The Over-Educated Nympho

I tried the strap-on on again tonight.

Yeah. It’s still too funny to be sexy. WEEEE!! LOOK AT ME!! I HAVE A PENIS!!

–jumps up and down–

BOUNCY BOUNCY BOUNCY

–collapses in a fit of giggles–

Well shit, how the fuck am I ever supposed to use this thing (let alone hammer like a jack rabbit) when I can’t stop giggling at the absurdity of a rubber dick and ballsack protruding from my otherwise girly groin? –sniff sniff– Smell that? It’s rose petals and rainbows. Definitely girl groin. If you can look past the overwhelming smell of rubber cock.

They soooo did not cover this in sex ed. Fucking prep school.

BOUNCY BOUNCY BOUNCY!

Today on my way home from work I stopped at the grocery store. It wasn’t a full shopping-for-the-week grocery run, it was a milk/oreoes/yogurt run. In and out in twenty minutes for twenty bucks.

It was while I was standing in the check-out line that I noticed the woman in front was raising an eyebrow at me. At me, and my purchases. Whatever. She was the middle-aged matronly type, the sort whom I regularly and effortless offend for far worse reasons than my eating habits. In other words, I’m used to ignoring this sort of attention.

However when I turned around and saw the twentysomething guy behind me casting The Eyes of Judgment at my grocery cart, I began to feel self-conscious. Sure, all he had were orange juice, beer, and cereal, but he’s a guy. The grocery standards are different for single guys… it’s more like Congratulations! You’re eating something that doesn’t come from a drive-thru window! Here’s a gold star and a lime wedge for your Tecate!

For chicks, we supposedly know better. I mean, I do know better. But sometimes I just don’t give a fuck. Like tonight, for instance:

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All of a sudden a lot of people I know are getting engaged. To be –eep– married.

My friend Barbie has been engaged to Ken for a while now, so that’s not news. Then a couple weeks ago Sex Exec proposed to his long-term girlfriend. On Valentine’s Day, Handsome Twosome proposed to Pretty Twosome (awwwww!). Today, I received an email from Perfectly Normal Friend telling me she’s engaged (Congratulations I love you kiss kiss!!).

Now I want to make it clear that I am genuinely happy for every one of my dear friends. They are all wonderful people with equally wonderful significant others and I wish them all the very best. I just feel that I should tell you that I will be maintaining a twenty-foot distance from you from now on because I THINK ENGAGEMENT IS CONTAGIOUS.

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Years ago, right before I started dating (Ex)BF, I used to go to this one particular coffeeshop a lot. I went nearly every evening with my journal and a book. Almost every time I was there, so was this guy–a rather dashing tall dark and handsome guy, with a good sense of humor and a beautiful smile. Oh, and the arms. The toned arms that looked perfect for lifting me up against a bathroom wall and having his dirty way with me.

When we sat at neighboring tables (not that I EVER did that on purpose), we’d get to chatting. Neither one of us were bold enough to make a move, but it was obvious that we were into each other. Every time I saw him I’d vow to myself, THIS TIME you’re going to ask him out, THIS TIME you won’t chicken out, you know he likes you so just ask him already!… but I never did. He was too handsome, too cool, too nice–too intimidating.

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Lately I’ve been having more and more good days when I feel like I’m actually getting my act together. My day job doesn’t suck as much as it used to. I haven’t bounced a check in months. I’ve taken my dogs on a proper walk every day this week. I take vitamins (especially the chewable vitamin C ones, because they are orange-flavored yumminess). I’ve replaced my affection for cheap wine with a slightly safer coffee addiction. I don’t curse in front of my new boss. Perhaps I’m becoming a lovely young woman after all.

Or maybe I’m just kidding myself. Yeeeeah, I think that’s it.

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It’s a beautiful fucking day. Too pretty to stay inside the office for lunch. I came home at noon for the sole purpose of driving on the highway with the windows down, radio blasting, and feeling my mess of hair whipping around my face.

If anyone saw me peeling out of the parking lot at work, it would be no secret that I need to get the fuck away from there, which is nearly every damn day. I do it so regularly I’ve got it down pat–one hand rolling the window down, the other hand shaking my hair loose from its professional up-do and then twisting the radio dial to find the perfect SEE YA, CORPORATE MOTHAFUCKAS song, all while driving with my right knee.

It’s the days like today when I wish I lived further away from the office so I could enjoy the seventy mile-an-hour rush of freedom for just a little longer–especially now that I can experience the full effect properly with sunglasses (which came at a great but worthwhile cost).

–looks at clock– Twelve forty-five. Fuck. Time to go back to the Land of Professional Behavior. Fucking asswipes can suck my left one and choke on it.

–slips feet back into stiletto heels and takes final bite of cold lunch–

They may drag the cubicle monkey back to her desk, but they can’t keep me from escaping day after day. I’m only getting feistier.

–peels out of apartment parking lot to go back to office–

I had my Lasik surgery on Friday morning. Now that the smoke from my burning eyeballs has cleared, I can tell you all the shit that really goes down during Lasik that you won’t read on the official sites.

Before I explain in detail all the ways they bitchslap and manhandle your eyeballs that is surely similar to tactics the CIA uses during terrorist investigations, let me say IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT. In spite of knowing what I know now, I would do it again. Although I hope I don’t have to. The one time was really enough to hold me over for this lifetime.

Onward to the explanation of the bitchslapping of eyeballs:

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There are many fine things I love about being single. Having freaky sex with couples. Hogging the bed. Doing whatever I damn well please on a Saturday night (which rarely includes wearing eye-liner). Skinny-dipping in the middle of the night. Making out with an award-winning porn star. Wearing my favorite so-not-sexy underwear (but they’re my lucky underpants!). And I’m sure there are many other noteworthy things that I cannot recall right now simply because there are so many.

One of my favorite posts is What I Miss About Being Single, written nearly a year ago when I was still happily coupled and on the way to Happily –cough– Ever After.

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It’s the men’s complement to Valentine’s Day. Judging by the typical yada yada, women want flowers, chocolate, and to talk about feelings on February 14th. Well, men get what they want a month later on March 14th, which would be:

Steak and BJ Day.

I love men. Such simple needs. They don’t even try to hide the motive behind their holiday. You gotta respect that. Get down on your knees and respect that in the name of all things grilled, satisfying, and delicious.

The other day I received a surprise toy from Sex Exec of IntimateGifts.com, after I had told him I had another FMF threesome in the works. I tore open the box to find my very own strap-on! I squealed and did a little booty shake in the middle of my living room. A booty shake which may have included some pelvic thrusts.

As you may have guessed, I’ve always kinda fancied a strap-on. Not that I’ve ever used one. Not that I haven’t wanted to, but how the fuck do you tell someone, whether it’s a serious relationship or a fuck buddy or a one-night stand–”hey baby, you’re so hot I want to fuck you in the ass with a strap-on.” I mean, please. I’ve seen enough guys shirk away at the sight of a big pink dong lying on my shelf, let alone one that’s coming at them from a place that is only supposed to take it in, not dish it out.

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I woke up and I can see the world… at 85% clarity with lots of blinking. Already. Wow…. just.. WOW. You normal people live like this everyday?!

Ok, eye strain. I’m glad I can type without having to look at the keys. The doc said that tomorrow I should be okay to read, watch tv, and use the computer! Aw, the fine world of modern-day science. Once you can get over the weird sci-fi shit they do to your eyeballs (and they do it all, my eyeballs totally feel like they were bitch-slapped). But totally worth the thousands of dollars I barely scraped together and the occasional nightmare I may have about a blinking red light probing my eyeball and a deep voice telling me to STARE INTO THE LIGHT.

I’m going in for my Lasik surgery tomorrow morning. A friend is driving me there and back (the whole thing takes less than an hour, the procedure itself is only fifteen minutes) and then I’ll be enjoying the effects of Valium for the rest of the day.

Am I nervous? I wasn’t nervous until a coworker who recently had her eyes done told me to prepare myself for the smell of burning eyeball. Apparently it’s worse than the smell of burning flesh. (How does she know this?) Of all the details I’ve been told and read about online, this is the one that makes me squeamish. BURNING EYEBALLS?? EW EW EW EWWWW.

It’s difficult to know how my recovery will be. In other words, I may not be able to post all weekend. [Play in the Archives of my psyche if you miss me, kisses!]

I’m told that I’ll be able to drive myself to the post-op appointment on Saturday, but I should avoid reading, watching tv, and working on the computer. And no exercise or sweaty activities (ie no masturbating). I’m stumped. I have no idea what to do with all the free time, and my friends will only be able to tolerate me mimicking the sounds of the laser burning my corneas off for so long before they threaten me with a paring knife to the eyeball.

Addendum, 3am

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