I never liked the words “make love“.
I can’t even say it with a straight face.
Make love. ha.
My parents say it. And old people. And couples in movies…that are like, in love. All gooey and stuff.
Bleech. I wanna barf. “Make love”. I’m so embarrassed. Omg. Stooopppp.
I do not “mmmaaaakkkkke loooovveee“.
I mean… do you say, “let’s make love” to your guy? Jeez. How stupid. It’s like, so circa 1950. Like so dumb. Cheesy. Gooey. Velveeta. Like, who says “make love” to someone you are just dating? I don’t. Hey, “Hot Soccer Guy, wanna make love?” NO WAY. I am more of the hey, “let’s fuck” kinda girl. So much better, just rolls off the tongue. “Hi, there…Hot Soccer Guy, let’s fuck.” See, totally. Sounds so normal. So 2014. I mean everyone is saying it, right? Hmmm. I have never really thought about it until recently when I was in bed with Mr. Wrong, and he said it. He said, “Let’s make love”. YIKES. I was in shock. I looked at him, like a deer in headlights. Basically questioning his motives. I mean why on earth would a hot guy like him ruin our perfectly great moment by saying such a stupid thing? I wanted to slap his face, and scream….”Say you want to FUCK ME!”
Let’s make love? Wow. He said, he wants to make love.
Ya. That’s right. And if you don’t make love, you can’t fall in love. And if you don’t fall in love, you can’t get hurt. You never feel a thing. Painless. Emotionless. Loveless….sex.
Well, jeez. That just sucks. I just reread what I wrote, and I want to jump off the nearest building . I mean, isn’t falling in love what it’s all about? I kinda like being in love. No, I love being in love. But I’m scared. There, I said it. I’m horrified. It’s all about letting my walls down, and trusting….and being real. Authentic. Admitting when you are having feelings. But I’ve been burned, so many times in my life. Over and over. I mean, look at my track record. Every time I even come close, I get the rug pulled out from under me…and I fall flat on my ass. And it’s so easy on here, to be confident. Blogging is simple. I just say what I want, and no one talks back. I put it all out there. But being face-to-face, it’s so different. I talk a big game on here. But in “real life” I’m softer. Kinda shy, even. I hold back my emotions, and get all tongue-tied. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone. I have an image to protect. And I think that guys feel like they have to protect their images, too. Ya know what I mean? Like if they are “soft” or romantic, we won’t dig them as much. If they let their walls down, we will think they’re weak. Wrong. We want to see it all, bear your souls boys…girls love vulnerability!
It’s sexy. And hot. Down right fuckable. It makes our hearts melt…
And I love it when a guy talks about his kids. Especially when he tells me how much he loves being with them, or how they are the light of his life. Sexy as all get out. Or when he says, I make him nervous. Uhhhhh. Or that he can’t wait until I text again. Not soft, sexy. Or that he wants me. Be still my beating heart. He wants me? Gush. I am a puddle of goo on the floor. And my panties aren’t dry either. Guys, we love that shit. Girls eat it up. It’s like foreplay for us. And there is nothing sexier than a man who tells me how he’s feeling. It’s funny, I think divorced guys have been so emasculated by their first wives, they have forgotten how to be strong. Shit, I was always telling Mark what to do. I kept his balls in the fridge. He was allowed to have them on Tuesdays, and Thursdays…and every other Sunday. Ha. But now, he’s good. We are both having great sex, and loving every minute of it.
But fellas, let me tell ya what women don’t want…
Dick-pix. Ya, that’s right, you heard me. Save them. Let me tell you a little secret….WOMEN DO NOT THINK YOUR DICKS ARE ATTRACTIVE. So, please, put your member away. I don’t want it. No one wants it. And frankly, unless it’s attached to a nice, romantic love story it does absolutely nothing for me. I like the story, guys. A nice plot with characters. A single dick-pic is just like sending me a picture of a plant. Or a couch. Or a candlestick. They all look like mushroom topped elephant trunks, anyway. Not sexy. No, no…and no. Phew, I’m so glad I got that off my chest. And no, I am not going to send you a picture of my chest. So stop asking. Jeezus. Freaks. All this talk about making love, and dix pix is starting to make me think….
Will I ever find my Mr. Big…that guy I can make love to? (yuck)
Ya know, when Carrie Bradshaw found her Mr. Big…Sex and the City was over. Kaput. Done. Boring with a capital B. Maybe, just maybe I am not supposed to find my Mr. Big yet. Maybe, I need to just keep fucking around…pun totally intended. Dating. Meeting new people. Hanging out, and having fun. Maybe making love is not for everyone. It’s for the women who are looking for love, and commitment…and their “Mr. Bigs”. While this chick is happy just being me. And taking my time, and starting over. Finding out what is important in life! Who needs a Mr. Big, anyway? Fuck that. Making love can wait. For now…I think I’ll just be a Samantha Jones. Carrie Bradshaw can take a backseat. I mean, who doesn’t dig Samantha? Sexy. Smart. Sassy…and always said what was on her mind. Game on.
Now, who’s got a glass of wine, and a good attorney? Let’s file some papers, and get on to the next chapter of my life….separation is over, it’s time for my DIVORCE! ;)