Fat Bottom Girl Said What

It's not about the ass, it's about the attitude!

False Gods

I gave you too much of my truth
I presented you my soul stripped bare
like a communion wafer
laid upon your tongue
so you could devour
the very essence of me

And you chewed me up
and spit me out
and picked your teeth
with my bones

What gave you the right
to preach your gospel
while I tossed
my coins of devotion
into your collection plate
only to have you
lay waste to me
as I knelt down before you

You are the worst kind of deity
a devil in disguise
and I refuse to worship you

Sex Lube and Fine Dining

Kiwi-Strawberry, Passionfruit, Sweet Cherry, Tropical Punch. None of those flavors gets me in the mood, and they actually make me feel like someone might yell out “Hey Kool-Aid” and a giant pitcher is going to come busting through the wall, so who in the hell ever thought fruit flavored sex lube was a good idea?

I like pina coladas, but I don’t want one slathered on my cooter, and I certainly don’t want to have to lick it off some dude’s meat sword!

My mouth may spew expletives and be crass, but I have a rather refined palette. I like good food and drinks.  I want taste explosions in my mouth.  I want my culinary experiences to be as pleasurable as sex, so that got me to thinking.

Why not combine the two?

I think lube should start coming in flavors like filet mignon, or merlot, or chocolate mousse,or maybe Texas BBQ brisket flavor, which would come with a bonus of Lonestar flavored edible undies.

Or maybe hot beef sandwich flavor, or apple pie, or cinnamon roll.

Or maybe even a sushi flavored one. (Lord help you if you don’t need a lube to attain that particular flavor!)

Pretty sure I need to get a patent for this stuff.  Seriously.  This could be the next big thing.

Just think about it.

When was the last time you saw your man tear into anything fruity?  You want your man lusting after you like he lusts after a T-bone and a shot of whiskey.

And guys, can you think of a better way to get your woman to orally pleasure you than to rub some lube flavored like chocolate salted caramel on your weiner?

That’s what I thought.

If you need me I’ll be at the patent office.

P.S. I’m taking applications from men who’d like to help me taste test.

A PSA from Me and The TSA

Next weekend I’m taking a short trip to Nashville.  I’ve finally decided it’s time for me to dive in and really start experiencing some of the things this country has to offer, but I will be packing a little differently for this trip than I did the last one.

If you all remember, last November I flew to Toronto to visit the now ex-boyfriend. That is such a long story, and one I’m not quite ready to tell, so we’ll just let it go at that, but being who I am, I was hoping to “have some fun” i.e. “get laid”, while in Toronto.

Sometimes, one would like to use “additional items” for sexual encounters, so I packed a small vibrator.  It was like travel size.  I even bought it in the travel size section of the adult toy store–travel size vibrators, travel size lube.  To me, travel size=fun size!  But, I digress.

It had been awhile since I’d flown, but didn’t think much about going through security, as I didn’t figure they would find anything too suspicious in there.  Little did I know, my loose face powder was going to set off some sort of “search that bitch’s bag” alert.  No big deal–until I remember I’ve got that damn vibrator in there!!  And who’s going to search my bag? Not one of the four women standing around there, but the one guy on duty.  Fucking fantastic.

“Pleasedon’tfindthevibratorpleasedon’tfindthevibratorpleasedontfindthevibrator”

I keep chanting over and over in my head, as I feel a sheen of sweat form on my upper lip.

He gets his gloves on and starts digging, setting items in Ziploc bags out on the table for everyone to see, and telling me when he finds the powder, that he’s sure that’s what has set off the sensor.

“Oh, but you can’t take this on the plane,” he says, as my heart drops into my gut, and he holds up. . . . a small bottle of hairspray.

You thought I was going to say the vibrator, didn’t you?  Thank the god of dildos and sex toys, the guy did not ask to see what was in the little zebra striped bag, and informed me I could load my makeup and clothing back into the suitcase.

Going through customs in Toronto I was worried I would have to go through that scenario all over again, as they pulled my bag aside to search it.

“Mam, you can’t have the wine.  If you want to take the wine you have to check the bag.”

“Fuck that, I’ll stand right here and drink it, because there’s no way I’m letting you bastards get drunk on my Canadian wine and pleasure yourselves with my vibrator!!”

Needless to say, the vibrator is staying home this time because TSA is not partying on my dime! Those toys are expensive!

Missing Pieces

I want the scent of you to linger
on the pillow
long after the warmth of you has faded
from the sheets

Why must I be the one you run to
And she be the one you call home

The soft spot on the inside of my thigh
where you place kisses and your beard tickles me
isn’t enough to keep you rooted inside the core of me
that space you know so well which no one else has ever seen
or had the desire to

How I wish your hand
which so easily traces paths of longing across my skin
could so easily intertwine with mine in the public market
and make a proclamation of your love for me

Remains of Betrayal

As I sit here
in my puddle of bourbon and tears
disassembling the life I’d created
for us in my head
I’m sure that for you
life goes on
Nothing has changed
because there’s someone there
to fill my ruby slippers
and to carry on my
legacy
of ego stroking and ball licking

Haunted by what is reality
and the harshness of it
I curse you out loud
all the while knowing the connection
we experienced is something rare

In a world of relationships
littered with demons
and the scars I carry
from the talons they’ve dragged across my heart
the good things you brought to me
in comparison
were a downy feather
brushed against my cheek

Forever in Blue Jeans

Today I turn 46. I’m trying to make peace with it. I’m trying to wrap my head around this “aging gracefully” thing.

How does one attempt to age gracefully when time begins to kick your ass?

My eyelids look like Droopy Dog’s, I’ve got jowls, and laugh lines, and crow’s feet, and a bat cape–which is infinitely worse than bat wings, and boobs that require wires of steel to keep them up where they were 25 years ago, and a pooch from 2 babies and a C-section scar and curtains and mud flaps and spider veins and bunions from trying to wear those cute strappy high heels and hands and knees that ache allowing me to forecast the weather and numerous other issues. I take horse pills for maladies and lotion and lubricate and don’t eat carbs and attempt to exercise on a regular basis and I don’t smoke anymore and try to drink the right kind of wine and wear sensible shoes and bifocals. Seriously, all of it is a quite exhausting and a bit depressing.

But you know what really pisses me off about aging?

My inability to find a pair of jeans that fit, that don’t cost as much as a mortgage payment.

At least a couple times a year I drag my semi-sagging derriere to the mall, or some other shopping venue, in an attempt to hunt down a pair of pants. I walk in the door feeling optimistic, only to leave a couple hours later with my hopes dashed, my hair flat, and tears of shame running down my face. All of this the result of tugging and twisting and bending and pulling and zipping and buttoning and jumping up and down and hopping on one foot and when finally getting each of the 50 pairs on, to be met with flat ass or muffin top or camel toe or moose knuckle or too big in the waist and too tight in the knees or poopy diaper bottom or under my boobs high or crack of my ass baring low.

What, in the name of all that is holy, is so damn difficult about making a pair of jeans that will fit a woman?

Until they figure it out, I’ll be sitting over here in my mu-mu.

**This was originally a guest posting on Valley Girl Gone Country, but I thought some of you might have missed it, so I’m posting it again.  :)

Blank Spaces

The space in me
that you filled up with your words and lies
is now empty

Your attention lavished upon
some other unsuspecting female
who you lick with your demon tongue
of wordsmithery

Tell me
does your wife know
all the games you play
and what fills your days and nights
when she’s not there to

The energy it takes to lie
is exhausting
and seems such a waste

Time much better spent
Figuring out how to love yourself
and live authentically
instead of in the house of mirrors you’ve created

*Originally posted on The Fat Bottom Bard. Working on shutting that site down. One freakin’ blog is more than plenty.

Guest Posting on Valley Girl Gone Country

I was graciously asked to guest post on Valley Girl Gone Country, and quickly agreed, as I had something on my mind as my 46th (gasp) birthday loomed.  Those of you in your 40’s know aging is not for the faint-hearted, but there’s one particular thing which sticks in my craw about it.  Head on over to Valley Girl Gone Country, and check out my post “Forever in Blue Jeans”, and you’ll find out what it is.  Much thanks to Jolene for inviting this Fat Bottom Girl to guest post!!

States of Grace

I can’t stop loving you gracefully because I’m the chick that trips over shit and falls up the stairs and is constantly pulling my pants up or my shirt down and walking around with a piece of lettuce stuck in my teeth and snort laughing inappropriately and wearing tap shoes and singing karaoke.

So you’ll have to forgive the way I’ll awkwardly stop loving you.

Go With Your Gut

I am a fool for love. Or at least what presents itself as such.

The eye refuses to see what the heart doesn’t want to feel,

but the gut is like a built-in bullshit detector.

“SHUT UP!” I told my gut. “You don’t know what you’re feeling. You’re broken. I can’t trust you.”

“Oh but you can,” my gut said, “You just don’t want to trust yourself. And if you trust me, it would mean you have to trust yourself.”

So more importantly than trusting him, I decided to trust myself.

And guess what?

My gut was right. And so was I, although I didn’t really want to be.

intuition

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