Tag Archives: turbo slut

For a Good Time Call…

Last Friday I went to a “Slumber Party.” To continue the theme, that night I watched For a Good Time Call….

Little did I know that it was a movie about love between friends, loving yourself, and…Kevin Smith and Seth Rogen jerking off. Ok, so maybe I saw that last one coming. Pun intended.

  • Never leave empty cups in your car.
  • If you leave an empty cup in your car, don’t let anyone pee in it.
  • If someone does pee in the empty cup in the car, don’t distract her…unless you want pee in your hair.
  • Panties tied together make excellent streamers.
  • Girls can chest-bump, too.
  • Phone sex jobs don’t offer health insurance.
  • You know you love someone when you see their hair on your soap and you don’t get mad.
This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine.

This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine.

Most importantly, I learned that becoming a phone sex operator takes training. And that training must be reminscient of Dirty Dancing. The only thing missing was the lift.

Favorite Comments From Last Post: “I think the number is 19.4, the .4 being one time where you perform CPR on someone. My research is just as scientific as Cosmo’s.”—The Cannibalistic Nerd

“Good grief! I’m glad this is your blog and not mine. I have probably kissed 1000 men before finding my husbands. Yes, I said husbands (plural)…. I hope nobody leaves you because of me. Signed, your slutty friend and professional bride.”—Linda Medrano


You Have to Kiss a Lot of Frogs

I read over on I Like Boys Who Wear Glasses that Cosmo says you have to kiss 22 guys before you find Mr. Right.

22? Seriously? I’m not there yet. I got my first kiss when I was in 5th grade, which I’m not sure even counted. So I didn’t get my first real kiss until I was 16. I can’t believe I wasted time like that.

And all those long-term relationships? More wasted time and kisses. Geez…I could have been married years ago if only I’d puckered up more.

I just counted, and I’ve kissed 16 guys. 16.

Uh-oh…I think I just lost a follower…they probably think I’m a whore.

Anyways….Anyone want to volunteer for numbers 17-21? (There goes another follower.) Nothing serious.  I just need to kiss you, so I can find Mr. Right.

I’ll even let you pick a flavor.

HPIM1496

How old were you when you got your first kiss? Did you have to kiss 22 people to find your partner?

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I will eat you and everything that you hold dear if you don’t let me keep my bed.”—Kerrigan Sloan


Where’s Your Husband?

Kiefer and I broke up a couple weeks before the holidays, and at first, we didn’t really tell anyone.

We already had plans to go to holiday parties, and rather than going separately and fielding the inevitable “Where’s Kiefer?” and “Where’s Thoughtsy?” we went to the parties together.

We didn’t want other people to feel awkward, and because we parted on good terms, it wasn’t awkward for us.

But that did have some snowballing effects…

Kiefer and I began talking to a couple we’d never met when Boo pulled up a chair and sat near us.

Lady: Aren’t you going to get a chair for your mom?

Boo and I exchanged looks: Do we explain that I’m not his mom? Instead, Boo just said…

Boo: Do you want a chair? You can have this one.

Because that’s how Boo and I rolled. He’s not my son. I’m not his mom. But that was ok.

A few minutes later…

Notice my ringless hand.

Notice my ringless hand.

Lady: Does your husband….

I didn’t bother correcting her because what’s the correct response in this situation?

  1. “It’s funny that you said, ‘husband.’ He’s not my husband. He’s not even my boyfriend anymore because he waited to long to become my husband.”
  2. “He’s actually my exboyfriend. We’re just pretending to still be together, so people don’t feel awkward. Do you feel awkward?”
  3. “He’s just…my boyfriend.”
  4. Don’t correct her.

Since I figured I would never see this lady again, I went with Option #4.

You know what happened? A few weeks later…I saw the couple again. Of course.

Only a few people knew that Kiefer and I broke up. Because I didn’t want to talk about it all night, I only told the truth to every third person that asked. Everyone else got vagueness, including the couple I never thought I’d see again:

Person: Where’s Kiefer?

Thoughtsy: He’s…home.

Person: With the boys?

Thoughtsy: Yessssss…. He’s home with the boys.

Person: Tell him I said hi!

So when I start dating, I’ll probably run into this couple yet again. And she’ll probably ask where my husband is and scare off my date. Or she’ll think I’m a whore. 

The other day at the doctor’s office I ran into a friend’s daughters.

Thoughtsy: Hi! How are you?

Daughter #1: Good. You? Daughter #2, you remember Kiefer’s wife, right?

Le sigh. 


Questions From the Baby Mama

When Kiefer suggested we (him and me—not you) start trying to have a baby, a lot of thoughts ran through my head after that conversation. A lot. For example…

  • Is this just an excuse for more sex?
  • Is he “being the girl” and trying to trap me in a relationship?
  • Will he start calling me his “baby mama?”
  • Will he feel like we don’t need to get married if we already have a child daughter together?

Obviously he must be a pod person because the real Kiefer is a commitment-phobe. Except…

Isn’t having a baby together a commitment?

So I started to think about the worst possible scenario: Kiefer and I have a baby, but things don’t work out between Kiefer and I.

The baby still has a good father. And at age 32, I was prepared to have a baby by myself via the turkey baster turbo-slut route, so I’m in the same situation I was expecting to be in anyways. Win-win for me.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “What if you managed to walk through the living room with a big chain saw turned on and you “accidentally” tripped over something you strategically placed just moments before, causing you to “accidentally” cut the whole thing in half just like that? Oops.”—Kim Pugliano


32

32 is my magical childbearing age. I can feel it in my bones uterus.

Why 32? Because like mother, like daughter.

No, my mom didn’t have me when she was 32. She had me when she was 27, just before turning 28.

But my parents had been trying to get pregnant for about a year before I was conceived. Ask any couple who’s been trying to conceive for a year. I bet they’ll tell you it was the longest year of their life.

But the strongest driving force behind the age of 32 is the knowledge that my mom began menopause around age 37.

37.

I’m almost 31. 37 is just around the corner.

And although the prospect of a cramp-free existence is exhilirating, the idea of not being able to have a child terrifies me.

So 32 is my age. At 32, married or not, I’ll be putting my savings towards the turkey baster method. Or I’ll just become a turbo-slut until I’m pregnant.

I haven’t decided which route to take yet. I’m leaning towards the disease-free-turkey-baster route.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “What are these pants you speak of?—Inurbase

Scariest Comment From Last Post: Peg-o-Leg’s comment, which you can read here.