Dating Exhaustion

I try to write on this blog on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and as you may have noticed, I did not write Wednesday. And part of this is because I have been dating so much.

I went out Thursday, Saturday, Sunday and Tuesday - three different guys, and two of the guys were first dates. I won't mention the first dates right now - both were dinner dates, and both were "okay." The men were nice, they did not do anything to embarrass me or themselves, and they were perfect gentlemen. Perfect gentlemen are not normally interesting to write or read about.

Anyway, on Date #3 with one guy, we had a long talk at the end of the night. It must have been about 1AM when we started talking - we had been kissing before. I let him know I was new to dating, and I was not interested in anything too heavy. I also said that sex was off the table because I have not officially divorced. He texted me the following day, so I figure the talk did not scare him off.

We had un-official Date #4 on Tuesday night. Well, probably unofficial to him, but when I shave my legs to meet someone, the time goes in the date column. He brought chinese food for dinner and we watched a foreign film (containing subtitles). Well, there is some backstory. I had to drop off my car at the shop, and I sort of wanted my date to go with me because he is a guy. Anyway, after chatting with the mechanic, the mechanic asked if we were together. He looked a little shocked, but he said, "Yes" with no further explanation. That seemed a bit forward, but comforting at the same time.

Anyway, we had dinner and the movie on the couch. A little hand-holding because well, just because. He had his warm hand on my knee, and I thought he was wondering how far up my thigh I would allow his digits to travel. The movie was confusing, and we started necking on the couch. He had actually, before that night, said that he wanted to watch a movie in, without making out. I think he wanted to let me know he heard 'sex was off the table.'

After the movie, we were making out anyways. And about an hour later, he was talking off my panties, leaving my dress on but pleasing me, oh, so pleasing me, downstairs. I let him please me for longer than I want to care to admit, and afterwards, he shyly asked "if I came." Not sure why guys ask that, but I wanted to say, "Fuck, yes, I had multiple multiple orgasms. Strong orgasms. Surprising orgasms. Fucking awesome orgasms."

I think he wanted a number, but I just smiled and shook my head in affirmation. I was blissful, and that's what mattered most at the time, and that's all he needed to know. He looked like he needed more, and I vocalized, "Uh huh." It was almost a whisper, and here I was, want-to-be writer, and this is how I answer.

I did not plan for this to happen, but now, this serial dater, this guy I know who likes to keep things light. He texted me later that evening, then a couple of more times the following day.

So far with these dating experiments, all I have done is say, "yes" to dates and say 'no' to sex or even grabbing my ass on the first date. Guys, I think, like for their women to say 'no' sometimes. At least, they stick around until they here a 'yes.' I think that is strange, but I think that's the way it is.

Princess Panties

During my Christmas break, I did some house cleaning. I know, sounds like a party to me. Well, I organized my dresser drawers (does anyone born after 1980 do this, I wonder less-than-silently), drawer-by-drawer. Top drawer is my unmentionable, and, well, I am going to mention one item of clothing: a pair of princess panties.

These panties are very special to me, and embarrassingly, I purchased them while in college. Me and some of my girlfriends were shopping, and one store (not Disney) had them on display in adult sizes. White cotton panties, with a cursive "princess" written in pastel colors, adorned with similarly colored flowers. There were four of us shopping that day, and each of us purchased a pair.

I know, I know. You want me to tell you that we went to Brenda's dorm room, tried them on together, had a pillow fight and that led to a night of wrestling and lesbian moments. But that did not happen.

We bought these panties as a joke, more or less, but I put my panties to good use. I wore them on almost every real first date I had while in college. Stupid as this may sound to my mostly male readership, they made me feel, well, like a princess. By wearing the panties, it reminded me that I should be treated well, having the gentleman open doors for me (even the car door, and many men actually did open car doors – hard to believe, I know), engaging in polite conversation, et cetera. And, another embarrassing to write reason for wearing princess panties is that it kept me in my princess panties. No way did I want a man knowing that I owned a pair, let alone wore them on a date.

After college, I retired my princess panties. I was not engaged nor married, but by that time, I thought to myself, "I want to fuck on the first date." No, that's not what I thought. I thought to myself, "I am an adult now." And I retired them into my top dresser drawer.

Since retiring them (no ceremony, actually), I have worn them three times:

1. Laundry emergency. The first time I wore them was when I had no other clean panties in the house. I actually first changed into a dress and tried going around the house panty-less, but it was uncomfortable. So another fact I am revealing to you – I am no Britney Spears. Instead of finding a short skirt and going panty-less (and no doubt having to exit limousines with paparazzi focusing their cameras up my skirt), I decided to wear my princess panties. That was one good day.

2. Death of my grandfather. When dressing for the funeral, I slipped on my princess panties. He called me his little princess, and it was more of a tribute to him than me wanting to feel good about myself. Also, you know princesses don't cry, and I did not want to cry at his funeral. Princess look solemn and distraught at times, but you rarely see a princess cry. I cried that day for my grandfather; the panties did not work. But I could hear him calling me his little princess, something he did not call me after I hit puberty. I guess he did not think princesses had breasts.

3. After a week of fighting. Many of you who have read my writings know I cheated on my husband. After I told him, he yelled, I cried, he yelled, I fought back, and we were less-than-civil. I was completely spent, my emotions going through so much, and after a week of feeling awful, I wanted to feel worthwhile again. Again I put on my princess panties. I breathed easier; I thought I was not the she-devil; and I began to heal.

Funny how such an insignificant piece of fabric can mean so much to someone. Or how one can write about it for more than a paragraph. And finally, no, I will not pose in the panties on this site. I am sure you can find other sites for that purpose.

Christmas Newsletters

Every year, we get seven or eight newsletters, mostly from family and one from a close friend. Generally, I love these newsletters. All are printed on the computer, and they are all written for a general audience. "General" being, whoever is on their Christmas list.

Well, I love these newsletters. Cousins or aunts or other relatives who I really don't get much information on, I can at least know what they have been doing the whole year. It distills it down to one page of fairly good grammar. Efficient.

But here is what the letters don't do:

• They don't tell me the disappointments, generally.


• They don't tailor their information for what I care about.


• They sometimes don't capture how these people really are.


• They highlight and inflate some accomplishments.

Okay, small rant. I actually have one relative that uses their newsletter to tell me about their recent purchases (we have been having a great year, so we bought each other his and hers Lexuses), their children (one will cure cancer, another will free third world countries, I suppose), their jobs (they are lucky enough to be the only brilliant people at their work) and their pets (nearly as smart as their kids). I read their newsletter, and actually keep them. They outdo themselves each year. It gives me some pleasure, mostly me laughing at them. Yeah, that is bitch Leesa, for you.

Here is what I would rather read (a more honest letter):

---

2006 Jones Christmas Letter

Well, it is that time of year. Time for the Jones' Annual Christmas Letter.

The year started out really good. Mike has been doing well at work, but unfortunately his boss caught him with several office items in his car. He could explain away the binders and staplers, but the network printer was much harder to explain. In February, he was let go because of "slow work," and Mike responded quickly by filing for unemployment. His boss was a bit unfair, as he was unwilling to give Mike a reference of any kind. Bastard.

Since Mike has been home a lot, he has been watching a little too much porn. He has been more willing to experiment in bed, but I am getting a little worried. I sometimes cannot find my special panties, and when I call home I sometimes catch him out of breath. I am worried that his health is suffering, because he says he is winded from climbing the stairs. Strange.

The good news is that Mike has been helping out around the neighborhood. He has started a job for one of the neighbors, Jennifer. Although I have not seen any money from the odd jobs he has done for Jennifer, he spends several afternoons per week helping her out. Some of my other neighbors are jealous of the attention he has spent on her, lying to me about some hanky-panky. Luckily, I know Mike. He rarely is interested in sex, but when he is interested, we do more freaky stuff. I blame it on the porn. The good thing is that the porn has given him some new moves. But I know you don't want to hear more about that. LOL.

Jeff is in High School now, and we are so proud of him. He has not missed a meeting with his parole officer, and he has only set his bed on fire twice. Both times, we extinguished the flames before any real damage occurred. The school counselor has been really interested in Jeff, and we are encouraged by this. His grades have not been good, but you know, we blame his teachers. He did make a B in shop, and he seems to have taken an interest in gardening. He has lots of interesting plants in the backyard, and he shares them with his friends. Jeff is a blessing. Mike is just glad that his girlfriend Pam is not pregnant. I keep telling Mike that Jeff is a good boy, but I think Pam is a bit of a whore. Crap, should I use "whore" in the Christmas Letter? Mary Magdellon was a whore, so I will keep this in.

Christa has been doing well in school. She says she is bored, but we have told her that it should be up to her to find out new things to learn in sixth grade the second time around. We have met with her homeroom teacher twice, and her attendance has improved. She keeps missing the bus, and we suspect the bus driver doesn't like Christa. On a sad note, we have forbade Christa to keep seeing Rob after we caught them engaged in an "act of passion." Again I blame it on Mike's porn. He keeps trying to hide it, but these darned smart kids keep finding his stash.

As you know from the last newsletter, we put Mike's dad in the nursing home last year. He was being a pain in the ass, and we thought this would help. Well, we still visit him twice a year, but the visits are much more enjoyable now that he is medicated. He just sort of stares into space now. Unfortunately, the bills from the nursing home are sort of going through his money (and our inheritance). Not that we want to kill him, but we just want him to be at peace with the Lord. Last time we visited, Mike sabotaged the Automated External Defibrillator (AEDs) nearest to his father's room. He joked that the old coot would never die with this so near. Of course, Mike was only kidding. That's why I (and many of the ladies in our neighborhood) love him so much.

Here is wishing you the very best this Christmas Season.

Hugs and Kisses,
Leesa and Mike Jones

Your Angel is a Centerfold

I may have mentioned this before, but when I was growing up, me and my friends would look at Playboy at other people's houses. My parents did not subscribe to the magazine, but a lot of houses on the block did. And when we were growing up, this was a source for our sexual education. Most of our parents did not talk about sex, and I did not have any slutty friends who had sex yet, so we poured over the pages of Playboy to get answers on the mysteries of sex.

And part of what we were doing, is projecting who we would be in a few short years. We would see these tanned women, purportedly in their early twenties, and they looked like Venus coming out of her orb (please see the Botticell painting for references). We wanted to be these women, and I think each of us assumed that our bodies would develop into copies of the images we were viewing. For most of us, this was not sexual; it was educational. And we would read about them as well; we mostly turned the centerfold over to get a summary of her qualities. For instance:

BIRTHPLACE: Savannah, Georgia USA

BUST: 36"

WAIST: 25"

HIPS: 35"

HEIGHT: 5' 2"

WEIGHT: 138 lbs

AMBITIONS: To become so successful as a novelist that my likeness appears on the Simpsons. Orlando Bloom will call me, hoping to have sex with me so I can write about the experience.

TURN-ONS: Massages, fondue parties, intelligent men, humble people, nice smiles, saxophones in jazz clubs, and sunsets on the Riviera.

TURNOFFS: Dishonesty, apathy, egotistical people and jealousy.

FAVORITE CITY: Having traveled through Europe, I appreciate all cultures, but Venice, Italy remains my favorite because it's so tranquil. [Playboy was always Euro-centric; imagine knowing the world by traveling around Europe.]

FAVORITE AUTHOR: Mystery writer Agatha Christie. [The women always picked an author who was popular or one a high school English reading list.]

FAVOITE MOVIES: Breakfast at Tiffany's and My Fair Lady. Audrey Hepburn is who I aspire to be.

I'M PARTICULARLY WILD ABOUT: Mountains in the springtime; sitting around a campfire while someone plays a guitar; listening to the world wake up on a camping trip.

Over time, we found out that our bodies did not become airbrushed, our boobs were not exactly the same size, and we did not lie around in nothing but rabbit ears and panties with fluffy tails. We became real. Sometimes I wonder what men want – the fantasy or the reality. Would it be better for us to be the bunny or the wife?

Google Trends

Today will be a quick post. Sorry, but it is Google's fault. You see, I have seen their new "Trend" widget, and I have been playing with it. Please do not click on the link I provided – it will suck time out of your life.

You see, you can put terms in the search option and see who is using these terms in their searches. Not who they are, but where they are from. Well, probably more accurately, where their IP address says they are from.

For instance, you search the word "panties", and notice that Salt Lake City is the number one city searching this term. Oh, and I should probably say that they look at the population of the city and normalize the results. So that New York City, or Bombay, India, does not show up as the number one city just because they are so big. I always thought that São Paulo, Brazil, was the largest city in the world, but it looks like two other cities are larger. Who would have known?

So instead of blogging this morning, I am sitting here, looking which city searches for Leesa (mostly in Australia because of some marathoner), penis (Philadelphia, probably has something to do with the number of cheese steaks which are ingested), and infidelity (Chicago, the windy city, perhaps there are lots of desperate housewives giving "blow" jobs). Who knows?

Salt Lake City also tops the "Braless" searches. And we know it is all because of our own Ms. Lisa. Now I am going to see what cities search for my favorite Chinese dish.

A Drunk Night and Education

Pardon for the last two posts – I had been really in a rut, and Ddot suggested I write a little fiction to break the cycle. Not sure it worked, but I feel refreshed. Well, now, perhaps it did work.

I saw a wonderful post last week from Nikki. In the post, I understood quite clearly, her frustration, her opinion, and her observations on some racial issues. I will always remember something I heard Oprah say on the subject, something about black people thinking about racial issues each day, while some others think about this subject less often. Another viewpoint that actually may be a common viewpoint.

When I was in high school, I had a very good friend who was black. He was handsome, athletic and a very good student, so it came as no surprise to anyone that he was offered several scholarships in two sports. He chose baseball over football, in part because it was a lot easier on the body. I think he may have been a better football player than a baseball player, but he just wanted college paid for – and actually it worked out nicely for him.

He was actually drafted but chose to enter the engineering world – his choice that he has always been happy with. We were very good friends in high school, and we saw each other occasionally in college (went to different schools, but saw him on the breaks). I must have been a good friend, because I was invited to the wedding, held in a different state. My parents actually gave me some money so I could go to the wedding – financially, I was not doing well, and I needed to stay in a hotel overnight.

For many of us that went to the wedding, he invited us out to dinner before the wedding. I was not in the wedding, but because I traveled, I also was invited. I remember, after dinner, the party drifted into the hotel bar, and we stayed up chatting. By two in the morning, only he and I were still at the bar, and he was buying me drinks.

Ladies, I don't know if you do this, but when I am out, I normally make "will I sleep with him" decisions before I get too far gone. It has actually saved me from disoriented mornings, where I am sure I would be hunting for my panties in a strange room. That night, I thought to myself, "Eh, I would go to bed with him if he makes the first move." I was a little ambivalent, thinking that it would be an honor to be his last lay before getting married. I was single at the time, so I figured everthing was okay. Sorry to disappoint, but he did not bed me that night, but we got into some deep discussions including talking about race.

When he was in college, he was dating a white woman, but he told me that night he could not marry her; mostly because a great many members of his family would have been hurt, disowned him, etc. I actually met her, and I thought she was sort of a bitch; looking back, I am not sure if I was a tad bit jealous. He had always been a good friend to me, and I thought I was must better suited for him than this woman.

Anyway, his wife is so sweet; he make a good choice. I would say he got lucky, but I think his faith, his accomplishments and his intelligence steered him in the right direction.

Anyway, we were getting fairly sloppy at the bar, and we started talking more openly about race than I had ever talked about it with anyone.

At one point, I said I was saddened when friends of mine made racist comments. His reaction was different than I expected, but he should have been a philosopher because it was so clear to him. He said, "I am sorry your friends think of you so badly."

Then he explained that by them making those remarks, the must assume that I either shared their viewpoint or that my character was so passive that I would not challenge them. Ever since that night, I started challenging people who made certain comments, whether it be about race or gossiping or whatever. And you know what, once you challenge, people look at you in a new light and cease making the remarks. Challenging someone is so uncomfortable that it works so well. The same can be said about being a slut – but I will talk about that some other time.

But my friend was so cogent that night, even though he (1) did not even flirt with me, and (2) was smashed.

Nikki's comments were very interesting, and I suggest you read them.

He also talked about playing games. You see, like Nikki, he was the token black in his company. Actually, he was probably the token black engineer. He said he probably got a better job than he would have otherwise because he was black, and there were relatively few black engineers in the workforce. But he said when he was in college, he focused on European literature and art in his electives, mostly because he knew that assimilating with mostly white men, they had this education. He said that African art and literature is extremely rich, but he learned about this away from the classroom. He knew that he had to fit in around the water cooler, and being an ex-college athlete helped. But he also had to talk about things that interested this white crowd. I am not saying this is right or wrong, but I know it is prudent and he has done extremely well. Funny thing is that I can here some "good ol' boys from Georgia" inserting the phrase "for a black man" at the end of the previous sentence. And that, to me, is the subtle racism that permeates the South.

I remember in middle school, a social studies teacher was talking about how poor students were doing, and he said, "I had four black men miss the following multiple choice throw-away question: who one the Civil War?" It is as if the Civil War should mean more to black students than white students. Another form of subtle racism.

One of the comments on Nikki's blog was "I sure would like to lick Leesa's snatch." No, that was not the comment.

It concerned how she was teaching her children, and she said things I did not know. Because of slavery, black people have to wash cars. Because of slavery, black people don't have air conditioning and must drive with their windows down, and white people, because they were not slaves, could afford air conditioning. The problem is that this woman probably thinks she is being kind, compassionate and helpful to her children. All I can do is shake my head, wondering why the bar to procreate is set so low. I honestly think some people have no idea how to make babies – they just end up bumping their nasty parts into one another and having kids.

I have actually seen poverty – in Georgia, in Mississippi. Both black people and white people. My first car did not have air conditioning and I bought it in Georgia. Must have clued me into the fact that I came from slaves. Actually, since my relatives have come from this area for a long time, I am sure there was a little bit of color mixed in with my Lily-white relatives.

Okay, I broke many different rules with this post – too darned long, talking about race (which ensures no comments), and it will fall on the Monday before a holiday, so I am sure there will be few readers.

Perhaps I will post it for Friday – I know Rob will be upset, but he got the ending to a story. But then again, some that find erotica distasteful would have something else to nibble on. Did you notice that I am letting my participles dangle? And I said the f-word several times. I must be letting my hair down.

From Parisian to Passion Part II

As we were leaving the mall, Jay looked at me and said, "Not so fast. I want you to enter my hotel room in the clothes I purchased for you. I want to see you all dolled up."

The first impression that I got were the peculiar words "dolled up." That seemed very archaic, and I wondered how old he was. Not that I cared, but I started realizing I knew little about this man. Really, little about him.

I ducked into the bathroom, entered a stall and changed quickly. Black lace panties, little black dress, and then slipped on high heel shoes that were a little high for my tastes. I placed all of my clothes inside the largest bag, looked in the mirror, and thought, "It looks like I came to the mall this way." The only thing I was missing were stockings.

As I exited the bathroom, Jay grinned, and then we started out, him placing his hand in the small of my back, "our fist real touch." I nearly melted.

We drove separate cars to his hotel. He was working in Savannah for a project, or so he told me. I wondered if he made the trip just for me.

We parked next to one another, and I was going to take in my clothes as well, and Jay stopped me.

"Aren't these other clothes good enough for you, sweetie?"

I unlocked my car and placed them in the trunk, while mustering a "yes dear."

I really did not know if he was who he claimed he was, a long-term tenant in a very nice hotel only blocks from the river, so to test the man I was about go to bed with, I started over at the desk. The man behind the desk said, "Good afternoon, Jay, did Kay leave earlier today?"

He said he had a wife named Kay, and obviously the guy behind the desk knows him.

I extended my hand and said without batting an eye, "My name is Kim; I am Jay's niece, and Uncle Jay is showing me around Savannah. Right, Uncle Jay?"

As the elevator door closed, we erupted in laughter. And after the laughter subsided, Jay said, "No problem, niece Kim." And he pinched me playfully on the bottom. This was going to be fun, I thought!

We entered the hotel room quickly, and as soon as Jay locked the door, I was kissing his neck, touching his bulge, basically attaching him.

He recoiled a little, and I sensed he wanted to take it slow, enjoying me. We held hands, and he looked me from head to toe, saying, "Leesa, you really look good."

"Kim," I corrected him with a smile.

Then he started tracing the front of my dress, lifting the material from my breast.

"No bra?" Jay asked.

"Sweetie, you did not buy me a bra today."

"Leesa, I mean Kim, you have beautiful breasts."

He lifted the fabric, peeking at my peeks, and then starting to trace my breasts, avoiding the areoles on purpose.

"Turn around," Jay said softly but firmly.

I did so, and he unzipped my dress, slowly, teasingly.

Now, I will not tell exactly what happened, but Jay touched every part of my body, slowly, wonderfully, longingly.

After dress and panties were on the floor, Jay said, "Condom or no condom?"

"You have got to be kidding, right?"

Jay looked disappointed, and I found my dress, fishing a condom out of the pocket.

I opened the condom with my teeth, taking care only to grip the outer foil with my teeth. I smiled as I did this, and his penis stood more at attention.

I liked his penis for a moment, but I did not want him to cum, so I quickly hooded his penis.

I jumped on the bed, and I notice my breasts jiggling. Note to self: don't jump after 35!

He asked me to be on all fours, and he looked at my pussy for a long time. While looking at me, I wondered what he called it: pussy, vagina, or cunt. Perhaps I will never know; perhaps I was thinking too much.

Jay's penis is thicker and longer than my hubbies, and I was wondering if I could stand him in me. I would like to report that he did not tear me up, and it turned out to be a wonderful fuck.

He wanted to christen my ass, and I declined the offer.

I took a shower, wanting to wash off all of his sweat, and mine. As I came out of the shower and was toweling off, I notice my clothing was missing. I exited the shower without the towel, looking for my panties, and Jay was grinning.

"Sorry, love, these are for Kay. Being a gentleman, I will get your things for you if you trust me with your keys."

What choice did I have? I handed Jay my keys and prayed for compassion.

Jay returned ten minutes later, with my clothes but not Kay's. Already in his trunk, no doubt.

I dug through the bag and did not find my panties. Darn! So I clothed without panties, but I did have my bra!

I walked out by myself, and when getting in my car, I noticed my Hello Kitty panties hanging on his rear view mirror. Damn, man! But what a fuck!

From Parisian to Passion

I paced up and down the floor. I hope to heck I am at the right mall. I was supposed to meet Jay here at, um, 3:00 p.m.

Five minutes later, I see him. I have seen him several times before, but in each of those times, he was on my computer screen, a three-inch pixilated image with what I imaged was an eight-inch dick.

"Hello, Mr. Right," I say to Jay, a play on words since his last name is different. But through my e-mail and instant messenger correspondence, he was Mr. Right to me.

"Sorry I am late," Jay responds.

I wonder if I look nervous. Did he say that because I look nervous?

"I just got here myself," I lied. I had been waiting, wondering for thirty nerve-wracking minutes and I hoped it did not show.

"I am ready," Jay said, almost eagerly.

"First stop: Parisian," was my reply, trying to be business-like and flippant, all with the same three words.

It was so strange shopping with this man – strange in many ways. First, we had just "met," but we knew lots about each other. You see, we had been communicating for quite such time. Sure, it started with sex-talk, but it turned into so much more. Perhaps that's why I agreed to meet this man. And he acted like a husband, pointing out which dresses would look good on me, complementing me, being present.

I tried on several dresses for Jay, and although I wiggled into them by myself in the dressing room, I wondered what he was thinking, if he was plotting. He is, after all, a guy.

We settled on a LBD – I actually owned one quite similar to this one. It was a six, fit me right, but he was trying to get me into a four. That would have been perfect if breathing was optional or I wanted to do anything but walk upright. And I know his wife sometimes wore a four, so it was easy on settling on the six.

Next stop was his choice, and like all men, showed his true colors: Victoria's Secret. But I have seen images of him masturbating on a towel; so really, I had seen his colors already.

We spent a lot of time in the store, and after he shooed away the saleslady, we went from area to area, with sexual comments peppering the air.

"I would love to take that off of you."

"This one looks like it was made to fit your luscious body."

"I bet I could lick you through these panties."

I knew he was starting his foreplay, and, well, it worked wonderfully well.

Whereas he was the perfect gentleman in Parisian, when I went in the dressing room with his selections, he followed. "They expect it here," was his excuse.

I brought in several things, but the only thing I tried on was a pair of lacy black panties. I put them over my panties to try them on, stepping into them without having to remove my summer dress. He wanted me to try them on without my cotton panties, and when I started to refuse, he indicated that he was to purchase them regardless, countering the argument I had already formulated in my head.

Normally, I just wear white cotton panties, but I knew that Jay would be seeing me. Well, I had hoped, anyway. So to surprise Jay, I had bought special Hello Kitty panties that were to surprise and delight him. I had wanted Barbie panties, but I could not find them – just wanted to play on the young and innocent theme so many of us thirty-somethings would like to relive.

I could slip them on without Jay seeing too terribly much, but he said that he needed to evaluate them – and when I lifted my dress up, he put his face right in front of my naughty parts, and my knees went weak when I could feel his breathe so close in such a public place.

I regained composure, took off the panties, put back on my Hello Kitty's and we were off to his place. Foreplay was wonderful, but we wanted to fuck.

---

I seem to have gone on for more than my page with this one. Guess I will have to have a "part two". Sorry folks.

I wonder what God thinks

Last week, I read with interest on a subject that both ~Deb and Dani were having concerning who is the hottest woman in show biz. ~Deb seemed to think Shakira was so hot, and Dani seemed to think Ellen Degeneres was the woman who moistened her panties. Okay, I am full of crap; it was actually a debate on homosexuality and Christianity. And actually, I did not read Dani's site – I just read her comments on ~Deb's site. Well, now CP and Kathi have gotten involved in the fray, and I was thinking that a good old-fashioned mud wrestling match would probably be best to settle this argument. I mean, biblically, it sort of seems appropriate in my twisted point-of-view.

Actually, this sort of reminds me about what was going on in Jesus' time. Well, I am not that old, but from what I remember from Sunday School, a lot of what Jesus was saying was, and I am paraphrasing here, "We have too darned many laws. Here is what is important – love should motivate everything we do." Okay, for those Bible-thumpers, I am talking about Matthew 22:36-40.

Matthew 22:36-40
36 Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
37 Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love he Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
38 This is the first and great commandment.
39 And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
40 On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

Okay, I am no religious mastermind. Yeah, I read the Bible, and I understand some things. Some things I do not. After years of discernment, I feel content to make things simpler, not more complicated. In a nutshell, for me, I try to move closer to God, and when I do, I characterize that as "good." And when I move away from God, I characterize that as "bad", and things that help me move away from God I try and get rid of.

Case-in-point: someone once e-mailed me with something like "what are you wearing today?" Then I don't email the person ever again. I just don't. Any conversation with that person will move me away from God.

I have done some incredibly horrible stuff in my past, and I was moving away from God. Maybe being a little crude on this site does the same thing. I don't know. But I do know that I am faithful to my hubbie and I am more compassionate with others (you know, the love thy neighbor thing). Actually, what if I misinterpreted the Bible and thought "Love thy Neighbor" meant really lovin' thy neighbor! I mean, I can't have intercourse because of other "rules" but am I supposed to give neighbors good oral sex? Of course not.

I don't have any more incite than other people on the nature of God, but I love the phrase, "God's ways are not our ways" (or whatever that trite saying is). I wonder, for instance, if after death, serial killers, pedophiles and other degenerates may be enveloped in God's love like everybody else. Maybe God wants to see our reaction to this perceived injustice. I mean, Jesus died for our sins, all of our sins. Not just the "politically correct" sins.

I am not a big believer in "don't ever judge." I mean, if my friends could have compassionately said, "Leesa, you are screwing up your life," I may have listened. But instead, the friends who knew what I was doing were more interested in juicy details than to set me straight (thanks, friends). And in the past, I have judged others – I lovingly helped a friend get back on the path she strayed from. But I don't look at strangers shooting up in the street, and try and change them. I have no leverage.

One thing that disappoints me is when people are violating their own values, not because it hurts me but because it may hurt them. I had a Jewish friend once who would eat pork every time she was upset with herself. At the time, I did not know much about Judaism, so I did not know exactly how to classify her. She was probably not Orthodox, but I don't know if she was Conservative or Reform. It just bothered me that she seemed to perform self-destructive behavior when she didn't like herself. Okay, that was a random thought.

But going back to my judgment thought, it seems that people who say, "I have my stuff together so I am going to judge you now" are a little off-the-mark. I don't think Jesus meant, "Get your stuff together so you can bug the crap out of others" when he talked about the splinter in the eye. I am still working on my stuff, but when I see friends doing stupid stuff, I talk to them about it. And I am not talking about taking a second slice of cheesecake.

The good news is that, from my point-of-view, ~Deb and Dani are loved completely by God, that God would have made the universe for either one of these girls. This is a type of love that I cannot really comprehend. By heck, I cannot comprehend wireless telecommunications either. But I would rather have God's love than wireless. Even if the wireless doesn't drop calls. That's how special God's love is!

Ben Franklin, Daylight Savings Time and Satan

I was a bit surprised by my Friday post. It elicited a lot of response. I was just trying to be a smart aleck. Almost said the a-word.

Daylight savings time has really messed with me. Got up late, in to work late, and this is after being under Daylight Savings Time for a day.

Okay, for those of you who don't know, Benjamin Franklin created Daylight Savings Time to save on kerosene or time or whatever. Personally, I think Ben thought of this as some sort of joke. "How can I get George Washington's panties in a wad?" Okay, he probably thought pantaloons, not panties, but you get the idea. He knew he couldn't make a joke about termites and false teeth – I get the impression that George was the kind of guy that was long on heroism and short on smarts. Again, just my impression. So to make George act at the buffoon in his pantaloons, Ben Franklin invented Daylight Savings Time.

There are several reasons I hate Daylight Savings Time – first, I can never tell when it is on or off. Are we going on Daylight Savings Time or coming off of it? I have no idea, but I do know the people who have figured it out will correct me when I misuse the term. These are Leesa's friends. And not my friends, but that gorgeous Montana-living, talented-photographer bitch Leesa. I just call her bitch Leesa because we are just that close. And she has some gorgeous picture of a hummer (a bird, not a car or a sexual act).

We all remember, "Spring forward, fall back." One year I got it backwards, so I was two hours off of the rest of the word for an entire day. That shows how smart I am.

There are several areas that don't observe Daylight Savings Time in the US. So if you are in Arizona (with the exception of the Navajo Nation), Hawaii and the territories of Puerto Rico, Virgin Islands, Guam, and American Samoa, you don't observe Daylight Savings Time. The rest of the nation considers these places backwards – I remember even a teacher in high school making that statement. And you know, I think we have it backwards. They are the smart ones, and we are jealous of them.

Here is what I want to know – the areas who don't observe Daylight Savings Time – are they more likely not to have good batteries in their smoke detectors? Do they have more fatalities in fires because of this? Do people in these areas even have to change the batteries in their smoke detectors? Or are there PSAs that warn citizens in these areas about changing batteries as if they were observing Daylight Savings Time. Lots of questions here.

Maybe Satan is really responsible for Daylight Savings Time – he wants us to skip church one weekend per year, and by screwing with the times, he is ensured of this. And for those of us less committed, twice per year – you know, when you arrive at church an hour early when returning to standard time and you say, "screw it, we are going home and back to bed."

I like electricity, kites, bifocal glasses. So I am not saying that Ben Franklin is Satan. But someone could make the comparison – Daylight Savings Time would be a given. Now, I don't wear bifocals, but I bet wearing them is a challenge. Perhaps wearers of these glasses would think the inventor of the glasses would be Satan himself. Plus Franklin was a publisher – wanted to get the word out to the masses. Sort of satan-esque. Electricity allows us to do things much more efficiently – and idle hands are the devil's tools.

St. Patty's Pinch

I hate St. Patrick's Day. When I was a little girl, I was traumatized by the day. You know, wearing green, but not the right shade of green – and getting pinched by mean boys. Oh, how I hated St. Patrick's Day, until recently.

Let me explain.

I work in a city that takes St. Patrick's Day seriously. Behind Boston, it is a party on that day. And every St. Patrick's Day, our office closes because there is a huge parade that goes through downtown. You can't find parking, it is loud, it is almost not worth having the doors to the company I work for open. So it is an unofficial holiday, and normally, we take volunteers to keep a skeleton crew here. I volunteered for the skeleton crew.

And as I have implied, I don't like any of the festivities, so as I was getting dressed, I looked around for something to wear. Crap. Perhaps I don't like the freekin' holiday because I don't wear green clothes. I go for a flowery dress – spring-y, lots of pastel colors (which I rarely wear) and with some dots that look green, or is that turquoise blue? The only thing I really have on that is green is a pair of Jockey for Her green panties. As a constellation, I know I will be the only one at the office and that the day will fly by. Heck, I did not even shave my legs, so I didn't wear panty hose as well. Sort of a side benefit of not shaving, I suppose. As long as no one sees.

Anyway, I am at work for the day, and there is no one else there. I can hear a dull noise from outside – the parade starting. After about an hour, I hear the elevator tone. Someone is on the floor. Two minutes later, Ted arrives at my desk, needing to finish some paperwork. I look at him, and he has on this tacky tie, "Kiss Me I'm Irish." It doesn't go with his suit – but it is green.

He shuffles off to his office, and I continue to work. Ten minutes later, I leave my desk for the restroom to release my morning coffee.

As I return, Ted is at my desk, leaning over reading what is in my in-box. A clear no-no. I think, "nosy guy", and I sneak up behind him and pinch him on his ass. A hard pinch, on the cheek but closer to the crack than I originally intended.

He turns around, startled but busted.

"Oh," I apologize/lied, "I did not know you were wearing green."

"Look at you, Leesa, you have no green on."

"Yeah, Ted, but you can't pinch me because of sexual harassment! So my ass is safe from your fingers."

I did not know Ted well, but he knew I did not curse. I purposefully used the word "ass" to indicate that I was being less professional than during normal work days.

He turned around completely, and looked me up and down with a bit of lust in his eyes.

"No green on, Leesa.," he finally says, "but you pinched me and I had green on. There must be some sort of punishment."

I am not into punishment, domination and the like. That is not was I was after with my "ass" statement.

"Bite me," was the first phrase out of my mouth. I hate that phrase, but someone else at work uses it and, unfortunately, I picked up the phrase.

Ted smiles, and then nibbles me on my neck while pinching me in the butt. I was shocked and aroused at the same time.

"That," Ted said after the nibbling, "is for pinching me with green on."

What should I do next? Did I really want to carry this further? Right now it was flirty talk and pinching bottoms. Did I want to take things further, lift up my dress to reveal my green panties? A million endings to this story entered my brain. Was someone going to get off the elevator, ending what could have been a passionate encounter? There is a difference between what I want and what I should do. What would I do?

Okay, the above story is fictional. I thought it would work better if you thought I was blogging. Anyway, call me a bitch if you want to; maybe I want to be bitch slapped. Who knows. I was sort of running out of room and did not know how to quickly finish the story. Okay, bitch slap me if you like. Sort of like an unfulfilled tease.

---

Yesterday, I visited lots of blogs, mostly to satisfy my king. Anyway, I saw this movie, called Loose Change 2nd Edition, and it scared me. It could be completely made up, but some of the things made a lot of sense. I am not saying it is real or false. Maybe it doesn't matter. But I did want to mention it today.

And if this is my last blog entry, the government sent a squad to my work, identified by me streaming this video. They then manipulated Google to erase any trace of this evidence. The video mentioned is more than an hour in length. It may be all crap, but it scared me because it seemed plausible. Not likely but plausible. Sort of like fucking Ted in the office on St. Patrick's Day.

Are you there God, It's Me Leesa

Like I mentioned earlier in the week, I am getting a few e-mails from a few people. And I try to respond. I mean, for $30, I have mailed back worn panties. Not sure why Joe wanted them. But with a debit card number and expiration date, I pretty much send Joe what he wants.

Crap. I started off on this really serious post, and I have gotten less than serious.

Anyway, more recycling follows. Here is what I wrote (in italics), and I want to add to it.

I don't dislike hearing from you – we just have very different perspectives. Sometimes it is like a chasm which is two far to cross – you can't take two jumps, if you know what I mean. Funny thing is that at the exact moment of me typing this, you mentioned your lack of hearing God on my blog. And that's the chasm I am talking about. Now this doesn't make me a good person or you a bad person. That's not the point. It is more like trying to explain sight to a blind person. A completely foreign experience, when both the sighted and the blind are not necessarily good or bad.

God is extremely personal to me. And some of my thoughts and beliefs come from my love of God. Not just my belief in Him, but my love of Him. And when I try to explain this to someone who does not have a similar belief, it is very hard to explain.

But sometimes differences in people's past makes discussing certain issues difficult. Without shared experiences, talking can be more difficult. I wonder, at times, if this is the problem with Peace Talks. Different sides, growing up in different cultures, can't effectively communicate.

But this is getting way off the subject.

One of my favorite books is written by Judy Blume (catch the title similarity?) – and nearly every girl growing up when I did read and loved that book. About a girl during puberty and what she was going through. And I think all girls going through puberty ought to have a direct line to the Man Upstairs, don't you agree?

I have heard God referred to as a crutch. After shaking my head and knowing the person just is on the other side of a very deep chasm, I ponder the statement. Does the person mean that God supports? God aids? God helps? Then perhaps God is a crutch after all.

A Prayer Away from Healing
On a totally unrelated topic. ~Deb is coming out with her first book. It's all about our illicit affair. No, I mean it's all about ... hmmm. Well, instead of me re-hashing what is already said, visit ~Deb and read about it for yourself. A Prayer Away from Healing. Personally, I will wait a week for Amazon.com to carry it – I would rather have Ms ~Deb in my hot little hands than an electronic copy (the version available this week).

Here is a side note. Okay, a disclaimer, I know little about cause and effect, but ponder this. ~Deb's significant other (I like to call her M) read the book, loved it and then they had hot sex. Look at the potential cause and effect. Read the book. Love it. Have sex with hot ~Deb. I am not saying that this works all of the time, but let's say 6 people have read the book, and of the six, one person got the hot sex with ~Deb. I would say that average is a lot better than one would have going clubbing.

Just a thought.

I'd Like to See You in My Office

Okay – I'd like to start out with a disclaimer. I am not a manager. I don't aspire to be a manager, and I have never been a manager.

It is more because of employee self-preservation than anything else. You see, were I a manager, I think I would be an awful manager because of my faulty logic. You see, I would look at my pool of employees as subjects meant to do my bidding. I would think to myself, "My car needs a fresh coat of wax. Either I could spend my valuable time performing this menial task myself, or I could order one of my employees to wash and wax the car myself. And since I am a manager instead of a serf, the car would be really nice and need waxing. I would not think about how the serfs would take my commands.

"You, 23-year-old hunk of an accountant, take off your shirt and wax my car."

See, I would understand that having the cute blond waxing my car adds to the bottom line of the company because I could be doing my creative thinking for the company. My employees, however, would soon ban together and form a plan to kill me, disposing of my body in a local lake. This would suck because, among other things, I would not be able to drive my freshly waxed car. So I don't want to be a manager.

That being said, the one phrase that makes me almost want to wet myself is when my manager says, "I'd Like to See You in My Office." Now I don't know about you, but when my manager says that phrase, I am seldom thinking, "Oh, crap, my manager is going to shower praise on me again." It is more along the lines of thinking about what evidence still exists and how I can shift blame to my co-worker with the perky breasts. My thought is, "God needs to even things out a bit more around here."

And I don't think most managers understand this. They think to themselves that they are being professional, making sure that the conversation occurs behind closed doors. Do they get the same feeling when their bosses say that? Do they pee in their britches?

And speaking of these behind closed door tongue lashings, what I don't understand is that more women don't, upon exiting the meeting, don't pull their blouses out from their skirts and stagger out, saying, "Mr. Martin attached me in there."

Getting back to my little statement about praise, I find it interesting that managers who have a responsibility for the success of their unit give such little praise. I mean, it is the employee-serfs that are carrying the rocks, breaking their backs. And the manager gets the credit for assembling the team, motivating, whatever. How often do you think you succeed at work in spite of your manager? Your work can be quantified in many instances – and to some extent, your manager's contributions to the company are less critical, less quantitative. I know a lot of managers read these blogs – because they have the time. And there are good managers everywhere. But it seems that the good manager is the exception rather than the rule. Can you imagine a conversation that starts, "I'd Like to See You in My Office," and ends with "Here is your raise, you deserve it." The middle of the conversation containing specific examples of how the employee contributes to the success of the company. And that type of conversation being expected so that an invitation to be seen in an office is not followed by feelings of dread or dirty panties.

Yummy Amber, Cheetos and Mr. President

I read Amber's blog the other day, and one phrase got, as my grand-pappy would have said, caught in my craw: "yummy in bed." It is a rich phrase that is so descriptive and sexy, but I can also see a very shy girl saying this at work. It reminds me of someone eating an ice cream slowly, seductively, milking every ounce of pleasure out of those 820 calories. Okay, prata, 820 Calories. I always hated that calories and Calories, while the words looked the same, were exactly 999 calories apart. But if we used calories on Cheetos bags, we would all be staring at 160,000 calories – that is a heck of a lot of zeros for an ounce of artificial orange cheesy delight. Oh, crap, you probably figure I like Cheetoes now. Yeah, personal information like this is what you get here – notice that in the Playboy centerfolds (I have not seen one in 15 years so bear with me – or should it be bare with me?). Can you imagine one of the questions they ask playmates – what is your favorite snack food? I mean, the playmates or whoever writes for them would be trying to figure out suggestive food items. For example, a playmate may write "oh, ding dongs are my favorite. I just like to roll them around in my mouth, taking care not to get too much of the cream filling on my lips. Cream can be so messy."

Oh, where was I going with this. Oh, "yummy in bed" Amber. Not that I know if she is yummy in bed – I mean, no one has written me, describing a layover in Denver with this Amber chick, saying that she was delicious. From the blog, she seems nice – and her posts are entertaining/well written. Like Amber, however, I do get a few pieces of mail that cause one to scratch one's head. There is a guy who wanted worn panties of mine – and I am guessing it may have something to do with the header for the erotic blogs I link to, "Blogs that Dampen my Panties." It is not like I hermetically seal my panties in Zip Lock® bags if, by chance, they get a tad damp.

You know, I tell you that I am more than some skank, and my mind has been in the toilet all week. Well, not literally.

I am enjoying the world of podcasting. Who would think that people would for no pay or benefit, spend time and energy creating something to entertain strangers. Oh, doesn't that describe blogging as well? Ouch. I hate when reality hits me in the face.

Another random thought that has occurred to me today – well, it has occurred to me several days, on and off, for a while – why do I need to have Word Verification on my own blog? I mean, I understand the value of it on other blogs, but who in their right mind would place spam on their own blogs? And that's what Word Verification is all about, right? Protecting us from robots – spiders, whatever the heck they are – that are little programs going from page to page, posting comments like, "I said the same thing in my blog today. Come over to AutosRUs blog and get a great deal on a Chevy Tahoe."

Here is another scary thought – tens of thousands of people compete for American Idol each season, but only 20 or so people ever seriously compete to be the president of the United States every four years. And I wonder if more people follow and vote for American Idol than they do for president. Holy crap. Now I am scared. I think I will go now. Where did I put the Cheetos?

Pink Panties

Okay, last week I was walking somewhere – in a local mall, actually. Normally I don't like malls. But I like people-watching, so part of the mall experience is okay with me. I just feel rushed, like people are trampling one another to get to the next store, the next sale.

Anyway, I was deep in thought, and looked up and saw what I thought were pink panties. As you are aware, one of the fashion trends over the last few years are having pants that dip lower so that you can see the woman's (or girl's) underwear. And it is usually a thong of some sort.

Immediately I thought it was a pink thong, and my reaction – quite odd. But then I noticed it was not a woman but a man, and his undies were pink. Now I don't think to myself WTF, but if ever there was a call for that phrase, it was then in that mall at that time.

If I was more forceful, I should have asked the guy, "What is it with pink undies?" But I am not that bold – plus, he would think it was a come-on. And I don't need some 20-year-old hunk wanting to dive into my panties with all of the issues I have been through these last several years. Okay, no incite as to why this guy is wearing pink undies – briefs, not boxers.

But then I have to tell you –I do look at underwear. If you can see undies, I am looking at them. Not because of anything sexy at all, but because I am curious. When I was in school, the choices in underwear were rather tame by today's standards. That is, if you did not go to Frederick's of Hollywood (VS was around, but their undies were fairly tame by today's standards; they have definitely gone towards more racy). And sorry if I misspelled Fredericks – as I recall, it had a funny spelling.

I buy my hubbie colorful underwear. I do. I am not sure he has bought his own underwear (I normally call them undies, and he corrects me – "underwear") in the past ten years. His mother used to buy them, and that just gave me the willies. You know, Oedipus Rex. Just gross!

There is a secretary in our office – who wears midriff-baring tops and undies-exposing pants quite often. No big deal, but she is in her fifties. She has children who wear that type of thing, but she does too. Okay, she has a body that is really good for her age, but it is just a little weird for me. Guess I am more conservative than I once thought.

I have never bought my hubbie pink undies – heck, he might as well wear mine! Hmmmmmmm. We have not done that before.

Lurker Fantasies

I was reading a blog the other day (by devilgyrl and Cannon_Fodder), and they called out all lurkers. I lurker is someone who reads but doesn't post. Now I don't want to call out lurkers at all. Why? What would happen if no one responded? I would need to double up on my medication. And I am not sure that would be a safe thing to do.

I like the idea of lurkers. I like to think that there are people reading me and not responding, so I can make up any number that I see fit. I can imagine thousands of lurkers reading me, laughing at my jokes, falling in love with my sweet personality. I have a good imagination. I don't want to know that I have 12 occasional lurkers who are in middle school and got to my site because they were hoping to see cum-soaked panties. If that is reality, I want my fantasy.

By the way, I was reading Ms. Peculiar (I am a lurker on her site, too). Funny thing is that my brain reads "particular" when I see "peculiar". Goodness, I hope none of you is a shrink. Anyway, her snow days post is absolutely beautiful. Sort of makes me want snow in Georgia, except I don't like to be cold.

What was I talking about? Fantasies? I know, you want me to talk about nylon rope and whipping cream, garter belts and crotchless panties. But I am talking about what is real verses what we think is real. Sort of.

A little while ago, I was in a public restroom on another floor. I heard someone talking on a cellular phone in the restroom. When I am talking to someone on the phone, I have a fantasy – that they are giving me their undivided attention. The reason I bring this up is that I flushed the toilet – and the toilet sort of freaked out. It kept flushing and flushing. Loudly. And all I could think was, "This person on the phone is busted because the flushing was so loud, the person on the other end of the phone had to know she was in the Ladies' Room."

When people are calling me, I expect their undivided attention. I don't want them to be using the restroom, masturbating, cleaning the kitchen floors. I know, a fantasy. Actually I sometimes wonder if the telemarketers are masturbating while trying to make me buy something. I mean, they seem to be saying, "Hello, ah, ah, Leesa." So are they masturbating or are they looking for my name on their computer screens. Impossible to say for sure. But then again, it is my fantasy.

OCD – The quirky mental illness

Okay, I have OCD, the cutesy acronym for obsessive compulsive disorder. Actually I like the moniker "OCD." Growing up, people would call my "anal" and it did not seem very lady-like (or girl-like). "Anal retentive" I guess was what it was short for, and I just did not like the idea of retaining anything in my arse. Know what I mean.

I am not going to tell you all of the particulars of OCD – there are actually some aspects of this disorder that are not that pleasant.

I have been diagnosed with OCD – actually, it happened after I started counseling. I had a lot of the classic symptoms. I actually did not even know about the disorder before I entered counseling. And you can take medicine to lessen the symptoms – but I will tell you that the medications are particularly influential on your thoughts, and to some extent, your personality. I am glad that I took these drugs, but I am now off of them. I would rather deal with my OCD than the side-effects of the drugs.

I don't want this entry to be clinical; I am an OCD patient, not some sort of counselor. But I have learned a lot about OCD – and I definitely don't want to talk about the demons.

So instead of saying something clinical, I will let you know what happened the other day at the gym, and it is because of OCD (not that I should blame OCD for this, but if I did not have OCD, it would not have happened; I blame myself, but part of me, all of me, has OCD).

Anyway, so I am in the gym. And I go to the gym 5 days per week – and have a different routine each day of the week. Tuesdays are swim days. I am at my locker, after opening it, and I am getting into my very plain-looking "Olympic" one-piece bathing suit (actually, it is made by Dolfin – and I think it may be a Speedo knock-off). And as I am carefully placing some of my clothes in the duffle-bag, I notice a small hole in my panties. Without really thinking, I toss them in the nearly garbage. I continue placing everything very carefully in the locker, and I am off to hit the showers before swimming.

I am a clean person – but I still don't really understand getting wet before swimming. It is a rule, and as a person with OCD, I salute, shower, and then hit the lanes. So after the swim – in an indoors pool that is 5 degrees too warm to really swim well in, I og back to the locker, grab my shampoo, hit the showers.

Then I come back to my locker – and get ready to dress and leave. I search through my duffle, and I can't find my freaking panties. They are just gone. Then I trace my actions back to me tossing them in the garbage. So I dress without panties. More uncomfortable than sexy, and I am a little surprised actually. That is little embarrassment #1 because of OCD. The other was as I was dressing.

I heard a cel phone go off in a locker. And my first instinct was to find a piece of paper to take a message – you know, something like, "Hey, I heard your cel phone go off while I was dressing. It went off three times; it could be important." Then I thought, "Man, this is ridiculous. It was a compulsion to perform that menial task.

Not terribly insightful of witty today, just writing words. Oh, and the next day, I brought an extra pair of panties to put in my desk drawer, "just in case."

P(opping C)orn

You know, I started out today wanting to talk about a particular topic. Then I started writing about a safer topic. After a couple of hair flips and the scratchin' of my ol' noggin, I decided, what the heck, this is my blog. Bite my ass, if you don’t want to read about this. And as long as you are biting my ass, you may want to take a hunk of flesh while you are at it – because I am not timid about scratching and kicking myself.

I want to talk about porn. Now I am no prude – you sort of lose prudish behavior after you suck a co-worker's dick for the first time, or the first time you have to throw out your panties because of an incriminating cum stain. The guild is off the lily, so to speak. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. And I hesitate to say this because I am guessing a lot of people are surfing for porn today. Big shopping day. Probably a big porn day, especially if the football games start to suck. You know, if the football games suck and wifey is out shopping, most men are going to want to see pictures of other people sucking. Actually, I am not sure if guys want to see women sucking off all sorts of penises. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. Disclaimer: I actually know someone (related by marriage) that was part of the porn industry. She was a "model," and yes, I have seen her pictures. The whole family has. See, she was a shy girl in high school, pretty but shy. Pretty but not terribly smart. She entered the workforce at 18 with a high school diploma and a taste for expensive things (upbringing). Well, McDonalds does not give high schoolers a six digit income for being the fry girl, and she was a bit taken aback for how expensive it is just to get by. Even the Gucci knock-offs were a bit out of her range. So what is a girl to do? Hint: it involves poles. Yes, our sweet 18-yr-old starts stripping at a local gentleman's club. Stripping, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. She starts out stripping (and, yes, family members eventually found out – even saw her strip). Now, I don't know much about stripping – although I am guessing it does not take many brain cells to do – but it is not necessarily as "clean" as I once thought. By 19, she is making boat-loads of cash. And she has friends – strippers – in the same demographic, making boat-loads of cash. Think of this – teenagers, lots of cash, lots of idle time during the day. Hmmmm. Well, then she got involved in drugs. Her choice, I understand, but drugs nonetheless. I am not a real expert on drugs, but with the drugs came seedy boyfriends as well. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. So my stripper-in-law continued to strip for cash, but needed more cash to buy expensive drugs. And we are not talking about Claritin. So she starts giving "private shows" after stripping. And we are talking about more than lap dancing. More like lap lapping. And then she also gets involved in porn. I have seen pictures of this beautiful girl – and from the pics, I would not have guessed that she was in a drug-induced stupor when she was at the photo shoot. But for a while, the pics were on the web for anyone to see. More money, more drugs, more nudity. A sort of dirty picture is beginning to evolve. Now, after work she is sucking off guys in cars for $20 a pop. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. Now I know, all of these are her choices. Baptist girl gone bad story. But every time I see a professional porn pic, I wonder what drug this girl is on, who she is sleeping with, sometimes for money.

And I am an enigma myself. I love writing erotica – but I am not selling it for drug money. I am not sucking off men in cars for money (ironically, though, I used to do that for free). Puts me on some moral high ground (laughs half-heartedly, indicating tongue-in-cheek comment).

And I don’t think there is anything wrong with HNT (half-nakid Thursday), or Bored Housewife's Braless Tuesday). Seems like harmless fun to this prude. I guess when I see a picture of a young woman spreading her labial lips so you can see her sweet spot, I wonder about her family, her decisions, her life. And I wonder if the porn industry is taking advantage of her. Addicts have a much harder time making informed decisions. And while her pussy may be pink, her soul may feel black.