if you know me, you're probably just better off skipping this one...

"Hey, where did your curly hair go?" --PHF (a true double entendre if I ever heard one.)

"One of them looks like an old gym shirt—good for doing exercising between posts." -- Blogger (A strand of golden plastic beads to the person who finds the sexual irony in that statement.)

"What a delicious piece of ass. If you could only see the motherfucking titties on her. I'd fucking fuck the fucking shit out of her..." -- Greg

"...one memorable scene, there was a black guy with a legs-crossingly huge, equine cock, hammering this pair of white girls turn-about in every orifice they had which was able to accommodate him..." -- Wegg

Oh dear, we're all horny again in Pajamaland. Well, Wegg always is. Her Wetnesday entry is about a bachelor party (charmingly called a "buck's party" by the Aussies). Greg's going on about porn, and... well... and then there's me.

I don't kiss and tell all that much, and don't start unzipping just yet, cuz I ain't about to start with the gory details on today of all days: the day after my wedding anniversary. Fourteen years, thank you very much. Jeez it seems like it was only yesterday we got married.

Ok, it doesn't. It seems like it was roughly fourteen years ago.

I'm not sure which was more turn-on-- the strip clubs or the boob-baring-- but some raucous sex was had by all. Ok, well, all two of us. Didn't get into it with our party mates. I will say this about New Orleans: showing your tits seems like it's gonna be this big-ass deal, but when you do it it's more like... *shrug.* At least to me. The guys seem pretty excited.

The beads are a nice touch though.

Ok, well, it's the thought that counts.

Ok, so it's not.

Ok, well, like you know how you make money with porn, and it happens to be fun, too? Beads are tit-money, and it happens to be fun. Everywhere I went I was asked, "You earn those beads?"

And I said, "Yes. Yes, I did."

And then they nearly always immediately sidled nearer and gazed at me with unabashed sexual attraction, which was amusing to me because the only chics I saw showing off their tits had a guy standing next to them, and believe me, I saw a lot of them. Girls in packs never did it. Too chicken, I guess, or not drunk enough.

What's really funny is I truly believe I'm as turned on by seeing a nice rack as much as the next guy. However, I don't really possess the urge to fondle said rack. (There's that Fence again.) I was too drunk to see most of the boobs in New Orleans - at least on the street. Seems I was nearly always getting a beer, or contemplating the bottom of my empty cup, or guzzling something or other at the particular moment that breasts of the female variety made their appearance. I even missed the guy flashing his cock per my own request. To my credit I had turned away to speak to the nice man who calls himself my husband. Unfortunately to the flasher's lack of credit, everyone reported that I didn't miss much.

And I don't think I'd be opposed to a threesome (yeah, sure, the "cool kind," guys, whatever). I think I would be a taker, though, at first - the one who had the most done to her. I could see myself warming to the situation later, but it might take awhile. In my somewhat limited homosexual experience (though real experience, ahem) I wasn't so turned on by touching the chic. But I liked being touched by them... ahh, her. Ok, ok, them. Whatever.

Anyway, back to the boobs. Once we entered the strip clubs, I could hardly look away. Well, of course there is the requisite, lengthy debate over whose boobs were real and whose weren't. We also debated the whole nipple thing - cold vs hot, and who knew that pointy were the way to go? One chick could hang her glasses from them. And other... stuff. Then I got the bright idea that seeing PHF go up and give the stripper chics money would turn me on or some nonsense like that.

And it did, for awhile.

There's this dopey look guys get on their faces when they watch strippers - especially when they are close to the stage. It's purely a physics thing - the guy rolls his eyes up to look at the stage (not wanting to tip his head back like a total dork, which of course would make no difference because it's much too late to fix that) and then his mouth sort of comes open a little. You all do it so there's no point in worrying about it.

Only PHF didn't get the dopey look.

First of all, he's tall, and he was standing up. So when the chic got on her knees his lips were just about perfectly-round-and-firm-34D-breast height. He also was arguably the best-looking guy in the place, so the girls looked fairly glad to see him as opposed to sweaty pharmaceutical salesguy. And my husband, at least to me, is just pure sex on two feet; Sex Man Walking if you will; so he looked much more come-hither than I ever thought he would or could to another chic. At first it didn't bug me. I was rather amused, really. We were having fun and I was shit-faced drunk, so it was all good.

Except this one chic. I mentioned her before. She'd be the body I most covet... she had these two cute goddamned dimples just above her ass; not fat dimples but just sort of there... pretty thin, and that's my own aesthetic and it's not exactly my body type at all... but maybe she's too thin for some people and PHF doesn't like them too thin... but except according to him she was the best looking girl dancing, so he gave her money twice.

And then, yeah, through no fault of his own, he unwittingly crossed the line between turn-on and jealousy.

I can't hold it against him because after all, he'd have never gone up there in the first place unless I'd egged him on. And it's totally NOT fair of me to even think of it, because we didn't exactly lay down ground rules, and it's a fuckin' strip club, so there really aren't any rules except the ones put in place by managment.

I dealt ok with it. But then this married guy accepted a lap dance offer from this chick and my mind sort of clicked from jealous into pissed off. Where was the line, really? What's acceptable? Now I don't really give a shit about the other guy - maybe he's an asshole or maybe he and his wife have got an "arrangement". But we'd crossed the line and I didn't even see it coming (or he heh, cumming as it so happened later).

On the one hand, there's me. I love it when guys look at me. I'm THE consumate married Flirt. I mean, I can't say I wasn't flattered, just a little bit, by all the humping and biting going on with all those strangers the first night. (I guess they were cute - how could I tell through the beer goggles? I was drunk before I ever landed in LA.) I scope out people all the time - often chics as well as guys. I mean, shit, I play veritable Lookie-Loo with the twins who teach my kids swimming. PHF doesn't say word one about it. Ok, he didn't like when the guy bit me, but he got over it quick and moved on.

I'd dance; hell, I did dance, with strange guys and liked it until they got too close. It's a total turn-on -- which, incidently, PHF reaps the multiple benefits of-- getting scammed on. (Here's to ending two clauses with prepositions in a fucking row!! Yea for me!) However, I don't really tolerate strangers touching me all that well; which is probably my saving grace because if I did I might be real Trouble.

Even when the incredibly beautiful black stripper man offered Virtigo and me a lap dance I said no right away (to Virtigo's everlasting disappointment - she's a better woman than me and he was WAY hot). I don't know for sure, but I think PHF might've been ok with it. I'll have to ask him. But I can't imagine doing that. Some stranger invading my personal space... and paying for it? That's not a turn-on, that's a friggin' nightmare. That's elevators in Europe and close-talkers. Eh. Back off, bitch! Besides, Greg's pee-trough experience notwithstanding, there is no way that guy didn't have a golf-ball hanging down in the pocket of his g-string. Didn't really want to get smacked in the face with it. Might lose a tooth.

And I loved it when the chics hit on PHF - which many did all weekend long. It's good for the soul to be craved and wanted, and I liked it for him. I also liked being the one who got to take him home and screw the living crap out of him.

That night ended with tremendous irony, though. I didn't say anything about it at the time because I didn't want to fight or be all weird on our last night (ok, weird beyond practically running out of the strip club). But PHF knew I was on edge about something. I mentioned before that he bought me a trinket. Well, it's the sort of... thing that would take a very confident man to purchase, much less use. It's not alive, like a stripper, for instance, but it very much behaves as if it is.

So, alternatively, when viewing a live stripper as a mere... thing as it were, which I suppose we're likely to do, and when you compare one thing to another; especially the use of such things in the manner in which they were intended... well, it's not really fair of me to be jealous of his behavior.

So why am I? Hmmmm?

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