NOT SO SHRIMP DICK!

It never ceases to amaze me how one person can spend almost their entire life with someone and still learn new things about them every day.

It’s been almost 20 years of entanglement with my long-standing on-again, off-again partner O. We officially met on a sunny afternoon shortly after I turned 18. I’d notice him checking me out over the past four years since I moved to 1st Avenue, but my intense tunnel vision had kept our paths from crossing until one fateful afternoon. He caught me just as I was waiting for the light to change; he complimented me, introduced himself, asked for my number, and the rest was history. It’s been over 17 years, and no matter how much time passes from one hook up or boyfriend to the next, he never ceases to amaze me. He’s always been supportive, encouraging, occasional ball-buster, a great voice of reason, and a great partner.

Because I only recently moved into my own place, all our encounters over the years had been brief and at his place. It was a breath of fresh air to finally not have to get up and leave after sex. I could just sit back and relax after I locked the door and sent him on his way. Oh! How I love watching a man leave.

One day he was over my place, and I told him that I’d invite him over for dinner one night, since I’d never cooked for him, and he didn’t make it to my housewarming (despite being the 1st person to get me a gift). Going over the foods he liked and disliked, he said he didn’t eat shrimp because he was allergic, and I was flabbergasted. He swore up and down that he had told me before, and I just didn’t remember. But being a radical seafood lover (especially when it came to shrimp, and over the past 5 years – oysters), I could’ve sworn I would’ve remembered a detail such as that. God, forbid I see him after a visit to City Island (true New Yorkers know what I’m talking about), his life would be over. From that moment, I put it in my mental Rolodex that he was allergic to shrimp and to be careful when I invited him over in the future. I just didn’t think that the future would be so soon.

On a dull Friday afternoon, he called me when he got home from work and asked me what I was doing; I told him I was eating a salad. He joked about me finally getting on my fitness shit, and he told me he would come to see me. It was then that I told him I was eating a shrimp Caesar salad, and as bomb as my pussy was, I didn’t want him to die from a kiss. He said he didn’t care and that he was on his way. As he hung up the phone, I reminded him that it also meant I couldn’t suck his dick. He replied that he’d rather his dick swell up than his throat close up. Men?!?!

I finished my salad, swallowed some warm water, then used some mouthwash, and in less than 20 minutes, he was at my door. 

He pushed my body up against the counter in my kitchen, pulled open my robe, and began licking, teasing, and biting my nipples. Maybe the risk of anaphylactic shock inspired him to be more aggressive because this was a new man in the new year. Quite abruptly, after he got his fill, he stopped, went into my living room, and he had the nerve to sit in my spot. I straddled his hips as he went back to licking and sucking my nipples. I avoided his lips until he pulled my face to his, and we kissed deeply. I ran my tongue along his neck and ears when he started to indicate that I had touched a nerve. Enjoying his reaction, I continued flicking my tongue into his (very clean) ear until he had enough. I sucked at his nipples, kissed down his chest, licked at his navel, and I made my way to his long thick dick. When I pulled his pants down, his dick stood at attention, like it was waiting for me, or better yet, my mouth. 

I started on him slowly; I swirled my tongue around his tip, then I licked up and down his shaft, and then I took him into my mouth. His moans and squirms confirmed that I was doing a fantastic job pleasing him, and if he walked home with a swollen dick, he’d be happy. I rode him on the sofa until he came with perfect timing, and I continued to ride him until he resurrected. 

He said he wanted to fuck me on my bed. To be honest, I didn’t want to as my new faux fur bed set was white. I swiftly threw down my wet blanket (a microfiber blanket I ordered from amazon to protect my sheets when I squirt), and we got to business. We kissed passionately as he thrust into me repeatedly until he came. When it was all done, there was a bit of blood from my period breaking through (he didn’t mind, though). He was a little lightheaded as it had been years since we had sex back-to-back. He hit his leg on the platform of my bed, got dressed, fell on his way home, and called me to say I put a curse on him. 

I ensured him putting a curse on him was the farthest thing on my mind. I only wanted to avoid giving him shrimp dick.  

The Gray Side!

There comes a time when one realizes that they are officially getting old. 

I realized that not only was I getting old, but my southern parts had officially crossed over to the gray side.

I started waxing almost a decade ago. Not only was it less of a headache to keep clean razors around, but it also helped me have fewer outbreaks brought on by the microtears using a razor would cause. Over the years, I’d had an array of wax technicians, my favorite being Stephanie. I followed her from EWC to a salon in Washington Heights. I even made the trek to her home in the Bronx during the pandemic. Ultimately the commute was too much for me, so I had to part ways. 

The thing I loved about Stephanie was that we got really close. I mean, you kind of have to be when your labia and booty-hole are spread open, and hair is being ripped from your body. She knew damn near everything about me, and I learned a lot about her. One of the reasons I stayed with her for so long was that she, hands down, has given me the best Brazilians. 

Here’s the thing; full Brazilian waxes can cost anywhere from $50-$75 depending on the location, tax, and tip. After shelling out that much money and enduring much discomfort, the last thing you want to do is go home and find tiny stray hairs. There’s a reason why people go to the same wax person once they find a good fit instead of bouncing around. When I first worked with her, I had to let her know to pull back the folds of my labia to get those pesky hairs, and after a time or two, I never had to mention it again. It was a match made in heaven. 

When I could no longer make the journey, I returned to my local stomping grounds. I enjoyed walking through Central Park to get my wax, then getting a burger and cocktail next door at Bareburger. But when I returned to working in the office, it was no longer convenient for me. I changed my location from the UWS to a Times Square location closer to my job and easy to go during my lunch break.

I had an appointment scheduled the week after I got sick with Covid. Naturally, I had to let my hair continue to grow since I had to quarantine. Two weeks passed, and I was finally able to go and get my wax.

I arrived downtown, checked in, and waited 15 minutes for my appointment; the lady didn’t come out. I asked the desk associate how much longer she would be, to which she responded, “she’s finishing up.” Another 15 minutes passed, and I grew livid. I asked the desk lady again if she could knock on the door and notify her that she had a client that’s been waiting for 30 minutes. It was only after I made a fuss that the desk clerk let me know I could be seen by another wax technician –Like really Bitch!–

The lady that performed my wax was sweet. I wanted to make sure she did a thorough job, so I gave her full permission to get up close and personal with my pussy. Peel back the skin and rip the hair out. I thought she took care of it (as many times as she passed over certain spots). But when I got home and finally used the bathroom, I was annoyed, to say the least. 

It started with a finger graze by the opening of my vagina; I could feel stray hairs just chilling. Annoyed, I began pulling the ones I could out with my index and thumb fingers. A few longer than usual curly hairs had serious staying power, and then I pulled out one single solitary gray strand. 

FUCK! My pussy is getting old!!

Now, I know it’s superficial as I get no complaints about my biological sex. My partners love to eat, finger, feel, and anything else you could imagine my pussy. But a fucking gray hair. How am I supposed to get over that? I could blame the fact that, of course, I’m getting older, and it’s only natural. But I blame the wax lady. 

My pussy would be as bald as a newborn if she did her job correctly. So, instead of just enjoying the beauty of my wax, I have to pull out a new razor and make sure all the stray hairs that survived the battle lose the war.

Usually, I wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But I gave the woman an 20% tip. I shouldn’t have to fix what I already paid for, but I’ll do what I need to and tip her less next time. And before she commences to consider the wax done, I’ll be sure to do my own visual and physical inspection. Because that’s the last time a gray bitch will take real estate on my pussy.

My Covid Experience

It would be my luck that a white-lie becomes my reality. 

If you read my last post of 2021, you know I vehemently despised my then job. A potential company asked me to do a project to show the Friday before Christmas, and I wanted a day to get it done. On Wednesday, I started playing the “I don’t feel well” card to call out fake-sick on Thursday. I stayed up late on Wednesday, and when I woke up on Thursday, my chest was itchy. I didn’t think much of it since I’d taken a Covid test the day before, and it returned negative. I figured it was just a reaction to me overexerting myself days prior. 

That Saturday, I ran my first 5K, in Brooklyn, since the beginning of the pandemic. After that, I was at the mall in New Jersey. On Sunday, my mother and I went to the Spa. Monday, I met my guy friends for a drink after work, and Tuesday, I was walking around downtown all day without a mask. I was asking for trouble, now that I think about it. 

Nonetheless, I woke up and started working on the project. One of my partners stopped by, and we had a little romp. When he left, I returned to working on the project. By the end of the day, I felt like crap, and by Friday morning, I felt worse than crap. In the evening, I got a rapid test from my friend, which returned positive. I told my partner and commenced to start my quarantine. 

Here’s what I learned during my quarantine. 

1-         Coming home after a long day is enjoyable. Not being able to leave your house is a few notches away from torture. 

2-         Elderberry juice is DISGUSTING. But, every morning, I had a shot with a chaser of OJ to make it tolerable.

3-         I thoroughly enjoy cozy socks, robes, and fuzzy throws. 

4-         Door Dash and Whole Foods were actual life-savers! What have I been missing?

5-         And lastly, when I’m sick, sex is the LAST thing on my mind! 

I could care less about sex when my body aches, head hurts, sinuses are clogged, and my chest is congested. You could imagine my annoyance when any of my partners wanted to talk about sex. Especially when I’m trying to fight off a virus that has killed millions of people. SERIOUSLY! READ THE ROOM!

By the second week of my quarantine, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I had to get out of the house. Since I got Covid, we canceled going to my brother’s house. And since the gas still was off in my mom’s building, I volunteered to make some Christmas dinner. I needed broccolini, and since no one would deliver it, I walked to Fairway. I walked the 20+ blocks (masked the entire way) and got some fresh-fuel exhaust ridden-air. I got my groceries, came back home, made dinner and coquito, then watched A Christmas Story. Mom came and got their food; we bumped elbows, then she went back home.

After being home for 13 days, I finally started to feel better. On Tuesday, I waited an hour in the cold, got two PCRs at different locations after my at-home test was negative. After the test, I got a latte and walked back home. I worked on the follow-up project that I presented the following day, only to hear that there may still be more steps. Wednesday, one of my partners called me, but I ignored his call since he hadn’t called me for Christmas or in a few weeks to ask how I was doing. 

Another thing I learned during Covid is that people, especially men, can be extremely self-centered. I got a few “feel better soon” and “take care of yourself” messages from the usual suspects. I even got a few “let me know if you need anything” from some partners I didn’t expect it from. And from others, I got messages of their disappointment regarding my sickness and how I wouldn’t be a sex kitten. My illness didn’t matter as much as their blue balls.

Anyway, by the time I was feeling better, it was the week of the New Year. Even though I was sick, I must say it was a joy to have spent my first Christmas in my apartment alone. I’ve always wondered what it would be like, and although I wasn’t in the best health, I still made the best of it. The same goes for the New Year; I may have brought the year in at my brother’s house, but I was with my family. And when I got back to the city, my dad passed my doorway, and I settled into my place in the new year happily alone. 

Over the weekend, the results finally came back from my separate Covid tests. One was positive, and the other was negative. With two out of three coming back negative (including the at-home I took Friday morning), I was confident that I was negative. 

However, since I did test positive for one, and I didn’t want to go back to work, I took full advantage of that result and made that the reason I couldn’t return to the office. 

Today, Friday, January 7th, 2022, I’m happy to say I was offered the job. I submitted my two-week resignation letter. And because my former company wanted to live up to their asshole reputation, they accepted my resignation “effective immediately.” Can you say PETTY?

Anywho, at least this way, I get to enjoy another week of peace and walk into the new company 110% refreshed. 2022 is off to a good year!