Marlboro Man's increasingly urgent texts, all but pleading with me to see him again (that kind of desperation, in case you didn't know - does literally nothing to help a guy's cause) I finally stopped coming up with excuses for why I couldn't, and suggested he go check out my blog. I told him he'd learn all he needed to know about the way that I operate these days and went on to confess that I rarely stick with any one man for long, since I'm compulsively driven to inject my life and my blog with an infusion of new men and the ensuing experiences. Consequently, I now accept if after meeting a guy, I find I'm anything but completely blown away, it would be silly to bother with repeat engagements solely for the sake of decent sex. And lemme tell ya', over those four idle weeks (post Marlboro Man) I was perfectly content to cozy up with my Mac, to the exclusion of everyone else.....

Not knowing him well, and therefore - how he'd react to my decision to stub our (brief) thing out, along with his knowledge of as well as easy access to where I live, I'll admit that I did fret over how easy it would be for him to make my life living Hell, should he choose. But he's respected my privacy and kept to himself...even though his cd's are still here...

Soooo...one man down, and another to go...but after THAT Ima get to the good schtuff...Oh cuz see, since extinguishing the thing with the Marlboro Man, and after 30 days of self-sanctioned celibacy, but before I got around to completing this entry - I've seen a substantial rise in the number of warm bodies around here.........and all is right once again, in my Big Ugly World.........

From a Chip on My Shoulder to Chipped Bones

I can totally see, how someone from the outside looking in at my happy-go-lucky life, might consider me the epitome of a lazy sack of shit...a good-time-Charlie (Charlene?)...and a loser. I know for a fact that my ex-husband thinks me the very definition of a loser. I am the model he uses when emphasizing to our children, that for them going to college is not elective. Perish the thought they be unqualified to do anything other than shit jobs in this life, and become useless good-for-nothings...like their mother. The thing of it is though, that guy's opinion don't mean doodly to me. Any person born into a guaranteed, lucrative career, having never had a "regular" job - waiting tables or painting houses or working retail (like the rest of us) can come straight over here and kiss mama's ass. I don't wanna hear about how a lack of education locks a person in to a lifetime of hardship and a pointless existence, especially from someone who's had everything handed to him and has never experienced financial strife. Furthermore, I am not lazy. I actually stay ridiculously busy and am generally very "productive". It's just that at the moment, I don't happen to generate large quantities of money (well...any money, really) doing what it is that I do, that's all...

I liken my current status to the proverbial "starving artist" scenario, since I am irrevocably driven to follow my creative urges to the willful neglect of monetary stability...despite being fully cognizant of the fact that my chances of realizing any sort of "greatness" are about as likely as getting struck by lightening...or winning the lottery...or playing on an NBA team.

It is a bit frustrating though, because even as a half-assed visual artist producing drawings and paintings, at least I did end up with a tangible good to peddle. But it's a little more tricky to make money off your craft when your passion is blogging, and you've no real ware to try and sell...And in further contrasting "painting" to "writing"...why is it that the starving visual artist is perceived to be somehow more admirable or romantic or legit - than the starving blogger who happens to be just as devoted and sometimes even more so - to their particular chosen field...food for thought...

I've always suspected that it was likely, that any number of my closest friends might find me and my unorthodox lifestyle, equally as lame and self-indulgent as my ex does. But it wasn't until just the other week that one of my gf's finally got up in my face about it...and Oh Golly! Quel Surprise!

My lower lip trembled and my chin quivered a bit, as I drove away from the bank. I'd just discovered that my checking account balance was a little more than $1800 in the hole (like, who besides me even does that shit?)...I went next door to the post office, hoping I might've received notice that I'd won a million dollar sweepstakes or something...(and whaddya know. I did not) and that's when I ran into my good girlfriend, who was also there checking her mail. The instant I opened my mouth to speak to her, the flood gates were breached and I suffered a complete emotional meltdown over this recent dismal turn of events...right there in front of my friend and everyone else at the post office. The shocker was, that instead of giving me a comforting hug and lying to me that it would all be OK (as any good friend should do) my dear friend fairly well read me the riot act. Raising her voice, she firmly urged me to hang up the dating and the writing and all that. She insisted that none of any of that was ever gonna help to improve my gloomy financial picture and that what I needed was to get a "real" job (the heck you say, woman?!) Which I guess in theory is all well and good except for the fact that it's Summer now...and during the summertime - my kids and sometimes some of my friends' kids - are here at home with me, during every weekday except one. Being available to work only one day a week, does not exactly make me desirably hirable...

Airing her obvious pent-up resentment of me, she continued her tongue-lashing, by citing - writing should be my hobby, that's it! Not the all-consuming addiction it has become. She saw my undying desire to become a successful, well-known blogger - as a pathetic and delusional pipe-dream, "I hate to break it to you, but you're never gonna go far with your writing...it just doesn't happen that way for people very often. You need to get over it and move the hell on" She then proceeded to contradict herself by pulling the whole "Why don't you go back to doing your dog portraits..."-card, which to this day still has me stymied. She knows as well as I do, that I never made much money when I was drawing and painting for a "living". Plus, money and success aside, I do feel that there's value in the fact that I absolutely LOVE to write...as much and as often as I can. Back when I was painting, I never felt even a shred of the same compulsion that now draws me to my studio to write...

After riding out my friend's diatribe, I was seriously like, "Calm the freak down!" (only I didn't have the nerve to actually say it) I mean her rancor towards my "life of leisure" was palpable, and quite honestly I drove away from her tirade feeling far more pissed off than distraught (the good news was, I'd stopped bawling at least) All I could think was, "Oh, yeah? Well, just watch me honey. I'm still gonna date and write and I'll prove it to ya'...I'm not doing all of this in vain"

I don't know if people realize that this shit that I do - farting around on dating sites trying to line up whatever next date, and the actual dating itself...along with the excessive amount of time that I spend writing about everything that happens - takes a veritable coon's age, thank you very much. On top of all that I've now added to the line-up - taking my weekly Twitter #HNT pictures. It can take anywhere from 2 - 4 hours, staging and snapping sometimes upwards of 200 photos, and on top of that then spending many more hours downloading and editing the pics...I would venture to say that I devote as much or more time - researching, writing and promoting my blog, than most people do at their normal jobs. I've had days where I've written for 17 hours straight, with only a few spoonfuls of peanut butter to help keep me nourished. But since I make no money (so far) doing all of this stuff, it means to many that what I'm doing - is worthless...I beg to differ.

I honestly believe that blogging about my experiences with men, is the thing that I'm supposed to be doing. Additionally, I am perfectly situated to advertise my Big Ugly Blog, by posting racy pics. in its honor on the internet, while simultaneously pushing my Twitter and FB to their absolute limits...why? Because it's not like I'm some kid who's online indiscretions will impact whether or not I get into the college of my choice. And I will never have a high profile career where my boss might end up slapping me on the wrist (or worse) for my questionable antics on the web. That being said, I always keep my kids in the forefront of my mind, whenever deciding which nakey pics. to upload. I always ask myself before I click "post" "How would the kids feel if they saw this one day?" And so far I've not put one single photo on the internet, that I wouldn't willingly show them right now............eh, on second thought - scratch that last part...

And one last thought before I quit venting - I'm sure that many of you out there, get paid by someone else to work on a computer all day, am I right? Does the fact that I'm working possibly just as hard, but without generating income - make my deal that much less honorable? Cuz honestly, my unwavering enthusiasm for the entire Big Ugly project, I would guess might make me more efficient and productive than lots of peeps working a desk job that they could give a flyin' flip about...so there's that. I bet not many of you clock in for the man, genuinely happy to get crackin' at 6:30 in the a.m.. And I bet fewer still, don't get up to go home til as late as 12:30 or 1:00 at night...but I do that, quite often in fact - and I don't get paid overtime, or time and a half or even paid at all, for that matter.

I'm not tryin' to bust on people for the jobs that they do or their level of devotion to their careers, I just want folks to understand that the effort I put into my Big Ugly Blog, isn't (hopefully?) as frivolous as they might think...

(Woah...when did I get this big honkin' chip on my shoulder?)

So anyway, as my last childless weekend swiftly approached, I had no plans to play with any of my old stand-by's...the Marine has been scarce, the hot lawyer from the big city was a no-show (again) and all I really wanted was for the online guy who lives 6 hrs away and who wore me out having text sex (or...sext...) all week long, to come here and fuck me for real - like he promised! But just like he's done each time before, he went mysteriously missing at the very last minute. SO! I committed to hunkering down in my studio to spend the bulk of the next three days - writing...even though Willow and MC Ginger had asked if they could crash at my place for the weekend...I mean, I knew that we'd enjoy a few cocktails together, but I was hellbent on skipping the weekend long party that Pierre (my friend up the road) would be hosting and that Willow and MC Ginger planned on attending.

That Thursday night before Pierre's 3 day-long bacchanalia, I invited him over to help bake some naughty confections that I might contribute to the spread in my stead. While Pierre and I toiled in my kitchen, baking chocolate penis and vanilla boob cakes to just die for, we spent most of our time together talking shop about men (my dear friend is gay, thus the boy-heavy convo) I was delighted but not surprised when Pierre took all that I said and concluded that I would make the perfect gay guy. But what did startle me was to hear it come out of my mouth, that I wasn't bothered a bit, to have no dates lined up...at all. Normally by the Thursday before a childless weekend, I'm on a mad frantic rampage to schedule men into every open slot, but for whatever reason, this particular Thursday, I'd resigned myself to just laying low. Pierre agreed that forgetting about men for a bit, might not necessarily be a bad thing...but rather than turn into some crazy recluse inextricably attached to my computer, he suggested that I indulge in some lighthearted funtime with friends. He asserted that carefree merrymaking with a bunch of good buds, might offer a completely different slant to my blog...which would be tantamount to my goal of keeping my blog ever fresh (he's a damned good salesman, that one!)

By the time opening night of Pierre's weekend-long "Adult Summer Camp" arrived - I relented, and tagged along with Willow and MC Ginger to the party...the anatomically correct boob and dick cakes in my hands.

It had been one of this summer's most sweltering days, so by the time that we'd all had a ridiculously large quantity of alcohol, we decided that we needed to get our hot little bodies into some water somewhere...and fast! We drove to the pool that was the obvious choice, hopped the fence and a few of us shimmied out of our clothes. I found it odd that so few in the group went swimming, and that even fewer decided to skinny dip. There was me (the oldest "camper" by far - at almost twice the age of the other participants, ugh) along with Willow, Pierre and Pierre's ADORABLE friend...mmmm...lllllet's just call him Adonis.

Right, so the whole scene - frolicking with abandon, naked and surrounded by so many young people, harkened back to my own days of wild youth - doing exactly the same silly shit...*sigh* Needless to say, I quickly became wrapped up in the moment and after one brave soul did a flip off of the lifeguard stand, it took no coaxing for me to try it too. I climbed up the ladder and perched for a second and then did a perfect (best I remember) flip into the pool...and as soon as I hit the water...I knew that I'd totally fucked up. My foot hit the bottom of the pool with such force that I felt a sharp pain in my heel and my knee. I swam to the side and struggled to climb out and fighting tears, asked Willow and MC Ginger if we could go home...

The whole way home, I cried like a baby, not so much from the pain but more from the thought of a potential new string of medical expenses. Jesus Christ - had I not just finished paying off my broken thumb? And now this?! Willow tenderly tucked me into bed. She gave me water and Advil, and placed a bag of frozen peas under my foot as well as a bag of frozen corn on my knee. It was funny to me that my 25 year old friend, effortlessly assumed the mature, motherly role...while I played the incorrigible child...brilliantly...

When I woke in the morning I was hopeful that I actually might be a-ok. My leg didn't hurt at all at first, but when I stepped out of bed, the pain was so severe that I fell to the floor with a thud. I hobbled through the house and out to my car and drove myself to the E.R. at 6:30 a.m.. When I finally left the hospital (4 hours later...grrr...) I had a brace and crutches (no cast, thank god) and two broken bones in my leg...sheesh...

I swear...out of all those times that I've intentionally hurled myself down loooong flights of stairs, the worst injury I ever suffered was a little rug burn. But try to do one harmless flip into the pool and the next thing I know, I'm a gimp.

So, you may be wondering...did I learn anything after spending a Friday night with friends, instead of tangled up with a date or tete a tete with my trusty ole Mac? Why yes...yes indeedy, I most certainly did...

I learned that although I love them all madly, it doesn't matter to me what my friends think. Agreed, it may not be the most practical, advantageous or profitable pastime, but evidently online dating and writing (it seems) - for me is undeniably the safest...so there!

Honesty IS the Best Policy

As feared, my Tuesday night date a couple of weeks ago (the one on which I'd pinned such unrealistically high expectations?) ended up becoming a self-fulfilled prophecy of sorts. You'd think that by now, I'd know better than to speak too soon...of a date with a man about whom I knew so little, going in. But it's my nature to do this - to put a complete stranger on a pedestal without doing adequate investigative work (i.e. asking for a photo of his face before meeting, dur...) and not surprisingly, my hopes oftentimes end up dashed...So I guess the question is - did I literally jinx that Tuesday night date, by gloating beforehand, about how sexually enlightening and blog-inspiring it most certainly would be? Or in neglecting to do my homework, had I simply set myself up to be duped by another bogus schmuck...this one heralding from that quintessentially magical land of make-believe...Twitter...

I want you guys to know that there is still a bright side....cuz no matter the eventual outcome, my date on Tuesday night did at least provide plenty of material with which to get my creative juices flowing. Only bummer is, that I'd hoped to get more than just creative juices flowing...

This is the kind of entry that puts me in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand I want to write as candidly as absolutely possible, touching on every awkward and frustrating detail of my disastrous date. But if I do that, the overall thrust of this post will inevitably galvanize my image as the cold-hearted bitch...the "adult bully" that I'm allegedly becoming. I mean, at the very least, the culprit's ego oughtta suffer a pretty swift blow...the question is though - do I care?

On the other hand, notwithstanding my awkward date-fail with the man in question (who I'd built up to be a veritable god in my mind, thanks to his misrepresentation of himself or perhaps my misinterpretation of him) do I instead gloss over the "bad" for the sake of sparing the feelings of someone who probably doesn't really deserve to be protected, solely for purpose of keeping the peace over on Twitter?

Upon much consideration, and because I am an intransigent proponent of always tellin' da trufe, I have decided to go with the former option. Maybe in taking "The Imposter" to task, he will consider posting an accurate avatar or stop pretending that the one he's got up is actually his likeness...he might also think twice about falsely advertising himself as a revered master in the sexual field of BDSM...because truth be told, the guy didn't come close to delivering the goods...

Twitter can be a funny place. It's often difficult for me to gauge who's "real" (and how real) and who's not. Unlike on Facebook, where there's generally no mistaking exactly who a person truly is, since most "friends" really do know each other - Twitter actually lends itself to fraternization with complete strangers from behind an anonymous facade, if that happens to be your preference. Don't get me wrong, I have met peeps on Twitter who are blatantly honest about who they truly are (which in some instances is remarkably admirable) but more commonly (as in the case of some of my most favorite Twitter buds) folks understandably protect their real identities so that they might enjoy their Twitter time uninhibited and unhindered by the potential threat that their activity there might negatively impact their family lives or their careers. The select few on my top tier of Tweeters do not abuse the privilege of Twitter anonymity, for them it's purely a matter of self-preservation and common sense. They are all without a doubt, very genuine people and I have never questioned their authenticity for one second.

What my run-in with the Imposter did however, was to open my eyes to a trend, where many on the site see in Twitter, an opportunity to create a persona perhaps more favorable or attractive or even just cooler than the person that they really are...and more times than not now, as I track these phonies through their tweets and whatnot, I know better than to put much stock in their bullshit and egocentricity. What's disconcerting to me though, is the fact that sometimes the Tweeters most lacking in substance (and also with the biggest friggin' mouths) are enormously and inconceivably popular, for some reason. I watch with disbelief as adoring devotees hang on every word that these annoying poseurs say...they clammer to suck up to them, praising and ReTweeting their prosaic photos and mediocre blog posts. And because of all the coddling and ego-stroking, these bloated, pretentious blowhards place themselves at the top of an imaginary Twitter hierarchy and parade around the place as if they're Twitter fucking royalty or some shit...to me it's just totally retarded.

I don't mean to sound as though I've become disenchanted with Twitter, because I haven't...not in the slightest! I guess all I'm saying is that, thanks to my experience with the Imposter, I am less naive about the legitimacy of some of its inhabitants, while simultaneously learning how to better traverse the site as a less impressionable, more savvy Tweeter...

There are tons of reasons why I enjoy Twitter as much as I do - my daily chats with good friends, tops the list. But as I've said before, I have Twitter to thank for my newfound fascination with the idea of partaking in a dom/sub scenario with a lover. I've already admitted that it's the fabulous imagery that I've come across on Twitter, which is responsible in large part, for putting that bee in my bonnet. But I've also mentioned that it's the written accounts (more than the pics. sometimes) that get me supremely fired up about having certain things done to my body...

I became moderately transfixed with the Imposter, upon reading a lurid blog entry in which he recounted a recent romp he'd enjoyed with a woman whose body he'd essentially stormed with his own. While reading though, my easily distracted eyes were repeatedly drawn from the text to the two photos that he had up on his page. The first pic. (the one that accompanied his latest entry) showed a naked woman - loosely bound...her tush rather flushed...and she appeared to be physically spent. She was laid out across a bed dressed in once crisp, but now rumpled, white hotel linens...and I wanted that to be me...The other photo was presumably of the author himself - the Imposter...his muscular, toned body fully enveloping his prey...a different woman than in the first photo...and oh...how I wished I was her...

So, when the Imposter DM'd me out of the blue one day, to say that he would be traveling soon, from his home far away - to a town very close to where I live, and then asked if I'd be interested in meeting up so we could give each other something to write about...I checked my calendar real quick and then without hesitation responded, YES! "Sweet Jesus!" I thought, "This could be my chance to have someone with experience finally show me the ropes!" (so to speak)

As the night of our date approached, I became apprehensive - wondering if the Imposter might not find me attractive enough, or up to the high female standards to which I assumed that he must be accustomed. I worried less about the possibility that I might not be as into the real life "him" as I was with the fantasy version about whom I knew very little...but I'll admit that the thought did cross my mind. Meanwhile, I tried masking my trepidation about the idea that my days as a BDSM virgin could be numbered, by focussing on my excitement to be making the acquaintance of my very first - not-already-a-real-life-friend - Twitter follower.

Before the big night, the Imposter mentioned that while on his trip his days would be occupied exploring the city with his daughter, but that he would be free to hang out during the nighttime. He offered no more explanation than that, and I let my active imagination fill in the blanks. I told myself that he was perhaps visiting a daughter who lived with an ex (the child's mom) out here on my side of the country. I pictured the Imposter staying in a plush hotel room, with a big bed dressed in cool, crisp white cotton sheets (again my fixation with that photo he'd posted) and over the course of our one and only night together, I figured we'd hunker down in his room, and I would give myself over to him completely...

I parked my car in a deck near his hotel and texted to say that I'd arrived sooner than expected and asked if he was free to meet me yet. He said, yes - that was fine. He'd just have to get his daughter tucked in a bit earlier...and that he'd be down to meet me in the hotel lounge in 15 minutes or so............I was like, "Wait...what?" Was his young daughter staying in the room with him? Was he just gonna leave her up there all alone while he and I imbibed and flirted and paved the way to reaching bondage nirvana? And how the hell were all of my sexual perversions to be realized, if there was a child sleeping there in the room...Hmmmm...this wasn't sounding at all like what I had pictured, and I could feel myself beginning to bristle...

I sat at the bar and ordered a drink and then texted to ask how I would know who he was. The Imposter told me that he was wearing a black shirt and had a shaved head...but I didn't worry about it for long, cuz by this point the Imposter had seen plenty of my pics., so the obvious default was that he would recognize me. My problem was, that outside of that scrummy pic. of his naked fit body, fucking the shit out of that woman on his blog, the only other visual I had to go on, was his Twitter avi in which only a swarthy hand was displayed. It had always struck me that the tanned hand seemed dramatically more olive-complected than the skin tone of the naked man pictured on his blog...but instead of dwelling on discrepancies that night, I began to percolate with excitement and dread as I imagined that perfect hand of his - schooling and punishing my person...and just as my nerves were about to get the best of me, I saw a bald guy in a black shirt coming towards me...

Welp folks, that was it...the moment of truth had arrived...and my initial and quick inspection of the Imposter, led me to a couple of conclusions: 1.) he was absolutely not the owner of the hand in the avi, and 2.) he was probably not the man in the blog pic.. At first, I didn't think that this was enough of an offense to permit me tearing him to shreds in my blog. But I've had over a week now, to mull everything over, and rather than granting amnesty for his chicanery, I'm sticking with a "fuck that!" m.o....let 'er rip!

The Imposter and I greeted each other with the obligatory hug (my eyes watered as his cologne punched me square in the nose) and as I pulled back, I began tallying the glaring inconsistencies between my fantasy "Imposter" and the "Imposter" there before me...and Imma be honest, it was a challenge to swallow my chagrin.

Ok, now see? Here is where I perpetuate my reputation as being a nasty fucking bitch. What happens is, the more time that passes between the actual event and when I finally sit my ass down to write about it, the less sympathetic I become to the other person's feelings and next thing you know - I've let my irritation with their dishonesty or whatever, validate my decision to exact my revenge by lambasting them for something they can't always change...their looks.

This was the first time that I'd seen the Imposter's face, so it wasn't a matter of trying to discern if he'd been honest in his photos or not. What I did figure out very quickly however, was that I did not find his face aesthetically pleasing. Literally the moment I laid eyes on him, the needle on the sexy meter plummeted. For starters, I hadn't pictured him the type to wear oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses...and in surveying the rest of his face, I dismissed his nose altogether, since it bore none of the traits that constitute my perfect ideal. I then made my way down to his smile...which produced stained yellow teeth, and a terrifying set of fang-like incisors...Furthermore, the Imposter's protruding belly suggested that even if he did happen to be the guy pictured there on his blog, the photo could not possibly be recent. The man I was with, carried easily 30 more lbs. than the buff specimen featured on his page.

The Imposter's skin tone was quite ruddy, and his puffy, pink hands with plump fingers like uncooked Ball Park Franks, were the very antithesis of the more attractive, compact, tawny hand in his Twitter AV. Two things about the Imposter now stood apparent; he was pretty much completely full of shit, and good hygiene was not a priority. You guys - his fingernails were fucking filthy! Like each nail had mysterious black stuff underneath...it was unbelievably gross. I wondered if he'd even bothered to shower, before coming down from his room to meet me. I mean seriously! How could he have washed himself, and still ended up with such disgustingly dirty fingernails? I guess he figured, "Eh, why waste time on a good soapy scrubbing, when I can just dump on a crap ton of cologne."

We finished our drinks at the hotel bar...each of us paying for our own, and then we strolled up the street to find someplace different to dine. It bothered me that he kept reaching over to try and hold my hand. Did he actually think that after talking for 20 minutes, we were already to the point of PDA's? Plus seriously, there was something very disconcerting about having those dirty hands of his - touch mine...

I was too poor to buy a meal for myself, but another cocktail (or 5) was definitely in order. He offered to and I let him buy me the drink, but I knew better than to give him leverage to get what he obviously wanted, by allowing him to treat me to an expensive meal.

Over dinner, we conversed openly about all sorts of things, and it wasn't as if I didn't enjoy talking to him...mostly though, I was silently struggling with what to do with him, exactly...and to diffuse my confusion, I cheered myself up by flirting with that adorable Russian waiter...you know...the painfully young one? The one with the opalescent grey eyes?

My gut was telling me not to give the Imposter any reason to believe that we would end up doing the nasty. But I kept thinking about how I'd led folks to believe that I'd be losing my bondage V-Card to him that night. And even though I was fairly sure that I couldn't go through with it now, I worried that if I didn't - I would look like a big stupid chicken to my friends and readers who were counting on me to finally give it up...

Obviously the biggest issue, was that I was not at all physically attracted to the Imposter, which meant that if I gritted my teeth and went for it with him, our time together would be nothing more than an emotionless tutorial in bondage. But after the Imposter clarified his sleeping arrangements back in the hotel room, I knew that my only option was to go home and report back to my friends that, sadly I had let them all down...It was true, I had whiffed on hooking up with a (fabled) "Twitter icon"...

Here's the deal, turns out the Imposter was sharing the hotel room with not only his young daughter but also his fucking ex-wife...NEAT-O! (rumor has it that he may actually still be married...even better!) He did not see this as a reason to throw in the towel though, so he cunningly suggested that we either get a different hotel room (no) or go fool around out in my car........YES! That's what I said...MY CAR! I was like "Christ man, what the freak grade are we in, anyway?!" Oh and by the way, what happened to the restraints and submission and all that? Did he think that I stowed the necessary paraphernalia in my car, like some roadside emergency kit? I felt like such a chump...the Imposter never intended to pop my bondage cherry, all he wanted was a seedy fucking lay in some brightly lit, hot as hell parking garage. I figured the best way to get the whole thing over with, was to agree to go with the "car" option...at least that way I would be situated to scram.

When we got to my car, I knew I was nearing the finish. I hoped that my body language and my souring attitude would be enough to speed up the whole process. But evidently, he was more clueless than I knew, cuz he reached over, pulled me towards him and then kissed me...with that horrible double espresso-flavored tongue (ever heard of Orbit?) which he swirled around, in tight rigid circles...over and over in the same exact place...it was a very unusual technique. I could almost tolerate the fact that his wire-rimmed glasses jabbed hard into the bridge of my nose, but as soon as his fangs practically punctured my tongue, that was it...I was totally done...he had gotten his one drink's worth outta me.

He was starting to get an inkling that I was not digging the sitch, but it wasn't until I told him, "I'm sorry...I'm just not feelin' it" that he actually officially "got it" and that's when his demeanor swiftly changed.

I did as he asked, and drove him to a bar so he could watch some sporting event on TV. I was a little surprised that he chose doing that, over going back up to the room to be with his wife and his kid, but whatevs...The Imposter and I said goodbye to each other, he hopped out...and I watched somewhat amused, as he hurriedly huffed his way across the street.

I knew that the next humiliating order of business, would be to report back to my friends that my date had been a complete and utter flop...but at that point I did not care one iota. I was just so damned relieved that the perturbing scenario with the Imposter was fully behind me, and that I was heading back home to my bed and my dogs...

In hindsight I realize that if I hadn't had such a vivid image in my mind, of how I thought things would go with the Imposter, I would've probably been far more forgiving of him after the fact. But hindsight my dears, is 20 freaking 20...and there ain't much I can do about that...

I also now acknowledge, that BDSM is not the type of sexual practice to pick up willy nilly...with a total stranger...sight-unseen...(DUH, ya' dumbass!)...aaaand I'm embracing the fact that I AM still a virgin (well, a bondage virgin - but still!)...cuz for the first time in a very long time, I actually feel kind of pure...(Ha!)

Holding Pattern...Be Gone!

So, yesterday - I had to suck it up and spend the better part of a gorgeous Sunday, mowing my back 3 acres...yee-fuckin'-haw...I usually cut that parcel of my land - for the first time each year - in early May, before the grass and weeds get so thick and tall that they become virtually impossible to tackle. But for various reasons, this Spring has been the epitome of a clusterfuck (not to mention we've had a boatload of rain) and so already mid-June, and the field still not mown...I could no longer put off bushwhacking what I was certain would resemble a goddamn rain forest, by now.

Naturally, I procrastinated by fooling around a bit online in the early morning, but I finally dragged my lazy ass away from my trusty ole Mac, to go outside and survey the dense, lush, and way overgrown back end of my property. It was far worse than what I'd pictured (shit) and I was prepared for the normally time-consuming task at hand, to take many more hours than usual to complete.

On the positive side though, I planned on making good use of the hours of solitude and idle time, by mapping out this long overdue blog entry...Unfortunately however, that did not wind up to be the case. No matter how hard I tried to get my creative juices flowing, the only thing that went through my vacuous mind, was a continuous loop of the lyrics to a Duffy song that I'd shared on Twitter, earlier in the day...

I don't know why I've been dragging my feet so, in getting my thoughts in order for this effing post. Could have something to do with overlooking the handful of cheery bits, and obsessing over the disappointing near-misses of late...and frankly, I'd rather not waste your time whining about things like: spending the entire childless 5 days surrounding Memorial Day - completely alone...like some loony fucking shut-in...pouting because all of my little playmates were out of town or doing other things...my only plans for that dreadfully long holiday weekend - falling through, when the phenomenally good-looking 30-something lawyer from the big city (the one who sent my all-time fave naughty pic....the close-up cum-shot, remember?) bailed at the eleventh hour...his flimsy excuse for needing to do so, arriving after I'd showered and dressed and sat around waiting to hear from him - for over FIVE FUCKING HOURS!...Yeah, better not bore you with all that...

I did manage to make a few new connections online and was hopeful that after Skyping with the rawther impressive, "Footlong" I would score a real live date with him for this past weekend. But evidently, "getting off" on the webcam, was all that dear Footlong was after. He and that ginormous johnson* of his have been conspicuously missing ever since...*humph*

*definition of "ginormous johnson": even with both hands wrapped around his remarkable schlong, several healthy inches towered above the top fist...woah...

Thing of it is though, that despite all of my belly-achin' - I actually have enjoyed a few fun-filled flings recently. So why is it then, that I'm not terribly inclined to feature them here in the blog...I mean sure, I could prattle on and on about my snap decision to meet "Perfect Teeth", the charming, young entrepreneur with the fetching smile and the most vivid blue eyes imaginable. I could go on to say that I let him seduce me back at his high-rise apartment...in the middle of the afternoon...after a tasty lunch and several stiff drinks...But I'm not gonna do that! Cuz the story lacks grit and originality and is devoid of any sort of amusing, surprise ending.

Also at this juncture - I now have three rousing episodes with My Marine, under my belt. But because he's made it very clear that he'd like to stay under the radar and because I like him so well, I don't feel the need to divulge every intimate detail of our most recent rambunctious rendezvous(es?) Plus, it's not exactly front-page news that after my last play date with My Marine (this past Friday night) one set of my cheeks bore the most lovely, pink blush...while the others - so cramped and fatigued - made smiling up at him to acknowledge his obvious approval...more difficult than you might ever think...

Oh, and for those of my Facebook "friends" who delighted in morosely suggesting that My Marine might be the type of villainous scalawag to have his way with me and then bury my spent corpse in some remote location...I am happy to report (not that you care) that I weathered his last visit very well...(all things considered). Aside from issuing unavoidable wear and tear on my decrepit old body, My Marine would never (intentionally) hurt me...and the only thing he buried...was his bone...

I'm in no way insinuating that Perfect Teeth and My Marine aren't blog-worthy, in the traditional sense. I think it's more that there's nothing so ridiculously over-the-top about my forays with either one of them to warrant rehashing our time together (well that, and the fact that there are some things that even I won't dare mention) So, instead of exploiting these two stellar men as mere filler for the blog (and to avoid falling victim to the T.M.I. syndrome) I'm keeping mostly mum on their behalf.

But hey, before you guys write me off as some sort of overindulgent online dating junkie, incapable of being satisfied with a fairly active dating life, or even content with dutifully writing about the in's and out's of getting laid and all that - don't give up on me, just yet...

In saving my breath until I can expound upon something truly momentous, I've alleviated my initial frustration over having only pablum to publish right now...and in the interest of not lapsing too long between entries, I've been more motivated than ever, to sniff out and follow at least one exceptionally propitious lead...

Fingers crossed, that the fates will decide to smile upon me (and also that I haven't jinxed myself by cryptically mentioning any of this beforehand) Cuz the thing of it is - if all goes as planned - by Tuesday night? I may have found precisely the "thing", with which to get those creative juices flowing...

What a Crop of SHIT!

If you asked me to, I couldn't even begin to remember when it was that the Crop of Shit first said, "Hello" to me on OkCupid. We talked a bit at first, but because he was a good deal older than I, as well as married (although allegedly in an "open" relationship), I didn't feel the need to invest a lot of time in getting to know him any better. And after sending a few lackluster emails back and forth, we eventually quit communicating altogether...until...right about the time fucking Matchstick Man started wreaking havoc on pretty much every aspect of my online activities.

Here I had Matchstick Man, popping up constantly soliciting me to chat, while also giving me a ration of shit for always writing about young guys, in his thinly-veiled ploy to coax me into giving him a chance to "rise to the challenge" a la My Marine (dream on)...and then outta the woodwork comes the Crop of Shit (like Matchstick Man, also 52) heart-in-hand...hoping for another shot at establishing a "friendship" with me. I remember thinking, "Jesus Christ...what is this? Fucking - Old Guy Week or something?"

The Crop of Shit has been following my blog since we first spoke months ago, and although completely cognizant of how red-faced he could become upon reading whatever I might eventually write about him (should we ever decide to meet) it did not dissuade him from taking that chance.

I was already knee-deep in one old guy's sheize (in the midst of writing my first unfavorable blog post about Matchstick Man) and I was in no particular hurry to risk adding ancillary old dude drama to the already ample pile. Not to mention, at the moment I was singularly focussed on my upcoming second visit with My Marine, Yip! But, the notion that something blog worthy could transpire - always emblazoned on the back of my mind - I politely tolerated the Crop of Shit's emails and responded to them accordingly.

As is commonplace in my online correspondences...with each subsequent email, the Crop of Shit and I revealed more and more about ourselves. And after reading an epic message that he sent one day, I began to change my tune a bit, about the naughty old codger.

He recounted in elaborate detail, a recent tryst that he'd had with a woman - a weekend-long sextravaganza, so to speak - complete with hand-picked green willow switches for flogging, which amplified his manipulation of her mind and her body, and culminated in repeated sexual rewards for both parties (or...so he claimed) His tale resonated with my recent urgency to be dominated by a lover skilled in that particular field of expertise, and since now - he was so much more appealing to me - I did agree to meet him for drinks.

In the last email that he sent before we were to meet, the Crop of Shit put the finishing touches on my growing desire to experiment with him, when he told me that he was bringing something along on our date...a beautiful...new...bought-with-just-me-in-mind...pristine red and black...riding crop.........Looked like things could get pretty spicy...*gulp*...and because of that, I was ecstatic...as well as pretty fucking terrified!

The Crop of Shit had beaten me to the restaurant and when I got there, I saw him, but walked right past him thinking, "Ok, well I know that's not him." Maybe it was the shock of thinning white hair, I dunno...but when the hostess saw me looking around the place, she came over to me and led me to the table where the Crop of Shit sat, correctly assuming that I was the girl for whom he'd mentioned he was waiting. I sized him up quickly - not bad looking, but not at all my type, either. I guess I've just been so spoiled (having enjoyed such a nice, long run with my much younger men) that it definitely took me a second to adjust to his, well...his age.

No matter what topic we discussed (kids, work, the usual) my mind stayed fixed on the thought of that red and black riding crop...and although the Crop of Shit didn't fall under the confines of my physical ideal, he was good enough for me to picture him back at my house teaching me all sorts of new tricks...(we just might have to add blindfolding to the day's repertoire, that's all) And then after one hour, no more - the Crop of Shit asked our waitress for the check and apologized for needing to leave so suddenly..................

I was stunned. Like seriously fucking confounded, man. Weren't we going to pop my bondage cherry and put a little flogging on top?!

He settled the bill (which was greatly appreciated since it spared me having to spend the twenty that I'd borrowed from my child's piggy bank) and almost acted as if I should have somehow known that he'd be expected home shortly to perform his husbandly duties - firing up the grill for Sunday dinner and all that. He then followed me out to my car...(and let's not forget - it was only like 5 in the evening, so still completely broad daylight outside) The Crop of Shit kissed me...and lifting my shirt, he reached under my bra to grab at my very expensive, perky little tits. I knew that everyone out there on the patio had to be enjoying the show (happy to oblige) and I thought for a minute that he might change his mind, since he was clearly aroused by our passionate, public display. I hoped that in pinching and twisting my nipples - that fucking hard - he was segueing into our original plan, and that we might indeed go back to my house to do - god only knows what else. But the ultimate outcome was a definite - no dice. He insisted that he had to go home. He leant to give me one last kiss, but I pulled away to instead chastise him for being such a TEASE - cuz he WAS! And then I watched him walk over to get into his Prius (not the black BMW M5 I'd imagined) and like a good little boy, he drove up the road that would lead him back home to mommy...

To say that I was miffed would be an understatement...I was 100% raging pissed off! What in the world had that fucktard been thinking, when he allotted one puny hour - for our date? And what was all that crap about the crop, anyway? Like, why'd he even brought that shit up? I for one, had never mistaken this to be a polite "get-to-know-you" first date, the kind where you don't wanna wreck your chances of ever seeing the guy again by screwing him the first time you meet - this was absolutely not that. I had made my intentions very clear - that my interest in him was of a purely sexual nature, and I was even willing to overlook his average appearance in order to redeem his original offer to school me on things previously foreign to me...I'm talkin' - on our date...that very day!

The Crop of Shit knew right away he'd fucked up. I couldn't believe how quickly he was falling all over himself to apologize. Had to have been literally the minute he got home, that he composed and sent an email, in which he stated something to the effect of - having learned so much about me from reading my blog, he was convinced that in person I'd prove to be a "callow, superficial, mindless harpy" (and yet he was the one pursuing me!) But he confessed that, upon meeting me, he'd found me to be, "witty, charming, smart and so fucking hot that I would have gladly taken you to the gazebo, bent you over the rail, and fucked you in whatever hole that I happened to hit..." My question is, "Well then why didn't you? Did Poppa forget his Viagra...hmmm?"...and he threw in that, on his way home, he'd purchased a riding crop from a saddlery...which had my name on it...and that if I was willing to give him another try, he'd be very willing to use it...

I thought about ignoring him entirely, but wound up breaking my brief silence with this,

"I came to meet you yesterday, fully prepared to live up to our flirtation, should we find that we shared a mutual interest in one another. And I think it was fairly evident that I was willing to see the whole fantasy come to fruition. You on the other hand a.) misled me into believing that you'd already purchased a crop which you would have in your possession and would be eager to implement and b.) didn't even allot enough time to do so, should we be so inclined...

I dunno...I'm a pretty impetuous girl, I tend to fly by the seat of my pants. And the fact that you chose not to strike while the iron was hot - after you yourself masterminded the whole plan - was I thought, not only somewhat rude , but also caused me to lose steam over the whole thing. I'm not even sure why you bothered creating such tension at all, if you were never really serious about seeing things through.

I guess the long and short of it is, that it was very nice to have met you, but I'm 'fraid that you've just blown your one chance...

Best,

~Lauralyn"

His mood changed dramatically after receiving my response, and was of a decidedly less-apologetic nature,

"Sorry, a mismatch of expectations. I guess I should've known better after reading your blog. But I never expected it would be drop my pants and do it in the parking lot of a horse country pub..."

Oh, how quickly they forget (comes with the age, perhaps) Had he not just written in his email before, that he wanted to do me on the gazebo? Parking lot, gazebo - the fuck is the difference?!

And furthermore - what is it with these last two old fucks, who came on so strong...praising me for my blog and brazen wantonness...but then as as soon as I lay down the hammer of rejection, they turn everything completely around. It's just embarrassing for them both, really...tsk, tsk, tsk...

My conversation with the Crop of Shit miraculously came to an abrupt halt, after I gave him my final two cents. And one thing I'll say about his hasty retreat, is at least he displayed more dignity than Matchstick Man, who I expect will continue to be an ass...

"Ok Big Man, if writing something so ludicrous as your last note, makes you feel better about your lack of prowess as well as your laughably false air of chaste...then so be it. But you know as well as I, that doing it in the parking lot was never my intention and incidentally, let's not forget who grabbed up whom...and had the raging hard-on to boot...

And just for the record...reading my blog was precisely the reason you were so hot to trot, you ole horndog..."

P.S. Twitter, I Love You...

Like so many people in the great big wide world, nowadays - I too have become more than just a leetle preoccupied with foolin' around on Facebook. I was a comparatively late arrival to FB actually, and even after finally setting up my profile (only a couple of years ago) I remained somewhat retarded in my Facebook growth for a good while. By now though, I've definitely gotten the hang of it and some days (and nights) I spend ridiculous amounts of time, poking around on the site - shocking...I know...

My very most favorite thing about Facebook (and the reason that I rarely ever utter a single unkind word about it) is the fact that because of FB, I have been given the chance to become (sometimes even better) friends - again - with people from my distant past...acquaintances with whom I otherwise would've lost touch completely. It is entirely Facebook's fault that I've been able to reconnect with the now grown-up kids from my childhood and the artists and musicians from back in my crazy party days as a young adult living in my hometown of Richmond, Va.. And...although it may sound somewhat hackneyed, I'm not exaggerating a bit when I say in all seriousness - that my extended Facebook family, has consistently been there for me - to celebrate the good times, and lift me up during the bad - while my "real" family (save my four, dear, sweet children, of course) neglects to be supportive or even an entity at all in my life - and for this newfound familial bond, I feel enormously fortunate and grateful.

I wile away many happy hours, nosing around on my friends' profiles, staying abreast of what all they've been up to, but most especially - I dig how easy it is for me to keep them present in my life by simply thumbing through their photos or making quick comments on their status updates and posts. Historically, I've been horrible at corresponding, which would explain why so many of my old friendships faded into oblivion (pre-Facebook)...and so I'm stoked that FB facilitates keeping these friendships current, hopefully for a very long time.

Now, about the whole Twitter thing...

Ok so, I signed up on Twitter even more recently than when I followed the herd and finally got going on FB, and immediately after hesitantly boarding the Twitter train and tweeting maybe...mmmmm...a total of once(?) - it became clear that I had no clue how to properly and effectively tap into all that (I now realize) Twitter does have to offer (still learning, in fact). In my timidity and intimidation, instead of just futzing around with it a bit, I chose to let my account go dormant...until just very recently. I'm not even sure what gave me the kick in the pants to tinker with it this time, but once I got the gumption to examine Twitter a little more closely, I quickly began to appreciate the wealth of benefits that regular tweeting could potentially afford me...particularly as a blogger hoping to increase my visibility on the web.

I have been slow on both sites, to amass "friends" and "followers" and yet even having so few - I've noticed a distinct difference in the social dynamic between my friends on Facebook and my followers on Twitter. Again, the majority of my FB friends are people that I have known for a number of years, with only a smattering of online guys and friends of friends - rounding out the bunch. My Twitter peeps, on the other hand are - by and large - complete strangers, hailing from all across the globe, and brought into my world because of some common interest. Even cooler still, is the fact that I feel a growing bond - a genuine friendship forming between me and a handful of my Twitter followers. And these are folks, that were it not for Twitter, I never would even have met. To me, that shit is totally badass!

I talk with my Twitter friends frequently, despite the sometimes crazy differences in time zones. And I tend to talk to my FB buds, most commonly by commenting on their walls and through my tweets, which automatically appear on my FB as status updates. Twitter for me, is about actively conversing, where Facebook is more about speaking my mind to an oftentimes uncomfortably silent audience.

One of the things that I love about Twitter, is the camaraderie I feel with certain of my like-minded "followers". I feel a kinship to these people even though we've never met in person, and chances are better than good...that we never will. Their nurture and encouragement has not only brought me to feel that I am amongst true friends (though literally strangers), but has also helped me to embrace and define the person (or the alter-ego, as it were) best suited to represent my Big Ugly Blog, because lord knows that most everything I do anymore, is for the unapologetic promotion of my silly, trashy blog.

Before Twitter, I tentatively tried to mold and shape my Big Ugly identity. Since Twitter, I've been able to speed up that process, thanks in large part to the support base I've found in my new friends there. I would never have made the decision to post my weekly #H(alf) N(ekkid) T(hursday) pics., had it not been for the expert and tender guidance of one particular follower, who metaphorically held my hand all the way up to the point when I finally found the courage to post my first semi-nude pic...on the internet...for the whole world to potentially see...until the end of time. But where Twitter has helped me shed reservations about becoming the person that I now feel I was always meant to be, Facebook keeps me from going too far over the top, since every single thing that I do on Twitter, automatically winds up on my Facebook...and FB is slightly less tolerant of the overly-risque.

I've admitted in prior blog entries, that I am far from being what one might call, "book-smart". My formal education was abruptly arrested after I flunked out of the 10th grade, and because of that - you won't catch me claiming to know shit about much. But in daily life, if a specific subject captures my attention, I do try to learn as much as possible about it, so in that regard, I'm in this sort of perpetual state of learning - through living. I am constantly reminded though, that no matter how much I experience or think I might know, there's always some new and compelling topic to spellbind me...and during my brief tenure as a Tweeter, I have been turned on to some pretty bitchin' shit. It's almost embarrassing to admit to how truly sheltered I must be, having not known at all about some of the stuff to which I've just recently been introduced on Twitter. I am however, not too proud to fess up to my ignorance.

Luckily, a large percentage of my Twitter pals are folks of a very forward-thinking, open-minded sexual persuasion, perhaps entering my Twitterverse because of the adult(ish) content in my blog, or having found something in my tweets germane to their own points of view, or even more simply because they were curious about my ever-changing AV's. And I gotta tell ya', the more time I spend (sometimes voyeuristically) getting to know this diverse group of people, the more it becomes clear to me, that I've still got a helluva lot to learn.

Although age-wise, I am old as the hills, I sometimes feel like the awkward Twitter newbie, trying to hang tight with the cool kids. I am constantly blown away by exquisitely written accounts of eye-opening sexual encounters and musings. But being inherently visual, it's the posts and reposts of delectable images urging the viewer to contemplate whether the subject matter is art...or is porn...that keep me inextricably entranced.

I guess it wouldn't be too out of line to say that I've had my fair share of sex...straight-up, good ole-fashioned S.E.X., but my new friends on Twitter have brought to light - a whole new world of sexual practices and in doing so, it's become quite apparent to me what a lightweight I am, in comparison. Rather than hanging my head in shame for being so apparently delayed in my sexual growth though, I am excited to be creating a bucket list of sorts, of the many intriguing disciplines in which I hope to dabble with a lover, some day.

(Gawd, I talk a LOT!)

There is a specific category in this infinite catalog of yummy, erotic pics. that consistently has me creaming my pants. Picture this: a tight-angle, black and white image of a stunningly beautiful woman working some guy's cock the way she might slowly savor a popsicle on the hottest day of summer...spurs in my mind a lovely vignette of her...methodically carrying every sweet, sticky drip with her rapacious tongue, from the bottom along the entire length...repeatedly...making sure she's not missed a trace...and then gently she slips the pop deep inside of her mouth, her lips loosely surrounding the base. Now applying more pressure, she sucks her way to the tip...errrr...top...her eyes closing as she purses her lips gingerly against the swiftly softening treat, swirling every melted, tasty drop - in her mouth for a sec. before reluctantly releasing all that heavenly goodness, the rest of the way down her throat....mmmm...fucking good...And although this is one example of how these still photographs can make my imagination run wild and my hand reach for my toy, it is not the thing that really gets me going - nope, nada, huh uh...

There's a genre of imagery that stirs a desire in me, that I've only recently discovered exists (another approving *nod* to dear Twitter, Cheers!) And I'm here to tell ya', the instant my eyes locked on that very first image, of the intricate and elaborate rope-work evidently implemented in certain forms of bondage...I became irrefutably obsessed. Have you guys seen this stuff? I mean seriously...I never had. (check out: http://maxkatana.tumblr.com/) I respected the labor-intensive effort involved in what I found to be an amazing art form, but what really spoke to me was the implication of what would eventually go down between the woman who was bound, and her lover...and it occurred to me that my submissive nature would coalesce beautifully with a paramour skilled in the art of control...ropes or not.

I realize that the master craftsmen who weave such spectacularly gorgeous yet effective restraints, must no doubt be few and far between, and so I don't even kid myself by thinking that I might ever find out firsthand, how they go about working their magic. But what those photographs have done, is awakened in me, a previously unrecognized, deep-seated proclivity to want to be seriously dominated...

Sticks and Stones

There's something undeniably thrilling to me, whenever I publish a blog post rich with scandal and the potential to ruffle some feathers. It's like I kinda get off on the nervous excitement that accompanies sharing my more lurid stories...and the anxious anticipation I feel while I wait to find out if there'll be fires to put out. I'm always my most agitated, during those first 24 hours immediately following posting a controversial entry...wondering who all I've pissed off or freaked out, and what the possible repercussions might be. Yet it never ceases to amaze me that after getting myself all worked up over the threat (or the promise) of collateral fall-out, the typical response is nearly always either positive remarks (preesh!) or complete and utter silence. I'll be there thinking, "Woah...how can everyone really be cool with this piece?" I guess it could be that most of my readers are too shy to tell me what they really think...

So, when Matchstick Man's initial reaction to my last blog entry (which - in case you haven't read it - I devoted entirely to ripping the poor guy to shreds) - was one of acceptance and resignation - the residual side effect was this sort of blah combination of vague disappointment mixed with not-so-welcome relief. Here I'd been apprehensively awaiting whatever backlash would presumably ensue...but instead, what I got was a big ole goose egg, since for the most part, he claimed to be copacetic with pretty much every aspect of my evaluation of him...and he expressed his deference to my harsh opinion, in a comment that he submitted to the blog:

"I KNEW I could make it to the blog - one way or another! (p.s. not the least bit insulted) Signed, the Matchstick Man"

huh...so that's it?...how very far removed from what I'd expected...The whole thing was just too damned anti-climactic...I mean like, how could the guy be that fine with my scathing assessment of every aspect of his character? I had (for all intents and purposes) chopped him down to stumps, had I not?

Stranger still, he continued to dole out his unconditional and enthusiastic approval of what I'd written about him, by stating in an overtly desperate DM:

(subject) "Very well writen..." (and No, that is not a Big Ugly typo)

"Dear Larualyn (interesting spelling...and yes, my cover is blown. Contrary to prior blog entries, my name is not actually Isobel. There, finally got that outta the way...moving on)

I apologize in advance if this message is redundant - sent it IM off line also. I LOVE your blog! Little harsh on the descriptives, but that's artistic license. I can take the heat, and don't offend easily but in all seriousness, if you don't like me and don't want to chat (much less do anything else) why not just say so? I am a grown man and have been shot down plenty of times. It's really not a big deal. Otherwise, a dinner date is still an open offer (how big of a boob can he be?) - you can bring your girlfriend who thinks I'm the Axe Murderer too. My treat. I might translate better in person than on-line. (seriously...like - has. he. no. pride.)

Still your FB friend,

Matchstick Man"

A little while later, I was roused from my bewilderment, when I received an email notification that another person had commented on my blog. Upon reading this most recent submission, a devilish grin slowly crept 'cross mah face...and I began mentally battening down the hatches for the slight chance of a shit storm, now in the updated forecast. This new comment (I hoped) might be just the thing - to help Matchstick Man grow some fucking balls, and respond accordingly (like any self-respecting man should) to my unrestrained annihilation of his person. And if that were to happen, I just might get a taste of that tumult that so often...I crave:

"Great entry - love the blog! Stick with the young guys! You pretty much eviscerated The Matchstick Man. I don't know how he could not be insulted. He must have no self-respect!

P.S. - You are smokin' hot!"

I knew there was no way in hell, that even a suck-up little weenie like Matchstick Man, could completely ignore the guy's insult...I myself, winced with embarrassment for him, the first time that I read the thing through. I had no way of knowing just how he'd react, but I felt certain that the stranger's comment indeed had the potential to trigger, if not a ground-swell of hostile retaliation - at the very least - a retraction of Matchstick Man's knee-jerk benevolence...

When he finally got the nerve to man-up and defend himself, I thought, "Ok, now this is more like it!" My assumption was that we'd go toe-to-toe in the ring...two fierce opponents eager to duke this mess out. But my hopes for a fair fight were irreversibly dashed, the more closely I inspected his tenuous attempt to berate me. The guy didn't stand a shred of a chance...

My original plan was either to bury it altogether (to spare him further humiliation) or to wait...and feature Matchstick Man's visceral (3rd) response to my last blog post - in my newest entry, which was easily several days away from being ready to publish. But after urgently daring me to clear his good name, by insisting, "If you post the rebuttal, you will have shown decency and courage missing in your blog. I never figured you for the cheapshot coward."...along with, "that's what a 'friend' would do" - I decided to table my current entry and write and post this one, instead (once again, entirely in Matchstick Man's honor) The way I saw it, his feeble attempt to back me into a corner, was the equivalent of giving me implicit permission to drag his sorry ass though the mud...

His "rebuttal" arrived mere hours after he'd sent that first wave of glowing remarks. It appeared in my regular email inbox - as typo-ridden, meandering, pseudo-intellectual drivel, and all I could think, the more that I read was, "You wanna play, old man? All right then - Game On!"

And without any further ado - I give you the long-awaited, official Matchstick Man "rebuttal" (with heckling from the peanut gallery in parentheses, for good measure):

"Yes, Laurlalyn (again with the screwy spelling) I am a big boy (subject to debate) Now let us see how big of a girl you are (big? no. tight? quite. but alas, something you'll never know) I have had the day to digest what you have posted about me. It's quite well written and funny - as always, but mean-spirited and sad (oh, pumpkin...why the long face?) Though I am honored that you dedicated an entire blog post to me and that you spend so much time and energy looking at my profile photos and whatnot (true story - I have invested less than one minute of my whole entire life, looking at your pics.. however, I did expend a fair amount of energy running away from them in absolute horror) I detect a direct cause and effect here (aaaaaand the "cause and effect" is what, exactly?) Do you have the courage to post this rebuttal on BigUgly to some of the statements you made about me? (absofuckinglutely) Some how I doubt it (oh ye, of so little faith)

With regard to the woman I was with (lies) who I told you may have forced herself to vomit after a meal we shared (ew?) I should never made that allegation to you or anyone else (to just how many people have you advertised this slander?)

because I had no proof (dude, we got it...we know the girl doesn't exist) After further consideration I think I was wrong about that I have seen no further evidence that she may be bulimic. She does like to spend a bit of time in the bathroom but that may be for other reasons - she simply likes to be fresh! (ok, even if she was real - there's something decidedly gross about needing to spend LOTS of time in the loo keeping "fresh") Moreover, I should also have known that any conversations that transpired between us that I took to be confidential could be outed on BigUgly (duh) After all, many FB 'friends' are not really 'friends' in the real sense, only photos and message (blasphemy!) It's so much easier to be abusive to people who live far away and who you don't really know (sounds as though you speak from experience) Several layers of computer anonymity facilitate trash-talking and low-brow cheap shots (fucking deep, man) You have proven this in spades (oooooh...ouch) By taking information that was heretofore private and making it public, you have shown a lot of class - all of it low (not just smart...but witty, too!) Revealing anything of a personal nature to you was a mistake I won't repeat (does this mean that we're no longer speaking?)

With regard to my Matchstick Man body, yes, I am 'skinny' by todays standards of male dough-boy oafishness. I am 6' 4" tall and around 190 lbs. In my life lean = fast and I like fast (no idea what that even means) If you and your girlfriend find me unattractive, there is really not much I can or care to do about it (outside of inviting us both out to dinner, your treat) But, the fact that you gave me you phone number and chatted with me extensively prior to my commenting negatively on your writing would indicate that there was at least a passing fancy and some point (simply put - you are fucking delusional) You took offense to my critique of your last blog entry (au contraire! I merely capitalized on your lapse in good judgment) Let's be clear: I criticized its content (exactly) I said it was repetitive (no shit) The fact that you would find such a private comment (what's so private about it?) so offensive as to send you off a-writing ("a-writing"? what tha hell is that?) a huge, scurrilous, personal attack (...and I quote, "I LOVE your blog!") is unsettling (one man's discomfort, is our entertainment) It's your blog, you are free to do as you like (thanks for the green light there, buddy) Really if you lose one of your dozen followers (correction! that's 15 followers - thank you very much) who cares? My critique was offered privately and in good faith (nooooo...it was offered as yet another lame attempt to try and get down my pants) You have chosen to respond publicly and viciously (cuz that's just the way that I iz, and you know that) Again, that's your prerogative (but he did spell "prerogative" correctly - 17 Scrabble points for that one!) More often than not we reap what we sow (amen) Maybe one of you Cubs will turn on you and trash you on the internet (a girl can dream, can't she?)

Do I think you are hot? (absolutely) Absolutely - you have a stupendous body. Your chosen current path is one of sexual risk-taking which you hope to parlay into some sort of writing career (and this - coming from a man whose career ambitions include suckling on the unemployment tit, indefinitely) But the audience for middle-aged females hooking up is small and not particularly fresh or new (what are you saying?...the audience isn't fresh or new? I'm lost)

Like I told you privately, I don't think there is anything wrong with sex for sex's sake (and maybe someday, you might have some) And, there is nothing wrong with having sex with younger men (awww...thanks, dad) - to a point (oh) But you have to ask yourself - is it really satisfying? (hells YEAH - it is!) How young is too young? (mmmmm...) You are sleeping with twenty-something's now (yep) how about teenagers? (18 is legal, so theoretically I could) Will you be doing the same thing when you are fifty? (dear lord please yes) There is an undercurrent of pedophilia in your behavior (please tell me you're not REALLY this stupid. last time I checked, 22 = legal consenting adult) You state that I am jealous of the Cubs you have sex with (that's because clearly, you are) but in reality I find them rather pathetic (studly as shit) They can't get (choose not to have) a date with a girl (brainless twit) their own age so the resorts to trysts with a woman close to their mom's age (close to perfection) Or, maybe you are third or fourth on their list of the weekend possible (maybe so, but I'm still getting laid) and if they strike out on the top tier, they give you a call (but even if I wound up with no dates at all, I still wouldn't go out with you) Your young Marine guy should be shagging a half-dozen chicks his own age (would rather hang out with an older gal who really knows how to give head) Jesus women, I get more pussy than your cubs do! (show of hands from everyone who believes that Matchstick Man gets more nookie than...well...anyone)

Thankfully, as far as I can tell, my two twenty-something sons of ("of"? it's "have" ya' dumbass) not stooped to MILFing (oh, but they will) In the end what you wrote about me is more of a reflection of you (really? how so...) Yes, it's big (and I am rawther huge) and yes it's ugly. But the ugliness is all yours (you know how to cut to the core of me, Baxter)

The Matchstick Man

My only question for Matchstick Man, after reading his rambling rebuttal, is - you've known all of this stuff about me since day one, am I right? So why then - all of a sudden - do you find me and my behavior to be so unattractive? None of anything that I've ever told you about myself (and I have always been brutally honest) ever negatively impacted your opinion of me before. Nor did it hinder your big push to meet me, despite knowing I've fucked all those guys - curiously that is - until I made it very clear (in my blog) what a parasite I find you to be...funny how that works...

You know, my tiff with Matchstick Man is not the first one I've had with douchebag guys who I've met online. And each of these spats has been exactly just that - an easily diffused minor squabble - nothing more. The fact that not one of these altercations has ever escalated beyond more than a few terse emails and texts, leaves me feeling more than a little let down. Like - that's limp. wtf! Where's the challenge in that? It's almost as if I'm longing for the day when push comes to shove with a man who can take it and dish it out. A guy who approaches confrontation with gusto or who impresses me by giving me what for...An intimidating man possessing unsurpassed mettle and commanding the utmost respect...*sigh*

No doubt, I'm an antagonist and I do tend to egg people on, from time to time. But I may be that way partially because I feel that I am more than adequately equipped to defend myself as well as my actions. Like, "Bring it the fuck on!" I mean seriously, what can anyone possibly throw at me, that I haven't already said about myself? Through the honest, uncensored stories in my blog, I have essentially beaten everyone to the punch...and because of that I feel I am somewhat impervious to whatever personal attacks I might encounter...

I dunno...maybe this whole fiasco with Matchstick Man isn't over yet, but I honestly hope that it is. Mostly because I've grown so terribly bored with him and all of his shit, which has long since ceased inciting any passion. Knowing him, he'll continue to flail in a last ditch effort to try and save face - but I hope for his sake that he bows out gracefully, rather than becoming a full-blown pariah after falling short putting me in my place...