Blue

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CONFESSION WEDNESDAYS

Once upon a time, before I had sense, I used to think it was my civic damn duty to relieve whomever I was with from the “blue balls.” Like, I actually allowed these men to make me feel guilty and felt a weight on my conscience because “this poor guy is going to suffer FOREVER if I don’t do anything about this!”

*single blink* Tha f*ck outta here with that noise.  31 years old and I’m getting laugh-abs reading these old journal entries.

Surprisingly enough, men, even at this age, still try to lay this particular guilt trip. In these mature years of my life, I can say with all honesty that I could give the most mangy of rat’s asses about their plight. You have an opposable thumb, lotion and a forearm – tork that for all it’s worth ‘cuz I’m not here for it.

Work it like Kermit, gents.

 My, my, my…  How far… *ahem* …I’ve come.

Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer

THESE ARE MY CONFESSIONS (WARNING: Do not try this at home – I’m trained):

Sometimes when the subway is standing room only and I’m sandwiched beside a hot, young professional reading the paper and holding on to the high bar, I’ll FULLY pretend he’s my man. I take up residence in the warm, Old Spiced-nook and cranny just below his armpit,  like I’m s’posed to be there. Shoot… He never knows the difference and I’m content until Bay Station when I feign surprise that he’s got to get around me to exit the train.  *single blink*

I’m not ashamed.

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