Chubby Chaser

Ok, in a weak moment of panic during a Fredrick's raid, I texted an ex. Well, in truth, he's not my ex, he's someone I went on a few dates with, we had some good oral - but honestly, I can't remember ever actually having sex. But if memory serves me correctly, we never did the horizontal shuffle - I think we tried.... but well you know. Too much champagne. Perhaps.

Well now that loads of time has passed, you would think that I am over it. Sort of, I guess, in reality I am over it, but in my mind I often times reminisce about our times together. How softly he touches me, and insists on touching inch of my body with his tongue. It's nice to remember when you haven't had any hanky panky in while.

Then of course, the person in my life who brings truth and reason finally called me on my shit. "Bunny, why is it that continuously lust for the smart but fat dudes. And then get yourself so worked up over it. Get over yourself. Move on."

OH MY GOODNESS, I finally realize something about myself that I have never been able to see before:

I am a Chubby Chaser.

Despite my best efforts at keeping a lean, toned figure, I have kept myself cycle of definite disappointment. By narrowing my search down to guys who hover at about 15-30 pounds over their average weight, I have not only ensured myself frustration every single time my man takes off his shirt, but I have also, ruled out any man with pecks. Sigh. That is (in LA) the majority of the population - well that includes the ones that don't like girls but still.

I keep telling myself (and everyone I know) that I desire the moment just before I am about to get it on with a man where I slide my hand down his chest, over his rock solid abs and feel his very defined hips grinding against mine...

But due to my current mental state, that hand has been sliding down to his rolls. Jolly old rolls.

I keep lying to myself about what I am looking for... but today, I am telling the world (and asking the universe to find it for me), that I want a hot, sexy, lover this time.

Humm, I guess I will have to start paying attention at the gym. And stop caring if they're dumb.

For now, I am off the Tubby's!

Too Many Women

Dating in big cities, why does it have to be so freaking hard? I mean we all watched years of SEX AND THE CITY, giggling over the girls struggle to date, find love, or even a regular sex partner. It is hard. Really hard.

I have thought about the what the problem is, explored therapy to learn about the overall mental issues effecting the city (we are a collective conscience), and obsessively discussed the conundrum with countless friends, colleagues, and well whoever will listen. Until today, I was having a very causal business breakfast with a totally off the market hottie, when it happened, I had an epiphany of what the problem is! There are too many women and not enough (good) men, who are willing to settle for one girl rather than a string of hit and quits. :(. Almost any man can find a (gorgeous) woman because we ladies are so outnumbered that we have completely lost the upper hand.

OMG, this is worse than calling the guy before he's had a chance to call you first. Or late night drunk (dirty) texting that total sweetie you had two dates with and haven't let him shoplift the booty yet.... This could be permanent. Meaning the pain of sexless months is only starting now.

The competition is high. At some point rather than bitch slapping each other over the last pair of Manolo's at the Bloomingdale's Semi Annual sale, we're going to be doing it over the last (emotionally) available guy.

What do we do about situation overload? Does China have laws about how many girls can be born to each family? I know - totally insensitive of me, I mean I am a liberal... but seriously... I need a good spanking from a big, strong, (gorgeous), man sometimes.

Polygamy. No. I'm not good at sharing my favorites pieces of clothing, much less the good fuck I like to enjoy at least twice daily.

Ugh, I just hope that I don't end up with some hobosexual man who doesn't know how to dress, barely ever brushes his hair, and can afford dry cleaning but chooses to not even iron. (Ops, already had that guy!).

Perhaps, I'll just have to save myself and be

Publish Post

a second wife. I guess missing out on being a starter wife will only lose me money... and that I think I can afford.

Rom Con

The Rom Con - For years we have seen Romantic Comedies portraying love as if the warm and fuzzies exist everyday, on a happily ever after level. Like it's the moment that he finally proposed, that made everything all perfect. That's moment that made you forget that his feet stink, he farts at you, and he hates your dog. Yea, there is a tad bit of old fashioned girl meets boy, boy chooses girl to be with forever, and of course, no self respecting girl will say no. "Shut up and say yes the audience screams, he picked you."

Is Hollywood tricking us? Are they playing a vicious joke on us? It's a conspiracy crafted for Studio Execs, (the Jews), that has kept us believing in the dupe of decade.

It is the moment that he drops to his knee that we can finally look in the mirror and see what every day for the rest of our lives it going to be. Eventually, your dream mate will grow tiring, boring, and maybe even repulsive. And then when you thought he could not get worse, he'll get fat, and lose his hair.

Feed the kids. Drop them off at school. Go to their soccer game. Shut your mouth when I come home late. But don't forget to have dinner on the table. Ladies, I thought that we had evolved. But I keep seeing the same pattern. The only difference is now we get desperate to snag a man 37 rather than 20. OK. We have afforded ourselves 17 mores years.

That can't be all burning bras has done for us.

Oh wait, you know what else we have going for us now. We can now work 50 hours a week, and make more money than our fat ass, football watching hubby. And feed the kids, drop them off at school, attend the games, and keep our mouths shut. Oh great. That's exactly what I was hoping my fore ladies would rally, and protest for.

Now the only thing that I have is the freedom to leave my man when I feel like I'm doing all the work. And fuck, of course I am doing all the work. It is what we have "evolved" to. No honey, you stay home and watch basketball, I know how much you love Kobe. I will work my ass off so that you can be a lazy asshole. I'm totally OK with that. Smile.

Romance. Hum. The rapidly rising divorce rate, I'm sure will vouch for me here. There is just not much gained in the women's rights moment. Not yet at least. We need to wake up women, and smell the much needed morning coffee. We trained them to let us go out into the world, make our own way. We're even training them to accept us dating men half our age. There is a rising stat to prove that one as well. Clearly, they listen to our demands. Why can't we insist on more. Honey, can you get the baby, there's 15 more minutes left in Desperate Housewives, you know it's really important for me to know what going to happen before it hits the blogs.

Hell, I would start watching basketball and yelling at the TV if it meant the man would give birth, and raise the kid. I would even carry the kid for 9 months!

The least we can do, is let them split the raising the kids duties.

PS, I do believe love does exist, it's just in the small moments between annoyances!

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Goes the clock.

For the majority of my life, the idea of the "biological clock" seemed like a facade put in place by society in order to keep the women married and bearing children.

But I must say, I am starting to believe in it. My midnight sexual cravings, while I was one hundred percent sober, was the first sign. Then it was the sudden interest in holding other people's children, despite my typical indifference towards the little ones.

Who knew that I would go from the shiny happy single girl, to the near nympho manic who lusted for someone to slide themselves inside of me and pummel the fuck out of me! Nope, I am not ready for the rug rats quiet yet, but my strong need for the act of baby making is alive and strong.

Problem is, the men in my life don't quiet know where they fit into my lewd dreams. I call in for a booty call and they get scared off. They schedule, they postpone, and they cut me out of their lives, siting they love or care about me too much for a fly by the seat of your pants one nighter. How could that be the case, considering these lovers only wanted sex from me pre-mania days. They wanted champagne, condoms, and an empty bed the next morning. As soon as I came to the point in my life where I was OK with it, they fled the scene, leaving me once again, undersexed, and cranky.

Do I now need to go in search of a full timer in order to get it on more than once a month (or sometimes less than)? How do I find the "relationship" types, now that I am so well versed in finding the scared, commitmaphobes? Where will I find them?

I am assuming not in bars. I will have to start paying attention to my winks online, and take classes. Sailing and scuba diving sounds fun.

On the boyfriend rampage I go.

Wish me luck.

Baggage (Black Hat Guy)

I always knew I had baggage. Mine consists of an over active imagination, a strong desire to over analyze, occasionally I can be obsessive/compulsive and perhaps I am a little needy. But I am not high maintenance, or crazy, and I like sex (a lot). So it balances itself out.

I had a great understanding of my own unwanted personal belongings.

I didn't, however, understand other peoples baggage, until I met Black Hat Guy. This man has luggage, trunks full of excess shit in his life. Who knew that I would ever care if the man I was dating was divorced.... until of course Writer Chick brought something to my attention. She tells me after I brief her on the situation "I guess we're getting to the age now where we will have to start dating men who are divorced, but at least he doesn't have kids." Fuck, does he? I didn't know, and it never dawned on me to ask.

And when I did, disaster struck. Not only did he have a workaholic, emotionally whiped personally, he was even a little needy. "Kiss me. Hold me." That sort of emotional neediness. It certainly shows me how much of a turn off that shit it. Perhaps I have learned something from Black Hat Guy.

But the thing that causes me to lose the most sleep is Irish Boy, his five year old kid who lives with mama. That's all of the information that I could muster up the courage to get. That and I don't know enough about children to know what else I should ask. "Does he eat?" "What do you do with a him?" Ugh, these questions only remind me of why I will never be a stay at home house wife.

I don't want to bear your offspring and then chase the little mutants around the house all day for exercise. I definitely prefer pilates. At least it is a controled environment.

Believe me babycakes, if I wanted one, it most certainly wouldn't be someone elses. My participating in peek-a-boo will be a direct result of my own bad decision! Not yours. So I think it's safe to say this one is over. Sadly. I really thought you had great eyes. (And abs).

But the moral of this story is this:

There are all sorts of accessaries in our lives, more than ex-wives, babies, and mental issues, so I know this is the first of many I will encounter... other than of course, my own.

"Trying"

Anyone who knows me - or reads this blog is well aware of my rather crass mouth. Often times, I am scolded about the way I speak.

It sucks to be monitored. But I will kindly remind everyone of the first amendment and offer a particular situation where sex talk is not only "OK" but it is actually encouraged.

"We're trying!"

Yep, that it folks. Those two words say, we are either fornicating like wild animals, or we have scheduled "appointments" for sex. I know the latter is the most boring but if you say to me that you are baby making, I assume you jump on the washing machine every time it hits the spin cycle and pump your old lady with your man juice! But if it's the second choice (the boring sit on my penis until it erupts kind of sex), it is rather appalling.

If you are trying anything, you should try to be as vulgar and sexy as possible because once the deed is done, we all know you won't be doing it at all anymore. So you may as well enjoy it while you can!

The Back Up Lover

Upon reading an article in PSYCHOLOGY TODAY, I learned about this phenomenon called The Back Up Lover. Apparently, even those in "happily ever after" relationships have a Plan B. So the idea of mongony just went out the window, now the issues that make me commitmaphobic and insanely afraid of letting a man into my life, now have scientific backing. I now know for certain that the idea of true partnership could be a lie, because we as human beings have a stronger desire to be with someone rather than the one.

Therefore my question, is the idea of having a blissful, unadultrious marriage becoming obsolete?

Perhaps.

But there could be a bigger problem.

After long deliberation on this issue, I began to have a small panic attack. The trouble with this stunning figure is not that my issues could become worst (even with therapy), but the fact that I don't have a Plan A, B or C.

Sigh.

Does this suggest that I can not even find someone to choose me for third place? I mean LA isn't known for it's fabulous dating scene, and quite frankly I don't think I know many around here that are in even mildly enjoyable relationships.

As a matter of fact, most of my post 30 girlfriends are learning that prefering the friends with benefits is actually more of a curse than a blessing, and what's the point of being bond by a man who wants to only be with you. You get more headaches and less sex. And when it comes down to it, when we go after a man for a sex only alliance makes the male species run. Or worst, they fall in love.

And once they are in love, what next? A fruitful life of him dipping his pen in the company ink, or choosing the girls next door over pleasing the woman you say you love. I mean seriously, are we beginning to pick our careers over our hubbies because we’re sick and tired of them constantly asking us to turn the other cheek. I mean, I do wholeheartedly believe that if my guy gets his stinger wet from the wrong pool… I may as well, hit it with the gardener. Or honestly, any dude with better abs will do.

The point here being, cheating is a part of life. Some people do it physically, some emotionally, and others it will only be a series of dirty thoughts of the sexy secretary or the hottie at the gym with the nice guns! But everyone will deal it at some point, whether or not you find out it, will determine how bad the pain feels. It's dreadfully sad, and equally, disappointing, but there is no Hollywood ending here.

THE BIG DILEMMA

When dating, there are somethings that you can learn to love about a person and others, well, you just can't accept.

Imagine now, the perfect man. One who is completely giving, in every way... he gives you presents, little kisses in public, and stares at you when you're across the room. When you've had a really bad day at work, he holds you all night and doesn't complain once. Compliments are plentiful, he opens doors, walks on the traffic side of the street, goes for long walks on the beach, and gazes into your big needy eyes. All the things that would make any single girl throw up in her mouth a little.

Now, finally, you and your future husband are about to close the deal for the first time ever. You arrive at his house. There is champagne, rose petals, candles and dim music.

He romances you, pays very close attention to your every inch of your body. Making you comfortable in his arms. Things start to heat up, it is passionate, hot, sexy, riping each others clothes off!

Then, it happens.

The last piece of clothing comes off of him, his boxers. For the first time you feel it. His long, hard, love muscle, then suddenly, the little wet spot in your panties dries up, and it's over.

OH MY GOSH, IT'S TOO BIG. I can't put that inside of me. Panic. It won't even fit in your mouth, let alone any other parts of you body. It may even make my tiny little spleen burst into millions of pieces when it bangs into me repeatedly.

This is a problem.

Now, what do you when the perfect man's joy stick is too big.

Unfortunately, there is not much you can do. They say a woman can't change a man, and that is definitely one thing that I am 100% certain that no woman in the world has the power to change.

Most men want to have the biggest penis in the gym showers, but it's sad when he's perfect EXCEPT his oversized knob.

But the biggest question posed here is this, are there any perfect men in the world, or is the Universe playing some sort of horrible joke on us. I mean, as if making us the more normal of the sexes wasn't bad enough, but to give me a perfect man with an over sized cock, is just plain cruel!

IS HONESTY REALLY THE BEST POLICY?

There are times when I will admit, I want to be lied to.

1) All the girls are out, heading into Geisha House for some sushi. Following our raw fish treats, we plan to hit up Le Deux. I'm wearing new Joe's that I picked up at Bloomie's just for tonight, and I ask "do you like my new jeans?" The answer is ALWAYS yes, they're rad. Especially, when there's nothing that one can do about it!

2) I am obsessively texting my ex-boyfriend while completely drunk. No, I am not crazy, is the answer. I am a smart girl, I know you are merely being a good friend by not calling me an insane bitch.

3) I'm going through a tough break-up, therefore, on the Hagen Doz diet, I am PMSing, and about to head to Cabo for a wedding. Do not tell me I look fat. When I ask, I am looking for someone to lie to me... so do it!

Ok, now that I'm sure you get the very clear picture about when lying is actually not a bad idea. I would like to give everyone a chance to get a good feel for one more lie that is actually not a bad to tell.

Saturday night, I'm heading down south to Playa for a drunken night with my sidekick, Writer Chick (actually I am more of the side kick but it is my story). I want tequila shots, and hot boys drooling over my new jeans (they really are hot btw, not the someone has to lie to you hot). I have been working my ass out, and therefore, this skinny bitch is wearing a shirt that the roomie, Bossman, says is "hot," by the way I don't think he's EVER said those words to me before, so I know tonight is special. We look hot, and are both desperate for a piece of ass.

When we finally arrive, there is a room full of two types of men, first, sexy 30 somethings that are looking for a little action (silent YAY), and second, the others are still nursing. So of course, me and Writer Chick mark our territory at the bar, when a nice guy approaches. There's small talk and laughter, until I turn around to find that Writer Chick is MIA, having disappeared into the sea of little boys, I was encouraging her to stay away from. Then I turn around to find her talking to, perhaps, the sexiest two hunks in the bar.

Score. It's been a while since my undersexed body has felt a man touch the inside of my panties, so I'm pretty stoked about her find in the corner of the bar.

We chat with boys, flirt, drink more beverages. Then, I learn that my new friend, The Hockey Player, and I actually share mutual friends. Loads of them actually, to the point where I couldn't believe I had never met this guy before. But who knows I was drunk, from tequila, so there's a chance I did know him but just didn't remember.

Then, the night was about to end. And hind sight is 20/20, so I know I made a mistake when I offered up my digits to the man who clearly wasn't looking for them.

Are you ready for this?

He said to me "No, I don't want your number, I won't ever call."

Ugh. That sucks, but at least the man's honest.

But here is where it gets ugly. He later decided that since his friend wanted to get busy with mine, that he may as well take me home too.

There will be no boots knocking this night, due to his colossal mistake. Even his friend will wake up with a hang over and blue balls, but I'm quite happy that they will both pay honestly. It's the idea of the team. When one team member breaks the 24 hour rule and drinks the day before a game, the whole team will run!

So what, I may have called him a few ugly names before it was over. Loser, Fuck Off, I hate you (maybe), the others who knows.

But what can I say, his begging annoyed me, and honestly was a bit pathetic after he put all the cards on the table. Hey, I'm a poker player, I know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. Apparently he didn't.

But for me the Patron made me do it! I am sorry for the name calling, Hockey Player, but next time, just take the number. No harm, no foul.

FRIENDLY ONE NIGHT STAND

Today I had to go to the valley, ugh, but I held my head up high, and jumped into my beat up Landcruiser, climbed the hill crossing over into the valley on the 405. As reluctant as I am to force myself to over to the smog filled hot box, most of Los Angeles tries to avoid, I knew that should I decided to fulfill the craving of a good romp in the hay with some new, gorgeous, perfectly fit, lover boy could be in the cards. New territory, new meat!

First I meet up with my friends, Dancer Girl and Emotional Disturbance (this is a man by the way). After collecting at Dancer Girls wedded, (probably over sexed) home, we headed towards Aguora. I am heading deeper into the valley, for margaritas.

Upon arrival, there are 25 super sexy firemen having some sort of "hot dude" convention. BINGO. Who's idea was this place, and why am I just finding out about it????? Didn't the memo go around about my lack of sex, with someone other than myself, and/or The Rabbit? This, to me, is like hitting the Triple Diamond on the slot machine.

The MasterCard commercial would be, 1) Price for a margarita at BAJA CANTINA in Agoura Hills, CA, $6.50 + tip, 2) Price of gas to drive from Beverly Hills, CA to Agoura Hills, CA $9.28, 3) Undersexed woman, desperately seeking a good night of unattached, hair pulling sex, then walking into a room full of testosterone, PRICELESS.

That was until, the minute of absolute defeat happened. Emotional Disturbance, walked in from parking the car, and immediately put his (very cute, but not nearly as available as the 25 men sitting, staring at me) arm around me. He walked in and pissed all over me, as if I was his territory.

Fuck. He's going to pay now. I'm going to make him shop with me, drown out his unavailable emotions until finally by tonight I can sit on him and do very dirty things to this man.

Yes, we shopped, this shopping included more day drinking. We hit up one shop, then one bar, one shop, one bar. We slowly but surely became a hot mess.

We stumbled back to Dancer Girl's house, where her old man, Camera Boy was waiting, dressed. "Damn it guys, we have Emotional Disturbance's birthday dinner tonight, and now I'm stuck with your drunk asses!"

We dined on sushi, drink more cocktails. I gently rubbed against him while enjoying the delicious meal.

Dinner's over. I'm ready to go home. Well, not my home.

Cut to.

The next morning. Hung over. Naked. But the good news is, I know where I am. Emotional Disturbance, up and happy, holding a cup of tea, Advil, and ready to hop in the hot tub. I didn't realize there would be morning tea, but I am OK with it. But I do have one question.

Where are my clothes?

As he pulls my shirt out of a pile of sheets on the floor, "Well, here's your shirt, I think you jeans are downstairs on the kitchen table, panties on coffee table, there's one of your shoes...."

Well, I guess all I could say to my hopeful more constant Fuck Buddy, was HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY!