…the way forward…

…but it helps to know what those numbers are.

We’ve been talking off and on for the past month, mainly just online, but occasional phone conversations as well. He claims to be in love with me and believes that I am “the one.” I just smile and nod. “The One” is much more of a title than I can handle right now.

In the middle of the conversation, he says, You’re 25, right? Um…no. I say, You don’t know how old I am? I’m not sure if he was trying to dig himself out of the hole or make it deeper, but he responds with, 28?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Bastard, I’m 23.(That will also be the only age reference I make on my blog — if you miss it — sorry about your luck. I suggest bookmarking this post so you don’t end up being called a bastard as well.)

I’m not one of those who get all caught up on how old someone is. In fact, I can’t even say I really have an age limit. The last man who captured my attention for more than a few months was 16 years older than me…and he was the most amazing lover.

A few months ago, I might have been able to just look past the “he doesn’t know how old I really am” problem, but now I’m just perturbed. It shows that he doesn’t pay attention. It also shows that we haven’t had any real meaningful in depth conversations. It also means that I just can’t be with this pretty boy because he’s dumb. I wonder how many underagers he’s fucked in the last year. I mean, especially when he can make me 5 years older than what I really am.

Today’s story of the day is brought to you by New York Moments.

It is simply titled The Hotel Room.

She loves to write in installments just so she can make me h*rny and I have to sit at work and try not to m*sturbate in front of the boss. On the other hand, he’d probably enjoy it if I did, but that’s neither here nor there.

Enjoy the read.

I keep trying and I fail miserably. One night stands must not be my thing any longer. Why? Because they all end up becoming relationships. Yes, I am that good.

We broke up months ago — so long ago that I don’t remember the particulars anymore. I’d love to say it was mutual and he likes to pretend like it was as well, but we both know the truth because he still calls. He called last night — d*mn he has a sexy voice — and asked if I felt like making the drive down to his place. I was tempted; his c*ck was always better to me than he was. If only he weren’t such an a**hole, we could have had a good thing going.

I blew him off again, citing lame reasons as to why I couldn’t possibly come down to his place. I have to be up for work early. It’s really too late to drive that far. Well, I got laundry. And last but not least, I have to wash my hair. My p*ssy was so wet and I was yearning for just the teensiest bit of satisfaction — it took everything I had not to hop in my car and go. Instead, I tortured myself with conversation. Why do you want me to come down? I asked. Because I like the way you respond to my c*ck, he said. Yes, I am quite the verbal one. Do you really like it that I’m kind of loud? He replied wholeheartedly, Yes, I do.

So my train of thought is broken, and I’m sitting here thinking about the good opportunity I missed last night — and I’m inquisitive. Do guys really like girls who are vocal in bed?

D*mn it, I’m h*rny…

At some point in every relationship, someone gets the gumption to inquire about how many people the other person has slept with. Now, this is generally not a great idea, but it’s one that happens nonetheless. Most people talk themselves out of it by convincing themselves that they don’t really want to know. I’m of the opposite side…I’m curious so I ask without fear.

The answer to me isn’t really important nor does it matter at all. It’s just that I’m curious, I want to know, and I want to know if this person is going to tell me — without hesitation. To me, it’s more of a honesty factor. If the person sits there all skeptical and then asks, Well, why do you want to know? I always say, Because I’m curious. If they are still giving me a hard time then they are probably sitting there calculating how many will not sound like too many.

I asked Pretty Boy this question yesterday. He answered, 15. How about you? I gave him the truthful answer…I really don’t know. Now see — this is where I should probably have a number prepared and ready to insert, but I don’t. The thing is, I never really counted and if I WANTED to (and because I’m old school and keep a journal) — I could trackback and come up with a number — I’ve just felt it’s unimportant and that a number doesn’t really reflect who I am as a person. So I gave him a range of numbers which I felt was practical. He gasps, well you could almost hear him gasp over instant messenger and said, well that’s a lot for someone your age, but it’s cool.

So I said, Well, if that’s a lot, I really don’t feel like adding notch to my belt so I guess we’ll never sleep together, I mean just in case we don’t work out.. Is that okay?

Funny, I don’t think he liked my answer.

Girl: Honey, one of the houses needs painting. Will you be able to take care of that for me?
Boy: Sure, no problem.

A short time later, Boy walks over to a group of men…

Boy: I’ve never painted a house before. Like, how do you do it? Do you brush it on? Roll it on? What?
Man: Well you can do either, or you can even spray it on.
Boy: With like cans of spray paint???
Man: Um. No. (obviously becoming perturbed at boy’s lack of intelligence)
Boy: Well like, how do you paint the top of the house?
Man: The top?!
Boy: Yeah like the roof.
Man: You just climb up there with a bucket of paint and empty and let it run off the sides.
Boy: Oh. Okay. Thanks man.

My friend married the boy on Saturday. I’m beginning to question her sanity.

Sign said:

“Chep yard sale stuff”

Chep. Not cheap, or even cheep. Chep.

I live amongst stupid people.

I faked it. I know it was a rather bad thing for me to do, but I did it anyway. I was tired and I thought if I just “came” he’d go away. It didn’t work that way.

He decided that he wanted to have a little phone s*x. He wanted me to talk dirty to him. I’m a preacher’s daughter. I don’t get caught saying things like that, I just do them. I don’t think he understood.

So — he said all kinds of naughty things. He wanted me to touch my cl*t, rub my n*pples. Little does he know I was reading “The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac. See, I’m an educated f*cker, really.

He said many things, most of which I can’t remember and I just moaned and groaned and said, “uh huh, yeah…” over and over and then…I “climaxed.”

He said, “Ok — now you talk dirty to me.”

I couldn’t. I mean, I just don’t do that. So — um, yeah, I found a way to get off the phone. Said my battery was dying and I needed to go to bed.

To this day he now refers to it as the night that I orgasmed and I left him with a serious case of “blue balls.” If only he knew that I had to pull out my vibrator that night instead.

He asked me again today if I’d like to get married.

I couldn’t really come up with an answer. I wanted to say “Yes,” but the words that would have followed would have been, “but not to you.”

It’s not that he’s bad looking or poor. In fact, he’s financially stable and good looking. Meaning, we’d produce some fairly attractive children. It’s just that well — he’s pressuring me, and I don’t like being told what to do.

He insists that if we lived closer we’d be married already. Already? Yep. Already. In fact, he has tentatively set our wedding date for November. Hmm…where’s my ring?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not all giddy about just getting the ring and the dress and everything. I abhor weddings. I’d rather elope, but he can’t and he’s “absolutely postive” that I’m the one.

Me? The One? Yeah, I’m not too sure he’s thinking clearly. I need to issue a memo that says: “This girl is just interested in a good f*ck, don’t fall in love, don’t mention the “L” word — just f*ck and leave.”

I received her rental application yesterday for one of the properties that my boss owns in the surrounding neighborhood. I glanced at the paper and then stared. Surely someone was playing a joke on me, especially after the days I’ve had.

Her name was Skybluewater. No spaces. All run together. Skybluewater.

Seriously…what were her parents smoking? And where can I get some?

Today, my boss called me three times in 30 minutes, each time asking the same questions. 1.) Have there been any phone calls? 2.) What are you doing?

By the third phone call, I said, “Sir — you have called me 3 times in the past half hour. I’m not doing a damn thing but sitting here thinking about how if I choose to get up from my desk, you will call again. If you call again, and I don’t answer the phone, you will think that I have left, when in fact I have just gone to the bathroom. I am not doing anything, because the phone, which I have previously told you before, keeps ringing and I keep getting interrupted. If you want anything to get done today — mind you — on your day off which you’re not even supposed to be doing ANYTHING in the office — you must cease calling me immediately!”

“Ok, I’ll talk to you later.”

It’s been an hour, the phone hasn’t rang — and all I’ve been doing is reading other people’s blogs. So much for productivity.