Ddot, Comments and Foreplay

Oh, I am tired this morning. I did not get much sleep last night, and then I come in to work to get some blogging done, and I notice 21 new messages. Most of them blog comments.

Okay, some of them will never show up on my blog, because several are from some guy wanting to sell me (and my readers) something to increase penis size. I have heard that steroids shrink the sack and the pee-pee, so I wonder how many ball players try to re-adjust their machines with this stuff. Flack seed oil? P-pllllease.

I really want to post some stuff about hubbie. He made such a cute comment the other day. And I want to write about it, but I feel torn. Not about sex. About growing older. I need to think this over, because I try not to have him front-and-center. Know what I mean?

Anyway, I need to post a really crappy piece today to discourage comments. Not that I don't love you, but well, excessive comments really sort of freak me out. Tell me you love me, tell me you want to buy my worn undies, but then I feel compelled to respond. Plus, when I get lots of comments, I sort of get confused.

The first person I ever linked to was Ddot. Actually, his post today is fantastic. It is about how we spend our time. Back to Ddot. He probably has more comments than any blogger I know. Sure, he has great posts – but the people who are drawn to his blog are sort of like a community. They know each other; they are intelligent, and they treat the comments section like a party line. Okay, I learned about "party lines" in Social Studies in 6th grade. Apparently in the dark ages (I think it was when my grandparents were around and sexy), most people could not afford their own telephone lines. So they shared lines. Okay, someone is going to correct me on this, but, hey, this was sixth grade, my boobs were growing nicely, and I was so head-over-heals with Greg, Mark, and Jason. At the same time. What I am trying to say is that the comments section starts out about Ddot's blog entry, and then it goes everywhere from there.

Now, I think I met Grant there, I know I found GP there, and there are a few others as well. Okay, Grant sort of scares me sometimes, but he seems to know an awful lot about writing. And GP is me when I was in my mid-twenties. Well, except I was not African American, and my bodacious ta-tas were not as, er, bodacious.

You know, this is a completely random thought, but when I was in college (freshman and sophomore years) and "having sex" seemed so much more committal and special (okay, this is completely girl talk, young, innocent, daisies, butterflies and locked diaries), I tended to do a lot more creative things. And, mind out of the gutters, I am not talking about 'cuff and whips. I am talking about doing stuff that did not necessarily lead to "penetration." I mean, I don't want to be too graphic, but if Mr. Pee-Pee can't get near my mid-section, how else can we create friction? And when the guy knows that he doesn't have access to where he wants, it is all foreplay. Hours and hours of foreplay. Days and days . . . . Oh, just shut me up. I mean, I like where I am in life. Hubbie who adores me, mostly plain vanilla sex that is sweet and uncomplicated. Heck, before this week, I did not even know many of the positions out there. I feel like some woman who is a "one trick pony." Ouch. Oh, how I love word play.

Well, I better get this posted before the electricity goes out. Lightning scares me so. So those of you wanting to comment, I can give you directions to Ddot's blog. Well, you probably know the way – a heck of a post today. As usual.