So, I’m sitting outside this morning with my big, heavy blanket and Mr. Coffee’s latest offerings (Praised Be!), freezing my ass off again but liking it because, as you may have noticed, something is fundamentally wrong with me. And I was thinking about how unfair it is that Mr. Northman has gotten all the hot press here on my blog while Jerry’s gotten none. Yes, there are two of them, web dwellers, and they couldn’t be more different.
Jerry, as my friends call him, lives far away, just like Mr. Northman. And he has a fairly healthy love of sexting and naked Skyping, just like Mr. Northman. But that’s where the similarity ends. Where Mr. Northman is the embodiment of sex, music, and poetry – kind of my personal Jim Morrison fantasy but without all the hard drugs, massive personality disorders, or leather pants – Jerry is the brooding romance novel hero if that guy were a CEO. He’s a full-on alpha male of the confirmed bachelor variety (but, luckily for me, not the gay kind). He’s completely career-oriented, vehemently single, remarkably confident, and one of the sexiest men I know.
The flip side with Jerry is that he wants what he wants and always expects to get what he wants. Part of me really digs this. He’s demanding and never doubts that he’ll get his way, yet he’s calm about it and quietly powerful. He’s actually quite a lot to handle, but I get off on it because, as I said, something is most definitely wrong with me.
The girls call this anti-Northman “Jerry” because he lives in San Francisco, and so they started referring to him as “Cathy’s San Francisco Treat.” This morphed into Mr. Rice-A-Roni, and then Mr. Rice, and then to the most famous Mr. Rice: Jerry Rice. So, now he’s Jerry. When he’s being a fuckwad, which happens (told you, he’s broody), they call him Schmuck-A-Roni, which makes me laugh so hard I usually forget why I’m mad at him in the first place. Or that may have to do with the fact that when I’m with my girlfriends, we’re usually drinking martinis or mojitos, and that doesn’t hurt either.
Jerry asked the pussy question during our very first phone conversation (this, after many, many instant messaging chats that had gotten increasingly heated). He was the first guy to ask me this, so I was caught a bit off-guard when it came up. My immediate response was fairly unsexy. It was something like, “Really? That’s what you want to know? Huh.”
Maybe I’m just not with the times, but I honestly don’t spend much time thinking about how my pussy looks or wondering whether I have enough of a bush to shave a 49ers logo into it, so long as it’s not so out of control that you could braid one into it. And I’ve never worried about whether I need a Brazilian wax so there wouldn’t be a single hair south of my equator. Maybe it’s because when I last dated, I never met a guy who wanted to spend time with his mouth any further south than the Promised Land, never knew anyone who wanted to let his lips venture further back to my … well, to my ass. I’m out of metaphors, people. Sorry. I mean, what the fuck? When did ass-crack-licking become a thing? Am I the only person who finds this completely not sexy at all?
I don’t know about y’all, but that shit just does not fly with me. No pun intended. Ok. Maybe a little intended. And I’m not even talking about anal sex here, gang. If that’s your thing, rock on with the butt fucking. Whatever floats your boat, you know? But having someone’s tongue up where the sun don’t shine just seems really fucking disgusting to me. Case in point, Mr. Northman sent me a link to a porn video he likes, and I watched about three minutes before this naked Barbie Doll stuck her own fingers in her own butt and then sucked on THE SAME FINGERS like it was remotely sexy. I turned off the video and said something to Northman along the lines of, “Does this video come with a Z-Pac? Because I feel like I’m going to catch some sort of bacterial infection just watching it.”
Northman assured me that the video got better at about 7 minutes in (It did, but I fast-forwarded the hell out of that thing to get to the “good part,” and it was a loss anyway because I was so grossed out already) but in the moment, I was kind of thinking, “How could it NOT get better? How could it be worse?” I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birkenstocks, people, I’m all for sexual experimentation. But I’m more for the kind that doesn’t ensure I’ll wind up with a staph infection. Ugh. I need to go rinse my brain with Purell and maybe get a new laptop because, all of a sudden, this one feels really dirty.
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