The Over-Educated Nympho

Last night I stayed in with Sweet Cheeks and Blondie because we were all tired as hell from long lousy weeks. We intended for it to be a girls’ night but Sweet Cheeks came home with a guy behind her.I was a little pissed. Well the poor bastard was just going to have to watch Sex and the City with us and suck it up.

I had my back to them when they came in because I was at Blondie’s laptop emailing some of my blog readers. When Sweet Cheeks introduced me to her friend (one of our neighbors) I barely acknowledged or noticed him (just enough to think he was cute but not hot enough to make me forget I was mad that he was invading girls night).

Eventually we all settled in on the couches and put on Sex and the City and passed around wine.

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Wow. Not only did my blog win an award in the “Best of” issue of the Houston Press, but it got written up on Best o’ tha Blogs at HouStoned, the blog of Houston Press (which is funny as fuck by the way).

And I got some impressive coverage in the post, including two long excerpts from recent posts. One is taken from my favorite category sober as an SOB from the other night when I got shloshed on bubbly with my friends because we were celebrating my imminent success (sex-cess? YEAH BABY) as a blogger.

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It looks like the iKegelPro was only the first of many good things to cum here on OEN.

I may be getting a sex toy website as an advertiser as well. And their inventory is mighty promising. I’m a fan already.

Tuesday evening I have a phone conference with the company’s representative. Keep your kegels crossed for me.

Yippee, orgasms for everyone! For all my readers who can’t get their orgasms from me, they can at least get them through me. And I’ll get off on the commissions (quite literally because I’ll be using the cash to upgrade my own sex toy collection). It’s a win win. Orgasms all around.

I was beginning to think he was just being a tease. That he was using me until he found someone else, someone better. I thought it was over between us.

And I’m talking about work, of course.

After barely a word for weeks Hopeful Future New Boss talked to me yesterday about working on another account for him. I knew it was a pivotal moment in our relationship, and I had to do everything in my power to woo him.

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I am a HUGE fan of the clit piercing. I got mine for my twenty-first birthday years ago. Best present to myself EVER.

Half the sex appeal of the clit ring is that it’s a nice surprise the first time I’m with a guy. (Yes it is incredibly difficult keeping such a fun secret to myself, but it’s got satisfying pay-off later on.) Think about it: on the outside I’m a nice well-polished young woman, suitable for taking home to meet the parents. Then take my clothes off and there’s tattoos and piercings galore. Well not really galore, I don’t have a trashy number of body art–just enough to make my attitude clear.

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Less than two months ago I was delighted to break 200 as my record for number of visitors in one day. Today, the day I won “Best R-Rated Blog” in The Houston Press, I hit 350.

Sure, on any given day about 40% of my visitors find me through random google searches for “nympho bitches,” “pussy juice marking territory,” “bumpy itchy ass,” “so many bitches too little time dog shirt glamour dog” (#2 and 3 google), “I have a sex pookie,” “see ma nekkid,” and my favorite: “creative middle finger.” Yes, every single one of these is a search by which someone found and clicked on my site. (perverts, man, perverts everywhere*) But a couple must stick around because my daily visitors have steadily increased over the last year, so I dont care how people find me as long as they (ie the cool ones who aren’t staring at me through my fourth-floor window as we speak) stick around.

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There are many terms I use regularly in my blog, often words found on urbandictionary.com when I then bastardize for my own selfish purposes, not that that doesn’t mean they aren’t poignant or fitting or funny. Last night I got into a discussion with my girl posse about the fine nuances between say, a douchebag and a fuckwit, or an asshole and a plain ol’ bastard. So here you go: OEN’s definitions. Hopefully you don’t need to use them as much as I do, but if you do I hope they fill your heart with delight and your mouth with spite.

Asshole
Worse than a bastard and a jackass but still not quite a “cocksuckingsonumabiatch.” Although straight to the point, this insult is a bit generic. Life is dull enough as it is, why not add some color? I prefer to call someone a “chickenshit peckerhead” because I am confident that he will remember I called him such a thing. If you piss me off then goddamnit I want you to remember it.

Bastard
The first level of insults. Only slightly removed from the Circle of Trust. Redemption possible although unlikely.

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I rang the doorbell at Sweetie Pie and Trouble-Maker’s apartment tonight with a bottle of champagne in one hand and several grocery bags in the other.

“IT CAME OUT TODAY!!!!! THE HOUSTON PRESS AWARD FOR MY BLOG!!!!”

“Wow, who gave you the flowers?!” Trouble-Maker asked, eyeing the large bouquet sticking out of a grocery bag.

“ME MYSELF AND I GAVE ME THE FLOWERS BECAUSE THE THING ABOUT MY BLOG CAME OUT! WANT CHAMPAGNE???””

I admit it. I’ve been harboring a secret. I knew before today that my blog had been voted “Best Local R-Rated Blog,” but it’s so much more fun to see it in print and/or on screen. There’s always that chance that something wonderful will be ripped out of your grasp before you have a chance to enjoy it, so I didn’t want to jinx it until I saw it in front of me.

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Today on my lunch hour I went to the pharmacy to pick up this month’s birth control and anti-depressants. This time I had plenty of money so I was also getting the wine I so desperately wanted/needed last month and couldn’t afford. But for those of you who don’t know, you can’t buy wine at the pharmacy counter.

And you know why that is?

BECAUSE THE PHARMACIST WILL YELL AT YOU IF YOU DO.

“Uh uh, Ms. [OEN] you shouldn’t be getting that bottle of wine. You know better than that. You’re on anti-depressants.”

A million snarky things ran through my head (the one that nearly slipped out was “Oh no, it’s ok. I take my wine with a Xanax chaser”) but instead I took my prescriptions and walked away with my head lowered, pretending that she had successfully shamed me into returning the wine.

What-the-fuck-ever. I got another bottle on my way to the front counter. Wine helps me blog.

I just dropped a cracker down my shirt. At work. I automatically went digging for it until I realized that I am at my cubicle within plain sight of anyone and it would be inappropriate to dive down my shirt and between my boobs to pluck out the single cracker wedged between my bra and breastbone.

This isn’t funny in itself, it’s funny because this happens to me with surprising frequency. Fuck me, and now there are crumbs stuck inside the damn built-in shelf-bra of the camisole top I’m wearing underneath my button-up shirt. I’m going to be dropping crumbs for the rest of the day. I’ll leave a little trail every time I go to the break room to get more coffee. Maybe a cute little puppy will start eating my trail and following me. I like puppies.

The first night I was alone in my new single-girl apartment I popped open a bottle of my favorite cheap red wine (Gabbiano chianti) amd a fresh bag of Oreos.

The chianti was feeling extra smooth for being only six dollars. The Oreos have been a favorite comfort food of mine for as long as I can remember. Not for the creme filling, (double stuff? EW) but for the decadent texture change when submerged in milk and then popped whole into my eager mouth. (hint: extra delicious when dunked in a latte! beware the caffeine/sugar combination.) While living with Ex-BF I had practiced discipline with Oreos because occasionally I could see his eyes of judgment whenever I ate too many cookies. On these rare occasions he made me feel very self-conscious and it ruined the childish fun of being able to eat as many oreos as I damn well pleased whenever Mom was out of town and Dad took care of us for the weekend.

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