The Over-Educated Nympho

Between the pool party yesterday and spending an hour and a half moonlighting at the pool just now, I have met a ton of new neighbors. Here is a quick run-down of all the new neighbors, some candidates (ie evaluated for fuckability), some just plain cool.

Mr. Fucking Fabulous
Fabulously gay. LOVE HIM. My new BFF. The social butterfly of the apartment complex. He was the second person I met here, and a week before I moved in. It was meant to be.

Big Dude
The guy who lives next to Sweet Cheeks. Very funny, very smart, very loud, and very big. He moved in during the week I was staying with Sweet Cheeks between the break-up and my move-in day. We peeked in his window when he was gone and the only things we could see inside were a single chair, a huge tv, and a bong.

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While checking my web stats I came across this:

Overeducated and Unhappy

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me. Three degrees and I suspect I’m not done–

I’ve done this. Many of us when we were adorable twelve-year olds have done this, passed along such a note to a beloved crush during math class:

Do you like me? Check one:
____yes!!!
____no

I wish it were still acceptable to do this in adulthood, because it would make things so much easier.

Actually, no, theoretically it would make things easier but in reality you would have to question and analyze to figure out if the note-receiver were lying or telling the truth. Did he say yes just to get in my pants, or did he say yes because he means yes, or did he say no just to make me try harder, or did he say no and mean no, the bastard?

And that’s why we need more boxes.

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At 9pm the pool party I threw ended (excellent: pool party that lasted past a Texas summer sun-down; very very bad: did not get laid. did not even get a goddamn smooch. NOTHING. crying on the inside).

I went back to my apartment after all the hot guys had helped me bring all the food, cooler, and supplies back upstairs. Twenty minutes later when I had eaten more and resumed some state resembling sobriety I took Queen Dog and Princess Dog downstairs to doo their doggy-stuff.

While I was outside in the courtyard I noticed that Apartment #5’s light was on for the first time in a week. With dog leashes in hand, I knocked on the door.

A beautiful twentysomething blonde chick answered the door.

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Guess what started yesterday? Bingo! That goddamn time of the month. In my quest for sex I had forgotten about all things icky, until yesterday morning.

Which means I am halting all attempts at sex. Not that there isn’t plenty of other stuff to do, but still. Sometimes a girl just needs a good pounding, you know?

So let’s examine the situation:

SBCd wanted sex + no period = no sex
Period = SBCd does not want sex => there will be sex (and ickiness)

Inevitably there will be sex, yeah right about this weekend for maximum gross potential. Because irony can be so bloody funny that way.

I’ve been breaking down my moving boxes tonight to save in the closet for when/wherever my next move may be.

There are so many boxes, enough to fill up half the living room in stacks as tall as me. I’ve moved so many times since the age of eighteen. Every time it has been a fun move, a welcome change, either into an apartment with cool roommates, or into my own beautiful apartment, or into a shared grown-up apartment with my ex-boyfriend, and now into something different than all the others.

While in college I knew I would be moving regularly, every year or two until I finished my degrees, which meant that I accumulated quite a collection of moving boxes. With each move I had more things and had to find more boxes for them.

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I have been called a slut four times in my life, the most recently today.

The first time was when I was a high school freshman and was still waiting for my first kiss (not for lack of trying) . I believe I was wearing a short skirt at the time. And it wasn’t even really that short.

The second time was by my so-called best friend my senior year of high school. Stats: I was with a serious boyfriend, the first and thus far only person I’d slept with. She had a new boyfriend every month and had already forgotten her number. Remarkably, I was the slut. If I recall correctly it’s because I told her how much I love to go down on my boyfriend. Yeah. SLUT.

The third time was also by a dear friend of mine a couple years ago while I was single and enjoying being single. Stats: I had been with a fair amount of people, but I still knew my number. She had had a new boyfriend every month since she started getting boyfriends at age twelve, and she had easily slept with three times as many people as I had. I think she called me a slut because I had gotten my clit pierced. And I was a CATHOLIC.

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Hot CoWorker is attending my pool party on Sunday afternoon. Or, rather, when we were talking yesterday he asked if I was having a housewarming party for my new apartment and I lied and said OH YES of course, this weekend actually! You should come!

The Pussy: hee heheheehehehehehheeee mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

And so as soon as I got back to my desk I picked up the phone and frantically called all my girlfriends begging them to clear their schedules for an emergency pool party Sunday afternoon that they were obligated to attend since it has been NEARLY A MONTH since I have gotten laid.

A month. Not good. At three weeks The Pussy gets mean. At four weeks The Pussy gets homicidal.

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The other day I got home from work, changed clothes, and took Queen Dog and Princess Dog out for a walk.

Now unbeknownst to me, the apartment complex I moved into is apparently the Melrose Place of Texas. It is a fucking singles Mecca.

HELLS YEAH.

Which means that taking the dogs out for a walk is sooo much more than just a walk. It took me a couple days to really grasp this.

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Anyone who is a devout fan of Sex and the City already knows what I�m referring to, although the term itself is pretty self-explanatory. The key to an SSB, your Secret Single Behavior, is that it is something you do indulgently and exclusively when alone because the presence of another person, especially a guy and extra-especially a boyfriend, ruins it because it makes you self-conscious about your utterly bizarre behavior.

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Saturday afternoon I met Sweet Cheeks and Blondie at the apartment pool. I had begged Blondie to call up her Ex and bring his friends over so we could finish what we had started last weekend, hopefully without the triple cock block this time, but she refused and said she needed a girls-only day. Hmph. Easy for her to say, she’s been getting laid.

And so I attempted to drown my poor frustrated cooch with a pitcher of homemade (read: strong) sangria and a full cooler of beer.

Which is why when a hot straight guy came to the pool I honed in on him with the stubborn devil-be-damned determination that only occurs with an aching pussy and inebriation.

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The hot Jamaican guy in apartment #31 is off my batting line-up. The other day I was walking past his apartment and I noticed there was a sign taped to the very top of the door. It read CAUTION: HOT.

Oh. my. god.

You don’t tape a goddamn sign advertising your hotness on your front door. Unless you’re the fat freshman kid in a college dorm. Except that would be funny.

I’m guessing that Jamaican Guy is the sort of guy who thinks of himself when he’s jerking off.

Yeah. He’s benched.