Long ago I used to derive pleasure from the items that came into contact with my lady parts. Now, I consider it a win if in exchange for dropping my pants and saying hello to the camera dildo I’m able to score an ultrasound showing a follicle for my refrigerator, and I think I deserve applause when I manage to get the prometri.um tucked behind my fem.ring in such a way as to minimize leakage. I feel like my vagina is the no fun zone. I’m worried I’m becoming the no fun zone.
Instead of thinking about sex, last night I had a dream about a chocolate donut. It started with fantasies of a perfect chocolate cupcake with white icing and baked in chocolate chips. The baked goods ideal evolved as I rested in bed watching the clock tick tock past 11, 12, 1 and too many other numbers. At somepoint during my eventual slumber the cupcake morphed into a Starb.ucks chocolate donut. Apparently even my pastry dreams go slummin’. This morning, unable to concentrate on briefing papers, phone calls, or plans for this evening, I took a donut recess from work and gleefully sauntered off to the ‘buck, sure that this donut would be the answer to my crappy outlook and cranky attitude. I bounced into the store eager to receive the treat.
No chocolate donuts. I asked the surly woman behind the counter. Perhaps there were stacks and piles of donuts secretly tucked in the back cooler just waiting for me?
No secret chocolate donuts.
I almost started crying, ordered a drink, and reversed my route- uphill this time, back to home, work obligations, a difficult boss, no HoneyBee (he’s still out of country), a probably unsuccessful cycle, and the weight of the world on my shoulders. And then I saw it….a non-descript luxury car with tinted windows parked illegally in a loading zone-the kind of vehicle often squiring diplomats or middle-aged CEO’s shuttled from very important meeting to more important meeting. The door opened and out stretched a pleather-clad leg, a pleather so tight it straddled the line between pants and legging status. The head dipped into view, and the plastic pants creature unfolded to full size: a 6+ foot tall 30something man who looked like a Brooks Brothers model from the waist up proceeded up the street.
And my mood changed. I may be a barren, childless, hormonal wreck, who misses her partner and is feeling quite sorry for herself today, but at least I didn’t lose the bet that man must have lost in order to require him to march up a busy metropolitan street decked out in skin-tight, shiny, fake leather.
Cheers to you, Pleather Legging Man. Thanks for the laugh.
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