As in "to swing..." Yep. That happened.
Usually I'm fully in touch with my inner "freaky little monkey," but something happened last night that I totally missed until I replayed the evening in my head this morning - I'm pretty sure I was propositioned to "swing" with a couple of 60 year olds.
First, let me talk about this couple. The female in this "swinger sammie" (we'll call her B) is cool, hip, hot and didn't look a day older than maybe late 40's. This woman is who I aspire to be when I'm 60. Seriously. She sings in a band, plays a couple of instruments and is strikingly beautiful. I almost asked about her skin care regimen because she's doing something right, for sure!
Her husband, on the other hand, must have sprinkled magic fairy dust on himself to veil his true appearance because he's no where near her league. Good ups to him because she seems to love him with all of her heart; they're actually a really cool, sweet couple.
So, onto the kicker. When they left the party (they held B's 60th surprise b-day party at my event space last night), he turned around to me and said, "Get in touch if you want to party. We're always down to party." I didn't think much about it, told him I didn't know of any parties and went home. DUH!
Am I wrong? Maybe he really did just want to party with me (I am kind of cool), but I think there was a naughty undertone to his version of "party." Is "party" code for something in the swinger world?? Kind of like the white rock?
I'm pretty sure I smelled the marijuana during the evening, so maybe he was asking me to "party" aka smoke a "fatty boom blatty"? Who knows. Regardless, neither swinging nor dope are part of my repertoire, so I'd disappoint them either way.
Never one to disappoint, I'll leave you all with this.
I've had a few people ask me over the past few months when I was going to write again. After two friends in the same night told me that they miss reading my fucked up life stories, I decided it was time to jump back on the blog train to "Over Sharesville." Jill and Val - here you go!
So here's the deal; I've had a lot to write about, I've just been a little apprehensive about sharing. Over the years I've exposed most of my "soft underbelly" of failed relationships, interesting encounters, sarcastic opinions and poor decisions. Like a ninny, I started worrying about what people thought of me, so I quit sharing. Plus, I've had some scars that cut a little deeper than most over the past few months, so I needed time to heal and put life back into perspective. I'm feeling at least 80%, so I think it's time to let Spiffy back out and set her loose. (Hands at 10 and 2. Check mirrors. Signal. Enter traffic) ... and we're off!
I know that a lot of my married friends think that I live the glamorous life being single with no kids. I can bone who I want. Sleep as late as I want. Do whatever I want (...it does sound fucking fantastic, doesn't it?) Truth be told, the shininess has worn off. I'm ready to find my best friend and partner in crime.
The problem is the same as what it's been for a while now, though - slim pickins (insert pic for effect).
I guess I should clarify: there are a lot of men, but not a lot of men who I'd let in my pants. Well, I guess I should clarify: there are a lot of men who I'd let in my pants, but they don't seem to want in my pants. Actually, let me clarify: there are a lot of men who I'd let in my pants and who want in my pants, but they don't want anything more. Finally.
I think I'll just blame it on Obama. He seems to be at fault for everything else, right Republicans??! But, I digress...
I'm not going to dive in any deeper tonight. Just sticking my toe in to check the water. But, I will close with this - be weary of men who buy mini paper clips and try to play them off as nipple clamps. They are NOT the same.
Smooches!
