Wednesday is breaking its promises

So, I told you all in my last post that I wasn’t going to blog about National Guard Guy anymore…however, I felt the need to tell the 2 of you who read this that don’t know me (and that I haven’t told via phone conversation) that things with NGG are fine. In fact, it’s actually progressing better than my job hunt. Besides that, I don’t think the blogging activated the crazy within myself; instead, I believe it was the fact that I had his actual full name saved in my phone.

I know, right? I shouldn’t have named the puppy, but the error has been corrected now; and I’m slated to spend this Friday night with him. No, I didn’t ever find out who’s truck that was in his driveway when Ambie and I stalked him; however, we did have a discussion about his farting that proved positive—he’s not going to do it in front of me anymore (and who says you can’t change a man?). All is right with the world again.

In other news, my mother is going to go to Nebraska this weekend to clean out my uncle’s apartment because he’s in jail for (“allegedly”) slitting some guy’s throat in a road rage incident two years ago. Yes, that’s all I know; and yes, that’s a bit of crazy from my family tree that I thought I’d share. But here’s an article complete with mug shot—it’s bad—the mug shot, and no, I don’t look a thing like my mother’s brother.

Apparently, his oldest son—and one of only two cousins from that side of the family (the other one is in jail, as well, for drug charges)—was arrested and released in connection with the incident. And look at me using phrases like I’m a crime reporter. This is the Grand Chahee signing off…

If only (I were signing off), I were a crime reporter. Anyway, I don’t exactly know how to take this. True, if you look at the mug shot, there is an unmistakable amount of crazy (and confusion) in his eyes. Also, according to this article my uncle sold the truck soon after the incident; however, according to that same article the victim claimed that there were three obese Hispanic perpetrators. So, since my uncle and his son are both unmistakably white, take that as you will--and the third man alleged to be in the truck has yet to be identified; however, knowing the girth of the two already recognized, I can't begin to speculate about the third man in the truck.

My somewhat chubby, white uncle is being charged with first-degree assault and with using a deadly weapon to commit a felony. His bail is either $200,000 or $250,000—I’m not really sure. Feel free to email me if you’d like to make a donation—personally, I’m not; however, something makes me want to start a Free Uncle T campaign—so let me know if there’s any interest, and I’ll get some shirts made (that mug shot would make a killer t-shirt). His son, obese-white cousin-Jayme, is free on bond? Well, according to my mother who heard it from his mother (my uncle’s crazy, first-ex-wife), he’s not in jail.

My mother is a fixer-type person and is trying to help out in any way that she can (let's hope she doesn't get arrrested in the process). My father believes that she has a bleeding heart and should cut her losses; however, thankfully, he’s not saying much either way this time because we all know that will blow up in his face. However, mom is planning on visiting her only brother in jail on Friday and then again on Sunday because they need to figure out a way to get him a better lawyer which translates to Uncle T wanting my mother to pitch in some cash to hire him a better lawyer.

Like my father, I’m staying out of this one—like New Jersey out.

And just so we’re all clear, this blog is strictly being posted for entertainment purposes only. The Grand Chahee is in no way speculating about either the guilt or innocence of the parties involved. Any implied claims made to the innocence or guilt of the parties involved is strictly at the speculation of the reader. Additionally, The Grand Chahee makes no claims to any knowledge not already presented in either local news or facts pertaining to the case made readily available via the local court records both obtainable via the internet. As the Grand Chahee has not been made aware of his Miranda rights, no part of this blog can be used as testimony or counted as fact in the eyes of a court or any judicial proceedings.

In regards to National Guard Guy, the Grand Chahee has revoked any prior claims to stop obsessing over his behavior and will blog about that subject matter until we’re all sick and tired of it.

Wednesday is breaking its promises

Sunday is going to blame the blogging.

It was over an hour before I received a response from National Guard on Friday. Since I deleted all the text messages in my phone, I can’t exactly remember it word for word; however, I can assure you that it wasn’t the response I was wanting. Maybe I should just say that his response isn’t what I wanted to talk about right now.

Overall, Saturday was a pretty good day. I knew that National Guard had his massage class—so there was no way we were going to hang out during the hours of 8-5. So, shortly after I woke up, I texted Crystal. Long story short, we ended up going to the zoo (the pics are posted to Facebook); and overall, it was a great time. As we were driving home, it got to be after 5…and there was no text from National Guard.

Eventually, he texted me…and just as I was about to think all was right in the world, it turned out to be some nonsense. He sent me a picture of his tax return under the heading—“Look what I got before tax season.” Again, it was not the response I was wanting. On our way home, Crystal was preaching to me to not take everything so seriously—if I didn’t get anything from him, I should “take matters into my own hands” (her code for masturbation); and simply, relax.

So, instead of chiding him for not immediately inviting me to have sex with him, I texted National Guard back some random compliment about how “cool” it was that he’d already received his refund. Then I asked him about his day… So, long story short, I did not receive the invite I was awaiting. However, since I knew that Crystal was heading to dinner with her husband (and I’m not one to interrupt marital harmony), I texted and then called Ambie.

Ambie is really good to vent to because she never tells me how crazy I sound. Also, she’s good to vent to because she doesn’t make me think I’m sane when I tell her how crazy I feel. However, she does have a different outlook on things than Crystal—she likes to know. Or maybe it’s better said by stating that she doesn’t like to not know. Long story short here—we agree that maybe Crystal is right; maybe tonight just isn’t the night for National Guard and I to get together.

Crystal was right about that. During our conversation Ambie and I decide to drive to Springfield to pick up some supplies—Ambie knows what those are; however, I don’t feel that the rest of the world needs to know, as well. And during our journey, we happened to drive by National Guard’s house. Now, I think I have to admit that not knowing is better…

In his driveway, we saw a truck that I didn’t recognize; and his vehicle was gone. As Ambie pointed out, the truck in his driveway is something I’m not supposed to know about and thus can never mention. So, I denied myself the immediate gratification I craved and ignored the immediate urge to text him (and question him about his whereabouts).

Yes, this led to me emotionally overeating and obsessing about why he didn’t invite me over.

Somewhere during my gluttony—and pick the overeating or obsessing—I had an epiphany. I was perfectly sane before I blogged about him. I was perfectly sane before I took to this medium to confess to the world that I kind of liked this guy and implied that I wanted something more than just that single nice weekend with him.

However, since I started this cycle, only I can end it. But before I sign off on the topic of National Guard forever, I will tell you that he did text me, “Hey sexy” at 4:08 pm this afternoon…I replied back with, “Howdy.” And I have not received another reply since.

Yes, his “massage class” should have been the same hours today as they were yesterday. Yes, I have been wondering why he texted me at all if he wasn’t going to continue the conversation. But, no, I did not text him anything else—nor do I intend to until I receive another message. I am going to conclude that every guy—even one I might be interested in—might want some time to himself on occasion; and that maybe he’s dead asleep or walking his dogs or studying. If he wants me to know, he’ll text me.

No, my strength won’t last forever; however, I won’t be blogging about him again…

Sunday is going to blame the blogging.

Friday thought it was time

I know it’s been a while. No, I’m not going to skirt that issue this time. If you look, I think it’s been like since October since I last posted (no, I didn’t look before I posted; however, I think I can remember my own blogging correctly). And I’m not going to lie here and tell you how much I missed it…And don’t lie to me and tell me you missed it. But, “je ne regrette rien”—I’m not sorry for anything (which I just posted to my Facebook as my new personal slogan for 2012).

Before I start to sound bitter because I don’t have an audience (because I’m sure that’s not the way to get one), I will tell you that I’ve been dedicating my time to other deeds. No, I’m not going to elaborate what that means; however, I will tell you that those endeavors do not include sex with men. Well, up until the end of 2011—and that brief, unfortunate rendezvous I had after 8in of fun told me he got caught by his wife—I had not had sex.

No, I didn’t really miss it. That being said, I didn’t really miss it until I had it again; and now, after two different men in the past week—or so—I’m back to craving it like a zombie craves human brains. Maybe that’s a little inaccurate—I’m not being as mindless as I would imagine that a zombie is; however, it’s the best analogy I could come up with as I typed. Yes, I realize that there’s an editing process where—if employed—I could have all the time in the world to come up with something more dynamic; however, that’s just not how I roll.

Now, we all know I’m not very good at resisting the urge to have sex for validation—how many years have I been blogging? That’s not the point. The point is what’s new for 2012 is that I only want to have sex with one man—well, I suppose, I should say that I want to have sex with one of two men. This is not a sign of the apocalypse…this is…Well, I’m not sure what it is…I was going to say it is the “wisdom that comes with age”; but that’s about as accurate as the whole zombie issue earlier…

Bachelor #1—only number one because he was the first in this timeline—is some sort of social worker. He had a nice home on the north side of Springfield. We bonded over a shared love of obsessive fascination with knowledge of Battlestar Galactica. What? It was all his idea to put on the soundtrack from all 4 seasons while we messed around—don’t look at me like that. He’s in his early 30’s and a nice guy, however, self-described as shy—which he is… (leading me to call him Mr. Shy…wait, I’m going to throw a Battlestar reference out here and call him “the Fraker”) He doesn’t text me; but he will return my messages within a somewhat suitable period of time.

Now, I need to tell you that I haven’t texted him since I met Bachelor #2.

Bachelor #2 was the last guy of 2011 and the first guy of 2012. Yes, I spent New Year’s Eve with him. Yes, that means that we went out on a date for New Year’s Eve, I spent the night with him, and we continued to hang out until Sunday evening. He’s also a nice guy. I like his build and personality a little better than the Fraker; however, he is a bit shorter. But before I let this turn into a comparison chart, I should tell you that this guy is in the Missouri National Guard (which means that I like his hair cut), is currently studying to be a massage therapist, and is just a year younger than me.

Now, we’ll compare. After a few drinks, the Fraker did not disappoint in the bedroom department; and having said that, neither did National Guard, but it seems that we like to play the same position on the field—however, we made do with our individual talents. Also, National Guard seems like he’d be up for just about anything—which is always fun because variety is the spice of life. Yes, National Guard is the clear winner in this debate (Ha!); however, for reasons I haven’t mentioned (like he’s kind of awkward to talk to on the phone; and since I told him I’m unemployed, I think he’s lost interest in me) I’m not going to completely rule out the Fraker.

*Update*

I just texted National Guard and pathetically asked, “When do I get to see you again.”

His response: “Tomorrow? But I need time to study.”

My response: “I thought your test was tomorrow.”

And I’m awaiting his response to that.

Hmmm. I suppose what I have to say next sort of hinges on that response. Anyway, the Fraker and I had a great time; and I think we actually have more in common—plus, I lied and told him that I still had a job. I know lying is deceptive—but it’s not really any of his business. I mean—it’s not like I’m asking him to support me.

So, upon waiting like 5 minutes and typing the above paragraph, I still didn’t receive a response; so I uncertainly texted, “Well, at any rate, I’m happy to help you study ;)”

Yes, I feel dirty for that text emoticon—a winking smiley reeks of desperation; however, he is a massage student… I’m sure “studying” for a test would involve him putting his hands on me at some point. What’s so wrong with that? I know—I can’t even type what’s wrong with that…

Fyi: National Guard isn’t very good at quick responses—even when we’re involved in a back-and-forth conversation; so, I have no response as of the publication of this blog. Yes, I’m aware that I could hold off on publishing until I receive one; however, I feel that waiting would cast me in an even more pathetic light that I already have.

No, I doubt I’ll get around to posting his reply—should he reply at some point in the near future; je ne regrette rien!

Even after googling “je ne regrette rien” and finding out that it actually means, “I regret nothing” according to a translation site—while wiki still says it means, “No, I’m not sorry for anything” (I know I’m just stalling and splitting hairs there)…What? Oh yeah, even after all that, I still haven’t gotten anything…like a time, a place, or even a confirmation that his test is tomorrow like he said it was earlier in the week…

I’m going to be strong, though. There will be no repeat of the “K…WTF…35 missed calls from you? I woke up to find that” in National Guard’s future. But the longer I wait, the more I want to keep texting…then you know I’m going to call…then you know that’s not going to be good. Now, I’m going to say something that I’ve probably never said before, Pray for me, ya’ll…pray for me.

Friday thought it was time

Friday kinda saw this coming

In all honesty, I started this yesterday, but fell asleep. Well, I did fall asleep before completing it; however, to say that’s a direct line (I started this then fell asleep while writing) would be a little deceiving. As I think I’ve mentioned before, my sleep patterns have been a little off lately. I’m not going to elaborate further—it’s just as a writer, I like to build suspense by going off on tangents.

I doubt it’s an effective means of creating interest; however, it’s a process more than a means. But no matter, I’ll get back on track in a few sentences (this is not it). In between posting my “teaser” yesterday and starting a whole new post today (it was all in the present tense; and now, it’s all past tense—so I had to scrap it all), I got sidetracked by some bad cologne.

Well, I got covered with the stench of bad cologne while searching for a replacement for 8in of fun. See, not all of my tangents go that far off track. But now, you’re wondering why I needed a replacement for 8in of fun—which is the point of this post; well, the general point anyway.

Anyway.

Yesterday, at 8:39 AM (by the text’s time stamp), I got a text message from 8in of fun. I’ll save the buildup and just tell you it wasn’t the text I was expecting.

“Hi, how [are] [you]? Me, not so good. [I] lost my job, and [my] wife kicked me out.”

It’s a thing I have correcting text shorthand; however, that was the message I got. Obviously, I was expecting something along the lines of “house is free at []. I want to [] you”. He had texted me last Friday (in the afternoon, after our usual dalliance); and told me his wife was expected to be out on Thursday and Friday (I inferred that she was going out of town).

On Tuesday, I saw an interesting Craigslist posting (I think it’s safe to say that you all know I check those out regularly—if only for entertainment value). A 40-year old Bolivar man had posted about his wife being out of town for the weekend, and he was looking for some fun. Now, despite the poster describing his member as “8in of total fun” in the ad, this had him written all over it (I didn’t come up with his nickname on my own, you know).

And I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t respond to it. And I’m not going to pretend that I just responded to it to make sure it was him—I knew it was him. What I wanted to know is if his other arrangements would/could affect his plans with me. My findings in that area were too obscure to be totally certain (I think he was trying to work around me; however, to be totally honest, I think if my fake offer was presented in such a way—my real offer would have been deferred). But within two emails, I did have his number—the same number I have for him in my phone (I told him I couldn’t give out my phone number due to my being married and the need for discretion).

His text on Thursday confirmed a suspension I had about his posting on Craigslist not centered around petty jealously—it could get him caught. I didn’t just stop the conversation with him telling me that he’d been caught and expelled by his wife. I tried to extrapolate as much information about the event as possible—as much for my own fascination as for entertainment value. Wow, that sounds kinda cold. But I’m not going to delete it.

His account of how his wife was informed wasn’t exactly without holes—part of it didn’t make sense to me, but maybe we’ll examine that here in a few seconds. He said someone had responded to his ad and then forwarded the emails to his wife. This someone (who is not me—I just felt I needed to say it, incase the entertainment value comment cast this in that sinister light) said that they liked “busting married men”.

What I don’t get is how the internet avenger knew who his wife was. That’s the hole I could never fill. While 8in of fun isn’t as discreet as I would be, he doesn’t have his name on his email—nor does he offer it readily. I only knew his first name because that other guy told me; I only found his last name from context clues that I found while visiting his house several times over the past few months. I mean his age in the ad wasn’t even correct (he’s still saying he is 40).

He was adamant that he tried to pursue the fellow who was responsible for forwarding the emails to his wife—that she then used to get him fired from his job (he admitted that he worked construction part-time; however, he mostly got paid through doing the books for his church—which as I posted before, he’s an associate pastor). The mystery man never showed for him “to beat his ass” as he texted me (he continued that if he ever finds the man he’s going to “cut his balls off”).

I don’t know what he emailed the internet avenger; but like I said, based on what he emailed me, the only identity vulnerable piece of information I gleaned was his phone number. Unless the avenger knew him from that, I don’t know how you can connect the dots from his emails to his wife. While the thought seemingly never crossed his mind, this had to have been perpetuated by his wife; and from what that guy from up north has told me, isn’t that far off base to think (supposedly, he’s almost been caught before).

Now, I’m not sure if I’m the one who should post this conundrum; however, it’s on my mind, so I’m going to type it. Never in his many texts on this subject did he ever admit to his own culpability in the situation. Never once did he admit that cheating on his wife was the wrong thing to do, and that dishonesty led him to his present situation. I expected the “revelation” to hit him during our text exchange—that this was all his fault. But he continued to blame this nameless internet avenger for “ruining his life”.

Maybe that thought is just on my mind because his getting caught means that we probably won’t have sex again (while he wasn’t clear what he was going to do yesterday, he did suggest that he would go to stay in Oklahoma with some family). And that is something I do blame him for because I’ll probably miss the excitement. To get back on track with this post, when he was texting me about his predicament, he did not suggest that we meet up and hook up one last time (which is one reason—probably the main reason—I kept texting him back). And this leads me to the tale of how I got enveloped with the smell of bad cologne.

Friday kinda saw this coming

Thursday doesn’t think I’m going to get laid as originally planned…

Well, well. Just as I was publishing the previous post (yes, that whole analogy about bread/cake was so I could type, “Let them eat cake.”), I received a text from 8in of fun. I thought it was a time for our little meeting; however, what I got wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be.

I’m waiting for it to all play out here, but I don’t know that cake is on my plate anymore.

Thursday doesn’t think I’m going to get laid as originally planned…

Thursday doesn’t consider it failure

I went out on a date—an honest date. It was kind of random; however, still somewhat planned. It was a dinner date. I paid for myself. And then we went back to his place where we watched a movie on cable.

He wasn’t a bad guy. Yes, he was kind of short. Yes, he was kind of balding. Yes, he seemed to like to complain about his life. Yes, I felt the entire time that I had the upper hand; and no, it didn’t make me any more interested. He is 40, I’m 29. I can say I’m better looking than he is with out being conceited. He likes ballroom dance and talked about his musical-theatre experience. He liked the fact that I can crochet and talked about me making his nephew a hat.

That’s when I knew, you see—that’s when I knew I had that upper hand.

Well, isn’t it obvious? It wasn’t the difference in age (I’ve dated guys far older than me that I never even saw a hand in those trysts)—same can be said of looks (ugly guys can make me feel almost as self-conscious as the hot ones). The dance and vocal history thing just make me far less gay than him—basically, only serving to make me more disinterested (however, just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean they are—so it doesn’t immediately give me power). It was the hat request.

Simply, we’ve know each other in real life for all of 30 minutes (maybe), and he’s already concocting a way to be with me again. It’s not like I had my yarn with me (believe it or not, it’s not something that I usually bring along), so I’d have to have some further contact to implement the hat-making scenario. He likes me. He likes me far sooner than I could even develop a like for him. And that’s a feeling I can control in myself to control the situation (our date), so the more I tourniquet my positive responses—the more power I gain.

It’s a game. It’s a lot like economics—well, supply and demand. Price in economics will translate to power this situation. Say I’m bread—just as an example. If there’s a shortage of bread, the price of bread increases. When there is an excess in the bread supply, the price of bread decreases. The more he likes me equals the more power I have.

Now, economics isn’t exactly that black and white—maybe bread is in short supply, but there’s lots of cake.

Some would say “Let them eat cake”; however, when someone is 40, bald, short, with an eccentricity of not liking to wear socks, they’re not going to hold out for cake. Let’s face it, cake is tastes far better—sure—but we can’t all eat cake, can we? We can make cake—but who has the time? (Especially if you consider cake mixes cheating—because anything worth having is worth waiting for. And bread could arguably take even longer to make—when you count all the kneading and rising and punching down and rising and baking times can vary by oven.)

When you’ve got a slab of bread in front of you—waiting to be paid for (that’s far more masculine and has much more hair than you probably ever had—we are taking about bread, which shouldn’t have hair at all—but what if you like hair in your bread?), why would you want to go back to the store and wait in a cake-line to buy a slice of cake that will probably laugh in your face without the courtesy of going out on a date with you in the first place be sold out once you get there (meaning that you’ll have to pay an even higher price for the bread once you get it out again—not to mention tuck another shirt into you’re too tight jeans just so the tails don’t stick out from under the sweater…and don’t get me started on those damn socks—or lack there of, anyway.)?

Yeah, so that’s the game: if you know someone likes you, that’s the hand; and if you know someone likes you more than you like them, that’s the upper hand. So when the guy I’ve met just 30 minutes ago is prematurely manufacturing ways to be with me again before we’ve even had dinner, I know I’ve got the upper hand. It’s the hand I’ve been dealt, and I can only play the cards I’ve got.

Say what you will, but everyone wants the upper hand. It usually takes several tries to get it; but once it’s had, everyone plays it. I didn’t make the rules here, I’m just the one that’s willing to admit that I loose interest when I know I don’t have to play that hard (because who doesn’t like to keep playing?).

So, I went to dinner. I made the casual small-talk. I drove him back to his place; and once we were back at his apartment, I let him dim the lights. I agreed to watch a movie on cable (Pay-per-view was offered; but I declined because even though I knew it wasn’t my $4.99, I still thought it was a waste of money—and wouldn’t go back in time and buy me dinner). And I let him do his little couch-scooting dance up to the point that I was hugging my side of the couch so much I thought my arm was going to fall asleep while he petted my other arm and casually rested his bald head on my shoulder.

And his profile said he was a top. Please. This man doesn’t have the throw down to be a top—if he did, I wouldn’t have been able to walk away so easily in the middle of Saturday Night Live (it came on after the movie). If he were a top, I wouldn’t have known SNL was on; and I wouldn’t have been able to leave so easily because I wouldn’t have had my clothes on.

Please

That’s just like every picture he has on his profile he’s in a hat (even in his semi-nude one). Too bad he didn’t wear a hat on our date—it wouldn’t have bought him a second chance; however, I wouldn’t have been subjected to the desperation of him trying to use what he had left to cover what isn’t there—the hat would have done that (those lonely shoots springing up and banding to gether) . A bald man wearing a hat to compete in the dating pool is deceiving. Let’s not forget, omission is betrayal—and while covering something up may not exactly be omitting it; however, he knew it wasn’t right—that’s why he covered it up. Let me say it again, Pa-Leeze (pardon that misspelling).

I’m going to keep eating my cake, thank you (cake is 8in of fun—for those of you who don’t follow this set-up). It’s probably not good for me. It definitely won’t sustain me forever. I’ll never be able to have it and eat it. But it’s on my plate for now; and when the only other alternative is a stale piece of white-bread, cake tastes pretty damn good…

Thursday doesn’t consider it failure

Thursday’s chickens hatched.

(editor’s note: this was started last Friday and I forgot to post it)

Who knew all I had to do was ask and I would receive? Hell, I didn’t really ask—it was a casual suggestion. Fine, I’m not sure if I said, “Hey, that hot tub sounds good.” Or if I said, “Hey, what about that hot tub?” I know one is a suggestion…one is a question. I know the inherent difference between the two.

I’m not going to lie here; I’m thinking about knocking one out, but don’t know if I have it in me after my meeting with 8in of fun. He met me at the door in a robe. Obviously, you get that his hot tub was a factor this time. It’s like a magic hot tub—he slipped right in…we didn’t just fool around in it this time…we finally managed to fuck somewhere other than his bed.

Well, we hit the bed, too. He was in the mood for a backdoor action himself. It may have been my playing with his ass a little while in the hot tub. I don’t know. I wasn’t really suggesting it; it was there—and I was in a position to play around with it while he was playing around in me.

Usually, when he suggests I plug him, we get right down to it (I always thought the sense of urgency stemmed from his not wanting to lose the nerve). But I let him squirm a while. Then I asked him to flip over, and I plowed him doggie style. This is a deviation.

We also went at it for over an hour and a half combined…I can’t take all of the credit there. He ended up going at me three times (one hot tub; two bed—no, I wasn’t doggie for either, but I did push him back in the hot tub and he was sitting for a little bit of it…I think he likes to have my mouth available to kiss me is why we’re constantly doing it missionary…and I suppose I can’t begrudge him that; however, I enjoyed the doggie—there was something sexy about his back). I think he was just excited to see me.

Continued from last Friday.

I received the text on Monday afternoon asking if Friday would work for me. By some twist of fate, I wasn’t able to respond until Tuesday (my sleep pattern is again fucked up). He hasn’t responded yet; and I’m not sure hot to take that. The text from Monday asked if I was ready for “hot tub and bed” on Friday, so I’m guessing he liked the hot tub.

I noticed the last time that the road is only too visible when we get out of that hot tub to dry off. He doesn’t seem to mind this—going so far as to suggest that some of the ladies drive down his road for the specific purpose. I suppose none of his fellow church goers live down his road.

On a different note, The Shot’s celebrated their 2-year anniversary on Monday. Congratulations. They had a party this weekend. It was fun. Then they left Monday for a bed and breakfast in Branson (I haven’t heard from them; however, I’m assuming they were going as planned).

I would continue more; however, I just realized that tomorrow is trash day; and I still haven’t done that—if I don’t do it now, I’ll forget it and then I’ll have to hear that we have trash backed up.

Thursday’s chickens hatched.

Friday doesn’t feel good about counting chickens and all that

Well, just like a watched pot never boils, you shouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch. Last week I did as I was regaling you with a pointless post about how mundane my encounters with 8in of fun were getting (really that was a cry for help—and by help, I do mean Dr. Sexy; Dr. Sexy, where have you been anyway? You know I make a point of never texting a man…are you testing my resolve?).

That (the part in the parenthesis) was a tangent (or a sign of desperation—no, I don’t consider Dr. Sexy a desperate choice—far from it; the fact that I actually typed that, may very well be…because you all know I’d never beg for sex…well, I’d never openly beg for sex…I hope that doesn’t come off as insulting, because the point I’m trying to express is that I want Dr. Sexy to text me in an effort to reestablish communication with the end result being him leading me to his basement and putting me up in that sling. Or filming the much anticipated sequel to our first and only sex “tape”; or at the very least, his texting me to tell me he’d like to do it all again). But, again, I digress.

Back to the matter at hand—counting chickens that haven’t hatched. Well, 8in of fun actually cancelled last week. It was far enough in advance to not trip my “last minute cancellation” trigger; plus it was so flattering, I couldn’t find a way to be mad about it.

“Sorry, this is our day, and it’s messed up; I wait all week for you.”

Well, part of me figured that this might be the beginning of the end for us (you all know I’m quick to jump on that bandwagon). It all starts with a haphazard cancellation, followed by another and another; and then you just sort of “lose touch”. I’m half surprised that he hasn’t found somebody new already anyway.

At any rate, I got the text Thursday morning (yesterday). I’m supposed to meet him at our “regular time” 8am. I got the text at about 8am, so I wasn’t as witty as I could have been. I meant to suggest something dirty for us to do… or maybe to encourage the use of his hot tub again—anything really to just liven things up. But I didn’t—I just confirmed that the 8am time would work.

Remind me later today when (or even if) I get his text giving me the final invite to suggest something dirty. Or maybe I’ll just drop to my knees when he opens the front door. What do I have to lose?

Friday doesn’t feel good about counting chickens and all that

Thursday doesn’t know how to feel about it…

It was some years ago when I met Mr. Crazy (upon review of the archives, I believe he pre-dates this blog—but he is in the Archives from when I’ve mentioned him in the past). After some crazy calculating, I’ve just arrived at the theoretical date I met him to be circa September of 2006. I believe we “dated” until June (possibly July) of 2007; and upon review of the archives (the label Mr. Crazy), I have come to the fact that the last time I talked to him to be around March of 2008.

For me, that’s a fair amount of time. I don’t remember meeting the man…well, I know the internet was involved, and as I typed that I don’t remember meeting him—I believe the first time I did involved he and I smoking a cigarette on his front porch (he was a bit of a closet smoker; and his youngest daughter was home—which is why I think we were on the front porch). He was in his mid-40s, divorced with three kids (I believe he was just a little younger than my mom…his oldest daughter was 18 when we met). I ended up meeting both his daughters (his oldest had just found out she was pregnant right around the time we broke up); however, his son was off at school (some wayward boys’ school out in Utah).

Our relationship had its ups and downs (he really was bi-polar); it was the only relationship where I was the assertive one in bed—he was a total bottom; and I got tired of just fooling around. It did good things to my sexual self-esteem…he used to call out my name in pleasure while I threw him about the bed. Hell, I believe that I even stayed over a time or two without being coaxed.

The break up was fairly amicable. I do remember that. It was over the phone—he was in a lull; and I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks (maybe even a whole month). And even though we talked somewhat frequently over the phone, I knew the breakup was coming. It was a fairly frank discussion and neither of us were heated; I wasn’t even that sad afterward. I believe I even kept somewhat in touch.

March of 2008 is the last conversation with the man that I have on record (it’s in the archives). I had watched Tootsie and Dustin Hoffman reminded me so much of the man that I called him up (I believe the real prompt to the phone call was that I had seen him earlier in the day, or drove by his new house—and saw his car in the drive way; generic, suv-type car; however, it had a distinct sticker on the back glass).

I don’t know what prompted me to look for him today. I was on Facebook (doesn’t all internet stalking start with Facebook these days), and I found his profile. I found that I had sent him a friend request—it was a while ago, and he hadn’t accepted it yet. The non-acceptance (because it wasn’t a denial) sent me about looking at other avenues (I found all of his kids’ pages, plus his ex-wife’s). I went to the Missouri Courts website (Case.net).

Then I googled his name.

On Case.net, I found a motion his ex-wife had filed on Case.net in his youngest daughter’s behalf. On Google, I found his obituary. He died “suddenly” last May.
I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m not sure how I should feel about this. I’ve never had an old lover die before. Just so you know, I do feel a pang. I know there’s nothing I could have done, and I certainly don’t blame myself for not keeping in touch (or for breaking up with him). But I wish I would have known sooner—I suppose. I don’t know why; I wouldn’t have gone to the funeral—I wouldn’t have known my place there (and I couldn’t have explained it to save my life). Plus, I think he was buried in New Jersey (where his parents and a good deal of his family are from).

I am kinda sad. And I’m not sure if the fact that I hadn’t talked to him for over 3 years makes me more or less so.

Thursday doesn’t know how to feel about it…

Thursday doesn’t have a direction for this one

Just to let you know, I’m eating an apple (it’s currently being held in my teeth); and I’m writing out of obligation. And it will be soon apparent that I have no tale to tell at present. Unless you want to hear about my cats (I can’t believe I even just typed that)…and even if you do want to hear about my cats (I’m up to 3—two kittens just joined the now adolescent stray I took pity on at the beginning of July), I’m not going to write about them—you sick fuck…this isn’t that type of blog (I’m sorry for alienating all my cat-loving readers).

No, I haven’t even got another bland, indistinguishable narrative of an additional terse meeting with 8in of fun. Let’s face it—at this point, they are all the same. I will elaborate on that, briefly, if you’ll allow me. HA! “Allow me?” I’m the one writing here—I’ll write what I will. I will admit that this is a tangent, and that I plan on being quite loquacious.

I think I let the elation of having regular sex with an emotionally-unavailable man overrun my desire for hot sex. Let me break that out some: the sex is hot; but at the same time, it’s bland as a jello mold (I’m also apologetic for estranging my jello-loving readers—but even those have to admit the only way to jazz up jello is with the addition of fruit or whipped cream—or both, and those might be fun during sex; but at the end of the day—it’s still jigglie jello). The hot tub excursion was a welcomed detour—hell, at least it was something different; and it also introduced another element of risk (we were outside)…having said that it was one time; and if I constantly wanted to have sex in the same bed in the same position every time, I would probably get married myself.

I thought married men cheated on their spouses to have hot-“strange” sex—to try new things the (forgive the expression) “little woman” won’t do. Now, perhaps I’m a victim to my own overgeneralization—maybe that’s why men cheat on their wives with other women. As I’m certain that anal isn’t a regular on their plate in those relationships (and those men-women relationships out there that do include a regular helping of the ole-back-door action probably aren’t cheating on their wives—I’m just saying), maybe that’s the “new thing” he’s trying (and let’s not forget that I give it to him on occasion—and judging from their picture on that church website, I don’t think his wife will be donning a strap-on at any point in their future).

But come on, throw me about the bed once in a while; come at me from behind, push my face down against the covers while leaning on the bed, kick my legs apart, and go to town—why don’t you? Hell, ask me to sit on it and spin—let your imagination run wild…because you know what? You can ask me to do anything outrageous and the only thing you have to lose is that I might say no. You don’t have to feel guilty because you asked the mother of your children to go doggie, or to call you “Big Poppa” when you stick it to her. Hell, you don’t even have to wake up beside me—I’m going to be gone in an hour—tops—might as well go for the gold.

And now, I’m seemingly complaining about getting exactly what I’ve wanted—sex…no strings, steady, sex without having to worry if the guy’s going to call me the next day (he’s not going to call, but I may get a text). And this is the paradoxical turn my (sex) life has taken. And I shouldn’t complain—I seriously don’t have to hear about his job, his kids, his worry about the car being low on oil. I don’t have to find something we’ll both want to watch on tv. I don’t have to worry that he’s cheating on me.

It’s the safest sex I’ve had in a while. But with the safe, comes the boring.

And other than that, I don’t want to regale you with how demoralizing it is that the majority of messages I do receive while surfing the web are from either old guys or uglies (they’ve been so plentiful that I’ve taken to deleting them upon receipt). And the guys that are probably worth a second look are usually from out of state or just plain time-wasters.

And even though this virtual space is infinite, I don’t believe I have enough words to explain to you why I’ve commissioned a second (yes, you read that correctly—second) fanny-pack from Crystal; or to express the reasons behind my utter zeal at the final product. As hobby projects go, it’s just not very interesting that I’m working on a golden teddy bear—or the restoration of my first afghan (the seams—where I sewed the squares together—are coming undone in different places…mostly where 4 corners meet)…just know a plan is in place to not let this American-made treasure go to waste (well, I should say assembled in America from imported materials—the yarn was from Turkey, I believe).

And no, I’m even going to tell you how I’m loving (LOVING) Wuthering Heights…or how I’m longing to read Jane Eyre upon the completion of the former. So, I’m glad we could catch up a bit. And don’t take my silence personal—you really don’t want this to turn into a cat blog, do you?

Thursday doesn’t have a direction for this one