Smart.

Every now and then, you have to check in with yourself. You need to take stock. Do inventory. Get your shit together, if you will.

I had to do that this morning when I saw the horrifyingly confusing messages I sent Incredicock, along with his equally confused responses.

One thing is very clear, and it takes zero sobriety to comprehend. I would like him to take his clothes off, post haste. All the days in all the lands, I prefer him naked; and fucking me. That’s all. This is the guy you can justify working 90 hours a week for. No baby… you stay home and sleep in. I will support us, and you can support me. Later.

Sadly, he’s a forever soft no and it’s pathetic that I’m even asking. I’m trying my best to avoid a boyfriend and my FWB is the biggest cockblocker in my life. If I end up in captivity, I’m going to blame him, publicly.

Mr. Grey is descending on my pond and the lake around here has never seen a shark like him before. I’m concerned. I see the stats on my blog spike and know I have some rabid local readers. I’m worried one of you will mention our poly-amorous date. I’m taking him to my best friend’s restaurant on Sunday.

I’m kinda making him my boyfriend. I’m fucking panicking at the thought.

I text the one that can satisfy my needs and he’d rather chop firewood and do chores.

#motherfuckingpause

If he would rather do housework or laundry than fuck you? He never wanted to, to begin with. You weren’t a booty call, you were a hit and run. He fucked his ex-wife’s best friend because he could and you were willing, and just because you knew him to be a good guy with her, does not mean he will be with you. As much as you love someone, they can become someone else entirely when you begin fucking them. It’s painfully true.

I’m just as sorry to be wrong. Probably twice as sorry, today.

Rabid Interest

I forced myself out of bed at 5, dying a little. Feeling the whole weight of eating a cow and drinking a bowl of gin. My eyeballs ache. I have to force myself into the car and to my office. Struggling hard with a headache and a desperate need to nap. Not just tired.

Bothered, and not in a good way. I had to silence my phone to stop the whistling. Mr. Grey doesn’t wait for me to text him back and when I look at my phone there are 11 new messages from him. I feel inundated. I’m especially annoyed because Incredicock’s text tone cracks me up and I’ve missed it three times now because Grey can’t pump his brakes.

There’s a fine line to holding my interest. I’m not afraid to admit that. If I feel like I have to hide from him, I don’t want him anymore. I have a million things going on in a day and I don’t care what he ate for lunch. Not. At. All.

I actually have no desire to talk to him during his lunch break or on his drive home. I’m not a pacifier.

For the love of God. Why do all the wrong men chase me like a deer on the first day of hunting season?

I realize by going silent that I’m making the problem worse. If I want him to chill out, I have to out-text him, call during dinner and send him animated gifs all day. I know the path out, I just don’t care enough to follow it.

G- You must be busy today! Have a good one, gorgeous.

G- Flying Sunday?

G- I can fly over and pick you up so you don’t have to drive so far.

G- We could get lunch in Kalispell, Montana?

G- It was great to catch up with you.

G- Navy pinstriped tie today.

Sigh. I wish I cared, but he’s annoying the shit out of me. I feel like there’s a target on my back that I don’t know about. Yeeesh. I finally snapped.

J- Hey Chatty Kathy, I’m at work. I’ll text you when I get off.

G- Sorry babe, I woke up thinking about you. When do I get to see you again?

Where’s that annoyed emoji when I need it. I put my headphones back on and prayed he’d shut the fuck up. No luck. I finally Googled how to silence him, and a lovely little moon popped up beside his name. Finally, peace.

I raced to get my little Dumpling from school and took her to the park to play. It’s getting colder and darker earlier these days, so we’re trying to squeeze every last bit of playing outside. We walked home in the dusky twilight, holding hands.

This is why I don’t want a boyfriend. She’s my +1. I don’t want her to have to share my time with anyone. That may sound a little dramatic, but it’s really important to me. I only date when she’s asleep so she is none the wiser. She is really excited that my heels have come out of  storage, though.

We walked up to the house and there was a long white box waiting by the front door.

D- PRESENTS!!!!!

It’s from Mr. Grey. I lifted the lid and it’s a big bunch of gorgeous pink roses.

D- Daddy sent me flowers!!!!

J- He’s such a nice daddy. Let’s put them in some water.

D- I want them to be in my room!

I thanked Grey for the roses and let him know it was a huge hit with the little one. I stopped short of telling him they were in her room.

G- Call me after she goes to bed.

J- I have to run. I’ll text you.

… … … ……………………..

I didn’t.

and woke up to 14 messages, including some song lyrics and hearts.

FML.

spoiled

Horrible Quitter

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I’m the original glutton for punishment. It’s my worst quality. I have no choice but to take responsibility for it because it’s common knowledge amongst everyone who knows and loves me. Hell, even my enemies know I’m far better at hurting myself than they are.

I always see the writing on the wall… I just don’t read the words.

I was at work on Friday afternoon when a text came buzzing into the phone I’d tucked into my bra. His tone is different and my heart races and breaks at the same time. I miss him so much at this point that it’s a dull ache. I’m also irritated enough to snap because of the instant smile it puts on my face. It’s a horrible thing to be waiting for the message that destroys all the progress you’ve made in one split second.

Perfection- Why?

Why. Why, indeed. How? would also be an appropriate question; since our conversations revolve around the weather and football. I’ve been swallowing my broken heart for the most mundane of messages. Finally able to miss him without being upset about it.

And here he is. Back. Getting an eyeful because I’m just mad enough to say the things I’ve been doing my best to swallow.

J- Then tell me you miss me. I can’t be naked with you one second and talking about the weather in the next instance. 

Silence. He falls asleep when things get honest and I’m waiting for answers. My heart is back in my throat and he still isn’t saying the words I want him to. The only thing that’s changed is that he’s reading about how much it dented me.

For the record, it’s a really mixed blessing to have the man you crave, read your blog. I absolutely have exploited them with it, I have written a man into my sheets and I have burned a few at the stake when things ended poorly.  It takes a VERY brave man to roll with it, especially when I’m furious. The smartest men who were reading whilst seeing me, have exploited the fact that they could have personalized porn written about themselves if they played their cards right. I’m a lot of fun when you leave me inspired and wordy.

Ohhhh but when you break my heart, I’m pretty damn sad about it and they feel awfully guilty when they continue to read after things are over.

Newsflash, Perfection…

You’re reading my journal. 

If you hurt me, chances are good that I wont have you riding in on a white horse. When you take my favorite dick away? I’m not really going to ramble on and on about it anymore. 

You’re going to read about my hurt feelings and the regret I have for being so stupid to do something a second time that hurt like hell the first. 

You’re going to read about how disappointed I was to find out you had a girlfriend you didn’t mention. The girlfriend you still have. 

I can’t stop you from reading, but I can’t make you feel better about it either. 

We can text about weather and you can avoid my questions, but I suggest you read at your own risk. I love you, but I also wouldn’t feel bad if you felt as bad as I have. 

Frankly, nothing inspires me to have swing-from-the-chandeliers-sex more than knowing you’ll be reading about it, so maybe thanks are in order?

xoxo J

The devastating effects of shitty men.

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You didn’t really think I was going to blame the ladyfolk entirely, did you?

I’m equal opportunity when I feel like throwing verbal hammers. I took up for the gentlemen who’ve suffered at the hands of a shitty woman, and now I’m coming for rest of y’all. You are a bad bunch and you are creating your own hell.

I do believe you are worse than the worst women. I have dated some legendary bad men and a few crazy women. Nothing is worse than the uncertainty and self doubt a bad man can foster.

Men lacking integrity seem to be the fastest growing population. Do you remember the last time a man opened a door for you? I do. I remember the last 5 times. Four of those rare gems were over the age of 70 and I had a baby with the fifth. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a protective man with old school manners. Men just aren’t men like they used to be. My grandfather always walked closest to the street and kept my grandmother tucked safely beside him. He thanked Heavenly Father for her with every meal and we grew up knowing that his love for her was the kind that lit the stars. That kind of expression makes a family. Outside of the nursing home, I think that sort of magic has died.

Men who lie make you question every single thing you hear, forever. Even from the men who want to do better. Even when we know it’s insane. We never completely recover after a betrayal from the man we dreamed up baby names with. Our hearts heal, but we always worry about giving 100% again without a hell of a lot of reassurance. The first sign of dishonesty has us retreating into our shell like a terrified hermit crab. Lying men create lifelong holes in our armor.

My dial-a-dick satisfies my greatest weaknesses while teaching me some powerful lessons with the training wheels our friendship provides. In ways I didn’t know were possible, he manages to make me feel incredible and insignificant at the same time. I may as well have a number tattooed on my wrist. A lesson I needed to learn about casual sex. This is about supply and demand. Men can do that and women need to understand that men are completely capable of using their dick as frequently as a hammer, and with whomever is in current need of nailing.  I only know a few men who don’t share their tools.

Men who hit it and quit it. The ghost we all love to hate. That guy who blew you up until you literally blew him, and now doesn’t respond to a thing. You’ve told him it kills you. He continues to ghost you. You’ve used your big girl words, peacefully. Still silence. You’re left feeling like a cheap vessel within which he felt like venturing, and now he can’t even bother to send an emoji. You got played, girlfriend… and shame on you guys who do this. It changes the rules for us and that’s some grade A bullshit. We don’t get to fuck you when we want. We have to play hard to get and leave you hanging. We know the rules. We aren’t allowed to be excited and we aren’t allowed to ask for it. We have to ghost you first, if we ever want this to go in our favor. Games, gentlemen… you are the reason they exist.

Men who cheat leave a path of wreckage that takes years to clean up. We either turn the tables and make the rest of the innocent men unfortunate enough to cross our path, suffer…. or we are whiny and insecure every time you’re a second late. I had a boyfriend who was so painfully unfaithful that I was afraid to open the phone book in our hotel room after finding phone numbers he’d hidden in a travel planner on a romantic weekend away. I still avoid his phone calls and I still hate that he was able to change how I react in every relationship, since. Late? Why? Phone on silent? Why? Taking a call outside, privately? Why? People who aren’t hiding something don’t sneak around and once you’ve found yourself talking yourself out of listening to your inner voice… you can’t ever ignore that bitch again. We don’t want to be crazy. You created this when you made us feel bad for being right about your shady ass behavior. Crazy bitches are all a result of an unfaithful man making them feel bad for being right.

I love men. Love them. I love silky soft clean shaven man face and five o’clock shadow that leaves my skin tingling. I love tall men and short ones. I love good cologne and DIE for a dirty, hard-working man who smells like a long days work. I crave a man in a necktie and am equally as turned on by a man in a hard hat and coveralls. Bald men make my blood simmer and aggressive men make me forget my morals. I love them, one and all….

But.

I’m a mean little hornet when I need to be, because some of y’all fucking suck.

That guy talking to multiple women at the same time…. or worse… fucking them all? Yeah you deserve the hammer I’m throwing in your direction. You’re damaging people to get your dick wet. Knock it the fuck off. Give a shit about your soul, have a little integrity and bag that dipstick up.

That guy with the faulty phone. Yeah, right. In the age of $800 phones, yours works. Answer the lady or use your big boy words and tell her you’re not interested. Leading someone on to let them twist in the wind is a bitch move and… well… stop being a bitch.

That guy who blames women for it all. Umm… no. I don’t hold anyone responsible for my epic bad experiences because I was the only one there. You can’t make your future pay for the bad choices you made in the past. Let it go. It’s holding you back and it’s stealing any chance you have at happiness. Worse? You’re hurting innocent people who haven’t done anything but want you. Get the fuck over yourself, c’est la vie. Baggage gets heavy and you can’t be holding me if you’re carrying your ex.

That guy who yells at women needs the rest of you bad boys to get his shit together. Real men treasure the opportunity to be in control of a woman’s body and if you’re abusing that privilege or worse… hurting her? You need a solid ass beating and a month in the clink. I have zero patience for men who put their hands on women.

It’s a wonder anyone finds love anymore in this big ol genital cesspool.