Bible Study

Let me preface this by saying that I never imagined I’d be going to heaven. Good thing too, because this could land me in purgatory forever.

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I realize I’m far too adventurous for my own good, but I have never resisted temptation before and I don’t intend to start now. I’m an amused atheist at best, so I’m afraid this is too tempting to resist, even for me.

I was so tickled by the idea that I told my coworkers yesterday. The songbird laughed.

S- I know this is happening soon, because of your big date this weekend. What are you wearing?

Reason #5076 I’m going to hell.

I flew home, made dinner, read bedtime stories and jumped in the shower as the sitter walked in. The Dumpling is overjoyed and I’m running 25 minutes late.

The Foreplay King is taking me to this bizarre date and I am rising to the occasion in every way I can. Shaved, waxed, painted and flying out the door in a fog of expensive perfume and fear.

I have an hour drive and I am second guessing everything I’ve done since the last time I went to confession, which was in 2011. I catch sight of my fishnet stockings and laugh for the first time in days. A full belly laugh that has me wiping tears out of the corners of my heavily made up eyes. Straight to hell, ha ha ha.

I’m fading and so tired. I worked all weekend and am in desperate need of a nap. I pulled into the next gas station I saw and ran in. Two hot pink Monsters in my hand, beef jerky, because I’m starving, and the cashier raises an eyebrow at me. It’s five and I’m dressed for ten. I grinned and paid the confused man.

We don’t have hookers in North Idaho. I’m sure I’ve given the man quite a story.

Because?

I unearthed my black leather miniskirt from the box of skinny clothes in the garage, and laced myself into my favorite black corset for good measure. Clipping into those fishnet stockings was merely the icing on the ass cake.

My little cardigan isn’t fooling anyone, all I’m missing is a riding crop.

I called him as I got in the car.

J- You better dress up. The gas station guy just gave me wide eyes.

G- I am SO excited. Also dressed. Hurry, I can’t wait to see what you picked.

I’ll stop right here and say that I knew full well that he was in a suit because I’ve given him plenty of motivation to do what I want. He was in Armani and I bit my lip so hard it bled. Something not allowed in his new car. He tugged me in through the kitchen door and the grey hit me in the chest.

Uhh.hhh…hh… This poor man likes me because I bring color to his life. Everything in his house is a shade of slate. I’m disappointed that my panties are black because I’d love to wander around this house half clad in red.

I wander into his closet and my mouth goes dry. Dear God. I understand a man’s proclivity for a garter belt after seeing his ties, hanging around me. I look up to see him standing in the doorway, smiling knowingly.

G- Sit.

I do.

G- You love purple, yes?

He pulls a grape satin tie off the hanger and wraps it around my neck. I can’t speak. My teeth are permanently embedded in my lip.

G- We need to go.

His hands are tying it instinctively and I’m doing my best to control my breathing. If he thinks I’m taking it off, he’s insane. It looks like I’m wearing a tie now, too.

He pulls me to the car by the tie he’s tied around my neck and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to cancel the whole adventure then and there. He drives a Tesla like my brother just bought and it hardly needs his attention to get us there.

J- These people are going to know we’re here with ill intentions..

G- Babydoll, everybody is here with ill intentions.

J- Let’s do this. I’m tired.

We got out of the car and walked into the restaurant, with his arm hanging protectively around my shoulders.

The second the door swung open, I was stunned. These are beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful people. A pretty blonde woman smiles at me as she eyes me from the ankles up.

Whoa. I wasn’t ready to be so popular. Suddenly we’re surrounded by our new friends and I’m being vetted as the new vag. My date is smiling at me, smugly and I feel uneasy.

S- Who are you? What makes you different?

Her question took me by surprise, because I actually feel compelled to answer it honestly.

J- I’m a mommy, first. I’m a designer, a seamstress, a farmer, a daughter, sister and best friend. I’m the worst enemy, the best cook, umm…. I don’t know?

I hear someone else say “I’m an accountant” and laugh at myself. What the fuck am I even doing in such a weird situation. I ordered a double Goose on the rocks and told Mr. Grey he was driving me home.

Grey is looking at me like I’m a t-bone and I’m inclined to volunteer as dinner. This is fucking weird and I’m not sure what to do next…. when the man beside me takes out a bible.

I stuck my hand out towards Mr. Grey in a desperate attempt to escape. He did not help. Alrighty then. Here we go.

M- Isaiah 4:1 And seven women shall take hold of one man in that day, saying, “We will eat our own bread and wear our own clothes, only let us be called by your name; take away our reproach.”

I saw Mr. Grey frown at my left eyebrow, which has a mind of it’s own.

J- and here I was feeling so guilty about having two. I need five more?

Yep. You could have heard a pin drop. My fishnets burned a little if I’m going to be honest. I’m also tired, pissed off and sick of foreplay. I shot a text to the man I’d like to have waiting for me when I get home. Don’t hate.

My biggest fear going into this crazy date was that I’d walk in and recognize someone and I’m really happy that I walked in and recognized myself for a change.

Stepping outside of your comfort zone is critical and I’ll continue to give into temptation at breakneck speed, but knowing your worth is everything. I will not be patronized and shamed by a bunch of freaky swingers. Absolutely not. We left shortly afterwards.

He drove me home, I drank three more glasses of wine and sent text messages I regret…

but at least I didn’t wake up with Polly and Dave.

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

Monk

I’ll be sitting at the table across from him in two hours and thirty-five minutes. I sort of want to throw up. He’s celibate until January, so we’re arriving separately and I should probably not shave my legs.

Yeah right. I stopped just short of my arms. I exfoliated and threw on a fresh coat of spray tan. Plucked my eyebrows, painted my nails and sat down to unwrap the fishnet stockings I bought. His texts came whistling in and my nerves really started to sink in. Oh my god… what am I doing? I’ve been up since 4:30 and I’m sick to my stomach with nerves. I said a silent prayer that he was canceling.

G- Can we agree on jeans so this isn’t so stressful?

J- Absolutely.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this works in my favor. I fit into my favorites today and my Songbird immediately noticed.

S- Are those the jeans?

J- Yeah.

S- Let me see. Turn around & lift up your shirt. Oh yeahhhhhhh. Nice! Get some.

J- Shut it, I’m already terrified.

So I’m dressed and ready… with too damn much time on my hands to obsess about the what-if’s. Also, I have a bad case of the lazies. I don’t want to drive 45 minutes for a date. That’s lame. Especially if I’m not getting laid. #sorrynotsorry  That’s the kind of driving time you invest for a threesome, not dinner. I realize I’m being an asshole. But still.

Texts from Incredicock have me hot and bothered. I would much rather have 30 orgasms delivered, than go in search of frustration. I worked all day and would rather not drive any further than home. Lazy? Maybe. So shoot me. All this pomp and circumstance is a pain in my frustrated ass.

I made the drive with my running playlist screaming in my ears. Not hearing a word because I hate this first date stuff more than anything. I’m not sure what happens to me. I’m confident in a big crowd. I can approach a group of strangers and make friends. I’m friendly, funny and not terrible to look at. This should NOT be this difficult.

It’s torture. If I hadn’t already had a wonderful first date with this beautiful creature, I’d be sorely tempted to turn around and go home. I was fifteen minutes early and ordered a dirty martini when I got to the table. The waiter started to babysit me when he was 15 minutes late. A text comes thumping into my phone and I can’t help but grin. It’s He-Who-I-Crave, asking me how the date is going. I tell him he’s late and he tells me to calm down. I’m exhausted and the martini is turning my joints to jelly, absolutely and completely ready to climb into bed. I was playing on my phone when he came walking in and he instantly looked horrified when he saw my empty martini glass.

G- Am I late or were you really early?

J- You’re about a half hour late.

G- Will you ever forgive me?

J- Maybe.

I stood up to side-hug him a chaste hello, and he tugged me out of the booth and into his arms. I’m thankful for the martini on board, because I am REALLY green when it comes to dating. I’ve had 2 in 5 years. I must have looked a little shocked because he laughed and kissed me all over my face like I do to my little one. Laughing, I pushed him away from me and we sat down. The waiter came rushing over to introduce himself.

G- Thank you Dave, for keeping my lovely date company while I so rudely kept her waiting.

D- It was my pleasure, sir. Can I bring you something to drink?

Mr. Grey looks at me and winks.

G- May I order for us? I remember you liking that.

Am I alone in this? Is this a weird thing? Nothing makes me happier than a man who takes charge and orders my dinner. My dad is a chef and always ordered for all of us. I suppose this is one of those golden Daddy issues. Seems harmless enough to me and I am quite pleased he remembers and rises to the occasion.

Sidenote: This can really backfire if you’re on a date with someone you don’t know well. I ate a piece of salmon on a date once, while I watched him eat steak. It was our last date. Same goes if he eats his steak well done. I’m sorry, but I just can’t take that guy seriously.

G- We’ll both have the filet. Mid-rare with salad, vinaigrette on the side.

I’m pleased. He knows it. He grins at me and says the dirtiest thing I’ve heard in ages.

G- Do you want some mozzarella sticks? They’re really good here. Deep fried, melted cheese? Come on…

J- Don’t talk dirty to me in front of Dave. No thank you, but I appreciate the visual.

Dave left and we caught up about kids and life until our dinner came. Honestly I feel so bad for every poor vegetarian in the world, because cow is amazing. Eating a filet when you’ve been on a strict diet of what that filet ate, is nothing short of an out of body experience. I started considering how I could grow a cow and whether or not I could eat it if I raised it. That’s how good it was.

As far as my date goes. He’s pretty in that rich guy, manicured way. He definitely has his nails done. He smells like Nordstrom and I’d bet he bought what he’s wearing there. I’d be willing to bet a million dollars that his socks are bright white. Gone is the college guy I dated almost a decade ago and in his place is the grown up version of my original vice factory.  He’s recovering from a broken heart with a year of celibacy.

He’s hot and broken, like all my favorite things are.

J- Thank you for dinner, it was delicious and it is wonderful to see you.

G- You’d challenge a monk’s vows with that look in your eyes.

J- I’d never date a monk.

G- What about a feminist?

J- ? Explain?

G- I believe in the feminist movement. You’re still a legend in my psyche for taking me to Deja Vu but I don’t encourage misogynistic behavior.

J- No second date to the titty bar, huh?

G- No.

J- Never?

G- No.

Well, then. That’s a buzz kill.

A celibate feminist.

Isn’t that kind of the same as a monk?

monk

Hungry

Something happens when I start running again. The first week is agony, the second gets a lot easier and by the third week? I’m running before bed and getting up early to squeeze in a half hour before I have to get the day started.

Obsessed? Sure.

However, I could spend a good half hour discussing the magic of ice cream and talking to me about pasta could turn you on because I have pornographic feelings for carbohydrates. I had half a peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich for lunch yesterday and my Songbird laughed.

S- That is the saddest lunch I’ve ever seen.

Honestly? It’s so fucking delicious that I have to close my eyes to chew it. Peanut butter is contraband. Bread is off limits. Jelly is a complete waste of calories.

But MY GOD. I can still fantasize that sandwich back into my mouth. It was worth it. I’ve been eating kale and swiss chard for months. By some stroke of good luck, a deer got stuck INSIDE my garden fence last week and annihilated every last leaf. The blessed sandwich was a result of that & nerves over my date tonight.

I bagged up another size to take to the thrift store and zipped into my very favorite jeans. Aaaahhhh. There are huge rewards to starvation and pain. These jeans are worth a year of kale. The sight of my ass in these pants is more satisfying than food and I know from previous experience that the beautiful man I’m seeing is an ass man. I added two new squats this week and it feels like I got stung by a bee when I sit down. That means it’s working, right?

Reaching for my coffee feels like an aerobic move and I can feel my entire muscular structure when I type. To say I’m sore is quite the understatement. I’m a tightly wound bundle of nervous tension and my mind is wandering in places it shouldn’t. I sent Mr. Incredicock a picture, thanked him for putting my fingers back on the keys and fucking me so well I have the confidence to go on this date. Then deleted him out of my phone for my own good because I crave him in the worst way. Great sex is a mixed blessing when you can’t have it whenever you want, and fucking him is like experimenting with heroin.

Even the thought of him gets me back on the damn elliptical machine. Contrary to popular belief, you can actually run from your problems. It does amazing things for your ass.

I’m mid run when Mr. Grey calls. I can’t talk so he’s telling me about his day and the cases he’s litigating in court tomorrow. I’m trying not to pant and he stops mid sentence.

G- Where are my manners? Hello Miss. How’s your day?

J- Great!

G- I can’t wait to see you.

Off the elliptical. Breathless, sweaty and a little sick to my stomach with nerves.

G- Bring your appetite. They’re known for steak and I know you’re hungry.

Someone should warn him just how right he is.

Game Changer

My Songbird came over last night to play and work. I’m stupid tired on this 4:00 AM workout schedule. I want my body back as much as the next girl, but I am SO tired. My everything hurts and not in any way I can smile about. I’m pretty sure I feel muscles that are attached to my soul when I cough.

Hello Tinder, my new broken-heart babysitter. I can no longer turn the sounds on. It’s a symphony of dick-pic wielding men that I am marginally attracted to. My inbox looks like a who’s-who of every vice and bad habit I’ve had since adolescence. How bad could it be, right? Yeah, they’re all strangers, but at this point, I don’t know a man who isn’t. What do I have to lose?

Faith, that’s what.

I’m already short on it and this cesspool of backwards hats, naked chests and instant messages from guys who want to show me just how exciting their little fella is, makes me wantonly homosexual. Girls are so much hotter when they’re thirsty.

Which is when my exceeeeeeeedingly hot Gonzaga law school date from the past, now lawyer, popped up on my Tinder feed.

Yaaaaaassssssssss!!!! I definitely danced around the kitchen. The Songbird laughed.

See what I mean about thirsty girls being hotter?

When I met him, he was 24 and in the midst of divorcing his Mormon high school sweetheart. I was in my thirties and enjoying the hell out of exploring my sexuality. He didn’t know what hit him. Neither did I, to be honest. All I had to do was turn the lights on and he was out of his mind with inspiration. It was an incredibly satisfying situation, but he lived too far away and was buried in law school.

He’d never been to a strip club. I took him all sorts of places and showed him all sorts of things and we saw each other frequently until he got a girlfriend who locked him down.

I saw him a few times over the years when the dates lined up and we were both single & free. It was a beautiful sexual friendship, and he always insisted on taking me to dinner, watching a movie, etc- all the trappings of a real date that you knew was going to end successfully. To put it mildly.

Treat me like a lady and I will fuck you with the inspiration of a thousand whores. I have a few specific weaknesses and my favorite men are smart enough to exploit them. I love a man with manners, impeccable grammar and more neckties than I can count. The guy that pushes your mama’s chair in at dinner, then ties you to the bed when you get home.  This is that man.

50 shades of yes please and thank you.

The last time I saw him, he called and asked if I was free. I was.

Confession: nothing makes my heart race faster than unbuttoning a man in a starched dress shirt. Ok, maybe cuff links. <swoon> He walked in like my wet dream come to life, bit my bottom lip when he kissed me and pulled me by the hand out the door and off to dinner. It was a great night to end on.

He’s incredibly intelligent and had researched a few languages to talk to me in after he found out that was a serious weakness of mine. Educated inspiration, y’all… it’s a great thing. No request too great or questionable. He was my very own human sex toy, for lack of a more graceful way to put it. Smart men have always been my downfall and he’s my favorite, to date. It never got messy, he was just too far away and life was too busy. I’m not sure when we lost touch, but it’s been at least 7 years?

Until today, when yours truly got one hell of a hot text message after I sent him my number on Tinder.

L- Can I take you to dinner?

I might have to wife him up this time.

wife

Overtext

I miss dating like it was when I was in junior high. No caller ID, no Facebook, no cell phones. It really was a blissful time to grow up and learn how to fall in love.

Your heart raced every time the phone rang and you answered with every cell in your body on edge, praying to every saint you could remember, that it was your crush.

When it actually was?

Nirvana.

These days you can see every damn detail of his life before you even say hello. You know what he drives, the food he eats and I’d be willing to bet, a few of his exes; thanks to laziness on his part in deleting old uploads. You see his kids before your first date.

Hell, if you’ve exchanged numbers with him, I’d be willing to bet you’ve seen his dick, too. Guys are quick to offer them up these days.

There are no secrets anymore. It’s all out there from the second he says hi.

I’m going to be a real bitch for a second. I fucking loathe the amount of time this shit takes. I don’t mind a date once a week. I can deal with that. Texting all day? NO. It is slightly moderately disturbing how much a pilot can text. 101 text messages. I just counted, twice. 7 pictures. I can handle about five a day, ten at the most and only if inspired.

I just don’t care that much, and I don’t care AT ALL what someone is eating. This is the longest fucking date, ever…

I’m sure he’s really nice… but he’s gone down that awkward path of being sexual before we met. It’s an unpleasant side effect of this endless texting. A false sense of intimacy with a stranger, who is absolutely not ready for it. I was silent.

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#ghosted

Why are they all SO crazy? This is the crazy shit that makes me want to bleach a few Perfect memories out of my head because trying to replace him is torture. They’re either completely unattractive or they’re raging douche bags. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground and it is so pathetic that I don’t think I can do it.

I went to bed annoyed and frustrated. Mad at myself for picking a fight with my dick on call. Tossing and turning until I got up and slipped quietly into my workout gear. I put my headphones on, climbed onto the elliptical machine and ran in the dark to the songs that are torturing me. Shaking my head to stop the thoughts about him. Missing someone can be the greatest form of torture. I can’t get away from my own thoughts and he’s too far away.

I know I could text him and he’d respond. I could ask him about his week. He would tell me. I could ask about his day. What he had for dinner. What game he’s watching. These are all available details. They’re also none of what I want to hear. For a while, it was enough and I was thrilled just to hear my phone announce that it was holding a message from the man I want most.

It wasn’t enough for very long and I had to force myself to delete him out of my phone to save myself. Biting back L-bombs and choking on tears because old habits die hard and I knew myself enough to know I could not leave him in reach.

It helped to touch someone else but I can’t help but miss him and my heart just doesn’t shift gears. It’s great to shake off the painful edge with someone that you aren’t invested in, dedicated purely to please you but if I thought it was going to fix everything, I was mistaken. I love a pretty Band-aid as much as the next girl but it can’t fix a lot if the damage is internal.

Sound asleep, I hear the sound I wait for. Fuck. I stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t help myself.

Tired and mad enough at the state of affairs, I said plenty.

IMG_8476He apologized, because he’s perfect and that’s what men do. I’m stuck on the fact that the beard is gone and all I want to do is climb into his lap and kiss his silky face.

God damn it. Now my mind is racing.

He’s gone silent since I told him to stop making platonic small-talk with me. Not exactly what I meant but I have to admit to myself that I’m getting far too much satisfaction from conversations more tame than I have with my mother and siblings.

I don’t want to talk about the damn weather with him. I want to talk about when he’s coming home to chase me around the kitchen. I miss the whisk that’s been banished since he was here this summer and the thought of him holding my spatula, gives me goosebumps.

One Perfect sentence and I’m back on the elliptical machine, running the agony off. Thankful that he’s finally helping my ass look good instead of just breaking my heart.