Tattoos. The forbidden fruit of the art world. The underworld of respectable society.
No decent, God-fearing person should or would have a tattoo. Tattoos are for the easy, wanton, unbridled people of the earth.
Slutty women and low-life men. WRONG!!!!!!
You might not like tattoos, but don't judge those who do. Lovers of tattoos are a diverse group of men and women who transverse the shackles of race, religion and economical bindings. An expression of one's inner thoughts and dreams.
My husband has two, my son's have them as does my daughter and daughter-in-law. Need I say more?
It's my turn. I want a tattoo dammit. I've wanted one for years now but my stupid stereotyping wouldn't let me even consider thinking about it. In my mind, if you are fat you shouldn't get a tattoo, it's that simple.
Tattoos were for the svelte, sexy woman and the hulking, tan stud. I am neither of these, nor have I ever been.
Fat women with dirty feet (in flips of course), permed hair (which makes them look like they have a pin head) and stained shirts that are too short for the bulging stomachs should never ever get ink.
Giant biker women from hell. Could be the name of a horror film, but that's what I think of when I envision me with a tattoo.
Now, I don't have a perm and I rarely, if ever expose my feet, which by the way are clean. I might have a bulging stomach but I never wear shirts too short, lest the bulge escapes. Very embarrassing.
BUT, for me just being overweight was enough of a reason for me not to get one.
Until now that is.
A friend of mine is a tattoo artist and she will be doing the honor for me in about a year on her next trip east. It will be like deflowering a virgin in some ways.
I'm thinking wine and mood music.
I have one year to find the perfect tattoo to compliment my frame AND to prepare for the pain which I am sure I am going to endure.
My youngest son has informed me that I am going to cry like a baby. He is probably right.
The next big decision; what to get permanently etched in my skin?
There are so many kinds of tattoos that I can pick from I'm not even sure where to start.
Tribal bands are popular. Hmmmm, maybe not, I don't think there is enough ink in a tattoo gun to go around my guns let alone how a tattoo artist could work with such a gelatinous mass of ever moving flesh.
Visual alert; my arms are so giggly that I would think a tribal band would look more like a rubber band, stretching and ever changing its shape as my arm blub moved in the wind.
So, tribal band - OUT.
Tramp stamps. My youngest son as forbidden me to get one; period. Not that I wanted one anyway. I wouldn't be able to find anything that would go there. You see, if you haven't already guessed, I'm a big girl. For something to go in that particular spot, it would have to be huge in size.
I love birds, so I guess I could have the Wandering Albatross tattooed in full flight on my rump. Head raised, of course, lest it look like he is flying right down my pants. The Wandering Albatross have a wing span of 11 feet so I think that just might work. But, my son won't allow that so back to the drawing board.
Tramp stamp - OUT
A tall ship tattooed on my chest would resemble a ship in heavy seas. Nope, too big for my first tattoo.
Since it is predetermined that I'm gong to cry like a baby, I definitely need to think smaller.
I don't want one on my foot, she might actually see my toes while tattooing; can't have that. Wrists would hurt too much. Face, no, that's out. Buttock, (heheheh that work makes me laugh. I am so immature) That will never happen.
What's left? My upper back/shoulder.
What can I put there to show who I am and what I'm all about? I need something that will speak to me and that I will never tire of.
Cheeseburger, no. Wine glass and cheese spread; I don't think so. Beer bottles stacked in a neat pyramid. Nope. I think that food and beverages are definitely out.
But what???
I GOT IT!!!! I love fairy's, unicorns, wizards and anything and everything to do with the magical world of make believe. Make believe, pretty much where my mind is most of the time anyway.
A fairy, that's what it has to be. She will be beautiful, muted in color and almost shy in her nature. It will be the perfect tattoo in the perfect size for me.
I'll be so seductive when it's finally done. My life will change because of this work of art that will be displayed on my body. I'm actually shivering with anticipation.
I can see it now............
Picture it, I'm sitting in a dimly lit bar with cigarette smoke eerily swirling around me. ( I know you can't smoke in bars but this is my fantasy so zip it) I'll be in black 4" heels, tight jeans which will be complimented by an off-the-shoulder blouse; long silver earrings with my hair in waves framing my face.
My tattoo will be there, in all its glory just waiting for the wandering eyes of a man, any man to see.
Soon, our eyes will lock, he'll approach me with lust in his heart; his gaze darting between my eyes and my tattoo, but never losing focus.
Slowly he will walk confidently across the room, never taking his eyes off of me. No one else exists except the two of us as this meeting is unfolding.
When he finally reaches me, his hand will ever so gently touch my shoulder. It will be at that precise moment that the haze is swept away, the smoky bar room will vanish and I'll once again be slammed back to reality; my reality.
In a flash my fantasy was over.
Shit, if I'm going to dream like that just thinking about getting a tat, I should have gotten one years ago. Sign me up bubba and break out the needles.
Suffice it to say, I'm ready.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Cougars, Pumas and Mammoths
Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again; my body is continuing in full-mutiny mode the older I get. I just turned 56 and I look more and more like a melting, drippy candle than a women in her prime. Not only is my weight loss causing my skin to sag, but age and gravity are no less forgiving.
I have always been blessed with good skin; my problem now is that there is too much of it. I actually have jowls; I resemble my bull dog Teddy. If I could just pull back that skin I don't think I would look so bad. Maybe I could staple it behind my ears or wear a special kind of chin strap, you know, one with a bow; just for special occasions that is.
My arms; that's an entirely different story. When I wear short sleeves I resemble what Popeye's arms might look like at the age of 100, you know what I mean. Just above the elbow where it juts out and then drastically juts back in. It's unnatural how the fat flow proceeds down ones arm. Awful. If I have on a short-sleeve shirt and get caught in a good wind, I could literally take off.
Lovemaking is another issue entirely.
As Dorothy once said in an episode of The Golden Girls, "ladies, when you make love to a man, always lay on your back, otherwise your face flab hags over" She was right. Not only does it make your face look like a Shar-Pei, but its what happens to your breasts that is even worse.
If you are a large breasted woman in your fifties, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The shape that they take on when you are on top, sensuously leaning over your man, can only be described as what a Italian sausage might look like coming out of a stuffing machine that has suffered a catastrophic malfunction while pushing the meat into the skins.
And girls, it isn't much better on your back.
I don't know about you, but when I lay on my back, my breasts completely disappear around the sides of my body and the skin on my face lays back towards my ears. I swear you could tie it in a knot behind my head. The only good part about this position is that my stomach, although still large, lays flatter.
I am reminded of Jabba the Hut.
Getting up from this position while with a man can be tricky ladies. If you move to fast, your skin will reverberate at such a speed as to cause your lover to think your trying to do some sort of erotic dance that unfortunately has gone completely wrong.
Wiggle, jiggle and roll ladies.
I wonder if men distress about their bodies the way women do? Could it be possible that men are just as self-conscience as we are? Do men worry about their ever-expanding waistlines?
I have never heard a man ask if an outfit made his butt look big or if a certain color or style suited him better. Do they go to the bathroom before lovemaking and dissect what they look like, hoping the their partner won't see their imperfections?
I doubt it. This is the species that will fart and push your head under the covers or look at you with longing in their eyes while scratching their balls. I have no doubt that they could give a rats ass about their bodies in bed; which I think, is a good thing.
If only I could be so confident.
What am I getting at? My point to this full-body dissection is this. What the hell are we at this age and how do women find the confidence to date.
I realize that I am not in the dating circuit, but the thought does frighten me as to what if?
Are we cougars? I know I'm not if Courtney Cox is the definition. I can't imagine myself ever being compared to a cat, of any kind. I have never once been in a bar, or anywhere for that matter, and had a young stud come up to me to confess his unbridled passion and desire for me, even though he doesn't know me at all.
Isn't that what men do when they think you are a cougar? What's the point of being a hot, older woman if men aren't going to approach you and shower you with compliments before making hot passionate love to you?
I will say this though, once when I was in my twenties, out and about at a bar with friends, I had an older man (40s), i was in my late 20s, come up to me and tell me I was the second prettiest girl in the bar. I was so flattered by this second place prize, for a contest I didn't even know I had entered, that I blushed and giggled for the rest of the night.
I was actually flattered that a random man felt the need to tell me my looks met with his approval, albeit second place. I really need to set some higher standards for myself.
As stated in a previous blog, I also had a man tell me my lips were the best he had ever seen and wanted to touch them with his finger; after he dipped it ever so seductively in his white wine. This was also the year a fisherman approached me in the convenience store where I worked and told me exactly what my lips would be good for.
Lord save me now.......
I draw them in, that's for sure. Can't I ever just once have a sex God of a man approach me and want me above all else? I wouldn't go, but it would be nice to be desired by someone who could have anyone he wanted, but chose me, the cougar.
All aboard for Fantasy Island.....
Puma or Panther? Doubt it; I can't slink, let alone pounce around anything let alone a bedroom and my skin color leans more towards fish-belly white than the beautiful blue-black of a panther.
No, I think I lean more towards the Woolly Mammoth, especially when I don't shave as often as I should.
I know, I know, we must all love our bodies at each stage of life. Blah I say. I know that's true, but for me, all I can say is thank God I'm not in the dating scene.
First off, what the hell would you talk about? What pills you take every day? How long it takes you to walk up-right when standing cause your joints have locked up? How many times you get up in a single night to pee?
You could always compare what specialists you each go to; how many times and of course, how many procedures you have had.
What a lovely conversation that would be over drinks.
Second, I would never take my clothes off,ever. I don't think that I could drink enough wine for me to be comfortable disrobing in front of someone other than my husband; who has had the pleasure of watching over the years as my body has morphed into the gelatinous mass that it is today.
Can you imagine disrobing in front of your new-found lover only to have him laugh or excuse himself to the bathroom, bolt out the front door never to call you again? Fate worse than death I tell you.
I realize that men get out of shape as they grow older also; it just doesn't seem to matter as much. Have you ever seen a fat guy criticizing an overweight woman, or drooling over a beautiful woman he might see in passing, absolutely sure that she would want him if he approached her?
Clueless.
Anyway, all I know is that I would love nothing more than to love my body, as it is and to be proud of the way I have aged. To be happy even though no one has labeled me as a sex goddess or sensual cat.
I can only hope.
Until then I'll just have to settle for looking like a human candle. I could always put a wick on my head and rent myself out during the holidays; plant myself on someones front lawn and light it up.
Well, maybe not.....
I have always been blessed with good skin; my problem now is that there is too much of it. I actually have jowls; I resemble my bull dog Teddy. If I could just pull back that skin I don't think I would look so bad. Maybe I could staple it behind my ears or wear a special kind of chin strap, you know, one with a bow; just for special occasions that is.
My arms; that's an entirely different story. When I wear short sleeves I resemble what Popeye's arms might look like at the age of 100, you know what I mean. Just above the elbow where it juts out and then drastically juts back in. It's unnatural how the fat flow proceeds down ones arm. Awful. If I have on a short-sleeve shirt and get caught in a good wind, I could literally take off.
Lovemaking is another issue entirely.
As Dorothy once said in an episode of The Golden Girls, "ladies, when you make love to a man, always lay on your back, otherwise your face flab hags over" She was right. Not only does it make your face look like a Shar-Pei, but its what happens to your breasts that is even worse.
If you are a large breasted woman in your fifties, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The shape that they take on when you are on top, sensuously leaning over your man, can only be described as what a Italian sausage might look like coming out of a stuffing machine that has suffered a catastrophic malfunction while pushing the meat into the skins.
And girls, it isn't much better on your back.
I don't know about you, but when I lay on my back, my breasts completely disappear around the sides of my body and the skin on my face lays back towards my ears. I swear you could tie it in a knot behind my head. The only good part about this position is that my stomach, although still large, lays flatter.
I am reminded of Jabba the Hut.
Getting up from this position while with a man can be tricky ladies. If you move to fast, your skin will reverberate at such a speed as to cause your lover to think your trying to do some sort of erotic dance that unfortunately has gone completely wrong.
Wiggle, jiggle and roll ladies.
I wonder if men distress about their bodies the way women do? Could it be possible that men are just as self-conscience as we are? Do men worry about their ever-expanding waistlines?
I have never heard a man ask if an outfit made his butt look big or if a certain color or style suited him better. Do they go to the bathroom before lovemaking and dissect what they look like, hoping the their partner won't see their imperfections?
I doubt it. This is the species that will fart and push your head under the covers or look at you with longing in their eyes while scratching their balls. I have no doubt that they could give a rats ass about their bodies in bed; which I think, is a good thing.
If only I could be so confident.
What am I getting at? My point to this full-body dissection is this. What the hell are we at this age and how do women find the confidence to date.
I realize that I am not in the dating circuit, but the thought does frighten me as to what if?
Are we cougars? I know I'm not if Courtney Cox is the definition. I can't imagine myself ever being compared to a cat, of any kind. I have never once been in a bar, or anywhere for that matter, and had a young stud come up to me to confess his unbridled passion and desire for me, even though he doesn't know me at all.
Isn't that what men do when they think you are a cougar? What's the point of being a hot, older woman if men aren't going to approach you and shower you with compliments before making hot passionate love to you?
I will say this though, once when I was in my twenties, out and about at a bar with friends, I had an older man (40s), i was in my late 20s, come up to me and tell me I was the second prettiest girl in the bar. I was so flattered by this second place prize, for a contest I didn't even know I had entered, that I blushed and giggled for the rest of the night.
I was actually flattered that a random man felt the need to tell me my looks met with his approval, albeit second place. I really need to set some higher standards for myself.
As stated in a previous blog, I also had a man tell me my lips were the best he had ever seen and wanted to touch them with his finger; after he dipped it ever so seductively in his white wine. This was also the year a fisherman approached me in the convenience store where I worked and told me exactly what my lips would be good for.
Lord save me now.......
I draw them in, that's for sure. Can't I ever just once have a sex God of a man approach me and want me above all else? I wouldn't go, but it would be nice to be desired by someone who could have anyone he wanted, but chose me, the cougar.
All aboard for Fantasy Island.....
Puma or Panther? Doubt it; I can't slink, let alone pounce around anything let alone a bedroom and my skin color leans more towards fish-belly white than the beautiful blue-black of a panther.
No, I think I lean more towards the Woolly Mammoth, especially when I don't shave as often as I should.
I know, I know, we must all love our bodies at each stage of life. Blah I say. I know that's true, but for me, all I can say is thank God I'm not in the dating scene.
First off, what the hell would you talk about? What pills you take every day? How long it takes you to walk up-right when standing cause your joints have locked up? How many times you get up in a single night to pee?
You could always compare what specialists you each go to; how many times and of course, how many procedures you have had.
What a lovely conversation that would be over drinks.
Second, I would never take my clothes off,ever. I don't think that I could drink enough wine for me to be comfortable disrobing in front of someone other than my husband; who has had the pleasure of watching over the years as my body has morphed into the gelatinous mass that it is today.
Can you imagine disrobing in front of your new-found lover only to have him laugh or excuse himself to the bathroom, bolt out the front door never to call you again? Fate worse than death I tell you.
I realize that men get out of shape as they grow older also; it just doesn't seem to matter as much. Have you ever seen a fat guy criticizing an overweight woman, or drooling over a beautiful woman he might see in passing, absolutely sure that she would want him if he approached her?
Clueless.
Anyway, all I know is that I would love nothing more than to love my body, as it is and to be proud of the way I have aged. To be happy even though no one has labeled me as a sex goddess or sensual cat.
I can only hope.
Until then I'll just have to settle for looking like a human candle. I could always put a wick on my head and rent myself out during the holidays; plant myself on someones front lawn and light it up.
Well, maybe not.....
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Menopause and sex toys
Menopause, the time in a women’s life when she could have sex without abandon; wild and crazy with no fear of getting pregnant. No more monthly period to get in the way; well, of anything, that monthly curse that always seemed to leave its mark on me; literally.
During my fertile years, I was a die-hard diaper wearer. Oh, I used tampons when I was younger, that is until toxic shock syndrome came out. After that, you couldn’t catch me putting one of those death swabs in me. I was convinced that I would be that one-in- a million women to wither and die because I left it in for longer than four hours.
It wasn’t the death that scared me as much as the cause. How embarrassing, dying because of a cotton swab infection. I just couldn’t have that.
When I started getting my period in the sixth grade, menopause was not something that I thought of at all. It seemed like an eternity of time before I would reach that point in my life.
In my mind, menopause meant old, gray and shriveled, and of course, sexless. Oh shit, I am old and gray.
I’m not shriveled thought, just lumpy.
Anyway, by the time I started showing signs that menopause was approaching, I couldn’t wait.
As it was, it took about seven years for me to finally cross over that threshold. Periods coming so irregular I decided to just wear Depends every day, thus there would be chance of an accident.
As far as the hot flashes were concerned; a gentlemen that I work with suggested putting cones around my desk during times of intense flashes. Apparently I could be rather unapproachable when these flashes hit. Not a pretty picture.
As my luck would have it, during those same seven years that I was racing towards the finish line, my husband’s health was deteriorating and requiring more and more medications. Cholesterol, anxiety, and oh, let’s not forget, the quadruple bypass.
Do I need to spell that out for all you women with healthy husbands? Let’s just say that a good half of all my husband’s medications have side effects that a woman might find, let’s just say, inconvenient.
Humpf, forget about his health, what about my sex life. I mean come on, let’s prioritize ladies.
So, needless to say, when a friend of mine invited me to a party featuring adult toys and paraphernalia, where do I sign up; I jumped at the chance to go.
If Michele has another party, I am bringing wine.
Lisa, you drink red, right?
That party was such a blast. I don’t remember laughing that hard, ever. There had to be 30 women in attendance; all ages, sizes and backgrounds.
The hostess was hysterical; Germanesque in stature and as funny and raunchy as you can get. She walked in the front door with a suitcase that you could have fit a small car into.
The room fell silent as she laid her magic suitcase down and ever so slowly, opened it up for all of us to see. My God it was like heaven, there were enough vibrators in there to supply energy for the entire northeast quadrant of the United States.
Lotions, lubricates and assorted miscellaneous items to satisfy even the most frustrated woman, or man for that matter. Needless to say, I learned a great deal about sexual hardware, how to use it and what never to do with it.
At the end of the show, our hostess went into a bedroom to take orders; privately. If anyone was shy or embarrassed at the beginning of this party, that all flew out the window when it was time for ordering. There was a line forming before this woman even had a chance to set up her inventory and payment machine.
I’m surprised there wasn’t a stampede trying to be first on line. Every single woman ordered something; including me.
Luckily for us, most items ordered were on hand to bring home immediately; discretely packaged in a brown bag, of course.
As I left, brown bag clutched in my hand, I couldn’t wait to go home and show my husband what I had purchased. Something for him, something for me and something for us. I was like a kid in a candy store. Giddy, silly and ready to roll.
My husband was excited with my purchases, but for one reason or another, they never came out of the bag again, that is until one dismal day when I was home alone.
Bored and not wanting to go out, it came to me like a beacon; hmmmm what about my toys. That would be the first time that day that I blushed. As I pondered whether or not I should, would, or dare to use my new toy, I was overcome with the feeling that I was being watched. Mind you, there wasn’t anyone else home; no one was expected home and the dogs could have cared less as to what I was planning on doing.
So, I summoned up my courage and decided to go for it. I mean, after all, I’m 55 years old for Christ’s sake; live a little. Be brave; in my own home, all alone; pathetic.
I am quite the maverick aren’t I?
I slowly got up and proceeded to walk down the hall; my heart was pounding as if I were about to meet my secrete lover for an afternoon of unbridled passion. Thoughts raced through my head; do I put on something more comfortable, do I try to seduce myself, pour myself a glass of wine?
I opened my bedroom door, looked around just to make sure no one was there, trying to get a glimpse of what I am about to do. I quietly walked over to my secret hiding place, took out the unopened box that held my passion within its cardboard and plastic resting place, almost not able to contain myself.
My hands were trembling as I opened the box; gently, I unwrapped the beast that lied within. Behold, it was the King Kong deluxe model vibrator; batteries included; in royal blue no less. It was magnificent. Huge, masculine and all mine.
This baby had a vibrating shaft, rotating balls within the main shaft; along with a pig appendage that rotated at 900 miles per hour for your utmost pleasure.
When I finally got the nerve to try this baby out for size, I almost couldn’t hold the damn thing. The force of the vibrating, rotating and spinning pig face made it almost impossible for me to control, that along with the fact that I was sure the neighbors could hear this thing. It literally sounded like a 747 was about to take off.
I mean Jesus; forget about the noise, you needed at least a Masters degree in Engineering to work this thing for all the buttons and switches it had.
Suffice it to say, when I finally got control of my Kong, all it did for me was make me cry. I guess my eyes were bigger than my…… well, let’s not go there.
So for me, I am destined to live my life without the pleasure of a magic suitcase hidden under my bed.
I can tell you this though, if there is another party, I will be there, with my wine and checkbook in hand. I guess I just have to choose my products a bit more wisely.
Hey, I wonder if I can sell this on Ebay; slightly used sex toy for sale………………. Maybe not…
During my fertile years, I was a die-hard diaper wearer. Oh, I used tampons when I was younger, that is until toxic shock syndrome came out. After that, you couldn’t catch me putting one of those death swabs in me. I was convinced that I would be that one-in- a million women to wither and die because I left it in for longer than four hours.
It wasn’t the death that scared me as much as the cause. How embarrassing, dying because of a cotton swab infection. I just couldn’t have that.
When I started getting my period in the sixth grade, menopause was not something that I thought of at all. It seemed like an eternity of time before I would reach that point in my life.
In my mind, menopause meant old, gray and shriveled, and of course, sexless. Oh shit, I am old and gray.
I’m not shriveled thought, just lumpy.
Anyway, by the time I started showing signs that menopause was approaching, I couldn’t wait.
As it was, it took about seven years for me to finally cross over that threshold. Periods coming so irregular I decided to just wear Depends every day, thus there would be chance of an accident.
As far as the hot flashes were concerned; a gentlemen that I work with suggested putting cones around my desk during times of intense flashes. Apparently I could be rather unapproachable when these flashes hit. Not a pretty picture.
As my luck would have it, during those same seven years that I was racing towards the finish line, my husband’s health was deteriorating and requiring more and more medications. Cholesterol, anxiety, and oh, let’s not forget, the quadruple bypass.
Do I need to spell that out for all you women with healthy husbands? Let’s just say that a good half of all my husband’s medications have side effects that a woman might find, let’s just say, inconvenient.
Humpf, forget about his health, what about my sex life. I mean come on, let’s prioritize ladies.
So, needless to say, when a friend of mine invited me to a party featuring adult toys and paraphernalia, where do I sign up; I jumped at the chance to go.
If Michele has another party, I am bringing wine.
Lisa, you drink red, right?
That party was such a blast. I don’t remember laughing that hard, ever. There had to be 30 women in attendance; all ages, sizes and backgrounds.
The hostess was hysterical; Germanesque in stature and as funny and raunchy as you can get. She walked in the front door with a suitcase that you could have fit a small car into.
The room fell silent as she laid her magic suitcase down and ever so slowly, opened it up for all of us to see. My God it was like heaven, there were enough vibrators in there to supply energy for the entire northeast quadrant of the United States.
Lotions, lubricates and assorted miscellaneous items to satisfy even the most frustrated woman, or man for that matter. Needless to say, I learned a great deal about sexual hardware, how to use it and what never to do with it.
At the end of the show, our hostess went into a bedroom to take orders; privately. If anyone was shy or embarrassed at the beginning of this party, that all flew out the window when it was time for ordering. There was a line forming before this woman even had a chance to set up her inventory and payment machine.
I’m surprised there wasn’t a stampede trying to be first on line. Every single woman ordered something; including me.
Luckily for us, most items ordered were on hand to bring home immediately; discretely packaged in a brown bag, of course.
As I left, brown bag clutched in my hand, I couldn’t wait to go home and show my husband what I had purchased. Something for him, something for me and something for us. I was like a kid in a candy store. Giddy, silly and ready to roll.
My husband was excited with my purchases, but for one reason or another, they never came out of the bag again, that is until one dismal day when I was home alone.
Bored and not wanting to go out, it came to me like a beacon; hmmmm what about my toys. That would be the first time that day that I blushed. As I pondered whether or not I should, would, or dare to use my new toy, I was overcome with the feeling that I was being watched. Mind you, there wasn’t anyone else home; no one was expected home and the dogs could have cared less as to what I was planning on doing.
So, I summoned up my courage and decided to go for it. I mean, after all, I’m 55 years old for Christ’s sake; live a little. Be brave; in my own home, all alone; pathetic.
I am quite the maverick aren’t I?
I slowly got up and proceeded to walk down the hall; my heart was pounding as if I were about to meet my secrete lover for an afternoon of unbridled passion. Thoughts raced through my head; do I put on something more comfortable, do I try to seduce myself, pour myself a glass of wine?
I opened my bedroom door, looked around just to make sure no one was there, trying to get a glimpse of what I am about to do. I quietly walked over to my secret hiding place, took out the unopened box that held my passion within its cardboard and plastic resting place, almost not able to contain myself.
My hands were trembling as I opened the box; gently, I unwrapped the beast that lied within. Behold, it was the King Kong deluxe model vibrator; batteries included; in royal blue no less. It was magnificent. Huge, masculine and all mine.
This baby had a vibrating shaft, rotating balls within the main shaft; along with a pig appendage that rotated at 900 miles per hour for your utmost pleasure.
When I finally got the nerve to try this baby out for size, I almost couldn’t hold the damn thing. The force of the vibrating, rotating and spinning pig face made it almost impossible for me to control, that along with the fact that I was sure the neighbors could hear this thing. It literally sounded like a 747 was about to take off.
I mean Jesus; forget about the noise, you needed at least a Masters degree in Engineering to work this thing for all the buttons and switches it had.
Suffice it to say, when I finally got control of my Kong, all it did for me was make me cry. I guess my eyes were bigger than my…… well, let’s not go there.
So for me, I am destined to live my life without the pleasure of a magic suitcase hidden under my bed.
I can tell you this though, if there is another party, I will be there, with my wine and checkbook in hand. I guess I just have to choose my products a bit more wisely.
Hey, I wonder if I can sell this on Ebay; slightly used sex toy for sale………………. Maybe not…
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