Dont Mince Words

I came home early to have lunch with my new boyfriend, Tex, who is on canine anti-inflammatories for his back (I wear him out). He greeted me with the usual dose of unconditional love (snout in the crotch). What happened after that was pure coincidence (there are no coincidences, just damned good timing).

The Spitzer press conference had just started and I was sucked in. Great, another middle-aged white guy sex scandal. Yippee. Please take my mind off the campaign antics, the economy, and my love life.

There was a knock at the door. I cocked my head. Tex cocked his. Then we heard, “UPS.” I signed for my package only to discover the Cadillac of all vibrators had arrived.

What can brown do for you? Today, apparently, a lot. I toyed with the idea of a test drive prior to going back to work, but the Spitzer coverage distracted me. This was my most expensive self-pleasuring apparatus ever – my high-priced call girl/new boyfriend.

After work, I called my girlfriend who recommended the product. “There are nine attachments, where the hell do I begin,” I asked.

She recommended the grape head attachment and asked me what I was going to name my device. “I call mine Brutus,” she admitted.

In the past, I always called my vibrator “Her-man.” Today, I think the most obvious choice is to call my “new boyfriend” Client Number Nine.

The pleasure was worth every penny and I won’t lose my job.

I’ve ramped up my Internet dating again. After last week’s happy hour fiasco, I’ve gone back to the horrid 20-minute coffee date. Tonight I added a twist. I brought a dog, or as I will now call him, my “get out of jail free card.”

Tex is an 80-pound American Bulldog I’m fostering and he is probably my new surrogate boyfriend. I brought him with me because I just had a sense I would need distraction to get through the date. By god, my instincts were right. My date was probably around for Eisenhower’s inauguration, not that there’s anything wrong with lying about your age or looking like a craggily dirty hippie wannabe.

As you would expect, it gets better. When I was making shitty 20-minute coffee date small talk, I decided to ask him what he did in his free time.

“Fuck,” he said.

Honest response, but creepy coming from an old man. That’s about the time Tex came to the rescue and began flirting with the passers by. I ended up meeting a lot of nice young men (probably WeHo gay, but I did say YOUNG), who wanted to pet Tex. Gramps was still on a mission to know what my tattoo said. I told him twice it wasn’t funny unless seen in context.

“I’m never going to see it, am I?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

We got up and said our goodbyes. His final words were, “So call me if you are interested in going out again. I’d like to see you all dolled up and get you drunk.”

I smiled and crossed the street. Tex took a massive shit on the other side. I laughed and told him he was a good boy, “Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get out of there either.”

Tonight I realized there’s a magical male age when they can play Jedi mind tricks with their dick and hold a conversation during a date without the fear that blood will be drawn from their brain.

The 31 year-old I was with was obviously the team captain of the cock Special Olympics. He was obsessed with my hair and had to touch it. Then he moved on to my body. I was curvy. I was perfect. I had a great ass. The compliments were nice, but not in the first 15 minutes of meeting me. I did my best to redirect the conversation. Reverse mortgages. Margaret Thatcher. Roger Clemmons. I said anything to distract him and to get some blood going to his brain.

The evening became hopeless when he wanted to guess my cup size. My Olympian guessed correctly. That’s about the time I should have declared game over and gone home, but it was raining harder and I knew he’d just continue to give me material. Two bourbons and four beers later he had a nickname for me and knew what our kids would look like. I think it was pretty safe for me to assume he was an alcoholic looking for the older woman score.

This experience has taught me that I need to raise my minimum entrance requirements. A smart cock in the hand is worth one in the bush another day.