Do Me, Stalk me, Do Me

Kids, Shan is suffering from pre-PMS gas. Don't walk down wind. I call the PMS week "Attack of the Double-Hs." The Hs being Hungry and Horny. From the time we ovulate until the time we actually streak crimson, all women's appetites increase exponentially. There is no satisfaction to be found. We want only to eat and bang. No hole can truly be filled. And I've tried. The cruel irony here is that, when we want "it" most, we are moody, bloated and insecure. Sexy, eh? Yup, there are lines around the block to get a piece of that fat, miserable, bitchy ass. Not to mention the achy, sore boobs. That's hot, too. They're like 2 swollen bruises with nipples. Yummy. Nothing says let's get it on like, "Hand me my fat pants, baby. I can't button these." The unpredicable bawling screams Tiger in the Sack. Touch her in just the right spot and she'll bite your head off, literally and figuratively. PMS, the Harlequin Novel: As she attempted to seduce me, mumbling with her mouth full of pepperoni pizza, grease gathered at the corners of her lips, light gleaming off the acne on her chin and forehead, I laughed in her face. "Not at this point in your cycle, honey. You're ripe to conceive and hideous."

Had an awesome show at The Improv on Saturday night. Why aren't I famous already? And how come no star-fuckers stalk me? I've got to be worthy of obssession. I want to have to issue a restraining order. And I want my stalker to defy it time and time again, until the police need to intervene. The rest of my fantasy will play out in court. A lawyer draped in an Armani suit circa '89 with his almost white hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail will ask me, "Ms. Ennis, do you see the man/woman who has been harassing you? Is he/she in the courtroom today?" "Yes," I'll respond, tossing in a rehearsed sniffle. "Let the record reflect that the plaintiff has identified the defendant," my lawyer will conclude. That's when I lose it, and the shit hits the fan. I'll karate point at my stalker accusingly, shaking & shouting, "I was afraid to wait for the F train. Do you know what that's like? Do you!?!" A couple of tiny round spitballs fly out of my mouth as I'm yelling. It's then that I pause, gather myself, maybe even wipe my lip. I realize that if I crumble, he/she will have won. This is a profound emotional experience. I am never quite the same.

One last thing:
I got propositioned by a swingin' couple via nerve.com At least they weren't ugly, thank Christ. But I have to confess that I get more offers from two-somes seeking a three-some than I do one-some's seeking someone to pay for dinner. Am I that non-threatening sexually? That married chicks wouldn't be worried about inviting me into their bedroom avec hubby? God, it's like feeling impotent without actually being impotent.
The wife was charged with hunting for a third. I suppose the woman is the better lure when baiting a willing lesbo. When I informed her that it was never going to happen, and that yes, I was sure that her husband's equipment didn't do it for me, she tried to play Yenta. Once she'd conceded, she recommended another nerve'r! "She's looking for a girl and is beautiful and we had a good chat. She's online right now." Oh. My. Goodness. Me-Wanna-Menage-a-trois was setting me up! How oddly generous, kind and thoughtful of her, putting my carnal desire first. It's that kind of selfless act that just might coax me into a 3-way one of these days.