It’s 7:20 on a Saturday morning and I’ve been up all night…a not so unusual occurrence for me, considering I’ve been working the overnight shift for going on four years now and, as a result, my circadian rhythms are totally off. So I’ve been sitting here watching old episodes of Cold Case and doing homework. During one particularly emotional episode, I start to think about my mother, who passed away suddenly of a heart attack in October of 1999, at the age of 45.

Being that my mother didn’t raise me, by the time she got me I was 16 and headstrong, and even though I loved the idea of finally living with and getting to know my mother, we all know that the relationship between a mother and her teenaged daughter is a tumultuous one. Add a drug addiction (hers) into the mix, and, well…yeah. I still love her, though…always have. I just wish I had shown it more often back then. My mother, however, on her good days, never failed to show me that she loved me, unconditionally, it seemed. It took her to make me understand that concept.

Anyway, there were some days I’d be back in my room doing homework or whatever, and my mother would be in the living room. She’d call me in there and she’d be laying on the sofa, and she’d beckon me to come lay beside her. Now, my mother was not a small woman, and I was much smaller then than I am now, but it was still a tight fit for the both of us. She’d hold me tightly and give me a letter that she’d written to me in her flowery cursive handwriting…the letters would always be on that stenography paper…in the letters she’d tell me how much she loved me no matter what, and that she wanted me to realize my true potential and basically do more in my life than she’d done in hers. She’d tell me things about herself that she saw in me, good and bad, and how she believed in me and never did she want me to think that she didn’t love me, even though she and I would get into it sometimes. She’d listen while I read the letters aloud and then she’d kiss me on the cheek and tell me to always remember that she’d loved me even though she wasn’t there for me for a long time, that all that mattered was that she was there now. I’d never held against her the fact that she’d left me to be raised by my grandfather and my aunt and uncle…because I knew she did it for my own good. But I know that she felt some guilt about that.

I had just turned 18 the month before she died, and afterwards I went through a period of transition and homelessness. I moved from pillar to post for quite sometime, and even though I tried my hardest to keep track of certain mementos like pictures and her letters, it wasn’t long before those, too, were lost. That was several years ago, but even now, to this day, I wish I had those letters. I’d like to think that she wrote them for me to have when I was feeling down, or lonely, or unloved, and Lord knows I’ve had plenty of those days. But at least I do still have the memories attached to those letters. And Mama, I love you, too.

Totally random and apropos to absolutely nothing (that should be the title of this blog)…well, not really because the holidays are coming up soon…ahem…anyway, I will share with y’all a memory from Christmases of some years ago, when I was a little girl living with my widowed grandfather. My grandfather was a preacher with an interesting sense of humor, which, looking back, is a requirement when you are a 60-something year old man raising a toddler practically on your own. I have many good stories to tell about my upbringing with him, but I digress.

Okay. Do y’all remember those stuffed doves that used to adorn Christmas trees way back when? Let me see if I can find a picture…

All these years later, I'm still creeped out by these things...

Okay, this is very similar to the one my grandfather had, except his had these reddish-orange-rimmed eyes and it was a little bit bigger.

Scared the living crap out of me.

Every year, my grandfather would take that thing and put it on top of our Christmas tree, and every year, family members and friends would wonder why I wouldn’t voluntarily go within 10 feet of the tree and why I’d scream bloody murder if someone picked me up and carried me over to it.  When I was finally old enough to voice my fear of the thing, my grandfather seemed to take pity on me and when it came time to decorate our tree, the bird stayed in the box of decorations while I eyed it warily as if it would come to life and attack me.

When I was about eight years old, our house caught afire and we had to move while repairs were being made. It turned out that the thing had survived the fire and followed us over to our temporary abode. I didn’t figure this out until one day my grandfather came out of the garage storage area with something held behind his back.

“Daddy,” I said sweetly, “what is that you have behind your back?”

He continued to approach me while smiling from ear to ear. Spoiled child that I was, I smiled also, thinking that he’d decided to surprise me with a  new little trinket. I walked closer to him and he withdrew his right hand from behind his back, and in it was…the thing. *cue Psycho shower scene music*. What did I do? I ran. I’d thought that there was no way he, a 70-odd-year-old man, would give chase to a frightened 8-year-old who was very quick on her feet, but I was wrong. I looked behind me and he was close on my heels, laughing all the while. I screamed and cried because I could just feel those red eyes on me. Finally, he gave up and picked me up and put me on his lap and told me that it was about time I’d given up on such childish fears and that was his way of showing me that life sometimes throws curveballs and–unpleasant–surprises our way and that the last thing we should do is run from them.

Thanks, Daddy…

…but 20 years later, I’m still scared of those birds.

Ahem.

I was at a friend’s party this past Friday night and I had already sworn to myself that I would not get “too fucked up” because I’d drunk rather heavily while watching the Celtics v. Lakers game the night before (damn you, Celtics!) and I was nursing this awful summer cold and I knew that with my immune system already being pretty low, drinking too much would just be a recipe for disaster. Well, if you know me, then you know that I has a weakness for the alcohol…so that idea got shot to hell rather quickly. After 2 margaritas, a few cranberry/vodkas, and a shot of Jose Cuervo which was practically forced upon me (not really) and yet another cranberry/vodka…I was done.

Enter hormones.

For those of you who don’t know, alcohol makes me extremely horny. Like super horny. So as I scan the club, I spot my next victim, who just so happened to be someone I knew from many years ago and had previously had words with, but all that went out the window because I knew he’d be easy prey. Bwahahahahha…so, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know, we’re in his car headed to his apartment which was not too far from the venue where the party was being held. I was feeling fine the whole way there, but as soon as I walked into his place, I started feeling a little queasy. That should have been a sign, right? Right. Well, I was too drunk for signs. Signs are for sober people who actually give a damn, neither of which applied to me. Anybitchwassloppydrunk, the next thing I recall after entering the apartment was being bent over his (not-so-clean) toilet puking my guts out and wishing for instantaneous death. I’m sure he knew what was up, but like most drunk, horny men, couldn’t have cared less. I requested a washcloth and a paper towel with which to do a little rigged up toothbrushing, and before long, I was good as still drunk  new. I collapsed onto the bed and watched him as he undressed, and for some reason recalled that his dick used to be bigger than that but maybe I was “remembering” someone else…hmm…the things that go through a drunk’s mind…

Oh, sorry…well anyway, I gave him a little oral stimulation to prepare for the main event (for which I was more than ready), and once that mission was accomplished, jumped onto all fours in preparation for some vigorous doggy-styling. *buzzer sound* WRONG! He wanted to be on top, and I was (again) too drunk to care, so I flipped my ass over and he got on top of me and got to plugging away. Literally. I felt like a damn piece of concrete that was being jackhammered. I faked a few noises and he told me to shush because his kids were in the next room, and I immediately piped down, relieved that I didn’t have to pretend pleasure that I really wasn’t feeling. Oh and did I mention that he sweat profusely the entire time we were fucking?!??!? Oh, that’s not the worst part. Are you ready?

Before I even knew it, he snuck one in on me.

He literally snuck his penis into my “exit only” hole, and I was so drunk that I wasn’t even aware of it until after it had already happened and he was already balls deep into it. Like, seriously, how the fuck did this happen? And lest y’all think that I’m just some loose-booty bitch that regularly gets plugged in the ass, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I DO NOT GET FUCKED IN THE ASS. Well, I guess I can’t say that anymore…and what’s worse, it actually felt better in the ass than it did in the orifice that was actually meant to receive penis! What the fuck?! But do you know how you can cut yourself and not realize it until you actually look down and see it bleeding and only then do you start to feel pain? Well, such as the situation was here. It was all well and good until I realized what was going on, and once I did, you best believe I was squirming and trying like hell to get out from under his 6’5″ tall, 260 pound ass, and he wasn’t having it. I was trapped. He apparently took my squirming for enjoyment, and I was too drunk to really fight so I just laid there and took it like some little bitch. SMH @ myself. He humped and sweated all up in and all over my ass until he was satisfied. I really don’t know how to feel about that but maybe I asked for it…this is what I get for drinking too damn much; reamed all up in the ass.

And, this will literally be a quickie, y’all…

About a week ago, the dude and I hooked up after being under the hood of my car literally all day…it really turns me on to see a man work with his hands, so the day had been one big foreplay session. By the time we were done, I was ready to just throw him into the backseat and have my way with him. AnyImawhore, we went to da crib and took a shower together and all that romantic bullshit, and soon thereafter were engaged in a little touchy-feely-kissy-kissy-licky-licky. He tongued my bumhole and I saw stars, and it wasn’t too long before it was time for the main event. He got on top of me and we were getting all into it, and he kissed me long and hard. Long and hard. I was so into it, in fact, that it had slipped my mind that he had not 7 minutes before stuck his tongue (!) all in the crevices of my ass and parts nearby. The “parts nearby” didn’t faze me, but when it did dawn on me after the fact what actually did transpire, I was a little disturbed by the fact that his tongue had been in my ass, and subsequently my mouth. (This kinda gives “ass to mouth” new meaning, doesn’t it? I really don’t know which one is worse.) My next thought was to consider exactly how dangerous it would be to gargle with bleach, but I found solace in the fact that I had just showered and was so fresh and so clean-clean. I’m just glad he didn’t ask me to return the favor.

Whew! It has been a long, long, long time, hasn’t it? You may be pleased to know (or not) that the idea for this post came to me while I was on the potty and wiping myself after taking a pee (I promise it was just a pee). TooTMI? Why of course…it wouldn’t be me otherwise.

Let me explain.

Yesterday (or the day before I actually wrote this post) was my first time engaging in the sex in…ahem…quite some time. The boy and I had been having some issues, and we finally broke it off with friendly “I wish I never met you”s and “I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off”s. Good times. Anybitchwashorny, I decided that there was no better way to get over a nasty break up than calling up one of the homies from back when I was single and have him provide me with a little sexual therapy. It was wayyy overdue.

Let me just say this: guys, just because your dick game is on point, doesn’t mean you can be neglectful in the oral department. Your blatant refusal to go downtown just because you feel your sexual prowess should be “more than enough” is…absolutely absurd. /end rant.

This day, however, was one of those days, so I let that little issue slide for the time being. After the seemingly obligatory (at least on his part) foreplay was over, I dropped onto hands and knees on the bed and searched my nightstand for my little bottle of lube. It was nowhere to be found. Now I usually don’t have issues with self-lubrication, but I guess since it had been so long and because of the stress of the past few weeks, things were a little more Sahara Desert-y down there than they should have been. While I searched in vain for my lube, the dude let out audible sighs of impatience and asked me what I was looking for. I told him, and he said, “Oh, you don’t need that,” all nonchalant-like. He began to rub my nether regions as if to imply that all he had to do was push some magic button down there and whoosh! instant wetness. Yeah, okay. I’m damn familiar with my anatomy, and there definitely is no such button…at least not one that can be found with the fingers…try using your tongue, buddy. But I digress.

His (dry) fingers were starting to irritate me, so I pushed his hand away and prayed that the miniscule amount of lubrication on the condom would suffice, if only just to get me past the initial penetration. I just knew once he “got in there” that it would be all good. ‘Fraid not. The shit hurt like hell. So then I figured that once he got to moving around in there that things would loosen up and juicen (oh, look, I made up a new word) up nicely. And they did for a little while, but before I knew it, the condom had dried me out and he was just a-pluggin’ away like it was nobody’s business. I guess he thought my louder-than-usual moans and squirming around were due to some kind of pleasure I was deriving from his vigorous fucking. But it wasn’t all bad, and I soon found that the more he spanked me on the ass, the less pain I felt from down below. I’m a trooper…I fought through the pain because I refused to tell him that it hurt and that we needed to stop. We (finally) finished up, and as soon as he got off me I was up and running to the bathroom to submerge my sore and swollen nethers in a tub of ice-cold water.

Later on that day, soreness not quite abated–I almost died when I went to go pee–I called up my sister to get some insight into my current situation. Her long-term solution to my problem was to “stop fuckin’ those donkey dicks,” to which I replied…absolutely nothing…I was speechless. Dude’s dick was kinda big, though….ahem. She simply told me that was probably due to the fact that I hadn’t been sufficiently lubricated and also to the fact that it had been a while, and all I could do was to either keep a cold towel down there or sleep sitting up in a tub of cold water, and, instead of swiping wiping my “area” (that’s how she referred to it) with toilet paper after I used the bathroom, I should pat the “area” dry with the toilet paper, just to make sure I didn’t further irritate myself.

As I mentioned earlier, this came to me as I was finishing up a pee and just so happened forgot to “pat dry” and “swiped” instead. Ouch. But don’t worry…by the time you read this I should be all nice and healed up, and seriously considering taking a vow of celibacy. (Did I really just say that?)

Yeah, I said it.

And yes, I do know from experience.

I’m not talking about “small” like “average”…some people would consider “average” to be “small”, hence the “I’m not a size queen” remark in my title up there. But I digress.

Anymicropenii, quite a few years ago I ran across this lil’ cutie pie I’ll call Jared. I don’t know why that name popped into my head, but it stays. And when I say “cutie pie,” he REALLY, REALLY was. So I, being the hoochie mama that I am was, I tried like hell to get into his pants because he was too cute not to fuck. REALLY.

Well, after about two weeks of pursuing, I got my chance…he really knew how to play hard to get, didn’t he? In retrospect, it was probably due to embarrassment about his…ahem….issue. So, I took him out and we got wasted, and instead of taking a chance on driving home, we I decided the best course of action would be for us to get a room for the night. Yes, my plan was coming along nicely. We get to the room and I go freshen up like a good little slut, and he comes into the bathroom while I am in the shower to drain the worm lizard. I surreptitiously peep out of the side of the shower curtain to get a preview of the package, and I was slightly disappointed, but did not let that initial glance deter me because by that time, I knew that some guys are “grow-ers” and the others “show-ers”. I finished up my freshen-up and went back into the bedroom and prepared to finally get it on….

…I will say that I definitely put forth my best 199.99% effort into making something happen that night, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Not only was his penis extremely small (I’m talking about baby bottle nipple size here, folks), but it didn’t seem to want to get fully erect. Even if it had, I swear to everything that it still wouldn’t have been much bigger than my pinky. I tried sucking the damn thing, but it kept popping out of my mouth (or should I say that it kept slithering out of my mouth), I gave it a finger-job as a hand-job was strictly out of the question, and I even tried doing the ole’ rub of his penis against my clitoris and vaginal area to try to coerce the damned thing into doing something (and dare I say my clit was about same size if not larger than his dick!). Oh, yes, I was determined to get it that night, folks, DEE-TERR-MINNNNEEEDDDD….but it was not to be. *sigh* He was much more frustrated than I was, and damn near rubbed me raw trying to get it to go in…I started to tell him to just tickle my clit with it so I could at least get off and go to sleep, but I didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings.

Needless to say, the rest of that night was totally awkward and no, it did not take a wake-up call to get me out of there; I was out before the sun came up, and I never saw Cheeto-dick again.

Oh, here’s the REAL TMI:

Can you believe that the son of a gun had the audacity to pull out a Trojan Magnum condom? For those of you not in the know, a Magnum is for guys who are of…ahem…above-average size. And he is not the only guy I’ve known of to buy those knowing good and damned well they didn’t need them! Arrrgh!

For more TMI Thursday awesomeness, click the button below. DO IT.

Oh, and you can thank CarissaJaded for reminding me of this particular incident. Bwahahahahahahaha!

It amazes me that so many of my sex-related TMI blogs involve The Redbone…I guess that’s what happens when you are fuck-buddies with the same someone for the better part of ten years. As most of you know from previous TMI blogs, The Redbone and I have been through some shit (and puke, and toilet paper…actually the “shit” hasn’t actually happened…yet…blech.), and practically nothing is TMI when it comes to us. We’re rather comfortable with each other. VERY comfortable with each other, in fact.

But the comfort level can only go so far.

Case in point.

One night several months back, he and I were hooking up, and he was giving me a little…”oral attention”. Well, his oral attention went to my back door, without my knowing of it beforehand or expecting it. Now, of course, I didn’t think he’d ask me if he can lick my balloon knot, and even if he had, who was I to say no? That was the first time ANYONE had ever done that, and needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised.

My pleasant surprise turned to shock when he, at the oh-so-climactic end of his oral exploration of my back door, asked me to return the favor.

Cue “impending-doom” music here.

Now, I know some of you are wondering why I just couldn’t bring myself to return the favor. I mean, it’s really not fair since he did me and I had no problem with him doing it to me. I know. But at the time, I was literally at a loss. In any case, he was okay with my unspoken refusal to do it, and we’ve moved on. Since then, however, I’ve come to a couple of conclusions:

A. I just couldn’t picture myself doing that. I mean, HOW would I? I mean, how would he position himself? Would he get on all fours? (Yikes.) Would he lay on his back with his knees up in the air and everything exposed? (Double yikes.) OR, would I sit on the bed and he bend over in front of me? (Yikes, yikes, YIKES!)

B. HOW does he HE KNOW he likes that? His exact words were, “I like to get my salad tossed, too.” Who says that? And again, how does he know he likes it? Who has done it for him? I really wanna know.

But of course I didn’t ask him.

And you’re welcome for the visuals given in Conclusion A.