The Aussie

Before I went on vacation at the end of the summer, I decided to get some lash extensions. I’ve had them in the past and love them. They really brighten up your face and add a little something special, even when you’re not wearing any makeup. For anyone who has never had them, or doesn’t know what they entail, let me tell you about them. You lay on a bed for an hour or more, and the lash technician puts a sticky bandage type thing underneath your eyes. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a little uncomfortable if they don’t get it quite right because it can pull at your bottom lashes and skin. Don’t be afraid to tell them if it’s too uncomfortable. Then they glue lashes onto your own individual lashes. My eyes are a little sensitive and the glue irritates them a bit, but beauty is pain, right? RIGHT? The finished product is worth it, but you do have to take care of them. Try not to get them wet, don’t use oil-based makeup removers, if you feel like you need to use mascara, don’t use waterproof mascara and only use it on the tips, don’t rub your eyes, don’t pull on them, try not to sleep on them, don’t use eyelash curlers, and make sure you brush them out. Ok, so I know that sounds like a pain in the ass, and it is, but whatever. Still worth it. If you take care of them, they’ll last 3-4 weeks before you feel like you really need a fill. The lashes will fall out with your own natural lashes, but will obviously go sooner if you’re rough with them. When I had them done before my trip to Jamaica a few years ago, being in the pool and ocean all week meant they didn’t last as long as I was used to. So anyways, I decided to get them before going on vacation.
I was at a wedding in Wenatchee, Washington and a friend and myself drove back, up through BC and Alberta on our way back to Saskatchewan. We stopped for a couple of nights in Kelowna. Now, I had been on Tinder for most of the trip, checking out what Washington had to offer and had talked to a few men. None of them really interested me much though. I found the same thing when we got to Kelowna. There were some good looking men there, but none sparked my interest too much. There were a couple I talked to a decent amount (as much as you can in 24 hours lol), but they both got super intense. The one still messages me now that I’m home, even though we never met, and wants to come visit me. The other one hasn’t messaged me for a bit now, but he was really into the idea of waking up next to me and spending a day with me. I was not into that. But I did find someone that I WAS into. I can’t say for sure what it was about him. Maybe it was how he made me laugh, or maybe it was his Australian accent, or maybe it was the walking tour of a distillery and two craft breweries I’d done that afternoon. Whatever it was, we had chemistry and he asked if I wanted to have a drink. He said he had a bottle of wine that was begging to be tasted (funnily enough, that wine and I had a lot in common). I told him I was travelling with a friend and that maybe we should go to his place. The problem with that? His place is a van. Stop laughing. He’s an urban planner in Australia, but he really loves BC. So he works in Australia and then takes time off to travel through BC. To do that, he bought a van that he drives around, and sometimes sleeps in when he’s not couch surfing with friends. So I asked my friend if he would mind doing some site-seeing in Kelowna by himself for a couple of hours. He was happy to do so. He’s no clam-jammer!

Aussie comes over with a lovely bottle of wine and tells me about his life, asks me questions, and is a genuinely nice guy. We drink the bottle and he puts the moves on. I love a great makeout and he did not disappoint. He really loved my hair too, everything from the colour to how long and thick it is and he couldn’t stop touching it. His dick was uncut, but I’m not that fussy about it, as long as it’s clean. Wine and dick cheese is not my idea of a good time. He was really concerned about me getting off, which was awesome. He worked really hard at it, figuring out what I liked and listening to my directions. He had a move I’ve never really experienced before too. When he first started doing it, I was laying there thinking, who gave this guy his medical degree? Am I due for a pap already? Is this guy checking on my ovaries? But then I quickly got on board with what he was doing. While he used one hand to slip a couple fingers in and massage my g-spot, he use the other hand to push down on my lower belly. The extra pressure from both sides on my g-spot was incredible! I lended my own hand to the cause it wasn’t long before our teamwork paid off and I was a happy girl. He was rock fucking hard up until he put on the condom. Then, not so much. But, like I said, I’m a team player, and, eager to repay all his hard work, I gave him a blow job. He kneeled in front of me and as he got closer to cumming, he put his hands in my hair and started pulling my head in closer to him. Every time I’d come in after the back swing, I could feel my eyelashes hitting his pelvis and all I could think was, “OMG MY LASHES!!!” I mean, they were only a week old! Hurry the fuck up, amiright ladies?!

He came, my lashes were mostly intact, we made out some more, and he texted to make sure I made it home from BC. Thanks, Aussie.

St Fatrick’s Day

I think we can all relate to having someone try to make us feel back about ourselves, whether it be a backhanded comment or a blatant in-your-face insult. I was not a popular kid growing up. I had a couple close friends and I got along pretty well with most people, but I was definitely not part of the “in” crowd. It’s unbelievable to me that even in a school of only 120 kids, kindergarten to grade 12, cliques still managed to exist. What’s even more unbelievable is that when I make a trip home and run into the so-called popular kids as adults, most of them still think they’re a part of this socially constructed group with made-up prerequisites established between a bunch of mutually self-loathing individuals. As kids, these people deliberately said things to me and about me to make me feel bad about how I looked. It wasn’t constant, but even so, as soon as I was able to pick the classes I could take, I chose not to participate in gym class. Because it didn’t matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. I was never good enough. I was too slow, too uncoordinated, too nerdy, too unpopular, too whatever. So I chose to remove myself from those 40 minute reminders of all that. I kept a lot of my feelings bottled up, never talking about them, telling myself it didn’t matter, that what they thought and said didn’t matter, while secretly, desperately, wanting to be friends with them. And not even because I thought they were cool or good-looking or funny (because they weren’t), but because I wouldn’t have to feel I didn’t belong and the boys wouldn’t make jokes about never wanting to date me.

I recall the time I wore a pink dress to school. I think it was about grade 2. It was recess and it was by the monkey bars and one of the boys in my class told me I looked pretty. It still makes me smile when I think about it. But moments like that were few and far between. So when I was 13 and visiting some family at the lake and a cute boy from the next town asked me if I would go to a movie with him, I was skeptical and I thought he was setting me up for something. I said no.

God, writing this out, I wish I could travel back in time and tell myself that I was right. That these people and the things they said really don’t matter. That these experiences would be short-lived and in the future, I would have an amazing circle of friends who love me unconditionally and I would find out that men DO want to date me. And they want tosleep with me. Like, A LOT of men want these things. And I get to choose which ones I let into my life and my bed. And on the couch and over the kitchen table and against the truck and in the pool and so on and so forth.

This got a little deeper than I had intended. (Thatswhatshesaid!) But I wanted to set up some background for my thoughts on the events that took place this past St Patrick’s Day. And I feel a little nervous that I just bared a piece of my soul to you.

So, it’s St Patrick’s Day. And I look good. I mean, really good. Both men and women were hitting on me. And I feel good. I head out to my favourite pub, O’hanlon’s, with a couple of my best friends and the beer starts flowing. We are laughing and joking around and dancing and having a great time when a cute young man comes over and starts talking to us. I couldn’t really hear most of the conversation that was happening with him, but I caught snippets of something at the end before he walked away and can see the disgusted looks on the faces of my friends. I asked what he said and it was something like, “Yeah, well I only came over here because my friends dared me to find out how much your combined weight is.” I laaaauuuughed! Because, how ridiculous! Who says shit like that? But I could see that both of my friends were affected by it, and offended, for themselves and for me. I tried to joke it off, but it didn’t work. A short time later, one of my friends and I were upstairs and saw him again. Well, my friend saw him. I didn’t even register that it was the same guy. He wanted to go over and lose it on him, but I said no, I would go.

So I go over to where this guy, kid really, is talking to his friend and our conversation goes something like this:

Me: Hey

D-bag Jones: Hi

Me: What makes you think it’s ok for you to insult me and my friends like you did?

D-bag Jones: Your girfriend made fun of me.

Me: So? You couldn’t handle it like the joke that it was and needed to make a fat joke to insult everyone? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Asshat Martin (friend of D-bag Jones): Hey, you can’t just come over here and start talking to him like that!

Me: *turns to Asshat* Shut up, no one is talking to you, your friend was an asshole and needs to hear why it’s ok not to behave that way. *turns to D-bag* You’re a douche. My friends are beautiful and amazing. You can make any joke you want about me, but fuck you. I am 350 pounds and confident and sexy as fuck and *gets cut off by D-bag*

D-bag Jones: I know! You are! You’re so sexy! You’re hot. You’re the reason I came over, because I wanted to talk to you.

Me: Uh. Well then what the fuck is wrong with you?! Why would you say something that immediately eliminated any chance with me?

D-bag Jones: Because I’m insecure. Your friend made fun of me and my instinct was to be a dick. I’m really sorry. (I studied him for a moment. He seemed sincere.)

Me: You should be sorry. And you should be apologizing to my friends. Be a better person.

I turned around and walked away, never noticing him again.

This incident did not make me feel bad about myself, but it did make me think the next day about how no one should have to put up with shit like that. Why should I have had to spend the last 34 years working so hard at loving and accepting myself and giving zero fucks because cunts like that exist in both child and adulthood? Why should my friends? Why should you?

Maybe a month or so after that, I was out and made some new friends at a club and we ended up at O’hans again. Again, I looked good. Really good. And I didn’t notice some girls noticing me when we walked in. But my new friends did. And after we got a drink, the one told me he told these girls to shut up because of some comment they made about me. I don’t know what it was, but it was in regards to the dress I was wearing, which hugs every soft, delicious curve on my body, and they obviously didn’t think I should be wearing it. At this point in my life, I choose to let it go. It’s not always easy, but I try to remember one thing: It must be hard to look at me and be filled with the very real fear that I could steal your boyfriend with just a wink and a smile.

Dumbass Roommate: Part 3

Ok, so I give him notice and I tell him that if he wants to keep any of the stuff I’m using, he’s welcome to it. I am moving into a small apartment and need to get of so much stuff, so he’d be doing me a favour by taking it anyways. I do this in a text. No response. The only time he responds to me is when I ask him a direct question. I tell him that he needs to clean his room because the landlord will want to show it to prospective tenants. And I make a point to tell him he should air his bedroom out and make sure it smells ok. Even with the door closed, it had a rather…pungent odour. If I were to tell you it smelled like teenage boy, would you know what I meant? If not, read this:

This fresh, woody fragrance is effervescent with dark, musky notes of body odour, feet, stale beer, and semen. A fragrance of contrasts, it is a unique, aromatic combination.

Imagine testing that out in Sephora. Or getting in a 3-wick at Bath and Body Works. Maybe it could be the latest fragrance from Viktor & Rolph. Spicebomb Junior.

Try not smelling that now. You can’t. Once smelled, it cannot be unsmelled. Even in your imagination.

He did tidy up. The smell was less pronounced once he aired the room out and covered it with some air freshener.

I purge a lot of my stuff, sell a lot, and still I haven’t heard from him about the things I let him use. So I have to ask again. He says no, he won’t be needing to take anything with him. Ok. This kid who moved in with almost nothing besides his clothes a tv doesn’t need any furniture. Sure. I tell him to clean everything up then and take it out of his room so I can try and sell it. He moves the shelves out, but is still using the bed. Which is fine. Until the day comes when I have someone coming to take a couple loads of garbage to the dump. He hasn’t moved the bed out yet so I go into his room to pull the mattress out and put it in the yard. I lift it up off the floor (remember, he put the box spring back in the garage shortly after moving in and had the mattress directly on the floor) and there’s a wet spot. I should have taken a picture of this, but I was so perplexed, i didn’t even think about it. Where did this wet spot come from? It had obviously been there awhile because the sheet on the mattress wasn’t wet. But underneath the mattress was. And when I looked at the bottom of the mattress, there were a bunch of holes in it. 15-20 small holes that I assume had been eaten through by mould. WTF happened? Did he spill a glass of water? Did he spill beer? Did he piss the bed? I don’t know. But it was weird. He obvious spilled something and then didn’t clean it up and just kept sleeping on it. Probably for weeks. The worst part was that the guy I had hauling the garbage away probably wondered wtf was wrong with me after seeing that mattress with the holes. Oh, and I had lent him some bedding when he moved in because he didn’t even come with a blanket. I don’t know what happened to the blankets, but I saw them in the garbage. I guess if they were anything like the mattress, the garbage is exactly where they belong instead of turning me into Regina’s very own Outbreak monkey. 

On the day that I was cleaning the house, he was a big help. Seriously. I wasn’t expecting him to do much more than clean his bedroom, but he spent the whole day cleaning with me. I had talked to the landlord and we were going to wait until the next week to do the walk through because they were really busy and I didn’t mind waiting. So I go to leave and my roommate asks me about the damage deposit. The entire year and a half we lived together, he had zero common sense, knew nothing about living on his own or with other people, but he knew that he had a damage deposit coming back to him. I told him it would probably be the next week. I felt a little bad because it was the long weekend coming up and he could probably use the money since he had no job. But that wasn’t my problem. All the times this kid made me wait for rent money, he could wait an extra week.

When I got my damage deposit back, I texted him and said I would e-transfer it to him. He asked if I could meet him somewhere and give him cash. He was overdrawn on his account and he was trying to move to Winnipeg and could use all the money he could get. Fair enough, we’ve all been there. So I tell him to meet me at the Cornwall downtown at 2pm the next day. That works for him. I get there early, do a bit of shopping and at 155 I text him to tell him I’m by the escalators. 10 minutes later, I text him to ask if he’s in the mall and will be there soon because I have to leave in 10 minutes for work. No response. I hang out for another 15 minutes and then I leave to go to work. At 240, he texts me saying he was helping his grandma with something and waiting out the rain and was on his way. I shouldn’t be surprised that he thought I’d still be waiting around around for him. I told him I’d already left, so he said ok, just transfer the money then. So I did. The next day he texts me and gives me his email address to transfer the deposit to. I say I sent it yesterday to his phone number and ask if he got the text notification about it. He informs me that his phone was cut off so he can only use iChat when he’s on wifi. So I have to cancel the transfer and resend it. And that’s the last contact I’ve had with him. Hopefully he made it to Winnipeg. Obviously all the stories are the funny/weird/gross/dumbass ones, but he is also a nice guy. He was always good about pet sitting when I was away and doing the things I asked him to do, like shovel snow, or clean something up, and he didn’t smoke crack or steal my stufd. So I wish him the best. And now I am living in a small apartment with zero human roommates, life is good, and I am naked all of the time!

Jamaica, 2014

I can’t believe this never got published! My apologies. It’s actually good that I discovered it now because my current sex life is not that exciting. Well, there are some juicy bits about it, but I can’t share them yet. So here’s Jamaica instead! Oh, and if you’d like to read about the pilot I met in Jamaica, that one was written awhile and you can read it here.

I recently went to Jamaica for a wedding. I was a sexual force of nature! Seriously, I don’t know what it was this time, but I was on fire! My confidence grows with every passing year, and the older I get, the more comfortable I get with my sexuality, my body, and giving zero fucks about what other people think. I do what I want. I own the things I do. I do not regret them because I do not use sex to feel loved. During my week in Jamaica, I had various forms of sex in a men’s bathroom stall, an employee hallway, a regular hallway, a suite, and the disco. All of it was hot and primal.

Everytime I stepped outside our suite, my musk was calling to them. After a couple of days, my friend declared, “I might as well be invisible when I’m walking around with you!” At earlier points in my life, I probably would have been uncomfortable with all the attention, but it was certainly not uncomfortable for me to be eye-fucked every time I passed a man last week. Instead, it was a real ego boost.

Some examples of things that were said to me:

“Are you having a good time? Would you like to have a better time?”
“I want to have your lips tattooed on my body” (I asked if I could put them anywhere. The answer was yes)
“I’ll put a baby in you ;)”
After Lindsey told one bartender I was a virgin (stop laughing), he said “I will eat the virgin right out of you!”

My friend also stated, “When a Jamaican man finds you attractive, you know it right away.” I thought about this for a second and replied, “True, but thinking back on how some of the conversations with these men have started, it might not always be them. We definitely instigate some of it. And by “we”, I mean me.” Examples:
We get into a resort “cab” (Our resort was huge so they would drive you around on carts). The driver (Peach) starts going, but doesn’t ask where we’re going.
Me: Where are you taking us?
Peach: Where do you want to go?
Me: Where do you live?
Peach: *Looks back at us, gives me the up and down, smiles* Sure, I’ll take you back to my house!

We’re out for our last supper in Jamaica. I order the fried snapper. It’s a whole fish fried, and it has a face. I ate up to the head. Our server comes to clear our plates.
Server: You know, in Jamaica, the head is the best part.
Me: Well, I do love some good head.
Server: What did you say?!
Me: I’m full.
Server: You girls are trouble!

It’s the wedding reception and our bartender, Nathan, makes a non-alcoholic beverage for the kids and the pregnant woman. It’s pretty good and we all order one. He’s being pretty quiet and respectful. It is a wedding after all.
Other guests: What’s this drink called?
Nathan: It doesn’t have a name.
Me: I’m going to call it the “Juicy Nate”!
Me: I want one with alcohol!
Nathan: Oh, you mean you want the “Bad Boy Nathan!”
Me: hahahaha Yes.
Nathan later made me a paper flower and a new drink which he informed me through a whisper was his “Pimp Juice”. If that was his pimp juice, I don’t know what you’d call what I had in my mouth a few days later!

Speaking of pimp juice, Jamaica taught me that the rumour about pineapple juice is true.

The men in Jamaica are very territorial and get jealous easily. I’ve watched them literally chase each other away from the woman they desire. One of my “boyfriends” worked in the Sportsbar. He was the one who wanted to eat the virgin right out of me. He also invited me to meet his mother and go to church with them and wondered what my parents would think if I brought a black man home to meet them. I said I imagined they’d be ecstatic if I brought anyone home if he promised to get me pregnant. His name was Gregory and he had zero idea about personal space. I was very hot in the sportsbar when you weren’t in front of a fan, but luckily I had Gregory to come around the bar to where I was sitting on my stool and dab at my forehead with a napkin. One of the nights I was in the disco, I was talking to a guy I had never seen before. We chatted for quite awhile at the end of the night, but that was all that happened. The next day, Gregory was super cold to me so I asked him what was up. He was upset because the bartenders talk and he thought I had hooked up with this other guy. I told him it wasn’t any of his business what I did or with who, but that fyi, I did not hook up with this other guy. I kept the other two bartenders from previous nights to myself though. I’m not an idiot. I still wanted a drink waiting for me whenever I walked into the bar. Sadly for Gregory, our love was not meant to be. Maybe in another time, in another life, in another reality where I didn’t nail all his coworkers.

Dumbass Roommate: Part 2

Shortly after my roommate had first moved in, he asked me if I had a pair of nail clippers he could borrow. I gave him a spare pair I had, not the pair I use all the time. He takes it into his room and returns a minute later apologizing because he broke my nail clippers. He was trying to cut his toenails and they broke my nail clippers. They broke them. Right in half. Speaking of toenails, the one day, I woke up and went to have a bath and sink down into the bathtub and something catches my eye. I turn and look and sitting on the shelf by the tub at eye level are the thickest, yellowest pieces of toenail that I’ve ever seen in my life. I started gagging and had to cover them up. When my bath was finished, I used some tissue to gather them up and then sprinkled them in his bed.

There was a night, early on when we lived together when I went out. It was a Friday night and a friend and I had gone for drinks and dancing and I arrived home in the wee hours of Saturday morning and went to bed. The house was quiet. I’m snuggled in my bed, sleeping off the booze when I wake up to my blankets being ripped off my naked body and a female voice telling me she’s cold and to move over. I’m groggy and hungover and start to move over, my immediate thought being that my friend spent the night on the couch and didn’t have enough blankets. Then remembered I came home alone and I don’t know who the fuck is talking to me. I roll over and open my eyes and it’s some girl I’ve never seen before and she’s still telling me she’s cold and to let her in the bed. I say something along the lines of, “What? Who are you? Why are you in my room? Get out!” “But I’m cold.” “I don’t fucking care, get out.” “Just let me get in and warm up for a little bit.” “No! Are you fucking kidding me? Get the fuck out of my room!” “But..” “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING BEDROOM!!!” She finally leaves and I go back to sleep. I wake up a little while later and can hear music and assume she’s watching TV way louder than she needs to be, so I get up, I go out into the house and she’s on the couch and has my roommate’s alarm clock and is passed out with the radio blasting. I turn it off and go back to my room and back to bed. By the time I wake up again, she’s finally gone. The next time I see my roommate, I tell him what happened and he apologizes profusely, he had no idea, and assures me it won’t happen again.

It was always a little weird whenever he had people over. He rarely spent any time in the house that wasn’t in his bedroom. So they would hang out in his bedroom. And he would never answer the door. He would be expecting his friend or brother to come over and he’d be sleeping. I’d be watching TV and then have to answer the door. I wouldn’t have actually answered the door except that our front door was never locked because the door didn’t shut properly. We had a sun porch, so there was a second door that we kept locked (after I had to make it clear to him that yes, we do in fact lock the door to the house when we leave), but anyone could come in the front door and then see through the windows in the door into the house. This meant that when I was sitting on the couch watching TV, it was impossible to ignore the face looking through the window. Believe me, I tried. And whenever I left for a few days, I would always come home to his brother hanging out in the livingroom. Alone. He would be in his room, usually sleeping, and his brother would just be hanging out watching tv, not cleaning up after himself. I didn’t mind him having his brother being over, but even when he knew I would be home, he wouldn’t make sure his brother took off. The one time I left for a few days and came back, I walked in and the house stunk like cooking oil. Like, really stunk. And his brother was on my couch eating homemade fries and bannock. I asked where Jesse was and he said sleeping. The cooking would have been ok, except that shortly after I came home, he left and didn’t clean up after himself. And neither did Jesse. There was oil EVERYWHERE. They had used both of my frying pans for this little adventure and completely ruined one of them. I’m surprised there wasn’t a fire started. All the paper towel was gone (of which I was the only one to ever buy). And there was food left out. I finally ended up cleaning the kitchen because he left and didn’t come home for a couple of days.

The key. Obviously when he moved in, I have him a key to the house. After a couple weeks of realizing he never locked the door, I had to tell him to lock the door. I thought that was common sense, but it was not. I had a spare key in the bbq, just in case. I’ve been known to lose a key or two in my day, so it’s always a good idea for me to have a spare around. My parents came to visit for Agribition in November and I met them at the event. We left to meet my brother for lunch, but we took my parents’ truck and I left my car there. When we got back, parking was a mess, so I dropped my parents off and said I would go home for an hour or two and then meet them later. It’s not until I get home that I realize my house keys were in my car. I go to grab the spare key and it’s gone. I text my roommate and yes, he has it. I’m pissed. This isn’t the first time and I can’t believe I have to explain to this idiot again that the point of the spare key is to be there as a spare. The next day I have another key made and I leave it in the porch and tell him that I’m tired of him losing his key and leaving it places and then taking the spare so I’m leaving one in the porch so it’s as easy as possible for him to put it back. It wasn’t a great hiding place, but it was out of site. Our porch was just used for storage so I put it in a basket with some scarves right beside the door. After a week or so, I had to explain to this kid that even though it wasn’t a great hiding spot, it was better than him leaving it beside the basket instead of covering it with the fucking scarf in the goddamn basket! So he started doing that. I started using that key too instead of carrying my house keys when I went out or when I walked Walter. And then I come home one day and the key is gone. Luckily, I had put a second spare key in a second hiding spot. I asked my roommate about it and he said he had taken it. So I said that was now his key there there was another spare one and do not take it again! Everything is good for months. Until I come home from work one day and the key is gone. Luckily I had my own key with me and could still get in the house. I text my roommate about it and his response is, “Yeah, I thought I’d take it with me today.” My response is, “What the fuck for? It’s the fucking spare key and I use it too. What if I’d just been out for a walk? Put the key back when you get home and don’t fucking take it again!” He apologizes and then tells me he’s trying to get his license to help him get a new job. He has his learner’s, but he needs to practice and would it be ok for him to take my car to practice with one of his friends that has a license. I couldn’t even believe the nerve of this kid. I can’t trust him to leave a fucking key under a scarf and he wants me to let him drive my car?! I gave him a straight up FuckYourMother No.

Once in awhile he would come out of his room and go to the front door and then come back in with a bag of food. I don’t know if it was from his grandma or what it was, but he’d put it in the fridge and it was always leftovers of some sort. Sometimes he would go to the door and then come back with nothing. I always wondered what he was doing, but didn’t think too much of it. And then one night he wasn’t around or maybe was sleeping. Actually, I think he was sleeping and I had to answer the door in my housecoat. There was a girl there who asked if he was home. I said I didn’t know. She handed me $20 and said he had asked her to drop that off for him. It reminded me of the time I found a $20 bill in our mailbox, so I brought it into the house and held onto it for a couple of days, thinking that if it was for Jesse, he would ask me if I’d found money in the mailbox. He didn’t, so I kept it. So, either mystery money, or I stole $20 that was meant for him. Oh well.

During the last 6 months or so of us living together, he had trouble paying his rent on time. As in, he didn’t pay it on time. He had been going to school for a few months and was at the point between school and work and wasn’t getting paid. Except he didn’t tell me this until I asked the day after rent was due where his rent money was. Normally he would e-transfer it on the 1st or sooner. He was pretty consistent with that most of the time we lived together so I thought maybe he just hadn’t realized it was the 1st of the month. Nope. Turns out he knew the date, he just didn’t have any money and didn’t tell me, and he wouldn’t have rent for a week or two. So I asked, well is it a week or is it two? Because one week, not a major problem. Two weeks, we’re starting to have a problem. Guess which it was? I told him in the future, if he’s going to be late, he needs to give me a head’s up before the 1st so that I can budget for it. But to not be late because when he is, I have to cover that. Rent has to be paid. He said ok. The next month comes. I get paid on the last day of the month and have some bills I pay on that day. So I did that, normal routine. 10:30pm he texts me and says he won’t have rent until Friday. It’s Monday night. And I just paid a bunch of bills. He took what I told him the month before as literally as possible.  This continued on for the next 4 months, except he didn’t let me know in advance, ever. And then he got laid off. I had decided to move and was looking at places, but hadn’t given my notice to the landlord yet. I didn’t want to have anyone coming to look at the house and tip him off. Given his past history, he might think it was ok to just ditch out on me. So I gave him the minimum required notice of one month. And that was the time that he was a week early with his rent and did a bunch of house cleaning. I woke up one morning and he had obviously spent part of the night cleaning. When I went to bed, his pile of dishes was still there. When I woke up, the dishes were done and put away, everything was wiped down, and the floors were…well, he had attempted to clean them. The sun was shining in through the kitchen window and at first I thought maybe it was the light that made the floor look weird. The kitchen flooring was black tile and it looked grey. Upon closer inspection, it WAS grey. It had been raining that week and there were Walter paw prints that hadn’t been cleaned yet. I’m not sure what he used to wash the floor. Quite possibly the dishcloth from the sink. And essentially just dampened the dirt that was on the floor and moved it around to evenly cover it, end to end. Good effort.

Stay tuned for the moving out story!

Dumbass Roommates: Part 1

Ugh. Roommates. So I’ve had the same roommate for over a year now, which must be some kind of record. Having roommates is hard. Being a roommate is hard. Everyone has their own way of living and their own expectations of how to live in a house with other people. But I think there are some common sense aspects that everyone understands. Usually.  My roommate would be one of the exceptions. Before living with me, he had never lived on his own before. He is 21 and lived with his grandmother up until a year ago. So being on his own is totally new to him.

I had been advertising on kijiji and usedregina looking for a roommate and he answered my ad. We set up a time for him to come and look at the place. He was running a bit late so I had texted him to see when he would be there since I had plans that afternoon. He told me he was just finishing packing up a few things and would be over within a half hour.

The doorbell rings and I open the door to be greeted be a giant of a man. Picture this: He’s first nations, has long black hair, a moustache, stands 6’ 8” tall, and is only wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt with a denim vest covered in band patches over top in the middle of winter. He looks intimidating, to say the least. And he says nothing. Literally the only thing he said to me was “hi”. I showed him the room and the house and he grunted a bit and then walked back to the front door and started putting on his boots. I looked at my friend who was over and was all, wtf? I follow him to the door and thank him for coming and he finally starts talking. He asks me how much the rent and damage deposit is and then pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to me. I’m like, oh…so you want the room? He says yeah, I just have to bring my stuff in. When he told me he was packing, he was literally packing to move in as soon as he showed up to my house. I couldn’t even get a read on this guy yet, and he wanted to move in. It wasn’t even the end of the month and the room I had just showed him still had stuff in it. So I told him that I needed to clean out the room and that I had plans so he would have to come back in a few hours.

I was feeling a bit of weird about this kid. My friend and I went shopping and I checked the texts he had sent me the night before. I had been out at the bar so I didn’t really remember what they said. But when I reread them, he sounded like a really nice young man. So I felt way less trepidation about this guy who showed up ready to move in. He moved his stuff in later that night. He didn’t have much. Basically his clothes, a tv and gaming system, and a couple boxes of random stuff. I gave him my old bed, a shelft, and some Rubbermaid drawers that I wasn’t using. I even provided him with blankets and some old pillows. He was seriously unprepared to live on his own.

He’s a very nice young man. He asked me if there were any house rules, like having people over, curfew, things like that. I kind of looked at him like he was nuts. Curfew? He was being considerate because my bedroom window is right by the front door and he was worried that if he came home too late, it would bother me. I told him not to worry about things like that, just be respectful and clean up after himself. Things were pretty good for quite awhile. He didn’t talk much and we didn’t spend any time together. If I was going to go out running errands, or getting groceries, I would ask if he wanted to come since he doesn’t have a car, or even a license. He was never afraid to ask for favours. If he and his friends needed a ride, or if he needed a ride somewhere, he would ask. I helped him out a couple of times, but I drew the line at driving he and his friends around. I have a 2 door and he’s 6’8”. And I’m 6’. And his brother is 6’5”. As if there’s enough room for all of us in my car, plus one more person!

He has started to slide over the time he’s been living with me though. Before I go into details, let me tell you, I am messy. I like a clean house, but I like being lazy more, and cleaning is not high on my list of priorities. I also have a lot of stuff and not a lot of space. So it gets cluttered very easily. Because of this, I’m relatively laidback about other people’s messes. Until I’m not. My roommate does not use a lot of dishes. If it can’t be made in the microwave, he doesn’t make it. It’s even better if it comes in it’s own container so that he doesn’t have to use anything other than a fork. Every now and again there will be containers of leftovers in our fridge, so I assume his grandma sends stuff home with him. He often takes that for work. But then never washes the containers. Currently, there is a pile of his dirty containers that have been sitting on the counter for about 3 weeks. I refuse to wash them and he hasn’t washed a dish since I don’t know when. He used to wash dishes. He would even wash mine. I can’t remember the last time that happened though. Because he usually only uses a couple of forks and a glass or two, I don’t mind doing them. But I’m not washing his gross mouldy containers. I’m going to throw them out right away. Oh, I also like to play these games that only I know I’m playing. Like a Mexican standoff, except with dishes and garbage.

Stay tuned for more stories.

The Soul Searcher

So I’m out and I’m drinking and dancing and I run into someone I know. She’s there with a few of her friends and she introduces me to them. They seem like nice people. We spend the rest of the night chatting and joking around, and a few of us end up going for some late night food before we all head home. One of her guy friends and I hit it off really fast and have a good banter going. He’s engaged, so I automatically put him in a “safe” zone. Meaning I think I can make all the inappropriate jokes that I normally make and they won’t be misconstrued as hardcore flirting. (Foreshadowing)

We all go to leave and the other two grab a cab and as I’m about to get my own, he offers me a ride. Duh, of course I’ll take a ride. I like free things. On the way to my house, I’m asking him more questions about his life and about his fiancé and the upcoming wedding. He seems a little…reluctant? Disinterested? So I ask him if he wants to get married. He says no. We’re at my house by this time. Obviously I have to delve into this issue and question him further. I don’t remember everything he said, but I do know I told him that he should rethink it all and decide if this is the life he really wants because if it isn’t, he’d better change trajectory now before it’s too late. It would be better to call off the wedding and cause some hurt now than to go through with it just because it’s the next socially acceptable step in life. Otherwise, he’s going to wake up in 5, 10, 20 years and realize all the time he wasted not being happy. Not to mention all the time his wife will have wasted by creating a life with someone who felt obligated to live this life with her. I’m not sure what it was about my drunk, unsolicited advice that turned him on, but the next thing I know, he grabs me and we’re making out in his truck. And then suddenly we’re naked in my bedroom! I guess nothing is free after all.

This guy was ALL about the tongue. I’m pretty sure he was trying to lick and suck his way into my soul. And when he couldn’t find it in my clit, he searched my asshole instead. And let me say, Oh.My.God. I don’t know if he can cook, but man can he toss a salad! It’s a good thing for my roommate that he’s a deep sleeper. And it’s a good thing for me that this guy was a deep licker. For him, maybe not so much. You see, while he was licking me to kingdom cum, all the pleasure…relaxed me. And I farted. In his face. Probably in his mouth. Just a little one. It took me by surprise, and I laaauuuugghhhed. I laughed so hard. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha And what did he do? He giggled and went back to work like a goddamn champion!

Later, he wanted me to ride his face and I wanted to have sex, so we compromised and had sex.  When we finished, I walked him to the door and said goodbye. The next day I realized I walked him to the door naked and that the porch light was on and the blinds were open and it was dark outside. I hope the neighbours were all asleep. Chances are it wouldn’t even be the first time they saw me naked anyways.

And what happened to the soul searcher? I don’t know. He probably got married.

Guinness and The Irishman

This story is from the summer of 2014, and I haven’t written it because I don’t exactly come out smelling like roses. You’ll get that joke at the end😉

You know what I love? Guinness! It’s soo good. It makes me happy. Especially when there’s a shot of spiced rum added into it. But, it is a bit of a heavy beer. And if you’ve ever spent an evening drinking a few pints of this black gold, you know that it can make you pretty bloated. I mean, it’s totally worth it, but it’s still a terrible feeling.

One night, I was at one of the local pubs drinking this delicious drink when a handsome Irishman said hello to me. He was standing with someone else I knew, and introductions were made. He bought me another Guinness or two and I was well on my way to thinking this guy was pretty alright. I had gone to the pub with a friend and the Irishman asked us if we would like to go back to his place (He had a couple roommates he was planning on introducing to my friend). She was not particularly interested. Especially when she found out this guy lived on the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sure he wanted to murder us, whereas I was pretty sure he just wanted to murder my pussy.

I said I would go with him, but we had to drop my friend off first. And get her some Burger King. And we needed beer. So he picked up some more Guinness and we hopped in a cab. Well, ok, so it wasn’t quite that simple. First of all, while he was getting beer, my tummy started rumbling a little bit and I considered going back in to use the ladies room, but the feeling passed. All was good. Or was it? (Foreshadowing) Anyways, the cab. He walked down the street a little bit to catch the first one that came along. It wasn’t long before one turned the corner and he flagged it down. However, there was another group of people also waiting for a cab who thought it was their cab, or should be. Actually, it was just the one woman who was determined that it was her cab. My friend and I backed off immediately with the woman’s two friends and the 4 of us stood and watched the rather tense argument that followed between the Irishman and this woman. It ended with, “Fine! Take the fucking cab!”, and my friend and I got in. Where to next? Burger King of course! I got mozza sticks, and the Irishman ordered us both a bottle of water. Good thinking, sir! He also serenaded us the whole way back to my friend’s apartment.

Now, onto his house! It was located just barely outside the city, but just far enough that there were no lights anywhere, and there was just a tiny little break in the highway where we could cross over the other side and get to where his house was. When I got out of the cab, I looked at the cab driver, pointed to myself, and said, “Remember this face! If you see me on the news as missing, remember where you left me.”

We go into the house and crack a beer and visit for a bit. He tells me he hasn’t lived there that long, he and his roommates had just moved in. They barely had any furniture. My tummy started to rumble again and I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Remember that bloating feeling you get from Guinness? That was in full force, and farting just wasn’t going to cut it. I’ll spare you the gory details, but trust me, there was a big feeling of relief when I was done. My relief, however, was short-lived. Where’s the toilet paper? Are you fucking kidding me?! I desperately looked around me to assess what I had to work with. Not a square to be found. In fact, there was next to nothing in this bathroom. Well, I guess it’s ‘see ya later panties!’ I mean, it’s sexier if it appears I wasn’t wearing underwear to begin with, right? Right. Thank god they at least had a garbage can in this wasteland. They didn’t even have soap! I had to wash my hand with shampoo and shake them dry. I was past desperation and embarrassment and just getting pissed off at this point! If I weren’t such a goddamn lady, I would have taken an upper decker just to teach them a lesson!

I don’t know how much time passed while I was in the bathroom. It felt like a million hours, but it was probably more like 10 minutes. I could pass it off as “freshening up”. Although I’m not sure that would hold much weight if after what I just did.

The rest of the story isn’t too terribly exciting. He sang to me, played me clips from Rocky (He really, really, really likes that movie), told me he was going to “break me”, asked me to go to Ireland with him, told me about his family and childhood in great detail, and then we had sex and he drove me home in the morning. It was average. He was a good kisser, but nothing very exciting about the sex. He has a girlfriend now, and I sure hope he’s gotten better at foreplay and doesn’t suck on her nipples like he’s trying to remove venom from a snakebite. Also, I had sex with him a second time. On a night that I didn’t drink Guinness. You know, just to be sure.

Advice by Amy: Pretty Unapproachable

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Dear Amy,

Is it possible that being attractive is more of a detriment than an asset?

So not to toot my own horn but I’ve been told that I’m attractive, gorgeous etc. I’m also outgoing, independent and a genuine person that just wants to be happy with a man that treats her well. I don’t even like overly attractive guys, they are too high maintenance! Having that said, I also always have to be the one that makes a move on a guy, or else it just never happens.

I have a friend from high school, we got drunk one night and I told him I used to have a huge crush on him. His response totally blew my mind. He said he also liked me and that he just thought I was “out of his league”. FYI, I lost all interest when he dated my friend back in the day, I don’t like him that way anymore. His response made me think of all the guys I liked, and how I always had to be the one doing the “chasing”, at least until they got the point.. Like “Hey, I like you, I would love to date you and do things to you” you know?!

I get approached by guys, don’t get me wrong, but it’s always the douchebag that really is aiming high if you know what I mean. It’s never the nice guy, or the smart guy, or at least the rich guy. It’s the asshole that tries to get with me. The one that just wants to hook up. Did I mention I’m not the hook up type?

This problem might seem like not a bad problem to have to some people but think about it, if you’re always the one doing the work… If you are deemed unapproachable based on your looks… then where is the fun in that? It doesn’t help that I’m a romantic at heart but I’ve seen it with other girls, they get swept off their feet and here I am, pining over the guys I like.

Signed,
Pretty Unapproachable

Dear Pretty Unapproachable,

When I was going to university and at home for a visit, I ran into one of the guys I graduated with. He told me about this girl in one of his classes, and he called her his “attainable girl”. I don’t know if he had even talked to her at this point, but his labeling of her was based solely on her looks. Pretty, but not too pretty. She was within the imaginary parameters of what he thought a guy like him could have. And he was average. So that’s where he set his sights.

It sounds like the kind of men you like are generally intimidated by you. And that’s it’s not just your looks that do it. In the instance with your friend from high school. You call him a friend, so obviously he knows you as a person and not just some hottie he saw in the hallways every day. So he knows that you’re an independent, outgoing, and genuine person. And that combination with your looks is probably what he thought put you out of his league. Don’t change. I know it’s frustrating to not get the things you want right now, or to have to always be the one to put in so much work for so little reward. But someone who considers you out of their league and makes a move anyways is exactly the kind of person you want to be with. That person has ambition and confidence. However, depending on where you look, you’re not going to find a bunch of men like this. They aren’t exactly a dime a dozen at the clubs on the weekend, you know?

As far as the men who do approach you goes: Confident men will approach any woman they are attracted to, regardless of how hot the rest of us think she is or isn’t. Not because they think every woman is a sure thing for them, but because they know it’s a definite no if they don’t at least take the shot. Confident men get nervous and intimidated too, but they say hi to you anyways and hope you smile and say hi back. Arrogant men will disregard any woman who doesn’t meet their physical standards and expect those they “choose” will fall at their feet. And most of their attraction to you will be based on other people’s perception of how “hot” their arm candy is.

Unfortunately, I don’t have an easy answer for you. If the type of man you’re looking for is the one who needs a little encouragement, you’re going to have to give it to him. The average nice guy probably isn’t going to come up and say hi if you haven’t at least already made eye contact and given him a smile. Or said hi first. When I take my dog to the dog park, he ignores a lot of the other dogs. But when he meets one he likes, he’s like, “hey, did you see me? No?”, then jumps up and humps it until it turns around and chases him in circles and he runs around, tongue hanging out, so happy. Ok, so not the perfect analogy, but you get what I mean! You may have to be the one to break the ice most of the time, but that doesn’t mean you have to settle for a guy who expects you to take the lead all the time. You can either keep on keeping on the way you have been, or you can make some adjustments to your dating life to try and encourage someone to pursue you. Try online dating with private pictures. You’ll have to sift through some profiles and put some time into conversations, but you could meet someone great. Plus, with online dating, it’s a lot less intimidating for men to pursue a beautiful woman. Ask friends to set you up. Smile at the cute guy at the coffee shop. Go for lunch at the cafeteria at the same time as that cute, nerdy guy in your office. Sit next to the sexy, smart guy in your Wednesday class and ask him how his assignment is coming along. Put the vibes out and see what comes back.

Romance doesn’t always come to us the way we expect. You may not meet a guy who is going to sweep you off your feet with a great line or a huge romantic gesture in order to get your attention. But maybe you’ll meet a guy who feels lucky that a woman like yourself was interested in a guy like him and he’ll take time every day that you’re together showing you how much he values you and appreciates that moment you first said hi.

(Also, you said this in your letter: “I don’t even like overly attractive guys, they are too high maintenance!” What makes you think that men think any differently when they look at you? Hi pot, this is kettle. Stereotypically speaking, they’re probably thinking that not only are you out of their league, but that even if you were interested in them, you’re probably high maintenance.)

Amy

Numbers

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How often do you get asked about your “number”? You know, the number of penises or vaginas that have met with your corresponding parts. I have found myself being asked this question a few times over the years, and as recently as the last couple of weeks. I tried to figure it out a year or so ago. I made a list which had entries like: Mike, Jon, Keith, guy I met at the pump that night, guy who was on acid while I was on E at Sasquatch, etc. After I wrote down what I thought was all of them, I counted them up and was at a number that I thought was rather reasonable given my age and dating lifestyle. I was a virgin until I was 22. No, 23. Wait. 22. Anyways. I waited. Not for anything specific. I wasn’t waiting for “the one”. I was just waiting. I like to do things in my own time and that was the time for me. His name was Mike and he slept on a futon. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t a big deal. It just…was. I didn’t even tell any of my friends about it at the time because that was how boring and matter-of-fact it was. Well, that’s done. *brushes off hands*

So, back to the numbers. I was at a number that some of you would probably consider high, but I’ve been having sex for 12 years with no long-term relationship in there. And I like to drink, and I like to have sex. It’s a winning combination. So I thought it was rather reasonable. But then I started remembering more. I’d be driving in my car and another one would pop into my head. And then another. And another. Months down the road, I was still remembering men I’d forgotten. (Sorry fellas! Be more memorable next time!) So I decided to stop keeping track.

I started talking to this guy on Tinder. It started out well enough. We exchanged phone numbers and started texting. He’s younger than me, 27, and he lives a couple of hours away. He wanted to play 20 questions and asked if there was anything off limits. I told him he could ask me anything he wanted and if I felt like it was too far, I just wouldn’t answer it. The first half of the questions were basics…favourite food, where we want to travel, etc. And then of course there was the measurements question. What is it with you men and your need to know exactly how big a woman’s breasts are? Aren’t you supposed to be visual creatures? I have pictures on my profile. But that’s not good enough. And the reason is always the same…”I’m a numbers guy.” Whatever. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll tell you. Especially since I know you don’t really understand how bra sizing works and the relation between cup and band size, and anything over a 36C is going to blow your mind.

So then the questions lead into more sex talk, favourite position, weirdest place you’ve done it, and then anal. That’s where I stopped him. Not because I’m uncomfortable talking about it, but because sex is one of those topics that I don’t think should go too far when you’ve only just started to get to know each other. A good number of men will push these limits. He was fine with stopping though, and went back to regular questions.

Some days later, I found out he was married for a couple of years, they split a couple of years ago, and he hasn’t had sex since they split. First I asked him why they divorced and he said it was because she thought it was ok to sleep with other men. I told him I was sorry that happened to him and asked if she gave him a reason for why she cheated. His response was, “I dunno. Cause she’s a whore?” I guess he’s still a little bitter about it. And then I asked him why he hasn’t had sex in so long. He hasn’t met anyone special and he’s never had a one-night stand. He asked if I’ve ever had one. Uhh….yes. Have I had a lot of them? …..uhh…. I told him I’ve had a couple. Ok, you can all stop laughing now. Next, he asked how many people I’ve slept with. I laughed and said that was none of his business, and asked if a big number would bother him. He said it depends how big the number is. I asked why it would bother him. He said he didn’t know, and that maybe it wouldn’t. I said it wouldn’t matter to me, 1 or 100, I don’t care. To which he replied that he’s only had sex with 3 women, so…

When he didn’t text me the next day, I thought I had scared him off, but he messaged the day after that and regularly for the next few days after. Unfortunately, he’s terribly boring over text and can’t seem to carry on a conversation beyond the few topics we’d already discussed. Meh. I already had the feeling that this guy has some stuff to work through. And like so many other men on Tinder and Pof, he wanted to talk about sex and push the boundaries of what is acceptable conversation, but if I have a colourful, bountiful past, that could be a problem? Come on! I haven’t been guarding my sexuality all this time just waiting for you to come along like some kind of goddamn Christopher Columbus!

I feel like numbers aren’t something that we (especially women) should have to hide, and yet, we all know that if you’ve surpassed single digits in the number of partners you’ve had, you’re going to either lie about the number, or just not admit to a number at all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, whether it’s 1 or 5 or 35, or 100, or if you’re not even on the board yet. Shout it loud and proud, if you want! But be prepared for the judgement. I would never want anyone who would judge me on it anyways, but I also don’t want to deal with having it thrown in my face like it’s a bad thing. And so my number will remain a mystery. I’m going to keep living like an Agatha Christie novel and loving who I want to love with my honey pot, and you should too.