Tahoe Trip: Rock, Paper, Scissors

If I told you that the concert that I went to at Harvey’s Lake Tahoe with Sting and Peter Gabriel, two brilliant Englishmen, was AWESOME I would be understating the experience.

It was MORE THAN AWESOME.

It was epic.

A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

History in the making.

Sting shaved off his beard and was looking particularly devilishly handsome.

Especially when he rocked his hips during “Sledgehammer.”

I’ve never been fond of sledgehammers, but at the moment I was convinced that he could “sledgehammer” me and I’d be quite happy with the outcome.

My sister and I drank nothing but water at the concert so we were sobering up as the concert progressed which might be why I remember more of the end of the concert than the beginning.

Of course it could also be that they pulled out all the stops as the concert climaxed.

My heels, which I’d been wearing ALL DAY since 5 am, failed me and so I had to sit for most of the concert and watch the show on the Jumbotron.

Here are some of my favorite pics from the concert:

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Things that SEEM sexy but aren’t IRL

  1. Wings – inspired by Drew Barrymore’s character in Ever After, I wore wings and a ballgown to a wedding imagining I’d look like a beautiful angel. Reality set in when I was unable to move for fear of wacking people with those “beautiful” wings. Not my most brilliant idea.
  2. Latex knickers – I tried these out once. Getting them on and off is a chore. Worse yet, you get dressed and undressed to a chorus of latex farts. Imagine rubbing two balloons together. Definitely NOT sexy.
  3. Glitter – oh glitter, how I love to hate you. You definitely make me think I look beautiful when I wear you but you hang around for fucking forever! No wonder you’re called PLAYA HERPES!
  4. Pasties – looks sexy, huh? Not so much when you have to take them off and the top three layers of your skin is removed with them. So. Not. Sexy.
  5. Man buns – all well and good until you realize your man has a more EXTENSIVE hair care regime than you. Hard pass!
  6. No undies – there’s a reason we’re supposed to wear underwear. There’s moisture that accumulates that needs to be ABSORBED. Without underwear it’s like a hot sauna in Thailand between your legs and smells similar.
  7. Shower sex – trust me, I just tried this and my memories of it were nicer than the reality. Not gonna lie here, it was AWKWARD AF!
  8. Lip gloss – oh you make my lips look so sexy but the moment I kiss someone and it transfers to them I realize what a sticky mess lip gloss truly is.
  9. Sex on the beach – not the drink, actual SEX on the BEACH. One word for you. Sand. Enough said.
  10. Chocolate body paint – pretty much anything edible you put on your body to entice your lover to dine there is gonna make a sticky mess. I did this once to my ex-husband and REGRETTED IT INSTANTLY WHEN HE WAS LATE SHOWING UP FROM WORK AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE DRIPPED INTO MY ARMPITS. It’s the things you never think about. . .

In the pale

I am a white girl.

And as far as white girls go, I’m on the lower end of the scale as far as melanin production goes.

I’m fair.

I am 75% Nordic/British Isles and 25% Portuguese.

I joke that this means that I burn easily but I can hold a tan.

It’s true though.

Every summer when I was growing up, I’d slather myself in baby oil and lay out at the pool for 30 minutes.

I’d get a wicked burn which would fade into a beautiful tan.

Those were the days (before skin cancer warnings).

Briefly, I went to the tanning salon and laid in their (cancer inducing) beds and got a lovely tan as well.

But no more.

I have to be good and take care of my skin.

So, I get spray tans.

Recently, I’ve decided I’m going to try to do it myself and I bought Cocoa Brown Tan Mousse and a pink velvet glove to apply it.

[Side note:  I’m sorely tempted to use the pink velvet gloves for bedroom activities and NOT self-tanner application.]

I want to be brown like the models we see in summer ads – all long legs and golden shoulders.

I know I can’t get their bodies, but it seems unfair to deny me their color as well.

I don’t want to be pale anymore.

I want to be TAN!

And with my trip to Hawaii coming up, it’d be nice to be more bronze goddess and less pale ice queen.

[Post script:  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I bought the darkest mousse on the market so I could turn out striped like a zebra!]

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Privacy

Yesterday my privacy was violated.

Someone logged into my Facebook account and looked at pictures that were supposed to be private.

Ones that I had filtered from the public and friends.

Not nude pics, but close to nude pics.

Tasteful I thought.

This person then got upset and offended and proceeded to tell my mother that I needed an intervention. That I was out of control.

Nudity bothers me less than the average American. In that respect, I am less mainstream and more on the fringe.

My mother then proceeded to unload on me all her imagined “sexual trespasses” that I had “committed” in her mind.

According to her, I sleep with every man I go on a date with.

This is ironic. I can point to many men I’ve dated way more than just one time who I have never slept with.

I do the best I can to share intimacies with men who I feel have the possibility of developing into something more.

In some cases, I am right – like with Luke and Jay – and I wind up in 18 month relationships.

In other cases, I am wrong – like with The Israeli – and I wind up ghosted with a face full of cum.

I rarely spend the night and I don’t have sex at my house.

These are the rules I have.

As a 43 year old woman, I don’t think I need to justify my sex life to my parents and it’s a shame that they are all up in my business about it.

It hurts that someone felt the need to spy on me, but what hurts more is knowing that my parents have a flawed and skewed image of me in their heads.

According to my mother, I am a slut.

Sigh.

That woman has never been comfortable with my sexuality.

There is no great insight I have here.

I’m rather confused and hurt about the whole experience.

And it’s ironic that all this is happening at a time in my life when I’m focused less on dating and more on friendships.

Yes, you read that right.

I’m settling down.

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What is it with men?

What is it with men?

I get it.

Their temperatures run hot.

They seem to always be warm – a quality that has eluded me MY WHOLE LIFE.

It could be 50 degrees below zero and I swear, if I snuggle up to a man, HE WILL BE NICE AND TOASTY.

I don’t get it.

Why did the universe give men the innate ability to stay warm no matter how cold it is outside while simultaneously giving me an ass as cold as THE ICEBERG THAT SANK THE TITANIC?

You ladies know what I mean.

Do you have to put on socks before you go to bed because your feet get cold and you can’t fall asleep with cold feet?

Have you ever gone to bed wearing a beanie because you were SO FRIGGING COLD?

Then you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.

I’m heading off to UnSCruz with a full length fur jacket which I plan to sleep in and The Swede is taking cut off shirts.

No sleeves!

Gah!

Plus – and I have been warned – he sleeps in THE NUDE!

Okay, that part I am THRILLED about.

Nothing like a naked Viking man to distract me from all the sleep I should be getting.

I wonder if he will mind that when I “BACK THAT THING UP” to him, it’s going to be the temperature of liquid nitrogen.

Thaw me baby!

Eye See You

It just wouldn’t be unSCruz or a Burning Man regional event if there wasn’t some form of body modification available.

Body modification with includes tattoos and sensitive bits.

The king of body modification, on account of the fact he goes to all the events and always brings his “kit” with him is the Hiney Hygiene guy.

He will pamper your posterior as well as give you a temporary tattoo.

So I dropped trou.

And this is what happened:

 

FYI, posting that last photo got me banned on Facebook, so enjoy it here, where the only censor is me and I fully approve this post.

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Creep

I’m at unSCruz, dressed in a purple ballgown quinceañera dress with silver wings.

The bride is wearing white with gilded golden horns.

We’re processing to the wedding site – all the women surrounding the bride-to-be.

This guy comes up to me.

“Hi, remember me?” he asks.

I recognize him as a man I went on a date with a few months ago.

Greg.

“Yes, hi Greg,” I say.

He starts talking and it’s very clear that he is on something – alcohol, drugs, whatever.

He’s altered.

And he’s making me uncomfortable, talking about how upsetting it was that I never agreed to go on a second date with him.

I can barely get a word in edgewise, he’s talking a mile a minute.  I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable.

He points out his tent.

“That’s where I’m staying,” he tells me.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asks.

Suit yourself.

Then he asks if I’d like to hang out some more after the wedding procession.

I think of The Swede and Tejas.

No.

NO.

NO!

“I’m here with someone else. . .” I allude to The Swede’s presence.

I know that if I can just make it to The Swede, he can get this guy to leave me alone.

“Ok,” says Greg and scampers off.

So let it be knows, if you mention to a date that you are attending unSCruz, he just might buy his own ticket and show up and stalk you.

Long Distance Lust

“I want to pack you in my suitcase and take you home to Sweden,” The Swede told me.

We were walking to the bathroom at unSCruz.

He’d had some whiskey and his lips were loose.

It was utterly charming.

“I can’t ask you to wait, can I?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

My heart lurched a little bit.

This big, cuddly, soft-spoken, shy man has cleverly wormed his way into my heart.

“It’s been such a fun weekend,” I told him.

Part of me really wanted to say, “Let’s do this!”

But I know I’m no good at long distance relationships.

Not at all.

I’m not really good at relationships, fullstop.

At least not in recent times, at least.

What makes me think that I could make it work when we live 8,600+ miles apart (as the crow flies)?

Stupidity?

Romanticism?

Affection?

Full blown LUST?

Whatever the cause – stupidity or lust, the end result is the same.

Me, single.

What else could I be?

Smooth

I watched a video recently where 5 women took a challenge to stop waxing and plucking their facial hair for a month.

These women bitched and complained about their hairy faces but I couldn’t see anything on the video. They looked just as beautiful as they had in the beginning.

It was then that I realized that many women are COMPULSIVE about facial hair.

For someone who lets her eyebrows go LONG PAST THE PLUCKING POINT, I can say with true abandon that I am not one of these compulsive women.

I also forget to shave my legs but that’s beside the point.

The truth is, I don’t remember being obsessed with facial hair as a teenager.

I don’t even remember HAVING facial hair.

But somewhere between 15 and 43, I managed to grow a beardlette.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a “beard beard.”

My face just gets blond fuzz on it.

It’s genetic, I think.

There’s some Portuguese in me and I attribute all my peach fuzz to my Portuguese heritage.

On account of I’m pretty sure it’s not from the Nordic side of things.

In addition to having a fuzzy face, I also have one long wiry stray hair that grows out of the right corner of my chin.

Definitely NOT SEXY.

I pluck that motherfucker like nobody’s business!

It’s the most satisfying pluck on my whole body.

I play with it for a while after I pluck it – poking it with my finger, feeling how stiff and rigid it feels.

Getting old sucks.

However, it’s better than the alternative, no?

So I’ll just shut up about the whole thing and admit that I have an ace up my sleeve.

I may be hairy but there’s always wax!

The Backdoor

I’m sexting with this guy a few weeks ago.

We’ve been going at it a little while and are getting ready to wrap things up when he says, “And then I cum in your ass.”

Wha?!

I rolled my eyes all the way from here to fucking Istanbul.

Really?

Cuz that does nothing for me.

I’m not knocking it.

I know there are people who absolutely LOVE it.

But I’m not one of those people.

And I can say that with the confidence of a person who has tried it enough times to know that it’s NOT FOR ME.

I have all the tools: the lube shooter, the anal plug, the inflatable anal plug, the enema bulb. . .

It’s not like I haven’t TRIED.

It’s taken me 43 years of life to come to this conclusion but I feel justified in stating right now, FOR THE RECORD, that I will never have anal sex again.

I’m sorry if that disappoints some of you.

But there are so many other delightful parts to me that a lover can occupy himself with I think I’m giving some truly stellar alternatives to The Backdoor.

Why anyone would choose to give me the sensation of having to take an enormous shit is BEYOND me.

That is all.