Skip to main content

Diana Reads a Book

Because I needed to hear a dirty mind and mouth, I called Diana at work during my lunch hour. "What are you doing?"

"French women don't get fat," she replied. (She never answers hello.)

"Oh...they don't?"

"No! They get drunk instead."

"Okay, where are we going with this?"

"It's a stupid book. My fucking mind is churning over this shit."

Diana picked up this book that explains why French women don't get fat; it's because they lead outdoorsy lives, drink copious amounts of wine, and pay attention to their zippers. This pisses Diana off. "Fuck French women."

"That's not nice. What are you doing reading that book anyway?" (Diana's barely a size 4.)

"You know I'm fucking Robert." (Robert is Diana's Parisian go-to-fuck. He's in Chicago until late November.)

"Okay?"

"And I wanted to read something about France, so I borrowed Gina's book."

"Are you going to finish it?"

"No. I'm ordering liver and onions for lunch, from the Greek place. This book can kiss my twat."

I don't know if it's true French women don't get fat, but I know an American women who is pissed about the idea that French women don't get fat. Oy.
Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

Tick-Tock

So there I was, standing in line at Walgreens, a bottle of orange juice and a box with the acronym e.p.t. stenciled across it in my hands. The orange juice is there to make me feel better. This is no big deal; just a city girl buying orange juice and a pregnancy test. There's an old white-haired lady behind me with a tube of KY Jelly and tampons. Okay.... In front of me is a middle-aged man, looking jolly with chubby red cheeks. "Hurry up," he barks to cashier, "I left my car running." Well, so much for jolly. It was my turn. I manage to stop my hand from shaking long enough to put my things on the counter and pry my wallet from my handbag. I paid and fled. Jan's waiting in the lobby of my apartment building, chatting up my doorman. When he spots me he frowns. "Oh, look at you, honey," he says while hugging me. "C'mon, baby, let's get this over with." I smile, comforted by his genuine concern. When Jan's being comfort, his acc...
Read more

Friday Night, Vol. 2: Rare Breeds

Last night I went to a wonderful party thrown by my friend Viviane. I love going to Viv's parties, because there are two things I know for certain will be in abundance: Men and good wine. Last night was no exception. I had sex ... technically (I think I better confirm with Clinton ). Anyway, the point is I did orgasm last night at approximately 11:34 p.m, sitting on the edge of Viv's pool, my crotch thrust in the face of a man whose name I didn't bother to learn. And thanks to his game of Let's-See-How-Fast-I-Can-Make-You-Come, I knew that it took him less than five minutes to complete the job. That was that. No numbers exchanged; no small talk; no promise of getting together next week for lunch. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Just a girl and her orgasm. This encounter is so strange, and now that I reflect on it without the delicious pinot noir imbuing my brain, I realize that we didn't kiss or even rub parts. I don't even remember how I ended up being orally pleasured by th...
Read more

All Is Revealed

is name is *Jim. He lives in Naperville. He has two dogs. He's divorced. This info courtesy of a clueless Viv. I casually brought up the man in the blue shirt and black slacks to her and she spilled all. "Do you think he's cute?" Viv asked. (Bless her naive heart.) "Oh, I think he has a nice mouth," I said. Wink. Wink. Inside jokes to myself? I need to get a life. Night.
Read more