The Tale of Back Fat and Her Friends

Not one of her friends pulled her aside before they left the house and told her it was not okay to wear a strapless top with a bra that wasn't. The grainy photo does not do justice to the slabs of back and side fat that oozed over the straps. It also doesn't highlight the mass of untamed back acne that plagued her shoulders and spine area.

It was wrong. Just plain wrong. Putting aside the fact that TH dragged me out to see a Led Zeppelin cover band 2 hours away from our house and I was made to listen to them for 2 1/2 hours. This was my view for a majority of the show.

She and her friends sat and cackled the entire show as they munched on cheesecake (it was a dinner theater type show) and made fun of this women who decided that she was just drunk enough to stand in front of the stage and do the head bobbing dance of the very intoxicated. What was so intriguing to Back Fat and her friends was that Drunkie was dressed....well lets just say....rather provocatively. She was wearing a strappy, very low cut, lime green top that barely contained her D cup breasts. She sparkled with stripper glitter and every bob of her head bounced her "girls" so violently they threatened to spill out. She did look cheap and she did look sleazy. Sure she was a bit old to be rocking that look, but she could pull it off. Back Fat and her friends sneered jealously in her direction.

I will sheepishly admit I have acted like Back Fat and her friends. But, I do have just cause in my actions. Take for example this chick who frequents my kickboxing class. The girls and I make fun of her. Why? Because she smells and wears short shorts. It is necessary to mock a girl who farts during warmup routines and smells like she ate dead ass for lunch. These are not loud farts that give quick shock to the nostrils and the smell dissipates. This is a stench that sits in the room like a hot fog. It is also necessary to jeer at her when she is wearing tiny shorts that make it possible to see her hairy cooch as she executes a roundhouse kick.

It should be duly noted that we also sing "Rehab" under our breath when we walk by this woman who bears a striking resemblance to Amy Winehouse. While most of us dress conservatively for our workouts, this woman dresses up with ten pound of trashy jewelry, ratty hair and hot pink lipstick. She is a trainwreck. All that's missing is the tattoos

I though that these would be nice visuals for your Thursday morning. I wish I had photos to share. I will continue my high road and try to be less like Back Fat and her friends. No one likes a catty broad.

Random Tuesday - Worm Shit, Urinals, & B.O.

• This weekend marked the official start of nude sunbathing on my back porch. Tan lines are evil, people. The trees haven't fully grown in yet to shield the neighbors, but whatever. No small children were scarred. For those of you that did a fly over, I hope that you enjoyed the sight of my pasty white skin and my fabulous new "Toyota Trucks are #1 ballcap that I snagged from TH. The next showing will be this Saturday around 1:30ish PM (EST).
• Have you ever been dying for someone to email you, but alas, are waiting in vain? Yeah, me neither.
• Last Thursday, Fancy Pants came streaking into my office with an alarmed look on his face. "There is a pubic hair on the urinal in the men's bathroom" he sputtered. "It grossed me out so much I couldn't use it". Not sure what he expected me to do about it, I said "What color is it? Maybe we can figure out whose it is and have them remove it". What? You would have said the same thing, right? It would have been an easy search. Everyone knows that a persons pubic hair is the same color as their eyebrows.
• I have started to look at my bare stomach in the mirror all the time. I'm that proud of it. If you ever walk into a public bathroom and there is a woman standing infront of the mirror with her shirt raised, say hi. It's probably me.
• For those of you who have never been to the Northeast and experienced the "oak pollen season" you're really missing something. My car is covered with fine yellow dust as well as everything in my house. I have sneezed at least 16 times today. It is also "inch worm season" Tiny, little green worms are EVERYWHERE! They are crawling on the trees, house, plants and my car. To make matters worse, they shit all over the place. If you stand quietly under the trees in my backyard, it sounds like there is a light rain falling. But, it's not rain. It's worm shit.
• At least "peeper season" is over. Peepers are tiny little frogs that "peep" until they find a mate or die. We have a small pond (swamp) about 500 yards from our backyard that is filled with the suckers. Those horny little fuckers have been peeping their brains out for the past couple weeks. They all must have gotten laid because all we hear now is the worms shitting.
• Last week, TH decided to get extra onions on his pizza. As I drove home from picking up the pies, my car was enveloped in a cloud of cooked onions. Knowing that is would still smell that way the next day, I left my windows cracked overnight to air out the stink. The next day, the smell had turn to a nasty B.O. stench. Gagging, I drove to work with all the windows open as well as the sunroof. Later on in the day, as the sun was streaming in my office windows, I began to get a little warm. Within minutes, my office stank of B.O. The smell had permeated my clothes and my body heat had activated the stink. TH is picking up the pizza from now on or buying me a roof rack for my car.

That's a Tuesday wrap, lovers.

I Found The "Banana" in Banana Republic

It's like they knew I was coming in to shop last night. You know how they have those kids activities in some stores? Like at Trader Joes, you have to find a big plastic lobster they've hidden somewhere in the aisles. Then you take it to the counter and they give you a prize. Well, I found the banana in Banana Republic. Apparently they like to make a "real" bulge. I stood at the counter, laughing so hard I nearly wet myself. The sales girl looked at me in amazement when I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. I turned to her and said "I know some people who would really appreciate this."

See lovers, I'm always thinking of you.

Do You Think They Would Notice If I Put Porn On My Expense Account?

Excerpt from the Associated Press:

LONDON - Porn movies, horse manure, a chocolate Santa Claus: Expense claims by British lawmakers to pay for an array of items were exposed by a newspaper today.

Britain's Daily Telegraph published details of claims related to 13 ministers and offered examples of hundreds of other bills submitted by lawmakers to Parliamentary authorities.................In March, Home Secretary Jacqui Smith acknowledged she'd claimed the costs of two pay-per-view porn movies watched by her husband. Smith said she later repaid the money.

Those freaky Brits. They act all uppity and reserved eating their tea and scones while wearing tweed and poo-pooing the slobby Americans. Who knew that the Home Secretary's husband was spanking the monkey to not one but TWO pay-per-view pornos. On second thought, I will take back the implied shock at his needing two movies to get the job done. Pay-per-view porn is terrible. He'd probably had just got it up when the movie ended and he needed a second one to finish the job.

I don't really get much to write off on my taxes and my expense account consist of incidental office supplies and whatnots. Wouldn't it be wonderful to figure out a way to write off my toys and porn? I wonder how the P's would feel if I put my most recent toy purchase on my expense account at the end of the month? It would be under the heading "Stress Relief". Would naughty movies fall under the heading of "Entertainment" on my tax returns? I know I only get to claim half of that expense, but it's still an expense.

Random Tuesday Thoughts - The Graduate

On Sunday, I traveled to Curry College to watch my sister receive her diploma and celebrate the beginning of $85,000 in school loan payments.

• The ceremony started at 10AM. Who the fuck thought that one up? Why in all that is holy would you start something like that so early? Because we had to be there early (my mother is crazy like that), I had to leave my house at 6:30 AM to make the 1 1/2 hour drive to my grandmothers house to meet up with everyone. If you've never gotten up at that hour on your day off, let me tell you....it sucks
• We drove to the ceremony in my grandmothers car. She drives a Grand Marquis which we all lovingly refer to as "The Boat". It takes up a lane and a half of roadway. I asked her when the guide trucks with the "OVERSIZED LOAD" were arriving to escort us to the school. I don't know why she didn't think that was funny.
• On the drive over to the school, I dazzled my mother with information on my blog and my sudden success with the sex toy scene. She just sat there and rolled her eyes. She doesn't understand me. My grandmother acted horrified but I know she was secretly impressed. My Dad drove along silently, pretending he was somewhere else. Hey, I refuse to dumb down what I am. I am freaky. I will not hide it.
• During the ceremony, the seats that we sat on were tiny, hard and wobbly. My left ass cheek fell asleep immediately and the feeling traveled down my leg and into my foot.
• A 1/3 of the way through, I had to pee so bad my palms were sweating. The gallon or so of coffee I had drunk to make myself coherent enough to drive at 6AM had finally entered my bladder.
• At the halfway point (or so I'd hoped), I was so bored that I began texting everyone I knew. Thank God Firecrotch kept me entertain for awhile. After that I began to play my favorite game of "Who The Hell Let That Woman Out Of The House In That Outfit?" There were many victims. My grandmother played along.
• After my sister received her diploma, there were still 400 who hadn't. Rather than sit quietly and politely through the name calling, my mother decided that this would be an opportune time to talk about why I'm not pregnant yet. The couple sitting behind us were treated to her take on the situation. She thinks I should have twin girls and name them Gwendolyn Helen and Charlotte Eva. After I told her that I wasn't sure if we would have kids, she started freaking out. Because I couldn't give her a good enough reason why the subject is not on the table right now, she started inventing reasons for her to worry. So, at the moment I'm apparently barren and my husband is too old to have children.
• The ceremony ended without me wetting my pants (although, I was close). As we all gathered outside, the conversation turned to where we would go for lunch. My vote was anywhere that had toilet. I hadn't reach the point of sacrificing myself to the porta potties, but I was getting close. I had napkins in my purse and was eyeing the woods that edged the field where the tent was erected. If they didn't decide soon, I was gonna make a break for it.
• During lunch, the waitress forgot to put a lemon wedge in my fathers water glass. My mother asked him if he'd "like a squeeze" (of her lemon). He said with a smirk, "Honey, don't ask me stuff like that in front of the girls". My sister and I nearly vomited on ourselves. I'm all for being freaky, but my parent doing it is just plain wrong! I still pretend I was delivered in a basket by the stork. They do not have sex. They just don't.

The random iPod shuffle is as follows:
1. Runaway - Damn Yankees
2. Stuck - Staci Orrico
3. Paper Bag - Anna Nalick
4. P.S. I Love You - Bette Midler
5. Come Undone - Duran Duran
6. Enemy - Days of the New
7. The Power of Goodbye - Madonna
8. Circus - Britney Spears (don't judge me)
9. Hollywoods Not America - Ferras
10. Almost Honest - Megadeth
That's a Tuesday wrap, lovers!

When Did The 69 Become the 96?

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I Said I'd Never Be That Kinda Wife

TH once told me that when women marry, they get fat and cut their hair. Inititally, I blew up in feminist annoyance to defended my sex. I knew plenty of hot wives, MILFS and even a few GILFS. Sure there were those few that popped out a kid or two, declared themselves lifetime bonbon eaters and plopped on the couch to watch soap operas. But, most of the women I knew looked just fine. They didn't get all tarted up everyday to impress their husband, but why should they. They'd already snagged the man. Love conquers ugliness and cellulite, right?

I always said I would never be one of those wives that stopped trying to look good for my husband. Sure it takes a few extra minutes to brush out my hair after a shower instead of leaving it up in a bun, stray damp tendrils hanging in my face. But, I have pretty hair and he always liked it down. I could do that for him. It was a just a few minutes. And my post shower outfit didn't have to be sweats and t-shirt. I could take a few moments, find a nice sundress or cute boy shorts to sashay around the house in. That wasn't too much to ask. Well, apparently I forgot my pre-marital oath. The other day, post shower, I happened to glance in the mirror before I went downstairs to watch TV. Standing in my place, was the scariest woman I have ever seen. She was wearing ancient, faded, olive colored plaid men's pajama pants 3 sizes too big and a ratty baby blue sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled up a half assed snarly bun, she had a dollop of face cream on the side of her neck and a mascara smudge under one eye. She smelled like vanilla creme, but looked like something you would fish out of your drain. She was completely unfuckable. I wouldn't have done her with a borrowed dick.
Panicked that I had bought a ticket and stepped on the train to Uglyville, I tidied up my hair, rubbed in the face cream and wiped off the mascara smudge. I didn't bother changing my outfit because, well, I didn't give a damn about that at the moment. I was comfortable. Besides, he was dress in sweats and a old concert tshirt. I didn't see him putting on a tux for me. I was annoyed at myself for sliding into this slump. I am aware that I do look cute in comfy old Pj's. But, I didn't need to completely slide into this forbidden territory.

I always said I'd never be one of those wives who nagged their husband. I'd seen it on TV and I'd seen it with other couples I knew. The poor husband was nagged to death with "Honey do's" and such. I told myself when I got married I wouldn't fishwife my husband to death. I'd sweetly remind him of forgotten chores and casually ask him if he had finished a task.

Well, that didn't stick. Frankly, lovers....the man needs to be nagged. I will love him and no other 'til the day I die, but he is a S.L.O.B! Shoes are everywhere, clothes are on the floor and he some how manages to get bar soap stuck to the sides of the sink and the shower. There it sits, hardening like cement, until I have to chip it off when I clean the bathrooms. There is also the shelf that has been sitting on our kitchen floor for four months. I tried to mount it to the wall, but my horrible carpentry skills failed me. He said he would mount it for me. I'm still waiting.

I always said I'd never be one of those wives that chopped off all their hair. The dreaded "Mom Bob". I have long, thick, shiny, strong, silky, gorgeous hair. I like to think of it as a consolation prize. When God realized he forgot to give me boobs, he made up for it with awesome hair. When I have it looking really nice, random people come up to me and comment on it. Some have even reached out to touch it like I'm some animal in a petting zoo.

I was always jealous of those people who donated their hair to make wigs for cancer patients. The companies barred those of us who color our hair from donating. Obviously, coloring you hair weakens the strands and makes it less desirable for wigs. Recently, the wig companies have become desperate for hair and have started making allowances for colored hair. Excited at the chance to do my part, I started to seriously consider donating my hair. My stylist was wary of my decision and made me think about it for 2 months before I did it. She didn't want this to be another rash decision like the time I went platinum blonde (I wanted to look like Jessica Simpson) only to call her crying five days later, begging her turn me back to my old color.

Two months later, on March 22, 2008, I was sitting in her chair, my hair in ponytails and she was measure out the required eight inches. Then I heard "snip, snip - snip, snip". It was done. My hair was cut just above my shoulders and there were two thick ropes of my beautiful hair on her counter. The first thought that went through my head was, "Yea! That's gonna make an awesome wig for someone". The second thought was "Holy SHIT! I have a "Mom Bob""

Needless to say, I made it through the mini-meltdown that followed. My desire to do good overwhelmed my psychotic state. When I got home, TH just stared at me. I hadn't told him I was going under the knife.

"Don't worry", I said. "It will grow back". As I turned to walk away, I glanced over my shoulder and said, "And I promise not to get fat"

Random Tuesday - Gay Dogs, Fashion Faux Pas and Toes.

Have you ever listened to music while having sex and suddenly realized that you were humping to the beat? Yeah....um....me neither.

Remember how I told you my dog leaves the room when we have sex. I came home from brunch on Sunday and found this:

Sex book in dog bed. I don't get it. Does this mean he likes sex now, is he curious, do we need to have "the talk". And why did he have to chew it?

Speaking of that particular dog, TH claims I've forced the dog into gaydom because I insisted we have him neutered - the dog....not TH. I have never understood why men automatically think there is some sort of cosmic connection between their balls and the dogs balls. One has nothing to do with the other.

The worst dressed woman in the world works at the office building next to mine. Every day, at exactly 12:15, she walks out to her car for lunch. Yesterday she was wearing a jean vest. A JEAN VEST, people! Those went out of style in the mid-90's. Fancy Pants and I have considered contacting "What Not To Wear" and nominating that office. They are a faux pas nightmare!!

I have a blister the size of a golf ball next to my pinkie toe thanks to that damn dance class. My toe swelled up to the size of a small sausage and none of my shoes would fit. I performed redneck surgery on it last night in the bathroom with a needle, antibacterial spray and and Neosporin. Today, it's down to hot dog size. Stay tuned.

If there is a naked woman walking around the gym locker room I'm gonna stare at her. I can't help it. It has nothing to do with lesbianism and everything to do with someone being naked infront of me. I've tried and I just can't stop myself.

Have you ever been terrified, infuriated, embarrassed, exhausted, disappointed, sad and indifferent all at the same time? That is how I feel today. It's making my brain hurt.

TH has to go away for the weekend and I'm already wondering what the hell I'm gonna do with myself. (notice I said "do with myself" and not "do to myself". We all know what I'll be doing "to" myself). Most people are excited when their spouses leave for a few days. I hate it. Time to break out the Sybian.

That's random wrap, lovers.

This White Girl Can't Dance

When I was younger, I wanted to be one of the In Living Color Fly Girls. JLo had nothing to do with it. I wanted to dance like them. After failing miserably at the Running Man and the Roger Rabbit during a middle school dance, I begrudging admitted that I was no Martha Graham. Later in life, I found that copious amounts of alcohol would lubricate my hips and spine enough to bump and grind. Dancing for me has to be like sex - hot and steamy. Just give me someone to rub up against - male or female - and I'm off and dancing.

I've been trying to shake up my exercise routine of late. Three yoga classes, two kickboxing/body combat classes and miscellaneous hours of weight lifting per week have really toned up my flabby winter ass. I've managed to acquire two of the desired 6 pack muscles and I'm working on the other four. My new friend at the gym, Dollface, has pleaded with me to try the new DanceFit class. A former dancer herself, she promised me it's a fun workout and very easy to follow. Putting my skepticism aside, I agreed to try it. Who knows? Maybe my rhythm, like a fine wine, has matured with age. I did pose this question: How the hell am I suppose to dance in sneakers? I was use to swaying and dry humping in 4 inch heels. "Easy" she said. "You just buy some Foot Undeez"



As if sweating profusely and looking like a spastic ape on crack wasn't enough. Let's add a shoe that looks like a foot diaper.

DanceFit is taught by the same instructor who teaches kickboxing. A former bodyguard for Michael Jackson (before the controversy) and Jodi Whatley, this man can dance. He had joked around in previous kickboxing classes and busted out Jacksonish moves. He has talent and I was afraid I would be made to moonwalk. I donned my toe underwear and prepared for the worst.

I was relieved when the class started out with basic stretching and ballet positions. I though, "Hey, I can do this" as I plied with ease. It wasn't so horrible and I was feeling pretty good about my style. Suddenly, the music switched to "Pretty Young Thing" and the instructor busted out in a routine. Like any good teacher, he started with the basic steps and added on from there. Everyone else in the class was getting bits and pieces of it, laughing as they hopped from position to position. Dollface was mirroring him perfectly and looked like she was ready to tour with Britnay Spears. I stood there in my foot diapers panicking. I need a cocktail. Badly.

I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and willed my feet to move. They responded, but the rest of my body refused to follow. I moved with robotic, jerky motions that made it appear I had a pole rammed in my ass. If I got my feet to follow the complicated steps I was unable to follow the hand motions that made the routine complete. It was painful to watch. Add to this the fact that I was laughing uncontrollably. Yes, it was grotesque. I was always 4 steps behind, my turns were wobbly and my hand seemed to swat at the air instead of flow with each position.

I lack the basic coordination to follow instructions. I failed horribly at Zumba, was laughed out of Step Aerobics, and will not try Jazzercize. Because there is an element of raw, angry aggression, I can follow the moves in kickboxing and body combat. There is no dancing. Only the desire to maim and injure your imaginary opponent. Depending on my day, my opponent takes the form of many faces. The worse the day, the better my workout. I've had some really good imaginary sparring partners the past few weeks. But, there is no one to kill in DanceFit. There is only the slow drain of my self esteem and self-flagellation.

I will take the class again. I am determined to get it. I may or may not have a drink before hand. I will wear my foot panties (that's for you Casey) and look like I'm doing the Freddy. Why can't they make a class that works for my kinda dancing? I don't think they would put "Dry Hump Your Way to Fit" on the class schedule. I can't even get them to add pole dancing.

Okay....I Confess....I Own One!

Warning: There are lots of naughty links in here. If you're planning on clicking at work make sure your IT guy is totally on board with you checking out the sex toy sites and you're prepared to be known as the office nympho. Obviously, this is not a problem at my office as I work with a bunch of perverts. This might be one of those posts that you read through and then just out the goodies once you get home.

You know how you just know someone is the right fit for your life? That guy at the coffee shop who has your non-fat cafe au lait waiting at the counter for you every morning because he sees your car pull into the lot. The sales clerk at your favorite shop who remembers your size and will call you if someone returns that dress that you were dying to have. Or maybe it's someone that you were "just friends" with and he bought you the vibrator you wanted for Christmas. All these people fit tidily into your life and make it effortless, seamless and happy. Then you marry one and it gets even better.

TH was the friend who got me the vibrator. (duh...did you think that I married the girl who called me about the dress. Sorry, wrong porno) Shocked that I did not own The Rabbit Pearl, he bought me one for Christmas. Fast forward one year, we're dating and the mother of all sex toys was tossed down the chimney and put under the tree. The Sybian.

Now, I was riding up a storm waaaaaaaaay before Howard Stern made this thing famous. I'm sure that you all have heard his show and seen the videos. So, yes....I have one of those things in real life. I think I've mentioned that we have alot of porn? A few times?...........Okay. Well, TH saw the Sybian in a movie and decided that his freaky girlfriend (me)would be the perfect person to try it. He was so right.

The Sybian is great, but just like a blow up doll, it's not a replacement for a real person. (duh!) The attachments are excellent molds of the real deal and feel quite lifelike. The vibration feature could be a little gentler on the start up. It's almost like a "putt, putt, putt" of an old car engine when you first flip the switch and it can be rough on your love button. Once it gets going, it's consistent and produces a nice tingle. The rotation feature could use some work. The low setting is nice and will give you that warm, gooey feeling. But, if you want to let your inner cowgirl out, you may have to pick another stallion. Crank that sucker up to High and you feel like you're being mixed with a swizzle stick. It reminded me of an internal ultrasound. Ick! I'm also wary of anything that you have to plug into a wall socket. It has one of those 3-prong plugs - similar to a heavy duty extension cord. That's some serious current being directed towards your nether regions.

It's also a pain the ass to set up and take down. Obviously, this isn't something that you can just leave out in the middle of your bedroom. Pets and children would take immediate interest and it would be hard to explain to your in-laws. Mine don't usually wander into my bedroom, but I can almost picture my dog dancing proudly into the family room with one of the attachments in his mouth.

So, my Sybian lives in the box it was delivered in and is stored in my home office closet. I pull it out a few times a year if TH is on a business trip and I need a little something extra. The effort to pull the thing out, set it up, lube up attachments, get comfortable, get going, say Oh yeah!, clean everything off and put it away is almost too much when I can grab a mini vibe from my toy chest and polish myself off in less than minute. We've used it together - me riding and giving a "job" at the same time. But, for the hefty price of over $1000, I can think of 54 other things that we could do together and have just as much fun. But, that's just me, lovers. I'm into quick, cheap and easy when it comes to my toys. I could have gone to the "stud ranch" and gotten me a real pony ride for that kinda money.

But, when it's all said and done, I got me a real live stallion for a husband. If I want a hard, fast ride all it costs me is a plate of brownies. He's cheap like that!

Random Tuesday - Cleaner Than Usual

In light of my impending post on the Sybian, I will keep todays post sweaky clean. No sense in overloading, y'all. Here's to being random.




I have to answer all the incoming calls for the office. I HATE answering the phone. Fancy Pants has offered to do it for me, but that doesn't work for our clients. They get all nervous and freaked out if they think that I'm not here. (Hello, job security!) Or maybe it's because I have been told that I sound like a sex operator when I answer. I don't think I do, but everyone else has informed me that it is the case. Big K says I sound like I have a bug zapper rammed up my ass. Husbands. So supportive. So, I give our clients a woody via phone. Yeah for me. I got skills.

The staff at my gym has read my letter to Les Mills. I showed it to the crazy instructor guy and he shared the post. I was feeling a tad bit like a celebrity until I realize that they might have read more than that post. Now they know I enjoy Brazilian Waxing, vibrators and porn. Not so brilliant on my part.

We have a code here at the office if one of the Partners is in a pissy mood. I send out a blanket text message that says "Don't poke the bear today". Gotta watch out for my boys.

I am listening to one of the associates clip his fingernails over the garbage can in his office. GAG!

Do you ever wonder why you will suddenly have a horrible craving for waffle fries with cheese, bacon and sour cream at 3 PM? Yeah, me neither.

I'm copying Captain Dumbass with this next bit 'o random. But, it's a good idea and I have a freaky mix on my iPod

Here's a 10 in a row from shuffle mode:
1. Viva la Vida - Coldplay (I'm so sick of this song!)
2. Not Ready To Make Nice - Dixie Chicks
3. One Word - Kelly Osbourne - Chris Cox Remix
4. Let It Go - Brit and Alex
5. Citadel - Anna Nalick
6. La La - Ashley Simpson (I almost lied about this one. I'm embarassed to have it)
7. Addicted - Saving Abel
8. Boom Boom Boom - The Outhere Brothers (love this for the gym)
9. E Sara' A Settembre - Andrea Bocelli
10. A Secret Place - Megadeth

And speaking of copying, in light of Lola's recent brush with assholes who steal other bloggers material, I have added a little disclaimer to my set up. Take it seriously. I will find you and I will kick your ass. This is my stuff. My blood, sweat, tears, humiliation and above all - orgasmic pleasure. Hands off. Get your own vibrator stories.

Later lovers!

Who Knew Freaky Could Bring You Fame?

I've had little experience with fame. No matter how many events I attend, my photo never makes it in the paper. I was once featured on a promo for a charity race I was in. That cured me from being a video camera whore. It is very true that the camera adds 10 pounds. I'm my case, it was more like 20.

When I began this blog I figured it would be a good chance to let my hair down and get my virtual freak on. I didn't know much about blogging until I got addicted to Daddyfiles blog a little over a year ago. Although our blogs discuss different subjects - he talks about babies, I talk about bondage. He discusses family life, I talk about my sex life. You get the deal. Then I found BadAss Geek, Lola, Casey, Kat and Heather. Since then, I have added 10 more fabulous people to my list.

So, I've been at it for awhile, I have a decent amount of stalkers, met lots of them on Facebook and I get a good amount of hits per day. I'm feeling pretty good. Just last week, I noticed that my referral hits had started going through the roof. A little detective work in Google Analytics lead me to the source:

We-vibe has posted my sex toy review on their site with a link to my blog!!! A bonafide, uber classy, sex toy company thinks my review is good enough to post on their site. How cool is that?? My freakiness has finally paid off.

While this may seem like a "whatever" kinda deal for you, I am pumped. I figured the only way I would be recognized would be to break into porn. TH wasn't really on board with that idea and I'm not big on lots of travel. (obviously, I'm joking....about the travel part)

So, if you'd like the autograph of a now recognized reviewer of one of the hottest toys on the market, just give me a holla. I promise not to forget the little people when I hit the big time!

BTW: I have a review of the Sybian that's been hanging in the hopper. I'm gonna post that baby this week. Who knows, maybe they'll fall in love with me too!