Uncle Joe

Here is what I don’t get.

Most of us have seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, right. Synopsis: Poor boy from poor family dreams of winning one of five golden tickets, where he would get a visit to a mysterious chocolate factory and a year's worth of chocolate (or was that a lifetime supply).

He works hard "throwing newspapers" to give money to his family. His mother washes clothes for the family, and here we have the four grandparents, sharing a bed, and not contributing at all.

Ol' Uncle Joe has been in bed for 20 years, apparently crippled. Then Charlie gets a winning ticket, asks Uncle Joe (his favorite) to go with him, and he gets out of the freakin' bed. Does this make any sense?

I wanted to write more, and about something else, this morning, but I am spent. Just don't compare me to a used condom (spent, belongs around a penis).

Funny: 3 Erotic: 0

So I have been blogging for about three weeks, and I look at my responses. I am surprised by a couple of things: (1) lots of women respond, (2) I get far more responses from funny pieces than other works, and (3) people actually read this drivel.

Henry Davis Thoreau (or whatever his name was, I tend not to look things up, it takes time and no one cares enough to check anyway) wrote his first novel “On Golden Pond”, had 2,000 copies printed, and could barely sell any of them. Even when they made it to a movie staring the father-daughter Fonda’s they couldn’t move the book off the shelves. Well, Mr. Thoreau learned from his haphazard writing, re-wrote his second book about a hundred times, and then came out with Walden. It sold millions, but he got two goats, some old cheese and pickled pig’s feet (warning: get a trusted publicist or this could happen to you – dying poor, with millions of high schooler’s cursing your soul). Crap, I am off base again. What I am trying to say is that people used to really work to have their product’s read. Now it takes an Internet connection (cost: $0 thanks to public libraries, and librarians are fighting for free access to porn as we speak) and a few minutes between porn sites. Editor’s note: porn is evil, and if it wasn’t worth tens of billions to the US economy, should be eliminated.

My main reason for blogging was for others to read my erotic fiction. But I look at what people respond to, and it is not erotic at all. It is me making fun of stuff. Quasi-comedy. Not real comedy – there are lots of funny “blogists” out there. Click onto some of my links and you will see them. Giggle-fest, hope you don’t pee in your panties kind of funny.

I guess the quick notes are easier to digest. They are certainly easier to write. Sort of like a quickie. Once you get over the fact that your man basically just wants to shoot his load into his favorite sperm receptacle once in a while. Not that he doesn’t love the other stuff, but “lift the dress, fill the hole, zip up the pants” is sometimes all that is necessary. And as long as you understand that, it makes the quickies easier to understand. Same thing about these posts – just a quick note, and that’s okay. I love writing the stories – they are like marathon love-making sessions. These are the quickies of the blog post to me.

I’ll bend over if folks want that every once in a while.

Supply and Demand

When I started in college, my first major was “undecided.” I could have declared a different major, but why beat around the bush. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Anyway, part of being undecided is that you have to take courses based on what you think you would be interested in. So my freshman year, other than the “generic subject (English, math, history), I took a business class.

This class introduced me to the term “M.R.S. degree.” Many of the women in the class were just trying to catch a husband. I had heard about this, but I thought it was part of the men’s distorted world (along with real men don’t eat quiche). Anyway, I endured the class, and afterwards, I thought to myself: (1) why hook up with someone who has this boring of a work life (unless the bedroom diversions make up for it), and (2) unless the US gets overthrown by communists, I will never take a business class again.

So my subject this morning is a stretch for me, because I learned with is that freshman business intro class. I am going to talk about “supply and demand.” And if I screw something up, don’t tell me. I’m not blond so I am a little sensitive to my inadequacies. Basically it works this way – when demand outstrips supply, prices increase. When supply is abundant, then prices are forced lower. And I am not just talking about true supply and demand – but also perceived supply and demand (check out gas prices and you can see that perceived supply (or scarcity) can drive up prices on its own).

Now I don’t want to talk about oil, guns or butter today. I want to talk about nookie. What else, one may say. To that, I again say “Back off.” I am a good Catholic girl. For centuries, men perceived nookie as being in tight supply (hey, funny remark unintended; tight nookie – the blog is practically writing itself this morning). And a big “thank you” to the Church – I like that rule about no sex until marriage. Again, driving down the perceived supply. Less nookie, then nookie is more valuable. And that’s what I am talking about. Bracelets, necklaces, rings. Hardware. I am not talking about “dinner and a show.” Prostitution has been illegal in most western societies, but with a nod and a wink, we all know that free nookie has also been a commodity.

Problem is, girls (women) are giving it away now. And it starts young. I have heard stories about “friends with benefits,” and other than the good feeling, these girls get nothing. In previous ages, we are talking about sparkly gifts. Cha-ching. Now the market is being flooded with free nookie, and women are getting screwed. Another pun, but seriously, if you want to hold out for more than a pop tart, the guy goes to the next woman. Heck, she might pay for dinner and still put out.

All this “Women’s lib” crap has been really bad for women. I mean, we could already vote, our wages as compared with men’s wages has not really increased, and now, women are giving away the one thing men want! Nookie. We have lost our freekin’ power. And we don’t even notice.

I am not saying “no sex until marriage.” Just don’t talk about it. Let men think that there is a pussy scarcity. That is all I ask. Heck, maybe we should blame these sucky economics classes. They are so boring, and women are either not taking them, they are really looking to catch a man and don’t listen to the lectures, or they are not applying the subject. I don’t know which to believe. All I know is that my puss has been devalued by not only my peers, but by the younger generation that will put out for a cheese burger. Yikes.

Good girls don't do math

I have been thinking a lot about the difference between men and women lately. Between boys and girls. I remember in grade school that "girls are good at English, boys are good at math and science." And there was sex discrimination on both sides of the equation. I mean, just because I have a vagina, does that mean I will be good at English. My vagina is not writing the essays (and now guys are envisioning a vagina with a pen sticking out from it; sorry for that image). And similarly, just because I have a figure, does that mean I can't figure (e.g., do math). Granted, I did not really get a figure until seventh grade, but still. Guys sort of got the short end of the stick on this one – English always seemed so subjective with essays and all. Math – either you got the right answer or you didn't.

And getting a "C" in a math or science class was okay if you were a girl. A boy – holy crap, get the parents in here or put them in the "dumb-dumb" class. And if a boy did well in English – he either was gay or a sissy. I can remember guys high-fiving over Cs and Ds in English.

I have heard that for years, girls have been catching up in school. Well, not girls (and women) have leap-frogged the guys. More women are in college, get degrees, and still get 78 cents for every dollar men make. Crap, what did I just write? Women are succeeding more than ever but not getting paid for it.

Random thoughts for a random Monday. Hope Hurricane Rita didn't bite you on your arse!

Wash your weenie

I heard on the radio the other day that women wash their hands more often than men (in public places). Lots of print stories on this – check out USA Today here.

All I have to say is: "Big shocker to me." Sheeessssss. This report is courtesy of the "American Society of Microbiology". My first thought is that people in the "American Society of Microbiology" don't sound like hand-washers to me, but it turns out these folks was their hands all of the time. With OCD, this is an occupation I would love. But you have to wear un-cool clothes, the labs are smelly, and – yeah, you have to go to school forever and then make what normal college graduates make (without an additional 5-7 years and $100 grand that you owe Sally Mae).

Back to the hand washing. So, if you have read any of my posts, you might think this Leesa chick has "slut-like" tendencies. Well, back-off, bucko. Just because I spent the better part of my college and some of my married life on my back, doesn't make me a slut.

Here is what I want to say. After all of these trysts (love that word, makes it sound so sophisticated), I got to see a lot of men pee afterwards. And not one of them ever dabbed the tip of their penis with toilet tissue. Why the hell not? You know there are a couple of drops of urine that you did not shake off, and now you are going to just leave it there. And I gave you a BJ, and you had a bit of dried urine on the tip. Thank goodness the saltiness killed the taste.

The research they performed was in public restrooms. I can say my own research shows that men wash their hands. But I was watching, and I think that influenced some/most of them. How could I tell? Sometimes they looked awkward washing their hands – you know, soap squirting out from between their hands. But heck, maybe it was the euphoria of the whole sexual experience.

I'm not sure a "wash your weenie" campaign would be very effective. I can see the PSAs – sultry woman speaking right into the camera, "Guys, I know you want a BJ, so before I pucker up, could you wash your weenie. Then pan out of the head shot and see her lips around a nice . . . . Well, it would have to be a cable PSA.

Summer Tan Lines Part II

The club was typical – very loud music, half of which I have heard of (from the radio), half of which was club music. We looked around for the guys and did not see them, so we started dancing together. Within one song, the guys appeared and we started dancing with the guys. I love attention, and dancing with two guys really strokes my ego. My little sis was having an even better time than me, she being a high-schooler dancing with two college men.

Within the hour, we were drenched. The Florida coast seems cooler than Savannah, but the constant dancing and warm night took its toll. We all went over to the bar, and I wanted water. Bartender frowned, and my next drink would be a beer. I know, lousy tips on water. I get that.

So we are shouting at each other, and no one can really hear. We were shouting/talking for about ten minutes when these two skanks showed up. They were already on their way to being drunk, they looked frightful, and fairly soon, the two non-descript men went off dancing with them. I know, they looked like easy ass.

Jeff and Jerry continued dancing with me and sis, and I danced mostly will Jeff. I don't think Jeff really wanted to dance with my little sis, and Jerry was being the gentleman, entertaining the under-aged girl. Sis was having a good time, and Jerry looked like he was enjoying himself as well. Still, to see the oldest in the group with the youngest, I had to laugh a little.

I was not wearing a watch (did not bring one on vacation), and finally remembered to ask Jeff what time it was: 9:50 p.m. Holy shit. I said I had to leave to bring sis back home, and I would return afterwards. I grabbed sis, and started out. As I left, Jerry came out with us (where we could actually hear him), and he said he would walk sis home. I thanked him for the offer, but said I had to walk her home, as I promised my parents.

So the three of us raced home, sort of raced because of the shoes and the sand. But you get the idea. The warm breeze felt so good, and in no time at all, our perspiration was disappearing. Normally men sweat and women perspire – I was sweating that evening. I walk sis to the door, and tell her I will be back in a couple of hours.

As we start walking back to the club, I thank Jerry for paying so much attention to my sis. And he said something that surprised me: he was actually looking at me all night long. Normally, I can tell, but I did not get that sense from Jerry. We continued to talk and our walking was slower, not only because we weren't racing against the curfew clock, but I knew once we got back to the club, we really couldn’t talk.

We had been talking about how much fun we had, and subconsciously or not, we were talking longer to get back to the club. Then we started to pass our drinking pit, and we both laughed. "Sophomoric," Jerry said.

"Hey, I just finished my sophomore year, Jerry!"

"Well, there are some things good about being sophomoric", Jerry retorted.

I took off my shoes and jumped into the pit. "Me and you, baby, we are sophomoric." I was talking about the whole in the sand. Jerry smiled and jumped into the pit afterwards.

Our eyes locked, and we kissed. We were two souls entangled in a wonderful kiss. My mind was drifting, and before I knew it, I was on my knees in the sand, unbuckling Jerry's belt.

It was dark on the beach; we were the only two around, and I desperately wanted to see this man's penis. I had never even kissed a black man, and here I was getting ready to give him a blow job. I was envisioning a 21 inch penis, and although his penis was the largest I had ever seen, it was not that much longer or thicker than other men's. And it was lighter than his other skin, almost dark reddish purple in color. It was absolutely beautiful, and it reminded me of a jewel color – maybe that's where we get "the family jewels". I don’t know.

After examining and touching his penis for a while (while I was really just looking at his penis), I pulled my hair back and started to lightly touch his penis with my tongue. I wanted to smell his privates, and they did not have much of a smell at all. I was a bit disappointed by this, as some men smell so strong. My lips encircled his privates, and I was in pure heaven. I don't know about others, but when I am orally giving to someone, my mind wanders.

I began thinking of why I was doing this. I mean, I know I was enjoying myself, but was I doing this because I really did not want to be on a family vacation in Florida. Did I somehow want my father to find out that not only I am sexually active, but I have taken a black lover? My father is fairly open-minded; he is okay with bi-racial couples, but I am not sure he would think the same way if it were his daughter who was in a bi-racial marriage.

Jerry ended up coming in my mouth, and I worked really hard to ensure that I swallowed every drop. I did not want to get any of his semen on my dress, my face, my what-ever. Oh, how I wanted to pull up my dress and have him enter me from behind. To feel his penis penetrate me, rub me, excite me. I can just imagine myself on my knees, dress up, elbows on the sand, looking from the pit at the club some 1,000 yards in the distance.

You see, Jerry did not have any condoms and I did not have my purse. No condoms, no entry. That was one of my rules. Afterwards, we went back to the club, and I went into bathroom to clean up.

I wanted Jerry to bring me home that evening, but he did not want to. I think he may have been afraid of my father. He knew we were from Georgia, and people are less tolerant in Georgia than in Florida.

In short, Jerry shattered some of my prejudices, most of which I did not even realize I held. For that, I will always hold fond memories of him. Intellectually, he was my superior, but sexually, we were equal partners. I hope his wife knows what she has.

Summer Tan Lines Part I

This is a fictional story, but certain images are real.

After my sophomore year in college, I came back home for the summer. It was always a struggle to come home – after the 9 months of relative freedom, to come back to a family's home with the rules, expectations and so forth.

In the middle of the summer, we had our family trip. My parents are nuts for the yearly family trip, but this year I asked my parents if I could stay home and work. I will watch the house. My main motivation was my summer job and going out in the evenings with less of a curfew. Parents, if you have not figured it out, can read minds, so it comes to little surprise that mine said, "No." Not being a full adult (translation = being a Daddy's girl), I complied with Daddy's wishes.

Our trip was to Florida, not a stretch from Georgia, and a common destination. We rented a beach house one block in from the beach (cheap parents), and we were having a lovely time. I read paperbacks on the beach while basking in the sun.

Two days before we had to leave, my younger sister and I met some young men. They were college boys – many of them handsome. For the sake of the story, let's call them all handsome. Four guys, all in college, handsome and at the beach.

The oldest, Jerry King, was handsome, black and confident. He was also 21, which is important, as he was the "alcohol contact." Not that I ever really needed an "alcohol contact." Bat your eyes and the guy will find alcohol. My kid sister was still in high school, but she liked "pretending to be an adult."

Jeff was a year younger than Jerry – they were roommates. Jeff was handsome, tried to be as cool as Jerry, but he lacked confidence. He was cute and funny – the kind of guy you wouldn't mind bringing home for Thanksgiving to meet the parents or just rolling in the sheets with, for that matter. The other two guys were more non-descript.

We were sitting at the beach – and a couple of the guys dug a pit for our feet. I think they just liked playing in the sand, but we were able to sit on the beach, drink margaritas as long as the ice held out, and talk.

We talked about everything – from various college experiences, weird professors, over-sleeping the morning of a big exam, really universal college experiences. Now, I was born and raised in Georgia, open-minded and all, but I was surprised to catch myself assuming certain things. I assumed Jerry went to a state school (I went to a state school), but he was an upper classman at Cornell University (I also thought Cornell was in Connecticut, not New York; my Southern prejudices peek through, not knowing anything above South Carolina). Jerry was contemplating either law or medicine, and after talking with him, I saw him of more of a lawyer. He was well-spoken, thoughtful, seemed more like a lawyer. He also was an avid reader, and seemed to have unique incites on what author's write.

We all had a good time talking, and my sister got a little silly. She seemed a little out-of-place, mostly because she did not have college experiences from which to draw. The guys did not seem to mind too much; guess I was a tad embarrassed at times. But she was bikini-clad, and therefore most men forgive the occasional stupid comment.

It was getting late, the sun was falling, and we had to get back to the rental house for din-din. We could see a club from the beach – you know the type, horrid décor (huge beach lights), and the guys invited us there after dinner for dancing.

I had a slight buzz, and I hoped not to show it, especially because my parents didn't approve of drinking with guys on the beach. "Daddy, I didn't ask to come along this year," was all I could think to use as an argument, but my parents could not tell that sis and I had been drinking that day.

During dinner, I casually mentioned the club. We had not gone dancing since we started the vacation, and I asked if I could take my kid sister dancing this evening. "Fine" was the answer – curfew would be 10:00 pm.

"But, Daddy, I am in college now and it is summer vacation."

Well, to spare you the particulars, we negotiated me bringing (walking since we were so close) sis home at 10, and I would come home at midnight. Not what I wanted (I used to close clubs), but I had no power in these negotiations.

After dinner, sis and I showered, preened and started walking to the club. There was a new moon out, so it took us a couple more minutes to navigate to the club.

To read the rest of the story, click here.

Comfortable shoes just don't fit me

Yesterday, I posted something to another person's blog that was a bit racy. I know, you are thinking to yourself, "Sweet Leesa posting something racy. I don't believe it." Yeah, I know, life can be a bit unpredictable. Not to re-post my comment, but the blog-owner assumed I was bi. I am not.

I wrote about a kiss the other day, and when I was in college, I did have a bi experience. Perhaps I will write about it one day. The experience lasted 7 days – not cooped up in her dorm room all seven days. We had to go out for food (a joke). But I remember thinking about it, about her, about the whole experience.

And here is why we stopped seeing each other – I did not want to be bi (or a lesbian). Whatever the label would be. I had dreams of a small house, white-picket fences, baking cookies for my children, drying my hands on my apron, seeing my children playing in the backyard. At the time, and even still (some would argue), lesbians don't get to live out their dreams. Not if they involve family. [I am not saying it fair; just an observation.]

And at the time, lesbians had to wear comfortable shoes, had really bad style. It was out-of-favor. It wasn't for another 5 years that being a lesbian (or bi) became cool. You still couldn’t do the normal things unless you had piles of money (and I am fairly sure I couldn't have been Ellen DeGeneres' partner (humor is such a turn-on). Just not in her league – and she has the cash to adopt the children, buy the acceptance.

Plus there was the thought "what would I tell my parents." Oh how they would have freaked out. I really enjoyed the lovemaking – especially the closeness and kissing. But after the joy, I could see so many problems with doing the lesbian thing. And being bi – not sure my Church would have been thrilled over that as well. Hard to be faithful with one person when you want to bed both men and women.

Women seem to be more practical than men – how many times have they married the man who had earning power instead of the one that made their heart skip each time he glances at you. And practically speaking, I chose to be "straight." I am sexual, and I think sexual beings have a tendency to expand their normal sexual roles, rules, experiences.

But let's forget the comfortable shoes.

Guys get it all!

Guys get all of the good stuff. They really do. Consider the following:
1. Getting ready. It always takes me an hour to get ready for anything. My hubbie can wake up and be out of the door in 15 minutes (I have seen this). Rushing it is hard to approach the one-hour-get-ready barrier. You think Roger Bannister amazed the world with a sub-4 minute mile. My hubbie would drop dead if I broke the one hour "get ready" barrier.
2. Shaving. My hubbie shaves his face. Big freaking deal – if he doesn't do it one day, he has a "rugged look." I have to shave my legs (think ankles) and under arms. Lots more surface area – and I don't get to use a wimpy electric shaver, either. So my shaver is pink (pink = wimpy), but there is a real razorblade in that my pink number. And some women, wanting to overachieve, shave their privates as well.
3. Shoes. I do not consider myself worshiping before the fashion goddesses, but I have more than forty pairs of shoes. My hubbie has three pair. Okay, probably five pair (including hiking and an old pair of tennis shoes). I have shoes that I only wear with one outfit. How is that possible? How does that look rational to anyone but a worman? I have shoes I have only worn once. And I think I am normal. Yikes.
4. Orgasms. Let's face it. Guys have orgasms all of the time. They come inside, and they orgasm. It is sure money. And if a woman is not around, they can stroke off in two minutes and spew into a sock. Women – I consider myself a part-time air traffic controller. "A little to the right, a little to the left. There. Just lick there." And having an orgasm during traditional sex? Not counting the acting, maybe three times per year. And that is after oral (and well-timed). Maybe just lucky. And some women never have an orgasm during sex. Never.

So guys, before you bitch about always having to pay for dinner and sometimes not getting any, please refer to the above. I'd rather be taking out the plastic and having those four advantages. I could have listed more, but I am in a bitchy mood right now (PMS and other like symptoms could have easily been #5).

The blog blahs

I have been in a sort of a funk for the last few days. Not that things are going bad, but it is sort of like thinks are not going good or bad. Just "zombie-ing through" the weekend and the week.

Funny thing is that when I get the blahs (it was sort of like being on Zoloft), things that normally excite me just don't.

And since I have been blogging (for the last couple of weeks), I occasionally get "fan mail." Most of it is flattering, but some are just looking to hook up. All of you Georgia men. Not that you are different than other men, just closer to me, that's all. So in my non-chemical induced blahs, these "invitations" seem more like irritants than compliments. Being a little bitchy (and I am normally a sweetheart), I sometimes bite heads off.

I have wanted to write but do not feel called to write. Plus I am getting that jealous feeling – I have read lots of really interesting blogs in the last couple of days. Good writing, interesting thoughts. Jealously is a bitch.

Sophomore slump? Hardly. Rule-breaker? Yes

When I was a sophomore in college, I developed a friendship with a very special person. We were friends, and at first, that's all we were. He was a bit on the scrawny side – a skinny sophomore himself. We met in one class, and had another class together the following semester. Towards the end of the second class, he asked me out.

Funny thing is that when I was a freshman, I had a rule about not taking my belt off for three dates at least (and no intercourse until there was a ring and a wedding date). Well, I abandoned that rule before the end of the first semester – not the three date rule. I guess the first rule to go was the "only a kiss on the first date." But the three belt rule was not about clothing etticate – it was about my fear of sex, of loosing myself.

Well, my skinny friend, on our second date, asked if he could "please me." We were friends, and I did not ever see myself getting serious with him, but it was such a bizarre request. I have had lots of guys say, "Since you don't want to give it up, how about a BJ." I never quite got the logic – it is as if we were negotiating a deal, and his brain was thinking "screwing is non-negotiable," so what is on the table?"

Back to my line of thinking – here this guy is thinking about pleasing me. He did please me that evening, and on the following date. We stopped dating soon-thereafter. But he continued to visit my dorm room (and I his), depending on who's room was free. I never let him go any further, and I started pleasing him. But we never went past the oral stage of the relationship. I have been thinking about him recently – the Lilac Thief reminded me of him in a round-about way. He really studied my vagina, knew it better than most men ever cared to. Perhaps I will write a story tomorrow if the spirit moves me.

Blog Stamina and Friction

I am wondering I have the stamina to continue to blog. When I started, I thought "cool, a new place to add my stories." And then I got some very flattering comments. And I was hooked. I thought – I can make a post twice per week. Not too bad. But then now I have someone saying he will visit every day. Gulp. Is this what guys think about performance anxiety. I remember first learning about sex – from some very pragmatic (if not very experienced) older girls.

This is totally bogus, but here is the advice:
"You have the easy part – all you have to do is lie down and provide the friction. You will always make your boyfriend cum." And what about me? That was the sad part – that I would almost never cum with a boy (at least in the same way).

Guess I am scatter-brained today.

Girl Talk

Girls talk. We just do. As catty as we sometimes are, we absolutely love to talk. To almost anyone. When I was working in a nearly all female organization, I still needed to talk. After a while in the organization, a new woman was hired who described herself as a JAP (Jewish American Princess).

I have lived in the Savannah area for "a while", and I really did not know there were many Jews in the Savannah area (there are actually a fair number, it turns out, and they are active in the community). I am not prejudiced – in fact cultures fascinate me – I just had no idea that there was a small Jewish culture in the area. We become fast friends, partly because I never had a Jewish friend, and I wanted to know all there was to know about being Jewish. She talked about her upbringing (grew up in New Jersey, not Savannah), her culture.

Eventually, we began talking about sexual experiences. She assumed that I had lovers who had not been circumcised (I have not), and she wanted to know about these experience. She was fascinated with uncircumcised men – went online just to look at these types of images. As we began to share more, it became evident that she had many lovers. She was perhaps more experienced than I. And as our friendship deepened, we started talking about the more bizarre things we had done.

We were talking one day – bashing men, as I remember. I was telling her that my opinion was that almost any man would not remain faithful if given the opportunity. As the example, I pointed to the lone man in the office – "God-fearing accountant nerd". I said if I marched into his office, shut the door and offered to give him a BJ, he would let me even though it went against all of his principles. [Side note: If Clinton would have leveled with us, saying "Monica just dropped to her knees and started massaging my penis with her lips. What was I supposed to do? I didn't ask for it, but I just lost control.", clinton's actions would have not been questioned. Men would have said, "way to go" and women would have said "that Monica bitch" while privately thinking "I would have done the same thing."]

Anyway, getting back to the Girl Talk, we continued to talk about how eager men are to just be bizarre with anything in a skirt. Chubby chasers, teachers screwing students, the list could be quite long. Then my friend said, "Women are the same way." I disagreed, saying something about women being choosier, perhaps stepping out for other reasons but definitely in control.

Then my friend, let me call her Jenny for sake of discussion, did something I did not expect. She kissed me. We were sitting in a small shop – granted no one was in the office but us – and she kissed me. I was shocked, because of the kiss, but also because I returned the kiss, and my tongue began exploring her mouth.

I am not a lesbian – had one experience in college (which she did not know about) – and I was returning her kiss. Our lips parted, Jenny smiled and said, "See, you just kissed me. Why? Because there was opportunity to kiss me. Because you did not want to hurt my feelings, or whatever, but you acted out of character. Given opportunity, we will all do things out of character.

We never kissed again – we did continue talking about our conquests (we actually both had the same guy once) and other sexual subjects, but we never kissed again. And to answer an anticipated question, she was a wonderful kisser.

Secretary Cat Fight (Australian Story)

I ran across the following article the other day, and it reminded me how catty we women can be. Before people start to disagree about how women can be, I once worked at an almost all female organization (only had one man in the downtown office – the ratio was like 20 women to the one poor guy). And we were catty. Not sure if it is the hormones, the competitiveness or what, but we were all backstabbers, mean at times. On more than one occasion, I heard myself say, "I would rather be in an office with sexist men than these women." And it wasn't because we were bad people – just when there is no balance, there are problems.

TWO secretaries at one of Sydney's top law firms have been sacked after a catty email exchange that was circulated around the city's legal and financial district. Allens Arthur Robinson has been rocked by the cyber brawl, which began over a missing ham sandwich and ended with one woman taunting the other for being unable to hold on to a boyfriend. In a warning to everyone who uses email at work, Allens confirmed that Katrina Nugent and Melinda Bird had been sacked and other high-flyers were facing disciplinary action. The trouble began last Thursday morning, when Ms Nugent sent a group email to colleagues in the firm's Sydney head office asking if anyone had stolen her lunch. "Yesterday I put my lunch in the fridge on level 19 which included a packet of ham, some cheese slices and two slices of bread which was going to be for my lunch today," Ms Nugent wrote. "Overnight it has gone missing and as I have no spare money to buy another lunch today, I would appreciate being reimbursed for it."

News.com.au has the complete story.

And here is the original e-mail messages. Meow and enjoy:

----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 9:39 AM
Subject: My lunch...
Yesterday I put my lunch in the fridge on Level 19 which included a packet of ham, some cheese slices and two slices of bread which was going to be for my lunch today.

Over night it has gone missing and as I have no spare money to buy another lunch today, I would appreciate being reimbursed for it.

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 9:55 AM
Subject: RE: My lunch...
Katrina
There are items fitting your exact description in the level 20 fridge. Are you sure you didn't place your lunch in the wrong fridge yesterday?

Regards
Melinda



-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:06 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject:
Melinda
Probably best you don't reply to all next time, would be annoyed to the lawyers.

The kitchen was not doing dinner last night, so obviously someone has helped themselves to my lunch.

Really sweet of you to investigate for me!

Katrina Nugent

-----Original Message-----

From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:14 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:
Katrina
Since I used to be a float and am still on the level 19 email list I couldn't help but receive your ridiculous email - lucky me!

You use our kitchen all the time for some unknown reason and I saw the items you mentioned in the fridge so naturally thought you may have placed them in the wrong fridge.

Thanks I know I'm sweet and I only had your best interests at heart. Now as you would say, "BYE"!

Regards
Melinda

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:15 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:

I'm not blonde!!!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:16 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:
Being a brunette doesn't mean you're smart though!

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina ,br> Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:17 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:
I definitely wouldn't trade places with you for "the world"!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:19 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:
I wouldn't trade places with you for the world...I don't want your figure!

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:21 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:
Let's not get person "Miss Can't Keep A Boyfriend".

I am in a happy relationship, have a beautiful apartment, brand new car, high pay job...say no more!!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:23 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:
Oh my God I'm laughing! happy relationship (you have been with so many guys), beautiful apartment (so what), brand new car (me too), high pay job (I earn more)....say plenty more.....I have five guys at the moment! haha.

-----Original Message-----
From: fellow staff member 1
Subject: FW:
ok this is the last one, it's getting too intense

A little about me . . .

I know this is bassackwards, but I have not spent much time talking about me. And I like talking about me. See, I am an attention whore. A few years ago when I was (cough) fully expressing myself with many other men, after a romp one guy was stroking my hair and said, "You really are an attention whore." Not "I love your hair" or even a simple "wow."

He was a bit of an ass anyway, but after careful contemplation after restraining myself from making a comment about his shrinking manhood, I decided he was right. I mean I probably fucked him because he was giving me attention (oh, and I am sure my shrink would say something about unmet needs) – and I would get mad if he had not given me attention. I wonder how many women (and from the look of this site, girls too) spread their legs for attention – sure, you can call it love, or wanting to fill a physical need, but lets face it, a shiny new vibrator gets the job done more efficiently.

Hey, I got off subject. I wanted to talk about me, but not about my whoring. Yesterday, someone with a really interesting blog asked me if I am really a slut or do I just have a very good imagination. I think he was more tactful than that, but that's sort of what he meant.

So now I get to talk about me (my favorite subject). I really like me, I do. When I was in college, I dated a lot – not that I had many lovers (if that means "going all the way"). Exactly 12 lovers between dating and married, and these boys were not disciples. I got married right after college, and I was a good Catholic wife. Catholic hubbie, Catholic wife, sex twice per week, everything was going swimmingly.

Then the boredom set in. I was not motivated to excel in the job (all of the jobs after college were either administrative or retail), hubbie and I were not talking much anymore, whatever. Then I started sleeping around and around and around. I worked at a small shop (read all of my stories and you can guess which one), I ordered stuff from vendors (mostly men), and I had a ball (literately or figuratively speaking).

Then my hubbie caught me "in the act." Recanted my bad behavior. Currently going to counseling, was on medication for more than one year, and I am reformed. Sort of. I don't sleep around anymore, but this blog will fill the itch (fill my snatch?). I am terrible.

So this is the Reader's Digest version of where I have gone from, where I am, where I am going with this blog.

Random Thoughts on Weight Loss

I joined a health club recently. Well, it is attached to a local public university (Division I-AA athletic school). I was looking at the types of people that are in the locker room, and here is how I categorize them:

1. College-aged women who we should all hate: most are blond, skinny gorgeous.
2. Middle-aged women who are fat.
3. Older-women who are skinny.

And I am not in any of these groups. So I am a misfit here. I am almost middle-aged, and I have about 10 pounds to lose. Now there are more than these types on campus, but that's the people that come to the gym. Not sure why that is so – do fatter older women die, or do they just hide inside. And I sort of feel sorry for the fatties. How are they ever going to lose all of that fat? At least they are trying. The only complaint I have is that they sweat on the equipment more than the skinny women.

You know, God does not play fair. I am 10 pounds overweight, and it is basically hanging onto me as a small pouch in my tum-tum. Why can't the extra fat be distributed to my breasts? I mean, when women lose weight, which is the first place it comes from (at least Oprah says so; she has to be an expert on the subject). Of course, I have heard, "Be careful what you wish for, it may come true." It would be horrible to go from C to double-D if 10 pounds equates to that many cup size changes.

My hubbie would probably outwardly be a little shocked, but he would burry his face in my newfound roundness if this happened.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Yesterday, when I was walking along a street, I overheard a word that surprised me. There were many conversations that blended together, but a single word made itself heard, "cunt."

The word was not harshly said – though it is a hard word. And it got me to thinking about different words and how we use them. Not globally about different words, but for different words about a certain part of a woman's anatomy.

When I was in college, I am not sure I used many words for this particular part of the body – and the most comfortable word for me at that time was the more scientific term "vagina." Even now in my writings, this is my most comfortable word. It is the word I used, with my roomies, with my friends, with my boyfriends/dates, with everyone.

I don’t want to over-analyze things, but I think that I am more comfortable with the more scientific word because it is a bit more "clinical," more detached.

When I started saying the word "pussy", it was never comfortable. I would blush uncontrollably, even when I wanted to be seductive or worldly. I just could not say the word without being embarrassed. I am more comfortable with the word now, but it is still a little naughty. By the way, I blushed when I typed the word just now. Guess I have some more growing to do before the word elicits a different response.

Then there is "cunt," the bad boy of the vagina words. It is a harsh word, and I never thought I would ever want to be called that. One lover that I took when I was in my loose phase insisted on calling me his "little cunt." I grew to love that pet name. He said it so lovingly, though I was never deceived into thinking that he was ever in love with me. I was not even his girlfriend. I was just a fucking partner. Probably one of many. I have heard from others that calling a woman a cunt is always a demeaning term. I am sorry to disagree – at least in that one case. I felt special, loved.

In my loose phase, I also took a lover that would call me on the phone, and his special name for me was "his favorite pussy." He knew that the word made me blush, and when calling me, I think he wanted to embarrass me in a sweet, playful way. He would open the call with, "How is my favorite pussy?" And me, I would melt.

I know there are lots of other words - couchie, twat, poonani or punani, box, front bum, peanut, jenny, cat, and snatch. But I really have no experience with using these words. One funny story that I heard about fanny – it is an English word for vagina. Someone was exercising in the US, visiting from the UK, and every time the yoga instructor said "tighten your fanny," the young woman laughed. How funny. The instructor wanted a soft word for butt, and she ended up with something that is a bit harder for our Brittish cousins.

I guess I should borrow from Shakespeare: "A vagina by any other name would still smell as sweet."

Most Embarrasing Pee

On Friday, I was thinking about my "most embarrassing moments ever." There have been a few of them. Probably because I am so self-conscious.

Anyway, I thought I would share one this morning.

I used to work in this office environment with like 23 women and one man. I am a big woman's libber, but let's face it, too many women in an office is a really bad thing. Well, I was friends with only one of these women – let's face it, with that many women and that much gossip, you can't really trust too many. Know what I mean.

Well, we would chat about all sorts of things – how we spent the weekend, who we thought was cute. Whatever.

Anyway, the one guy was an accountant of sorts. Really straight-laced, cute, but a bit of a dork. Anyway, Wendy (my g-friend) used to tell me that he jacked-off every morning in the men's room (he got in earlier than anyone, to concentrate on numbers he would tell us). He had never hit on me, and I had not been in an office where a guy had not tried to take a peek down my blouse at least, know what I mean?

Well, I had to be in early one morning – I forget why, and I notice his light was on but he was not in his office. Thanks to Wendy, I think he is in a stall, beating his meat. Well, I just want to hear him, wondering what it sounds like, and so I go to the only men's room on the floor, and quietly open the door.

To my surprise, there is some worker there at the urinal, just having finished a pee. Being really surprised, I say, "I'll wait until you are through – ladies room is not free." Sometimes we pee in the men's room since the employee ratio is so screwed up, and I just blurted it out.

The guy smiles and my eyes drift to his mid-section where he is shaking off. I must be blushing because he takes his sweet time putting his penis back in his trousers. He zips up goes over to the sink and tells me, "I'm all done here." I almost died!