The Lament of a Good Time Girl.

I’m having trouble focusing on the computer screen as I type this.  Maybe it’s because I’ve had a few beers and am currently sipping Jim Bean while eating pecan pie.  Maybe it’s because I put my contact lenses in the wrong eyes (my right eye is slightly stronger than my left).   Or maybe it’s the fact that I just had amazing first time sex with a near perfect stranger. 

Perhaps, I was fucked so hard I can’t see straight, as they say.

And a near perfect stranger he was. Slightly stocky, tattooed, older, masculine, toppy, in a band—what more can a girl ask for?

He met me when I was in full stripper mode—six inch heels, big hair, glitter, false eyelashes, the whole shebang.  That night I hadn’t looked real—not “unreal” mind you, just NOT REAL.  Like a strange stripper pin up girl bettie page Barbie with one too many margaritas in her.

I had been magnetically drawn to him.  Probably cause he was wearing a vest.  Something about a man in a well tailored vest makes me want to suck his cock immediately.

I definitely got a little too close to him that night, and probably fucked up some private dance sales because of it.  Here I was letting this dude touch my ass, but as soon as a private dance patron tried to get a little frisky I got all stripper mafia on his ass and was like “HANDS TO YOURSELF SIR” in my sweetest Siouxsie Q voice.  It just didn’t seem fair.   I tried to stay away from the Hot Vest Man but I just couldn’t’ help myself and ended up getting his number and sexting him for several days after the party

Well tonight he finally came over. I admit that my margarita memory had failed me a little and I was slightly shocked when I opened the door. We had both lost our late night vampire glamour.  I was no longer 6’3’’ and he was no longer the hot dude from the band but rather just a cute tattooed guy on my front stoop.  I  let him in, kissed him chastely on his cigarette scented lips and wondered if I had made a good call inviting him over.

He had brought beer. And whisky.  So I had to give him credit for that.

We sat on my bed after an awkward introduction and tour of my apartment—I might as well have said 

“Hi roomates, this is the man I invited over to have sex with me, and now will we retire to my room to do so.  Hot Vest Man—you don’t need to know where anything is except the bathroom and my bedroom, and you should be pantsless is both locations"

We chit chated and touched each others knees, suddenly both unsure if we wanted to do this—until I took hom out to the roof where there’s a great view of Sutro Heights and an old church that is spectacularly lit from sundown til about 3am.   We are both creatures of the night, and as soon as moonlight hit our skin, the kisses fired off like bullets and it was on.

We scurried back to my bedroom and hurriedly undressed each other as if we were in a terrible early nineties drama.  He bent me over and admired the bruises on my ass.  At least someone was admiring them—I had spent the weekend doing everything from trans porn to kinky girl orgies and I had the battle scars to prove it.  Unfortunately my kink factor can be a little high even for the notoriously kinky patrons of the Lusty Lady and I felt like I had been weirding out customers all day.  But Hot Vest Man caressed my bruised ass like it was a sacred object.

This weekend I had receieved a blessing from the goddess. (I feel barfy for saying it like that, but really) She had magically postponed my period so I didn’t have to deal during a week of porn, lap dancing, and orgies.  Unfortunately, I was suffering the consequences now by a Sunday and Monday full of blood and pain.  But I was not about to pass up the chance for some alone time with one of my weekend conquests.  I didn’t really want to have the whole  “I’m on my period so can we put a towel down” convo with a dude who I had mostly communicated with via text message and tonsil hockey, so I instead opted for a porn star trick one of my co-workers had passed on to me: make up sponges.

I bravely stuck two triangular make-up sponges up my twat about 20 minutes before his arrival and felt very confident about the results.  After sticking my own fingers up there, I concluded that the velvety texture of the sponge felt so close to the texture of the inner walls of my vag that no one would be able to tell the difference except me.

I proceeded to spend the night forming another crush on someone I should probably not invest in too much emotionally.  Hot Vest Dude is great, but he’s a Gemini, just like me. A heartbreaker.   Someone who loves everyone and no one.  But how much can I complain, really? Two orgasms each, more hot body piercing and tattoos than I’ve ever seen on one single body, and lots of amazing sexy conversation over beer.  These are the nights I live for.

I kissed him goodnight at my door in much the same fashion as I kissed him when he walked in.  He said “Maybe we’ll go on a date sometime and not have to fuck.  Maybe I’ll make you dinner sometime. You’re amazing.” 

Contrary to popular belief, these are the things one says to a girl when one has no intention of actually dating her.  When on has labeled her a “good time girl” .  Somebody so fun and fuckable she can’t even be real—and so she’s not.  She’s the perfect combination—hot, DTF (down to fuck), low key, just like one of the boys--but with a pussy.  She’s not “unreal”, she’s just….not real.

It’s not like I’m sad about it, or thought he was the one or anything. I’ve just done this a lot.  And hey, I’ve got pecan pie and whiskey on my side.  I can’t really complain.

My only real problem is going to be figuring out how to get these make up sponges out of my pussy.  

Seriously.