23 Jan

Trying to transition into normal life is a bitch. I may never make it.
4 months now out of the pussy prison, and I’m tearing my hair out.

I started seeing somebody sort of casually. Please note that this “casual” thing is  new for me.

Except we haven’t had sex for a week.
I know in guy land that negates the fact that he might be interested in me at all.
But in his defense, he did get a nasty cold of sorts and he has kept in touch with me.

His name is Blake. On his good days, he loves to fuck.

His job situation is a little mysterious.

(Note: He makes money somehow. Maybe he has mafia ties. I don’t know.)
And originally the way things got started was we were drunk. I was charmed.
I told him how I was still suffering from a broken heart (cried in front of him, even!)
yet I was so easily convinced even through the tears, that using his dick as a pacifier would cheer me up.

Cheer me up it did.
I owe it to the many orgasms I received from Blake for clearing me out of my depression.
Yes, “The Glitch” (aka my tendency to get bummed) has been bogging me down, especially after the twitter fiasco when all those whores tried to figure out my real identity.
Had I known sex would have fixed me write up in a matter of a week,
I would have gotten laid much, much sooner.

But now, I haven’t had sex in a week and it’s ALL GOING TO SHIT.
I woke up today, madly fatigued and cried for no reason.
I think I cried because I miss getting laid.

I put one of my work outfits on just because I miss them.

To make up for my sexual frustration I’ve been exercising.

Running. Specifically.
(Another reason I put on my outfits, I’ve dropped a size in a week)

The first day no fucking happened it was because Blake told me he was sick. Translation? I thought “oh I guess that means I’m not getting laid.”
and I wanted to come over. Make him feel better. Translation? Blow job.

Actually the first two days he denied me the permission to come over.
I was going to give him a bunch of pills so he’d be peppy enough to fuck.

I know my over-the-counter pills like a backyard meth lab knows how to make speed in a bathtub.

I would have had his sinuses dried up, his airways cleared….he would have been so down.
But I didn’t want it to seem like that was my only motive, so I played the cute girl card.
I didn’t reveal any of my diabolical plans to drug him back to sexual health and instead only said, “Can I bring you soup?”

I only offered him soup because if he likes me, he would accept an offer for soup and for a woman to be affectionate to him.
If he’s not that into me, and declines my offer, he obviously doesn’t need to know that I’m the witch doctor of cold medicines.

He declined my offer.

Two days later he says he’s still sick.
I say I can bring him my science cocktail of pills and he’ll be back on top in a jiffy.
“Where were you two days ago?”
he said.
“You declined my soup, so I left it at that.”
By this time I had been running for three days straight to even out the endorphins I wasn’t getting from orgasms provided by his cock.
He wanted me to come over soon.
Except by now I was in my running gear and I had a feeling I wouldn’t get laid anyway.
So I did what any smart endorphin junkie would do and I put in my four miles first.
Then I went to Wal-Mart for cold stuffs, then I went to his house, which is a drive from my place.

I was thinking…“oh hey, maybe we’ll fuck in the morning.”

BUT NO…no sex. Not at night, not in the morning.
Just a guy who wanted to be babied.

More days pass….
He had a stressful day at work.

I decided I was gonna provide some relief. I dressed sexy. Black stilettos. Black top.
Tight jeans. Did my hair up. Extra eyeliner. With all the running I’ve been doing, my arms are looking toned.

So what do I get to his house and find?
Blake’s very mellow because he took some anti anxiety meds
Right after I walk in, Blake instructs me to stand up in front of the couch and spin around to show off my outfit.
Then Blake calls his brother into the room.
“Hey Brad, doesn’t Bambi remind you of aunt Jackie just a little bit? “
I’m embarrassed. It’s like negating all the sexy attire I have on. Getting stared at like I’m in a line-up only to be likened to someone’s aunt.

Thankfully Brad speaks up and says,
“I don’t think so but those stilettos are pretty smokin.”

Five minutes later, Brad pops in again and says, “Even in Jackie’s HEYDAY, she couldn’t hold a CANDLE for to you.”
At least Brad’s sober enough to have his A-Game in good form in complimenting my fucking sexiness.

“Thank you Brad, bless you.” I say…smiling like I just got hit on.
After Brad dashes by, Blake and I resume our seats on the couch and just start chatting.
On one hand I’m enjoying it because Blake’s a little sweeter and a little more affectionate, kind of like a boyfriend.
As time goes on (maybe an hour of chatting?) it’s evident that whatever Blake took it was stronger than Xanax. He looks fuuuucked up.

“What did you take?”
I ask.
A pill.
Seraquil. Maybe you’ve heard of it.
He took the drugs from his cousin that he watches because it was evident that the doctor was overdosing hi with this bi-polar med.
Blake being somewhat “out there” himself thought the pills would be an excellent sedative. Instead of taking the small er dose, he takes the fucking HORSE TRANQUILIZER SIZED PILLS
and hes the medical equivalent of “too drunk to fuck.” yet again.

We transition to his room and I sleep on his midget sized bed thiking, maybe once the drug wears off in the morning. Maybe THEN.
But oh no, he sleeps for a full 12 hours…by the time he wakes up he’s still in a haze.

Somehow its noon by now and he before he’s even fully awake, he starts singing “Closing Time” and if you’ve been in a bar when you’ve heard that song, you only have to hear one line of that song to know what somebody means: You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.

So of course I feel super uncomfortable for trying to wait for his drug haze to clear.
And of course I’m pissed that twice this week now I’ve gone over there and no fucking has happened.
I do bring my overnight back for such excursions and after I redid my makeup, we went and got coffee.

Blake made like he was going to pay, even leaning in towards the cashier with that “I’m gonna get my wallet body language” – but then he did a double fake, an ol switcharoo and said “Oh Bambi’s got this one.”

And before you go, he says, “Do you have any cigarettes left?”
Yeah. You can have my last cigarette Blake. You fucker.

I’m trying to think of which day it was that I saw him.
I don’t remember, and I don’t want to remember.

I only remember that it’s been a week since I got laid.
It’s almost 3am, my sleep schedule is fucked, and guess what?
I’m hitting my treadmill.


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