Wimpy

Tonight, I went to a St. Patrick's Day party at the house of the man with flat feet.

I went because of the gossipy rumors that surround this man and his bobble head girlfriend whom most of us dislike for her snideness at the rest of us for having the privilege of living with him and supporting him at the same time. She is in her very late 30's, close to 40 and he is just 29.

Anyway, the point is, much of these get togethers with these people are the same-drink, drink, drink.

I sat there and was served four differing green drinks, which after the sip of the first, the alchohol could have pickled me just fine if I was dead.

I was dressed very casually in a black sweat suit adorned with fake diamonds along my hips and down the front of the top along both zipper runs with a dangling silver star- and also having silver stars dangling from the zippers on ass pockets. It was, of course, in conservative silver adorned taste.

I haphazardly put on some foundation with an almost fleshy colored pink cream eyeshadow with a palish pink Dior lipstick.

My hair is slightly curled, but it was not holding the tiny curls I made with the tiny slender curling iron, despite being shellacked with hairspray.

The length of my hair is now almost past my ass, and because of the winter, it is either china girl straight to a certain extent or thick with long waves running throughout. Tonight it was thick.

I wore it much like Morticia Adams, parted in the middle, and it naturally made the waves around my forehead and face before it cascades down past my bosom to my hips.

Upon arrival at the house, drink was in full swing. I said my greetings and decided to grab a plate of corned beef that was sliced veil thick, a wedge of cabbage and split boiled red potatoes. I dolloped spicy mustard on the side. I was drinking a diet coke with ice that made the soda taste not so good.

As I was picking up a plastic white dinner plate, this man, who had on those sleek geeky glasses being worn by the NYC types, who has a head of completely white hair with some sort of weird ass spikes on top, decides he will speak with me.

How I despise a man who decides to flirt with you while you are piling food on your plate.

The un-artful requests for an introduction makes me want to gag. He looked gay to me, but his flirting was making it an odd combination. He was not very tall and slender. Not my type.

I respond to his request for an introduction in the blandest manner I can muster because my host is near, and he jumps into introducing us by getting up to make the introduction that was already accomplished.

I managed to get away because Trudy, the mother of my host, approached and we were happy to see each other, like two school girls.

Throughout the night, this wimpy guy, believing himself dashing and debonair, would saunter over to me to "toast" my drink, or say hello. I was managing quite nicely to avoid him.

When Trudy and her husband were leaving, I decided to depart as well.

The wimpy guy comes over and re-asks me my name. He had already questioned where I lived and announced we lived close to each other. I corrected him by pointing out that he was not listening to what I said, since we did not live near each other. He attempted for the third time that night to converse with me by stating that I looked so familiar to him. He switched gears and asked me what I did for a living. I told him and he believed he automatically could use my services.

By this time, Trudy and the bobble head noticed the imposition but viewed it as an opportunity for encouragement. They did their best to endear him to me, which required zero effort and when they realized this, they attempted to make me import interest to him.

I told him I had to leave and get my coat.

He was persistent. For the second time that night he complimented my hair and stated it would be hard to forget the mane I sport. I cringed. And, as usual, I laughed so I did not have to respond at all.

"And now that I have seen your smile, it is something I cannot forget" he offered as he observed me put on my coat.

I wished right then and there I had a puke pot handy.

Ignoring him, I headed out the door in relief, hoping I would not see him ever again.

Oh No

Christmas Eve. The Ex, Dick, came over. He did. I let him.

He has been dropping all out hints since I have been speaking to him again. He is blunt. Raw and blunt about me. I have been ignoring him for weeks.

He blurts out what he wants to do to me, what I do for him by just existing, or just the sound of my voice on the phone while I am trying to speak to him.

The mistake was my desire to try a new cocktail, Cointeaupolitan. It was pink, my favorite color. It was delicious and I am not one for sweet drinks, but the lemon juice cut the sweet just right.

It was a cold, cold drink, having left it sit on ice before pouring.

After about four to five of these, I was a little loose. Dick was practically pornographic all night, trying to get me interested.

The drinks let my guard down. Dick is extremely handsome, tall, dark hair and blue eyes, and strong. He is very controlling though as if he owned me.

He is also the only man who I have met who is inexhaustable sexually. The man is a powehouse. Girls I am talking HOURS. I used to fall out from sheer exhuastion. He is also very considerate. If it was to be all about me, then so be it. He would not feel slighted at all, which was good because sometimes a girl just does not want to, you know what I mean? In otherwords, as macho as he is, he never had any problem putting my needs or desires first and never getting to his at all.

But that was unable to keep me, and he is trying to keep me again. I am not a kept woman.

"Muse, you look beautiful tonight," he would say.

"Listen Dick, do you think you can remember how to mix the damned drink or do I have to bring the damned computer to read off how much of what we need to mix?" I would say to ignore him.

"Muse, you look very sexy in that shirt you are wearing," he would observe.

I had on a long sleeved crew neck that was loose. It was battleship gray. It was not sexy at all.

I cannot repeat what else he said because it was very graphic. He speaks his mind sexually. He finds it a normal part of life. I find it annoying since I was not interested since we were no longer going out.

I just want him as a friend.

But the Cointreau wanted a lover. Damned orange peels!

Now, we did not have sex, because he was on his way to midnight mass that was changed to 10 pm, but he did take a bit of the edge off of me tonight. I was on my tip toes hanging on to him and he had his hand on the small of my back supporting me. The man is strong, girls. I was able to propel backwards while he held me at my waist, almost suspended above the floor.

He wanted to come back after mass, but I shooed him out. I told him I was tired and was going to retire.

At 12:05 Christmas Day, or tonight as I see it, he rang to tell me what he was going to be thinking about in his sleep, what he thought about while singing carols during the service because of my lingering scent on his hands.

And he has no idea that I supposed to be meeting Quiet Man for coffee later on this Christmas day.

Italy

After spending most what felt like most of the darn summer in Italy, I have to say its taken until now to at least feel back to normal, or it may be how my cup runneth over with work is what is dragging me down. Don't know which.

Here is a photo from Pompeii.

It's actually stamped/carved into the stone to show the way to the brothel, which by the way, had paintings on the wall so the men could point and choose the various services of the Pompeii Prostitutes.