This morning is cold and I wore my jeans. I can see the sly comfy lil’ bastards already creeping into dress territory. It’s not even that cold… But I look decent in jeans, this is momentuous… in fact they feel kind of loose today. Is it because they have now been washed, or did I lose a few more cms doing the ugly naked thang? And then not eating anything? No, it’s just the stretch fabric relaxing. I’ve been a long time out of jeans, forgive my optimism…
But I have lost 3 jeans sizes in 6 months. Awe. Some. Well, I have gone from a 32 inch waist (not that that was the size of my waist, jeans are sized weird.. I don’t get it) to a 29 which if I remember correctly was my jeans size when I was in my skeezy pill quaffing and wonky vibratory dancing phase. Niccceee… If that still seems big (I don’t know) then it is because I have wonderful childbearing hips. And thighs. My thighs aren’t useful for reproduction…per se… but if there was a famine or something, I have fat reserves in there which would probably be useful if I was breast feeding. So. The thighs are the last to go… typical, boobs were the first to abandon me but the thighs are holding on til the last. Bastards. I am however gonna try eating a bit more because I’ve started getting night time terrors that my hair or teeth will fall out from malnourishment. This is unlikely because my take on anorexia is probably pretty close to the limit of calories you are supposed to eat anyway, but I just feel it more because I used to be such a gluttonous pig woman.
So. Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks I look good in stretchy denim, because this morning I got my first pants-clad arse grab on the bus.
Yep, I who always secretly thought I was felt up on public transport because I was kind of asking for it by dressing like a slut (don’t be angry, it’s peer pressure ok?), can finally do a triumphant AHA in the face of the Berlusconi-type sleazebags (aka most of the men in Italy) who think virgins are the only ones who aren’t kinda guilty if they get raped.
I have previously been felt up in the ass twice (in Italy) on the bus. Both times the seedy little fucker took advantage of a packed bus and a thin skirt to cup his grotty monkey hand behind me and not very subtly graze past my ass multiple times. It was horribly obvious but I was frozen in the inaction that comes with my heinous fear of making what we Irish call a holy show of ourselves. Because I know I always make a tit of myself here but it’s mostly I think because oh so much pressure to behave in front of such a judgemental species of humanoid.I wear coloured tights and crap on a cracker, these Italians can STARE.
So if I freak out at the old letch, and I’m wrong, I look like an egotistical psycho. (well…) So each time, I have kept my silence and then bludgeoned myself over the head later with shame and reproach after spotting the poised hand with the dirty fingernails and the icky grin only too late to formulate a reaction because then it’s my stop, and what should I do anyway?
Then in another two incidences, I was asked for a pair of my knickers. Actually I think I may have reported on this before… But I can’t find the post so excuse me if I repeat myself, it’s bound to happen sometimes, it definitely happens a lot in conversation with me so you can just pretend it’s like having a real life friendship except in my dream world, where I give you 1000s of words on whatever I feel like and you have a little box where you can comment after I am done talking… sigh. If only…
So the first guy sidled up to me and asked in hushed tones for “a pair of your panties” and I was horrified and not entirely sure again if I was just a psycho and hallucinating this kind of event or if it was actually true that someone was asking me for my knickers, but something pushed the words out of me anyway
“WHAT THE FUCK, ARE YOU ASKING ME FOR MY KNICKERS, is that it?”
so everyone could hear, and the whole bus turned around and I cloaked myself from the shame using my fiery rage against the commuter perves who RUIN good cheap transportation. He jumped off before the doors closed and started running, I won a moral victory, but I still had to endure the rest of the journey with the horrified bambi eyes of a busload of reserved Italians who were NOT impressed with how I had bellowed in the face of expected public behaviour and apparently begun the process of breaking down the very laws of physics keeping the really really old houses standing in Italy with only an occasional bunch of school children being killed by falling rubble.
The second time, it was a weird dude who popped in the door of my shop, and at first I thought he was asking if I SOLD underwear and I said NO, suspicious but polite. But he just stood there with the seediest smirk ever to brand itself with fiery sleaze onto my memory plates and said “no… a pair of YOURS”
Well, then I grabbed my gypsy stick and chased him out of the shop and down the road a bit screaming “I WILL SMITE THEE WITH GREAT FURIOUS VENGEANCE RAT BASTARD HOW DARE YOU COME TO MY PLACE OF WORK AND HARRASS ME, I WILL HAVE YOU ARRESTED YOU CUNT!” Or something with a similar vibe, but in Italian. I don’t know how to say cunt in Italian, except for “minchia”, but I think that is used to mean awesome, not as an insult. Like people are all, “wow, CUNT! Those Kanye West shades are so cool!” So I don’t think I said that or I would have given him mixed signals. Anyway I was quite proud of myself but probably looked a little crazy to passersby and all the people outside the pizza place next door.
THEN, and this was the worst experience really, I was… well, I already went on a nerd rage before about how I hate people on busses sitting on the outer seat so you have to beg them to allow you one of the two seats they are hoarding because they got here first, thank you oh gracious rightful owner and distributor of public transportation seating… and then lurch over them as they scrunch a few millimetres to let you through instead of just shunting over a seat and allowing themselves to be locked in. Yep, I definitely ranted about this before.
So I sit in by the window whenever I am on the bus to make an unheeded point about decency and putting yourself out to accomodate others, and then one time I learnt why that’s not a good idea and screw everyone else, because this man sat down beside me and I got a weird vibe instantly from him, but also I have a fierce delusion that every man I go near is thinking only of how much he would love to sleep with me, so I try to ignore the little voice that sings “this dude is looking at you weird” because it’s always there… like background radiation or the multicoloured static hung-over people can see in the air. (or maybe that’s just me?)
Anyway I look firmly out the window so when he starts fiddling with himself I only become gradually aware of it with my peripheral vision, and I am still totally unsure but horrified and worried that either he is masturbating gently under his jeans while LOOKING AT ME and I am just ignoring it while it is blatantly obvious what’s going on to anyone less fucked in the head than I seem to be, or else I have finally flipped out and there is a guy beside me looking past me at something shiny outside and his jeans are just itching him and I have invented a massive fantasy about being so damned gorgeous and obliging with my good public transport manners that men can’t stop themselves from masturbating when they sit beside me.
Slowly… very slowly… it becomes really fucking obvious to me that no one has an itchy jeans crotch and scratches it that obviously for such a long time, or at least if they have an itchy crotch they would at least try to cover what they are doing, like even when you scratch your nose in public you are desperately aware that other people are going to think you are mining for delicious nostril emeralds and you do all this shifty cover up behaviour to try and highlight that it’s really just an itch. I presume a dick scratcher would be similarly aware of how his actions may be perceived…
It’s obvious, but I’m frozen in the blank space where there should be a Wiki How. It’s under-react or over-react. I have no idea if there would even be a standard response here or what I should try aim for- normality or indignation? Fucking Italy, man, it’s sucked all the righteous bitch outta me. Almost. It’s internalised it…
I can’t even turn my head and look at his lap to end this all with concrete knowledge of what’s happening… because I can’t make myself look at his dick. I just can’t. I can feel his eyes on me. I feel like looking at his crotch will reveal a seething pulp of weirdo genital, like some gasping squid… and my looking will be like giving permission or approval. Ugh. I feel disgusting. I feel violated… I can’t stay sitting beside him… I make a move… I stand in my seat and still not looking in his direction make some rumblings of noise about how I need to get out. He shifts away so I can get out BARELY but I squish past as violently as I can so I don’t accidentally arouse him by brushing gently off him… and lurch crazy faced to the back of the bus. I am too freaked out to look at him, to get confirmation of what just happened, I still don’t know was he really flicking the mange tout or what, but I can’t really believe he had prolongued itchy pants in the crotch and was just having a deep laborious scratch… let me add I did sit there for about 20 minutes in my behavioural quandary before it occured to me to get up and stand somewhere else.
He was totally jacking it.
But anyway, after all these wonderful experiences, I’d be getting my complain on… but my audience whether or not they intended to be nice and sympathetic, couldn’t help letting their eyes flicker down to my thigh high hemline, making me falter and think, shit no one buys this when I dress slutty every day.
But today I have proof, it’s not my clothes that makes people gropey… it’s their pervy sex offender minds and probably I have a slutty facial expression or just a fantastic ass. I am not sure what constitutes a good ass or a bad ass, so I’ll just believe what I want to believe.
So I feel more vindicated than violated. One small grope for man, one giant leap for slutty dressers.
Speeeeeaaaaking of slutty… I am in hair growth limbo today- not long enough to wax, too long not to do anything about if I want to get some more o’ that Italian sausage this weekend. And I do. Of course. Also the severe mental trauma of going into one of those salons again just… it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Last night I tried these bullshit DIY cold wax strips on my thighs, which is where things had gotten worst (excluding obvs the bikini area) but the damn things just ripped out a few hairs, left the rest all curled up and sticky and my skin screaming horrible insults at me and threatening to stay red and swollen forever just to spite me for being such an unfeeling dick.
I should have gone to the salon.
So I have some very unsmooth patchy shit going on in my lower body. The wax strips were no good on my legs so for some reason, maybe boredom…I waxed my arms. I don’t really know why I did that because my arm hair has never bothered me too much, but they feel nice and smooth now and it feels like a minor accomplishment. It doesn’t make any sense why the area that least bothers me if it is hairy has to hurt the least to wax. Really really not fair. And now, I will start feeling hairy arm guilt if I don’t maintain mah smooth guns. Damn it. So much hair and insecurity, so little time, money, and motivation.
So… Fabio messaged me on Monday, that is ONE DAY after we had sex and he made me pasta… eager much?
He was just like “oh hey how are you etc” and it didn’t go anywhere as a convo, but I let him reply last (boom. never manage that, I’m too eager to converse) and now I feel entirely within my rights to saunter in late tomorrow with some “how you doin’?” and invite him over to my house for some piebald scratchy sexy times provided he understands there will be nothing to eat except for some hummus and a weird experiment with bread that didn’t turn out well. I tried to make spicy bread, with no recipe, having never made bread before. When I look at it that way, it turned out phenomenal and I am an awesome cook. But taken on its own merits, that bread is fucking vile. It manages to be both horrendously spicy and salty but also completely void of flavour.
Anyway it’s kind of edible with hummus, so that was all I wanted. I made spicy hummus- fucking. AWESOME. (On second thoughts, I’ll just eat hummus off my hand. That bread is fucking weird. I don’t know how I managed to fuck it up so badly)
So I have been on a weird enthusiastic cooking buzz this week, I have been trying not to play Skyrim because I can’t just casually play an hour or two, I am in that game until 4am and then shaking and nervous and insomniac and then I look shit the next day… so instead I have been cooking things. I made awesome homemade burgers the other night, and then froze the totally ambitious 7 extra ones.
But I realise with this potential fuck buddy I have here in Fabio, I need to keep the weird, geeky and depraved side of me all hushed up. At least during his business hours. He doesn’t drink really. I remember bullying him the other night, shrieking that he didn’t have a drink and what the fuck was he doing sober in a bar, and I made him leave the group to go get a beer a few times. He doesn’t smoke- neither do I yay! But he’s a NON smoker. I am an EX smoker, so some of the rebellious coolness still lingers in my attitude. It does, trust me, don’t doubt that shit. Even whatever you think of smoking, while I was out in the school yard hiding from teachers doing something I’m not supposed to do that would get me in trouble, hanging with other rebellious motherfuckers, for no reason other that I was badass, Fabio and his crew were probably doing… actually I don’t know what non smokers did at lunch time. Ate lunch, or something. Something LAME.
He told me he doesn’t approve of smoking. Urgh.
Actually I should try not to have too much conversation with this guy next time… the sex was just so damn good, really really good… but the more I think about the very little he did say to me… Urk. It would have been harder for him to display less traits and ideals that clash with mine. Oh, we haven’t even mentioned religion.
But on the other hand, I like fucking a guy like that, as long as he doesn’t mess it up by talking too much letting me get to know him too much. I am extending a similar courtesy so we can hopefully get all intimate and not actually share anything.
I know all that crap about “be yourself” but trust me, if I turn up at a bar and talk about my real hobbies (writing my diary for people to read, watching porn, and playing one player computer games) then I will not snag the kind of guy I would like to get naked with.
I don’t particularly want to meet men who are shut ins like myself. I would obviously be terrible with some dude who’s all into going out and getting fresh air all the time, like climbing mountains and white river rafting or whatever, also I knew a guy who got paralyzed from extreme sports and now he is FORCED to play video games all the time, and so that’s kind of scary. But I also don’t wanna be back in the situation where you are woken up on a Sunday morning to the sounds of rabid zombies vomiting on each other and your husband’s character shouting “grabbed some puke!” to his online friends while you’re like, what the FUCK? remember when you had a shitty old pc and you used to wake me up with food or sex?
Getting sidetracked .. Damn it.
In school my English teacher was like “tendency to go off on a tangent” or “brilliant, funny essay… but it was supposed to be about how mobile phones affect concentration, and you started about that but at the end it’s about… well I don’t know what it’s about really, but you seemed kind of angry”
And then he asked me for coffee to discuss my writing.
And I was a little suspicious, but he said something about getting published.. .but my friends were all “ooooooo, you and Mr. Whatshisname” and because I blush when I’m accused of shit, I was just like “ugh whatevs, yeah probably a perve” when really I don’t think he was, I think he was just blown away by my awesome ability to blindside him into an A without doing the actual assignment. Hmm. I guess we’ll never know.
Actually I did go for coffee with him once but it was beside the school and very public but all these other students were around so I didn’t feel like I could speak openly… and he gave me some pretty kick ass advice, he said “if you want to write, you have to not worry about hurting people… your family, etc, with honesty.” Actually that’s paraphrasing whatever he really said, but the gist I hope is right.
Anyway maybe some day I will write something serious and then I’ll be like, yo thanks for the advice Mr Whatshisname, while my mother weeps at the thinly veiled portrayal of herself.
But where were we… fucks sake, I do go off topic.
Anyway I’m 100% sure I can lure this Italian back to mine some time around the end of the week, but…
I’m just a leeetle worried he will do something to ruin things. They always do.
I like him, he’s fantastically endowed but not in a threatening way…. but there are so many things he could potentially do to ruin it and make me cringe my pants back on. I mean yes, the dodgy Guido-lumberjack style and the constant talk of being fat… he aint perfect.. but these issues are luckily not involved in the actual sex.
He has only spoken briefly during… to tell me to flip over and to ask optimistically if I wanted to “try” anal. (Come on, I fucked you the first time we met with an extremely brief prelude, of course I’ve TRIED anal.)
I found his talk to be well within the acceptable limits of shit he can say that doesn’t make my vadge try to spit him out and seize up resentfully. (Seriously it has done that before. It has also closed itself over a few times when I actually thought I wanted to fuck a guy, but my body clearly wasn’t into it. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I think I have a pretty good anti rape defence there)
Anyway it might seem like the hard part is to get into the pants in the first place, but here you are wrong.
Oh so wrong. There are still a million ways you can make my flagging standards kick on the backup generator and get the hell out of there.
I’m not going to list a million now though don’t worry I have taken up enough of your time and mine. Although I did have nothing better to do. I was at work when I wrote this.
My Turn offs, Volume 1.
1. Referring to the penis as “he” or as some kind of little separate entity. I don’t care if this is a really common habit, or if people do this on tv and laugh about it, but it makes me cringe when I’m like, “are you ready to go again,” and he’s all “I don’t know, why don’t you ask HIM” and points to his dick and seriously guys jocular humour is all fun and games but leave it the fuck out of the bedroom. You start talking about a part of your body like it’s some creepy little dude attached to your crotch which has its own moods and preferences and I am out of there.
2. I don’t care if pulling a penis from a vagina suddenly makes a funny noise. I’m not laughing. Ignore the noise. Act like we are grown ups and oh that’s just some normal air movement noises it’s fine, no need to giggle. Seriously. It’s not shame that makes me go red, it’s annoyance.
I laugh about everything. Be it hospital or funeral, I am laughing the shit out of whatever is remotely funny to me.
I laugh at myself more than anyone…. I laugh when it’s embarassing, when it hurts, and when it’s totally not even funny or appropriate to do so.
But when I am NAKED and concentrating on keeping up the pretense about the body parts that usually lie in their own filth in a mess of sheets and computer wires writing about how I don’t have the mental strength to masturbate any more… I know the truth and I’m sure he’s as sloblike and filthy as I am but I’m a girl and I have to keep up the illusion although it seems at odds with my real character, but I don’t even know how to incorporate my actual personality into sex… WELL…. then I don’t wanna hear laughter. This is serious. I’m not your buddy- I don’t want to relax, because then the mirage will fall and you’re left with the female version of the forever alone dude. Don’t break the ice- I need my cool here. It’s for your sake too, hypothetical guy.
3. The hilarious husky sex voice people put on to talk dirty. I suppose it’s natural because you’re too close to talk at a normal volume… and we’ve all watched too much porn to talk in our normal annoying voices… but the low deep dirty voice… oh no. I don’t like it. I have been guilty of this myself, especially when drunk, but I always feel very ashamed later. And I really hate hearing it from a man. Also, unless it’s a compliment like “my god woman, you are so hot I’m gonna premature ejaculate again even though I normally have amazing stamina but your vagina is also super tight and not at all reminiscent of someone who has had as many sexual partners as I imagine you have had,” or “I have never seen such non overlapping thighs before”, I probably don’t want to hear it. Compliments, you can squeak them to me over a helium balloon, I’m good to go. Mmm compliments… But anything else you want to communicate to me… you’re not Barry White, please don’t do a sex voice.
4. When instructions get a little tooo specific.
I am grateful for direction- and I do so love when a man is a bit forceful in the sack, moving my limbs around like he’s the key grip and I’m a piece of camera equipment. I think that’s what the key grip does but if I am wrong, and I couldn’t be bothered pulling up a separate tab for wikipedia right now… then please feel free to take that as some kind of ironic joke I made on purpose.
BUT: When shit gets really specific, like “here, put on this football shirt that is in really unflattering colours for you, and then I want you to suck my dick while humming the national anthem” then I start to feel a little weirded out, like you have some OCD routine in bed and that this shit is gonna be the same every time. I don’t mind you playing me like an instrument: But I’m a jazz sax, please. I don’t appreciate being used to play some song you learnt from an ex girlfriend who probably did a load of mind blowing shit and you settled on that puppy right there. See, now I’m getting jealous of some imaginary slut I never met. This does not bode well- I’m only able to get down and dirty if I feel really good about myself, and now I’m competing against some fantasy girl who I imagine to be like the cool girl out of That 70s Show… what was her name? Argh not in the mood for wikipedia right now. Sorry. But you know, the tall red haired one… and I imagine she dumped your sorry ass because she was too good for you, and left you heartbroken and now you are trying to use me to fill a gap in your life by doing the same shit she always did except I’m never going to be as good at doing someone else’s moves as she was, and why the fuck don’t you let me do my own thing… argh. See, just don’t go there.
(Ok so the football shirt guy didn’t ask me to hum the national anthem, but the shirt thing was weird anyway. Is that not kind of a repressed gay thing? A football shirt? I don’t look good in baggy clothes. I’d dress up in a corset and some heels yo, just as long as I look nice. I’d wear a lot of weird shit if it was flattering. I’d wear just duct tape if I had the figure for it. Seriously if I ever get rid of my remaining flab and the cellulite I will go around with little taped x’s over my nips. I won’t have any female friends, sure, but it won’t matter because I will be smokin’ and trashy. But a baggy man’s shirt… just no. Also.. it was some bullshit local team. Lame.)
5. When he’s too into looking at his dick.
I don’t like this. You’re supposed to be looking at me, why do you think I ate a yoghurt, two mandarins and a slice of brown bread and hummus yesterday? So you could stare at your dick? Look at me. And comment. I want some flattery here. My god, all these men going around with knowledge of the clitoris and a whole arsenal of positions and techiques and they still haven’t figured out how to find my C-spot? The C stands for compliments. Find it and you shall receive. Dagnammit, I feel like I’m talking to myself here. Oh right… But the annoying thing and probably why so many men are shit at this, is that you can’t ASK for compliments. Here is a pointer: By brushing my hair, doing some kind of token effort in the hair removal department, putting on make up and wearing something that restricts my breathing and movement, I am BEGGING for a compliment. Maybe you think I will give you better head if I have low self esteem. That is actually a pretty good theory, I can’t argue with it. (of course not… it’s my own theory. Man these one sided yet somehow triangular convos are getting WEIRD)
So… I don’t know what to conclude here. A few well placed compliments would be nice. But not too many or I will think you like me, or I will feel like I am ready to climb a rung on the hotness scale and replace you with someone better.
Oh man I just realised how irresponsible it is to share this shit online with all these unknown men who might go out there and use this possibly incorrect and possibly dangerous information against women or on women or something.
But it’s not like I have a whole lot of readers or anything, unless they are all lurking somewhere… I presume most of my hits are just spam but it is entirely possible that some of you are people who read this shit and don’t say anything. In which case… With great power comes great responsibility? Oh who am I kidding, anything you read here is probably equally likely to work on me as it is to get you a slap and no oral sex from another woman. In fact what I say I like, I probably will reject anyway if I don’t find the dood attractive. So, whatever.
You guys that I am aware of are nice anyway.
I have to STOP WRITING THIS NOW man it is addictive, I am such a great conversationalist, it’s almost like having a social life or friends or some shit, except I never disagree with myself. Except, I disagree with myself all the time. Like now. I dunno, it’s confusing me.
I am going to eat a yoghurt now as I think I feel a little off due to lack of food.