Bitches, Bastards and Dickfaces

I am in a crappy mood. Why? Because I am cramping my uterus away. I have taken a 400mg of ibueprofen and 2 Vicodens and I am still bent sideways. However, I did go to the Gap today and found three pairs of dark denim jeans. Joy to the world…or at least my ass. I am hoping to make some good steak and drink more wine tonight. Oh yeah. I would probably take another Vicoden to make my cramps subside for at least…five minutes.

One of the worst food decisions I made this year, I went to a KFC drive thru and ordered some hot wings. I rarely feel bad about eating bad, but I felt like I was eating a heart attack or something. I actually thought about trying to throw it up. Not good. Not that I’m bulimic or anything. I brushed my teeth and gargled and I still tasted yucky chicken.

I am not in a jolly, cheerful mood for the holidays. Though I have sponsored gifts for a needy child, fed a homeless man and volunteered to speak to low-income women about fashion on a budget. I believe people should do good deeds year round. Not just for tax reasons.

Don’t Call it a Comeback…..

I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been gone so long. Work was kicking my ass. Been working overnight shifts. Been fatigued from lugging mannequins and thinking about color contrasts. Shit. My social life has hit the pits. Before Thanksgiving, my highlight of the week was a chicken portabello sandwich from Central Market. Being that I work in the background, I can come to work with comfy sweats, no makeup and tennis shoes. This is cool at first. Then, you find yourself looking at the other girls with flawless makeup, perfect hair and designer clothes. Then I look at myself and say, “I used to be her.”

Now I am. I finally got my weave done right, eyebrows waxed and I am starting to work out on Monday. Yes, I am tired, but I finally got my schedule on a sane rhythm so I can have sex and drink vodka again. Fuckin’ A. Oh, what a difference a job makes. I remember going to swingers clubs and drinking Grey Goose out the bottle. Now, I buy DVDS and sip on Zinfadel. Fuck, I’ve gotten boring.

Except the fact that I am getting banged at least three times a week. Oh, BTW, I tried tittyfucking and I have to say that I like it. I have these big, juicy Ds that I wrap around a long, thick cock. It’s just turning me on just thinking about it. I may do something crazy and fuck tonight. Or I might masturbate. Really, really hard.

A fantasy Friday night for me would be to with a fine, tall, darkskinned (not necessarily Black, just ethnic) with big hands and a bigger dick. We would take shots of Goldschlager and he would take me to Four Seasons Hotel. We would request the highest floor and he undress me on the balcony. I would let him tittyfuck me and I would suck his dick. He would bend me over and fuck me doggystyle and come on my tits.

Whew. Now that I came while typing that…LOL. Well, I came pretty close.

I know that my readers are just as horny as I am. Why don’t you drop me a line of the craziest, weirdest thing that turn you on?

Obama, Orgasms and Oppression

So yeah. Obama won!!! I knew he would. Why wouldn’t he? He is a handsome, smart, well-spoken, charismatic beautiful man with great values and a wife who can dress her ass off. Don’t worry, guys. There won’t be any Monica Lewinsky bullshit going on in the White House. Have you tried fucking with a black woman’s man? Didn’t think so.

Lately, I’ve been married to my family. Hardly going out. It’s a dying shame. I am so burnt out with work. All I want to do is eat meat, drink wine, pop Tylenol PM and go to sleep. Yep. I’ve been living a lame ass life lately along with the sore arms from work. The next time you see a mannequin in a store, please think about how someone had to lift that thing and squeeze a pair of jeans on their stiff asses. If only they wore Spanx…

It’s amazing how rude people at work can be. It’s amazing. They act like their shit don’t stink and look at you crazy. Bitch, I know you’re one paycheck away from the street and those Manolos on credit. Stop playing. Hell, I know I’m broke. I am praying that I can turn a few tricks to get some change flowing. LOL. I am glad I don’t have to put people down to make myself feel better. I treat everyone with dignity and respect especially people who don’t expect it like waiters, cashiers, homeless people.

I got my first real fashion check and it’s not a big deal at all. In fact, I am hesitant to spend it. Which is not a bad thing. I feel like I worked so hard that I can’t blow it on some bullshit. I have sore arms, nappy hair, raggedy nails and no social life because of work. I looked at my check and thought to myself, “This is it. I need  to lose weight so I can strip again.” Well, I wouldn’t strip, but tricking isn’t a bad option. Ooops. I forgot. I already do.

On Halloween, I had a really good fuck. It was actually better because he was paying. He reeked of Marlboro Lights and Red Bull, but he fucked like a champion. He threw my leg up and fucked my pussy so good. His dick was thick not long which I like. Just typing this is making me horny. I came four times in like eight minutes. I got his number and pray he calls me soon. In fact, I will call him this weekend.

This fuck may be on the house.

Making Ends Meet

Shit. I am broke. I am anxiously counting the days til my first paycheck. Seems like time is going backwards. Since Hurricane Ike, all of my sponsors seemed to wash away with the tide. One more week. I am tired, but…I almost forgot. I got asked to be in a threesome last night. Better news! To be paid to be in a threesome! Money problem solved.

I have been in some taboo sex situations (married men, orgy, threesomes, etc) but I have never went down on a girl. Ever. No matter how hot she was. How many drinks I had. Hmmm…I guess I will have to attempt to eat some coochie being that I am getting paid too. Shit. I just wanna feel on some tits and kiss. And get boned. Always wanting to get boned.

Future X Husband slithered his way back to my email. Asking me what’s up. Shit. Not you, bro. Moving right along…I am getting ready for the weekend. I am not sure what I am doing, but I will look damn fine when I do. Halloween is coming and I am excited as hell. I love Halloween. The sexy costumes, the yummy candy and the scary movies.

I planned to be Cleopatra, but I haven’t got the costume yet. It’s from Wal-Mart. Twenty bucks. Thought you knew. Told ya a bitch was broke.

Manolos and Muscles

So I’ve been at my job for about two weeks. Very physical job. I have muscles growing in my arms and my thighs. I compare my job to an all day boot camp. I love it. Everyday is a challenge. I’m never sitting down for more than five minutes. I am constantly being challenged, constantly learning. I am ready to open myself to be creative like I used to be. Next week, I am buying art supplies so I can start my collages again.

While at work, I am justifying future purchases with my first big check. Sure, these Tory Burch shoes are worth $200. Oh yeah, those Burberry boots are a steal with my discount. I have a broad range of style from Manolo Blahniks to muscle shirts. It’s very comforting to come to work with Converse and denim while the rest of the world is rocking button-downs and slacks. Also, it is cool to work on projects, see the end result and watch people’s reactions.

My man life? Geesh. I’ve written off Future X Husband. Why? I am tired of playing games. Lately, I’ve been spending time with Keith (he has a name), my ex. We have a weird relationship. I truly love him, but not in that head over heels type shit. More like we got each other’s back. And the feeling is mutual. Right now, being in love with a man isn’t high on my radar. Having a man crawl outta bed to comfort and save you from a tire blowout at 3am? That’s what’s up.

With Keith, I can be myself. I can fart, tell dumb jokes and scratch his feet. I don’t think we will ever be back together. Things are fine the way they are. During my stripper/college days, he had my back when my family didn’t. He understands me. I met him when I was 18. Six years later, we are still the best of friends. We look at GQ magazines in bed and critique the latest fashions. We are fashion.

I know Keith isn’t the man for me. But he is my friend and I trust him. With Future X, I knew it wasn’t real love, communication and friendship. As far as trust, I didn’t know him.

Right now, I am going to concentrate on fashion and self-expression.

Everything else will work itself out.

Hopefully.

Fashion, Fucking and Feelings

So the fashion job is really kicking my ass. It’s waaay more physical labor than I imagined, but I like it. I’m constantly surrounded by Versace, Jean Paul Gaultier, Manolo Blahniks, Chanel…you get the picture. I like everything about the job except the morning part. Gotta be there at 7. I am not a morning person. At all. But hopefully I adjust because I drop like a stack of books everyday after work.

I went over Jorge’s house late last night. We watched CNN, smoke cigars and drink gin. How educated. Lately, we’ve been spending time together. I like it. It’s always good to talk to someone who can teach you something. Anyhoo, we were on his patio getting buzzed and he start massaging my tits. Like really good. This is not usual of Jorge. Then he starting kissing me and fingering my pussy. And it felt good.

At this point, I am turned on by the fact that he is turning me on. I know, weird. He pulls my tits out and just start sucking and licking. I am a sucker for a good tit sucker. For me, that’s where it’s at. Jorge pulls my dress up and pull my panties down. For the first time in like ever, I wanted to bone Jorge.

And I did. On the patio. In the backyard. And on the living room couch. Points for Jorge. He’s paying my Neiman Marcus bill this afternoon, so extra points. He kept telling me how crazy he is about me and how he loves to be around me. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just keep fucking me good.

My Future Husband has been trying to reach me for the last few days. I’m outright ignoring his ass. So far I am on day 3 and I plan to roll a few more days. Now he knows that it doesn’t feel good to be ignored. He’s did the same to me a few times. He’ll be alright. If not, fuck it. Beyonce’s song “If I Were a Boy” convinced me to do it. So I can say to myself that Beyonce made me do it. Sounds better than the devil made me do it.

Virtual Vagina

After being bored outta my mind, I am considering different options. I am not satisfied in the least. Future Husband is outta town. XBoyfriend is…hell I don’t know. Jorge…uggghhhh. I would like some romance with a huge side of fucking. I know there are online opportunities, but I get weirded out. Maybe I should try Seeking Arrangement or something. There’s something I don’t do and that’s give away pussy.

All my coochie transactions don’t include cash. Come on, a man has to do something to get in these skins. Nice dinners, good drinks, shopping, good conversation helps. Maybe I should just get over it and post an ad. But where? Craigslist? I don’t think so. I tried the bar scene and frankly, I rather just drink. This may sounds weird. As big of a whore I am, I don’t like a whole bunch of random men in my snatch. I prefer to be a whore with a selective group of men. I never had an one night stand. I like to know who I’m fucking.

The best fuck I have on reserve is a cheap bastard and talks too much. I will keep him on ice until all else fails. Doesn’t believe in tipping. (WTF?) Took me to breakfast and complained about the price of the bill. The bill was $21. Ugh. He was an accidental fuck. Please believe if I didn’t lose my job and my boyfriend in the same week, he wouldn’t had a chance in hell. Yeah, Mr. Fuck can sit on ice.

Again, what am I to do? I am finding happiness in Good Times reruns and soul food. I may go to a motel room and masturbate. Again.

Where are the fine, big dicked, generous men in Houston?

I am starting to lose hope.

Beauty’s Woes

I consider myself an attractive woman. I have a few men in my life. I bathe daily, apply perfume and makeup and suck a mean dick. I enjoy sex. Just to give a brief description of myself, I have honey-colored skin with full lips. I have a small waist with a full rack. Also, I am complete with shapely, soft legs and a round ass. I speak proper English. I have a college degree. My clothes match.

Why I can’t get fucked?

I go through this process quite often. Look here and here. And I think of Evan Marc Katz’s famous (at least to me) blog post. But still that doesn’t even applies because I don’t need a boyfriend. I have a potential husband and infamous X boyfriend who I see quite frequently. Damn, don’t I have a bunch of healthy and satisfying relationships?

I don’t want a man. I want a fuck. A good one that doesn’t want to do anything else but drink and fuck. Is that so wrong? I can let you in, I can get off and off I go. I am so tired of masturbating that I am thinking of throwing away my vibrator. I think my clit has grown up from hot pink Jenna Jameson vibrator that is complete with rhinestones. What does a woman do when her vibrator doesn’t fails her?!!?

I write this as if I haven’t had sex in ages. Truth is, I had sex Sunday. But it’s Wednesday and I should be entitled to my thrice-weekly fuck rites. A glance of my inventory: Xman: good pussy eater, but no good stroking. Asked him to fuck. Says too tired. Jorge: Two words: can’t fuck. I only fuck him when drunk. Husband to be: Lot O’ Vodka is needed.

I wanna add one more member to my team. All of my clients went out the window with Hurricane Ike. I am wishing James (a regular) call me for a session. I need it more than he does. I am not one of those girls who fucks random men for free. I charge for mine. If I do fuck you for free, there’s plenty more where that came from.

So, in a last attempt, I am going to try to persuade my Xman to bone me. Hope it works. I don’t wanna catch blue lips…

School’s Out

Bored and restless, I decided to wander aimlessly around my alma mater. I am not one of those hardcore alumni-girls who wear the sweatshirts and buy the bumper stickers. It is surreal because I have no attachment. All I can think about is blood, sweat and tears. Mostly, blood and tears. I never attended a college party. Never joined a club. Never pledged for a sorority. I didn’t belong to any cliques. Hell, I didn’t even take a yearbook picture. I just wanted to be anonymous as possible and get the fuck out. To do what? Hell, I am still not sure, but I knew I wanted out.

I don’t miss the essay deadlines or the two hour lectures on King Lear. I don’t miss the girls in the class kissing ass to the professor. I don’t miss midterms and registration. I don’t miss leaving happy hour because I had class. I don’t miss my cell phone battery dying and I had an hour of class left. I don’t miss taking twenty minute bathroom breaks because I was going crazy listening to the same thing I heard last semester.

I was one of the students who sat in the back row who laughed loudly and brought no books. I used to bring my gigantic purse which had Vogue magazines, Neiman Marcus catalogs, bag full of makeup and enough credit cards reciepts to make an IRS auditor angry. I used class time to envision my perfect designer outfit, review my frivolous purchases or text my many men. Oh, I always ended the class with a B. Why? In English courses, you get like a three week heads-up on the essay. Last year, when I went to South Beach with Jorge, he asked me what I was going to do about school.

“Well, I am going to do the same thing I did last week, Jorge.”

“What’s that, Lisa?”

“Not go.”

I was notoriously known to miss class. I loved to skip class. Did I tell you that it took me six years to get out? I am not ashamed. I’m no dummy, but between a few asshole professors and my love to skip class, getting out of college took way longer than I expected. But I got out. I don’t owe anyone shit. Well, except Sallie Mae. All those sweat, blood and tears for an English degree and I wanna pursue a career where creativity and flair are key advantages. Fashion= no degree necessary.

I can’t be completely bitter. I met some bad bitches. Learned some hard lessons. Found love for Shakespeare. I’ve perfected the art of bullshit. Anytime you can write a five page paper on a play that you never read and still get a B. That’s fucking classic. Throw me anything and I can bullshit my way out of it.

Well, it’s never to late for law school, I tell myself. But when one has $52,000 of student loans so much to give back to a bitch name Sallie Mae and the attention span of betta fish, law school sounds too much. At least right now. Right now, I am focusing on getting my money right. Or somewhat right. Law school is such a commitment.

Wow, a former stripper speaks of law school.

After all, there is intelligent life on Earth…

3 Martinis and a Motel Romp

So Friday, my favorite married guy and I decided to meet for drinks. This isn’t unusual. In fact, whenever he asks me what’s on the itinerary, I always say, “What else do we do besides drink and talk?” It is always fun to drink with him because we both love hard liquor and running  our mouths. We’ve been friends for almost 2 years. I can honestly say that he is my friend. I don’t want him to be mine. I can appreciate married men for what they are. Liars and cheats, but that’s fine with me as I am a self-proclaimed whore and drunk. LOL

Disclaimer: I do realize that these last two posts are so oxymoronic, so hyprocritical and so ADD. Please forgive me. I do realize that I am in the process of getting married (I think) and I still continue to see married men. I realize this and no I don’t feel bad. Thanks for reading and cum again!

Jorge and I met at a cigar bar. Both of us were drunk, giggly and with friends. I had a good feeling about him like most drunk girls do about guys they meet in bars. Turned out, he’s a good guy who I can be honest with. Most of the time, anyway. Back to the story, we sipping on some hellified martinis and I slowly feel myself getting fucked up. Which is the goal. Then, before I know it, we’re both are crying about the people who did us wrong and how we didn’t deserve it. He excuses himself to the bathroom, we dry up our tears and then we go to the Ali Baba motel room complete with black light, cheap soap and four porn channels.

Jorge CANNOT fuck. God bless his soul. Thank Buddha I was buzzed or I would have laughed aloud. I gotta give the brother cool points for eatting good cooch though. So we are in the bed, talking and he confesses to me. “Lisa, when I went to the bathroom, I threw up.” Damn!!!! He tells me that he was fucked up and drinking on an empty stomach. Come on, man. We’re educated drunks. We know better. Plus, we were smoking a full-bodied cigar. Damn, Jorge, I thought you were a big boy.

That completed my Friday night. 3 stiff drinks, a cigar, 1 medium-well hamburger and a forty something year old married lawyer throwing up in a steakhouse.