Viking Porn

It’s been a long time since I thought about Charlie the Aussie.

Charlie was named after ALL HIS RELATIVES.

His had one first name – Charles – and 7 middle names.

If it sounds like he was royalty, that’s because he was royalty.

He was a Knight in the Order of Australia, an honor he received because he crewed a sailboat that sailed from Australia to the Orient (I’m not sure where, this detail has escaped me) as part of an anniversary celebration.

Charlie was magnificent.

He would run marathons in the wilderness.

He could sail ships (obviously) and if you blindfolded him and dropped him off in the desert with a Snickers and a liter of water, he would FIND HIS WAY BACK HOME, no big deal.

Needless to say, I really adored Charlie.

Sadly however, Charlie did not adore me back.

He had a wife (he was separated, not divorced) and a special needs son and in the end, Charlie went back to his wife and he quickly became just a fond memory for me.

So why do I bring him up now?

Well, Facebook has somehow figured out that I know him and keeps flashing his face for me to “add as a friend.”

Now.

Facebook knows what I shopped online for two days ago.

They flash it in my sidebar.

They also know what I had for dinner last night.

And they like to remind me of it daily.

So I’m surprised that Facebook hasn’t figured out a way to keep ex-boyfriends from showing up in your “Potential Friends” list.

That way lies nothing but sorrow.

I’m waiting for Facebook to figure out that I’m moved on from Aussies to Swedes.

Don’t remind me of Aussie disappointments.

Show me some Viking porn.

The Makeout Thread

Sexting has been replaced with the Makeout Thread.

It’s basically a group of women who share their interests, activities, and love lives with each other.

Sometimes there’s a graphic picture or two.

You know me  – how I love to flash my boobs. I dare say they’ve gotten more exposure on the thread than Kim Kardashian’s Paper magazine cover.

Okay, maybe not QUITE that much.

The Makeout Thread feels a little like “Sex and the City” meets “WWF.”

It’s raw. Uncensored. Explicit. Rough.

AND I LOVE IT!

It feeds my inner voyeur while allowing the outer exhibitionist to run free.

It turns me on when my own love life is slow and needs a little inspiration to pick me up.

Because I really need to know about the girl who’s in a Dom/Sub relationship with a man who has two other girlfriends.

Now when would I ever get to experience the excitement of THAT in my life?

And the parade of tits and pussy shots are incredible. I didn’t know you could get tattoos in some of those places, but apparently YOU CAN!

Sometimes I just sit back and think how many men would kill to see the comments and pics I see.

The bottom line is that I AM VERY LUCKY.

Lucky to be in a community of women who share their lives with me.

Lucky to be in a community of women who embrace all forms of desire.

Lucky to be a part of an INCREDIBLE group of women who live EXTRAORDINARY lives.

Lucky. Lucky. LUCKY!

EVERYONE should have a Makeout Thread.

This post will make you squirm

When I was growing up, I CONSTANTLY had to wipe pee off the toilet seat.

You see, my dad is a germaphobe and he taught my brother to LEAVE THE TOILET SEAT DOWN while peeing.

Needless to say, my brother’s aim was off.

I can’t tell you how gross it was to forget to check the toilet seat and to sit down and feel the wetness of someone else’s pee on the backs of your thighs.

Then I got married and lo and behold my ex-husband was trained to LIFT THE SEAT.

And he did.

I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t really care if the seat is up, I just don’t want there to be pee on it.

What can I say?

I set the bar low.

My ex-husband taught my boys to lift the seat but lately, I’ve noticed that someone is leaving the seat down and peeing on it.

Once I figured out which one of my spawn it was, I confronted him.

But the seat-peeing has continued.

So. . .

In order to make a point, I left a bloody wad of toilet paper in the toilet.

Because I know it grosses my boys out to see blood in the toilet.

I see your pee on the seat and I raise you one bloody wad of toilet paper.

I win!

Legs

I went to a party.

It was a great party.

The house was packed and there was food and drink a plenty.

I grabbed a glass of wine and a plate of food, chatted with the host, and made my way to the backyard to eat.

While I was sitting in the yard, a woman emerged from the house.

A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Wearing a black top and black leather short shorts.

She looked amazing.

Let me rephrase that.

She looked amazing and she had a pair of killer stems on her.

That’s right folks.

She had legs.

Cue ZZTop!

Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen legs so nice on a woman in real life that wasn’t a supermodel.

And while this woman wasn’t a tall supermodel by any stretch of the imagination, she certainly had a pair of legs on her.

I pay attention to legs.

Mostly because I was born with thick sturdy legs and I’ve always wished I had slender thighs and calves.

Sure, I can probably leg press more than her, but I’d certainly give that up to be able to saunter into a room at a party in a short skirt and have all the men and women envy me my legs.

Sigh.

There is one point of comfort for me, however.

I may not have amazing legs, but I certainly inherited an amazing rack.

And given a choice between the two, I think you know what I’d pick

Creep

creepOkay, the first thing I’m going to admit is that I can’t hear the word ‘creep’ without having Radiohead’s lyrics to “Creep” ring through my head:

“But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo.

What the hell am I doing here?

I don’t belong here.”

The truth is I know a lot of creeps.

And I’m okay with that.

I used to get the willies from creeps but that was only until I met creepier creeps.

SUCH AS:

A 50+ year old man who admitted to me that he finds teenage girls sexy.

Super creepy!

I can’t even LOOK at 20 something year old young men without thinking about my own sons.

It’s. So. Not. Sexy.

OR:

Another man who told me he steals ladies panties from the laundromat.

Uber creepy!

So I’m not talking about super creeps and uber creeps – the ones you want to take out restraining orders against.

I’m talking about your garden variety, run-of-the-mill creep.

  • The guy who gives off that funny vibe that makes you feel like you’re standing naked in front of him.
  • The guy who has “horny” written all over his face and you can just tell he’s imagining doing naughty things with you.
  • The guy who you know would get down with you in a millisecond, regardless of where you are and who you are with.

Dare I say it?

I find those guys kinda charming.

Some of my closest friends would probably classify themselves as creeps, in one way or another.

I find something transparent in creeps – as if their deepest desires are barely veiled from the world, ready to be let loose at a moment’s notice.

And it occurs to me that perhaps my fondness for creeps is because I TOO AM A CREEP.

  • Awkward.
  • Giving off a weird vibe.
  • Sexual frustration just brewing beneath the surface.

Yes friends, I’m a creep.

I’m a weirdo.

But don’t you find me the teensiest bit charming?

You do now, don’t you?

Silent Pleas

I finally broke down and visited the eye doctor yesterday.

I’ve known for some time that I need glasses but I kept putting it off and putting it off.

Because I sorta HATE the idea of having to wear glasses.

I’m near sighted, you see.

So I can see my computer screen just fine but street signs?

Not so much.

Everything is ever so blurry for me.

The thing is, I have had glasses before.

I just always lose them somehow.

Misplaced.

I may need to get gorkies to keep the glasses around my neck where I won’t lose them.

I’m such an old fuddy duddy right now.

So there I am, sitting in the chair in the doctor’s office.

The doctor has put that big contraption in front of my face and that’s when it happened.

He took a good long stare at my cleavage.

Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t see with that huge piece of equipment in front of me, but I DID.

And I got a little grossed out by it.

And I could see him sneak peeks periodically.

So much so that when he stood up to put drops in my eyes, I LITERALLY BEGGED THE UNIVERSE TO NOT LET HIM TOUCH ME.

And he didn’t.

So there you have it.

Sometimes, the universe listens to my silent pleas.

Dating a blogger

It’s hard to date a blogger.

ESPECIALLY one as transparent as I am.

EVERYTHING goes on the internet:

You will usually find me blogging about whatever is on my mind from the men who capture my fancy, like The Swede; to past lovers who I remember fondly, like Jay and Charlie The Aussie; to men I fantasize about but can never have, like Alexander Skarsgård and Joe Manganiello.

IMG_9379I’d like to think I’m more of a lover than a hater. Unfortunately, the hate tends to be funnier than the love, like when The Hunk had an epic skill/equipment failure in bed with me.

IMG_9378I’ve been advised that the reason I’m single is because of this blog.

That might be true but I can’t help but feel like deep down, my blog will actually draw in the right man for me.

Imagine how nice it’d be to have all your experiences and secrets in one place where a person can read about them.

My thoughts. My hopes. My frustrations.

If a man can get through my blog posts AND STILL be interested in me, then he passed the test.

And the thing is, PLENTY of men like this blog and read it.

So there’s hope.

There’s a reason this blog is called unblunder…

Because everything seems wrong at first until it suddenly turns beautifully, epically RIGHT!

Soulmate

Do you believe in the concept of SOULMATES?

That is, that there’s someone out there for you who is your perfect match and that you are INTENDED for each other?

You know what I think?

I think it’s a line of bull intended to sell seminars to lonely people who just want to find someone to be with and who will pay to learn all the tricks to meet them.

If you ask me, there’s more than one RIGHT person out there for everyone, it’s just the luck of who you meet and when you meet.

Might explain why the divorce rate is so high too.

Move on to the next one when the previous one has lost its sheen.

Perhaps I’m being harsh.

After all, there is a guy I think about from time to time.

A guy from my past who “got away.”

But then I remember the problems we had and I realize, “Great guy, but not for me.”

So NOT THE ONE.

And NOT MY SOULMATE.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to meet someone who I can spend holidays with.

Who will introduce me to his family, take me out on the weekend, and share a home with me.

But SOULMATES?

Don’t exist.

So don’t go forking over your hard-earned cash to learn how to meet your “eternal beloved.”

Honestly, the best thing I can do to meet someone RIGHT NOW?

Take a class on communication and relationships.

That would improve ALL ASPECTS OF MY LIFE and PREPARE ME TO BE A THOUGHTFUL PARTNER TO ANOTHER PERSON.

And that’s not bitterness talking.

That’s wisdom!

Barely there underwear

I packed for the Pagan Bunny Burn and managed to keep my costumes down to one and a half totes.

Plush oneies take up a lot of space, apparently.

Also, tutus and bunny masks.

None of which I wore, ironically.

It was too cold to wear anything besides onesies.

At the last minute, I realized that I FORGOT panties!

It figures, I’d pack absolutely EVERYTHING I need for a pagan bunny burn EXCEPT underwear.

And socks.

I almost forgot my socks.

I find this VERY amusing because at the last burn, I forgot my panties and had to go around commando for the last part of the burn.

Normally, this isn’t a problem.

Many of my costumes REQUIRE that I NOT wear underwear.

Who needs to see my panties poking out under some hot pants or short shorts?

But at the Bunny Burn?

Under a tutu?

It’s a MUST!

Dealing with panty issues is pretty common for me.

I’m always trying to find the right thing to wear under each outfit so that my panties don’t show or they show and are appropriate for the outfit I’m wearing (i.e. pink ruffle butt panties under a see-through pink tutu).

So finding these babies on Amazon was a Godsend:

The “Knicker Sticker” which you stick to the crotch of your clothing.

Perfect for my black short shorts that lace up the side.

It’s a nice little adhesive patch that will keep my shorts from getting (ahem) moist.

Then there’s the Shibue Strapless Panty which is like an adhesive thong.

Same principle and use, just a little larger surface area.

Also, and this is a BIG ALSO, these adhesive panties will literally take up NO SPACE in my clothing tote, so BONUS!

Disposable , barely-there underwear?

I’m down for that.

Radical Inclusion

I’m going to write this story once so that I don’t hold on to it longer than necessary.

I was at a bar having a great time when a gentleman sat down next to me.

He was Middle Eastern and since my dad is Middle Eastern I wanted to talk to him about where he was from.

So I politely asked him where he was from.

Oakland.

Oh, I see. I only asked because my father is from Lebanon and I thought you might be too.

Well, it turns out he WAS from Lebanon.

Beirut actually, just like my father.

So we chatted about the old country and farms and Burning Man.

He asked me what my favorite Burning Man principle was.

I replied that it was definitely RADICAL INCLUSION.

I can come off as awkward from time to time so I like a principle that encourages people to embrace me despite my weirdness.

He agreed with me.

We were having such a good time talking, we barely noticed the bartender who was hanging around us, muttering under his breath.

But suddenly, we both VERY CLEARLY heard a racial slur come from his direction.

One I don’t care to repeat, but which was so troubling to me that I froze out of fear.

Of course, I look Scandinavian, not Middle Eastern, so the man’s comments were directed to my new friend, but for a brief second, I felt was it was like to be disliked because of something as insubstantial as heritage.

And it was frightening.

By now, all we could hear was the sound of this man’s voice, very clearly continuing on this path of racial discrimination.

My new friend gave me a hug, and left the bar after sharing a few words with the bartender.

I sat there in silence for a while, thinking about the Radical Inclusion principle which should have protected my friend from racism.

But didn’t.