Following a spiritual morning's yoga with Carolyn and the geriatrics I popped over to Stevie's to admire his new smuggled-in art from Bulgaria and Romania. He wanted my advice on where he could hang them - "not in this apartment" was my blunt answer; "hurry up and buy a big apartment so you can hang all this stuff" I blathered on.
We were supposed to go for Dim Sum. I can't say I've ever had a craving for pork buns or any kind of buns - Chinese food especially in harsh fluro light looks pasty. Unless it's Mr Chows and I've had one too many Mai Tai's it just won't do.
Instead of Dim Sum I wangled burgers at Ruby's. Stevie to his darling credit was easy to wangle. He'd never had a true Aussie burger. I think it's smashing when a fried egg, pineapple and beetroot bring a grin. Post-burger he was a happy boy.
We wandered around Nolita and the Lower East Side. We picked up some social commentary tees including a "Fuck Yoga" tee for me. It was a gorgeous afternoon so we decided to go to Kiki de Montparnasse and chase each other around the store with crops and ticklers. Trying on all the bits and pieces was fun and also sucky.
Stevie and I "dated" in that horrible American fashion last year for a few months and again this Summer for a few weeks. We both came to the conclusion that after several less-than stellar naked moments and aborted naughtiness we are just better off as friends. Hence stripping off in front of each other is nothing and honest advice expected - including lingerie and what looks hot or not - as Paris would say.
I came away empty-handed. The low cowl-neck sweater dress looked sexy on the hanger - not on me and the ribbon lace-up stilettos looked great on the wall and again not-so-great on me. Although skinny jeans seem to be a good basic the clothes in this store were definitely not enhanced by the Rock and Republics.
As Stevie tied the black lace eyemask behind my head and whispered naughty things my thoughts slid to Teddy Bear. I wonder if I start having sex with him could I then expect him to pick up the lilac bra and matching bow knickers and of course that mask. They were gorgeous beyond. Ribbons on the sides of the knickers for easy stripping; and I just loved that double-ended tickler.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Teddy Bear and when did I last shower
I have done absolutely fuck all today.
Can't remember when or where I last showered either. Working backwards I know I haven't showered today....far to busy doing nothing. Can't recall if I showered at the gym last night following a Chardonnay-fuelled work out. Sandrella and I had had a fabulous Balthazar Chardonnay lunch. I'd also fasted all morning - no breakfast which kills me. I'd been at the doctor's all morning having my fingers pricked. Yay, I don't have diabetes or pre-diabetes.
Back to the shower issue. I must have showered on Thursday surely - it was Thanksgiving after all....maybe at the gym? The last shower I clearly remember is Wednesday after my horrendous hangover from Tuesday night. I remember because I had to wash my filthy hair.
TODAY'S ACTIVITIES
a. Woke up far too early at Teddy Bear's (stayed over for the first time - no shagging - it's my new rule). Teddy Bear claims he lives in Soho. I say Teddy Bear lives in the middle of the Afganistani rebuilding initiative.
b. The combination of the noise and the light - Teddy Bear has no curtains and his apartment faces south. I needed my eye mask (at home - sleepover was not planned) and earplugs (retired years ago but need new ones if sleeping at Teddy Bear's is going to become a regular event).
c. Finally got in a taxi wearing obvious night-on-the-town clothes at midday. This is the taxi of shame.
d. Things I've now learned and can grade Teddy Bear for: on a scale of 1 - 10.
1. Great kisser - didn't have to give the "7 year old" lesson. 9/10.
2. Hairy - he has a high testosterone level - does that mean lots of sex or begging for sex - would love the begging even more? He asked me if he was the hairiest guy I'd been with - probably the hairiest - full carpet on the back as well as front. He confessed to waxing "when I go to Cannes"....all those bare Euros I guess make him self-conscious. 10/10 - it's dead sexy what can I say.
3. Jack Nickelson killed his aunt's parrot in the 70's - coked up to his eyeballs he knocked over the cage and squashed the poor blighter. 8/10 - he told it in a very funny manner bless him.
4. Very affectionate without me cringing. 9/10.
I think I really want to have sex with this one soon. But, for now I've going to shower and get out the rabbit.
Can't remember when or where I last showered either. Working backwards I know I haven't showered today....far to busy doing nothing. Can't recall if I showered at the gym last night following a Chardonnay-fuelled work out. Sandrella and I had had a fabulous Balthazar Chardonnay lunch. I'd also fasted all morning - no breakfast which kills me. I'd been at the doctor's all morning having my fingers pricked. Yay, I don't have diabetes or pre-diabetes.
Back to the shower issue. I must have showered on Thursday surely - it was Thanksgiving after all....maybe at the gym? The last shower I clearly remember is Wednesday after my horrendous hangover from Tuesday night. I remember because I had to wash my filthy hair.
TODAY'S ACTIVITIES
a. Woke up far too early at Teddy Bear's (stayed over for the first time - no shagging - it's my new rule). Teddy Bear claims he lives in Soho. I say Teddy Bear lives in the middle of the Afganistani rebuilding initiative.
b. The combination of the noise and the light - Teddy Bear has no curtains and his apartment faces south. I needed my eye mask (at home - sleepover was not planned) and earplugs (retired years ago but need new ones if sleeping at Teddy Bear's is going to become a regular event).
c. Finally got in a taxi wearing obvious night-on-the-town clothes at midday. This is the taxi of shame.
d. Things I've now learned and can grade Teddy Bear for: on a scale of 1 - 10.
1. Great kisser - didn't have to give the "7 year old" lesson. 9/10.
2. Hairy - he has a high testosterone level - does that mean lots of sex or begging for sex - would love the begging even more? He asked me if he was the hairiest guy I'd been with - probably the hairiest - full carpet on the back as well as front. He confessed to waxing "when I go to Cannes"....all those bare Euros I guess make him self-conscious. 10/10 - it's dead sexy what can I say.
3. Jack Nickelson killed his aunt's parrot in the 70's - coked up to his eyeballs he knocked over the cage and squashed the poor blighter. 8/10 - he told it in a very funny manner bless him.
4. Very affectionate without me cringing. 9/10.
I think I really want to have sex with this one soon. But, for now I've going to shower and get out the rabbit.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Rose and Larger
I woke up this morning a very hungry girl. No I hadn’t been fortunate enough to enjoy a good Friday night rodgering….I’d essentially missed out on Friday night supper. There had been food but I’d not be quick enough to eat it.
“Fun and easy on the eyes” preceded by “Hey there saucy” were the toe-curling texts I couldn’t resist forwarding to Newlos.
“How does one send these texts after being poured drunk into a taxi and sent home directly less than 12 hours” before I implored.
“Maybe it was nerves or the oysters were bad” Newlos suggested.
Friday night was first-date night…..OK so maybe that’s not the wisest when it’s a Nerve Date but we’d exchanged a few emails and texts and spoken briefly on the phone. We’d connected over gnudi – he claiming that the Spotted Pig was the business, I claimed Falai. He seemed witty enough and was definitely “easy on the eyes” given close Nerve Profile scrutiny.
He’d suggested we meet at the Spotted Pig and then move on the Falai in the Lower East Side. Either this would be date suicide given the no-reservation policy at the Pig or he was “in” with the Pig people. Fortunately he was “in”.
Exiting the taxi, Mario Batali gave me the once over, or more accurately the 10th over….that guy’s everywhere. I snaked through the crowd in my favourite new Tsubi skinny-skinny jeans and flirty Vanessa Bruno “Age of Innocence” cami; hair loosely pulled into a low ponytail.
Yes he was cute (the photos didn’t lie) and yes I do believe he was 36. Nerve-experienced I know that age is definitely the number 1 lie. He’d thought about his appearance….not to my taste but there was effort: Not-bad jeans, ok-loafers, acceptable-button-down shirt and could-be-funky jacket….OK I did wince?…..the jacket needed to go. Dolce and Gabbana maybe, but, a) fingering to highlight such label not cool, and b) gastro-pub-cool and 80 degree weather does not demand lapels.
Things started out promisingly. He’d given me the once-over – perhaps a little to obviously (nine times less than Mario) and introduced me to the Manager, getting the “anytime you want a table Mate” assurance. Bumping into a friend of his he’d ordered drinks for the three of us.
OK, commonalities with Date Boy: we both lived in the East Village. Commonalities with Friend: he worked for an Australian company and Vegemite was pantry staple. Date Boy suddenly looked not so self-assured and sensing potential third-wheel relegation downed his Rose and opted to fetch another round.
Three Rose’s later (him not I), I stuck to the one Sauvignon Blanc…I suggested that perhaps he give the “Matey” nod to the Manager about that table….Eventually sitting down I detected that Date Boy was a little tipsy. Engaging him in conversation was not difficult we’d gone through school, jobs, family, but it was a little dull. Not for long….Date Boy was trolleyed.
Our waiter rattled off the specials and Date Boy ordered both mentioned starters…neither of which I particularly cared for. Diplomatically I suggested that perhaps he just choose one and we would also share some oysters. This he agreed to adding a pint of larger.
The oysters arrived and he dived right in. Emboldened by Rose, larger, oysters (they are a aphrodisiac I guess) and the Dolce jacket warmth (the sweat beads he kept swiping off his nose, apart from those then fell into the mignonette…..well less said the better), Date Boy pulled me into a passionate kiss, depositing a tidbit…..ewwww… a warm back-washed oyster….I’ll stick to Rockefeller for that. There are boys who could pull that off….this boy wasn’t one of them.
As the mains arrived (not fast enough for me) Date Boy swallowed the remains of his third larger, eyed me and the Striped Bass before me less than squarely and swooped on the Bass between bites of his Scallops. I watched amused and somewhat thankful that this date was closing fast. Less than half and hour later I was able to nimbly pile him into a taxi and send him home, allowing me to skip off to a Fashion Week party still feeling skinny in those Tsubi jeans.
“Fun and easy on the eyes” preceded by “Hey there saucy” were the toe-curling texts I couldn’t resist forwarding to Newlos.
“How does one send these texts after being poured drunk into a taxi and sent home directly less than 12 hours” before I implored.
“Maybe it was nerves or the oysters were bad” Newlos suggested.
Friday night was first-date night…..OK so maybe that’s not the wisest when it’s a Nerve Date but we’d exchanged a few emails and texts and spoken briefly on the phone. We’d connected over gnudi – he claiming that the Spotted Pig was the business, I claimed Falai. He seemed witty enough and was definitely “easy on the eyes” given close Nerve Profile scrutiny.
He’d suggested we meet at the Spotted Pig and then move on the Falai in the Lower East Side. Either this would be date suicide given the no-reservation policy at the Pig or he was “in” with the Pig people. Fortunately he was “in”.
Exiting the taxi, Mario Batali gave me the once over, or more accurately the 10th over….that guy’s everywhere. I snaked through the crowd in my favourite new Tsubi skinny-skinny jeans and flirty Vanessa Bruno “Age of Innocence” cami; hair loosely pulled into a low ponytail.
Yes he was cute (the photos didn’t lie) and yes I do believe he was 36. Nerve-experienced I know that age is definitely the number 1 lie. He’d thought about his appearance….not to my taste but there was effort: Not-bad jeans, ok-loafers, acceptable-button-down shirt and could-be-funky jacket….OK I did wince?…..the jacket needed to go. Dolce and Gabbana maybe, but, a) fingering to highlight such label not cool, and b) gastro-pub-cool and 80 degree weather does not demand lapels.
Things started out promisingly. He’d given me the once-over – perhaps a little to obviously (nine times less than Mario) and introduced me to the Manager, getting the “anytime you want a table Mate” assurance. Bumping into a friend of his he’d ordered drinks for the three of us.
OK, commonalities with Date Boy: we both lived in the East Village. Commonalities with Friend: he worked for an Australian company and Vegemite was pantry staple. Date Boy suddenly looked not so self-assured and sensing potential third-wheel relegation downed his Rose and opted to fetch another round.
Three Rose’s later (him not I), I stuck to the one Sauvignon Blanc…I suggested that perhaps he give the “Matey” nod to the Manager about that table….Eventually sitting down I detected that Date Boy was a little tipsy. Engaging him in conversation was not difficult we’d gone through school, jobs, family, but it was a little dull. Not for long….Date Boy was trolleyed.
Our waiter rattled off the specials and Date Boy ordered both mentioned starters…neither of which I particularly cared for. Diplomatically I suggested that perhaps he just choose one and we would also share some oysters. This he agreed to adding a pint of larger.
The oysters arrived and he dived right in. Emboldened by Rose, larger, oysters (they are a aphrodisiac I guess) and the Dolce jacket warmth (the sweat beads he kept swiping off his nose, apart from those then fell into the mignonette…..well less said the better), Date Boy pulled me into a passionate kiss, depositing a tidbit…..ewwww… a warm back-washed oyster….I’ll stick to Rockefeller for that. There are boys who could pull that off….this boy wasn’t one of them.
As the mains arrived (not fast enough for me) Date Boy swallowed the remains of his third larger, eyed me and the Striped Bass before me less than squarely and swooped on the Bass between bites of his Scallops. I watched amused and somewhat thankful that this date was closing fast. Less than half and hour later I was able to nimbly pile him into a taxi and send him home, allowing me to skip off to a Fashion Week party still feeling skinny in those Tsubi jeans.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Chin Up Chook
Chin Up Chook - advice just administered by Tuff. Moping about the fact that my x-husband has just emailed me to tell me he got engaged, I had to share my misery across the globe. Tuff, bless her, regaled worse tales of woe than a soon-to-be married ex:
1. Brony's new perfect love may not be so perfect after all. Well, life may be a tad more up and down then initial indications. When Brony called to tell me that Terry (lover she'd found a week previously in Sydney when there for work) was moving to Auckland and moving in. My initial thoughts were that someone had lost their marbles (maybe I'm just jealous). At least this has a simple solution: locksmith and shipping agent.
2. Tuff's x-fiance (she was dumped a few weeks before the nuptials) has thoughtfully moved in across the road from her with his new wife...urg think this is possibly the worst and truly a Desperate Housewives maneuver.
Suddenly my life is not so bad.
On positives: was told by Prince of Kuwait on Saturday night that he loved me. He insisted that he really, really did, after I laughed at him for being so ridiculous as he lunged at me missing my clavicle and planting a sloppy Grey Goose something-or-other somewhere between clavicle and top of left breast. I couldn't bring myself to kiss him, as drunkenly charming and seriously wealthy as he was, to which Ted told me I was mad. Hmm, slightly overweight, has a bad goatee and errs on my short side of height range. Well, maybe for 50 billion one could overlook such trivialities. Damn I should have let him kiss me.
Romanian-American-Australian: have been sucking face (literally) with such a boy. He is v cute, tall and lives in Melbourne. Just what I want, but his kissing leaves a mess. You would think that he would think something was not quite right when even he is wiping the extra froth from my chin.
Drove back from The Hamptons last night we a new potential boy...v flirty but know he is v trouble. Bloody hell can't wait to see him again.
Finally Jace, gorgeous, kind, thoughtful, into me.....he's back tomorrow night from Wimbledon...def excited to see him, but maybe he's too nice. Will have to get Hotel Boy to have a word in his ear....CAN NOT BE TOO NICE.
1. Brony's new perfect love may not be so perfect after all. Well, life may be a tad more up and down then initial indications. When Brony called to tell me that Terry (lover she'd found a week previously in Sydney when there for work) was moving to Auckland and moving in. My initial thoughts were that someone had lost their marbles (maybe I'm just jealous). At least this has a simple solution: locksmith and shipping agent.
2. Tuff's x-fiance (she was dumped a few weeks before the nuptials) has thoughtfully moved in across the road from her with his new wife...urg think this is possibly the worst and truly a Desperate Housewives maneuver.
Suddenly my life is not so bad.
On positives: was told by Prince of Kuwait on Saturday night that he loved me. He insisted that he really, really did, after I laughed at him for being so ridiculous as he lunged at me missing my clavicle and planting a sloppy Grey Goose something-or-other somewhere between clavicle and top of left breast. I couldn't bring myself to kiss him, as drunkenly charming and seriously wealthy as he was, to which Ted told me I was mad. Hmm, slightly overweight, has a bad goatee and errs on my short side of height range. Well, maybe for 50 billion one could overlook such trivialities. Damn I should have let him kiss me.
Romanian-American-Australian: have been sucking face (literally) with such a boy. He is v cute, tall and lives in Melbourne. Just what I want, but his kissing leaves a mess. You would think that he would think something was not quite right when even he is wiping the extra froth from my chin.
Drove back from The Hamptons last night we a new potential boy...v flirty but know he is v trouble. Bloody hell can't wait to see him again.
Finally Jace, gorgeous, kind, thoughtful, into me.....he's back tomorrow night from Wimbledon...def excited to see him, but maybe he's too nice. Will have to get Hotel Boy to have a word in his ear....CAN NOT BE TOO NICE.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Drycleaner blues be gone
Wistfully inspecting my winter coat, checking all stains acquired this winter had vanished (including cum stains from fabulous unexpected sex with Muppet who've I recently had to get rid of for sanity's sake) I noted sadly that yes my new drycleaner had done a superb job. She'd also sewn on buttons (again torn off by Muppet in another moment of carnal bliss) buttons I'd just not been able to bring myself to sew on - pathetically sentimental I know.
Feeling somewhat blue for what had now left my life (cum stains and no buttons) I was ferreting in my bag for cash, dithering about and taking up valuable counter space and time. Lost in the cum and button moment I'd not realised someone behind me was in a hurry - not realised until I heard a polite but urgent
"hhhmm..umm...sorry... do you mind if I cut in... it's just...arrh...can I just pay....uumm....errr....sorry....aaarhh...I'm in a bit of hurry". Looking around my face brightened - before me stood a v cute, disheveled Brit doing a impatient hybrid hop from one foot to another. Hybrid, lopsided hop due to crutch under one arm supporting a good leg and one slightly not so.
"Oh dear...what happened...are you OK?". Suddenly I was big doleful caring eyes. "Oh my goodness I'm so sorry I gushed....truly...please pay".
"No I'm sorry it's just..." he tried to explain without really explaining...bloody hell he was really cute - the kind of cute which immediately cleared my head of Muppet-longing and filled it with sexier than Colin Farrell longing.
"No, no I'm sorry... checking for"...I really was gushing..
"Yes, no I realise you've got to make sure they got everything out" he continued (little does he know). Anyway you get the picture. Following a tad more hopping and apologising from him and a lot more gushing and apologising from me he eventually shot out of the door - lopsided of course the tinkle of the doorbell his final farewell.
Spinning back to the drycleaner, I was immediately all over it....."Who is he? Does he live around here? Is he married or have a girlfriend? My God he was cute. Is he nice? Do you know him? The drycleaner a delightful Asian woman (of course) was delighted in my delight and told me his name - John and he lives around the corner and yes he is a regular customer and no she didn't think he had a girlfriend.
Spurred on by the unexpected turn to an otherwise grisly day she pulled down the calendar and started pouring over it with the gusto of a military operation. She calculated dates and times, jotted down on my receipt. Previous times' of day he popped in were noted. What he actually had drycleaned discussed - shirts (my guess is he's a trader). John also apparently plays a lot of squash, watches a lot of sport, is a very nice guy and definitely doesn't have a girlfriend....well at least not one who collects/drops off his shirts. My new matchmaker was beaming...promising to give him my name and number next time he came in..hurry up John, I've got my spring-time Mac to stain.
Feeling somewhat blue for what had now left my life (cum stains and no buttons) I was ferreting in my bag for cash, dithering about and taking up valuable counter space and time. Lost in the cum and button moment I'd not realised someone behind me was in a hurry - not realised until I heard a polite but urgent
"hhhmm..umm...sorry... do you mind if I cut in... it's just...arrh...can I just pay....uumm....errr....sorry....aaarhh...I'm in a bit of hurry". Looking around my face brightened - before me stood a v cute, disheveled Brit doing a impatient hybrid hop from one foot to another. Hybrid, lopsided hop due to crutch under one arm supporting a good leg and one slightly not so.
"Oh dear...what happened...are you OK?". Suddenly I was big doleful caring eyes. "Oh my goodness I'm so sorry I gushed....truly...please pay".
"No I'm sorry it's just..." he tried to explain without really explaining...bloody hell he was really cute - the kind of cute which immediately cleared my head of Muppet-longing and filled it with sexier than Colin Farrell longing.
"No, no I'm sorry... checking for"...I really was gushing..
"Yes, no I realise you've got to make sure they got everything out" he continued (little does he know). Anyway you get the picture. Following a tad more hopping and apologising from him and a lot more gushing and apologising from me he eventually shot out of the door - lopsided of course the tinkle of the doorbell his final farewell.
Spinning back to the drycleaner, I was immediately all over it....."Who is he? Does he live around here? Is he married or have a girlfriend? My God he was cute. Is he nice? Do you know him? The drycleaner a delightful Asian woman (of course) was delighted in my delight and told me his name - John and he lives around the corner and yes he is a regular customer and no she didn't think he had a girlfriend.
Spurred on by the unexpected turn to an otherwise grisly day she pulled down the calendar and started pouring over it with the gusto of a military operation. She calculated dates and times, jotted down on my receipt. Previous times' of day he popped in were noted. What he actually had drycleaned discussed - shirts (my guess is he's a trader). John also apparently plays a lot of squash, watches a lot of sport, is a very nice guy and definitely doesn't have a girlfriend....well at least not one who collects/drops off his shirts. My new matchmaker was beaming...promising to give him my name and number next time he came in..hurry up John, I've got my spring-time Mac to stain.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Sex Texting
Something is seriously wrong with me. I'm acquiring v male character traits ie/ I'm looking/assessing every man I come into contact with, questioning "could I fuck them?". Reached a particularly low point today over brunch with one of best-friend's friend-with-benefits. Decided that no I could not fuck him; he bobs his head too much in conversation; can only imagine what sexual jigging would do. Was so dizzy trying to keep eye contact with a head that was like a pogo-stick that I couldn't eat my eggs.
Wondering also how low my moral ground has sunk. Have spent past 10 days either ignoring or making up quick responses to Mafiosi Toy-boy's sex texting. Terrible: last night as I was trying to climb into bed, slightly tipsy, well v tipsy MTB was sending me rapid-fire sex texts about how hot I was, what he would like to do to me, and how I was responding. My reaction: I encouraged the poor sod, by claiming I was masturbating whilst still wearing my cowboy boots but nothing else. Reality: eye mask on, and settling into perfectly cosy sleeping position. Followed up with further deception this morning with text claiming I woke up wet thinking of him, and had to help myself before breakfast. Perhaps all this really means is that I should get a job in the porn industry - script writing. Going straight to Craigslist.
Wondering also how low my moral ground has sunk. Have spent past 10 days either ignoring or making up quick responses to Mafiosi Toy-boy's sex texting. Terrible: last night as I was trying to climb into bed, slightly tipsy, well v tipsy MTB was sending me rapid-fire sex texts about how hot I was, what he would like to do to me, and how I was responding. My reaction: I encouraged the poor sod, by claiming I was masturbating whilst still wearing my cowboy boots but nothing else. Reality: eye mask on, and settling into perfectly cosy sleeping position. Followed up with further deception this morning with text claiming I woke up wet thinking of him, and had to help myself before breakfast. Perhaps all this really means is that I should get a job in the porn industry - script writing. Going straight to Craigslist.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Chipmunk and burgers
Have become burger obsessed. Problem is I think due to new obsession am now sporting celullite. Bloody hell.
Brunched with Chipmunk who really is a chipmunk. How does he think he's soo hot? He's a sunscorched salt and pepper haired 40year old chipmunk.
He is good company so long as the conversation is about him. I guess I did get to have another burger. I'll deal with the celulite tomorrow.
Brunched with Chipmunk who really is a chipmunk. How does he think he's soo hot? He's a sunscorched salt and pepper haired 40year old chipmunk.
He is good company so long as the conversation is about him. I guess I did get to have another burger. I'll deal with the celulite tomorrow.
Tax distractions
Should be finishing my taxes. I was such a good girl about 2 weeks ago. Determined to do my own taxes I did begin the task. My noble intentions however have been interrupted by:
1. Deciding to find another new apartment - nothing wrong with the one I live in - is spacious and I live with the most easy-going man on planet - damn it if only I fancied him....sex in own home with separate bedrooms - this week's dream come true.
2. Signing lease for ugly but well positioned apartment in West Village. Got into complete broker/legal pickle. Broker claimed I was beholden to lease I signed but which I now don't want. Brokers are weasels....not a newsflash. Weasel broker still hounding me for $3000 finders fee. Doesn't really sound reasonable for unwanted apartment.
3. Craigslist obsession ie/ trawling for apartments which read divinely; in reality dark cockroach riddled shoeboxes.
4. Design Hotel and other swanky hotel website searches. Maybe becoming as obsessed with these things as Hotel Boy. Problem is I don't really have the time to do so, nor funds.
5. Alternatively creating sex scenes in head starring me and lardy mono-browed Greek; me and Mafiosi Toy-boy; me and Hotel Boy. Obviously not getting enough sex (make that any sex) thus developing sex-obsessed mental condition. How does one get into the porn industry? Hmm another thing to look into on Craigslist and not do my taxes.
1. Deciding to find another new apartment - nothing wrong with the one I live in - is spacious and I live with the most easy-going man on planet - damn it if only I fancied him....sex in own home with separate bedrooms - this week's dream come true.
2. Signing lease for ugly but well positioned apartment in West Village. Got into complete broker/legal pickle. Broker claimed I was beholden to lease I signed but which I now don't want. Brokers are weasels....not a newsflash. Weasel broker still hounding me for $3000 finders fee. Doesn't really sound reasonable for unwanted apartment.
3. Craigslist obsession ie/ trawling for apartments which read divinely; in reality dark cockroach riddled shoeboxes.
4. Design Hotel and other swanky hotel website searches. Maybe becoming as obsessed with these things as Hotel Boy. Problem is I don't really have the time to do so, nor funds.
5. Alternatively creating sex scenes in head starring me and lardy mono-browed Greek; me and Mafiosi Toy-boy; me and Hotel Boy. Obviously not getting enough sex (make that any sex) thus developing sex-obsessed mental condition. How does one get into the porn industry? Hmm another thing to look into on Craigslist and not do my taxes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
