It’s been so long since I’ve had someone’s hand graze the back of my neck that I’d almost forgotten it’s one my most sensitive erogenous zones.
So praise be to lined bras, ‘cause my haircut/color could’ve just gotten hella awkward.
Friday night I signed up for Bumble. Late Saturday night I sent messages to eight entire men. Today I’m staring at the phone waiting for the guy who looks like a more reserved Pete Holmes to write me back, because damn, dude, HIGH TIDE.
(If you haven’t heard the Holmes bit, the high tide is in my pants.) 🌊
Scott Foley is going gray and my body was not ready for these feelings.
UNF. 
Who wants to remind me that the only way I’m ever having sex again is if I Irish down my anxiety and actually ANSWER the OkCupid messages?
Oh, damn… Well, that was just a whole buncha stuff in my body that simultaneously twitched.
I am suddenly both horny and maternal.
It’s awkward.
Male BFF: “Where do you want to go for drinks tomorrow night? Something low-key like Barcade, or something more involved like dancing at a gay bar where you’ll be fondled by beautiful gay men and I will have an experience in the men’s room that leaves me questioning some very fundamental things about myself?
Me: “Any place I can get drunk and find a dude or two to make out with, but that is also magically not crowded/won’t have a wait on a Saturday night.”
(If y’all ever have the chance, being horny, lazy, AND socially anxious is, like, the BEST.)
Followup email: “Also, if I’m going to get fondled, I think I’d prefer hetero. I’m not sure I could convince a gay man to put his hand up my dress. But hey, dare to dream.”
I think My Default Bar wins—they offer bacon-y cheese pretzels, froofy cocktails, and cake. Throw a unicorn* and some books in that joint and I’ll be set for life.
*Please don’t really throw unicorns. They’ll fuck you up. Little known fact: Unicorns are actually total assholes.
Sometimes I worry it’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I’ve somehow forgotten how and will be terrible at it.
The cliché that comes to mind is, “It’s probably like riding a bike.”
Except I’ve never had to concern myself with a bike enjoying its ride and wanting me to ride it again in the future.
And I remember getting on a bike after not riding for a while — I was skittish and uncoordinated, and definitely should’ve been wearing a helmet.
This is not a comforting metaphor.
I need training dicks.
Via BPhope: Opening the door on hypersexuality:
I don’t have bipolar. Or, if I do, it’s a really shitty bipolar — they’re still working out my special-snowflake nomenclature. (I tried making “White Trash Bipolar” happen, but oddly, they don’t want that in the DSM.) But it hadn’t occurred to me until I read this that a) none of the doctors I’ve been to have asked about any sexual behaviors at all, or that b) it might even be related.
And I can’t say I talk about my vagina online and regret the entirety of 2013 and slut-shame myself because it’s NOT a factor. (JUST a factor, like I’m not trying to say I have this, either.)
I have friends tell me they could GET me “just sex,” but that they won’t, because it’s not really what I want and I’ll make it a Thing and feel bad about myself and they don’t want to hear it. But I still do consider bringing in a stunt dick to scratch that particular itch. My friends are right, though — I’d need some kind of daily therapy lightning round if I did, and I can’t afford that, so… tense and pent-up it is!
*twitch* No, really. It’s fine…
Smug Singleton 