I’m not a big shopper.  I’ll go through a phase when I want to charge stuff to my maxed out credit card, but for the most part, I wear whatever I can fit into from my past.  But sometimes a shopping spree can be worth the finance charges.  On occasion, you buy things you’ll never wear outside the dressing room, but a while back, I bought stuff I didn’t even want to try on.

It was Christmas and I was going to North Carolina to meet my future mother-in-law (Ex-Husband #2) for the first time.  She is a Southern Baptist, so I knew I not only had to watch my mouth, I was going to have to change my look.  Skinny jeans and fuck me pumps were not going to get me in her will.  So, I bought what I thought she’d like to see; Khaki pants, pink button down oxford and some loafers.  It was cold so Ex-Husband #2 also picked out an olive green sweater with flowers on the bottom.

On day two of wearing this shit, I broke out in hives.  I was moving around so much trying to get comfortable that I threw out my back.   I couldn’t even numb the horror of what I was wearing because there was no alcohol in the house and no bar for 20 miles.  It wouldn’t have mattered, I didn’t want to be seen in public.

On day four, I couldn’t take it anymore.  It was our last night there, I pulled out the tight black dress I had secretly packed.  I didn’t wear it out of the bedroom, but I had to at least have a sense of normalcy.  Before I left for dinner, I took off the dress and begrudgingly put on the khaki’s.  Without underwear.  At least the rubbing against the seam made me feel a little like myself.  And it made the night more enjoyable.

Moral of the story, there is nothing wrong with dropping off an entire suitcase full of clothes at Goodwill on your way home from the airport.

I haven’t been able to see #72  for a while so I’m finding I’ve got to take care of myself.  For some reason, I’ve always referred to my masturbation as “whacking off”.  I realize now that that might give the false impression that my clit is dicklike.  Which it’s not.  But I didn’t know what else to say.  I mean “tickling the taco” reminds me of dinner with Elmo.  “Dialing the rotary phone” makes me feel old because we HAD a rotary phone.  “Masturbation” reminds me of my sex ed class and who wants to remember Mr. Bubar talking about reproduction?  So whacking off is what’s it been for years.

One day, I was walking with a friend of mine.  She was in a relationship with a guy who was a bad lay and told me how she had to “rub one out” to get off.  It was oddly enough the first time I’d heard that phrase and I kind of liked it.    It made sense to me, but it wasn’t in my vernacular yet.  Yet.

Last night while I was taking care of solo business, that phrase kept going through my head, “I’m rubbing one out.”   Normally I focus on the sweet spot, but last night I was just all over the place, and it was nice.  I decided that “rubbing one out” is great and better than being so myopic in my masturbation.  I slept well and will probably test the theory again tonight.

Moral of the story, a rose by any other name….

I’d say my tits are average sized.  A solid 36B.  I’m happy with them and have gotten very few complaints.  (Of course I AM in LA where the average size is 503FFF)  Even though I’m 45, they’re still pretty perky, but I’m at that point where going braless isn’t really an option. I’m pretty diligent about wearing that over the shoulder boulder holder, especially if I’m going out in public. Sure, at 7:00am when I’m walking Dave, I’ll just grab the leash and put a bulky sweatshirt on to hide the swaying.  I wear white crocs when I’m walking him so people aren’t really looking at my chest, just my lame footwear.

Good bras are pretty comfortable, but free-wheeling is usually better.  (Although that’s questionable if your tits are REALLY big).  Sometimes I’ll put on a tight tank top and call it a day.  Flat but basically secure.  But it makes me wonder, why bother, on a regular basis, with the extra garb?  Because after barely passing the pencil test, I realized I’m living on borrowed boob time.  I need the support. At least while I’m awake.  The minute I’m ready for bed, the bra is the first thing to come off.

I’ve heard that some women wear a bra to bed at night.  Sarah Jessica Parker did it on every episode of Sex in the City, but that’s mainly because she was too much of a prude to show those puppies on camera.   I’m not usually being filmed when I’m sleeping so I think I can feel okay letting them swing between the sheets. But then I wonder, what happens when I wake up?  Do I need to put on a bra right after getting up or can it wait a little while?  Like until 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday?  I’m never sure, but I can tell you I’m not wearing one right now.

Moral of the story, it’s better to want support before you need it.

I like my booze as much as the next person, but I wouldn’t say I have a “problem” with it.  Unfortunately #67 did.  (Or does, he keeps calling me at 2am even though we haven’t gone out in 4 years).  Like bad.  He drank so bad that it made me want to get sober myself.

One night we went out for his birthday.  It was a nice restaurant and his son came with us.  The son that was 21 years old, lived in the apartment and didn’t even go to school.  He just played video games all day.  No wonder #67 was drinking.  Probably made him feel better having realized that his son was a nerdy loser.  (I try not to be judgmental, but being 21, living in your father’s bachelor pad and still getting an allowance?  He wasn’t even cool enough to be a trust fund kid.)

So we go to this fancy Italian restaurant and the first thing #67 does is order a double vodka and cranberry.  And then another one when the appetizer arrived.  While we waited for the main course, the waiter came to ask him if he wanted yet another.    He did.

Then his chicken came.  He started to eat it and spilled the sauce on the tablecloth.  Then his pants.  Not only was part of his food on his shirt, it was dripping from the corner of his mouth.  The fat son was either used to it (probably) or didn’t care, but I asked #67 not to order another drink.  I mean, 3 doubles were enough.  No, agreed on stopping the vodka crans, but ordered an Amaretto with dessert.

I decided that he drank too much even for me and went about ending it as soon as I could.  The last time I saw him, he was drinking a coke.  I was impressed.  But he’s started calling me at 2am and telling me how he fucked up by letting me go so I’m sure he’s hit the bottle again.  I mean, I’m hot, but that level of desperation is actually an insult.

Moral of the story, I’m not big on kids, but if I’m hanging out with a drooler, he should be under the age of 2.

I hate to admit it, I’ve got a Kindle.  I know, I know, I’m contributing to the demise of bookstores.  I love the smell of books and stacks of literature.  I like to wander through the aisles, looking at the covers.  You don’t get that same experience on Amazon.com  But I find that I read more on my Kindle so there you go.  So among my few faults, I’m a literary hypocrite.

Whenever I do go into a bookstore I always like asking for reading suggestions from the staff,  I find them to be resourceful when it comes to finding a particular book.  As someone who can rarely find her keys, I admire someone with that kind of knowledge.

A few years ago, I found myself on the hunt for a specific book.   Ex-Husband #2 had just come out of the closet and I was searching for solace.  There was a book I’d seen online, but it was 2 day shipping and I needed it RIGHT NOW.  So I went into Borders on a mission.

The first place I checked was the self help section.  This was time to focus on me, and I needed any hippy dippy thing I could find.  Nope, not there.   So I went to marriage and sex.  Nope.  I got frustrated and was tired of fighting back the tears.  So I went to the front and inquired of a plain looking saleswoman if they had the book;  “My Husband’s Gay”.

“That’s not good.”

What the fuck!  Was it not hard enough to be going through this situation, then to be judged by this mousy bitch?  She probably hadn’t gotten laid since 1997.  Much to my shock she guided me to the gay and lesbian section and handed the book to me.  Gay and lesbian section.  Isn’t the book for straight women?  And from very personal experience I can tell you, when your husband comes out of the closet, the last place you want to find yourself is in the gay and lesbian section of a bookstore.

The book sucked and made me feel even worse.  The women in the book were in much more dire situations; kids, neighbors and numerous affairs  Mine just had his dick sucked by a couple of transsexuals.  In the end, the only pleasure I got out of the book was making Ex-Husband #2 uncomfortable when I left it on the coffee table for all to see.

Moral of the story, some books are better purchased electronically.

When I found myself newly divorced for the second time, I moved to North Hollywood (no relation to the actual hip Hollywood that is over the hill) and lived in a total shit hole.  There was one wall air conditioner in the living room and it dripped water over my desk.  But it worked and on a 100 degree day, you don’t complain.  Until it doesn’t work.

It was my summer of #61 and there was some serious fucking going on in that dumpy apartment.  He was coming over (and on me) at least once a week and he was a great fuck.  And as much as I didn’t like him we did have fun together.   Even under the worst circumstances.

Even though #61 and I had been banging for about 6 months, I always wanted to look my best.  This was impossible with the power being out and no window in the bathroom.  I hoped that he could at least feel my tits and ass and be pleased.  He usually was and I hadn’t gained any weight over the past week so I just waited for him to come over.

Once he got there, there was nothing to do but fuck.  So we did.  He was a sweat-er and I’m like the River Nile so we got wet and sticky and salty (and cummy) pretty fast.  After an hour, we were both too hot to continue.  So we turned on the shower and jumped in.  In the dark.   The cool water and the darkness were really nice, but he was a big guy, so I kicked him out while I washed myself off and then let him take my place.  He grabbed my boob on his way in.  It was dark and I could only find one towel so I was glad I got to use it first.  Two minutes after drying off I was wet again so we fucked some more.  And then showered again.    It was the best power outage I’d ever experienced.  Summer is coming up and I don’t have air conditioning once again.  Maybe I should find his number again… maybe.

Moral of the story, you can always make the best of a bad situation when you’re naked.

I’ve been madly in love three times.  Madly.  The kind that makes you a crazy person when it’s over.  Yes, Lynn Halsted has debased herself to stalker status.  Don’t be alarmed, no tires were slashed and other than a few too many phone calls and internet searches, no real harm was done to any of the victims.  But yes, it’s happened.

The first time was with #40, in Chicago.  I was madly in love with him and felt tricked when he ended it.  Regardless of his looks (which weren’t that stellar), I was flattered that he was instantly in love with me, but I was too superficial and just wanted to be friends.   And when I moved into his building, we became even better friends.  There were only 6 apartments in the building;  I was on the 2^nd  floor, he on the 3^rd.  There were 17 steps separating us and that number alternated between being small to very large.  Kind of like the breakfast table in Citizen Kane.

#40 and I were self-employed so we were able to spend a lot of time together.  And once we had consummated our relationship, we used that time wisely.  We’d have sex for hours and if we happened to fall asleep, his toothbrush was only 17 steps away.  This was great for about 3 weeks.  Then, suddenly, he decided that it was too intense for him.  That this love was too much.  He wanted to go back to just being friends.

Um, Lynn doesn’t play that game.

Instead of backing off quietly, I made both our lives a living hell.  Being right downstairs, I was able to listen for his comings and goings.  I’d watch him from the roof and since we worked together sometimes, I’d show up early and leave late.  I wrote him poems that I’d leave under his door and made excuses to borrow things.  But those pleasantries only lasted so long.  He got impatient and I got more determined.

After a few weeks it got really ugly.  I lost a dangerous 20 pounds and respect from everyone I knew.  It took me another month before I realized the only way to get over this was to leave town.  For good.  Not one of my prouder moments, to be sure.  I left without ever saying goodbye.

I’ve had other affairs, other disappointments.  But I was always able to make amends with those unfortunate numbers.  But not #40.  Our paths never crossed again.  Until I saw we had mutual friends on Facebook.  He was back on the East Coast.  I decided that I had to do something.  For over 20 years, I felt horribly guilty about my behavior.  It took another year until finally got the courage to email him and apologize.  He never responded.  Fucker.   17 steps or 17 states, that door is finally closed.

Moral of the story, a journey to insanity can begin with a single step.

I have a friend that regularly sends me disgusting emails.  Whether they are about shitting at the office or farting on a plane, they always make me laugh.  Recently, though, she sent me a link to something that made me hover over her contact name and almost hit the delete button.

Like a lot of women, I’ve spent some quality time with a mirror between my legs.   But it’s been more scientific than anything else.  Is that an ingrown hair or do I have herpes?  Did I shave well enough?  Is the Welcome sign still up?  Questions that plague any sexually active girl.  And then I went to the website.

It was for the Large Labia Project.  http://largelabiaproject.tumblr.com/   First I was curious, what constitutes large labia?  If I’m wearing tights, I have to hide the camel toe with a tunic, but are they above average?  I don’t want to have a vagina that’s bigger than my ass.  But I had to see what constituted “large”.  Big mistake.

I was only able to get through 3 photos before feeling queasy.  My reasons for never being sexual with a woman were confirmed.  I’m sure it’s not good form to vomit in someone’s crotch.   I asked my new lesbian friend if labia grossed her out and she just smiled.

Now, I’m not sure if the size of my labia is the norm.  I’m not going to do a side by side comparison any time soon.  I also am not sure if it’s appropriate conversation to have with a number.  Sure, if it’s your regular fuck you might be able to broach the subject, but I haven’t had that option for a while.  I’m not even sure I want the answer.  I don’t need something else to obsess about.  There are operations to correct this but if I were to go under the knife for any aesthetic reason, it’s going to be lipo to get rid of the handrails around my hips.   For the time being, I’ll just focus on the wrinkles around my eyes and not the ones between my legs.

Moral of the story, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

I’m a picky eater and basically eat like a 6 year old, plain hamburgers and a very real fear of mayonnaise.   I have the few vegetables that I’m fond of and that’s it.  But one thing I do love is pancakes.  Fluffy, syrup covered rewards for getting laid.  Most of the time.

Last year, on my birthday, #72 had big plans.  The night before was whatever, but he was excited about the morning.  He was going to make me pancakes from scratch.  What could be better?   Pancakes and then pancakes.  Unfortunately because of a medical issue (more on that after we break up) he couldn’t get it up that morning.  Sure he fingered me until I came, but that’s not good enough.  According to the rules, I can’t have pancakes unless his dick makes a visit inside the puss puss.

“Come on, just this once.  What’s the big deal?”

First of all, I’ve had this rule for the past 25 years, I’m not giving it up for a guy I’m probably not going to be dating in a few months.  Secondly, fuck that shit.  So I told him he had to fuck me or the pancakes were off.  He was pissed but tried to force it.  Oh what fun.  Not!

10 minutes later #72  put some buckwheat pancake mix from Trader Joes in a bowl and looked at the box.  He asked me if canola oil was okay when the recipe called for vegetable oil.  I said I didn’t think so.  I was right.  When he ceremoniously put a plate of three misshapen pancakes in front of me, I faked a smile and poured on the syrup.

The pancakes were as bad as the sex.  I used to be a good actress, but that hobby is long gone.   It was obvious I was once again not impressed with his efforts.

“The first batch is never any good.  I’ll make you some more.”

I forced myself to eat most of them and gushed about how no one had ever made me pancakes before and that it meant so much to me.  It kind of did, but I have to say I’m glad he hasn’t made them since.  We’ve got to work on the pancakes and then the pancakes.

Moral of the story, sometimes fucking and feeding go hand in hand.

I’ve always been a dichotomy;  in high school, on the cross country team, I’d be a sweaty mess at the end of a workout, but be disgusted if the guys were hocking loogeys.  I’m not saying I’ve never stood on a bridge and spit on passing cars, (or even from a balcony) but it’s the kind of thing you do in front of a select audience.  To me, the same applies towards burping.

I get it, you eat or drink too fast and you feel a little extra air rising in your throat.  In my case, I try to swallow it.  I’ve found if you catch it fast enough, you can pass it off as a hiccup.  I know sometimes you can’t help yourself.  We’re all human. But it should be a once in a while thing.  Burping all the time is not becoming on anyone, especially in front of someone you’re fucking.  Take heed #61.

#61 was also a dichotomy.  He would hold the door open for me, paid whenever we went out and always let me cum first, but then he would burp.  Loud.  And often.  And sometimes when we were fucking.   But there was nothing I could do.  I mean, what do you say?  You’re a fucking pig and I can’t believe I’m letting you keep your big, hard dick in me for hours at a time?  I mean, I’ve got manners.

Luckily there came a point in our relationship where it was either going to have to go further or end.  So we ended it.  It wasn’t dramatic.  Basically we both stopped calling.  It’s sad when your major memory of someone is their lack of manners.  Sure it’s funny when my Pops burps my name, but #61, you didn’t make up half my DNA.

Moral of the story, the only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth is how tight my pussy is.  If you feel that requires a sound effect, turn up the stereo.