The Over-Educated Nympho

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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