In my defense
◊ Lest you think I've been spending all my time cowering in fear of the mess in my apartment and moping, I would like to reassure you:
I am still thinking lascivious thoughts.
Explicit, drunken, impatient, lascivious thoughts.
It's downright strange for me to just be thinking them, mind you, instead of acting them out, and it's even stranger to be rabbiting to you folks about it, but several shots of whiskey in a very short time generally turn me into one loquacious motherfucker.
Horny, too. I think I am figuring out that I am by nature a slutty drunk.
I love sex, love giving head, love cunnilingus, love the way men's bodies look and feel and taste. Especially feel. Shoulders and collarbones and biceps and hip bones ... mmm. Warm skin. Soft lips. Everything.
I don't like going without.
Lust grows and twists in on itself. When I'm not getting laid, I start to get mean.
Well, meaner.
But so far I'm shit out of luck. Everyone is too young or too dumb or too fucked-up or too taken.
It's downright maddening, is what it is. All this hotness, all this creativity, all these ... skills, going to waste.
The first smart, hot, available, single, uncomplicated, nice-smelling guy I meet is gonna get himself jumped and sucked and definitely fucked senseless.
And that, loyal readers, is a promise.
Speaking of mean: I wrote something for the newspaper about Fred Phelps. It is a testament to my willpower and control that I didn't end up just writing the word "motherfucker" 450 times and submit that for my story.