The Over-Educated Nympho

I have thoroughly, completely, undeniably won over BF’s entire family.

The sister was the easiest–I told her she was pretty (ohmygod, unfairly pretty, she’s so fucking gorgeous I want to kick her teeth in just to give the rest of us a chance in hell) and had great taste in clothes (both true).

The mother was next easiest, but fairly easy anyway since I’m not a vegetarian like BF’s previous girlfriend. I just inhaled a few slices of bacon the first day there and all was well. Not like that was any sort of sacrifice or anything. But the ex-girlfriend had really weird rules for when she would and would not eat meat… apparently poor Mum got confused and thought chicken was ok and promptly spent an hour cooking a chicken dinner, only to have the Evil Ex say “oh, didn’t BF tell you? I don’t eat meat off the bone.” Yeah, Mum’s eyes lit up before I even finished chewing my first slice of bacon. Mum herself just about asked me to marry BF when I started swiping the bacon from BF’s plate.

The younger brother was fairly easy. I have breasts.

Ditto the brother-in-law. Although today during a candid conversation he revealed to me that I’m much much nicer than Evil Ex and it’s so nice for BF not to bring home a bitch that everyone has to pretend to like. I was touched. Then we split a plate of bacon and a package of gummy bears.

The father, not so easy, apparently he’s one of those distant-father types who had no idea how many children he had let alone when their birthdays were. He’s better now, but still detached. Yesterday I asked BF how I was doing with Distant Dad, concerned that I had to up my game to win him over by the vacation’s end. BF asked if Distant Dad had asked me any questions about anything. I said yes. BF said if he’s talked to me at all, he likes me. Hmm. I wasn’t entirely convinced until this evening when Distant Dad actually laughed at me when I held up BF with the electronic pepper grinder.

The hardest member of the family to win over was the dog. A huge fucking beast weighing well over a hundred pounds or kilos or whatthefuckever, a fucking huge motherfucker of a dog who bites to kill. It takes people multiple controlled meetings and lots of food offerings to win over Mean Motherfucker Mutt. On the first day he growled at me and I growled back and all the family members said Whoa, take it easy OEN, he’ll bite… I just talked sweet to him and gave him some bread and told him how fucking cute he was even though he was clearly one mean motherfucker.

The second time I went up to Mean Mutt, he growled and barked until he recognized me in the dark, then just kinda sniffed and licked his ass.

Today I went up to him for the third time and with no prompting on my part, Mean Mutt sat, shook, and then went down on his back and anxiously awaited me to rub his belly. The mouths on Distant Dad and Brother-in-law instantly dropped. I rubbed Mean Mutt’s belly with great smugness over winning over the entirety of BF’s family in less than one week.

At long last, after hours of traveling, several glasses of wine on the airplane, and a few sleeping pills later, I’m here (VIA DIAL-UP, just how backwards is this country?!). I’ve met and already won over all of my boyfriend’s family, so I can sit back and take it easy for the rest of the two-week vacation. My charm works quickly.

Now I’m at my boyfriend’s house waiting for dinner (I think it’s in the middle of the night Texas time right now, so no wonder my hunger cravings are totally off (who am I kidding, I can eat a shitload at any given time of the day), and I think the pointedness of my usual wit is entirely absent. Or maybe it’s the weird foreign beer forced into my hand to ease the pain of waiting for the internet to load. I just don’t feel witty or clever. But perhaps that’s just because I used up all my charisma in the previous day winning over all the appropriate family members with pre-conceived compliments on relevant topics (ie the sister loves fixing up her house, decorating, etc, so I told her what a great job she did fixing up BF with teaching him about important man-grooming habits and how to accessorize)).

But now I’m damn tired, and I’m going to go enjoy my foreign beer now and hopefully I won’t slip and tell BF’s younger brother how hot he is and is he up for a threesome?

Mom just called. Phew, she’s in a good mood. Thank holy fucking god, mama’s in a good mood. She was calling to ask if she should get ice cream while she’s at the store (duh, mother, YES). I’m so relieved she’s in a good mood. Mom can be absolutely hysterical is she’s in a good mood and/or drunk. I’m incredibly relieved. So we’ll actually have fun tonight and there won’t be any passive-aggressive snarking going on.

But here’s the good stuff from the phone conversation:

Mom: Did you see Dr. Phil yesterday?
Me: No.
Mom: Well luckily I have it on TiVo, so we’ll watch it when you get here. It was really good.
Me: Why?
Mom: He talked about the real reason you may be depressed.
Me: Oh goodie…
Mom: So it’s another genetic disorder you got from me
Me: Well, shit. You know mom, the intelligence isn’t compensating any more. Now you’re just in the red.
Mom: What? The depression isn’t THAT bad.
Me: I was talking about my bad knee, that huge operation six years ago that wasted a whole summer? That surgery with all the pins and things on my x-ray?….
Mom: Oh shit, I forgot about that. Well now I feel bad! It’s my fault, those are all my bad genes!
Me: Mom, it’s ok, really, I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad
Mom: I know, but you got all those bad genes from me! The bad knee, the depression, and now this… and your intelligence isn’t making up for it any more, is it?
Me: No, I think you max-ed that out with the knee surgery
Mom: well shit. Ice cream?
Me: Ice cream helps
Mom: So Dr. Phil. I’m going to go buy a book he recommended on this.
Me: Will you spare me the suspense and just tell me what’s wrong with me now?
Mom: Undiagnosed A.D.D.
Me: Hmm. BF does accuse me of that all the time. I just tell him he’s too boring to keep my attention, but it could be ADD.
Mom: I think it is. Your father accuses me of it all the time.
Me: I know, so have I. So we have it?
Mom: yes, apparently the two key symptoms of undiagnosed ADD in women is anxiety and depression, both of which you have, and the anxiety is especially bizarre because you’re not in school and you’re not working and you’re still just as stressed out as always.
Me: Hmm, that’s true… ADD isn’t really out there as a possibility… and we do have bad genes
Mom: I’m so sorry about more bad genes honey. They’re all my bad genes.
Me: But Dad gave me the creepy toenails.
Mom: Ew, you DO have weird toenails.
Me: Very weird. So you and Dad are even. Although it still doesn’t make up for all the damn pills I have to take.
Mom: What if I let you eat ice cream for dinner?
Me: And strawberry daiquiris?
Mom: Would that make you feel better?
Me: Absolutely. But BLUE BELL, Ma, none of that generic ice cream crap.
Mom: Sure sweetie. I’ll see you in a few hours.
Me: Ice cream and Dr. Phil, it’s a date. Bye Mom

Aren’t we sweet? Oddly enough, yet another genetic dysfunction makes me feel closer to my mother. Awwww.

I am so not freaking out I am so not freaking out motherfucker I am so fucking freaking out arggghhhhhhhhh

I was supposed to leave for my mother’s an hour and a half ago. I was supposed to get there early so Mom and I could spend the evening doing quality mother-daughter bonding, ie eating ice cream, watching trash on TiVo, drinking margaritas, and talking about how girls are smarter than boys.

WHY HAVEN’T I LEFT YET?? WHY HAVEN’T I EVEN FUCKING FINISHED PACKING YET??????? ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Thank goodness BF isn’t here. I dropped him off at the airport last night. His office paid for him to go so we ended uptakin g different flights.

Why oh why oh why did I have to get drunk last night instead of doing all the things I was supposed to be doing? argggghhhhh And now I’m all over-caffeinated to the point of being useless (but I’m being useless really really FAST) and I still haven’t packed and I still haven’t even called Mom to tell her I haven’t left yet. crap crap crap. I so suck at being an adult. Yesterday I got a strange-looking letter from my bank, and I flipped out because I was so sure it was going to be a letter saying “So sorry ma’am, but clearly you are not responsible enough for you to have anything in your own name. It’s a good thing you’re on the marriage track, because otherwise you would have to spend the rest of your life paying bills in one dollar bills reeking of the cheap beer that cheap men spilled all over you and your cheap sparkley tassles last night.”

I so suck. And for some reason my dog is trying to have a staring contest with me. Fuck. She’s giving me a LOOK, man! She’s looking at me like I’m irresponsible! STOP IT!! I SAID STOP IT, DOG, OR SANTA IS NEVER BRINGING YOU SCOOBY SNACKS AGAIN, YOU HEAR ME??

fuck. sdfusdlfjskljsdfckckck. why’d I getmyself runk on cheap wine that BF woudlnt’ drink? ?? I’m so lame. and have to PACK!!!! lbldododoyy hell. fuck.fa vorite workd!! FUCK FUCK FUCK. hee heee I can spell thaatttt! shit. where. ist ljist of list of things to pack? donshti not one on computer, that wone funny and kil shit on it not serious list., real list has camera cable adn visa and tersponsible things on it. shit. list?? list? where are youuuuuuuuuuuuuu? I lost me tlist???doh!!! mmm. shleepy. dog? doggy? can you paack for meee? plasehee?I let you pack ccc thes seScccooob ysnakcs, yum yum wwoof oof. shit. fuck. fuckcjcuffkckkkk. oof. tumlbleed over.

I bought a lottery ticket today.

I’ve bought maybe eight tickets in my entire life, all of which were within two months of turning eighteen, just because I could.

I had nine dollars in my purse, why did I decide to devote three of them to my one in 23,455,240 chance of winning the $27 million lottery? Like, what the fuck?

But sitting in the car in the parking lot, neatly tucking away the Texas Lottery ticket inside my purse, I felt a small rush of hope. What if I actually won? What would I do with all that money, which would still be huge even if after Uncle Fucking Sam took half of it away?

I’ve never been the lottery-ticket buying, palm-reading, horoscope-believing, don’t-step-on-a-crack-or-you’ll-break-your-mother’s-back sort of girl. If I see a huge fake spider, I don’t scream and jump. I pick it up and dispose of it immediately (ie tuck it away in my purse to save for an otherwise boring day) and smack the shit out of the person who tried to trick me. I’m not into that sort of shit. I don’t get my hopes up over stuff easily. Or, really, ever.

Maybe I was still high on the Happy Vibes from seeing Dr Xanax earlier this afternoon. The man made me laugh, made me cry, made me mad, and made me coffee, all in one short $175 forty-five minute session. Can you believe this shit, I’m only twenty-five years old and already I’m in therapy crying over what my mother did to me when I was a child. Christ. Boo hoo, it’s not like she was a bad mother or anything. Dr Xanax himself pointed out I make her sound like the most awful woman in existence and he bets she’s actually a perfectly lovely person. Well, yeah, but so what? I still have issues.

The lottery ticket. It was worth the precious three dollars on them to feel that moment of hope, of What if it happens? It was a really really nice feeling. If I won the lottery, my parents wouldn’t have to work any more. I could pay for my brother’s college tuition. I could buy Mom that new car she’s been needing for years. I could buy Dad that Corvette he’s wanted and deserved and drooled over for as long as I can remember.

I could pay my parents the roughly $250,000 they spent on my private education in 12 years of prep school and then university. And the wouldn’t have to pay for my new therapy sessions either. I could happily see Dr Xanax as often as I wanted, without worrying about the price tag of my smile when I drive the twenty minutes home, road-rage-free, an apocalyptic event. But what the fuck? If I’m so fucking smart, shouldn’t I be like coming up with new psychiatric theories and shit? Hmm. I’m definitely underachieving. And mildly intoxicated too. –giggle–

Let’s just make a little guess of what today’s therapy session was about. That’s right, GUILT. Guilt for my parents spending so much of their very hard-earned money on sending me to school, only to find my over-educated ass frozen in fear after completing my dream. But that topic depresses me and I have wine so let’s go back to happy thoughts of what to do with millions of dollars.

Mainly the big thing would be that I would buy my own shit. I’m sick and embarassed of not being able to take care of myself.

shit, ok, trying again. happy thought.s

MY OWN TV. I’m sick of BF comp;laining about me Bogarting the TiVo remote. Hek’s the one who wanted it. Why are his panties in a knot?

doh. shit. happy thoughts. MOREWINE!!!

if won lottery… hmm. I’d stop buying all my books used. whoa. what a luxkryk. shit. too mcuh wine? ! I STILL HAVE TO PACK. bloddy hell. am.sd ld. wish were ;bridget jones. she’s funnfy when she drinks. bloddy hell. stil lhav eot pack for trip. fuck. cold there. rbing coat and panties and books and what else need??? mm. grrrrrr goes the OEN. woof. bark. EAT.

This evening while I was out running errands, I saw a hot strawberry-blonde guy jogging without a shirt on. Thank goodness I was at a red light, otherwise I would have slowed from forty to ten and run over a dog or two. He was thick. Solid. Broad shoulders. Nice skin. Toned delts. I wanted to just reach over from my green Tahoe and give him a little >squeeze< right on his cute grab-able ass. MMPHHH. Hoo yeah.

I gazed adoringly from my spot at the red light, watching each muscle in his firm back move with each step, and it was only out of the corner of my eye that I noticed the light change. As I accelerated slowly past the hot guy, I tapped my horn twice to catch his attention. He turned just in time to see me do the utterly-feminine finger-wave as I drove off.

Let me just say again: mmph. I would so hit that ass.

Purpose of above story: (besides replaying the scene over and over, but with different outfits on the guy and me having automatic windows so I could have shouted something lewd and disgusting as well) women are crude. I mean it, we can be fucking crude and vile and downright crass.

This may be quite a surprise to some of our men in the audience. And those of our women readers who are fluttering your hands delicately and saying "Oh no, not me, I'm a LADY. I have CLASS."

Shut up. I've seen you gyrating up on bars at bachelorette parties. I've gotten you drunk and heard you say disgusting things to men that made them blush. I've seen your eyes linger over my copies of Playgirl while your lips were saying "Eww that's so gross, stop objectifying men!"

I know you're faking.

All women can be pigs.

It's not just the male of the species wallowing in his own filth over there with the other male-pigs, getting in fights over posters of Eva Longoria and Jessica Biel. It's not just the men who lower their car windows and hoot obscenities. It's not just men who get retarded when they see a set of boobies jiggling in the foreground. Women have Brad Pitt (um, the movie Troy, anyone? my clit still hasn't healed from all the action), Matthew McCaugheneheheyehey, David Beckham, automatic windows, screensavers, desktop backgrounds, camera phones (to take photos of hunky sweating bodies of construction men (HAHA, we sexually objectify them right back! (but only if they're hot, duh, feminism isn't blind for fuckssake))), so allow me to say it again: all women can be pigs.

Now please keep in mind that I am in no way saying women being pigs is a bad thing. Not at all. Women, I beseech you to let loose your inner pig. Roll down that window and tell the delivery guy to bring you a NICE BIG PACKAGE. Post that hot srum-diddily-umptous photo of Jude Law on your computer. Grab that guy's ass in the bar. If you're smooth, grab it in Starbuck's. Let me tell you why it's ok for women to be pigs--

men secretly love it. They love being treated like sex objects. They love hearing a woman cat-calling him to BACK IT UP AGAIN, HONEY PIE, they love knowing we want to see them UH HUH BABY, YOU GO AS SLOW AS YOU WANT WITH THAT LAWN MOWER, MAMA DON'T MIND. Men love it when women act like pigs. I'm not shitting you.

More and more men (gotta love the homosexual influence) are spending more time in the bathroom, the gym, Abercrombie & Fitch, the salons, grooming and attiring themselves into respectable beings that show little resemblence to their actual pig natures. That is hot stuff. I love my metrosexual man with all my heart, and I express it daily by grabbing his ass every single time it's within grabbing range. When he walks into the bedroom naked after a shower, I try to blow a whistle and get spittle all over myself. When he takes off his shirt at the end of the work day, I try to pull down his underwear too. "Heeyyy there hot stuff, let's celebrate the end of the day with some NEKKID TIME!" Our men need to see some appreciation.

Now granted, every once in a while, a guy's bound to get a little sniffy and pissy and push your hands away from his crotch and say, "goddamnit, I'm not just a piece of meat."

I know, sweetie. You're a nice piece of ass, too, NOW TAKE OFF THOSE PANTS.

1. When crossing the street, point at slutty girl standing on opposite corner, proclaim “That bitch! SHE TOOK MY CORNER” and proceed to beat her STD-ridden ass into the gutter where she belongs. Your date will leave because no man wants a girl who can’t keep bitches off her own corner.
2. Have friend call cell phone at pre-agreed upon time. Answer “What?? There’s an emergency with Pappy the hamster?! I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!” and run out door crying.
3. Clutch left arm, grab heart, gasp uncontrollably, fall out of chair, and shout “HEART… HEART ATTACK!” when concerned date comes to your aid, start giggling and proudly proclaim “LOOKS LIKE MY LOVE FOR YOU IS TOO MUCH FOR MY HEART TO TAKE!!” and date will leave of his own accord over your bad and sick sense of humor
4. “Accidentally” run into large guy. Start screaming at him that he should apologize for trampling on your twenty-dollar whore clear plastic shoes. Grab date and demand that he defend your honor. When he doesn’t, start pounding date with your huge purse full of silverware swiped from restaurant. That’ll teach him to respect a lady.
5. As soon as he asks how are you, start crying with great heaving sobs and wail “he said he looooooooved meee!” and if he’s one of those Mr. Sensitive types who don’t scare off easily, blow your nose on his sleeve.
6. Show up dressed in a wedding gown. Fling yourself at date, happily saying “I could just tell from the moment we spoke that you were The One! Mama and Daddy are waiting in the car to meet you!”
7. If date has been making lustful eyes at you throughout the date, roll your eyes, throw him a wrinkled twenty dollar bill, and tell him “Here you go buddy, the blowjob’s on me tonight” and walk out.
8. As soon as you see date, look him up and down, groan, and tell him, “I’m sorry, but there’s been some sort of mistake. Our friend must have gotten confused–I’m not a lesbian. I don’t date women.” When date replies that he is not a woman, respond “Sweetie, take the hint. I only date manly men.”
9. Be very very quiet all evening. When date asks what’s wrong, take your steak knife and plunge it repeatedly into your palm while screaming “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CAT STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CAT YOU FREAK I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE”
10. Shortly into date, lean over and ask him “Look, I’m just on this date for the sex. I need to know upfront if you’re cool with strap-on’s, because otherwise there’s this hot dyke over by the pool table I want to go home with.”

passport
airplane snacks
socks
underwear
lingerie (no work = lots of play!!!!!!)
condoms
vibrators
handcuffs
BF’s birthday presents
pill supply: anti-depressants, Xanax, vitamins, birth control, tylenol
coat (yippee, it’s gonna be COLD there!!)
lots of books (calculate 1/two days for 16 days = 8 books, + one anthology for the two 14-hr flights = 9 books)
last months worth of New Yorkers
dictionary (yessss I’m a nerd, we’ve been over this)

hmmm…. why do I feel like I’m forgetting stuff? well, at least I’ve got the important items like condoms

Sorry. I have nothing remotely interesting to say relating to whorehouses. That snappy little title just came to me and I thought it would be funny so here it is. Besides, it’s not like there’s already enough porno words on my website that every fucking perv on the planet comes across my blog. So here we are. Another great word for the search engines. Whorehouse. Aw, hell, let’s throw in some wet pussy, hard cock, pedophiles, and naked leprachaun wrestling while I’m at it. Look at the pervs flocking from google, msn, aol, everywhere! Thanks for stopping by, perverts, now GET THE FUCK OUT BEFORE I BEAT YO’ SORRY ASS WITH MY BASEBALL BAT.

That’s right kiddos, I’m heading off to [BF’s Motherland] in just a few days. I’m leaving Saturday morning and will be gone until Sunday the 5th. Whoooooa, that’s so far away… And I’m going to be spending all that time with BF’s FAMILY. shit. what the fuck was I thinking?! At least I’ll have the laptop over there, so I’ll be able to post regulary. But the thing is–they have DIAL-UP. That’s just how backwards this country is. Fucking dial-up. HOW CAN I BE EXPECTED TO WORK UNDER SUCH CONDITIONS??? I HAVE FANS WHO NEED THEIR DAILY DOSE OF PORNOGRAPHIC COMEDY!!!

My first boyfriend, the asshole boyfriend from high school, was very controlling. He actually told me what to wear. And–sigh, I’m so embarassed to admit this–I actually listened.

Asshole Boyfriend saw that at the age of fifteen, beginning to blossom, I had a few male admirers. Nevermind they were all of the uber-nerdy variety who tried to woo me with lines straight out of Hamlet, he was still worried. Not so much that he would lose me to one of my three unmentionable admirers, but that I would be skanky enough to run off and leave him devastated. I kid you not.

Asshole Boyfriend decided that he could curtail my sluttiness (please note: my sluttiness did not actually come out until the late age of twenty-one, so he was entirely pre-mature in his worries) by mandating the length of shorts and dresses that I wore. Essentially, if I did not look remotely attractive in it, I could wear it. Thus I began wearing knee-length shorts with pleats (–shuddering– I can’t believe I’m even admitting this… I only feel safe doing so because of the redeeming final paragraphs in which my fashion sense returns in full DIVA attire), long flowy bohemian dresses (ie not remotely form-fitting… I could have hidden a fucking watermelon under there), tops that were not too low-cut (although at the time, who’d really want to look at my sad little A cups?), skin-revealing, or tight. Yeah, in essence, if I looked absolutely unfuckable, then it was acceptable to wear.

What the fuck was I thinking?

If I knew I wouldn’t be seeing Asshole Boyfriend that day, I’d be all “rebellious” and wear my normal clothes (which were only as slutty as your average mid-nineties adolescent attire was at the time). Occasionally he caught me, if he happened to be near the house and decided to stop by (a-hem, he lived on the other fucking side of town), in which case I’d get a thorough talking-to about how only skanks wore shorts as short as the ones I was wearing. Which would make my mother laugh, because hers were often no longer than mine.

Then there’s BF. He says all the things a nympho girl could ever want to hear. I’ll be trying on different outfits before we go out, and I’ll come out wearing one to ask him, “Is this shirt too tight? Are my nipples too visible?” and he’ll feign shock and say, “What, there’s no such thing! WEAR IT.”

My dream man.

I think I can best summarize BF’s attitude about my dress in a dream I had a couple months ago. I dreamed that we were out at a bar and this super hot black chick (I loooove black chicks… they’re so fucking badass, I totally wish I were one) walked by in a really tight short skirt, and I caught BF’s eyes following the skirt across the room. Then he turned to me and said “why don’t you wear more slutty things like that?” and I smacked him, insulted, and said “I wear PLENTY of slutty things all the time!”

Again: my dream man. Bringing out my not-so-hidden nympho in all her titty-shirt glory.

Although to this day hearing the word “skank” still sends daggers up my sphincter, because it reminds me of how spineless I was while dating Asshole Boyfriend. But I use him as a reminder of where I’ve come from on my journey to being the badass YOU WANNA FUCK WITH ME chick I am now. Is it really any wonder I feel such joy every time I pull on a short skirt, remembering the freedom I once relented to a stupid boy? This all in addition to the fact that I’m very proud of my Texan via German heritage that bestowed upon me legs built like fucking tanks that can drop-kick an asshole into Oklahoma and still sprint 100 yards in stilettos.