Thank you to the friendly triage nurse who didn’t forget how much pain ovaries can actually cause and for seeing past my fake smile and nervous laugh to the excrutiating pain that I was trying to hide in fear of looking weak, or even worse–not pretty. It was nice to be placed in priority for this insane pain when other nurses have been too self invoved in the past to take notice of these things.

Thank you cranky lady at the cafeteria (which was really just a Tim Horton’s kiosk) for taking a sec to stop stuffing your sour face long enough to serve me my much needed coffee. Much like a junkie in a need of a fix; I will be grateful to my pusher no matter how horrible a person you are. That coffee nursed me through the next 2 hours and gave me what I needed to keep from slapping the jackass in front of me who was talking loudly and acting like a turd with no respect for the sick people around him.

Thank you most of all to the good looking doctor who made my exam worthwhile without even trying. I was dying of embarrassement inside because I much prefer a female or unattractive male doctor for this sort of thing, but you were so sweet and kind and professional (even though deep down I was already playing “dirty doctor” with you in the depths of my mind and aching loins and hoping that you’d wanna play too) Thank you even more for managing to distract me from the horrific pain as you undid my jeans for me while I just laid there watching you with my face turning a hundred shades of pink. It gave me somethin’ sexy to play back in my mind while I was being butchered by the cow who took my blood moments later.

I will even thank said cow, because even though you somehow managed to drip my blood on my upper arm, the sheets and the floor as well as leave a bruise the size of an orange–you were also the same person who gave me Percocet. Yummy, yummy Percocet. Mind you; you made fun of me for asking if the pill would knock me out as I had not eaten in almost 48 hours and laughed my question off as though I was an idiot, yet my words were slurring by the time I arrived home and within minutes I fell asleep sitting up on the sofa with a coffee in hand. Even in spite of all of that, I still thank you for doing the job that you do… even if you do lack bedside manner and basic coordination that might have made for a smoother blood-sucking experience.

Thank you to everyone at the hospital I spent Tuesday morning at. I won’t name it in fear of this being held against me when I go in for my ultra sound today, but you know who you are.

Last week I got to do what every unmarried woman in her thirties dreams of: go shopping for an engagement ring.

We walked into the swanky diamond mega-boutique and to the counter where a ring he had picked out was waiting for my approval. He was so sweet with his trembling hands and “I’m- about-to-hurl-cuz-I’m-so-nervous” expression as he opened the little velvet box. Inside was the ring of my dreams. It was white gold, with little diamonds around the band leading to the center diamond. It sparkled and twinkled like a shiny new star, yet it looked antique as though pulled from a hope chest in your great grandma’s attic and oozing with some romantic history. It was even the tiny size that I have always longed for my nubby finger to be!

The only problem: THE RING WAS NOT FOR ME!!!

I was enlisted to help my future “cousin-in-law” pick the ideal ring for my cousin/best friend/love of my life Nat. Seeing as how we have identical taste, he knew that I’d steer him in the right direction.

There have been very few times in my life where I have been painfully aware of my age and last Thursday was definitely one of them. I am certainly in no rush t get married (much to the disappointment and disgust of my grandmother), but staring your dream ring in the face has a way of making you re-think things.

At the exact moment that Nat was getting a box with a ring in it; I was opening my inbox to find a pic of a penis in it. Hmmm. The universe has quite a sense of humor.

Congrats to Nat and Dave!! I love you guys!!

I am having some serious problems while house-sitting for my mother. Aside from the fact that I am not within walking distance of a quaint cafe or martini bar, I am also watching both the old family dog and my puppy who have begun a very lewd homosexual relationship — one in which the grunting keeps me up at night. If that weren’t bad enough; my mothers condo has a “no dogs in the elevator unless its otherwise empty” policy thanks to the jerks who live in the building whose “culture” apparently makes it not okay to be around dogs (a great excuse to cover for the fact that they are grown ups scared of fluffy puppies on a leash). On top of all of that, my mother had no Internet service at home and I am not savvy enough to get my supposedly wireless-ready laptop working, so I have had to resort to using a temporary dial-up account. Argh.

Using dial-up again has made me finally understand and appreciate the saying “slower than molasses”. Not only is it making writing, researching and posting things online a nightmare, but it has also made it impossible for me to watch porn. Fuck.

You all know of my deep love and respect and utterly insatiable need for YouPorn (formerly Porncasting.TV). I was crushed when they transitioned from one to the other because it interfered with the speed/video stream. That alone really took a toll on me, but dial up is just killing me! I can’t even load the damn index page never mind actually watch a video! What am I going to do??

My mind is turning to mush and my fingernails have never been so long or my panties so dry. This scares me to no end.

I blame this for my recent lack of better judgment in the man department as well as my irritability and unusally unusual behavior. I am having full-blown Internet porno withdrawal and it ain’t pretty.

My sincerest apologies to those who have had to endure my wrath — you know who you are.

UPDATE ON MY LAST POST: He now knows for certain that I am NOT a man and it really was all just a misunderstanding. Really.

Yet another thing has happened to put me off of online dating and this time for good. Picture it; you see a guy who you think is just soooooo super sexy and you send him a free smile. He replies, you chat and find out that he is incredibly intelligent, respectful, has a great career and a great sense of humor. What could be better?? He likes your pics, takes the time to read your work and sings your praises even though what you do seems small and pointless in comparison to the wonderful and honorable things he does for a living (sorry, no specifics). You decide that you are going to meet. Then, the next time you chat you can tell that things seem a little off and that the tone of the chat has changed. Why? I’ll tell ya’ why!! He has developed some sort of paranoid notion that I may be a man. Yes — A MAN!!!!!!!!!!

He clearly sees that the person in the pics is a female, but believes that he may be chatting with a man who is posing as a woman and has simply created this “Adrie the sex writer” persona all in the name of a career! What the f#ck???

I laughed it off and told him to call me so that he could hear my voice, which he did. While I do not have the most high-pitched girly voice; I certainly don’t sound like a guy — that I know of anyway. We only spoke for a sec before his other phone rang and he had to go. The next time we chatted he said that he was no longer worried that I was packin’ a penis and that he still wanted to meet, yet I still sensed hesitation. The next day arrived and went on without any word until the time we were actually supposed to meet for coffee. Only then did he log on to let me know that something came up at work and that he couldn’t make it. That’s it. My imaginary dick seems to have scared him off of MSN as well cuz’ he hasn’t been online since.

Having to have this conversation with someone at all was already bad enough, but the fact that he didn’t truly seem convinced after speaking to me? Oh my God! I’m crushed, horrified and mortified!

I can understand being a little paranoid if you’ve been burned. I have been told by a few people that the whole men-posing-as-women thing is kinda’ common on dating sites. What can they possibly be thinking? That they can get a man to fall in love with their personality so when they do finally meet that maybe the unannounced arrival of a penis won’t matter? I dunno. What I do know is that I am NOT one of those people and that I am really disappointed and bordering on offended now! Someone out there thinks I’m a man!! Eeeewwww!! It’s even worse that this someone seemed so promising and was just so yummy. Daaammmnnnn.

Note to said guy: You were partially right when you said I seemed to good to be true. I am too good, but am definitely true: truly a good person, truly cute, truly uninhibited with the right guy and truly 100% female with a truly immaculately groomed vagina and the closest thing I have to a penis is a truly pink, girly vibrator! (see pic)

I am also truly sorry that you have opted not to see these things for yourself because I truly believe that you would have been truly impressed.

** Would a man ever feel this hurt by a virtual stranger?? I think not! **

I am a closet voyeur. I love to watch without anyone knowing I am doing it, yet don’t have the balls (or enough desire) to actually go out and engage in it. Instead, I get my fix by checking out Craigslist’s postings. It’s much like watching a soap opera really because you get read the persons first post and often times the replies and the follow up posts and you find yourself wondering if the poster ever found what they were looking for. It can be quite riveting really.

As of late I have noticed an increase in people posting about “piss play” and their love of golden showers. Not nearly as romantic as the listings of love-at-first-sight of the “Missed Connections” page or as sexy as some of the other “Casual Encounters” ads, but read-worthy just the same whether piss play is your cup of tea (eew) or not. Personally, I don’t get it—the fascination with being urinated on. I try my best to avoid urine, but hey, who am I to judge, right?

A few of these ads have caught my attention for various reasons and while I was just in absolute creeped-out awe at first; I now find myself wondering whether or not some of these people have found what they were looking for. Like the man who blatantly announced to all of New York “I pissed myself” and posted a pic to go with it. Where did you go man who pissed himself on purpose? Did you ever find a woman who wanted to watch you pee your ill-fitting Bermuda shorts?

There is also the guy in Toronto who just recently posted that he’d love to have a gal sit on his lap while riding the subway and discreetly pee on him—has it happened yet? Is there a train that I should avoid?

Then there’s the man who posts regularly in hopes of finding a woman who will drink his pee. Is it even possible that someone will reply to such an ad? They do say that there is someone for everyone, so stay strong my disgusting friend and keep me (and all of Toronto) posted.

The universe has got a weird way of trying to keep you from doing stuff that you know you shouldn’t but really want to anyway. Take for instance: messin’ around with someone who may already be spoken for. I guess the Universe doesn’t consider your temptation justified even though you have known the person for years or that as his good friend, you are aware of the fact that his union is doomed anyway.

You meet and said guy is not spoken for at the time. You flirt like mad and try to hook up but work and other shit gets in the way and you chalk it up to life. Then, every time you try to make plans to “consummate” your friendship; something happens; a flu, a bad period, a business trip on his part, family emergencies, etc. That gets chalked up to shitty timing. Years go by and the friendship/flirtation/curiosity continues, so you finally decide you’re gonna try again — even though this person is now officially committed to another (chained is more like it). You plan it down to the last detail and are certain that this is finally it.

The day arrives and you and your pussy are more than ready and your conscious is more than clear even though the bible says that what you’re doing — or trying to do — is wrong. You meet him for drinks and he’s looking yummy and you foxier than ever. *Drip. Drip. Drip* You’re only a beverage away from the unleashing of years of pent up curiosity and sexual tension and you are ready! R-E-A-D-Y!!!

You begin your walk to the bar and one of the straps of your very favorite pair of come-fuck-me-right-this-second-you-bastard sandals breaks. You shed a tear for your precious shoes but carry on like the trooper you are cuz’ nothin’s getting in the way of the fuck-fest that you have planned — especially after you have adorned the bed with 400 thread count sheets for the occasion! You decide that the trek to the bar is too far for a broken sandal and opt for a nearby cafe instead. Whatever. Who cares. You just NEED to fuck!!

Once inside the cafe, with only some noisette-scented steam separating the two of you; you can almost taste the sweet victory of your conquest. Then, since you were too dense to see the first sign that this shouldn’t happen (at the expense of your sandals), the Universe decides to really fuck you — not in the good way and in walks the best friend of your playmates wife. Fuck.

He covers it up nicely and you are impressed by his quick thinking and unusual calm. Your panties dampen further at this new lying-scoundrel thing he’s got goin’ on and you cannot wait to get some of that! He gets back to the table and turns pale as his tail slips between his legs and the sound of clucking chickens fills the air. “This isn’t happening is it?” you ask.

His voice quivers with fear as he replies: “No. It can’t now. I have to go.”

You watch him scurry away like a frightened kitten and he’s practically fighting back tears. I guess yours isn’t the only wet pussy around.

You go home and resort to calling your back-up booty call guy that you swore you’d never do again, but this is an emergency damn it! You’ve got new lingerie that is just too cute to go unseen and a puddle in your panties that you’ve just gotta share!

As you sit and wait for back-up to arrive you realize what the Universe was trying to tell you all along: If you’re gonna mess with a married guy:
a) choose one with a backbone and b) wear cheap shoes.

Today’s little ditty is about chubby chasers–or rather–men who like fat girls. Being a biggylicious girl myself I can use words like “fat” without getting in trouble. I have no need to sugar coat as I know what I am and know my rolls.

I have been trying to figure out men who like fat women and why. I know I am attractive and I certainly don’t lack confidence thanks to spending my entire life being told that I am sexy by men and women alike. While I do not hate my appearance I would be lying if I said that I have managed to ignore society’s pressures and not given in to wanting to be Kate Moss thin. Who the fuck would prefer a rolly polly body to one that looks smooth and lump free in a teeny tiny bikini?? So when a man is attracted to me because of my “sexy walk” or my confidence or my carefree attitude or whatever, then I totally get it, but what about the men who specifically prefer fat women? As in: will only date BBW or super-size chicks?? When you get that specific I think it goes beyond just a preference and is more a fetish. I love muscular guys but will be the first to admit that the crushes I have burned and yearned most for were not muscular at all. SO when a man will only date a fat girl no matter what, I have to wonder why?

I have recently thumbed through a few of the men’s mags that feature fat girls and found that all of the articles seemed to focus on shit like smothering or being surrounded by humongous breasts. This is fetish, is it not?

I would love to hear from these guys who consider a woman over 200Lbs to be their ideal so I could try to understand it better. Do they see a big girl and automatically cream themselves with visions of being sat on by a fat naked ass? Envision being slapped across the face with a heavy, floppy boob?? Or is it just a love of the feel of softness?

For the record — fat girls are good for more than just smothering and face-sitting!!

One guy once told me that he finds most big girls less intimidating and that’s why he prefers them. What a loser! Fat or thin, no woman wants a guy who lacks a fucken backbone! So if that is the reason why some men only want big girls then that’s hardly anything to be proud of!

So come on people, help me out and try to explain this to me — do you prefer fat girls cuz’ it gets you off in some perverse way? Is it just a longing to be smothered or is it something a little less vulgar than that?

The main reason why this is on my mind — I recently got told that my size is simply not big enough for one guy. Not big enough for what???

I got a puppy about 6 months ago who has managed to surprise me daily. First I was told that he’d be no more than about 9LBS and that he was a Shih-tzu/Pekingese. He is not even full grown yet and is already tipping the scales at 14LBS and as for his breed — the vet can only confirm that there is Shih-tzu in him — the other half remains a mystery.

Having gotten accustomed to the easy-breezy life with a senior dog who did little but sleep; I had forgotten how feisty a pup could be. Maniche (that’s my puppy) has far surpassed feisty and now borders more on psychotic. He has chewed through EVERY toy he’s been given, including the ones that claim to be made for “large breed, avid chewers”. He looks like a cute little dust-mop, but don’t let those puppy eyes fool you — he tears the nose and eyes out of the plushest of stuffed animals and even ate the face off of a baby (doll).He also enjoys gnawing on my hands and feet — sometimes to the point of blood — the whole time acting as if he’s just playin’. Part of me believes that if he had thumbs which would make him able to pull a trigger; that he would bump me off in my sleep.

As he sits here at my feet, breathing softly in slumber, it is hard to believe what he is capable of. You haven’t yet heard the worst of it — he is also a “Player”.

My hottie cousin Nat was over recently and Maniche seemed to gravitate to her as any blue-blooded man would. He followed her around and when she sat on the couch, he climbed up on her lap and was the perfect puppy — laying there quietly and looking at her with his big brown eyes which seemed to radiate “puppy love” at its most innocent. He stayed there long enough to gain her confidence and trust and then decided to jump off the couch and sit at her feet. Once there; the look in his eyes seemed to change and he began to lick her toes — first slowly and then disturbingly fast as his gaze grew serious and concentrated. Before she even had a chance to pull away, he jumped onto her lap and sat facing her. I had never seen him do this before, but I knew something was up by the way he just stared at her — his curvy tail whipping side to side in a frenzy. All of a sudden, he got up on his hind legs, placed his paws on her shoulders and pushed his face forward until they were nose to nose. We both sat frozen, wanting to laugh, but deep down scared of what was next. He stared into her eyes for a good minute and then began to thrust his pelvis in his attempt to hump her! It was clear he didn’t know what he was looking for and he didn’t even seem to notice the lack of a hole for his now exposed dog-hood (which I also like to refer to as his “red crayon” thanks to my friend Margie).

We burst out laughing and the harder we laughed, the more frustrated my horny puppy became. His thrusts and angry grunts went on for two or three minutes before Nat’s laughter shook him right off of her. He lay there on the floor for a moment looking confused and within minutes seemed to be back to himself. She felt bad and tried to pick him up, but he just leered at her and walked away — much like a high school boyfriend who doesn’t get fucked on prom night.

While I was horrified that he is already in his humping phase, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of his technique! He didn’t just try to get in there, but rather went out of his way to con her into believing that he was sincere, then attempted foreplay (most human men wouldn’t even bother with a little tongue lashing!) and then used his eyes to express his desire to her before going for the gold (or pink!). A true player indeed.

It had been so long since I had been on a date with someone that I wasn’t already good friends with through work or whatever; that I had forgotten how nerve-wracking it could be. Not just the actual date, but all the doubts and confusion that inevitably follows the date. It seemed to go well, but like every other girl I wondered: Will he call? Did he really enjoy it? Blah, blah, fucking-blah. So, I did what most gals do and turned to my closest friends to analyze the shit out of the date and look for clarity.

The conversations with my three closest friends — none of which actually talk to each other — proved to be more enlightening than I could have imagined. Not one gave me any real advice or help where the dating front is concerned, but each one brought to my attention that I inadverently come across as aloof and uninterested even when I am in fact quite interested. Apparently I send off mixed signals — ALL THE TIME! (These bitches have been friends with me for over twenty years and NOW they tell me???)

They used words like: bubbly, outgoing, sweet, but they were followed by words like: stand-offish, aloof, confusing, uninterested and even bored! What the fuck?? I was also told that because I am so outgoing and flirtatious, open and often times direct; that men get very confused around me because they expect me to be more forward and expressive when it comes to my interest in them, so when the traditional, girl-should-never-make-the-first-move side of me appears; men don’t know what to think. My profession of course doesn’t help, cuz the minute a man hears “sex writer”; it conjures up images of the Playboy mansion and promiscuity, when I in fact am very tame and ol’ school when it comes to men… for the most part…

So, as if dating isn’t difficult enough, now I have to worry about whether or not I am sending off mixed signals and try to be aware of getting that “constipated” or “smelling strong cheese” expression off my face.

Thanks amigas.

If I had written about Facebook a couple of months ago, it would surely have been to rip it apart and bitch about how I just can’t seem to get into it and can’t be bothered, but these days I am singin’ a very different tune. Before you throw up in your mouth a little; this is not going to be some cheesy eulogy about how some old friends or lost loves have found their way back to eachother, but instead a selfish little diddy about how Facebook has been great for my undeserving ego.

Me: a sex writer, single in my early thrities, still quite juvenile in my behaviour and probably less ready to settle down now than I was even in my teens. While these are all things that I am not ashamed of; I did struggle with them many times. I have cried and bitched and been cried to and bitched at for not being married. I have tried desperately to understand why I don’t yet feel ready to settle down and been constantly haunted by the bar that my parents and many relatives set: married by twenty, two or three children by thirty and happy together for eternity. As for the sex writer part — the many men who aren’t intimidated by it are just downright offended. My bad for still thinking I could marry someone Portuguese and ol’ school like my grandparents always wanted.

Anyhow, I got invited to Facebook by several people and just disregarded the invites until being practically beaten into submission. I was very half-assed about the whole thing; no stats but my name, and as a profile pic — a mildly offensive but funny pic of Chuck Norris. I would pop in every couple of weeks and find messages from former co-workers, classmates and the occasional random guy who just liked Chuck Norris. I was still very much bored by the whole thing, until one morning after one of those horrible dates where you pity yourself like never before and curse God for not making you the marryin’ kind — something on Facebook cheered me right the fuck up –making me take notice of the amazing tool I had in front of me. There on my screen was a message from a girl that I hadn’t talked to in years. In her email she referred to that fact that I was still single as though mocking me. I clicked on her profile just wanting to see what I was dealing with before shooting off a sarcastic reply and what I found shocked me like never before. This girl (and I use the term loosely) who was once one of the most attractive girls I had known, had become an ugly, crusty, soccer mom. Nothing against regular soccer moms of course as I do looove my soccer, but this was white trash at its finest! You know what; soccer mom is the wrong label as it’s clear that she is more the tracker-pull or smash-up derby type.

It was at that moment that I decided to check out other profiles and look up some of those people I had lost touch with when they got married and decided that they were just too ‘grown up’ to stay friends with a simple singleton, a.k.a. slut like myself. Much to my elation, each profile seemed to have at least one of the ego boosters that I was hoping for: the word “divorced” or a horrible pic or rant about how much they loathe their jobs or their lives. Priceless.

In a matter of minutes I found that the girl whose relationship, engagement and then marriage that I had been most envious of was in the process of a divorce. The prettiest girl in my class whose frost and glow hair was the envy of many; now heavy, tattered, bored and working at Wal-Mart. A guy who I messed around with and secretly burned for even though he was in a relationship — still dating the same women who, judging by the pics; seems to have more wrinkles on her face than the ass of my ninety year old grandmother!

Thank you Facebook for making me proud to be single and holding out for THE guy or nothing at all. And for making me even prouder to be flighty, juvenile and a self-admitted perv who spends much of her day thinking of and writing about sex. Also, thank you for the joy that comes from realizing that others haven’t aged nearly as gracefully as I have.

Oh my dearest Facebook, you’ve made me prouder than ever to be me.