The Over-Educated Nympho

‘Tis the final day of 2006. Time to sit back and reflect on the past events or some shit like that.

Time to recycle all those wine bottles, delete all the dumbasses from your cell phone, throw out the Christmas tree, and make room for a fresh year’s worth of emotional baggage.

I’ve never been that into the whole idea of “a new year, a new start,” but I’m beginning to feel differently this time around. I need a fresh start. It’s been one helluva jam-packed motherfuckin’ long year. I’m fucking tired, man, so I’m all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I eagerly await 2007.

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Last night after clearing out all the fuckwittage on my cell phone, it was time to move on to taking down the Christmas tree. Under normal circumstances this would not go under “emotional baggage,” but in hindsight I wonder if it would have been a better idea not to have had a tree at all.

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Tomorrow is the last day of 2006. That means it’s time to throw out all the crap I don’t want to drag with me into a new year.

I started by going through all the numbers saved in my cell phone and deleting all the ones I am better off without.

Neighbor Guy 555-1234 is on the screen. DELETE! giggle.
Nice Guy #2 555-2345. DELETE!!
The Man 555-3456. DELETE, YO!!!
The Guy Who Was Not Worthy of a Moniker 555-4567. DELETE!!!! STAY IN THE MARINES.
Dumbass* 555-5678. DELETE DELETE DELETE!!!!!

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After spending a great girly night with my friend Barbie, her fiance Ken called and said he was out at a bar with a bunch of his friends if we wanted to come by.

It wasn’t until we were in the car driving to the bar that I realized Handsome Nerd would probably be there. The guy I had the perfect first date with and then he bailed with some bullshit excuse, and I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to move on since then. I finally felt some closure a couple days ago, and so just when I thought I was in the clear—

FUCK. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

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Many readers have told me about some rockin’ songs that went straight onto my “sexy” playlist. Other readers have asked me for some good music for sex, so here is my list. It’s got a wide range depending on mood/pace and whether you like pop music or prefer to kick it old school. Some songs are better suited to getting you in the sexy mindset, others serve well as a background music while bumpin’ uglies.

Note: this is music for fucking, not for making love. That’s an entirely different playlist.

Add your favorite songs in the comments. This is a community of like-minded perverts after all.

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What exactly is “booty shake music”? I define it as any song you hear that instantly lifts your spirits and makes you want to shake your sweet thang. In other words, what fun music will so inspire me as to voluntarily make an ass of myself by doing a big ol’ round-the-world booty shake and giving myself the thumbs.

For a few precious minutes, it makes you forget your guy problems, work stress, money woes–all in the name of booty shakin’.

Some songs I included here because they are fun, light-hearted, have a good beat, and make me giggle. Oddly enough that mainly refers to the rap and hip-hop songs listed below.

Sorry guys, but this booty shake playlist is directed toward the “ladies” out there. I may think like a guy most of the time, but when it comes to dancing in my underwear, I’m all girl.

I’m sure there are many songs I have forgotten (forgive me, I have 30 mb of music and there’s no way I can go through it all), so please feel free to remind me of anything that belongs here.

There’s a wide range of stuff here, and I don’t care how lame some of them are I STAND BY MY CHOICES.

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Because I SUCK AT THEM.

Seriously. The sexy confident OEN you see here does not translate well to the bar scene. At all.

Ok, except for that ONE time I went home with two guys and rode them both for all they were worth. But how often does that happen?

Tonight I went to a bar to see a buddy of mine perform. He was wicked good and high as a kite. So he was half the reason I dragged my lame ass out of the comfort of my apartment.

The other half of the reason was I wanted to get laid. It’s been a couple weeks, The Pussy needs to be fed.

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Maybe it’s true that good things cum to those who wait.

I just got off the phone with the sex toy company. He whispered sweet somethings into my ear. My eyes got big. He whispered more sweet somethings, telling me all the things I wanted to hear. My eyes got big—and my panties got wet.

And we were only talking business.

Good things are coming, my beloveds. Very very good things. And this isn’t talk. This is the real fucking thing.

Hence the wet panties.

I just talked with my boys over at the sex toy company. They said my box of sex toys “got destroyed” somewhere in Kentucky or North Carolina.

Say what. I have NEVER heard of a package having “destroyed” listed on its tracking statement as its final destination.

I think the conservatives got wind of my big ol’ box of goodies and promptly went in hot pursuit of the unfortunate UPS truck carrying my nearly-illegal cargo (Texas law says possession of six sex toys is illegal… there were only five in the box, but apparently that was close enough to have a mass of Kentuckyians go on a mad vibrator hunt.)

So I am very sad.

Let’s take a moment to lower our heads in honor of the fallen rabbit- and butterfly-shaped sex toys.

May they rest in peace. Or may they be used by a very feisty jack rabbit in the wild who comes across the big pink $90 vibrator laying on the side of the highway.

On Christmas Eve my family attended midnight mass (we’re night people. we like to get it all out of the way the night before so we can sleep late Christmas Day before leaving for my grandmother’s, which requires all necessary energy and reserves to keep my big trap shut).

We got there twenty minutes early to make sure we got good seats. For what? So we can sit close enough to see the priest’s unusually large pores? Come on, it’s easier to people-watch from the back.

For the next twenty minutes I resigned to sit back in the pew and people-watch. There’s the under-twenty girls who get all dolled up like they’re going out to a fucking party, there’s the over-twenty girls like me who clearly don’t give a damn and don’t bother to wear make-up or even put on heels. The middle-aged parents who look too tired to stand up let alone take another hour with their adolescent children. Let’s not forget the teenage boys with unruly hair in desperate need of a haircut and someone to explain the “two spritz maximum” rule of wearing cologne.

One such youngster caught my eye. Tall and thin, dark hair in need of a trim, big nose, badly coordinated clothes. Every time my eyes took a pass to gaze at all the people walking in and out of my line of sight, they brought me back to this particular guy.

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Christmas today went—for the most part—fairly well. Quite a feat considering the sheer number of loud-mouths in my family.

Only three people asked me where “that foreign boy” was. Two of those three people didn’t know any better because they are very distant relatives who obviously did not make it onto my parents’ Christmas card list. If they had been they would have received a delightful year-end summary of my family, in which I was the final paragraph. The final line before “Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” said “Vix and BF are no longer together, but that’s okay because she has her two dogs to keep her company!”

Since when is a single twentysomething chick with two dogs the new crazy Cat Lady who uses words like “scrapbooking” as a verb?

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Christmas has Santa Claus, elves, the Grinch, Chevy Chase, Frosty the snowman, and scads of other cute little characters. Hanukkah has Adam Sandler, who counts for at least five personalities. Thanksgiving has the fine Thanksgiving Fairy who performs miracles. Where the fuck is a Festivus character? Festivus needs someone.

I give you Frank the Festivus Troll, as drawn for me by one of my favorite readers:

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