Skip to main content

Duran Duran Ain't Gonna Get It

I should be sleep - I have to get up at 5 am for an important meeting. Instead, I'm awake, listening to Duran Duran, wanting to masturbate, wanting to scream, wanting to do something! Anything but sleep. I know, all the experts say don't weigh the day in your head while trying to fall asleep, but how can one not? Especially when you've had a day like mine. I was out of control with Steven today. After I refused New York and dinner on his return, he has given me the icy shoulder. Oh, on the day my hormones are beating the shit out of me. Oy, I felt the cold, steely, stinging hand of rejection today and I'm not sure if I didn't deserve. I'm sure I did. I tell you, things have been rocky since the day he sent me on the road with my croissants. We haven't had sex since then and I am about to explode! EXPLODE.

I'm sure he is punishing me and letting me know that he's not a penis on call (thank Diana for that one). But I want a penis on call. Every girl deserves an on-call penis - at least for a few months. Why is it men can have on-call pussy and women can't? Argh!

Anyway, enough was enough. I took off my panties, hiked my skirt up a little and waltzed innocently into his office, closed the door...and was told literally to turn back around. He was busy and didn't have time to fuck me on company time today. Is that so?! It was.

NEVER let a man know you're horny. They relish the thought. They tease you, brush up against you, let you smell their cologne, uhh.. all the good stuff. I had a million fantasies at my desk after that; came close to popping one off. I was sure I could get off fantasizing sucking his fingers while he stared at my crotch. But no....

Instead, I've got Duran Duran.

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

Comfort Food

For lunch, I treated myself to a delicious T-bone steak, medium rare, and buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. There's nothing better in this world than buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. Comfort food, if you will. I needed that steak today like I need oxygen. It was pertinent to my survival; pertinent to my keeping my job.  Eating the steak today reminded me of how I've used comfort foods to get me through tough periods.  Breaking up with Michael: Macaroni and cheese. From scratch. I made  béchamel sauce and used several cheeses. I'd make a big pot and use chicken and broccoli to make it even more comforting. It was a glass of Riesling, mac and cheese, and a journal that got me through those tough weeks.  Losing a BIG Account: Meatloaf and mashed potato sandwiches. It was my first year at the firm and this was THE account to get, and I blew it. I ordered this sandwich two weeks in a row for dinner.  When Sister Attempted Suicide: ...
Read more

Broiling Alive

Some of you might not be aware of this but Chicago has morphed into the fiery pits of Hell, with atrocious sunburned feet to boot. See, this is why I hate summer, for this exact reason. Why do people insist on wearing flip flops in the sun? I can't tell you how many hundreds of sunburned feet I witnessed just last week alone. Jan managed to drag Diana and me to the beach on Sunday, where we both proceeded to bake and die immediately. Jan didn't care -- he was busy working on his "sex tan." You know, the kind where there's a dramatic tan line around the hips. The Swedes sure know how to tan, don't they? you would think with them being Nordic that they would just burn to a crisp, but no -- golden brown goodness all the time. This weekend, Diana's apartment was a cooling center. We conked out with old Glamours and iced raspberry-lemon tea. I don't know why Diana is afraid to throw away magazines. I swear there is a 1997 issue of Glamour with some supe...
Read more