That time I landed a lumberjack

Once upon time, I had a HUGE crush.

He was a lumberjack.

With a beard.

And a voice like he gargled with glass.

When he’d say my name (Bombshell), he’d say it with gravitas.

He flirted with me and (of course) I did my best to flirt back.

We all know that although I enjoy flirting, I’m not always the best at it.

Sometimes I’m awkward.

Other times I’m way too subtle.

But in this case, I managed to convey my interest by simply staring at his mouth and fantasizing about kissing him.

He literally stopped right in the middle of the conversation he was having to kiss me.

Success!

And boy, what a kiss it was.

Pretty soon we were all over each other, making out and groping one another.

It’s not every day that a fantasy comes true for me, but this time around it did.

I got my lumberjack.

And yes, it was everything I expected and a little bit of the unexpected.

I got to knock an item off my sexual bucket list that night.

Guess what it was?

Kilts and lumberjacks

Long ago I used to volunteer for the Campbell Highland Games.

My friends were the organizers so I naturally gravitated to helping them with the event.

I thought, perhaps wrongly so, that I was of Scottish descent.

Now, 23 & Me has proven me to be Scandinavian (Norwegian), British Isles (so PERHAPS Scottish) and a little bit Portuguese (I have my maternal Grandma to thank for that).

I joke that being mostly Scandinavian and a little Portuguese means I burn easily but I can hold a tan.

LOL.

The other day, I was emailing a friend and he sent me some photos of him in a kilt.

Lordy, how love a man in a kilt.

I was instantly transported back in time to those Highland games, and to my not one, but TWO trips to Scotland.

Tartan kilts, bottles of scotch, purple heathered mountains, black water (at least in Loch Lomond, it’s black), bagpipes, and fresh raspberries.

I love how kilts represent family.

Community.

I love how well they pair with sporrans, hose and jacket.

And as much as I love a lumberjack in a plaid flannel shirt, I ALMOST as equally love a man in a kilt.

Not surprisingly, I have a few friends who wear kilts.

They are burners, naturally.

They don’t wear the tartan variety, mind you.

Just the utili-kilt, lightweight variety kilt.

And still, it has the same funny effect on me.

So whether I’m eating fresh raspberries at a real Highland games in Inverness, or sitting on my bed at home reminiscing, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for men in kilts.

Give me Gerard Butler in a kilt or a man with “Campfire” as his middle name and color me happy.

What’s your type?

A group of friends and I were discussing our “types.”

As in what type of man do we find ourselves attracted to.

Me, I go for lumberjacks – bearded and outdoorsy.

My friend Allison said her type was Germanic.

And then our friend Adele admitted that the type of man she goes for is the kind who hates her, deep down.

We were floored.

It’s one thing to like beards.

You wind up dating lots of bearded men.

It’s another thing to wind up with men who have an underlying dislike of you.

I could hear the truth in what she was saying though, and it hurt to think of what she had been through in order to actually identify “hates me” as her type.

We asked for clarification.

“Well, they don’t come at me FULL ASSHOLE,” she explained.

At first, they’re nice and caring.

But then something changes and they turn into an asshole with her.

Personally, I can relate to her mindset.

I too have dated men who started out nice and caring but who evolved into critical, misogynistic partners.

Once I met a guy who would bully me when he didn’t get his way.

He swore up and down what a great boyfriend he was and how much he loved women.

But then he texted me nasty messages when I wouldn’t do what he wanted.

He’d go back and forth, being nice to me trying to change my mind, then call me a bitch when I wouldn’t do as he said.

I got away from him as quick as I could.

It’s hard for me to give advice about men, considering that I really believe many of the single men out there are porn addicts who use women and are afraid of connection with other human beings.

But if I were to say one thing, it would be to look for the good men, and when you discover his true colors, and they aren’t as appealing as they were when you met him. . .

R U N !

Hug Therapy

michelleIt’s been a rough three weeks for me.

First, I got the flu on the eve of my trip to Florida to meet The Swede and I had to cancel.

All that vacation prep down the tube:  nails, pedicure, body scrub, spray tan, hair.

I felt very sorry for myself, I’ll have you know.

But just as well since I have a busted pussy that I’m not allowed to use.

Speaking of the busted pussy, it’s screaming at me right now from the biopsy.

To be honest, it burns something fierce and I’m really irritated that I have to deal with the painful aftermath of the biopsy while trying to focus on work.

Someone should bring me cake, just to cheer me up and remind me that my busted pussy is only temporary.

At least, that’s my hope.

Results next week.

Until then I’ll just have to keep living this celibate lifestyle, hoping and praying that everything turns out normal.

And I’m not one to complain but it sucked to go to unSCruz for five days and not be able to flirt AT ALL.

I love flirting.

Breathe.

Flirt.

Breathe.

Flirt.

Fortunately, I was able to hug A LOT of people.

Hugs are the exact therapy I need to treat all my worries.

Send virtual hugs, please.

I’m in need of some.

Busted pussy

If you read yesterday’s post, then you know that unSCruz was HOT during the day and COLD AS FUCK at night.

I literally brought one warm weather dress for the entire event.

I pretty much lived in a bright yellow sundress during the day.

At night I would envelop myself in a nice warm onesie.

Thank God for those onesies.

It would have been sheer torture without them.

The first night I was there I climbed into a FRIGID bed and literally curled up in the tiniest ball I could muster, pulled the bedspread over me, and prayed that the bed would heat up fast.

The second night I was there I shared my bed with a friend and I appreciated the warmth of another body, but it was still pretty chilly.

It reminded me of the time I took The Swede to unSCruz two years ago and I brought nothing but a black lace romper to wear to bed and it was FUCKING FREEZING at night so I wore my lingerie with a full-length faux fur jacket over it.

And socks.

I’m nothing if not sexy.

The remaining nights were not as cold as the first two, but they certainly weren’t all that comfortable either.

Especially when you’re sleeping alone.

But sleeping alone was fine by me seeing as how (sorry I’ve been holding out on you) I have a cervical biopsy this week and I’m literally NOT ALLOWED to have sex, according to my doctor.

So there you have it.

UnSCruz was cold at night and I may have cancer.

Fucking busted pussy!

unSCruz

UnSCruz came and went and honestly, I’m still recovering from ALL THAT FUN!

I arrived on Wednesday morning and got my camp set up in an hour.

After that, it was nothing but the occasional work shift and a lot of day (and night) drinking.

I think I started off Friday morning with not one, not two, but THREE BLOODY MARYS.

And one was a double!

Six ounces of vodka in a six-hour period means I was feeling no pain.

Which was great, because as it turned out I gave myself a SUNBURN on Thursday.

A bad sunburn.

But one I was thankful for because IT WAS SO COLD AT NIGHT that my sunburn helped to keep me warm (a bit).

More on the temperature later.

In any case, here are some photos I can share from the event.

Hope you like!

The upside down

Obviously, I’ve taken boudoir photos.

It was my “big adventure” of 2014.

I even posted them online on this site, just to be totally honest about the process and results.

Apparently, according to my new online friend Clinton, there is a photo missing from my photo set – the upside down cleavage shot.

Now, I’m not one to allow a specific angle to go missing from my collection, PARTICULARLY when it involves my cleavage.

Which brings me to my next point:  There will be a “naughty” photographer at unSCruz.

This photographer is well known for taking beautiful, tasteful nude images.

Perhaps he’ll even take one of me and my cleavage, upside down.

The irony in all this, is that the “upside down cleavage shot” is a pet peeve of Clinton’s, on account of it being challenging to get the picture right side up so it can be viewed clearly on a handheld device.

So obviously I’m not doing this to “please a man.”

But I am doing it to please me.

So whether I’m in a black lace bra, a hand bra, or no bra, just be advised that photos are forthcoming.

Bizarre Bazaar

I’ve SOMEWHAT recovered from the flu.

I still have a lingering cough that won’t seem to go away.

I must be healthy for unSCruz.

Can’t miss The Big Event.

I’ve gotten a TON of advice on how to get healthy:

  • Echinacea
  • Vitamin C (enough to choke a sailor)
  • Drink plenty of fluids
  • Eat spicy foods
  • Airborne

I tried to eat spicy foods, because I love spice, and discovered it only gave me coughing fits.

And coughing is suffering right now.

It feels like I’ve done a million sit ups.

I tried Vitamin C also, only to discover that other than making my pee a bright yellow, it seemed to have little effect on my coughing.

Airborne had a similar result.

So I’m hanging in there.

Not getting worse, but could certainly use a little improvement in the health department.

Especially considering that my friend Dante will be staying in my tent at unSCruz and I KNOW he won’t appreciate listening to me cough all night.

So there’s ANOTHER reason to get myself healthy.

I missed out on my Florida vacation, but I’m sure as hell not going to miss unSCruz.

Can’t wait to post my unSCruz 2019 blog posts and show you all the fun I had.

Let’s hope this year I don’t trip and fall and bang my nose on a bucket!

Riding Crop

Part of my efforts to reduce, reuse and recycle have included not just going through all my camping gear and supplies but also my wardrobe.

I have a ten foot closet with clothes just SPILLING out of it.

So a little selective weeding of the wardrobe was necessary.

I enlisted the help of my mother, which always assists me in making cut throat decisions when it comes to what stays and WHAT GETS TOSSED.

Haven’t worn it in 6 months?

Toss it!

Does it have a little hole that needs mending?

Round file it!

This process, of applying my mother to my wardrobe, always has some unintended consequences.

Like the time she folded my “Orgasm Donor” t-shirt.

Or the time she picked up my “Spank Me / Fuck Me” panties and just ROLLED HER EYES FOR DAYS.

This time around the process was uneventful, or so I thought.

Because as we were at the second hand store bringing in bags of used clothing to donate, I noticed my mom carrying in one of my bags. . .

. . . with my riding crop sticking RIGHT OUT THE TOP!

I’m here to tell you this:  You haven’t LIVED until you’re at the secondhand store watching your 75-year old mother carry in a bag with your “riding crop” sticking out of it.

Bars and dating apps

“You don’t meet nice people in bars or dating apps.”

It took hearing it from a stranger for me to really absorb the meaning of what he said.

I’ve always felt that going to bars is a good way to meet an alcoholic.

And I’ve never been a big fan of internet dating, though I certainly gave it more than the college try.

But hearing the two places – bars and dating apps – strung together like that, it FINALLY made sense to me.

Both are crap if you’re trying to meet someone special.

I’m no longer living under the impression that any sort of significant human connection will result from using dating apps.

And lord knows though I was a barfly in my early 20s, I certainly have no interest in sitting at a bar, listening to loud music, and trying to make eyes at guys who catch my interest.

Where do you meet decent people?

In the grocery store.

Better yet, in the BOOK STORE.

On a hike.

Volunteering.

At an animal rescue benefit dinner.

Through friends.

Definitely NOT at a bar or online.

I’ve often said, it felt impossible to make a meaningful connection with the men I dated, and that’s true.

No matter how honest and vulnerable I was with my truth, seldom did my date respond to it.

People have to be alert to others to be able to connect with them.

And the people I went out with were completely closed off to new human connection.

Other than the physical, that is.

So there you have it.

In a nutshell, why I gave up internet dating?

“You don’t meet nice people in bars or dating apps.”