One Hour And Fifteen Minutes


Until I am a virgin again.

I really hoped it would not come to this.

Come how funny.

How inappropriately appropriate.


Well, actually, there has not been much fucking around here lately.  My pillows, which were for significantly upgraded to help me “Call in the One” are now just comfort pillows.

I have actually found myself cuddling them a couple of times.


Beating chest in anguish.

Ok, so perhaps I exaggerate a little.  But my God, really, a year?  Again.  I have had this “dry” cycle happen before.  Did I use up all my sex tickets?

I know I used up all my drink tickets.

And some of yours, and some of his, and some of hers.

I also used up all my cocaine tickets, and then some.

Oops, I didn’t mean to snort your line, that was yours?  Well, too bad, sorry, you left the table, duh, I mean, no I didn’t do yours, how rude of you to imply that!

But come on, there’s got to be some sex left out there for me.


One hour and ten minutes.

Of course, my plans were foiled, I found out that the person I was interested in, is, yes, that’s right, out-of-town for the weekend.


Obviously that won’t be happening.

Not that I would have approached him tonight if I saw him and said, “hey, blank, wanna go screw?”

I would have said something akin to, “I think your attractive, if you think I’m attractive, let’s do coffee.”  Then I could take it from there.  Or not.  At least I could put the fantasy to rest and get on with my singleness.


Just off to sadly troll OKSTupid.

It’s the weekend.


No one is on OkStupid at this hour except hook up artists, sad sacks, and me.  So, I got off it.  I suppose I could do something on my “Friday” night.  But honestly, after getting done with work and riding up into Noe Valley, into the beginning of the fog soup, and doing the deal, and getting some groceries, I did not have a whole lot of get up and go left in me.

Ironically,  I do now.

But that’s because I am feeling sassy and my hair looks good.  I had it up all day long and I just let it down and it is curly and soft and pretty.  I feel pretty and I wore make up today, yeah, the eye lids are fully healed!  So, of course I am feeling like I should be out there making moves on the single world.

It’ll happen when I am not looking on the way to some where when I am dirty and dishevelled.  That’s how it always works.  No body has sex when they are clean and spiffy and fresh from the shower (unless they are already hooking it up) and pretty and dressed all nice.

I am not complaining, for the record, I am just stating some facts that I find interesting.

I officially designate myself as a virgin again after a year without sex, it has not yet been scientifically proven.



I look the best I have ever looked.


Not that I have ever been unattractive.

Oh, take that back, I have too.  Mostly, though, I have acted in unattractive ways.  See cocaine reference above.


I have also had some serious fashion faux pas, strange hair cuts, and lack of personal grooming.  I am not saying I have a mono brow, but these puppies do need a little plucking and tending to.  I have also gone through phases when I was depressed or suicidal and the effort of getting in and out of a shower seemed beyond my capabilities.

Now, well, let’s put it this way, that does not happen at all.

I am showered, groomed, plucked, shaved, washed, conditioned, lotioned, perfumed, made up.


But, god damn.

I look good.

I do not know what the Universe has planned for me, and really, it’s not my business, but could there be some nookie in the near future?

Forty five minutes.

It’s fantasy land up in here.

I half expect some one to knock at the door and sweep me off my feet and right on to my very nearby bed.

But the only knock that I can expect at this time of night is from my neighbors telling me to turn down the stereo.

I still have The Mynabirds going on pretty constant rotation.  Just going to pause and sing my song for a moment here.

I know tomorrow is Sunday, but I might have to put on some sexy shoes and stomp around the Mission for a moment.

I am meeting John Ater for breakfast at Boogaloos.

Of course, if I show up at Boogaloos wearing sky-high platform Steve Maddens in black suede, at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning, no one would blink an eye, stylish walk of shame, but nope, I would be coming fresh and spiffy from my morning meditation and writing practise.

Just might do it none the less.

Celebrate my anniversary in style, so to speak.

I could go solicit some companionship, I still have a few minutes left here before the clock strikes midnight and I turn into a pumpkin.

A damn sassy pumpkin.


The New Virgin














I won’t be celebrating a two year anniversary.

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