the “ideal” date

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my own photo, of weird shit in my house.

The “ideal” date is a total mystery to me. That “bachelorette” style limo, helicopter, live Dave Matthews serenade (vomit), rooftop candle-lit dining, romantic hot tub hand sex while being filmed for network tv is creepy as fuck to me.

A first date dinner is not something I do. Once in a while an exception is made, but in general the notion of eating a mean with a strange man who may spend 80% of the evening staring at my tits is unappetizing. Completely.

And the idea that a man should buy me dinner is weird. Why? I can feed myself. Dinner ain’t what’s missing in my life, actually. What’s missing is cock.

My ideal date ends in 69ing, honestly. Does that make me a total whore? A free one, I guess, ’cause I don’t charge for that shit. But if I like you enough to bring you home it might end up that we make-out until genital licking is the only conceivable outcome. No pun intended.

I’m supposed to wait 3 dates until sex. I think it’s 3. And does oral count? Fuck. I hate rules. And math. And rules that involve math, I hate those the most.

I want to have a sex life, particularly now while I still have a libido. I’m terrified that menopause will make me sexless and uninterested. That sounds really sad.

But then maybe the fervor for knitting kicks in?



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