What happened to the teenaged girl who used to look for any excuse to write a love letter and just couldn’t get enough of romantic comedies with über-cheesy endings? The same girl who just could not comprehend how her friends could sleep with someone that they weren’t in love with? I miss her. Somewhere along the way this overly romantic and ever-optimistic-about-love girl grew a great big set of balls and apparently a dick that has made her more of a man than the actual men she dates! Wtf??

I used to love the whole afterglow that followed great sex and that sheer bliss of reveling in the yumminess of the person lying next to me as our bodies lay there sweaty and deliciously spent. Now the moment the sex is over—no matter how great the guy is—I just wanna bolt! I’m the one who turns and says “well that was great, but I have an early day tomorrow so you better go” or the one who slinks out the moment he’s in a deep sleep with nothing more than a peck on the cheek and a quick “I’ll call you” even though I probably won’t. This is not to say at all that I am some major player who is getting a ton of action or anything; my good set of European-made morals stops me from having too much casual sex, but being with my most recent beau has just made me acutely aware of my ‘manliness‘! Do I blame a lack of worthy men or my own deep-seeded commitment phobia that I still deny more often than not?

I recall an early episode of Sex and the City where Carrie decides that she is going to try to “have sex like a man”. It worries me that I am not even trying and yet, somehow, I seem incapable of anything more these days. If I’m not mistaken though; this same episode ended with Carrie meeting Big for the first time as she left the apartment of her conquest. I guess there may be hope for me yet… or atleast a really sexy, commitment phobic male version of myself.

Just when you thought it was safe to go it without a condom you catch the bastard in the biggest lie possible! Let’s just say that the ’sexy prof’ I’ve been bangin’ is really just an illusion and the reality is that he’s a dad—a spineless, despicable one who lies about having a child at all! He is also quite possibly a husband to some poor, unsuspecting wife who isn’t internet savvy enough to catch him in his lies (Google is a wonderful and powerful thing!!) or she could be just as sick as he is and be just fine being in a loveless marriage filled with adultery, deceit and God knows what else.

In the heat of the moment and considering that we’ve had several; I actually toyed with the idea of some bareback fun. Luckily he took the high road for a change and reminded me why that was a bad idea, stating ‘unwanted pregnancy’ as the worst case scenario when really the worst case would involve some nasty funk—only he knows what is likely lurking beneath the surface of his foreskin and whatever that may be; I certainly don’t want it!

Now that I am done ranting I guess I’m glad that it happened because it’s made me remember the importance of condoms no matter how long you’ve been involved with someone because sadly, you really just never know what they could be hiding from you. My momentary lapse in judgement could have left me a number of horrific little diseases! This of course got the wheels turning on the whole issue of safe sex and what a drag it may seem when you are in the throws of passion and not even with that person inside of you do they feel close enough, so I am on the quest to find the best condom(s) possible. My search led me to a place called Condom Jungle. I can’t help it; the name got me with its visions of some crazy-ass monkey-lovin’ and all. I never actually thought to order condoms online which is odd since I still get pink-faced at the thought of buying them after an incident I in Europe a few years back that left me traumatized! Let’s just say that the grocery store had microphones at each checkout station in case the cashier needed a price check. Naturally the “Playboy brand, super-ribbed condoms” weren’t priced properly… Nuff’ said.

Anyway, this site carries an endless amount of condom brands, styles, flavors, so how’s a girl to choose?? I have to be honest; I have only ever once actually bought a box of condoms since that faithful European vacation and they are my back up in case the guy doesn’t come prepared, though technically my motto is: if the guy doesn’t come prepared, then he doesn’t deserve to come at all.

Anyway, the site has so much variety that I actually feel inept as an alleged modern/sex-positive woman and so-called sex writer! Did you know that they have ‘warming condoms’?! Is this a new thing?? And lambskin condoms? Wtf?? I also found out that they really do come in larger sizes for those of us lucky to have a guy who is hung like a mule, though past experience tells me that most men who believe they need an extra large condom can usually barely fill the regular size no-name variety found in truck stop or strip joint restrooms. (Yes J, that one’s for you!)

Anyway, what normally has ended up happening is that I never really get to see the brand that is being used due to the hazy and often euphoric state that good sex leaves one in, so I really don’t know much about brands except what they say on the box though, I doubt that they all “double your pleasure” or “feel like they’re barely there”. So what I would like is some suggestions from my readers who are more condom savvy than I to email (Adrie@girlspoke.com) or leave a comment telling me what brand you swear by and why. I may even make it worth your while with a sexy giveaway to a random commenter–likely a cool sex toy)

Consider this my safe sex public service announcement as well as advice on where to order cheap condoms. In return I ask for your help on finding the best and thinnest condom ever, cuz as we know; nothing kills the mood more than a thick condom that seems to pull at your skin with each thrust! Fucken ouch!!!

I feel terrible for being so out of touch with my Girlspoke audience lately—especially during this the most wonderful time of the year. Thankfully my training is over and I got my wings and can resume a normal life as a sex writer/stewardess/all around hottie and can even devote a couple of days to doing X-massy things like shopping and eating chocolate that I had bought for other people.

Before I go into my X-Mas spiel about peace, love and all that shit, let’s get on with today’s business: boys—I mean of the 30 and up variety. It still boggles my mind that men feel that they need to lie in order to get laid. How many times do I have to go over this?? Grow up! Being honest will not only get you a lot more sex, but also sex of a far better quality if you would just fucken fess up and tell the truth already—no matter what it’s about! The effort that one needs to put into lying must be exhausting; coming up with your story, keeping said story straight, remembering all of the different lies that you have told and the fear of them all unraveling before your beady, deep-set eyes! And the fear of the wrath that will inevitably follow when the woman figures out that she is being lied to—just not worth it!

It confuses me even more when a man lies to a woman that he has an NSA relationship with. Is this because he’s just bangin’ her anyway so she doesn’t deserve the truth? Cuz’ if that’s the case; he should just shut the hell up, give ‘er and be on his merry way as opposed to opening his mouth and attempting to make conversation when all he is spewing out is a bunch of hooey anyway, not to mention taking away from the excitement of the “strictly sex” agreement! Am I right? Seriously, if a girl has entered into a hot, consensual casual sex agreement, why lie?What’s the point in going through the effort of making things up?

I guess this year I should really consider my New Years resolutions carefully, seeing as how I keep falling into the same trap with this sexy but insincere little creature. First on my list: NO more men with small, dark, deep-set eyes! They manage to piss me off every time. And totally unrelated: cut down on the caffeine intake (as I sit here enjoying some chocolate covered espresso beans and wash them down with a hot and super-delish coffee).

Anyhow, am off to wrap presents, catch up on some writing before my weekend full of flying, drink hot cocoa by a fake fire and just be overall Christmassy—fa-la-la-la-fucking-la. And before I go; click here for my present to you.

Will likely not have a chance to write until after the New Year, so to my lovely readers; I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a New Year where all of your wishes come true.

Kisses & Spanks,
Adrie

Seasons greeting my peeps! My apologies for the hiatus, but my “stewardess” training has been quite consuming as of late. So far things are going well and I expect that they will continue that way until my graduation in two weeks.

Though I have been pretty wiped out by class and some other paying writing gigs, I have managed to gather up some juicy Girlspoke-worthy stuff for you thanks to the male characters that frequent my life—even if only for 15 minutes or simply online. So let’s get right to my bitch-fest!

Facebook is finally serving some purpose as a tool to re-connect with people from my past. It’s has been incredible how many guys from my past have been in touch and how sweet they all seem to still be. I’ve been in contact with the boy with whom I shared my first kiss in elementary school. He was lovely and I remember his smile as if it were yesterday, which could be because he still has the same sweet smile. He was the cutest and most popular boy in school who made me want to wake up a whole 15 minutes early each day to make sure that my hair was just so. Still a sweetheart; he admitted to having had the same crazy feelings for me back then. Sadly our “romance” only lasted a couple of weeks—my fault—but the memories have proven priceless just the same.

I have also been in touch with a boy who sported a mullet back when they were cool. He was someone that I became friends with somewhere along the course of junior high. He was not only cute, but a genuinely good guy and oh so much fun to talk to. I can admit now that I had a crush on him, but alas, so did one of my classmates who I think may even have “gone with him” at one point. I couldn’t step on her toes like that. Damn these morals! I am pleased to report that he is divorced (bad for him, great for the female population) and looking hotter than ever!

Wondering where the dirt is? Getting tempted to send me to Oprah and tell me to fuck off? No need. Here comes the dirt…

I have also rekindled my acquaintance with someone I had a crush on for quite sometime. I remember first being drawn to his big blue eyes because they looked so sweet and had an endearing puppy dog quality to them. We had started chatting at work and I quickly came to realize that he had a naughty streak—jackpot!!! Outside factors got in the way and we never did get anywhere, but every time I would pass him in the halls over the next few years, things would get all warm and damp and the urge to know what dirty little secret lurked behind those eyes never quite seemed to go away. As you can imagine, I was tickled-in-my-pink to find him on Facebook and even more aroused to get an email from him expressing his feelings from way back when. We began doing the instant messaging thing and things quickly turned naughty with all-nighters online and having the type of cyber sex that would put the likes of Seymour Butts to shame. We all know that I love a man who can give good chat so I was pretty excited about hooking up in person. I can tell you that it never did happen… a long story… one that I am still waiting to hear. But, don’t feel bad for me my readers, oh no, cuz’ I realize now that hooking up would likely have ended in embarrassment—for him. You see, I did finally get to the bottom of the veiled naughtiness behind his eyes and he really is a highly erotic individual—possibly a little too sexually evolved even for a saucy minx like myself! How is that possible you ask? The answer is simple; two words: bodily fluids.

I get the whole spooge thing and as much as the idea makes me throw up in my mouth a little, I do understand that men have a special attachment to their spunk and enjoy watching a gal take it in as if it were the wine at the last supper. It’s the other bodily fluid that he gets off on has no place in his mouth or anyone else’s and most certainly not mine! OK wait, that was a little judgmental and I do believe that to each is own, but the idea of kissing someone who has enjoyed the occasional cup o’ pee, as I do my morning java, makes me wanna hurl!! I am open-minded. I am cool. I am pretty horny these days, but a pee-er or pee-on I am not. I’m sorry. Had he stepped up to the plate and actually had the spine to go through with a “live” date, the chances are good that our end-of-the-night kiss would have had me gagging profusely.

Bottoms up! Oops – I meant have a good weekend.

I am pleased to report that amidst all of the horrible things that have happened in the last month; I am headed back to the friendly skies at the end of this week! That’s right my little perverts; I will now be the Sex Writing Flight Attendant—or “Stewardess” as we were so affectionately referred to greasy men with handlebar moustaches in the pornos of the seventies.

Actually, I have to admit that it was the politically incorrect stereotype and portrayal of “stewardesses” that fueled my dream to become one when I was growing up. How could I not be enticed by Jack Tripper and Larry Dallas biting their hands and popping boners in their tight-in-the-crotch white slacks at the sheer mention of the word “stewardess” in episodes of Three’s Company?? There was something glamorous and downright sexy about it all, no?

The reality of the actual job itself—not so glamorous—not the duties anyway. You have to really love dealing with the public (which I do) to be okay taking barf bags or dirty diapers from the moms who are oblivious to certain child-related smells and hand them to you to dispose of. And serving coffee on a 6am flight when you haven’t even yet had the chance to get your fix?? Not fun and definitely takes a certain kinda’ wonderful to deal with. And also, going over all of the potential emergencies that may arise before you board the flight and knowing that you will need to resist the urge to jump ship and instead stick around to help others should anything go wrong? NOT for the weak or the selfish, that’s for sure! These things almost made me wonder why I would do this again but then I thought about all of the Jack’s and Larry’s of the world and felt I owed it to them and to myself to keep the stereotype alive—at least to a degree.

I vow to enjoy this time around more than the last which shouldn’t be hard now that I am in essence single. I will stay away as long as I possibly can by taking any layover I can get and not worry that I am offending anyone back home with my self-inflicted absence. I will not retire to bed early and be a good girl when the rest of my crew is at the bar enjoying a stiff drink on a cold Halifax night while on a layover and I will flirt shamelessly (and harmlessly) as I enjoy said drink(s)! I will continue to smile at the passengers even when refereed to as a “stupid bitch” or similar and will remember no matter how long and tedious the day gets that life is what you make it and nobody is responsible for your bad mood but you… not even the loud mouthed douche-bag who is somehow convinced that I am responsible for the plane having gone mechanical and decides to share her bullshit opinion with the entire cabin!

Also, to you: the Larry’s, Jacks and sporter’s of the orgy-man/Burt Reynolds-style handlebar moustaches; I vow to work my uniform and inappropriately high heels to the max and satisfy the eyes of those who like a whole lotta junk in the trunk and fancy some curves (and rolls!) in a fitted airline uniform. Yes, I vow to be what all of your perverted dreams are made of… without ever actually being more than your dream.

Good luck to all of my new classmates! xo

I know that many of you come here looking for my usual rants on my love and sex life… ok, my sex life, but today I’ve got something else to bitch, bitch, bitch about: Marie Osmond’s collapse. I know, you’re thinking who cares? Right? Well, I don’t really either which is why the constant mention of it on television lately drives me fucking nuts!

I don’t really sit down to watch TV unless I am too sick to write or am hosting a scary movie night with cocktails, but I do sometimes like to have the television on as background noise when I am working in order to drown out the sounds from the inconsiderate loud talkers in the laundry room across the hall from my apartment. In recent days, I swear that every newscast, entertainment show or commercial for either/or has started with a headline in a dramatic and disturbed tone saying something to the effect of: “America’s sweetheart collapses! A look at what caused her dramatic collapse on live television!” or “We’ve got the scoop on the real issue that caused Marie Osmond to collapse live on television” and: “Find out what really caused Marie Osmond’s collapse”

The urgency in the announcer’s voice is enough to make me stop writing and turn my head even if only for a millisecond. If that isn’t irritating enough, they role the clip, then a replay, then another and then a fucking slow-mo play by play with more dramatic music and urgent words followed by a whole lot of speculation as to what possible “hidden condition” could have caused the faint and how the divorce she is going through may have played a role, blah, blah, barf. Naturally, the most commonly speculated cause for her little fainting spell remains her Nutri-System diet which has now slowly morphed into a “possible eating disorder”. Wtf?

I’m here to set the record straight so we can all return to our lives 2007 BC—‘Before Collapse’. First, I have been on Nutri-System and I can tell you that the amount of food I ate on the program is more than I eat when I am not dieting, so if Nutri-System is considered some sort of eating disorder, I would have to guess that it is of the over-eating or binge variety as the calorie count they enforce is far greater than what is considered starvation. As for the divorce? Come on! She got dumped—shit happens! If I passed out every time a man fucked me over I would spend even more time on my back than I already do!

Even Marie Osmond’s response as to why she passed out irks the crap out of me! I got sucked into watching ET where she gave her “exclusive interview since the dramatic collapse” and nearly threw up in my mouth when she played into all of the hype and speculation and had a little pity party for herself by stating that it has to do with this trying time in her life. This irks me because, as someone who has had her share of fainting spells (dramatic collapses that have horrified fellow gym-goers!), I find the real reason so obvious! Watch any channel at any given time today and at some point they are bound to show the “dramatic footage” again (and again and again…), and when they do, pay attention to her breathing and expression just before she collapses. She is breathing way to quickly and trying really hard to keep her cool. Hello! Rapid breathing/hyperventilation often causes fainting. The woman had just danced her ass off, maybe couple that with a little anxiety as well as God knows what happy pills she may have been abusing since the 70’s and voila—dramatic collapse!

Now can we please, oh please go back to more important celeb news like Britney’s pooter flashing and paparazzi hit and runs or Paris’ missionary work??

Before I get into some real wicked shit for today, I wanted to say thanks to all of you who commented on my last post and especially those that took the time to email with words of wisdom and stories of your own fuck-buddy confusion. To the person who said that the numbness is actually self-preservation: you couldn’t have been more right! I suppose my heart knows better and decided to throw some numbness my way to save me from further upset/confusion/heartache/bullshit.

Now, onto some gay sex… yes, you read right: GAY SEX!!

I am such a Craigslist whore, meaning that I have an insatiable appetite for the dramas that unfold in the Missed Connections section of the site. Maybe I would get my fix from Soap Operas if I had cable, but for now the MC’s are doin’ me just fine in terms of following who is banging who and who is hating who, etc. This week I have noticed some very steamy posts which made me realize that just cuz’ I am not getting laid, doesn’t mean that the world around me has stopped fucking! O contraire! Naughty and oh so hot and casual sex is alive and well — at least in the gay community! Seems that while I am sitting here fighting myself from begging a certain someone to come and console me with his magic-stick after a horrible week (don’t ask); gay men are getting licked, sucked, banged and brown-cowed all over the city! Hoorah for them!

Check out some of the latest posts:

we f*cked in the fitting room at The Bay - m4m – 30:
you said my jeans were too tight, and then you grabbed a pair of Levi’s to try.
We were quiet and went on for a while.
want to go shopping again?

Loft 18 - Seeking guy from private booth - m4mTuesday afternoon around 12:30 in a private booth downstairs. You, HOT/shaved head/5′7″/160lbs./black pants and dark dress shirt/hairy chest/7 cut. Me: Mohawk/5′7″/155lbs/black T shirt-jeans. We sucked and fucked in a private booth. You shot your load down my throat after I ate your ass out. I want to meet you again. So I know its you when you reply…tell me what you yelled when you came in my mouth.

How hot are those?? Is this going on in the hetero community as well?? Where the hell have I been and why don’t I ever get to walk in on any of this if it’s happening so casually everywhere??

Kudos to the gay community! So long as you’re being safe; you make me so proud I could cry… or at least get off and come up with a few hot story ideas.

There are things that you struggle with that you keep to yourself forever, whether in fear of being judged or simply because you know that saying them will simply have no impact and may only make you seem ridiculous… or in this case certifiable.

I have always been one to write about my feelings or share them with a few close friends, though as of late; with the world wide web as well.

I wrote this “letter” a little while back and toyed with the idea of sending it to the person in question and then came to my senses and tucked it away.

This is probably one of those things that I should keep to myself… mainly because it’s just a bunch of confused thoughts and feelings that will mean nothing to anyone except the person they are about, but in the off chance that someone else has been this messed up over their feelings for someone or that maybe someone — anyone — could shed some light on this matter; I have decided to post this.

God help me.

How can this be? Why does it happen? How can I loathe so much about you at times and feel so indifferent when you are sitting across from me, yet actually long for you when you are so close that we are touching. It’s in those moments that I feel like I could save you. Yes, très cheesy, but just like in your favorite song; I feel as if I can somehow help you get away from that part of yourself that seems to have you on a constant and undying quest to find God knows what. I believe that I could make you perfect — or at least your true idea of perfect so that you don’t feel like you need anyone else (so many others). What the Hell is wrong with me?? I have this pathetic longing to make you happy and please you in a way that I don’t believe anyone else could and then in the same instance, when you say something cold or like that day that we were just talking and not touching; I just go numb. What the fuck?

I may have covered this one before, but obviously to no avail if I have to mention it again. Just because I write about sex and enjoy a guy who gives good flirt that borders on the naughty does NOT mean that I want a guy talking dirty to me every time we speak—especially before we have had a chance to meet. Seriously, this is not the way to get into my super sexy and oh-so tight jeans!

Picture it; you start chatting with a truly gorgeous man; great eyes, amazing smile and yes, a rock hard body that stands at well over six feet. You chat, he seems intelligent and animated and respectful with just the right amount of sexual energy and confidence, so you agree to meet. Then, in the days leading up to the date, you graduate from online chat to text messaging. The first messages are super sweet: “Hi Baby”, “Hello Sexy”, “Can’t wait for our date”.

Then, sprinkled in amidst some practical messages planning the deets of our date are one or two messages to the effect of: “You’re so sexy baby”, “You make me hard”. This is a little cheesy and quite odd—especially seeing as how this is not really going both ways. I chalk it up to a guy who is really excited and maybe trying to impress me with what he thinks I must want considering the stuff I write. I decide to let it go, send back a polite and funny reply and it seems to do the trick and get things back on a less greasy track.

A couple of days later; during hour two, maybe three at the salon with a crap-load of low-volume peroxide on my embarrassingly dark roots; I hear my phone play the little you-got-a-text-message ditty and welcome the amusement as it beats the month old magazines I’ve been offered. I see it’s a message from him, and while my breath doesn’t quite catch in my throat, nor does my heart skip a beat; I am delighted to hear from him because I am waiting to hear if my new suggested time for our date works for him. Here’s what it said:

“Just tell me when baby… you really turn me on”

Huh? Where did that come from? Guess someone’s feelin’ a little randy this afternoon. So I send back a specific time and simply ask if it works for him. He replies:

“That’s fine…do u have sensitive nipples?”

I laugh nervously and then let my sarcasm take over as I reply in hopes that it comes through in the message and type: “Umm…yeah.”

He replies: “I want u”

Obviously, this is weird as he is having a filthy conversation all by himself, so I put the phone down and decide to not reply. Minutes later, I hear the little ditty again and hesitate before checking the new message—I do want to keep liking him of course. The message reads:

“You make me drool”
My reaction: I spew cold coffee from my nostrils as I try to hold in my laughter as I am surrounded by several older ladies getting their hair done. Phone goes flying, coffee spills, and a foil full of blue goop falls to the floor. Clearly, I do not reply.

His next message promises to show me the best time I’ve ever had and the ones that follow are a weak attempt to convince me that he is not just looking for sex. They slowly trickle off after that. And needless to say; I don’t think that we will be meeting after all. I believe that we have mutually decided this without really needing to express it to the other; him because he is starting to realize that ‘sex writer’ does not = ‘easy slut’ and me… well… you read the messages.

It’s so sad that so many men are incapable of getting past the silly notion that they need to be raunchy in order to impress me. Yes, I do love using words as foreplay and yes, I am capable of prose that would make Larry Flynt blush, but this is in no way the best route to take if you wanna get with me—no matter how tall and chiseled you are… or how sexy you look with sweat running down your body or even how hot your tattoos look scribbled over your bulging muscles… *sigh as I wipe sweat from my brow*

Here is a little bit of advice: save the script that seems to be straight from an issue of Swank for the day that we do end up in bed together. Anything before that should be witty, intelligent and natural. And hold the cheese.

Oh man—this is such a funny coincidence that I can hardly wrap my sex-filled little brain around it!

So, in the days leading up to my birthday I begin to have some anxiety about the age thing. Add that to the fact that I have been horny as all hell lately and you’ve got a girl in need of a fix. Though turning to a fine, powdery white substance–like Britney Spears–would probably give me the skinny body I crave, (she didn’t look that fat at the VMA’s!) I opted for something more wholesome—cupcakes and Chinese food.

This is a huge deal as I haven’t had Chinese food since that faithful day back in…well… I don’t know what month; when I found out that the love of my life had just gotten himself a Chinese mail-order bride of sorts. That news came just as the delivery guy rang from downstairs with my Chinese food. But that’s not the point.

Anyhow, I eat the meal as I watch YouPorn to try and fight off the reality that said love preferred some stranger to adorable and incredibly-great-with-my-lips me. I get to the end of the meal, waddle over to the kitchen and reach for a fortune cookie which I cling to as if my destiny really depends on it. (Note that by now my 2 glasses of wine have already begun to kick in) My hands tremble as I crack the cookie open—almost gagging cuz’ I’m so fucking full. I pull out the little paper and expect some wise insight from Confucius and find that my fortune reads:

“Chinese food is your fuel for life”

I shit you not!

Chinese food? That’s what will nourish my soul?? Not “love” or “kindness” or even “passion”???

This is just as funny as it is pathetic. Funny because I just got shit from a reader last week who got all cunty about my Fuel For Life blogs and pathetic because according to Confucius; my destiny holds nothing more than some greasy take out and quite possibly another cranky email from that reader for mentioning Fuel For Life again.

** Just as soon as I figure out how to upload pics off my new camera; I will post a pic of the fortune just so you can all see it for yourselves!!

PS - Thank you all for the b-day wishes! Muuuuwaaaah!