Selectively Bitchy

…hormonally-controlled and ranting about it…

Good girls don’t have sex

Or at least, thats what they like to have you think.

I must admit — i. love. sex. Yes it’s true, and i’m not embarassed to admit it, and i’ll even go further and proclaim that i love sex more than the horniest sex-on-the-mind-24/7-Coors-light-kokanee-commercial-target-audience male you’ll ever meet.

Did i scare you? If not, read on. Those magazines NEVER write about stuff like that. Ok, maybe once in a blue moon, but all those bitch mags are all about “it’s ok that you don’t want to have sex with your bf” “it’s totally normal to be too tired or just totally not in the mood when he wants it”, etcetcetc. Very rarely will you come across a piece about the exact opposite unless it’s some investigative, journalistic expose on female sex addicts or something to that effect.

*sigh* I guess I should’ve seen this coming. When I was in Kindergarten, I was hell bent on getting with this cute boy named, Dean. So cute. Big puppy dog eyes, smooth tanned skin, brunette. By “getting with” I suppose in Kindergarten, that just mean holding hands or something (or maybe that’s a little too much for a five year-old to fantasize about, if at all?), but all I ever did for a a full year of Kindergarten was chase him around the classroom, trying to kiss him. And I succeeded. In kissing him. In everything else, I just plain scared the s*&^ out of him. He didn’t even want to be my partner for craft time, even though we were the only two remaining un-partnered people left in the class.

My bf wouldn’t stop laughing when I confessed this to him, during one of our meaningful, how-my-f*&^%ed-up-childhood-probably-affected-my-adult-life conversations. He laughed so hard he started crying.

“How will you ever survive this week?” My bf teasingly asked me (is that even a word? teasingly? if not, I coined it!), all hot, wet and naked in the shower this morning. I’d recently had a procedure done which doesn’t permit anything in the pooty for at least one week. ONE. WEEK. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

“I don’t knoooowwww,” I whined, as I tried to slide the shower door open, like a sleazy black cat, eyeing its prey, as he struggled with me to keep it shut (FYI, i’m quite strong for a little lady…just goes to show, lack of sex to me is what kryptonite is to Superman.. a shower door! puh-lease).

143 hours, 52 minutes and 12 seconds remaining.

Wish me luck.


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