As Britney said, “Oops, I did it again.”
After all the shit I’ve talked about Blurter on here, I am more than a little embarrassed to confess this, but I feel like I need to confess it to keep myself honest.
Last night, with very little urging on his part, I drove to his shop in Kansas City. I helped him tamp and pad about a billion NCR form pages for a car dealership. Then he bought me dinner, fucked me, and gave me dog money. Or to be a bit more truthful, I let him buy me dinner, fucked him, and then took his money. And then I gave him this paper bag full of random things he’d left at my house almost two years ago. Holy mixed messages!
But it was for research! I’m supposed to be writing this smut story that will serve as my follow up to the Krampus smut. It’s about Cupid and I need to have it finished in time to release it for Valentine’s Day. Yes, I’m writing seasonal erotica. Maybe it’s just me, but I find it hard to write good smut when I haven’t had sex in 8 months. 8 months! WTF? How can it be this hard to get laid?
Oh right, I’m picky. I mean remember the copier salesman who tried so valiantly to bring me over to the perky side? I could not do it with him. I could barely kiss him. Then there was the butcher. No chemistry. And the candlestick maker (ok, he does a computer thing I don’t understand), who still occasionally tries to zombie booty call me. I kissed him once. It felt creepy. He didn’t smell right. His hands were too small.
Argh! Why is it so difficult to find a new guy? The next time Blurter randomly hits me up, I’d like to say, “No thanks.” I know, I know. I could say no thanks at any time, and I have. The last time he pulled this stunt, when I was raising money for Josey’s surgery, he tried it. He wanted to give me money. Could I come get it? Except I didn’t want to leave Josey home alone after surgery, and I’d already raised the money, so I just said, “No.” No explanation. No excuses. Just no. Like my brain was in charge and making smart decisions.
So why yes this time? 8 months! Goddamn. I’m convinced I just need to find another printer. Half the attraction is the smell of the ink and all those pounding machines. How does one advertise for a Tuesday/Saturday boyfriend who just happens to be a pressman?
What’s so stupid is this is close to what I want. A guy who doesn’t want to hang around all the time. Somebody who likes his own space. An easy fuck. It’s just… not quite enough. Yet I keep going back for another dose.