Doughnuts and Toys

Hmmmm . . . today . . . does it feel like a parenting-post kind of day?

Let me check.

Not so much.

Also?  Just as a heads-up?  I had to do a little research for today’s post as I sipped my morning coffee, and guess what?  If you are searching through internet porn first thing in the morning?  Your husband will notice.

Just saying.

So I am watching the Real Housewives of New York last night (alright, mock if you must, but do it quietly, because others are trying to read).

Seriously, pipe down with the mocking, because this show?  Magic.

Plus also?  Bondage!  YAY!

Ok, not really, but there was a bridal shower with the best gifts ever.

Check it out . . .

And  . . .

Sigh.  I want.   Especially the crystal restraints, which I could so wear in my normal everyday life, and people would just think I was all sparkly and fancy!  If you are confused?  They tie around your wrists with long black satiny ties.

Swoon.

Those are real Swarovski crystals, by the way.

I am not so much about the bondage, but people?  These toys?  Have caught my fucking eye.

Literally.  Snort.

And now we segue smoothly into the story of the time when I told a small lie to achieve a greater good, and then the sex?  Was not as fabulous as I imagined.  Is it ever?  Sigh.

Ok, so imagine me at nineteen (but with clothes on . . . stay focused, people!).  Imagine me, a looooooooooong time ago, working as a counselor in a group home for troubled youth.  I often worked the over-night shift, which basically meant some household chores and then long stretches of interminable boredom.  Sometimes the kids woke up and needed something, but mostly not.  There were many bedtime medications doled out, and the kids tended to sleep soundly.

So it was way fucking boring.

And when I am way fucking bored for long stretches of time?  I tend to cause trouble.

The night-time supervisor was 30 and tall and blond and gorgeous and engaged and waaaaaaaay out of my league.

Trouble?  Here I come.

I started being all helpful and extra responsible.  He was all kinds of impressed.  I started helping him with the administrative end of his job.  He was all kinds of impressed.

And then? During one of those nights when all of the kids were all drugged-up and sleeping?  While I was filling out paperwork and doing his job for him?  I very smoothly managed to work all casually into the conversation that blow jobs? They were my very favorite kind of sex.  And that I was gifted at them . . . an artist.  I believe I may have actually used the word, “artist.”

Take a note, people.  No one is out of your league if you are a blow job artist.

Take another note, people.  There was no sex of any sort at the group home for troubled youth.  Because . . . ewwwwww.

Just talking of the trouble-making sort.

So I filed papers and spoke all casually about my blow job artistry, and how no one understood me, and how I was a tortured soul who just wanted someone to get me.  To really get me.

Hee hee!

And then there was sex.  Duh.

Because seriously, people.  No one is out of your league if you are a blow job artist.

OK, but here’s the thing. Even with all of my artistry?  Not so successful, the sex.

Turned out that Mr. Fabulous had issues of the bondage sort.  Which I agreed to help him work out, because I was not only an artist, but a counselor, for god’s sake.  I was a fucking healer.

Literally.  Snort.

It was interesting, but not as fun as you might imagine.  This was not a lasting relationship, because people?  Based on my sample of one man obsessed with bondage and domination?

I would have to say that they tend to be rather terribly under-endowed.

Alrighty, then.  Where was I?

Oh yes . . . artistry.

There is this place up here called VooDoo Dooughnuts.  They sell crazy-ass doughnuts, and they are all fucking popular up here in Portland.  It is the only place I have ever seen a maple bar (which is my personal favorite doughnut in the entire world) topped with a strip of bacon.

A maple bar is perfection and does not need a strip of bacon fucking it from behind to reach orgasm.  Maple bars?  They can get there on their own.

But VooDoo Dooughnuts is all about gilding the fucking doughnut lily.  They are artists that way.

And VooDoo’s slogan?  The Magic is in the Hole!

Not even kidding.

Perhaps their most famous doughnut?  The Cock and Balls.

Seriously.  Check it out . . .

These things are way popular at bridal showers!  Plus?  You can have them personalize the doughnuts with your name!  Or the groom’s name!  Or an old boyfriend’s name if you are feeling troublesome.

People are CRAZY up here in Oregon.  I love it here.

OK, someone asked me the other day . . . if I had to do it all over again, would I go back and change anything about my wedding day?

And I said that I wouldn’t change a thing.  My wedding day was a raucous back-yard affair at which families didn’t get along, grievances were aired, and my dress was way scratchy.  Some people drank far too much, there was arguing about the music, and a car was driven over the curb and into a neighbor’s yard.  People fell and stumbled and laughed and then ranted.  There was a lot of ranting.

But at the end of the day?  I was married to my best friend.  And he is still here, all suspicious of why this morning’s post required internet porn searches.  I love him.

So I wouldn’t change a thing.

But my bridal shower?  I would do that fucking thing over in a heartbeat.

Doughnuts and toys.  That’s what I was missing the first time.  Doughnuts and toys.

The Magic is in the Hole!

Snort!

P.S.  I am not going to provide a hyperlink, because then I am going to get into all kinds of porn-trouble.  But if you want the toys I mentioned here?  Check out www.lailalee.com.  You’ll need to cut and paste.

But it’s worth it.