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.

I was tortured by a Korean woman last week.

A friend brought me to a Korean spa but it was members only and we weren’t members.  But if you got a treatment or a massage, you could get in for $15.  We were already there so I signed up for a Shiatsu massage.

The spa was fine.  Lots of Korean women walking around naked.  My friend walking around naked.  Me walking around naked.  I was in the locker room happily Facebooking our location when a diminutive woman called my number.   83?  I followed her into the massage room.  And that’s where all hell broke loose.

First of all, I was massaged through a sheet the whole time, which was a little weird.  But okay, she’s a germaphobe.   I’m going to say she was from North Korea and had a major chip on her shoulder against Americans because oh sweet Jesus, once she started working my muscles… I wanted to die of pain.  Now, I’m no pussy, but there’s a limit.  And I’m too proud to complain.

Shoulders were fine, go deep, but then she started working my ass and hips.  Fuck me with a sledgehammer, it hurt like a bitch!!!  I mean, I had no idea that my muscles were so tight or that I even had muscles couched in all that hip flab.  I can confidently say, yes, there are muscles in the hip flab that shouldn’t be touched by anyone.

Then I looked behind me.  This woman was STANDING on me.  This whole massage was being done with her feet.  She was hanging from some bar like a sex kitten and walking all over me.  Now, the two husbands were kind of emotionally abusive, but I’ve never paid either of them to torture me for $60..

It hurt so much my nose was running and when I got back to the locker room, my contacts were fuzzy from the tears.  My body is throbbing and not in a good way.  I’m sure I’m going to be bruised tomorrow.   And finally, no one in the spa trimmed their bush.  Not that I was looking, I’m just saying.

Moral of the story, before going for a Korean massage, learn how to say jag-eun laiteo , jebal.  (a little lighter, please).

Despite the fact that I am now considered a lazy pig, I was a runner most of my life.   While running might be good for a high ass, it’s not conducive to having pretty feet.   And while I’m happy I’ve maintained the elusion of a runners body over the years, the ugly “runners feet” have also remained.   And it’s been a problem.  A manicurist once told me I had the worst feet she’d ever seen.  After that, I refused to wear anything but closed toe shoes and socks to bed, even in the summer.

But then, a few years ago, my mother dragged me to Q Nails in Thousand Oaks.   I told my mom what happened but she said I was full of shit and over dramatic.  She shoved me into a spa chair and waved, cute, petite Cindi over.   I slipped off my white Crocs and Cindi looked at my feet.  Miraculously she didn’t vomit, she only told me to pick a color.

Getting a mani/pedi with my mom has become our “thing”.  It’s fun and not only because most of the time she pays.  We gossip, look through magazines we’d never even think of admitting we read and get high on the smell of polish.   Sometimes a little too high.   I don’t shock very easily, but every once in a while, my mom throws me a curve ball.  A few weeks ago, she pitched a doozy.

“How do you have sex from behind?”

I don’t fancy myself as a sex instructor; if you can glean some tips from my escapades, more power to you but that is not the intention.   I just like to share.  But when I looked into my mom’s eyes, I knew she needed some clarification.  I tried to show her the move with my hands and fingers, but that was proving difficult.  So, as I explained how the woman is on her knees with her ass in the air and the guy is behind her, I demonstrated the move on my chair.

“What if he’s fat?  Does his belly get in the way?  Can you still do it?”

The specifics made me suspect.  Not only is my stepfather 83, he’s slightly infirm.  It was obvious my mom was having an affair and she wanted tips of the trade.  I confronted her and she adamantly denied it.  She just wanted to know, for her own edification.   But she didn’t use that word, she just said, forget it.  I can’t.  It was proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Moral of the story, I’m too tall and young to be a Dr. Ruth impersonator.

I was slightly prolific as a child and traveled the world before I was 16.  It was exciting and people thought I was very cultured and smart.  Since then I’ve been to every state in the US and once each to Canada, Mexico, and Barbados.  Not quite the European extravaganza of my youth but I’ve had my share of good adventures.

One place I’ve never been is to Brazil.  The country or the wax job.  I feel like I should do some research for the blog and get it done, but 1) I don’t have the extra $50 and 2) I think it’s a fad that’s run it’s course. (And we all know that Lynn walks to the beat of her own drum) I’ve had my bikini line waxed and while I like pain, having a Thai woman with her hands around my snooch wasn’t my idea of a good time.

When they go full Brazilian on you, they wax your entire puss puss.  Don’t get me wrong, I did the full shave for a while and I know that looking like a 6-year old girl is great when fucking a pedophile but now that I’ve decided it’s not my core dating demographic, I simply shave the edges and trim the bush.  Trimming is essential, you don’t want someone’s fingers getting tangled up in a jungle of pubes.  But don’t forget, the same concept applies to the hair around your asshole.

Everyone over the age of 16 has hair around their asshole.  The issue isn’t whether you’ve got it, but how to get rid of it.   While the Brazilian Wax takes care of this, I will continue to shave mine.  Here’s the thing, there is something really satisfying about getting visual confirmation that your asshole is indeed bare.  I like to look at the razor after I’ve swiped it over my crack.  Yes it worked and wow I should have done this a week ago.  Can you get the same proof of hair removal when getting it waxed by an esthetician?  It’s not like you can sit up, feel the area and ask to look at the cloth.  Sure, they sometimes show you the removed hair when you get your eyebrows waxed, but your ass?  I prefer to be disgusting in the privacy of my shower.  And the blog.  You’re welcome.

Moral of the story, you should think twice about borrowing someone’s razor.  Especially mine.

http://jezebel.com/5974520/curating-your-sex-life-why-and-how-we-keep-lists-of-everyone-weve-slept-with-tk

Call me self centered, but I thought I was the only one.  Sigh.  But at least I’m the funniest, right?

I’ve been dumped, officially dumped, maybe six times.  Usually the guy just stops calling or writing and fades away.  But recently, I was bonafide DUMPED.  Don’t worry, #72 and I are still together.  The offending party was my pen pal.  The one on Death Row.  I’m not sure what is worse, that I was writing a guy on Death Row or that he dumped me.  But last week, he did.

Let me back track.  On a whim, under a pseudonym, I set up a virtual mailbox that has a physical address.  They receive the letters, scan them and send them to my alias email.  Easy, right?  Don’t worry, I’m protected.  That said, we’d been exchanging letters and emails for about two months.  It’s been strange but satisfying.  I wanted to know how prisoners really feel about doing time and also, see for myself if these guy are animals or just products of a bad childhood.  According to the things I read about his crime on the internet, #08596007 was both.

His history of being a crack dealer isn’t the worst of it.  #08596007 murdered multiple people; including stabbing a young woman 82 times while her baby daughter crawled around on the floor in the next room. Finding this out about him didn’t end it for us.  No, I was doing some kind of perverse research for who knows what.  HE dumped ME because I wouldn’t give him my cell number.

I have a very nice speaking voice and am open to breathing heavy on the phone if requested.  I also think having a guy jerk off on the other end of the line is a compliment.  But this just felt gross.  I’m no prude, but knowing a guy was pulling his pud thinking about me in an 8×8 cell isn’t a turn on.  Him being an ex-crack dealer and murderer, I should have known we weren’t going to discuss the meaning of life but still, I didn’t want to be his whack off material and I definitely wasn’t going to give him my real number.

I keep thinking about that idea of, “You are judged by the company you keep.”  It made me think, I don’t normally associate with mass murderers, even ones that send me birthday cards (Yes, he did that).   Sure I got some good intel on the difference between the “fed” and “state” pens.  I now know they don’t get special meals on holidays and only limited access to cable.   But by keeping my cell phone number to myself, my experiment with writeaprisoner.com is over.  I will delete my virtual mailbox and call it a day.  Besides, I’ve got someone who’s playing with my REAL box and he got me a birthday card, too.

Moral of the story, it’s better to be stabbed with a dick than a knife.

Even though I haven’t been a “girlfriend” very often, I feel that my two marriages, however short, have given me some street cred when it comes to talking about intimacy.  I think there are a lot of levels of openness in a relationship, but some of them should stay closed.

I’m not big on bodily functions.  Sure we joke about it in my family.  Farting is one of our favorite topics, but no one I’m fucking needs to know this.   I understand, once you are living with someone, you can only hold it in for so long.  But there are certain things you should NEVER do in front of anyone else.

Ex-Husband #2 and I were at his parent’s house in North Carolina for Christmas.  We had just fucked on the fold-out bed and were feeling pretty lovey dovey.  We had to get ready for lunch and we were in the bathroom together.  I had to pee, (which is something you can easily do in front of someone after a month) so I sat down, naked on the toilet, while he brushed his teeth.  Something about the sitting and the recent fucking and all the coffee I’d drunk that morning, I needed to do a little more.  Immediately.  I told Ex-Husband #2 that he should get go get dressed, and close the door on his way out.    He asked me why and I said just go.

Things were getting serious and I knew there wasn’t much time before I couldn’t hold it any longer.  I told him again, leave or you’ll be sorry.   He refused and laughed.  No matter what I did, he would not get the fuck out of the bathroom.  But he wouldn’t.

I waited as long as I could.  Until I couldn’t.  So I did.

“Are you shitting?!  You totally are.  That’s disgusting!  I can’t believe you’re shitting in front of me!”

I reminded him that I told him to get the fuck out and he wouldn’t.  That this was his fault.  He just laughed.   I was mortified.  Obviously we’d broken through the final barrier of gross.  Soon after that, he started texting me pictures of his shit before he flushed.  This kept up until we broke up.  Thank god for small favors.  And the delete button.

Moral of the story, just because you’re in a relationship doesn’t mean you should do everything together.

I’ve tried reading porn on my computer, but getting hot and bothered in my desk chair is not conducive to maintaining the leather.   Besides, most of the internet porn I was reading wasn’t that good.  I decided I needed something more portable.  Conveniently enough, I discovered “Under the Roofs of Paris” by Henry Miller.  Part of the reason I like Henry Miller is his reputation.  In the 30’s and 40’s  his books were banned and deemed obscene.  He was a literary rebel.  He also used words like cunt and cock and whore, sandwiched between some multi-syllabolic SAT words.

I was taking  a short trip from LA to Denver and didn’t want to dive into a novel.  As I perused Barnes and Nobles, I saw a collection of Henry Miller short stories and thought it might be a perfect way to pass the time at 32,000 feet.    I had no idea what was to be found inside.

I had a middle seat, but it was at the bulk head so it wasn’t too bad.  To my right was a businessman, (not cute) and to my left, a nun.  She was wearing a full habit and smiled at me when I squeezed into my seat.  I get a little motion sickness so I decided to wait until the “fasten seatbelt” light went off before diving into my book.

The first short story was about a whore watching a father inappropriately touch his young daughter.  Incest, child pornography and an illegal (in most states) profession, all before Page 3.   The fact that I was sitting next to a nun didn’t help, and I kept wondering if she was reading over my shoulder.  I was curious about how much more depraved Henry could get.  Turns out, a lot.

Now I have no desire to fuck a midget (little person) or have a drunk Frenchman piss up my ass, but there was some good fucking in between the lines.   And that’s what I focused on.  So it should be a shocker that I was getting turned on.  I looked to my left, and the nun smiled at me.   I blushed.  Yes, Lynn blushes sometimes.  But the immortality started to get to me and after a few more pages, I had to put it back in my bag. I promised myself I’d never read it again.

Some promises are meant to be broken.  Since then, “Under The Roof’s of Paris” has been my go to porn book for around 10 years, hidden in the back of my nightstand.  When I tell people I masturbate reading Henry Miller, they think I’m cool.  Obviously they haven’t actually read much Henry Miller.

Moral of the story, after writing this post, I think I need some new late night reading material….

One of my best features has always been my eyes.  They are light blue with a ring of yellow that gives them a splash of green in the center.  Kind of unique and with long lashes, the highlight of my slightly quirky face.  I remember in high school, I was supposed to win the Best Eyes category for seniors but some bitch with colored contacts took that title from me by 10 votes.  But I’m over it.  Really.

In addition to the fact that you can actually SEE out of them, eyes are pretty cool.  And even though I’ve worn contacts (clear ones, just for the record, my eyes are NATURALLY blue, unlike some people I knew in high school) for years and years, I think it’s weird to have anything extra in your eyes; whether it be a contact lens, an eyelash, or sperm.

I like a pearl necklace now and again, but I think all shooting of your wad should stay below the chin.  I came to this conclusion the hard way.   After an hour or so of hard core fucking, my puss puss needed a time out.  Ex-Husband #1 decided it was the perfect opportunity to titty fuck me.   He climbed on top of me and squatted over my chest.  I laid back and let him do his thing.  Big mistake.

“I’m going to cum.”

It happened fast and I was freshly fucked so my reaction time was compromised.   Within seconds, he shot cum in my face.  Oddly enough, my mouth closed before my eyes did. My hands instinctively went to my face, but it was too late.  Sperm swam into my corneas and burned.  A lot.  It hurt so much it made a dirty contact feel good.  Ex-Husband #1 started laughing and I shoved him off me, threatening to never fuck him again.  At least not with my eyes open.  (Besides, I preferred being blindfolded anyway.  He wasn’t that cute.)

Moral of the story, lots of sports require protective eye gear.  Even fucking.

I’ve never done a threesome.  There was a time when it was all Ex-Husband #1 wanted to do.  I was too prudish, or scared, to go through with it, also the idea of eating pussy isn’t something that has ever appealed to me.  And I’m not selfish enough to expect that she would just go down on me and I wouldn’t have to reciprocate.  Two men freaks me out a little bit, too, because while I like to be the center of attention, there is something about too many dicks on this dance floor.  Pulling a train is a nice idea, but not something I really want to do.  But the idea of a threesome always gets me a little wet, even if I’m never going to actually do it.

Until the other night.

Every few months I go through this domestic phase where I want to cook and clean and wear dresses.  But of course it’s still me, so if I’m cooking and cleaning in a dress, I make sure not to wear panties.   It was a Weds night and I had just made dinner for #72.  It turned out really well and unfortunately we finished everything off our plates.  Clean plates = too full to fuck.  But he offered me a massage to show his gratitude, so I said sure.

#72 planted himself on the couch next to the cat, and I sat on the floor in front of him, with Dave at my feet.  I pulled my knees up and pushed my butt as far back between his legs as possible.  I closed my eyes and felt his fingers press into my muscles.   I started thinking about how nice the night was, even if my pussy wasn’t getting any action.

And then it did.  For one brief second.  Maybe two.   But no more than that.

Dave.  I immediately shoved his snout out of my snooch and dropped my legs, horrified.     I don’t’ know what is worse, the fact that I had a dog’s nose in my pussy or that #72 was a witness to it.   Either or, I was mortified and disgusted and decided that along with threesomes, bestiality is not on my sexual ToDo list.  I’ve heard stories, first hand, about dog’s licking their owner’s pussies (yes, a friend of mine had a dog that did that, and she carried that dog’s photo in her wallet), but that was not going to be me.  Besides, Dave is family.  That brings up another set of issues I’d rather not deal with.   Lesson learned, no more sitting on the floor without panties.

Moral of the story, a man with a bad reputation is the only dog I’m ever going to fuck.  Sorry Dave.