Twenty Four At Heart

I Am An Uppity Bitch

I got together with a male friend of mine about a week ago.  I hadn't seen him for awhile but we correspond pretty frequently by email.  I've known him for at least six years now.  I love him dearly, but I suppose we kind of have an odd friendship.

In any case, my friend - let's call him Mr. Charming, and I both tend to speak our minds pretty bluntly.  Maybe it's a trait we admire in each other or maybe we just like to stand by and listen to the other one speak in case one of us causes a train wreck.  In the six years I've known him, we've both had occasion to see each other do exactly that.

Who can say what really draws people together as friends?

Have I ever mentioned I sometimes cause train wrecks?  Unintentionally, of course.  It's a talent I have because I often lack a brain-mouth filter.  

Mr. Charming tells me he reads Twenty Four At Heart every day.  Mr. Charming greeted me with a handshake.

A handshake!

This is someone I nearly bolted across the room to hug and swing through the air.  (Well, you know - if both my arms worked that's what I would have done.)

I didn't say it, but my immediate thought was, "Omigod, he reads 24 and he knows I have bionic nipples and he's afraid to hug me in case I ....  In case I ... self combust!"

Do ya think?

Maybe I'm wrong.

It's kind of a strange feeling when people in my every day life read my writing.

Now, there was a purpose to my get together with Mr. Charming, but I'm not going to discuss it.  No, because what ended up being interesting to me about our visit were all the little things that came up in conversation which had nothing to do with the intention of our visit together.

It was like a case study in a male-female platonic friendship.

For instance, have I mentioned the handshake instead of a hug?

Then there was the moment in our conversation when he shook his head and told me he had thought (for years, apparently) that I was "uppity."

Uppity?

Now, he says, he realizes I'm actually very shy.

"Except not at all when you write," he added with a grin.

I am shy.  It's something I've written about here many times, but I know many of you don't believe me.  You wonder how I could possibly write about Losing My Clitoris, or my Bionic Boobs detonating in public places if I'm shy.  But, you see - it's so easy when I can hide behind my laptop.  Put me in a room crowded with people and watch me flee in a panic.

Wait a minute . . .  

Did he say he thought I was UPPITY?

And if he thought that, why has he been my friend?

There were a few more interesting revelations from Mr. Charming also.

He informed me that, "Flirting is inappropriate."

He wasn't discussing flirting between the two of us; he was discussing flirting by married people in general.

This statement really bothered me.

Maybe it bothered me because I began flirting as an infant on the day I learned to smile.  It's an innate part of who I am and I doubt if I'll stop flirting until I drop dead one day.  My flirting means nothing.  It's the way I communicate.  I even flirt with women and I'm decidedly heterosexual.  

The flirting comment bothered me so much I fretted over it for a few hours.  Then I sent a quick email off to Mr. Charming stating, "You flirt too - admit it!"

It took me those few hours of stewing to think back on every occasion I'd seen Mr. Charming over the last six years and get my mental ammunition prepared regarding a time I'd seen him flirt.

I ended up not having to prove anything to him.  He emailed back and said, "Ok, I do."

Just like that he admitted it.

Does anyone understand men?

I spent hours contemplating whether flirting in male/female friendships is good or bad, harmless or provocative,  and he reversed himself in a millisecond with no hesitation.

While I was with Mr. Charming he also informed me that although he realizes I believe in male/female friendships ... they really don't exist.  

What the hell?

My male friend was telling me there are no male/female friendships?

He said there "has to be an attraction" existing between male/female friends and therefore they aren't simply friendships.

I disagreed, of course.

Then he asked me how many repulsive male friends I have.

I stared at him in silence.

He smiled, knowingly, as if he'd just scored against me in a game of chess.

"We're friends," he acknowledged, "But we both get something from our friendship."

Have I mentioned Mr. Charming is also Mr. Exasperating?

All people get "something" from all relationships.  Platonic, sexual, business ... whatever the precursor to a relationship is, both sides get something out of a relationship or the relationship ceases to exist.

Sometimes I think Mr. Charming just likes to make me think.

I would never admit to him it's one of the reasons I like being friends with him.

And by the way, I don't have any repulsive female friends either.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Miscellaneous Moments & BTW The Torturer's Back

It seems like I have so many things to share with you, but many of them aren't worth an entire blog post of their own.  I thought I'd catch you up on some random news and thoughts.

1.  Time magazine did not list Twenty Four At Heart as one of the top 50 websites in the world.  Instead, they picked sites like Google, Amazon, Twitter and Netflix.  Those Time people have no sense of humor whatsoever.  I'm sure they'll realize their mistake in time for next year's selections.

2.  I was filling out high school registration paperwork for my son yesterday.  School starts here in about two weeks.  The registration form asked, "Does your child have a probation officer?"  He is fourteen.  Fourteen!  (I answered: not this week!)

3.  I danced in a cemetery, in a dress, before the taping of the Dr. Phil show.  I didn't tell you this before because I'm sure it's disrespectful and maybe you're offended by dancing in cemeteries.  I got carried away with all the pretty grass and flowers.  I want you to know, if I was buried there I'd smile if someone showed up feeling joyful and wanting to dance.  It would make me smile even when I was already dead.  It would probably even be the highlight of my deadness.

4.  I get PR offers from companies all the time.  I don't think you come here to hear me talk about products so I ignore them.  Yesterday I was contacted by a company offering me a free 3 month supply of a diet product.  They "hope" I'll choose to talk about it here with you after trying it.  I should have been insulted, but I was too busy eating my lunch when the email came.

5.  I'm debating taking the diet company up on the offer just for the potential jokes their product would offer.  Shhhh!  Don't tell them.

6.  I tweeted that I was mildly insulted by the diet product company.  I posted pictures of myself two days ago and then BAM! I heard from a diet company.  Another blogger responded and told me she was offered a product for balding women.  She made me feel much better.

7.  My post yesterday about One True Love generated a ton of Twitter responses/comments and emails.  If you have a minute, read yesterday's comments.  The honesty and raw emotion in the responses floored me.  I'm always so touched when people are willing to open up and share with me.

8.  I mailed my son his first college care package.  He forgot his flip flops here and called asking if I could mail them back.  You can take the kid out of California, but you can't take the California out of the kid.

9.  I saw my shoulder surgeon for the first time since summer began this week.  He told me my breasts are "very perky."  Does that seem odd to anyone?  Granted, he is the one who insisted I have breast reduction surgery to aid in regaining use of my arm.  And yet ....

10.  I didn't inform him I now have bionic nipples too.  

11.  The doc was not impressed with the fact I've taken most of the summer off PT.  Not at all.  I've been sentenced ordered scheduled to return immediately.  He is 100% convinced it will improve my arm function somewhat from its current uselessness.  I begin today.  FML.  (For those of you unfamiliar with FML it means Fuck My Life.)

12.  I left the doc's office and literally ran into The Torturer.  You know, that stubborn man who thinks he's my physical therapist.  Yes - I ran into him.  As in my body crashed into his.  I think he planned the whole damn encounter with my doctor.  They conspire together.  It's infuriating.  I know you love him.  I know you miss Torturer stories.  I hear about it from readers all the time.

13.  He hugged me.  Yes, The Evil Torturer hugged me and told me I have appointments booked with him even though I cancelled them all.  He said I need to get over being pissed off at him.  "Get over it."  That's what he said, very matter of factly.  I like being pissed off at him.  It gives me an outlet for my arm frustrations.  I enjoy having the outlet.  How dare he ruin it with hugs and niceness and blah, blah, blah caring about me crap.  What an exasperating asshole man.

© Twenty Four At Heart

One Love?

** I want to thank all of you who took the time to vote.  While I was in North Carolina I was notified that Twenty Four At Heart won the Editor's Choice Award for best Orange County Local Blog Site.  Other websites were soliciting votes for two weeks and you guys came through for me with only 24 hours notice before voting closed.  Thank you so much!  I'm very honored.  **

I first noticed him as I waited to board my plane.  I don't know exactly why he caught my attention.  He was nice looking, but I probably wouldn't have even noticed him in different circumstances.  I would guess his age to be in his mid-fifties.  He was slightly rumpled looking, but that's not unusual in an airport either. 

There was just something about his eyes when he glanced up.  I was instantly struck with the thought, "He's kind."  Simultaneously the thought, "He's sad," went through my head.  I shrugged and walked past but I was left unsettled by what I'd seen in his expression.

I wasn't surprised when twenty minutes later he sat next to me on the plane.  It almost felt like we were destined to wind up seated next to each other.  He, with a story to tell, and I ... always ready to hear a story worth writing down.

I usually read my Kindle while flying.  I immerse myself in novels and hope the time passes quickly.  I didn't even bother to remove it from my bag.  I knew before he ever spoke a word, my story during the flight would come from this man.

His name was Michael.  We exchanged a few pleasantries about traveling.  We were both returning home from a trip.  I had left my son three thousand miles away from home and I was doing my best not to think about it.  Michael, it turned out, was leaving the One Great Love of his life behind on his own journey home.

Michael wanted to talk and I wanted to listen.  He started off slowly, shyly.  As we talked he relaxed and the words began to pour from him.

Her name was Jessica.  They had been lovers when they were young.  He had known, without question, Jessica would one day be his wife.  They spent four years together but never married.  They were happy years, youthful years ... years believing they could conquer the world together.

Then life interfered with the romance between them.  I won't go into all the details here but Michael and Jessica were separated.  Initially the separation was just physical while they were in two different cities.  In time, the separation became emotional and the couple parted ways.

Things like this happen all the time.  Don't most of us have relationships from our youth in our past? 

Michael and Jessica moved on with their lives.  Michael, apparently, never completely let go of his love for Jessica.  He told me he had other relationships.  He told me he had loved other women.  Michael and Jessica both went on to marry other people eventually.

"I loved my wife," he said, "But it wasn't the same kind of love."  His eyes pleaded with me to understand.  I saw sadness and love and guilt mingling together in his eyes.

 

I understood.  I could see it in his soul.  He may have loved others during his life, but his heart had never stopped longing for Jessica.  She was the one great love of his life and he had never forgotten her.

Michael's wife died two years ago from cancer.

I admit, as I listened to him speak, skepticism initially ran through my head.  Thoughts like, "mid-life crisis" popped into my mind.  After a few hours with Michael, however, I was left simply believing he loved this woman, Jessica, with his heart and soul and always had. 

I can't speak for Jessica.  All I know from her point of view is what Michael told me.  According to him, Jessica is currently separated from her husband.  She lives on the opposite side of the country from Michael.  They've corresponded by email and IM and bi-weekly phone calls.  She professes she has never "gotten over" Michael either.

He traveled to see her.  He put all his hopes and dreams into the visit.  He grinned as he told me they're both "older now, with a cushion of fat, a lot of wrinkles, and a little worse for wear."

She told him she can't leave the city where her (grown) children are.  Her daughter is expecting her first grandchild.  His work doesn't allow for him to move where she is.  She feels pressure from her family and friends to reconcile with her husband, although she told Michael she hasn't been happy in her marriage for "years."  She's been separated from her husband for six months.

He visited her for three days.  At the end of three days she said good-bye to him with tears in her eyes.  She doesn't want to pursue a "dead-end relationship" since she sees no hope for the two of them to ever be together.  His eyes brimmed with tears as he told me her parting words.  She told him she loves him, always has, and always will.

I felt my own eyes well up with tears as I listened to him.  

Is it possible?

I'm such a skeptic.  I'm such a cynic.

Can two people truly have a love for each other like this?  One that lasts through all those years?  One that lasts through other relationships and even marriages to other people?

I will never know if Michael and Jessica eventually overcome the obstacles in front of them.  

I will always wonder.

© Twenty Four At Heart

A Poem

I'm on my way to North Carolina today.  I actually left at about 4 a.m. Pacific time this morning.  Ugh!  

You have no idea how tired I am.  I'm also very behind on my email, etc. and I apologize for that.  This will hopefully be my last trip for awhile.  I hope to get caught up soon.

The purpose of this trip is to move my son to college for his freshman year.  (Yes, I'm sobbing!)  

Yesterday I was at the taping of two Dr. Phil episodes.  I will tell you all about my experiences there as soon as I can.  

Since I'm traveling, I thought I'd share two poems with you today.  One of my male friends sent them to me awhile back.  I've been saving them for a travel day when I knew I'd be too busy to write.

Also - remember you can still join me on Friday afternoon/evening in Charlotte if you live in the vicinity.  I'll be at Roosters restaurant for Happy Hour beginning around 4:30 in the afternoon.  I will be in very casual attire - probably jeans and flip flops. 

Do they wear flip flops in North Carolina?  : )

I'm getting really excited to meet some of my Carolina friends.  (Both South Carolina and North Carolina friends are going to be there!)

A Woman's Poem

Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray for a man, who's not a creep,

One who's handsome, smart and strong.  

One who loves to listen long.

One who thinks before he speaks,

One who'll call,

Not wait for weeks.

I pray he's gainfully employed,

When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.

Pulls out my chair and opens my door.

Massages my back and begs to do more.

Oh!  Send me a man who'll make love to my mind,

Knows what to answer to, "How big is my behind?"

I pray this man will love me to no end,

And always be my very best friend.

A Man's Poem

I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with huge boobs,

Who owns a bar on a golf course,

And loves to send me fishing and drinking.

This doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.

The End.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Well Endowed Men

** I will be in Charlotte, North Carolina this Friday, August 21st.  Anyone in the area is invited to join me at a very happy (!) Happy Hour at Roosters in the South Park area.  I will be arriving there around 4:30 in the afternoon and I may not leave until closing.  : )  If you need more details please email me at [email protected] **

I apologize in advance.  This post on Well Endowed Men ended up being longer than I expected.  <snort!>

As you know, I've had Well Endowed Men (WEM) on my mind lately.

"Why 24?" you ask, so innocently.

Well, it began when I was on the beach in Hawaii.  No, I wasn't checking out all the men walking by.  Well, not overly checking them out.  Instead, I overheard a conversation between two women who were sunbathing next to me on Kaanapali Beach one day.

Mind you, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop.  At least, I wasn't trying to at first.  After awhile I couldn't resist.  One of the women was sharing with her girlfriend how BIG her boyfriend is.  He's not big in the sense of being 6'4" tall and a body builder.  Well, maybe he is.  I'm not sure what his body is like.  She wasn't talking about that kind of bigness.  Apparently, he's very, very, well endowed in the male equipment department. 

Put bluntly, the man's got a big cock. 

I wanted to ask her, "How big is he?" but then she would have known I could hear their conversation.  

I was curious.

We will have to use our imaginations.

This woman, however, was not a satisfied customer of Mr. Big.  She went on for a good twenty minutes about how a) he doesn't even try to please her in the bedroom b) how he expects her to "worship" his LARGENESS and c) she can't possibly please him with a blow job because he's, um, more than a mouthful and blah, blah, blah.  She went on and on nonstop about his SIZE and her issues with it.

By the way, "more than a mouthful" were her words, not mine.

Her comments reinforced the stereotype many people have about Bigger is Not Necessarily Better.  Maybe there are men out there who are extremely well endowed and know how to please their partner, but maybe not.  Extremely big dicks alone do not make a man a good lover.  

What?  Do men think the world should just be grateful for their size?

I decided I should do some research.

Stop laughing. 

I mentioned in Friday's post, I'd like to interview any Well Endowed Men who'd be up for it (so to speak ... ) via email over the weekend.  I also put a Twitter request out for WEM.  In response, two men offered to answer my questions and be a spokesman for Well Endowed Men everywhere.  A huge (how huge?) thank you to OnlyAMan and TheMuskrat for volunteering to put it out there for you.

<snicker>

My interview questions are in bold print.  The men's responses follow.  "O" signifies the response from OnlyAman and "M" signifies the response from The Muskrat.  (Yes, these are their bloggy names.  I don't think M's birth certificate really says The Muskrat on it.)  In some cases I've had to edit their responses ever so slightly.

1. When did you first realize you had more to offer than other men?

O:  My dad would talk about John Holmes and how he was well endowed and then snicker.  He never really came out saying it, but he made sure I knew I needed bigger pants. 

M:  When I was around 12 or so and was smaller than all my peers, my folks took me to an endocrinologist to figure out why and whether I'd ever be 6'3'' like my Dad.  Part of the exam involved looking at my package to see if I'd started puberty or not.  When the doc finished her brief look, walked outside into the hall, and then summoned a couple of the Vanderbilt medical students to, "come see this anomalous penis!" I knew all was well for the young Muskrat.  

2.  Does IT get in the way when you walk?

O:  At first it did .. when playing sports I had to get longer shorts than everyone else on the team.  I noticed when swimming that others would be looking at me 'down there' and I had to get swim shorts with a sturdier material to hide it.  I've had to get a wider cut of pants.  I've gotten used to it.   

M:  Not so much when walking or running as when swimming.  I wear Under Armour boxer briefs, so all is well while terrestrial.  But in the water, the drag coefficient is just horrendous.

<24 stops typing until she can get her laughter under control!>

3.  Do you ever wish you were smaller?

O:  NO!  I don't wish I was smaller - I am happy with how I've been blessed.  : )

M:  Did Einstein ever wish he was dumber?  What the hell kind of question is that? 

4.  There's a stereotype that Well Endowed Men aren't really very good in bed.  Is this true?  (Rumor has it they think just being present in all their BIGNESS is enough and their partner should do all the work.)

O:  At first I did think that.  Then my wife said move and I did.  Now she's happy.  A lot.

M:  That's fucking ridiculous.  I've been asked to pay for surgical removal of permanent smiles before.   

5.  Do you think a well endowed man is more sexual than a smaller man?

O:  No.  I think a smaller man gets the same amount of sex but in proportion.  It may seem like less but it's not.

M:  People with strong legs like to run and jump.  People with strong deductive reasoning skills like to work puzzles.  Guys with giant johnsons like to fuck. 

6.  How big is big?

O:  Think of the guy who built the Empire State building .. and the guy who built the Sears Tower just to be bigger .. and then Donald Trump who is building a bigger tower.  Well, they all have inverted penises that match compensation value of their ego vs. their penis size divided by pi.  Which means they're big douche bags.  I don't know why I'm saying this.  I'm just big ... or so I'm told.  

M: Bun length hot dogs arouse my feelings of sympathy.    

7.  Do you try to please your sexual partners or do you think they should just be grateful for Your Largeness?

O:  I aim to please.  I am not about myself.  I do what I do and that's all I'm going to say about that.

M:  There is no "try."  There is only "do." 

8.  When you're in public do people ever notice and/or stare at your package?

O:  Yes!  Especially when it's wrapped in brown paper and wrapped in string ... Oh wait!  That package!  Yes - this is why I hate going swimming in public and wearing pants that are too tight.

M:  As much as I would like to wear my old highschool wrestling singlet to court, I don't.  I don't wear the type of clothing that would allow people the opportunity to stare.  Most straight men don't.

9.  Do you want them to?

O:  I used to but now I don't care.  My wife notices all the time and she's the only one who matters.

M:  I want them to notice my enormous hands and feet instead. 

10.  What happens if you're too big for your partner?

O:  I was told that sometimes it hurts, but most of the time it's fine.  And that's a quote.

M:  Either, Open up and say 'Ahhhh'! or you're fired.  

11.  What's the BEST thing being well endowed has added to your life?

O:  Everywhere I go a lot of men want autographs signed by my penis.  (Actually, I don't think it's added a lot to my life but my wife sure enjoys it.)

M:  Besides hearing, "Wow, you have a nice dick!" from more than one woman upon introducing it to her?   Knowing I could change my name to Pete Peckler and make some great films. 

12.  What's the WORST thing being well endowed has created/caused in your life?

O:  True story:  I was peeing in a urinal and let go of it and it dipped.  Not fun.

M:  Lawsuits for impersonating Ron Jeremy's likeness.  Until they realize how much handsomer I am (and less hairy). 

Well ....  

I don't think I can add a thing to the answers of these two men.  Also, I don't think I can stop laughing long enough to top anything they've said.  (Why does every sentence sound dirty all of a sudden?  Top them?)

Once again, a monstrous <snicker> thank you to OnlyAMan and TheMuskrat.   

** You can read a follow-up to this post by clicking here. ** 

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Plane

I was already seated when I saw them enter the plane.  They made an unusual threesome.  She was in her mid-forties and clearly a wealthy Orange County woman on her way home from a trip to Chicago.  Her, blatantly spoiled, tween daughter accompanied her.  The tween daughter had diamonds on.  Real diamonds for a (maybe) 12 year old.  The Old Man followed behind them, but it was clear he was traveling with them.  He must have been in his mid-eighties and despite his feebleness he carried with him an air of privilege.  

She stopped at the row of seats behind me.  She told the man seated on the aisle that she'd like him to move so the three of them could sit together.  She pointed to the middle seat next to me and told him he could take it instead.  The man looked at her incredulously and politely refused to give up his assigned aisle seat.  She huffed a few times and then she and her daughter took their seats adjacent to him.

The Old Man was left standing in the aisle.  Suddenly she realized he didn't know where to be seated and she began barking orders at him.  When it became clear he should be seated next to me I got up to allow him in.  He gave me a sheepish smile as he sat down.

I have a weakness for old men.  There is something about an old man that makes my heart turn all soft and squishy.  I wanted to like him.  I knew I would like him.

I was wrong.

Almost immediately The Old Man was leaning into me.  He was not a big man, but his seat alone didn't satisfy him.  He took over the armrest between us and encroached on my minimal leg space.  His body, although frail, seemed to fill at least half of my seat.  I found myself leaning out into the aisle just to escape his touch.

Moments after take-off he fell asleep.  He leaned more heavily against me and there was no escaping him now.  I sighed.  I was exhausted.  I wouldn't mind dozing off myself but now I had The Old Man sleeping on my shoulder.  I didn't have the heart to disturb him.  I knew I would never sleep.  

From behind me I could hear the woman and girl who accompanied him.  They were loud.  Their conversation was shallow.  They typified all the personality traits I don't care for in Orange County and none of the positive ones.

I glanced down at The Old Man and my heart began to pound.  His mouth had fallen open and his face was pale.  He didn't appear to be breathing.

"Omigod he's dead!" I thought.

For a few heart-pounding moments I was convinced of it.  I had a dead man on my shoulder and OhDearGawdWhatDoIDoNow?  

I had a dead man on my shoulder and oddly enough, the lyrics to Funeral for a Friend immediately began running through my head.  

He snorted.  His body jerked.  He snorted again.

He was alive!

It must have taken a good ten minutes for my heart rate to slow back down from the scare.  

I glanced at The Old Man again and to my horror a strand of drool was hanging from his mouth.  It was hanging and it was getting longer as it threatened to eventually reach, or perhaps suddenly drop, onto my clothes.

The Old Man made a gurgling sound deep in his throat and the stream of drool lengthened by a couple more centimeters.

I gagged.  The snorting, the gurgling, and the drool had all become far too much for me.  I tried to focus on something else.  I reminded myself I love old men.  I tried to think about the hottest man I'd seen over the weekend as a distraction.  It didn't work.  I gagged again.

I tried to be gentle (so as not to make the drool fall!) as I gently removed his head from my shoulder and his slouching body from my side.  I pushed him back into his own seat and hoped his body would fall against the man in the window seat.

A moment later he awoke with a start.  He sucked up the drool hanging from his mouth with a loud slurping noise.  I averted my glance because the noises alone threatened to make me puke.  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began blotting at his drool covered chin.

I grimaced.  I stared straight ahead.  I could feel his eyes studying me, but I pretended not to notice.

Fifteen minutes later he was asleep on me again.  This time his head began on my shoulder but gradually slipped down towards my breast.  His hand fell from the armrest onto my lap.  A few more minutes went by and his head fell lower on my chest.  I began to get suspicious.

I noticed The Old Man's breathing was nothing like it had been earlier when he slept.  I began questioning whether he was asleep at all.  Then his hand moved ever so slightly.  It was almost as if it crept in slow motion across my leg.

I glanced at The Old Man's face.  And that is when I saw ... just a glimmer of a smile on his face.

In less than a second I grabbed his hand and thrust it off of me.  I roughly shoved him completely off of me and back into his own seat.  

He gave me a startled and irritated glare.

Now it was my turn to lean into him.  I got right in his face and I said, "Stay in your own seat and don't you dare touch me again!"

He didn't.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Talking Nipples and Uncontainable Boobs

This is SO not my fault.

I know what you're thinking, but when you hear what happened you'll realize the situation was truly beyond my control.

I think maybe my boobs have their very own personality.  What do you think?  Could it be possible?  No matter how I try, they always escape.  My breasts keep making appearances whether or not I give them permission.  My tits are like wayward teenagers with a mind of their own.

I can wear a "real" bra now.  Real is a funny word though.  Six weeks post-reduction surgery it has to be a "soft" bra with no underwire.  Many of you gave me suggestions on bras to try and I bought a few different styles to see what's comfortable.  (My boobs are still tender and a little bruised even now.)  My nipples continue to beam out at everyone in their super bionic state.  

I have turgid nipples.  I've always wanted to write turgid nipples.  Is there any other time when it's appropriate to use the word turgid except with the word nipple?

Remember when I wrote pre-surgery wondering if men would ever look at me again without my DD breasts?  They do.  Only now I'm convinced they look at me because my nipples are waving at them and yelling, "Look at me!  I'm hyper-sensitive and magical!"

Men know nipple language.  They seem to instantly understand exactly what my nipples are saying.  (My nipples talk without my permission, mind you!)  Men are attracted to talking nipples and especially magical ones.

I tried one of my new bras for the first time the other day.  I realized it was much looser than when I bought it.  I had only worn it briefly the day I purchased it.  It was very loose around my rib cage but not in the cup area.  I think the swelling along my ribs is subsiding and I already need a size (or two) smaller bra.  I had a lot to do though, and decided to keep the rather loose bra on for the day.

That was my first mistake.

A couple hours into my day the thought crossed my mind, "This bra is ridiculously loose!"

I didn't stop to really listen to that thought.

That was my second mistake.

An hour or so further into my day I thought, "I may as well not even HAVE a bra on - this thing is worthless!"

Um ... why did the light bulb not go on at that point?

In my defense, I'm totally out of control busy right now.  My cup runneth over with commitments and activities.  My brain is whirring at a million miles an hour and not even in the same stratosphere as my body.  Honestly, I don't know how I'm going to get through the next six weeks because I'm so overbooked.

Among other places, I went to the car wash that day.  The men there?  They were so friendly.  I've never had such great service.  They were fawning over me in an effort to take the very best care of my car.  How often do you have five service men talking to you before your car even starts moving through the big giant car washing tunnel?

I waited for my car to be cleaned in the air conditioned waiting room because we've had quite a heat wave in Orange County recently.  There's nothing like some cool, chilly, air on uber-sensitive nipples, don't ya think?

I glanced down at one point and realized my nipples were ....  Well, my nipples were very present and in attendance.  It's not unusual for that to be the case since my surgery though, so I didn't think twice about it.

That would be mistake number three.

It took one hour for my car to be washed at the Money Town car wash.  One hour is pretty standard there, although I realize it's longer than most car washes.  During that one hour I sat in the air conditined waiting room.  When I got restless I walked around once in awhile looking at the little gifts they offer for purchase.  I also spent a lot of time talking to the very friendly male customers who were also waiting for their cars.  No less than four men struck up conversations while I waited.

Money Town has never been so friendly!

By the time I got back in my car to drive home I was really in a good mood.  I was thinking, "People are so nice!  What a friendly, social time I had at the car wash today!"

I was back at home a few minutes later.  As I walked in the door I again was bothered by the bra moving all around my ribcage.  I decided this particular brand of bra was headed for the trash.

Right then I looked up to see Briefcase staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"You went to the car wash without a bra on?" he queried with one raised eyebrow.

I looked down at my firm and perky new remodeled boobs.  They were very visibly displayed through my see-through white t-shirt.  My brain quickly processed the looseness along my ribs, the lack of support on my tits, the friendliness of both the car wash workers and patrons.

"Oh!" I exclaimed.

I haven't worn a front clasping bra in about a million years.  The clasp had come open and the "cups" of the bra were on the outer side of each breast.  I had been walking around for hours, in essence, braless in a white see-through shirt.

I've since thrown out the spontaneous-unclasping bra.

On the other hand, my car hasn't been this clean since I bought it.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Observations While Under the Influence

Hai ... My name is Suzanne.

I'm the author of Twenty Four At Heart.

I had a spectacular post written for you and my computer ate it when I hit "publish."  It might possibly have eaten my writing because I'm drugged up and hit the wrong button instead of "publish."  

Let's try again, but this time I give up before I've even started.  Did I mention I'm on drugs?

I am.

I'll just go with the flow instead.  Stream of conscience writing so to speak.  My friend Jason does that ... writes in the stream.

I started back at PT this week after five weeks off.  I've put nearly three years of work into regaining use of my arm.  I knew a break would mean a lot of pain when I returned.  I was right.  I'll probably be drugged up a lot for a few weeks as I readjust to my renewed and spectacular levels of pain.  Please be patient with me.

There was more bad news from The Torturer.  It surprised even me.  

In five weeks off I lost fifteen degrees of motion.

I'll just say Fuck and get it over with, okay?

Do you have any idea how hard I fought to get those fifteen degrees of motion in the first place?

The good news is The Torturer is going easy (for him) on me so far.  Which is not to say it doesn't hurt to go to PT, because it does.  However, I know he's capable of hurting me so much more.  It hurts the most in the evening a few hours after he's worked on me.  He's trying to ease me back into being tortured.  He doesn't like me to look at him while he hurts me.  He asks me to turn and look away from him.  I think it makes him feel guilty.  

Who am I kidding?  Hurting me is his fun.

I'm hoping I'll be able to regain the range of motion I've lost at a faster rate than it took the first time around.  Who knows.  I'm mainly trying to block out the whole ugly thought of those fifteen degrees.  I've put the thought of it in the (very large) part of my brain which handles denial.

Did I ever mention I'm an expert at denial?

The Torturer is using a weird laser thing on me.  We both have to wear really ugly sunglasses when he does it to me so the laser doesn't hurt our eyes.  Did I just write when he does it to me?  Is it because I'm on drugs or does that just sound dirty?  

I'll try to remember to take a picture next time so you can see how ridiculous the glasses are.  They don't make me look very sexay!

Sexay!

What a fun word.  Sexay ...

There's a family in Money Town with two daughters.  One is named Mercedes and the other is named Portia (pronounced Porsche).  Two daughters named after luxury vehicles in one family.  I threw up in my mouth just a little bit when I heard their choice of names for their kids.  Is it just me, or is that absolutely obnoxious?

[By the way, I have no problem with either of those names individually.  It's the thought of a Money Town family using both of them together.]  <shudder>

I have a pair of really pretty red shoes!  I thought you should know.

I went to a bocci ball party last weekend.  I arrived late.  I never played with the bocci balls.  I doubt if I could have anyway with my bum arm.  The hostess served Mad Housewife wine.  The wine is so-so, but the bottle is hilarious.  It makes for a great conversation starter at a party.  The back label goes on and on about laundry rooms and cat litter boxes.  The front of the bottle looks like this:

Last night on Twitter there was a huge discussion about whether or not men and women can have purely platonic friendships.  We've had that same discussion here on 24 before.  There were a lot of varying opinions on Twitter.  A lot of women said they have men as platonic friends.  One or two men agreed and said platonic relationships between the sexes are common place.  Some men said of course they can have platonic female friends as long as there is no attraction to the woman.  

One man (@timebandit) said only if the man is gay.  He later amended his answer to say not if it's between 3 and 6 a.m.  

I stand by my original opinion. Men and women can absolutely maintain a platonic friendship right up until the very moment they have sex with each other.

Just kidding.

Ha ha!  I just made myself laugh.

© Twenty Four At Heart

A Bachelor Party Gone Too Far?

I have an interesting story to share with you today and I'm curious as to what your opinion will be.  It's sort of like the recent hit movie The Hangover, except completely different.  I'm also wondering if my male and female readers will vary a lot in how they look at this situation.

This story is absolutely true.  It's also very sensitive so I'm changing the names of everyone involved along with a few inconsequential details.

I have a friendly acquaintance with a woman named Tanya.  Tanya was very excited to become engaged to her long time boyfriend, Dave, about six weeks ago.  Tanya and Dave are about 30 years old and this will be a first marriage for both of them.

Dave has a friend named Mike.  Mike got married three weeks ago to Dawn.  The two couples hang out together a lot.  They're at similar life stages.

Are you following this?  Tanya and Dave just got engaged and Mike and Dawn just got married.

About a week ago Tanya used Dave's digital camera with Dave's permission.  As she was reviewing the photos she took she found some very explicit photos Dave had taken at Mike's bachelor party.  Strippers had been hired and from what Tanya saw things had gone too far.  She was pissed.  

Tanya confronted Dave and demanded he tell her "everything" that happened at Mike's bachelor party.  Dave did.  Dave even told her the part where he went looking for Mike, opened a bedroom door and found Mike having sex with one of the women hired as a stripper.  A few nights prior to his marriage Mike had sex with a whore stripper at his bachelor's party. 

Tanya was disgusted and dismayed by this information.  She and Dave discussed it at length because she felt it was her duty to inform the unsuspecting Dawn of Mike's indiscretion.  Dave was adamant that Tanya stay quiet and not disrupt the three week old marriage of his friend Mike.

By the way, Tanya and Dawn are friends but the primary friendship had always been between the two men.

About a week ago the two couples went out to dinner and a movie as a double date.  During the course of the evening, Tanya found herself talking to Dawn as the two men were immersed in a discussion of sports.  Tanya told Dawn her brand new husband of three weeks had paid a whore stripper to have sex at his bachelor's party.

Dawn waited to confront Mike until later that night when they got home.  Mike lied to Dawn and told her he most definitely had not touched another woman since they began dating.  Mike convinced Dawn that Dave and Tanya have set out to destroy their marriage for some unknown reason.  

Dawn believes her new husband.  

Dawn now hates Tanya for telling lies and trying to destroy her marriage.  Mike now hates Dave for telling Tanya what happened and "causing" all these problems.  The two couples are no longer speaking.

Dave is angry with Tanya for telling Dawn the details of the bachelor's party.  He had forbidden her from sharing the information with Dawn when he disclosed it.

What do you think of this little soap opera?  Who's right and who's wrong?  Is it okay to have sex with a paid whore at a bachelor party since you aren't married yet?  Is it okay to lie to your betrothed about it?  Does it happen all the time at bachelor parties?  

Should Dave have told Tanya?  Should Tanya have kept her mouth shut?  Was she doing the right thing by informing her friend what had happened?  Would you want a friend to tell you if your wife/husband had sex with someone else just days before your wedding.  (Men - reverse the situation - what if a male stripper came to your wife's bachelorette party and she paid him for "one last fling?")

I can't wait to hear everyone's thoughts!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Random Shit

I guess everyone is on vacation.  My readership numbers are really high this week (thank you for visiting!) but comments are low.  Of course, I haven't been writing real exciting comment worthy stuff.  Nonetheless, I'm expecting low readership for the next few days due to the 4th of July holiday.  In honor of no one reading, I'm just going to throw some randomness out into the blogosphere today.  

First up ...  Twitter.  If you've followed me on twitter, please don't be shy.  Make conversation, send me an @ message so I know you're there.  It's hard for me to remember you're out there if I don't hear from you.  If I haven't followed you back, again, please @ or DM me.  I've got around 1,200 followers right now and it isn't that I don't WANT to talk to you - it's just hard to get to everybody if you aren't in my face.  I love getting to know you so please don't be shy!

A woman who had a breast reduction told me she was glad her doc made her nipples smaller because they had previously been so big they were "like slices of bologna."  Yes, I laughed my ass off.

I've heard from a lot of women who have gone through breast reduction surgery and I appreciate all of you for sharing your experiences with me.  For some of you, your hyper-sensitive nipples eventually calmed down but others of you report still having them many years later.

Thank you to everyone who sent me bra recommendations.  I plan to check into every single bra you told me about as soon as I can wear them again.  

I've been into PT twice in the last week for visits.  My first trip was last Saturday when I stopped in for about a half hour.  The Torturer checked out how much I've regressed (a lot) and that was about it.  During the week, he and I tried to negotiate my return.  As in, he wanted me coming back RIGHT NOW BEFORE THERE'S ANY FURTHER REGRESSION and I was thinking I might come back ... NEVER.  He set up appointments for me starting NOW.  

My second trip into PT was to cancel the appointments he made me when he wasn't looking.  He caught me in the act.  I think he was actually expecting me.  I said, "Oh shit!" and he rolled his eyes.  The secretary pleaded not to get involved in our spat and a PT who works there begged me to disrobe and show her my boobs.  All of that in just a short visit.  

We ended up with a compromise, I suppose.  I'll take another week-plus off PT and then return at my 5 week post-surgery date.  In the meantime, I'm doing a few things at home to try and stop any further regression.

The nice ladies who work at PT?  They told me I look like I've lost fifteen pounds.  It made my day week month year.  I probably did lose a few pounds because I barfed my brains out for a week, but I think it's mainly just the fact I'm no longer so top heavy.  A big chest gives the appearance of a bigger body too.  Whatever the reason, it made me feel great!

I went to a bridal shower that lasted over four hours and they served no alcohol.  I also had to wear a dress.  That's really all there is to say about that.

The people at my plastic surgeon's office want to read my blog and I won't tell them the name of it.  They might find it anyway because everyone in the world seems to be finding me lately.  I wish for the days when I was anonymous.  When the office staff at the plastic surgeon's office does find me?  I will regret writing about the thoughts which popped into my head as I was being examined.  Very much so.  

Especially the thought about the doc possibly tasting a nipple.

I went looking for an old wedding photo yesterday and I found a ton of photos from college.  I mentioned this on Twitter and I was asked to post a photo of Big Weenie, my old college boyfriend.  There were a lot of photos of him but to be honest, after nicknaming him Big Weenie, I don't feel I can share them.  You'd all be checking out his package for one thing.  (Not that I care because you're welcome to.)  But also, he now reads 24 and it might inhibit him from ever commenting.  

Not to mention, Briefcase probably wouldn't appreciate it either.

Here's a photo of me though.  It was at my college graduation.  I've cropped Big Weenie out of the photo.  He had traveled from law school to attend my graduation.  He had his arm around me and I was looking up at him.  I was 21 years old.

Sorry it isn't a better quality photo.

If the wind blows my nipples get hard.  Actually, they're always hard now.  I'm thinking of inventing Nipple Tranquilizers.  I could make a fortune and I certainly need them.  One reader suggested I try the breast feeding nipple creams and I just might.  The problem is I'd have to rub the cream in and ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

My Nipples Are Causing Problems

I've got bionic nipples.

It's the weirdest thing.  I went in for breast reduction surgery and I came out with bionic nipples.

My nipples are uber-sensitive.  My nipples have a direct, and very electric, connection to my lady parts.  (Remember when I lost my clit?  Well, no need for alarm, because it's definitely back where it belongs.)

Some of you may think this is a wonderful, positive, development in my life.  Having bionic nipples is tougher than you might think though.  It's not good when you don't have control over your own body.

Especially since, did I mention ... um, I'm not allowed to have sex for several weeks.  Doctors orders.  No sex under any circumstances.   

Let me repeat that, I have bionic nipples and I can't have sex.  Not even with my friend Rabbit.  There are medical reasons for this, but I'm not going to bore you with them.

Now that I'm getting out and about a little, my nipples are causing all sorts of problems.

The other night Briefcase and I went out to dinner at Charlie Palmer with Briefcase's boss, Mr. CEO.  It's very hard to find something to wear to a nice restaurant that looks good with a sports bra and protruding nipples.  Mr. CEO doesn't know about my surgery and, of course, he wanted to hug me.  I've never realized how often people hug in our society until it become painful to do so.

In any case, Mr. CEO leaned in and gave me a hug.  I tried to concave my entire chest so he wouldn't hurt me.  It worked pretty well, except his arm accidentally brushed across my breasts as we moved apart.  Well, I nearly had an orgasm right there, fully dressed, with Mr. CEO and Briefcase dressed in suit and ties.  I bit my lip, fanned myself off a little bit, and tried to distract myself with visions of Mr. CEO firing Briefcase on the spot for having an out of control wife.

Briefcase's eyes met mine and lingered for a few seconds too long.  I'm not sure if he was simply intrigued with what he saw when he looked in my eyes, or if he was scared shitless his boss just gave me an orgasm out in public.

Bionic nipples, combined with no sex for weeks, are really a bad thing.

My biggest fear is that I'll turn into The Moaner.  And dear Gawd, if that happens I'll have to go into hiding.

Last night I attended an Orange County bloggers event.  It was held at the Irvine Spectrum.  This is the second time I've attended a meet-up with these very nice folks.  Several of them read Twenty Four At Heart and they were quite thoughtful in asking how I'm feeling and inquiring about my recovery.  I'm still not feeling 100% so I didn't stay too long, but it was nice to stop by for awhile.

The problem occurred when I went to leave.  I had parked in the Nordstrom lot and walked to the restaurant where we were meeting.  As I returned to my car, I entered Nordstrom with the idea of cutting through the store to the parking lot.  Right as I entered the store, there was a big group of hot, twenty-something men walking out.  I somehow got caught in the middle of their group.

Damn!

And I say that in both a very, very good way ... and also, in a very, very bad way!

As I tried to extract myself from the middle of their group, I got jostled against a couple very (sigh) firm chests.  Did I mention these guys were hot?  As in, I all of a sudden had trouble catching my breath, hawt?  And when one of them admonished his buddy, "Be careful of her!" and tried to help me by reaching across to grab my arm, but in the process brushing against my nipple ... 

Because my nipples are very out there lately, and everyone seems to be brushing against them, did I mention that?

And then ... and then, I positively came undone right there in Nordstroms with all those hot guys surrounding me.  It was nearly too much to handle.

So you can see, this is a problem!

I did talk to someone at the meeting last night who used to work in a plastic surgeon's office.  We discussed this little ... side effect ... some women experience from reduction surgery.  She said things should calm down a little in time.

In the meantime, what do I do?  I can't go into hiding.  Every day that goes by I'm regaining more and more of my strength.  I'm getting back to my real life and real activities.  I'm having nightmares of orgasms at the grocery store.  I'm afraid I'm going to publicly embarrass myself.  

Oh wait, I do that all the time anyway, don't I?  (Publicly embarrass myself, not have orgasms at the grocery store!)

Honestly?  I'd tape my nipples down if I could.  My nipples, however, are still all taped up with surgical tape and I don't dare change anything until I see the doctor again.

What's a girl to do?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Men Vs. Women - Again

Last year I did a series of posts on men, women, and the gender gap between the sexes.  That conversation opened up some very frank sexual discussions on Twenty Four At Heart.  

Those posts were read by Neil Kramer over at Citizen of the Month and through them he and I began to become acquainted in the way blogging people sometimes do.  Now, several months later, I consider Neil a friend although we've yet to meet in person.  Two nights ago Neil began a Twitter conversation and it got me thinking about a lot of those same male/female issues again.

Neil began the whole discussion by saying women understand men better than men understand women.  I commented back that women, in general, are more intuitive with their people skills than most men are.  I added also, men are too caught up with their penises to be developing intuition towards women or some of those same people skills.

Disclaimer:  This whole conversation was based on generalities.  You don't need to tell me about your Uncle Larry who is in touch with his feminine side and has amazing, intuitive, people skills.  Nor do I want to hear about Aunt Imelda who spends all day touching herself in a corner and has no people skills whatsoever.  I realize full well these stereotypes don't always apply.

Generalities, okay?

Let's back up.  Do you agree with the statement women understand men better than men understand women?  Personally, I agree with Neil on this one.  I think women understand men better than men understand women.

Are women more complicated than men?  Maybe.  I don't think I'm complicated in the least.  When asked, Briefcase however, says I am.  He tells me I'm less complicated than many women he's met, but I'm "certainly not simple."

Really?  I had no idea he thought I'm anything but extremely easy to figure out.  In fact, if asked, I'd say I'm transparent.  Hmmm.

Are men too dense or unwilling to figure women out?  Too dense?  I don't think so.  Women spend time trying to understand and anticipate the needs of the people who are important to them.  The men I know (*ahem*) don't give it a thought.  Men, the majority of time, tend to show up and then deal with whatever's on the table.

Do you feel men are the more complicated sex?  Let's be honest here.  Men are pretty easy to please.  Good sex, good food, and lots of ego stroking.  Does it really take much more than that?

Neil went on to contradict himself a few times throughout the evening.  Initially he stated men don't think about naked women all the time.

Stop laughing!  

Of course men don't think about naked women all the time.  There are moments when men think about food or their work.  Wasn't there a study done with results indicating a sexual thought goes through a man's mind approximately every 7 seconds?  Clearly, that leaves 6 seconds for other non-naked thoughts to fill a man's mind.

Neil asked if we (Twitter) thought he'd jump into bed with a woman if he came home and found one in his bed. 

Unless she was absolutely and extremely repugnant (meaning: dead), yes Neil, I do. 

He seemed to imply most men are too romantic to do so.  

Isn't he funny?  I think that's one of the reasons I like Neil so much.  He makes me laugh all the time.  I especially laugh when he makes statements like that.  

Romantic?  

Men?

Theoretically it's possible for a man to be romantic.  In most relationships, once the initial courtship is over, romance is scarce if existent at all.

Then Neil asked me point blank if I, personally, assumed he would be checking me out when we meet in Chicago at BlogHer (writer's convention) in July just because he's a man and I'm not.

I replied no and I meant it.  I certainly don't expect Neil to be checking me out at BlogHer.  

Do I think Neil will be checking out many of the young, hot, mommy bloggers he openly covets while he's there?  Absolutely.  I think it would be physically impossible for him not to.

Next Neil contradicted his earlier statement by asking if it bothers women that men sexualize everything we do.  He asked if women "just accept it."  

Which is it?  Are men not thinking about us naked all the time or are they sexualizing everything we do?

When I enter a room and my now bionic, hyper-sensitive, nipples pucker prominently do the men in the room assume I'm hot for them?  Because, honestly, I'm probably not thinking about those men at all.  In addition, it isn't even crossing my mind they are noticing my boobilicious nipples.  I'm busy thinking about other things.

If I bend over to pick something up, what happens?  Are the men in the room noticing my not-as-firm-as-it-should-be (meaning: jello) ass and thinking about doggy style sex?  Or do they just think, "Oh look, 24 dropped something."

There's a lot of points up for discussion today.  What do you think?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Football and Vaginas Don't Mix

All of you Football Moms out there?  Please don't email me complaining about this post.  I know you exist.  I guess I should have titled this post Football and My Vagina Don't Mix.

OK, now that I've covered that ...

I read somewhere (I can't remember where) that men think vaginas resemble footballs, is that true?  I don't understand the concept at all, but I'm not a man.

Anyway, my youngest son graduated from middle school last Thursday and began high school football yesterday.  He's never played a minute of football before.  He's (maybe) 5'8" and 115 pounds soaking wet and with his cleats on.  In other words, he's very skinny.  He's not exactly a typical football build.

My older son played high school football too, but to be honest Briefcase handled all the details.  I was going through all my car accident surgeries at the time.  If I did handle any of the details, I've forgotten them.  My life was a drugged up haze for a few years.  I went to all of the games, of course, but I don't remember football details.

We're a baseball family.  Both of my boys have played year round baseball since they were toddlers.  I know a lot about baseball.  No, let me clarify that, I know more than most baseball-crazed men do about baseball.  In contrast, I know the basics of football.  I mean, I hope what I know is enough to be considered the basics.  

What I'm really saying is, I don't know much at all about football.

I'm at the two week post-surgery point and I'm getting out of the house now.  I'm supposed to be resting, but let's face it - I'm going stir crazy.  I've been to two movies in as many days.  I drove the football carpool yesterday.  I'm taking it easy.  I'm not moving my arms a lot and I'm not lifting anything, but I'm starting to get out a little.  That's why, yesterday, when PR told me he needed a few things for football I thought I'd take him to the store.

I wanted to get out into the real world again.

I drove to the sporting goods store.  I took my bionic nipples with me.

The shoe department at a sporting goods store is an amazing place.  Do you know there are bazillions of cleats for sale?  I saw some very pretty ones and immediately grabbed them to show to the salesman.  He informed me they were for soccer, not football.  PR also informed me he did not want "pretty" cleats.

Oh.

After that I sat back and let the salesman and PR talk things over.  My eyes glazed over listening to them so I began wandering around.  I won't bore you with the details of high top cleats and low top cleats and screw in thingies on the bottom of cleats vs. molded-on thingies.  (And I use the term "thingies" because I don't know what the proper term is for those thingies on the bottom of cleats.)

By the time they were done, I think I probably bought the most expensive pair of football cleats in Orange County.  I didn't even care, I just wanted to be done with them.  I'm sure the new cleats will insure PR runs very fast, or catches the ball at some big important moment, or smashes someone, or does whatever it is he's supposed to do.

He'll be a star, despite his size, and it will be entirely because of those cleats I bought.

Next, I wandered over to the section of the store where other football stuff is sold.  Like, um, footballs.

I'm pretty sure the high school provides footballs so I didn't buy one.

I looked at helmets, and face masks, and chin straps, and mouth pieces.  Mouth pieces?  Who would buy a piece of artificial mouth?  What is that for?  Is it a replacement in case you're injured and lose a portion of your own mouth while playing?  They were all packaged up so I couldn't get a good look at them.

The store also sold eye shields and eye decals.  

?

Why would you need a decal of an eye for football?

Does it make a player look scary to have extra eyes?

Clearly, I'm not understanding the need for some of these products.

There were shoulder pads and "protective pads."  I thought the protective pads must be for penis protection.

"Oh, like a cup!" I exclaimed.

"Nooooo," stammered the salesman.

Apparently, protective pads are for thighs, forearms, ribs, and other body parts which do not include the penis.

Oh.

What do the players use to protect their penises?

There were gloves and wristbands and something called "shivers."  I never did figure out what a shiver is.  (But I bet it's really cold!)

The store sold cleat covers.  Why would anyone want to cover their cleats?  Maybe because their cleats got the shivers?

There was also something called a wrist coach.  Hmmm.  Under what circumstances would a player need to coach his wrist?  And coach it to do what?

Have you ever heard of spatwrap?  No, I don't know what that is either.  It sounds like a wet ace bandage ... you know, one that has been spat on.

I could go on and on about the plethora of crazy football products, but to be honest I don't know what any of them are or do.

I finally gave up, paid for the cleats, and came home.  I was wiped out from expending all my energy trying to figure out football products.  I think I'll ask Briefcase if he can take care of whatever PR needs next weekend.  

Clearly, it's going to be a long season.

© Twenty Four At Heart

There's Always a Twist

Life is funny sometimes.

Last week I was worried about what I would write about during my surgery recovery.  I knew my life would border on coma-inducing boredom for a few weeks.  My big event each day is taking a shower and smiling at my new (still taped up) boobs in the bathroom mirror as I do so.  Showering exhausts me to the point of needing a nap.  And so goes my recovery ....

I mean, really, what could possibly happen in my always-eventful life if I am just sitting at home day after day?

I just don't think it's possible for me to have a boring life ... or week, for that matter.  Out of the blue, after twenty years of no contact, I got an email from my old college boyfriend this week.  Do any of you remember when I wrote about him (Big Weenie) last March?

Since Big Weenie's initial contact this week we've exchanged a few emails.  I've got to say the whole back-in-touch thing feels surreal.  People from my past live on in my memory as if time has stood still, but now reality has burst my bubble and reminded me I'm not twenty anymore.  For that matter, neither is Big Weenie.

By the way, he's married; I'm married.  

Big Weenie has three kids; I have three kids.

My kids are nearly grown and his are babies.

(For the record, he's older than I am.  I feel a strong need to point that out.)

Big Weenie found me via Facebook.  I opened a facebook account a long time ago, and had never looked at it again.  I simply don't have the time for facebook, twitter, writing 24, and my real life.  Nonetheless, he found me and his email asked, "Want to catch up?"

It's been twenty years ... do you want to catch up?

Inexplicably I felt the urge to laugh and cry at the exact same instant, and yet I don't understand why.

Modern technology is a funny thing, isn't it?  A person's current reality and past can collide in an instant.

I gave Big Weenie a link to Twenty Four At Heart.  The next day I got another email saying he had logged on to 24 and read about my accident.  It had shaken him up quite a bit.

I know a lot of you have had similar experiences.  I've read about people finding lost family members via the Internet.  Some of you have written me emails about reconnecting with old friends and boy/girlfriends after many years of no contact.

I guess I'm looking for feedback today.  Is it a good thing?  Have you had a similar experience?  What are the positives?  What are the negatives?  At what point does it feel normal and stop feeling so surreal.

And, oh yeah, hi Big Weenie!  I hope you still have a sense of humor.  Welcome to Twenty Four At Heart.

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Think I'll Call Him Roid

I began my new gym/arm recovery program this week.

I had an appointment yesterday with my supposed expert in all things related to physical therapy and personal training.  This trainer, is a friend of The Torturer's so they feel quite comfortable discussing me as if I'm not within earshot.

I've named the new guy Roid because he's built and it's hard to believe all that muscle is possible without the help of steroids.

While I was at the gym, there were two different things going on.  There were the real things actually happening at the time, and there were the all the things I was thinking in my head.

For example, I was quite polite and appropriate as I met Roid.  In my head, however, I was thinking, "Holy SHIT!  Is his body for real?"

I was also thinking things like, "He's really hot I need to make sure I don't drool or sweat in front of him."  

Then I started thinking about all the married women in the OC who have affairs with their personal trainers ... and, perhaps, you know ... they have damn good reason after all.

Just kidding Briefcase.

* Ahem *

So anyway ....

Roid is not married.  Roid is quite hot.  Roid is a little bit of a flirt, but overly serious when it is "time to get some work done."  Roid was pretty nice for our first session together, but I get the feeling there's a hard ass in him that will surface very soon.

"I don't want her coddled," said The Torturer.

Pfft!

When has anyone ever coddled me?

My eyes met Roid's (sea green and slightly mesmerizing) and I gave him a look that communicated, in no uncertain terms, what I thought of The Torturer's no coddling statement.  In turn, Roid gave me a slight smile as if he thinks the interaction (antagonism?) between The Torturer and I is amusing.

Amusing?!  

There were all sorts of Money Town people in the gym.  The men were dressed like slobs for the most part.  And really, why shouldn't they be?  They are there to sweat.  The women were a mix.  The hard-body women wore skin tight, sexy, revealing workout clothes.  They almost appear to be in costume with their perky fake boobs and perfectly flat stomachs.  Some of the older women, or less in shape women, were dressed for comfort rather than display.

I, of course, fall into the slob category.  I'm not trying to impress anyone while I'm there and even if was trying, I wouldn't impress anyone anyway.  Although, did I mention Roid has the most interesting green eyes?  And darkish skin, and dark wavy hair ... and ....

What was I saying?

© Twenty Four At Heart

My Dog is Leaking, And My Boobs Saved Me

Thank God we have a brick floor in our house.

Our Chocolate Lab has sprung a leak.  Her name is Mocha, because she's a chocolate lab and we're real original with the dog names ... or maybe not so much.  

Did you notice how she crosses her legs when she's just relaxing and hanging out?  She's so ladylike.  Mocha is the sweetest, most gentle dog you can imagine.  She and PR are best friends.  I've never seen a boy love a dog so much, and I've never seen a dog love a boy so much.

I kept seeing little drops of water on the brick floor yesterday.  I would normally blame my kids for ... I don't know, walking around dripping something, but they weren't home.  Awhile later I found a puddle.  Finding a puddle in your house is never a good sign, not even when it's on an easy to clean up brick floor.

Mocha is six years old and completely house trained.  She never, ever, has accidents and hasn't since the week we brought her home.  Literally, she's leaking.  Liquid is just trailing out of her and besides the ewwww factor, there is also the WTF? factor.

Really, WTF?

It isn't pee (not even slightly yellow), it isn't crap ... it looks just like water and there's no odor.  I can't locate where the leak is coming from other than the back half of her body.  I can't figure out what the leak is either.

Have any of you ever heard of a leaking dog?

Clearly I need to A) Keep her off the carpeted areas of the house and B) Get her to a vet as soon as possible.  Don't ask me how I'm going to pull off a vet visit on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend when every minute of my day is booked, but it's got to happen.

Because?  The dog is leaking!

I don't know what a trip to the vet costs where you live, but here in south OC we're lucky if we get out of the place for $400.  So then, there's that too.

But?  Leaking Dog!

On a positive note, and in totally unrelated news - thank God I have boobs!

I was running late the other day.  I might have been driving just a tad bit fast down a major thoroughfare.  I rounded a bend and said, "Oh shit!" as I slammed on my brakes.  Mr. Officer was right there in the shadows with his handy radar gun.

I think he was waiting for me, ya know what I mean?

Well, it just so happened I was wearing a relatively new shirt that day.  It's kind of a tealish blue and it's really pretty although, in hindsight, I don't think Mr. Officer cared at all what color it was.  And, um, it's very low cut.  I have big boobs.  In fact, I'm thinking about getting them made smaller but I'm a chicken shit so I probably won't.

Tangent:  Why would I get my tits made smaller?  Because they are not helping my arm and shoulder situation in the least ... as my doctor has told me in no uncertain terms repeatedly.  Also?  My entire life people have seen nothing but my boobs.  People talk to my boobs all the time.  They forget there's a me attached to them.  It gets old.

In any case, Mr. Officer came over to my car (now pulled to the side of the road) to say hello.  Very friendly of him, wouldn't you say?

The thing is Mr. Officer had polarized sunglasses on and when he stood next to my window looking in at me I could see perfectly well he was getting an eyeful of cleavage.  I don't think Mr. Officer ever looked anywhere except at my cleavage as a matter of fact.

I told Mr. Officer I was so sorry, and I was just running a little late, and I may have - just possibly - crossed my arms under my breasts as I was talking.  The (purely unintentional!) act of arm crossing just may have possibly created even more cleavage.

The next thing I knew I was being reminded to drive safely and sent on my way without a ticket.

Ladies?  Never, ever, underestimate the power of cleavage!

P.S.  How many people would put a leaking dog and the power of cleavage into the very same post?

© Twenty Four At Heart

An Inappropriate Post About a Man and His Drill

As some of you may remember, I've been working on my house off and on for quite awhile.  After wasting a few years on post-car accident surgeries and misery, I've been trying to get my life back in order.

Quite awhile ago I ordered a plasma stand to hold our TV.  We already had a funky piece of crap stand, but it really needed to be relocated to the local dump.  I was warned when I ordered the new one that it would take a few months to arrive.

It did.

Two weeks ago it was finally delivered.  The night it arrived I asked Briefcase to please put the TV onto the new table/stand.  (Since I'm sort of one-armed and TVs are heavy.)  He looked at the new stand and said, "There are no holes for the wires to go through," and then he sat on the couch to watch ESPN do some very hard work.

The new TV stand has been sitting around with nothing on it for two weeks.  Briefcase is, um, not handy ... to put it as politely as I can.  

I was going to call a handyman to come help me, but the store where I bought the stand said they could send someone out at no charge.

This week I got this message on my home answering machine:

Twenty Four, this is XXXX from XXXX.  James can come out to your house tomorrow afternoon to drill your holes.  <pause>  <giggle>  Oops, I don't think that sounded quite right.

My son, PR, and I?  We laughed till we cried when we heard the message. 

At 2:00 the next day James showed up.  While waiting for him to arrive I procrastinated doing chores by Tweeting:

I've got a man coming to drill my holes any minute now.

Those ladies on Twitter?  They are horny bitches.  If you're a man and in need of some action, I can't recommend Twitter highly enough.  You should especially follow the hos chicks who follow me.

I started getting all sorts of offers from women on Twitter for James before he'd even arrived.  I thwarted their efforts to steal James away to have their holes drilled.  Jeez, they were even offering to pay money for him!

Then the doorbell rang.  By that time, my mind was completely in the gutter.  I couldn't help myself, I immediately checked out his drill.  James had a big drill.

I showed James to my living room so he could drill my holes.  

James looked confused.  James looked deep in thought.  There are times when a woman wants a thinker, but it's never when she's waiting to have her holes drilled.

I sent out a quick tweet:

OK, this is no good. He's confused over what should go in which hole. FAIL.

Shortly after, James started making a lot of noise and I updated Twitter with this information:

Jeez ... he's got a huuuuuuuuuge drill!

James worked fast once he got the hang of it.  Too fast, really.  It's always nice to have a man who takes his time.  It wasn't long at all until James was thanking me (for the opportunity to drill my holes?) and on his way.

I updated all the ladies who were anxiously waiting for news on James with this:

The man with the big drill just left. He was a disappointment.

The whores on Twitter were not surprised.  I got all sorts of comments back saying, "it figures," and "typical."

Apparently, the bigger the drill . . . oftentimes, the bigger the disappointment.

At that point I went back and reread my Twitter stream.  I decided I needed to start being more productive for the day so I sent out my final tweet on the subject:

I'm all sorts of inappropriate today.  How unusual.

Who me?

©  Twenty Four At Heart

I'm Such an Ass

Well, as promised, I'm going to explain my latest flashing incident.  Honestly, I have the worst luck.  Things just happen to me for no good reason at all.  Needless to say, the latest incident was entirely unintentional ...

My regular readers probably have a good sense of my relationship with my physical therapist, The Torturer, but my newer readers may not.  I've known The Torturer for fourteen years.  I've practically lived with him daily for the last three years since my car accident. 

Suffice it to say, The Torturer and I are very comfortable around each other.  It isn't necessarily always a positive thing, but it just is.  

Last Thursday I wore a pair of very casual and comfortable capris into PT.  They looked sort of like this (except they were dark brown):

They look much nicer on this model than they look on me, by the way.

When I'm at PT, I'm tortured in many different manners.  Sometimes I'm lying down on a table.  Sometimes I'm standing.  Sometimes I'm working on gym-type equipment.  Sometimes I'm on a mat on the floor.  The Torturer orders me around from one activity to the next, and for some odd reason (completely foreign to my personality type), I listen to him and do what he says.

Shocking, I know.

I tell you all this so you'll better understand what otherwise might sound odd.

I was standing in front of a floor length wall mirror.  The Torturer stood directly behind me.  He likes mirrors.  

<snort>

The Torturer commanded me to raise my bum arm.  I did to the best of my ability which is entirely pathetic by a normal person's standard.  Then he lifted my right arm the rest of the way for me since I can't do it on my own.  He barked an order at me to keep my arm raised and then slowly lower it on my own.  He let go of my arm.

My arm dropped like a ton of bricks.

He scowled angrily at me and we began the process again.

This is a routine I'm accustom to now.

The Torturer and I toil at this same activity pretty frequently.  Even though he scowls at me like he's really annoyed, I realize he knows perfectly well what's going to happen each and every time we do this exercise.  For some reason, we keep doing it anyway.

I'm sure there's a reason for that?

On Thursday as we went through the standard grind, The Torturer all of a sudden said, "Bend over."

Without hesitating I started to do so and then a light bulb went on as his words really sunk in and I thought, "Bend over?  He wants me to bend over for him?"

<snicker>

Honestly, I was halfway bent over towards the table in front of me before my brain fully processed his request.  Bend over?  Hands on table?  Full length mirror in front of us?  The Torturer behind me?

Gawd, I'm easy ....

I immediately stood straight up and looked at him with both a startled and questioning look in my eyes.

"Why?" I demanded.  "Why do you want me to bend over for you?"

"I think you have a hole in your pants," he answered matter of factly.

My hands immediately flew to my ass.  I turned and looked at my butt in the mirror.  I didn't see a hole.  The pants are fairly new.  They fit, it's not like I'm bursting out of them or something.

"There's no hole," I admonished confidently.

"I saw white," mocked The Torturer.

My eyes widened at the implication.

"My ass is not white," I replied flushing.  "I have a tan ass."

(Because, remember my pre-vacation tanning exploits?  Here and here.)

Now, if I were wearing full coverage Granny Panties the color of my ass would not be up for discussion.  As it so happened, I knew I definitely did not have Granny Panties on under my capris.  

The Torturer grinned at my embarrassment and ordered me to start in again with the arm exercises.

"Raise your arm," he commanded.

I turned and faced the mirror and did as he asked.

He, once again, started lifting my arm for me.

As he did so, he smirked, "Yep, you've got a hole in your pants.  I can see your ass and it's very white."

Clearly his eyes were not on my arm!

I jumped three feet away from him, covered my ass with my hands and glared at the unconcealed mirth in his eyes.

Apparently he thinks he's hilarious.

Clearly, I don't.

Seeing my glare brought a chortle of glee from The Torturer.

"Just a couple loose threads by your back pocket, it's small," he informed me.

My hands ran over my butt.  I couldn't feel a hole.  I figured the only visible ass was the one standing before me, and I was certain he was playing a practical joke on me.

I shrugged dismissively.

"I don't believe a thing he says," I thought to myself.  "He's just messing with me."

I tugged my shirt down in back just in case.

A few minutes later I was on all fours on an exercise mat on the floor with The Torturer beside me barking commands.

This post sounds like some type of weird porn, doesn't it?  

Twenty Four Does PT coming to a theater near you!

Nonetheless, I was on all fours doing all sorts of things for The Torturer.

*Ahem*

An hour or two later I was back at home.

Curious, I went and stood in front of the large mirror in our bathroom.  I turned my back to the mirror, bent forward slightly and glanced over my shoulder to see my reflection in the mirror.

White ass!  Lots and lots of white ass.

It was way worse than "a small hole."

The fabric, literally, had dissolved.  I don't know the proper fabric terms to describe what had happened to my pants, but it was as if the fabric had unwoven and disintegrated.  Instead of having fabric covering my butt, it was as if I had a few threads here and there holding the pants together.  Threadbare ...

And Ass.  White ass to spare.  My prized Ass Tan had faded and become a thing of the past.

I flashed back to being on all fours on the floor mat.  I grimaced at the thought of what that must have looked like to The Torturer.

Blushing profusely, I sent off an immediate text message to The Torturer.  It said something profound like, "OMG!!  You DID see my ass!!"

And then ...

I thought back to the very beginning of this incident.  When he first thought I had a hole in my pants he asked me to bend over for him.

Does anyone have an explanation for that?

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Knew My Life Was Erotic?

I've been a little restless these last two weeks.  My schedule has been busy, but my mind has not been stimulated.  I've been going through some painful turmoil with my arm and the resulting PT, MRI, doctor visits, thirty foot needles, etc. have been time consuming.  Briefcase flew out for a week long trip on Mother's Day.  My kids have been so busy I've barely seen them.

I'm restless.  I'm antsy.  I need ... something.

I downloaded a few highly recommended books to my Kindle.  I consumed them in no time.  I was tired of thinking books.  I decided to download an Erotic Novel.  Technically, I guess it's a Romance Novel but ..?  I don't read trashy novels very often.  Once in awhile I'll read one at the beach when I totally want my brained turned off and my body turned on.  Probably one book per year filled with mindless smut is enough for me.

Now, I'm not going to tell you the name of the book I downloaded so don't ask.  It's supposed to be hot and steamy and rawr!  Instead, I find myself laughing out loud and mentally editing the book as I read it.

In the book the heroine has "two strong sexy men catering to her erotic whims."  First of all, I immediately nicknamed the heroine Ho Ho.  Once I did that, it became very difficult to take her exploits seriously.

Ho Ho has two men wanting to please her.  

How many women really want two men?  I mean in reality, not in fantasy.  Two men to drop their socks on the floor, invite guests over unannounced, bitch about the bills, leave the toilet seat up, and "forget" to mention when their family is coming to visit.  

Hypothetically, of course.

There are a lot of threesomes in this particular book which I wasn't expecting.  Not that I really took any time to form expectations, but I figured it would be a typical romance novel with a man and a woman who overcome obstacles to eventually be together. 

Isn't that the case in just about every heterosexual romance story out there? 

Instead, I'm reading about Ho Ho and her two men.  One of her men is Genius and the other is Hung.  

Stop laughing!

Once in awhile she spends some *time* just with Genius.  They discuss physics while they're getting physical.  <snicker>  Other times she spends *time* just with Hung.  Ho Ho and Hung definitely do not discuss physics together.  Ho Ho and Hung do take a lot of showers together though.  

Showers with very slippery soap as it so happens.  Oh, and there's a conveniently located shelf in the shower at the perfect height for ....

Frequently Ho Ho, Genius, and Hung all get together at the same time.  

I don't think Ho Ho knows that Genius and Hung sneak away together now and then too.

And oh yes, one time Ho Ho snuck off with one of Genius's female staff members too.

This book has something for everyone I suppose.

I just wish I could stop laughing long enough to take it seriously.

Do you ever read romance or erotic novels?  Does anyone have any good recommendations?  Perhaps novels with an actual plot in addition to steamy romance?

© Twenty Four At Heart

When Outsiders Visit Money Town

I live adjacent to Money Town.  Money Town is a gate guarded community.  The guards at the gates are idiots, but they wear a name tag saying GUARD which makes them official.

I share the same Starbucks, grocery, and community stores with the Money Town folks.  For over 15 years my kids played sports in various Money Town sports leagues.  I like to make fun of the more absurd personalities Money Town offers, but the truth of the matter is I take for granted the general essence of Money Town itself.

Last Friday PR had a baseball game at the Money Town Sports Park.  His team was playing against a Money Town Team.  Over the years both of my boys have played many games there.  My car accident, in fact, occurred as I left one day after dropping PR at practice at this very same park.  To this day my stomach clenches in knots from the memory every time I'm there.  I have to take a deep breath each time I leave the park and re-enter the intersection where my life was left shattered right alongside my shoulder.

When PR was 12 we made a parental decision to remove him from Money Town baseball leagues for reasons I won't bore you with today.  Since that time we frequently comment about the fact PR now plays in "normal" leagues with "normal" people instead of surrounded by Money Town's finest.  (I'm pissing Money Town people off as I write this ... I can FEEL it.  To be honest?  It's not the first time!)  

The truth is, most Money Town people are a different breed of people.  They're sort of like their very own civilization.   Heh ...

I'm going to take a short detour here so you'll understand my state of mind at PR's game last Friday.  Earlier in the day I had visited with my surgeon for my MRI results.  I won't go into all the blah, blah, blah about that right now.  However, before I left he did a procedure on me which included inserting a thirty foot (maybe forty foot?) needle through my shoulder joint and injecting me with Shit That Hurts Like Hell.  Then he told me to go home, "take lots of pain meds, ice [my] arm and do nothing but rest and enjoy the drugs for the remainder of the weekend."

I went home and reported my status to Briefcase.  Then I took lots of drugs, had no time for ice or rest, and went to PR's game at the Money Town park high as a kite.  By that, I mean I was really out of my mind and extremely happy (if somewhat confused) on all those drugs.  I'm not used to them anymore because I rarely take them now.  

Really, you know what everyone around here wants?  They all want to watch me high and with no mouth control whatsoever in Money Town.  It's kind of like a train wreck.  You want to look away, but you just ... can't.

Briefcase later told me he looked into the bleachers where I was seated and saw me "holding court" for the other families on PR's team.  He said everyone was in stitches laughing at with me.  I don't really remember much at all.  I only remember snippets over the few hours I was there.  

I might have talked nonstop a lot and laughed even more.

I might have told a few zillion Money Town anecdotes.

I might have thought we were halfway through the game and tied 2-2 when the game was actually over and PR's team had won 5-0.

Someone might have laughed and asked exactly what game I had been at while everyone else was at the game right there in Money Town.  And then just maybe everyone laughed and asked if I'd had a good time at whatever game I'd been to.

When I think back on it I realize how odd Money Town must have seemed to many of those nice, normal families who had never been there before.  One man commented incredulously regarding the enormous homes he'd seen as he drove to the Sports Park.  One man asked if the front yard he'd seen "really belonged to a person" or whether it was a golf course.  (At first I thought he did mean the Money Town golf course, but then I realized he was indeed talking about someone's front yard.)  Several of the women commented on "the fancy cars" and "oh my, the WOMEN here!"

It made me realize how much of my surroundings I don't even see anymore. 

During the game I got up to stretch my legs.  I saw a woman walking in the park and I sent the following out on Twitter:

There's a woman here with fake boobs that are big enough to reach to Chicago.

What I didn't say was that she had on a skin tight tank top that said "Money Town" across her enormous fake boobs.

I found it so tacky ... it would be like having, "I'm Filthy Rich" printed across your chest in any other town.  Classless.

The woman smiled at me.  I stared at her in my drugged stupor.  I was thinking how ridiculous she looked with her enormous chest, her plastic face, her liposuctioned body and her tight Money Town shirt on.  She said hello, and I replied, "hi." She seemed too friendly.  I wondered if she was hitting on me.  She winked.

OMG!  Big Tits was hitting on me!

I went back to the bleachers and reported to one of my friends that Big Tits wanted me.

She winked at me!

Yes, I was THAT drugged.

Because REALLY?  What a rich, plastic Money Town woman wants is not a drugged up poor woman from outside the gates.  (That's how Money People talk ... you're a loser if you're from outside the gates.)

Right after Big Tits hit on me things got busy.  

Briefcase invited 20+ people over to our house after the game without warning me ahead of time.  (I had no food, etc. in the house and ended up ordering pizzas.)  Briefcase did this because in his mind when my doctor says I should do nothing but rest it somehow translates into my wife would love to entertain 20+ unexpected guests tonight when she's in a lot of pain.

It's just another example of the fine communication skills that develop between a couple when they've been married for many years.

It wasn't until around midnight when Briefcase turned to me and said, "Oh, I saw you saying hello to Ms. Bitch today at the park."

"Ms. Bitch?" I asked.

And that's when it hit me.  Big Tits?  Big Tits was actually a bitch woman I've known for six or seven years named Ms. Bitch.  She's had so much plastic surgery done recently I didn't even recognize her.  Would I have recognized her if I hadn't been so drugged up?  I doubt it.  She is only a ghost of her former self.  When she winked and said hello she wasn't hitting on me.  She just wanted me to see the "new" her.

I'm still floored.  How could I not have known?  I mean, just because she had a new face, boobs, stomach, ass and thighs ....

A change of identity like this is commonplace in Money Town.  And yet, I still can't believe Big Tits and Ms. Bitch are the same person.  

© Twenty Four At Heart

Hit on in Money Town

I want to qualify this post right upfront by informing you I'm old, wrinkled, fat, and way past my prime.  

Yesterday I left PT and decided to run through the Money Town grocery store real quickly on my way home.  I had a zillion things to do and I was very preoccupied.  Physically I was at the grocery store, but mentally I was far, far away.

Apparently he saw me as I began shopping, but I was deep in thought and never noticed him at all.

About fifteen minutes into my shopping excursion, as I seriously contemplated the different available sizes of sandwich bags, I heard a man stammer, "Excuse me?"

Startled, I glanced up at a very tall, well built man.  He was not bad looking, but he wasn't a walking GQ guy either.  He was definitely not a Money Town man.  I knew that instantly.  I can spot a Money Town man with my eyes closed.  I can sense a Money Town man in the room before my eyes ever see him.  I expected him to ask me where the Fruit Loops were or something similar as men who are not used to being in grocery stores sometimes do.

He looked at me and didn't speak.  He blushed.  His cheeks flushed, he looked at the ground and then he began stammering nervously.  He was stammering so much it took me a minute to comprehend what he was actually saying.

"I know you're probably married or something like that but I just had to ... I just feel like I have to tell you I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.  You are ... just beautiful."

Stunned, I searched his eyes.  I was looking to see if he was mentally balanced, sincere, insincere, on drugs, or just mentally confused.

Beautiful?

I don't think anyone's told me I'm beautiful in a few bazillion years, and really?  The most beautiful woman he's ever seen?  C'mon, let's get real here!

I was so taken aback I didn't immediately say anything.

I might even have looked behind me to see if quite possibly he was talking to someone else.

All of a sudden he startled me by sticking his hand out at me and announcing, "Hi!  I'm Sam."

Mentally, I immediately dubbed him Stammering Sam.

His nervousness was so apparent I felt very sorry for him.  I shook his hand, did not offer my name, but answered, "Hi Sam, thank you so much.  You made my day."

"I really mean it," he said earnestly.  "I noticed you as soon as you walked in the store.  You're just beautiful."

"Well, that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.  Thank you Sam." 

Stammering Sam was very nervous, and very flustered and at that point he nearly ran away in the opposite direction down the grocery aisle.  I heard him let out a huge sigh as if talking to me had used every ounce of willpower.  I thought to myself it must be hard to be a man and feel pressure to initiate contact with women.

Wait a minute.  It's 2009, isn't it?  What pressure?

That's when I heard Sam say to a male customer further down the aisle, "I just talked to that woman, she's so beautiful," as he pointed at me.

Embarrassed, I pushed my cart around the corner away from Stammering Sam. 

"There must be something mentally wrong with Stammering Sam," I thought.

I continued shopping without incident.  As I was finishing up, I looked up to see Sam coming around the corner of the aisle.  He looked up, saw me, blushed, turned and practically ran away.

I laughed out loud.  His shyness was, admittedly, endearing.

Money Town men aren't shy.  Most Money Town men are cocky, arrogant, and over confident.  I can't imagine a Money Town man blushing, stammering, or even hesitating to talk to a woman.  Money Town men believe women should be honored to talk to them.

I paid for my groceries and pushed my cart through the parking lot towards my car.  All of a sudden a big white pick-up truck pulled up next to me.  (Money Town men most definitely do not drive pick-up trucks!)  I knew before I even glanced over who I would see.

"I'm sorry," Sam stammered shyly.  "I just need to ask you one thing."  

There was a pause.

"If I don't ask, I'll always wonder."

I nodded my head in understanding, but said nothing.

"Are you married?" he asked blushing profusely.

"Yes I am," I answered.  "But again, thank you for the compliments today."

"I had to ask," he explained.  

There was another pause.

"You won't ever see me again.  I promise I won't bother you ... it's just ... you take my breath away."

And then Stammering Sam drove away without another word.

Seriously?  I take his breath away?

I took his breath away and I wasn't even sitting on his stomach?

I'm old, wrinkled, fat, and way past my prime.  

What the hell?  

What's the funniest pick-up line anyone's ever used on you?

© Twenty Four At Heart

He's Horni

Some of you heard me go off on this subject via Twitter last Friday afternoon.  A man named Horni came to visit Twenty Four At Heart and I had a field day with his name.

It really was the greatest thing.  It snapped me right out of my funk.  I mean who on earth doesn't laugh at a man named Horni?

Like most websites, I have a statistics program associated with 24.  It tells me how many visitors I get.  It also tells me what city and country they're from.  It's not completely accurate, but it gives me a general idea of what areas of the world are logging on.  For instance, I only have a few readers in Vietnam, but I have lots in Australia and New Zealand.  

Once in a great while a person's actual name will pop up on my stat program.  This rarely happens, and I think it's a result of the owner setting up their computer incorrectly to start with.  I have no idea who most of you are, and I'm sure you prefer it that way.

(By the way, if you want to get to know me better or for me to get to know you ... leave comments.  My regular commenters often end up becoming my real life friends.)

Anyway, last Friday afternoon I clicked over to my stat program and saw a man named Horni XYZ was logged on from a European country.  Honestly, I have great blogger luck because shit like that just falls in my lap.

I sent out a tweet saying:

Some guy named Horni from XXXX is on my blog right now.  He shouldn't move to the US with that name.  He would need to change it.

Of course I couldn't leave it at that.  No, once I get on a roll there's no stopping me.  I quickly added the following:

And then how would it feel to be Mrs. Horni?  Or if you had to say, "I'm married to Horni over there?"

What followed was a general discussion as to whether everyone on Twitter wanted to get Horni.  I could release his IP address out to the Twitter population and then anyone who was interested in getting Horni could get in touch with him if they wanted.

(For those of you who are paranoid, I would, in reality, never, ever, release anyone's IP address ... but if I ever WAS going to, for sure it would be Horni's.)

Can you imagine being Horni?

What's it really like to be Horni all the time?

"Hi!  I'm Horni."

"Nurse, please get Horni."

"Next time please be louder Horni."

"Raise your hand if you're Horni."

"I woke up Horni."

"I'm Horni and I'm an alcoholic."

And on and on ... and on and on!

If Horni were a regular reader, I wouldn't be writing this post.  And Horni, if you're back here again today I apologize for getting so much joy out of your name.  According to my stat program it was Horni's first visit to Twenty Four At Heart.  My stats also told me he found 24 by googling, "lost her clit."

Horni really is horny.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Hypothetically Speaking

I was going to wrap up St. Lucia today, but I feel a strong need to interrupt previously scheduled programming.  I'll have the St. Lucia finale for you tomorrow unless something earth shattering happens to interfere.

I have a new theory about Money Town women and I just couldn't wait to share.

Let me back up just a little bit.  I took three weeks off of PT.  Gasp!  That's never happened before but The Torturer was off for a week, and then my kids were on spring break for a week, and then I was off to St. Lucia.  I've not been in my normal routine of living at PT and being surrounded by all the bored Money Town women.

I haven't missed them one bit.

At the end of last week, once I returned from my trip, I went in for a much overdue session with The Torturer.  I hate to admit it, but I needed him to work on me because I was in a hell of a lot of pain from skipping so much.

I walked in the door and The Torturer greeted me with a huge hug.  Not more than four seconds later we were fighting.  The Torturer's secretary looked at me with one raised eyebrow and said, "Some things never change - welcome back!"

About fifteen minutes later I was asking one of the techs how The Moaner is.  You remember her, right?  She's the cougar patient who drives to PT in her Porsche then moans as if she's orgasming every time The Torturer touches her.  She can't get enough of him and she definitely got his (and everyone else's) attention with her loud sexual cries.

By the way, The Torturer informed me quite some time ago that The Moaner is "very nice."  

I'm sure he thinks so.  

And maybe she is.  I'm nice when I'm having an orgasm too.

Did I really just type that?

Anyway ...

The tech giggled and confided, "I think The Torturer has started dating The Moaner!"

Disclaimer:  A tech saying The Torturer is dating The Moaner does not necessarily make it fact.  It doesn't necessarily make it false either.  Who knows, but it definitely made me laugh out loud.

Honestly, anyone who can make me laugh out loud while at PT is worth keeping around.

I've also realized if I ever find myself needing a date I'll just start moaning in public.  It's guaranteed to make men come running.  

Flash forward to yesterday when I resumed my normal PT routine.  I walked in and who greeted me with a cheery hello, if not The Moaner herself.  

Maybe she missed me?  Although we've never had a single conversation, I have been in the room as she's moaned loudly and that means we're now practically related.

The Moaner was not there for PT.  No, I think she's done with PT.  She's signed herself up for some exercise classes they offer at PT.  

It's what The Torturer's harem women do.  They don't want to leave when they've recovered from whatever injury first brought them to PT.  They want to be in the vicinity of The Torturer as much as possible.  They sign up for the exercise classes, they wear skimpy workout clothes and they hang around before and after classes trying to get his attention.

It's pathetic.  It's amusing.  It's entertaining to watch.

I don't think he minds at all.  I mean, he's making money off of them, his ego (and whatever else) gets stroked, and he isn't married so ....

But why?

What's with all these Money Town women wanting The Torturer?

I watched The Moaner yesterday as if she were a science experiment I need to study and understand.  

Are you surprised to hear she moans and cries out when she exercises too?  She moans the loudest if The Torturer is in the room, and even louder when he's the one touching her.

At one point I looked at one of the PTs who works there and I said, "Did you hear that?  That was a good one!" and we both burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

My maturity is astounding.  

On the other hand, I doubt if any of you could be in the same room as all that moaning and not laugh too.

Every few minutes (if not seconds) The Moaner was glancing around the room trying to spot The Torturer.  She wasn't very discreet.  Her head was swiveling like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist as she tried to get a glimpse of him.  Really?  He looked the exact same as he did five minutes previous, and he wasn't watching her in return.

I did notice The Torturer could not stop yawning.  I commented on how tired he seemed.  He also mentioned his lower back was sore and I think he even made a comment about a groin pull too.  I'm sure it's just a coincidence and means nothing at all.

In any case, as all this was going on around me I came up with a theory.  I realize the Money Town women are bored to no end with their privileged lives.  I've decided there's definitely more behind their ongoing quest for The Torturer than just boredom though.  

I believe it's called transference.

I think The Torturer, being the boss and in charge at PT is a substitute father figure for these women.  I think they are projecting some weird daddy (Oedipus) complex onto him and therein lies the attraction.  It just seems strange to me that so many of these Money Town women chase after him.  What are they missing in their lives?  Why do they think he's the answer to what they're looking for?  Do rich women have more daddy complexes than the rest of the female population?  Or are rich women just so miserably unhappy they chase after the first man who pays attention to them in any form whatsoever?

What do you think?  Do you have a theory?

© Twenty Four At Heart

A Treatise on Male Sexuality

I was a few months into stumbling my way around the blogosphere when a name kept popping up everywhere I went.  Some guy named Neil was apparently really famous and everyone who was anyone knew who he was.  Except, of course, I was no one and I had no idea who he was.  I went in search of his website and found ... a man writing about his talking penis.  His penis was telling him to do one thing, but he was arguing with it.

What the hell?

This was the famous Neil?

More out of curiosity than anything, I stopped by Neil's site, Citizen of the Month, again.  And then again.  And then again and again.  I'm hooked.  Neil is one of the few writers who can leave me reflecting deeply, make me laugh out loud, and at times make me feel angry or sad ... sometimes all from reading the same post.  I never know what to expect when I visit Neil, but I do know I've never been disappointed.  I am greatly honored and thrilled he agreed to write a guest post for Twenty Four At Heart.  (Except, I think now I OWE him ...!)

Suzanne and I immediately clicked as bloggers because we both have an affinity for writing... uh, posts about sex.   Hey, why not?!   Two weeks ago, she asked me to write my first guest post on this blog.   I was excited by the opportunity, but I procrastinated until the last day, and I know why.  By asking me to be a guest poster while she is on vacation, Suzanne was hoping that I would titillate her readers with an interesting tale of male sexuality gone bad and... 

…uh, maybe now is a good time to discuss another side of male sexuality -- performance anxiety!    You see, men can walk around all day with a hard-on the size of the Chrysler Building, but when they finally get into bed, and their woman rolls on top of them and whispers into their ear, "F**k me, honey.  F**k me like I've never been f**ked before,“ anxiety can set in, and the brain can pressurize into overload, which can have a negative effect on all muscles of the body, including the most important one of all.  I am not talking about the heart.   I am talking about the penis.   Most men assume that after the heart fails, and the soul leaves the body and goes up to heaven, the soul of his penis accompanies him, because, after all, it is called Heaven for a reason, which means he will be using his dick... a lot... hopefully, with the hottest babes from all human history -- like Cleopatra and Lady Godiva.

Hey, you wanted to know how men think about their sexuality, Suzanne.  This is it!

I should also be honest about my blogging persona.   I might write about sex a lot, that doesn't mean I am getting any of it in real life!  I have a theory that those bloggers who write the most about the sex are usually the ones getting THE LEAST.   After all, when someone has been doing the nasty on the living room carpet all night, the last thing this person wants to blog about in the morning is doing the nasty on the living room carpet all night.  What fun is that?  The one who is writing about doing the nasty on the living room carpet all night is usually the person who is sitting on the living room chair watching American Idol and eating a burger from McDonald's, and saying to himself, "What the hell am I doing with my life!  I should be doing the nasty on the living room carpet with some beautiful woman.  Damn it.  And if that isn't going to happen tonight in reality, I might as well BLOG about it like it DID HAPPEN!"

So, don't get the wrong impression about me.   I think about tits and ass all the time FOR A REASON --frustration.  I don't want to spend all my time thinking about tits and ass.  It is the result of me being separated from my wife.  I would MUCH rather be using my mind reading great literature, if only the very mention of Jane Austen didn't make me think about going down on her in the bedroom of her English countryside estate.

I write about sex less to titillate, than to explore my own masculine mind.   I hope that my female readers will get some insights into how men think, and why God deserves some of the blame for turning us into such assholes.   Are we really created in HIS image?   Do you think any man really wants to get an erection in the middle of a crowded Burger King because the two burgers he ordered reminds him of an ex-girlfriend's ass and the way they felt in his hands?  It is torture!

I used to think it was wrong that Orthodox Jews separated the sexes during religious services.  Now I can understand the reasoning.  If you are truly trying to pray, having a sexy woman next to you is too much of a distraction.   Sexy woman always trumps God. 

One of the things I like about blogging is that it gives me a better understanding of the opposite sex.  Suzanne is a perfect example of a blogger who is brave enough to write about her sexual mind.  I don’t find it salacious.  It gives me insights into women.  I hope she is learning something from me.  

One thing I hope women can learn from male bloggers is that we are more complex than you imagine.   We don’t think with our penis all the time.   Male sexuality is complicated.  Men get confused because we get conflicting messages from our culture and from women themselves.    Images of sexuality distort our minds, especially pornography, as I once wrote about in this post. 

http://www.citizenofthemonth.com/2008/07/01/a-critical-look-at-this-porno-clip/

Recently, I tried a writing experiment.  I wrote my blog post as a woman, a senior citizen, and imagined what she would think about when she saw a younger man masturbating in a shower stall. 

http://www.citizenofthemonth.com/2009/03/12/the-canasta-group-of-boca-raton/

I asked my readers if the piece sounded like it was written by a woman, because I spent a good amount of time trying to capture the "voice" of a woman.  After I published it, every single woman told me that it was CLEARLY written by a man -- for one simple reason.  There was too much attention given to the man's penis!

"Women do not obsess over a man's cock like that.  That is what men do!" wrote a female blogger.

I still have a lot to learn about women.

On the Home Front - Marital Peeves

Who works harder in your house?  You?  Or you?  Because let's face it, without question you work the hardest.

Briefcase and I are having a little competition  war  spat right now, can you tell?

After several centuries of marriage, I've come to the conclusion Briefcase has a piece of cake life while I'm no more than an unappreciated slave or, perhaps, taken for granted live-in help.  I picture myself kind of like Cinderella without the pumpkin or glass slipper. 

Are your eyes welling up with sympathetic tears yet?  Can you hear the violins playing in the background?  

In any case, I toil away at tedious chores hour after hour.  My life is all about striving for a slight reduction in the overwhelming pile of perpetual laundry which grows out of our laundry room floor.  Not to mention all the other crap I do to the best of my one-armed ability.  And trust me, I do a lot of other crap.

In fact, just last week I had a garage full of crap, remember?

Briefcase was gone for that Home Disaster. I guess in his mind, it never happened.

Briefcase is confident I'm a slacker.  

S-L-A-C-K-E-R! 

I don't know what he thinks I do all day, but it must have something to do with bon bons and big hunky men.  (In reality, I'm dealing with lots of shit all day long!)  

It's also his perception he's at death's door from working so hard.  I concede the man works hard at his career Monday through Friday.  

You know, from 8 a.m. until maybe 4 or 5 or 6 p.m. 

(I can hear him swearing right now, can't you?)

The problem is, I don't get the evenings or weekends off ... why should he?  

Are you a honeymooner?  If you are you should print out this post and re-read it when you've been married for centuries.  It will mean so much more to you then.

Briefcase thinks he works the hardest because he's "got to make a presentation to the Board of Directors next week!"

OK, right there he loses and I win.

Board of Directors, Lord of Protectors ... eh, who cares?

He told me this after staying in his robe until noon on Saturday.  He was reading the paper, drinking coffee and eating the french toast I made him for breakfast.  The french toast I started making while he was still sleeping (nevermind I never had a minute to read the newspaper).  

I didn't get much sleep myself, because I married a buzz saw snorer.  No sleep makes for a cranky wife.

Let's be honest, if I could sleep in as late as Briefcase does on the weekends, stay in my robe until noon, and have someone prepare me french toast for breakfast I would really be loving life.

As Briefcase was still mulling over the paper and drinking coffee I was out the door running errands.  After, of course, throwing in a load of laundry.  I returned home just after 12:00 to find him still in his robe, now playing on the computer.

(Briefcase had cleaned up the dishes from his morning french toast ... which has been our marital arrangement for as many centuries as we've been married.  I cook; he does dishes when he's home.  He's not home much during the week.)

I put in another load of laundry, and pulled out an assortment of food for the kids.  Then I left again to finish up a few more errands. 

My life?  Is  ** exciting ** !! 

Stop yawning!

I returned home, changed the laundry yet again, and began chopping up vegetables and doing a lot of other prep work in our kitchen for a big family dinner we had planned.  

Around 2:00 in the afternoon Briefcase went out for a run with our retrievers to get some exercise.  I was still working in the kitchen.

Did I have a spare minute to get some exercise?  No, I did not.

Briefcase returned from his run (hard work!) and turned on ESPN.  He started yelling at the TV because apparently the Angels are not living up to their potential as a baseball team.  Yelling at the TV to make the Angels improve their bullpen is, without question, hard work.  I think he had to drink a beer as a result of all that yelling at the TV.

I gave the dogs more water because they drank the entire contents of their bowl after running.  I went to the laundry room and started another load of laundry. It was right about then I commented, "I've got so much I need to get done in the next day or two."

Briefcase threw his hands up in the air in exasperation as if to say, "Well, get to it ...! What have you been doing all day?!"

I almost lost my shit.

(!!!)

It was one of those marital moments.

Don't men even see what's happening around them?  Or does all that sitting on the couch watching ESPN blind them to what's going on in their surroundings?

I gave Briefcase The Marital Glare which means, "If you're smart, you won't say one more word right now or my head will explode all over the room and you'll be left to clean up the mess."

Briefcase is not fond of cleaning up messes and he particularly hates it when my head explodes.  He wandered outside and started watering our outdoor potted plants.  It was 4:30 in the afternoon at the time and, in my opinion, a nice hour for him to start thinking about making a contribution for the day.  Breathing doesn't count.  (Putting your own dishes in the dishwasher doesn't count.)

Ten minutes later Briefcase wandered back in and took a shower.  At 5 p.m. he announced his new glasses needed to be picked up.  He left to go get them and returned in time for a cocktail just prior to dinner.

Dinner, by the way, was a feast.  TR was home Saturday night but needed to leave the next day.  It was an early Easter dinner for our family.  I made a roast leg of lamb, a homemade mint sauce to accompany it, new potatoes, green beans in a butter lemon sauce and I concluded dinner with homemade strawberry shortcake for dessert.

After dinner I did more laundry.  Oh yes, I did.  I never stop doing laundry.

I suggested to Briefcase I would be happy to give a fifteen minute presentation to his Board of Directors next week.  I'm quite sure I'd do well and I think The Board would really like me.  How could they not?  I make a mean roast lamb and I'd be happy to bring some to the meeting.

I reminded Briefcase I have a lot of corporate experience.  I admit, I've been busy recovering from a car accident and doing laundry for several years quite awhile, but I'm sure it will come right back to me.

I think that might have been when Briefcase gave me The Marital Glare.

** We did NOT have wild, passionate, sex later the same evening! **

How do you divide chores in your family?  Who does the most work?  Do you ever feel cheated out of "me" time?  In a heterosexual marriage do you think the man or woman puts in more hours working each day?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Women Want Funny Men; Men Want Women

I get CNN articles delivered to my Google Reader.  Yesterday CNN had an article, Why Funny Guys Get the Babes, about women preferring funny men over boring ones.  Well, the article didn't call the non-funny men boring but let's face it, if you don't have a sense of humor you're a bore.

At least, to me.

Women apparently rated funny men as more intelligent and honest than non-funny men. Intelligence and honesty are qualities women find important in long term relationships as well as friendships.  Being funny takes intelligence.  Thus, funny men are more attractive, and more sought after by women than non-funny men.  That's the Twenty Four At Heart summary of the article in a nutshell.

Well, except for one thing.  Men, apparently, don't care if their women are funny.  Men only care that their women be women.  That's right, a woman just needs to have a vagina and a man is happy.

OK, so perhaps I'm paraphrasing a little ... but let's go with it.

The article said, "research suggests that men don't care much about women's sense of humor."  

Can I add ... "as long as she's got big tits and/or a tight ass."

As I mentioned a minute ago, I'm paraphrasing a little.

Men are also, according to the article, a little narcissistic.

"A man wants a woman who laughs at his jokes and is not too bothered if his girl isn't funny at all," the article said.

Would that be the infamous Male Ego rearing it's very big head?  

[Insert joke about big male heads <here>. ] 

Is it true that men don't care if a lump of a personality sits next to them as long as that lump laughs at their jokes?

The article did say when women are very funny, to the point of illiciting laughter (instead of just a smile or a chuckle I suppose), they are viewed as favorably as funny men are. But by whom?  By other women?  Or by men?  Or by both?

I know I, personally, have a high regard for both intelligence and a sense of humor. Both characteristics were mandatory for men I dated in my pre-Briefcase days.  When I look at the male friends who are important in my life, they all make me laugh.  However, the female friends I value the most are women with a great sense of humor also.

Life is short, I want friends I can laugh with.  Which is not to say, there's always a lot to laugh about.  When I look back at the worst parts of my accident recovery (days when I could barely inhale because the pain was so severe) there were people even then who could make me smile.  Isn't that how we get through the worst life has to offer?  By searching high and low to find the humor in our lives?

I'd like to hear from both men and women on this one.  How important is a sense of humor in a mate to you?  How about in your friendships?  Does gender really matter?  Is it true men don't care whether or not their women are funny?

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Day I Lost My Clitoris

The strangest thing happened last week.  I lost my clitoris.  

No, really I did.  

It went missing and I was in full blown panic trying to find where it went.

I suppose I should start at the beginning?

Briefcase was being all ....  Well, you know, one day.  

Obvious about his intentions, I guess you could say.  

He was giving me the *wink* when he looked at me and grabbing my ass when I walked by and making suggestive comments that men think are sexy.  (Which, by the way, AREN'T!)

Why don't men understand what's sexy to them is not sexy to women?  Pumping their fist up and down making jerk-off motions with a goofy grin on their face does not turn us on.

Nonetheless, I tried to mentally gear up for a romp.  

Nothing.  

I just couldn't get in the mood.  Something is very, very, wrong when I'm not in the mood.

Later that evening, Briefcase and I were doing the horizontal when I interrupted The Main Event to say, "I think I've lost my clitoris!"

"What the hell?" he asked.

(I really didn't think anything I do or say could possibly surprise him after all these years, but I guess I was wrong.)

"My clit has gone missing," I announced emphatically.

He promptly went looking for it.

No clit.  It was gone.  MIA.  Disappeared!  Poof!

I decided to roll over and go to sleep.  I mean, what's the point of sex without a clitoris?

Well, Briefcase didn't think that was a good idea, at all.

"You need to find your clitoris," he announced, "And I really think you should find it now!"

"Did you check my vagina," I asked?  "Maybe it went in there to hide."

"I checked," Briefcase answered sounding hurt.  "Did you not even notice?  It's not there."

I spent the next two hours searching the house and I couldn't find it.  I looked under the mattress, behind my pillow, in the button drawer, out in the garage and even in the refrigerator.  (Which, by the way, would be so brrrrrrrrrrr!)

No clit.

Finally, much to Briefcase's chagrin, I fell asleep without it.

The next day I started to panic.  My clitoris had not returned on its own overnight.  I went searching in the sex toy drawer, but my clit was not there.  I thought I would just get near the sex toys and it would come running back, but no such luck.

My heart began racing.  What would happen if my clit never returned?

I called one of my good friends, Diane, to ask if she'd seen it.

"I most certainly have never seen your clitoris," she replied.  Then she paused and added, "Maybe it met up with mine.  Mine has been missing for the last five years."

"Five YEARS?!" I screeched.

"Menopause," she acknowledged sadly.

My mind raced.  I'm too young for menopause.  I mean, aren't I?  There are always aberrations though.  What if my clitoris went missing for the next five years?  Or maybe even for forever?  I was becoming increasingly agitated at the thought.

I called Briefcase at work.  He was in a meeting, but I told his secretary it was very urgent. Briefcase picked up the phone a minute later.

"Diane's clitoris has been missing for FIVE YEARS!" I announced upon hearing his voice. 

"What did you just say?" he asked even though I knew he had heard me perfectly well.

"Diane lost her clit FIVE YEARS AGO!" I said increasingly alarmed.

"Oh my God, poor Jeff!" said Briefcase sounding distraught.

"Jeff?  JEFF?  You're worried about Jeff when Diane doesn't have a clitoris?" I asked.

"Twenty Four I'm in a meeting with my CEO right now, we will have to talk about Diane's clitoris later," Briefcase said and then he promptly hung up on me.

(Do you find it at all odd that we were planning to have a discussion about Diane's missing clitoris when Briefcase got home from work?)

Also, there was a disaster of a Clitoris Crisis going on and he hung up on me?  What the hell?  Where are the man's priorities?

I spent the remainder of the day anxious about my missing clitoris.  I looked everywhere for it, but alas, my clit was nowhere to be found.  Eventually, later that night, I fell into a deep but restless sleep.  I dreamed of sex.  Wild, hot, intense sex.  I woke up to find Briefcase touching me and wonders of all wonders ... my clit had returned sometime while I slept.

And that's my ** Happy Ending **

© Twenty Four At Heart

Breaking Up is Hard to Do - The Story of Big Weenies and More

I dated the same guy through most of college and for a year or so after.  For the sake of today's post let's call him Big Weenie.  On occasion Big Weenie and I would break-up and date others, but for over five years he was pretty much the man in my life.  (And yes, it makes me cringe now to think I wasted all my college years on ONE person!)

Although?  Big Weenie.

Nonetheless, at the time Big Weenie and I were close and we got to know each other's families quite well.  His family took me along on vacations and my family took him on trips too.  I think a lot of people figured Big Weenie and I were destined to end up married someday.

Alas, it was not meant to be.  My feelings changed significantly once I got involved in my career.  I was living in my own apartment, supporting myself, trying to climb the corporate ladder and suddenly ... I didn't feel the same.  Big Weenie was busy with law school and still in student mode and we drifted apart. 

Eventually, Big Weenie and I broke up. 

I moved on.

Shortly after, I began dating someone new.  (No, not Briefcase ... he came along later in my life.)  Big Weenie would still call and sometimes we would meet "just for coffee" or "just to talk" but our lives were separating more and more.  I became quite infatuated with Mr. Electric.  We had electric (hot, magnetic, amazing, sweltering!) chemistry together.

At the time this was all taking place, I temporarily lived in Sacramento.  I had a favorite, very authentic, Chinese restaurant I loved near my apartment.  One night I suggested to Mr. Electric he would also love the food there and we decided to stop in for dinner. 

We walked into the very tiny, one room, restaurant and the hostess pointed us to a table.  To my surprise, and embarrassment, Big Weenie's family was seated at the next table.  The entire Weenie family was apparently in town visiting.

Can you say awkward?

I said hello to everyone.  The Weenie parents were confused and thought I'd been invited to join them and chosen to bring along a "friend."  My new flame, Mr. Electric, looked puzzled and then gradually the realization of who these people were began to sink in.

After saying hello to everyone and explaining to the confused Weenie parents that no, sorry we won't be able to join you tonight I announced, "We were just leaving."

Never mind that we had just arrived.

I grabbed Mr. Electric's arm and we turned and walked right back out of that restaurant.

It's a scene I've never forgotten. 

I think a tear might have dripped out of Big Weenie.

** Ahem **

Maybe that didn't sound quite how I intended it? 

It's a scene that was brought back to me in vivid detail recently.  My daughter was home from college a few weeks ago.  We decided to take our family, and her new boyfriend, out to dinner.  We walked into a restaurant and were seated at the table next to her high school boyfriend of three years and his family.   She broke up with Boyfriend #1 a few months back.

Boyfriend #1 used to practically live at our house for the three years they dated. He is far from over her.  He followed her to the same college.  He's renting a house only a few buildings down from hers.  Everyone who knows him has told us he "can't" get over her. When she broke up with him, he reacted in anger and quite honestly it got a little scary for a brief period until he seemed to collect himself.  They run into each other at college once in awhile, but not often.

As in my situation, our families had become friends too.  We greeted each other with hellos and hugs and then sat back at our separate tables right next to each other.  It was made more awkward by the fact that Boyfriend #1 is so dejected.  My heart went out to him.  How terrible to have to sit through a meal and watch the love of your life at the next table with your replacement?

Gah!

Later, after we left for the evening, we realized something even worse.  It had been Boyfriend #1's birthday.  He was out with his family for his birthday dinner celebration when we arrived.

How terrible is that?  We ruined his 20th birthday.  

I can't get over the pain in his eyes.  I can't get over the tremor in his voice when he hugged me and told me he misses our family.  I know everyone gets their heart broken eventually, but it doesn't make me feel any better for the poor guy.

Have you been in a situation like this too?  What's the most awkward new flame/old flame situation you've found yourself in?

** As an addendum to this post.  I've decided to leave the anonymous comment entered this morning calling me a California whore.  Initially I was going to delete it, but I figure you should have the opportunity to witness the negative side of Internet writing too.  Still wondering how a California whore is different from a Florida whore though.  What do you think?  **

©  Twenty Four At Heart

I Love You Guys, But ...

I haven't done this for quite awhile, but I'm short on writing time this week so I'm going to share with you some recent Internet searches which have brought people here for a visit.  I'll be honest, I haven't even looked at search requests for a long time.  They never fail to surprise and amuse me though.  I usually post things like this on Fridays when traffic is light ... but oh well!  Hope this brings a smile to your day.

Actual searches are in bold print, my responses are in standard print.

My husband is against it but I like to wear the shortest shorts possible  Heh ... I know you! You're Short Shorts, right?  We go to the same physical therapist!

Why are my boobs so big?  Are you pregnant?

How many men suffer from whiskey dick?  How many men drink?

What clothes do wives in the OC wear?  It's a little embarrassing, but right now I'm wearing brown sweat pants, an old black t-shirt, no makeup, and no shoes.  Impressed?

I'm offended by sex toys  I promise not to send you any.

Are DD boobs big for a sixth grader?  DD boobs are big for anyone.

Smart ass responses  You've come to the right place.

Naked women in the wilderness  How many?  Where?

Naked men standing side by side  How many?  Where?

I'm scared.  Do you get a phone call if you have an abnormal mammogram?  Yes, yes, you do.  And it is scary, but most of the time it doesn't mean you have cancer.

A housewife in jeans is tempting for a repairman  Well, thank GAWD I'm wearing sweats today then.  

How do I have sex with a toxic man?  A better question is why do you have sex with a toxic man?

I'm pointing my boob at you  Well, I'm very flattered.  Thank you.  I like boobs.

Your such a bitch  Well, I do have my moments.  Now, go learn how to spell you're.

My husband was an asshole on Valentines Day  Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Fuck cupid let's kick his ass  First you have to catch him.

She's lubricated  Congratulations!  Why are you googling instead of enjoying her?

Back pain causing dick to soften during sex?  Well, we wouldn't want that now would we?  I'm a big fan of hard dicks.

Why does he always make sexual references in front of me?  He's a man.  It's what they do.

How many countries have porta-potties?  Who cares?

I superglued my foot to the floor.  What do I do?  Hee hee!  

I'm really white.  What would happen if I went tanning?  It's called a sunburn and it hurts.

Found mothers vibrator and tried it  Ok, wrong, wrong, wrong!  Ew!

I woke up looking ugly  Me too, it happens.

Can stubbing toe effect pelvis?  I see another one of The Torturer's harem girls has shown up!

I found my wife naked with the neighbors in their pool  I honestly don't know what to say to this one.

I saw my neighbors wife naked  Congratulations!

Are we getting further apart and losing our friendship?  I've been really busy lately, I'm sorry!

I'm a bitch since going off my antidepressants  Maybe you should go back on them?

Awful plastic surgery looks like cyclops!  Oh ... I'm so sorry.  (hee hee!)

I want to have sex on a raft in a pool  Be careful not to fall off the raft.  It kind of ruins the moment.

How do pancake boobs happen?  It's called a mammogram.

Short shorts! butt cheeks!  I know, I see her at PT on a regular basis.

Does a true friend hurt a friends feelings?  Yes.  Not on purpose, but it happens all the time.

Aren't boobs great?  Yes, they're fantastic!

I drank too much coffee and now I talk too fast  Really?  You googled this?  It will wear off in a little while.  Next time monitor your caffeine intake.

I saw a guy and girl having sex in the bleachers at a baseball game  Lucky for them!

I can't talk to him without him taking it as a sexual innuendo  Maybe he's not getting enough sex.  Also?  He's a man.

How do you grab a girls boob correctly?  Are you a 10 year old boy?  A 40 year old man?  First of all, never grab!  Girls/women don't like it.  You can touch, caress, squeeze (softly), play with nipples, lick, suck and taste but don't grab unless she asks you to.  

I want to have sex with twenty four at heart  Um, ahem ... we haven't even had a first date yet!  And?  I'm married.  But thank you for your interest.  You might want to stay away from Briefcase though.  I don't think he'd be inclined to appreciate your google search.

©  Twenty Four At Heart

Someone Needs to Lock Up the Pervs and Throw Away the Keys

I'm pissed off.  I'm outraged.  I've had enough and I'm not going to take it anymore.

At the same time, I feel helpless to do anything.  How can I change a system that's broken?  Really, what can we do when we see a failing system of justice?

My daughter TR is in college and currently lives in an apartment with six other girls.  At the college she attends, the majority of students live off campus in apartments.  

TR called last Friday and she was upset.  She told me her landlord-to-be was arrested. He was arrested for hiding cameras in the apartments he rents. He was taking pictures and filming girls naked and/or having sex.  Charges are being pressed.  He's very wealthy.  He has lawyers up the gazoo to drag out the legal process.  In the end, everyone expects he will pay a fine and go right on "managing" the apartments he owns.

The Perv will walk away with a slap on the wrist.

In a rush of emotion, TR spilled out more and more details.  I went into "mother mode" and listened and reacted calmly, matter of factly.  TR is a lot like me (emotional) and she was outraged, insulted, and livid.  I was too, of course, but I tried to be a calming influence.

Stop laughing.  I can be a calming influence.  Sometimes.

Let me share with you The Perv's alleged background.  I learned a lot about The Perv last week.   The Perv apparently was a student in this same town a few decades ago.  Rumor has it, he and a friend sold drugs to other college students and made a fortune.  They dropped out of college and used their drug money to buy the majority of prime real estate in the college town.  They pretty much have a monopoly on all the "good" apartments. 

When TR and her roommates went to meet with The Perv about renting an apartment he informed them he "prefers" to rent to girls "because girls are less destructive than boys." TR and I thought nothing of his remark at the time.

Because, hello?  College boys? 

TR has signed a one year lease to rent from him, beginning this June, for the next school year.  Please don't suggest she find somewhere else to live - all the housing for next school year was booked by mid-January.

As I talked to her, TR brought forth other details she "hadn't wanted to worry" me with before.  She had heard rumors about The Perv being "a little sketchy" around the college girls.  She hadn't known if they were rumors or fact. 

I talked to her about checking all the bedrooms and bathrooms in the new apartment before she moves in for hidden cameras.  She informed me the recently discovered cameras were supposedly added later when The Perv came in and out to make "repairs" on various apartments.  

Apparently the local news stations have gotten wind of the story. The Perv is being publicly shamed.  TR, herself, is an editor of the university newspaper.  Trust me, there will not be a single female student unaware of The Perv and what he's done.

Which is not to say he won't do it again.

Although I did not say it out loud to TR, one thought keeps running through my head.

The Internet.

How much do you want to bet The Perv is not just getting off himself, but also making money by selling the pictures to porn sites?  For that matter, he might own a few porn sites of his own.  

Shudder.   

© Twenty Four At Heart

Infidelity

I know this subject has come up before, but I feel like I need to "write this off my chest."

Everywhere I go lately, I hear story after story of affairs.  Maybe it's because I'm now (gulp) in my forties, but I haven't ever encountered the sheer numbers of unfaithful individuals I seem to now.  It would be easy to dismiss it as an Orange County phenomenon but I don't think that's the case.  Yes, there are an abundance of people in the OC with no morals or values, but I don't think it's much different than many other metropolitan areas.

What never ceases to amaze me is how people rationalize their infidelity.  They, or their partner, are "having marital problems" so the rules don't apply?  I know a long term marriage is not easy and has its ups and downs.  I know all marriages don't, and shouldn't, last. 

I've been married a very long time.  

I know there are times when it's not easy.

In fact, I know there are times when it's just damn hard.

But really?  Who ever said when the going gets tough, it's time to start screwing around? If the marriage is over, why not end it before getting involved with someone else?  I'm not a prude, I understand temptation and lust.  I'm not the morality police ....  I'm just an observer.

I've found myself surrounded by two situations recently and they both hurt my heart.  I'm only going to write about one today.  The two situations are really fairly similar anyway. They have varying details, but they have a lot in common.

A female long-term friend of mine has had a flirtatious "friendship" for years with a man who is not her husband.  Over the last year, as her marriage has become stressful, she has turned to this male friend more and more.  Their relationship crossed the line from an emotional affair to a physical one.  Very recently she has left her husband and immersed herself in the new relationship.

She is emotional and raw from her marital turmoil, but thinks throwing herself immediately into another relationship will be the cure.  I'm sure it's a boost to her self esteem to feel wanted ... but does she really feel her rebound relationship is the answer to her life?  To me, it seems clear she is just seeking security because she's afraid of being alone.   

I don't want to go into the details, but for many reasons this is (in my very humble opinion) the last thing she needs right now.

What about her new "boyfriend?"  Doesn't he see red flags all over the place?  Doesn't he see that his presence is more about assuaging her emotions than it is about him?  Or does he rationalize all this information away?  Are men just happy if they're getting sex?

That was a ridiculous question, wasn't it?

This situation is hurting my heart.  It's painful to watch.  It's painful to hear her talk about it.  It's hard to keep my mouth shut when I want to cry out, "Stop!  You're making a terrible choice and it will cause you a lot of pain down the road."

It's to the point where I can't be around my friend right now.  She hasn't asked for, and doesn't want, my advice.  She can't see anything but her own emotional need to run from one man to another.  My heart hurts because I'm watching a train wreck in the making. It's become easier to walk away than watch.

When it's over ... and I know it will be eventually, I'll be there for my friend if she needs me.  Right now, I can't be.  It's too painful.  I feel like I'm mourning our friendship because I've had to walk away from it.

Have you ever stood by and watched a friend make terrible choices?  What did you do? Did your friendship survive?

Let's Talk About Driving

I received a lot of questions about yesterday's beach post.  I'm not going to answer most of them, because sometimes it's just a good thing to wonder.  And yes, I did get an email from a group on the far right trying to "save" me as a result of publishing it.  

I like to mix things up once in awhile.  It would get boring if you knew what to expect every day when you come to visit.  Did I wake you up yesterday?  Based on the comments and emails, I think maybe I did.

Today I'd like to open up another gender discussion.  I want to discuss men and their bad driving habits.  

More specifically, I'm going to make the claim that women are better drivers than men.  (I can't wait to see the hate mail I get on this one.)

For the record, I've only gotten one ticket ever and it was shortly after I learned to drive. I was speeding on my way to visit my boyfriend.  Love is urgent when you're a teen. I've been involved in one accident and the other driver admitted fault.  He was an asshat and he was speeding and he ran a stop sign.

I know there are stereotypes about women drivers, but they were created by men.  In the case of the women I know, those stereotypes are wrong, wrong, wrong.  I really think a lot of men should be the ones returning to driving school.

Many years ago, when I first met Briefcase's parents, I flew to their hometown for a visit. Briefcase's dad drove me to their home from the airport.  I emerged from the car 45 minutes later as white as a ghost, heart pounding, and still chanting a prayer in hopes of survival.  At the time, Briefcase laughed and joked about what a terrible driver his dad was.  We both thought it was a great source of humor, as long as we didn't have to get in a car with him.

Briefcase has become his dad.

Why is it that men, all men who have ever existed, are so competitive with other male drivers once they're behind the wheel?  Why, if a 16 year old teen boy goes racing by, must they also accelerate, rev the engine and ... revert to being a 16 year old boy themselves?

Why?

Why is it that when a man gets cut off while driving he must speed up, get next to the car who cut him off and GIVE THAT DRIVER A LOOK (or maybe the finger)?  Why not just assume the other driver is in a hurry and let him go past unfettered?  Really, what does a LOOK accomplish?

How many road rage incidents involve women?  How many involve men?

Why is that?  

Do we ever hear of a woman driver whipping out a gun and shooting another driver who cut her off?

Why won't Briefcase a man take responsibility for their bad driving even when they *ahem* rear end the car in front of them at a stop light?  Why do they still feel the need to go on and on about it being the other driver's fault?

Hypothetically, of course.

When a stop light changes to green why must men accelerate quickly and then brake quickly for the next stop?  Why not save a little gas and make more gradual starts and stops?

Why can men tell you about every hot woman little thing going on along the side of the road or freeway, but they never, ever, are looking ahead at the road while they drive?

Why do men always feel the need to speed?  Do they imagine themselves at the Indy 500?  Is it a macho experience to get behind the wheel of a car?  Even if it's a minivan?

Men also are notorious for refusing to ask for directions, no matter how lost they are.  I don't, personally, have a lot of experience with this one because in our family I'm the one with no sense of direction whatsoever.  Briefcase can find his way to and from just about anywhere so he never needs to ask directions.  I get disoriented in a square room with two exits.

Needless to say, it was a male asshole driver who ran a stop sign, t-boned my car and changed my life forever.  

Women get a bad rap. 

Don't you think?

The Beach

I was at the beach and I was alone.  The beach was set back in one of my favorite little coves.  The sun was warm and intense, but not uncomfortably so. I was lying on my stomach on a blanket.  The warmth of the sand rose through the blanket to my skin.  The sun beat down on my back, penetrating me with its heat.  I spread my legs so that they could tan evenly.

The warmth of the sun was intensely erotic.

The scent of cocoa butter and coconut lotion filled the air, intermingling with the salty scent of the sea.  The waves crashed rhythmically on the shore lulling me into near sleep.  I was in a state of total relaxation and bliss.  Eventually I drifted off to sleep.

I have no idea how much time passed, but at some point I awoke and he was there.  I felt his strong hands kneading me, massaging me with oil.  His hands were arousing me as he stroked my legs.  I should have been alarmed, but I wasn't.  I felt completely safe.  I feigned sleep so he would continue.  If he knew I was awake, he didn't acknowledge it.

His seductive caresses continued as he worked his way up my legs.  At one point I moaned in pleasure.  I heard his breath quicken.  I could feel his nearness, but still, neither of us spoke.

He massaged my legs, my back, my neck.  His hands trailed the length of my arms and when our hands finally touched I gasped.  

For one fleeting moment time stood still.  

His sensual, slow, movements were now a thing of the past.  The tension between us filled the air.  I was instantly in his arms.  The mutual need between us was urgent and strong.  

It was hot, steamy, compelling sex.  I cried out in pleasure.  My cries were muted by the sound of the waves.

And as always, the waves crashed over and over again.

Save Me - Bring Vodka!

I'm hiding in my own house.  I'm trying to find someplace quiet.  Someplace where everyone will leave me alone just for a few minutes, please.   The volume of noise continues to escalate and I find myself contemplating ear plugs.  I suppose it's a sad day when you feel the need to escape your own family.

I think I've found a hiding place though.

I was all set to write about a funny experience I had last weekend, but you'll have to forgive me. Writing anything other than a stream of conscience rant will be impossible right now.

Briefcase is cranky and roaming through the house growling like a grizzly bear.  Also, when he's in a bad mood everything gets louder.  He slams closes doors and cupboards every thirty seconds.

It isn't just my family driving me crazy though.  RC has a group of teens over and they are VERY LOUD.  I walked into the kitchen and one of the boys who is about 6'5" tall, and well over 200 pounds, was inhaling food out of our refrigerator as fast as he could.  I asked if he could please leave enough so I could pack PR a lunch for school. 

He replied, "I left an apple."

Thank you, thank you very much.

His girlfriend looked at me apologetically and explained they had just gone out to eat at a restaurant on their way over to our house.

I'm used to this.  Sort of.

Teen boys never, ever, stop eating.  I have two of them, so I know.  They bring a lot of friends over to eat me out of house and home visit also.  Our house tends to be the "hang out" house.

Shoot me.

RC and his girlfriend have gotten quite serious over recent months.  His group of friends has always been a mix of girls and boys, but now it seems we have a lot of teen couples at our house.  As I'm writing this there are teen couples watching a scary movie downstairs.

At the most insane, loud, volume imaginable.

Periodically, a few of the boys roam through the kitchen again to see if there's a single morsel left uneaten.

Scary movies give the girls an excuse to cuddle and hang on to the boys which is really all they want to be doing anyway.  The girls keep squealing loudly.  I have a teen girl also, but I have to say all the girl squealing as I write this is driving me over the edge. The girls must think the squealing is appealing to the boys.

To me, it's like nails on a chalkboard.  

Stop.It.Now.

PR just found me.  He came wandering in as if he's known where I'm hiding the whole time. 

"What do you need?" I asked him.

"I need to cut my nails and I can't find the nail clippers," he said staring intently at me.

Honestly, the kid never wants to cut his nails.  More than anything, I suppose he wanted to see what I'm doing and why I'm hiding.  I think, perhaps, he's part of the conspiracy to not let me spend five minutes in peace.

I already had to tell Briefcase to please stop pestering me.  Why is it when I finally sit down to write, he comes up with at least 150 questions to ask me?

I need a better hiding place.

A few minutes ago RC found me also.  He came to ask if they (the annoyingly loud, squealing teen couples) could heat up our jacuzzi.

This is a favorite teen boy activity.  They love to invite the girls over to the pool in the warm weather or the spa in the winter.  Our pool is romantically lit at night.  The girls wear bathing suits and expose a lot of skin.  There's a degree of privacy awarded by the large rocks surrounding our pool.  It's perfect for making out.

My answer was no.

My answer was no because there has been lightening on the mountain by our canyon and it's not safe for them to be in the water.  It's a good excuse for saying no, don't you think?

As annoying as they're being with their loudness and squealing, at least if they're inside we can assure they get no privacy.  Really, that's my primary responsibility as a parent of teen boys.  It's my job to make sure they're never alone long enough with their girlfriends to get themselves into too much trouble.

Yeah, I know.  I don't believe I'll be successful either, but I can try, can't I?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Cupid is an Asshole

Do you like Valentine's Day?

Does anyone past the age of 24 really like Valentine's Day?

As a parent, I realize hearts and flowers and having someone important in your life are all very critical elements to teens.  Once we grow up, what then?

I'm the first to admit I'm not the most romantic person on earth.  I'd rather give or receive a laugh-out-loud funny card than some long, mushy, Hallmark poem.  (It would be different if it was a poem written from someone's heart ... but let's talk real life, okay?)  

It isn't that I don't like romantic gestures, because I do.  I just don't care for contrived, forced down your throat, gestures.  I also hate over-crowded restaurants with "set" menus for the evening.  Bleh!  (I'd rather go out the night before, or the night after, V-Day when it's less crowded and restaurants provide better service.)  

Quite honestly, the most romantic meal in the world would be if a man put the effort into making a candlelit dinner for two at home.  This is something I must be content to merely fantasize about.  If Briefcase were to make me dinner it would consist of a bowl of Cap N Crunch and a 100 watt light bulb. 

Seriously.

I've been polling people all week on their Valentine's thoughts.

For men, it seems like Valentine's is a holiday they hate except for the hope of sex if they come through with the right gifts.  They know they're not screwed if they fuck up the expectations of their significant other.  There's a mix of dread and fear on the part of the men I talked to.  They know there are expectations centered on them. They don't want to mess up, but at the same time they'll be relieved once it's over.

As an aside, Briefcase was not one of the men I talked to.  He's off sunning himself in the tropics still.  I would bet a good deal of money he doesn't even know Valentine's Day is this weekend.

Women?  Well, we're all different.  I guess that's what makes it such a challenge for men. Most (but not all) of the women I talked to felt flowers were a must.  I think it goes back to our teen years when only one or two sluts girls walked around high school with roses from their boyfriend on Valentine's Day.  All the rest of us socially inept teens looked on in awe and hoped someday we'd get flowers too.  

Some women, however, think flowers are a waste of money.  Some want chocolate, but others feel chocolate is insensitive if they are trying to diet.  Some women like sexy lingerie and others feel it is a gift "for the man" and not for them.  And on and on it goes ... confusion, angst, and the effort to get it "just right."

Maybe that's the very reason so many couples mentioned to me they fight a lot on Valentine's Day.  Cupid is an asshole, or so it seems.  Couples all over the world are getting in arguments because of him.  (OK fine, maybe it's also because of poor communication.)

One of the best Valentine's Days I ever had was the first year Briefcase had to travel and be away for the holiday.  We were newly married and I was crushed he would be gone. I had zero expectations going into the day.  Briefcase must have felt very bad about his absence because he created surprises for me all day long.  Flower deliveries (two!), gift deliveries, a card informing me we had reservations at a nice restaurant for the night after his return.  Every few hours, all day long, there was another little surprise.  It was fun even though he wasn't home to celebrate with me.

When he did get home, I made sure he knew how appreciative I was of his thoughtfulness.

Sigh ... newlyweds!

My worst Valentine's Day?  When Briefcase completely forgot it even was Valentine's Day. Then he called as he was driving home from work to ask what was for dinner.  I was so mad at that point, I told him to drive through Taco Bell and pick up his own dinner. 

Surely you're not surprised I can be a bitch?

What was your best or worst Valentine's Day?

The Harem

The Torturer is in Las Vegas this week for a big physical therapy conference.  You'd think I'd get a week off if he's gambling and whoring around playing hooky, but instead he set me up for appointments with one of the therapists who works for him.  Sub PT and I are friends at least.  Yeah, "real life" friends who talk on the phone and go out for coffee together and stuff like that.  

I wish it meant she won't hurt me, but I know better.

As you know, I had a couple rough weeks with my rehab recently.  When I left PT last Wednesday The Torturer stormed off unhappily.  I arrived on Thursday only to be summoned to his office and told to "pull up a chair."  I felt like I was going to the principal's office.  Really, I'm not very good with authority figures.

I think I lack respect.

Plus?  My whole relationship with The Torturer has pretty much consisted of me lying flat on my back.  It didn't feel right to be sitting across his desk from him about to be scolded.

Wait a minute ... did I just write my whole relationship with him has consisted of me lying on my back?

In any case, The Torturer had a "serious talk" with me.  I felt like a three year old.  I hate shit like that.  Maybe I'll tell you about it soon, but not today.  Then I went on to have my PT session with both of us in very somber moods.  I warned him before I left of my intention to write at his expense while he's out of town (and away from the Internet).  

He said, "No 24, you are not going to do that."

Well, yes I am.  

Today I'm going to tell you about The Torturer's harem.  

I'm changing the names of the people I'm writing about because unfortunately an awful lot of people in Orange County know who I am now.  I don't know how my anonymous blog ceased to be anonymous, but it's an unfortunate fact.  

The Torturer collects women like a ten year old boy collects baseball cards.  One (or two) of every variety and flavor.  On any given week, a particular woman might be his favorite. He's nothing short of predictable though.  By the next week he almost always has a new favorite.  He's not married; it's his prerogative 

What all these women see in him is beyond me, but I've known him for fourteen years so I don't see him in the same light they do.  He was highly offended recently when I mentioned he's "not marriage material."  I was puzzled he was offended, because ... really?

The Torturer loves women and the Money Town women love him.  Many of them are married, but they don't care.  He tells me he stays away from the married ones.  (I pretend to believe him.)  

For clarification purposes, what follows are strictly my observations and interpretations of the events I see at PT.  I have a vivid imagination.  I'm just mentioning that in case The Torturer decides to check in on what I'm writing via his iPhone while he's in Vegas.  I'm full of fiction - remember that!

I've mentioned Short Shorts before.  Short Shorts initially came into PT for a minor injury.  I think she stubbed her toe or something.  She should have been out of there in a week.  No matter what the weather, Short Shorts shows up in the shortest shorts imaginable with her ass cheeks hanging out.  She's fairly attractive and thrives on being noticed.  And oh yes, she's married.

A funny thing happened.  After Short Shorts had about three visits with The Torturer rubbing her feet, she decided her butt hurt.

I'm not even kidding.  She and The Torturer spent a few weeks back in a private room intensely working on butt massages (or whatever), and then she was discharged.  She keeps coming back.  Poor thing, her butt starts aching after a little while I guess.  Last week she showed up again.

The Torturer said to me, "Oh look, Short Shorts is back."  Then he tried to remember her real name and he couldn't because I've brainwashed him.  He cursed at me a few times as he went off to find her chart so he could remember her name.  Then he assigned her to a female PT because I think he's had enough of her ass act.

Next on the list is Ms. Hypochondriac.  I'll call her Hypo for short.  She always has a list of aches and pains and she is only too happy to go on and on about them for hours on end.  It began, supposedly, with a neck problem.  Hypo does nothing all day but obsess about herself, her body, her various aches and ... The Torturer.  

Hypo is the ultimate Money Town woman.  She is attractive, keeps her figure close to flawless and pretends she is years younger than she is.  She is married to a Toxic Man who provides her with a ton of money, a beautiful home, a shiny Mercedes, and opportunities to travel and vacation frequently.  She shows up to PT in extremely small squares of spandex and nothing else. Over the last year she determined her neck problem has led to pelvic issues.

Should I repeat that for you?

Hypo told me her neck problem has somehow developed into a problem with her pelvis. Now she thinks she needs The Torturer's help with her ... girly parts.  Well, with that general area, anyway.

Who am I to judge?

Honestly, I've met Hypo's husband, and the man would shit if he saw her behavior at PT. She is all over The Torturer.  As in, she can't keep her hands to herself for more than thirty seconds.  If you say Hypo's name to any of the staff at PT ... you will see an instant smirk, followed by a quick attempt to be professional.  Hypo has been in and out of PT for decades, I think.

Once in awhile The Torturer discharges her or something.  She's suddenly gone for a little while.  (Not that he seems to mind the attention, but maybe he gets bored with her after awhile?) She always comes back.  She's like a bad penny that keeps showing up.  In fact, she even told me she's got "nothing else to do" and "can't imagine" her life without The Torturer.  

Pathetic much?

I'd gladly offer her all of my upcoming appointments, but The Torturer would never allow it.  It's really too bad.  I know she would love to take my place.

Next up, is Hardbody.  

Hardbody and The Torturer are "friends."

Hardbody just hangs out at PT all the time for no reason whatsoever.  She's not a patient. She is just there.  She comes in and reads books about maintaining zero percent body fat. Or whatever.  Hardbody is married too. I could write more about Hardbody, but if I do my life might end soon.  It's probably enough just to let you know she exists.

Then there's Rueful.  Rueful is a very nice woman.  She is single, and a physical therapist.  Rueful is head over heels in love with The Torturer and he doesn't reciprocate the feelings.  Rueful doesn't work for The Torturer, but they've known each other for years.  She's come to visit him and I've met her.  She's very, very nice.  Sadly, it only takes one look into her eyes to see her intense longing for The Torturer.  In turn, The Torturer has apparently made it clear to her they are "only friends."  This doesn't prevent her from calling him, arranging occasions to see him, etc.  It's really quite sad.

Unrequited love.

Out of the entire harem, I'm pulling for Rueful.  She's in Vegas with The Torturer this week at the PT convention.  With enough alcohol, maybe she'll get him to reconsider her as an option.

There are other women in the harem too.  There are cougars patients who make fools of themselves on a regular basis.  Money Town women do not have enough to do.  Also? Money Town women have no morals, and no shame.

Really, I could go on and on. 

Nonetheless, I think that's enough for one day.  By now you should have a good feel the basics of the harem. 

It makes for some great entertainment while I'm at PT!

This Post is Rated X

Good-bye family members!  Do you know me in real life?  Well then, good-bye to you too. This post is rated X.  It's not intended for the faint of heart.

Okay, now that no one is left reading, I'll commence with my writing.

The Internet world is a strange one.  We make friends with people we never meet.  One of my Internet friends is Alan.   He loves to write primarily about his family, movies and music.  Alan and I "met" shortly after I began blogging when someone (I forget who) made a list of a zillion new Internet writers.  We were both on the list.  Somehow we connected, discovered we share an extreme love for music and have stayed in touch ever since.

Alan doesn't usually blog about sex.  However, he recently wrote about an item he found while perusing ... sites ... on the Internet.  His post made me laugh out loud and he gave me his permission to also write about it.  Alan made me "promise" I'd tell you he doesn't own this little gadget himself.  (Sure, I believe you Alan.  Really, I do!)

Today I'm going to show you Alan's the Sex Counter Cock Ring.

The product description states:

"A stretchy, orgasm-enhancing cock ring that actually counts your BPM - otherwise known as Bonks Per Minute!  Slide the cock ring over your penis and enjoy a longer, harder erection as well as the fun of knowing how many times you've thrust per session!"

Bonks Per Minute?  

Bonks?

Does it come with an alarm system?  If you're wearing your partner out with too many "bonks" does it tell you to hurry up and finish?  Or ask you if you had a bit too much alcohol and are now suffering from whiskey dick?  

Does it talk to you like a car's GPS system?  Does it insult you as "Limp Larry" when you're not quite up to (** ahem **) performing?

What if you're a "one thruster"?  Does it give you an error message and say, "Act Incomplete"??

Maybe it even provides your ... equipment with a nickname?

It seems to me like this would be anxiety inducing for a man.  (Not being male, I can't say for sure.)  I picture a little old lady standing in the corner of a room counting off sexual thrusts in her notebook and "grading" the man on whatever she feels is just the right amount.

This is kind of the same concept, but the little gadget is actually strangling his dick at the same time it's counting.  (Can a dick be strangled?  I'll be honest, I know nothing about cock rings.  And now I'm embarrassed I just admitted that.  Do most women know about cock rings?  Am I a disgrace to the female gender because I don't know anything about them?  Do some cocks wear lots of rings?  Do dicks ever get strangled by cock rings?)

Also, how does it count a thrust if, instead of a straight in and out thrust, it's more of a ... oh, never mind.  I'm blushing just thinking about it.

Also, is it getting warm in here?

I think I'm getting side tracked.

In any case, what do you think?  If you're female, would you want your man wearing this? And if you're male, would you want a thrust bonk counter?  

Disturbing Observations and Tidbits

This is such a great group of readers and such an eclectic mix of women and men.  Over the last few days I've gotten several emails with requests on several topic discussions.  It has made me realize what a varied group of readers visit here.  There are high school students, grandparents, and everything in between.  I'm really awed by the spectrum of interests and experience everyone brings.

By the way, if I ever Super Glue a part of my body again I will now know to use nail polish remover to release myself.  I wish I'd thought to ask all of you for help first.

Here's your warning.  This is going to be one of those posts where I hit on more than one topic.  

Tidbit.  Add this to the reasons I write.

Recently I was contacted independently by two readers.  One hadn't gone in for a mammogram in five years because, let's face it, they can hurt.  She decided to book an appointment for a mammogram after reading about the experience I had and my resulting biopsy.  (Yay!)  

A second woman was referred to my boob posts by a friend when she got "the call" we all dread informing her abnormalities had been found in her mammogram.  She contacted me after reading my posts saying she felt greatly relieved. 

Honestly, we're all in this crazy experience of life together.  I was really touched to find out sharing my experiences helped both of these women.  In addition, just think ... now all of my readers know to use nail polish remover to unstick themselves if they ever Super Glue themselves to anything.

I'm such a help to society.

Disturbing Observations from PT Yesterday

To the man who was sitting out in the public/gym area of PT picking his nose, you were making me gag.  You were really digging and rooting around in there for quite some time and I'm wondering why you felt you needed to share your explorations with the rest of us?

A bit of advice to the woman with a wig on.  I realize that many women have thinning hair as they age.  However, I would suggest when you stand up to leave PT that you NOT take your hair completely off, smooth it down, and then place it back on your head.  It was surprisingly disturbing to see someone remove their entire head of hair when I was not expecting it.

To the good looking man who thinks he's God's gift to women, I'm not interested. Telling me how attractive you are to women did nothing to change my opinion. 

Tidbit.  Meet and Greet.

I've been asked if I would consider doing a "meet and greet."  A Meet and Greet is an informal get together at a casual restaurant, a park, a Starbucks or some other public venue.  It's an opportunity for local readers and/or other bloggers in the area to stop by and meet in person.  It's nice to meet the faces behind the writing and emails if there's an opportunity.  I wanted to put the idea out there and see how much interest there is.  If you live in Southern California, please leave me a comment or send me an email if this is something you'd be interested in.  

Perverts and trolls need not attend.     

Tidbit(s).  The Real Housewives

If you've never watched The Real Housewives of Orange County, and you're one of my regular readers, I suggest you watch at least a portion of one episode.  It will give you a glimpse of what I'm surrounded by.  Also, hopefully, it will make you realize I really don't make up the shit I write about.

I've gotten a couple questions on the Housewives lately.  First of all, I need to say I do not know the women on the show at all.  One of the families was involved in youth baseball at the same time we were a few years ago.  I believe it was Season 1 of the TV show.  Camera crews showed up at a game to film it.  That's the extent of my involvement with any of them.  Have I ever seen any of them around town?  Yes.

Do I care?  No.

One reader asked me recently if these women are "for real."  This is what I can tell you. Most women in Orange County are not like the Real Housewives, but many women are like them.  Superficiality, obsessions with money, material things, and maintaining youth, preoccupation with plastic surgery, narcissistic personality types ... all are in abundance here. 

I can also pass on a few things I've heard around town which may or may not be true because, after all, it is pure gossip.  Recently I was in a busy local business.  When you enter you have to give them your name and wait in line until someone is available to assist you.  Eventually it was my turn to be helped.  The sales person thanked me for my patience and then went on a diatribe about one of the Real Housewives who had recently been in.  

The sales person said she was a "diva."  According to him, she immediately said, "You do know who I am, don't you?"  She apparently felt she should not have to wait in line to be taken care of and that her status as a Real Housewife entitled her to special treatment. The sales person went on to say how the entire store dreads it every time she comes in because she is such a bitch and so demanding.

Will I tell you which Housewife it was?  No, I won't.  The reason I won't is because it isn't something I witnessed firsthand.  What if it's not a completely truthful representation of what took place?

During the same week, I frequented another local business and heard a very similar account regarding the same Housewife.  (I will say, all this nasty behavior is being attributed to one of the blondes.)  This accounting was remarkably similar to the first. This time, however, I was also told she kept inquiring if the employee had seen her on TV "last night." Supposedly, she was obsessed with what he had thought of "her" most recent episode.

    

Housewife seems to be quite taken with her "celebrity" status.  Apparently these women don't realize the point of the show is to have the rest of the world look at them in appalled horror.  Or perhaps, that's just my interpretation.  

Pardon My Nipple(s?)

So, I did it again.

Oh yes, I did.  I flashed an unsuspecting gentleman man and I think he liked it.

It really wasn't my fault.  (!)

I was just finishing up my morning shower when Briefcase called.  I ran to get the phone. Of course I was naked, because helloooo ... showering, remember?

Briefcase was on two phones at one time.  He was at his office talking to a repairman, and trying to set up a date for the guy to come to our house.

"Can you be home next Tuesday at Whatever O'Clock?" Briefcase asked.

"My calendar is downstairs," I reminded him.

"Well, will you go look?" he asked impatiently. 

I glanced out my bedroom window to make sure there were no random landscapers out in the canyon behind my house.  No one was anywhere to be found.  I ran downstairs, stark naked, to my calendar in the kitchen.

As a reminder, the back of my house (which includes my kitchen) is pretty much all glass. No one is ever back there.  I stood there in all my nakedness examining next Tuesday on my calendar.  Then I ran back upstairs to report to Briefcase Tuesday looked just fine.

I hung up the phone, finished drying off, brushed out my wet hair, and began contemplating what to wear for the day.  Suddenly, I noticed my skin was looking unusually dry.  (Most likely from the cold weather when I was up north.)  I took my time rubbing lotion into every nook and cranny.  Well, not every nook and cranny.  

Never mind.

The point is, a little time passed as I was playing with Rabbit putting lotion on.

Shortly after, I had a brilliant flash of genius.  I could wear my dark brown pants, with my white t-shirt which has just a little edging of leopard around the collar.  If I wore that, I could also wear my cute leopard shoes.  (You know, the ones I showed you about a week ago?).  

There was only one problem.  In order to wear a white t-shirt, I needed (of course!) a nude colored bra.  

Wake up male readers!  Wake up!  Stop yawning, it's rude!

Ladies, you understand, right?  I couldn't wear a lacy black, or pink, or red, or blue, or chocolate brown bra under a white t-shirt.  (Yes, I really do own bras in every color imaginable.  I'm not sure why?)  In any case, my nude colored bra was downstairs in the laundry room where I had left it to dry after being washed.

I pulled on my chocolate brown pants and I ran (topless) down to get it.  I knew there was no one around because I had just been in front of all those windows perusing next Tuesday on my calendar.  

I headed downstairs again.  My tits bounced down each step.  This time, I was all soft and slippery from ... all that lotion I put on.  

** Ahem **  

I got to the bottom of our stairs, made a right turn to go to the laundry room, grabbed my nude colored bra, and without a second thought headed back toward the stairs.

I should have put it on while I was in the laundry room.

Because, there he was.  Our friendly, local, bottled water company representative was standing by the window adjacent to our front door.  He was staring at me through the window and his mouth was formed in a perfect "0" of surprise.  He was not looking at my face.  

No, he definitely was not.

I stopped dead in my tracks in utter astonishment.

The first thought to run through my mind was, "I must have forgotten to put the bottles out on the driveway for him."

Half a second later, I tried to cover my boobs with my good arm.  His head immediately popped up.  (OK, stop it ... I mean the head on his neck!)  He met my eyes for the first time.  I tried to act cool, calm, and collected.

I wanted to project an air of normalcy.  Topless?  No big deal.  

I gave him a questioning look.  He said loudly, so I could hear through the partially opened window, "Wasn't sure if you wanted one bottle or two today?"

"One will be fine," I answered as if I were standing there fully clothed.

He nodded in acknowledgment and turned to walk away.  Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder one more time and he most certainly was not looking into my lovely brown eyes.

He walked away.

I glanced down at my tits; my hand was still haphazardly hiding them.

It was at that moment when I realized I was only partially covering my breasts. One soft, pink, nipple jutted out completely exposed.

I think, perhaps, we need a new bottled water service.

Barbeque Butt

I'm still out of town.  Most likely, I'm having terrible Internet withdrawals like any good addict.  I'll be flying home tonight.  Let's all hope my return flight is on time.  (And that it doesn't CRASH!)  If it's on time, I'll be back tomorrow with an announcement on the contest winner.  In the meantime, here's a joke my sister forwarded to me on email recently.

A man and his wife were working in their garden one day and the man looks over at his wife and says: 'Your butt is getting really big,  I mean really big. I bet your butt is bigger than the barbecue. With that he proceeded to get a measuring tape and measure the  grill and then went over to where his wife was working and measured  his wife's bottom. 'Yes, I was right; your butt is two inches wider than the barbecue!!!' The woman chose to ignore her husband. Later that night in bed, the husband is feeling a little frisky. He makes some advances towards his wife who completely brushes him off. 'What's wrong?' he asks. She answers: Do you really think I'm going to fire up this big-ass grill for one little weenie?

Guest Post!

Awhile back my friend, Miss Britt, decided to challenge herself to guest post on other people's blogs.  I sent her a note and told her I'd love to take advantage of her offer. I knew I'd be busy during the holiday season and I thought you'd enjoy having her pay a visit.  She knows we talk a lot about the differences between men and women here. Not long after, she sent me the following.  Thank you Miss Britt for paying us a visit!

Him:  How was your day today?

Her:  Fine, except for the fact that I am hemorrhaging from my vagina.  But other than THAT... good.

Him:  Umm... OK...

Several minutes later, the couple is getting ready for bed.  They share the familiarity of two people who have gotten dressed and undressed in front of one another for years.  They mill back and forth between the master bedroom and the closet, pausing at the bathroom sink to floss and wash their faces.

As she's hanging up her skirt, he stops and watches her.

Him: By the way, you looked nice today.

Her:  Awww, thank you.

Him:  I like it when you wear tights like that.

Her:  Well thanks.  Again.  I appreciate you noticing.

Him:  Maybe you should just leave the tights on.  Maybe wear them to bed.

Her:  What part of HEMORRHAGING FROM MY VAGINA  did you find sexy?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

This post is part of <a href="http://miss-britt.com/2008/11/the-guest-post-challenge/"Miss Britt's Guest Post Challenge</a>.

Cyclops

I've been trying not to write about PT.  I figured you were tired of hearing about my ongoing fights with The Torturer.  And really, how boring is it to hear my struggles as I attempt to get my arm working again post car accident?

The problem is, PT is just a hotbed of writing material.  It's like an ongoing soap opera with a host of ever changing characters.  In my wildest imagination, I could not make up the characters and scenarios I witness there.  Yesterday I was chatting with a friend and telling him about a new patient at PT.  I thought I'd share the story with you too.

There's the cutest looking little old man who comes in as a patient now.  He is adorable to look at. He's wrinkly and round and he has a twinkle in his eye.  He always wears a baseball style hat proudly proclaiming he's a World War II Veteran. The hat has a couple medals pinned to it.  I guess being a World War II veteran would put him in his eighties.

I've nicknamed him Cyclops.

Cyclops tells stories nonstop the entire time he is at PT.  Story after story after story; smiling all the while.  The Torturer jokes that, "Cyclops is full of a lot of stories and maybe one or two of them might be true."  I'm not as much of a doubter.  The man has over eighty years behind him, I'd say it's likely he's experienced some very good true stories in his lifetime.

However, someone ought to tell Cyclops World War II is over.  He still rants about hating "those damn Japs."  It makes you cringe, doesn't it?  Helloooooooo Cyclops ... the war is over! The year is 2008, welcome to the New World!  Bigotry is no longer in fashion.  He recounts stories of being shot at during the war and doing some shooting too.  He'll tell you the closest I ever came to dying war stories for hours if you'll listen.

Cyclops was married to the same woman for decades and decades.  She died a few years back from Alzheimer's.  You can still see the sadness and grief he carries with him over his loss.  His wife's family was EYE-talian.  Yes, EYE-talian.  And they were connected to "the mob" too.  He laughs about his Mafia connections and how he "stayed alive" even though he was around "the mob" a lot.

He can't read or write.  Cyclops couldn't fill out the new patient forms at PT and the receptionist had to help him.  He brags about how he "fooled everyone in the Navy" so they never knew he was illiterate.  He also brags that he worked for Ford "for forty years" in spite of his lack of literacy.  (No cracks about American made cars or the car industry, okay?)

Also, "illiterate" and "literacy" are my words not his.  I'm not sure he would know what they mean.  He simply says, "I can't read and I can't write and I never have."  He says this pretty frequently.

I've nicknamed him Cyclops because he only has one real eye.  His other eye is a glass eye.  Oddly enough, the one story I haven't heard is how he came to have a glass eye.  

The strangest thing is, he constantly threatens to take his eye out.  If I'm joking or teasing him about something he'll say, "Gonna take my eye out if you keep that up!"  Or, "Do that again and I'll pop my eye out!"  He is not joking at all when he says it.

Can I just say, if he DOES pop his eye out in front of me, I will be traumatized for life?  

I told The Torturer he needs to have a serious talk with Cyclops.  He needs to tell him that popping his eye in and out in front of other patients is NOT acceptable.  (It's BLUE, just in case you were wondering!)  

The Torturer laughed at my request.  He thought it was hilarious. I am not joking though. If that blue eye comes out of Cyclops head I'm likely to start screaming at the top of my lungs.  I might not ever stop.  Seeing an eye come out of someone's face just might be the thing to push me over the edge.

As I was leaving PT yesterday Cyclops said, "You're a real cute girlie, but feisty!  I might need to pop my eye out at you yet."

Omigod ...!  

Random Tidbits

A lot of small, inconsequential things happened this week.  They aren't worthy of a stand alone post on their own.  I'll just list them for you in no particular order.

1.  I ventured off the couch for the first time all week yesterday.  (That's not the interesting part, I promise.)  I'm still coughing a lot and I have almost no voice to speak of.  My retrievers needed food so I stopped into our local pet store.  When I went to pay, a very good looking, probably 18 year old, male was working the register.  He tried to strike up a conversation and I apologized for my laryngitis.  (Meaning ... please, let's not make idle chit chat, ok?)  

After hearing my apology he became extremely attentive and much to my frustration, he continued to ask me nonstop questions.  I tried to rasp out polite answers.  As I was leaving he said, "I hope you feel better and I just have to tell you, your voice is the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

Yes, he did.  My voice sounds like a chain smoking bulldog.  It just goes to show, anything is sexy to an 18 year old male. 

2.  Three separate men approached me while I read my Kindle at the Money Town car wash to ask me questions about it.  I think they were all considering it as a possible gift for their significant other.  I've heard Kindles are already sold out for Christmas, although there's a waiting list you can get on.  Yes, I still love mine.  I was surprised at all the commotion a Kindle created during such a brief stop.  

3.  I just found out some interesting people are reading Twenty Four At Heart.  One is an actor.  I guess that's not a big deal.  Half the population of Southern California claims to be an actor.  He sort of actually works though.  Also, I've had some political types reading and admitting it. They should leave now.  It could probably end their career if anyone finds out they've read a website that talks about sex toys, fake orgasms and/or some of the other topics we've covered here.  I'm not the one to look to "to get a good feel for the pulse of Orange County."  Really, save your career ... run!

4.  One of my friends brought up the TV show, The Real Housewives of Orange County to me this week.  As in, "Well, of course you watch Housewives ...blah, blah, blah."  I confessed I do NOT watch the show.  I instantly felt guilty.  How can I write a website poking fun at The OC if I refuse to watch Housewives?  I decided to remedy the situation and went online to watch the season premiere.

I made it halfway through before my connection got dropped.  I didn't bother trying to reconnect.  I was right at the part where one of the women claimed to have real boobs. No one believed her "because no one in Orange County has real anything, let alone boobs." (That quote is from memory ... so don't quote me on my quote!)  The women began feeling each other's breasts to see which fake boobs felt the most real.  Apparently if you pay more, you can get boobs that feel more real-ish.

I wouldn't know.  I have real boobs and I live in Orange County.  There - I've said it out loud.  In fact, I only live a couple blocks from some of these women.  I think we should be introduced and if they feel the need to check out my (big) real boobs, so be it.  

Can I just say for the record, most people in Orange County are nothing like these women. Can I also say, there are a good number of women in Orange County exactly like them.  

5.  I overheard an interesting conversation while at the Money Town car wash. I walked through the indoor waiting area to pay.  As I walked by, a man in his mid-twenties said into his cell phone (quite loudly and in an exasperated tone), "All you really care about is how big my dick is."  

Well, okay then ....

Joe the Bigamist, Part III

I finally made it to the doc yesterday.  I'm now fully supplied with germ killing drugs and I'm sure I'll be just fine in a couple days.  I kid you not, he said I have pneumonia.  I don't have pneumonia, but he tells people that every time they get a bad cough.  Didn't I just say that in my post yesterday?  Geez ......  He's a hypochondriac doctor.  Really.

An overwhelming number of you said you wanted to hear continual updates on Joe the Bigamist.  I'm starting to think there will be no end of material from this guy unless he eventually lands in jail.  (Or if someone kills him for screwing around with their wife.)  If you are a new reader you can go back and read here (Part I) and here (Part II) to get caught up.

A reader asked me who is giving me my Joe information.  One of my friends has a close working/friendship relationship with Joe.  I've promised to keep certain details vague or undisclosed when I write in exchange for Joe stories.  Joe apparently doesn't mind as long as I keep him unidentifiable. 

Joe must think there are a lot of other bigamist's out there?  

I had no sooner finished writing Joe the Bigamist, Part II when I received more information about Joe.  I confronted my friend and said, "Are you sure Joe isn't just a pathological liar and making all of these stories up?"  I mean, it's entertaining either way, but I don't want to pass Joe's escapades on as truth if they're not.  My friend told me he used to think Joe was full of "tall tales" but over the time he's known Joe he's seen "a lot of facts to back up Joe's stories."

Some of you have commented that Joe's life is like a soap opera.  I'm not a soap watcher, but I'm sure you're right.  In fact, as I've mentioned before the producer of The Real Housewives of Orange County lives in Money Town.  I've suggested the idea of Mr. Producer televising Joe's escapades.  Mr. Producer and I have some mutual friends and I believe my suggestion will be passed on.  I don't know if it will result in anything, however.

I've lived in California my entire life. I can honestly say the extremely wealthy just are not like the rest of us.  Rules?  Rules are for other people. Boundaries?  Well, they don't apply either.  Societal norms that most of us take for granted, are often not a part of the thought process of the exceptionally wealthy.  Oh, I know there are some very nice billionaires out there.  I've just never met a single one of them.

It's also my personal opinion that Joe has a sexual addiction.  They very term implies an inability to discontinue behavior despite the negative consequences.  I think the definition pretty much sums up Joe, but I'm not a psychiatrist.

Joe likes to talk a lot.  Joe particularly likes to talk about himself and his "situation."  Joe sometimes calls my friend two or three times a day just to talk about himself.

Here's the latest.  Joe will not be prosecuted for bigamy because his second marriage was found not to be legal.  (There's a plethora of lawyers involved in Joes' life right now.)  He had a prenuptial agreement drawn up and went through with a marriage ceremony that Wife #2 thought was legal, but it wasn't.   

Wife #2 is coming after Joe for palimony (which is like alimony but awarded in long term relationships which are not marriages).  Wife #1 is divorcing Joe.  Joe is adamant about acquiring custody of the dogs he shared with Wife #1. It's nice to know Joe is capable of forming a real attachment to something, isn't it?    

Mistress is pregnant and she doesn't know if the child is Joe's or her husband's.  (Her husband is Angry Celebrity, remember?)  I imagine she'll have to get a DNA test to establish who the father of her unborn child is.  If Joe is the father, I would think she'll be set for life financially with the money Joe will have to pay to support her child in a lifestyle similar to his own.  Isn't that how it works?  I'm guessing here, but it seems like that would be the case. 

I may end up hearing a lot of Jim the Player stories too.   He sounds just as bad as Joe. In Joe the Bigamist, Part II I told you I knew of a woman swapping story between the two brothers.  I didn't share the story because quite honestly, I didn't think you'd even believe it.  I have a hard time believing a lot of this and I'm getting the information from a long time, trusted, friend.  

Nonetheless, the majority of you said you wanted to hear the story so here it is.  Jim the Player apparently had an affair with his pastor's wife.  Yes, he's Mr. Class himself.  It's nice to know Joe and Jim are so involved in their local church community.  Do you remember how Joe's Wife #1 and Wife #2 found out about each other at church?  I'm not sure if Joe and Jim go to the same church, but based on what I've heard of the story, I don't believe so.  In any case, Jim found Pastor's Wife to be very sexually adventurous and nicknamed her "The Kink-Monster." (Such a warm term of endearment!)

Jim the Player decided his brother "had to" experience The Kink-Monster for himself. She was at a church retreat in the woods.  Jim set up a meeting with her.  She snuck out to meet him one night but Joe the Bigamist met her instead of Jim the Player. She, apparently, never knew the difference. 

I've asked my friend to find out more about Joe and Jim's family.  Did they grow up wealthy?  I'm thinking they must have.  Do they have other siblings?  Are the siblings as narcissistic as the twins?  What was their family life like when they were young?  Are either of the brothers in therapy for sexual addiction?  Or for that matter, just therapy? I'll let you know when I hear more. 

Doctor Dollars

Thanks for all the well wishes yesterday.  RC is doing better.  Me?  Not so much. 

You want to hear about Joe the Bigamist, don't you?  Well, I promise I'll get to him tomorrow.  First I need to whine a little bit more about being sick.  Well, not really about being sick but about being knocked on my ass for several days by some mutated amoebas. 

Whatever. 

I don't even like myself when I'm sick, so how can I expect any of you to read what I write? I feel like I've experienced freak osmosis with the amoebas and become one of them.  In other words, I am a disgusting creature from a swamp right now.  I've been in my favorite, decidedly unsexy, snowman PJs for an indeterminate number of days. I've brushed my teeth but not my hair.  I've lived on a diet of tea, Advil and cough drops. I'm burning up with a fever and it won't go away.  A shower would take way more energy than I can muster.  I can't breathe, I can't swallow, and my head is going to explode brains all over the sofa any minute now.  

Yes, it is ... don't argue with me.

I'm having fever-induced hallucinations of lunching at Charlie Palmer's. Then I have brief moments when I'm lucid and I suck down another honey-lemon cough drop.

I haven't been to PT since before Thanksgiving and my arm hurts like hell. Who knew The Torturer actually helps with pain when I see him?  

Yes, I DID get a flu shot this year.  So there.

Is there a point to this post?  Oh, yeah, I almost forgot ....

We have a family doctor.  He's our doctor because his office is literally a block from our house. That's really the only reason.  He does actually see his patients instead of shoving them off on one of his nurses or a PA.  If you're really, really, feeling like crap he will almost always get you an appointment the same day.

I don't like him.

I don't like any doctors so I suppose it's nothing personal. He hasn't helped me one bit with these amoebas because I've refused to get my sorry ass off the couch to drive one block to see him.  (Mind you, I made sure RC was taken care of!) 

Briefcase came home from work last night and eyed me warily.

(As in, "How can I possibly be married to that snowman, lumpish pile, moaning on the couch?")

"What did the doctor say?" he asked.

"Mumble, grumble, mumble, cough, cough!"

That made him pause for a minute.  I could feel his brain churning as he sized up my unbrushed hair, my fever-flushed face, my snowman PJs, and the Golden Retriever sprawled across my lap.

"You didn't go see Dr. Dollars did you?" he stated accusingly.

We call our doctor Dr. Dollars because he orders a million unnecessary tests every time you go in.  He also prescribes no less than forty different medications for the slightest ailment and always pronounces you officially knocking at death's door. 

It doesn't matter in the least what you went in to see him for, you're about to die dammit!  A splinter?  Let's amputate!  A cough?  Pneumonia! A sore throat!  It's strep! You can die from strep!  You can die from pneumonia!  You can die from an untreated splinter!

Dr. Dollars had to give his deposition for my car accident.  He was the doctor who initially referred me to my orthopedic surgeon.  He never treated me himself.  My lawyer (Mr. Shark) informed me Dr. Dollars "was excellent" during his deposition with the asshole insurance lawyers.  It wasn't contrived either.  Dr. Dollars truly believes I might die any day now from the car accident a few years ago.  If not, clearly, they need to amputate my bad arm.  Never mind he's never treated me, he's damn convinced of it.

My case settled the day after Dr. Dollars' deposition.  Coincidence?  I think not.

Briefcase stood there staring at me in silence for awhile.  In my fever-addled brain, I imagined he was contemplating pulling a garden hose into the house.  He'd squirt me down in an effort to reduce my fever and give me a shower all at the same time.

"I told you, you had to go to the doctor," he complained.

"I'll go tomorrow," I promised.

"I'll be gone tomorrow," he mumbled.

And then a light bulb went on right above my feverish head.  Was Briefcase concerned about my high fever of several days?  No, not at all.  Not that I'm a skeptic or anything, but Briefcase is leaving on (another) business trip.  I think he was worried I might not be quite so ... accommodating before he left.

Really, do men ever think in terms of much else?  

I'm finally giving in and going to the doctor today.  Briefcase is already gone.  I imagine it will take a few days for me to start feeling better.  (Seeing as I still have a fever of 103.) I wasn't feeling very sexy last night prior to Briefcase's departure.  I know I'm a bitch when I'm sick, but I just couldn't muster the energy to feel sorry for him.  How about you?

Joe the Bigamist, Part II

In October I told you the story of a bigamist living here in Orange County.  Joe the Bigamist is an extremely wealthy man.  He married two women and they knew nothing about each other's existence for years.  The two wives lived in two separate multimillion dollar homes within a half mile of each other in Money Town. Recently Joe's wives found out about each other.

At the time I wrote about Joe the Bigamist, I promised to give you an update if any new information was forthcoming.  Do you remember how Joe the Bigamist was not only married to two women, but he was also having an affair?  

As it turns out, the woman he had the affair with is married.  Not only is Mistress married, but she is married to a celebrity. Celebrity Husband found out about the affair his wife had with Joe and threatened Joe with bodily harm.

Joe was outraged by the threat.  

Joe's been feeling a little stressed out lately.

Joe's two wives are angry with him.  His mistress is pissed off.  Celebrity Husband is hoping for an opportunity to dismember Joe.  Quite assuredly, beginning with Joe's actual member. (Personally, I think Celebrity Husband of Mistress would be doing society a favor by dis-member-ing Joe the Bigamist.)

Poor Joe, he's created a lot of strife, hasn't he?

Most recently Joe's legal woes have escalated once again.  Joe is a business owner.  Joe has employees.  Joe made unwelcome sexual advances to one of his female employees. Repeatedly. Female Employee is now suing him for sexual harassment.  

Ah ... but that's not all! 

Female Employee is married.  Female Employee is married to a convicted criminal who is currently not in jail.  Convicted Criminal is not happy with Joe the Bigamist.  Convicted Criminal is threatening Joe the Bigamist with bodily harm.  He may need to line up behind Celebrity Husband.  

I haven't met Joe the Bigamist personally but we have a mutual acquaintance.  I'm lobbying for an introduction at the minimum, and preferably an interview.  So far, I've been turned down.  

I'm told that Joe is "older than you might assume at first" and not overly attractive.  What do all these women see in Joe?  Money.  Insane amounts of money.  And presumably, the power of being with someone who is exceedingly wealthy.  Joe likes to brag about his wealth and his women.  He finds his own stories and escapades amusing.  I get the impression he thrives on the drama he creates.

Apparently Joe the Bigamist has been banned from one of the more prominent hotels in Las Vegas.  He got caught having sex with a stripper in one of the cabanas by the pool. Stripper was having sex with Joe in the cabana in broad daylight. They were ... ahem, very loud during their sexual escapades.  Joe thinks it's hysterical he's been banned from the hotel.

Joe has an identical twin brother.  Let's call him Jim.  Joe describes Jim as "a player." Joe does not consider himself one.  Isn't that pretty amusing?  Joe likes to recount stories of pulling the "old switcheroo" on women.  Yes, these brothers have slept with each other's women (including wives) on several occasions.  

The women have apparently not been able to tell the difference.  Does that mean both men are terrible in bed?  I would imagine men like Joe and Jim are all about themselves in the bedroom, wouldn't you?  Selfish assholes that they are.  (Oops - there went my interview!) 

I could recount one particularly horrific woman-swapping story for you ... but I honestly don't think you would even believe me if I told you.  I think it's hard enough to believe the generalities, let alone go into the details.  

Both of these men are man sluts with no boundaries or morals whatsoever.

Let's name all the prominent characters (so far) in this story:

Joe the Bigamist

Wife #1

Wife #2

Children of Wife #1

Mistress

Angry Celebrity Husband (of Mistress)

Female Employee

Angry Convicted Criminal (husband of Female Employee)

Stripper

Jim the Player (Joe's identical twin)

If there is more to come from Joe the Bigamist, do you want to hear it?  Or are you tired of hearing about him?  One thing's for sure, someone needs to give Joe a life sentence in unzipable pants.

A Shrink in a Book

I'm still hanging out while I wait for my sex toy gift basket to arrive.  I suppose you'll want to hear about it when it arrives?  What happens if I can't figure out what something is used for, will you explain it to me?

I've talked a lot about male/female relationships and sex on this site.  Maybe it's because I'm now in my forties twenty four, but it seems like just about everyone I know is dealing with stuff lately.  I have a wide age-range of friends, but regardless of age it seems they all are delving into issues lately.  I listen to them, and I bring a lot of those issues right here to Twenty Four At Heart for discussion.

The term "midlife crisis" seems to come up on a weekly basis with friends from the ages of 35-65.  I'll be honest, it's freaking me out a little bit.  I've had two close friends tell me they're getting divorced in the last week.  I'm waiting for Briefcase to come home from a business trip with an 18 year old, skanky ho girlfriend any day now.  I'm looking myself in the mirror and wondering how much do I really like the Fed-Ex man's package?  (Let's be honest, it's been looking pretty good!) 

Lately, life is just getting a little weird.

For awhile I contributed my own sense of insanity confusion to my car accident.  I've always been a strong, independent woman.  I was the one who got everything done for everybody else, always. In one car-shattering instant I lost my independence, my sense of self, and (not trying to be too dramatic) my very sense of who I am. 

Fortunately, every day that goes by I feel a little bit better not just physically, but also mentally and emotionally.  I'm getting my life back together day by day, and although it will never be the same life, I'm trying to make it a good life.  I've noticed, however, that as I rebuild my life, the lives of many friends seem to be falling apart.

I have a friend whose husband has become impotent.  They haven't had sex in over a year. I might re-gift a toy from my sex toy gift basket to her.  I have another friend going through menopause and her husband has discovered Viagra. Viagra meets menopause equals a lot of problems.  

As I mentioned before, two of my friends have announced divorces in the last week alone.  One because the wife "needs to find herself" (she's in her mid-thirties) and the second because she walked in on her husband having an affair.  Divorced friends tell me they've "given up" on the idea of ever getting married again, but miss "companionship." 

I've seen my "empty nester" friends delve into a flurry of activities.  Yoga, tennis, volunteer work, far-reaching searches for spirituality, and other assorted activities.  I've seen some become "hover" parents as they attempt to stay intimately involved in their children's lives rather than cut the apron strings when the kids move out to begin their own lives. Sometimes I wonder, what exactly, is going on with everyone?

The other day one of my friends said it would be so nice if she could have a shrink just move in to her guest room and only come out when needed.  

"I don't need therapy," she said.  "I just need occasional advice." 

I stopped in my tracks.  And then I laughed.  A few months ago I was asked by a publisher to review a book titled Occasional Therapy For Your Midlife Years by Dr. Ellyn Gamberg.  I had decided to pass on the offer.  I thought the book was very worthwhile, but I wasn't sure it would be an appropriate book to share here.  My friend's comment changed my mind. This is not a book for my younger readers (I love you younger readers!).  However, if you're 35-65 it's a good investment.

Not every issue in the book will pertain to every person.  However, I honestly think every person will find at least one or two issues in this book that they can relate to.  Sometimes it can just make you feel better to know other people are also dealing with similar issues. Dr. Gamberg touches on the following:

Maintaining your youth  (ooh baby - that's me!)

The empty nest  (that isn't me yet, but sigh - I'll cry when it is.)

Becoming an in-law or grandparent  (I'll kill my teens if this happens anytime soon. I might even put condoms in their stockings this Christmas!)

Caring for an aging parent  (My heart goes out to those of you dealing with this.)

Declining marital satisfaction  (Sex toys, anyone?!)

Finding a new meaning and purpose in your life  (This is me!  What do I do now with my life?  I've only got one working arm.)

Did you know that Dr. Gamberg says people ending long-term marriages after the age of fifty are one of the fastest growing demographics for divorce?  I'm in my forties, is that what I have to look forward to?  I think it just goes to show this mid-life crisis stuff needs to be taken very seriously.  

If your feeling lost, confused, in need of sex toys or a new partner ... this may be just the book to help you feel more grounded.  

Personally, I'm starting to feel like an entire body lift is maybe not such a bad idea. (That would be the maintaining youth category!)  I'm also trying to sort out what I want to be when I grow up.  (Finding a meaning and purpose in my life.)  Do you feel like you're dealing with any of these issues?  Which ones?

Fake Lashes and Diamonds

Helena - this one's for you!

A few weeks ago I was chaotic and out of control.  Briefcase had been traveling for a few back-to-back weeks.  I'd overbooked my schedule as I'm prone to do.  I decided one evening to pick up "to-go" food on the way home from PR's baseball practice.  I couldn't bare the idea of junk food.  As we were leaving practice I called in an order to a nice family restaurant outside of Money Town.  This restaurant specializes in ribs, chicken, etc.  Real food vs. junk food.  It was a smoldering hot day and I ended up ordering salads.  I know, boring - right? 

PR and I walked in to the restaurant to pick up our food.  There was a short line back at the "to go" counter.  A couple was waiting ahead of us.  The man was about 75.  His female companion was maybe 30 at the most.  It was impossible not to notice them.  

She had bleach blonde hair, pretty much the color of Marilyn Monroe's.  Her fingernails were bright, stripper red. She had the biggest, longest fake eyelashes I've ever seen a person wear.  I guess her face was attractive, but to be honest all I could really see when looking at her were those enormous fake eyelashes.  They were giant fans on her eyes and she batted them constantly.

"Give them the benefit of the doubt, it might be his granddaughter," I thought to myself.

I knew better, of course.  Not two minutes had passed until she latched onto him in a decidedly ungranddaughter-like fashion.  She batted her eyes at him and started talking nonstop baby talk to him.

"Daddy, why is it taking so long to get our food?" she whined in her sticky-sweet baby voice. 

I immediately lost my appetite.  I tried to look away, but it was impossible.  I hate women who dumb down.  Daddy?  It's embarrassing to all living females.  (Although, I'm pretty sure she was really, really stupid in the first place.)  Baby talk to a 75 year old man?  Really, if you want to play daddy sex games you need to save it for the privacy of your own home.  Please. 

His response to her was just as nauseating as I watched him fawn all over her.  He consoled her and soothed her as if the two of them were facing a life and death situation. Because, omigod, how awful for them to have to wait five minutes for their to-go order. Seriously? 

A minute later she was rubbing her body all over him.

"I don't think I can wait another minute to go home with you Daddy," she purred loudly.

I thought about covering PR's ears.  He, however, was so exhausted from baseball he didn't seem to be noticing.  Then I wondered if Gramps had remembered to take his Viagra.  I had a feeling he had.  They were all over each other.

Right then our salads were ready and we were called ahead of the couple to pay.  As I pulled out my wallet I could not avoid the sight of them.  She had her tongue in his ear in the middle of the nice, family restaurant.  Visions of old man earwax popped into my head and I nearly vomited on the spot.  "Daddy" was getting an ear job and he seemed to enjoy it quite a bit.

PR and I left a minute later.  I admit, I'd completely lost my appetite. 

I tried to dismiss the encounter from my mind.  Three days later, however, I encountered eyelash woman again.  I pulled into our local gas station to fill up my car.  Less than thirty seconds later a brand new red Corvette pulled up next to me.  Eyelash Lady hopped out to get gas.  She glanced at me and then looked over at me again.  I have the feeling she was wondering where she'd seen me before.  And yes, she was still wearing those gigantic fake eyelashes.

As we filled up our cars I studied her.  Nice body, toned, clearly she works out. Fake tan and fake, perky, large breasts which are a dime a dozen around here.  She wore expensive and revealing clothes.  As she held the gas pump I saw, for the first time, the jewelry she wore. Lots and lots of jewelry, but the most staggering was an enormous diamond ring.  There are a lot of huge diamond rings in South Orange County, and generally they don't faze me in the least anymore.  This diamond was staggering however.  I couldn't help it as my mind tried to calculate how many carats it must be.  I decided, at the very minimum, it was a 10 carat diamond.  At least.

I made an impulsive decision to take her picture with my cell phone.  (Yes, a true blogger at heart!) My car was full, but she was still gassing up hers.  I hopped into mine, grabbed my cell phone and tried to inconspicuously take her picture.  She caught me!  Yes, she turned to face me and glared at me.  I hope she thought I was just trying to take a photo of her nice, shiny, red car and not her in all her eyelash glory.  In any case, I didn't get the photo.  I do, however, have a strong mental image of her that just won't fade. 

Friday Light

I'm looking forward to writing a couple fun posts for next week.  My friend Helena in England has requested a Money Town story.  I was afraid everyone might be getting tired of hearing about the ridiculously rich and spoiled.  Helena tells me they are her "favorite" posts so I've promised to share a Money Town story sometime next week.  In addition, I know I've got a lot of avid book readers in the audience.  I'll have a post next week which I think will be very interesting for all of us bookworm types.  Stay tuned.

For today, I wanted to end the week on a light note.  It's time once again to share with you some of the strange Internet searches which have brought people here for a visit. This is the first time I've had to actually ignore some of them.  Some searches have been truly offensive (as in extreme pervert typing the most disgusting things into Google). As always, I've typed the actual search request in bold and my thoughts in regular typeface. Here are the searches I felt I could share:

How much do Torturers get paid?  Search was made from Iran. 

Can men recover when they get bruised egos?  No, not in my experience.

Going commando under my dress  Remember to cross your legs when sitting.

What does it mean when a guy says "we are not on the same page"?  It means it's over. 

Sick and tired of being a sex object  I'm sorry, I'm sure it's tough.

Slutty prom date  You may not find her on the Internet.

Do guys get PMS too?  Yes, at least Briefcase does.

Why does he make sexual comments to me all the time?  Most likely because he wants sex.

Statistics on men thinking about sex when they see an attractive woman  100% of the time.

I like your shirt, innuendo  Wow, that's quite an innuendo there.

Misty May's Dr. Schobert  He's a great doctor - I hope he makes you feel better.

How to empty a nasty, disgusting porta-potty  I'd just walk away if I were you.

Oops!  Nude in the pool  oops!

My male physical therapist flirts with me  So?

How do men compartmentalize issues? I don't know, but they do.  I wish I was better at it myself.

I saw my mom naked by the pool  You have probably been scarred for life.

Craving nonsexual hugging  (((Hugs)))

How do I behave like a hot guy?  If you're asking, you aren't hot so forget it.

Naked blonde with her feet in the air  I'm sure that's a nice mental image for you.

My partner told me she's faking orgasms  You need to talk to her about it.

Orgasmic screams  Congratulations!

What happens if you don't have a brain-mouth filter?  You end up writing a blog just like this one. 

I have a strong desire to be attractive to my male friends  Are you male or female?

I want to be just a little bit naughtier  I'm sure he'll like that.

I want my pool guy naked  It's not a very original fantasy, but ok.

OC woman who talks sex on the web  That might be me?

How do I compliment a man?  How would you compliment anyone?

Arms tied above her head, big boobs  I have big boobs, but one of my arms can't possibly move above my head ever again.  You've got the wrong woman.

Doctor removed my panties  No, no, no!  You should be removing them yourself if it's necessary.  Something's very wrong with this.

Bra and panties with my physical therapist  I don't want to know, or hear, about it.

Girl flashes ass for train  It's a tradition here in Orange County.

Getting over losing a friend  I'm no help.  I never get over it myself.

Ways to stimulate my guy for sex  I don't give sexual advice.

Naked pool boy  Not again!

Hot guys on all fours  Very specific request.

Women who think blow jobs aren't sex  I can't think of a thing to say here.

I caught my wife naked  I hope you catch her naked a lot, she's your wife!

Want story of transparent blouse without a bra  Okaaaaaaay?

Definition of a perv magnet  Twenty Four At Heart