It Smells Like Hubba Bubba and Excitement All Up In Here

There are certain questions everyone wants the answers to in life.  

Some may ponder their meaning, their purpose. Some question why bad things happen to good people.  The next may seek out the fountain of youth or how to obtain internal peace with oneself.

I want to know how people have sex in cramped quarters.  

This is seriously the kind of shit I think about.

I hear my friends say they want the excitement of, say, hot monkey love in a public bathroom.  I assume (and hope to all things holy) that the ‘monkey’ is simply implied for a much more animalistic version of the love they currently have.  (I don’t ask too many questions out of fear it isn’t.)

I’m going to pass by the obvious points I could make here of uncleanliness and ever present disease that I assume are just stuck to every surface, handle and knob (pun very much intended, folks.  Stay with me.) in a public restroom and go right to the logistics of how this is accomplished.  We’re all adults here, so I rest securely in the discussion that is about to take place.  Knowing the lot of some of you reading this, I probably shouldn’t be so secure.  I digress and forge on.

When I hear of people pining for a desire for infatuated love making as noted above, to a certain degree, I get it.  I get that, as a woman, you want to feel desirable.  Insatiable.  Immediate.  I want mah man, young Bicepual in my instance, to look at me and declare, “DA-YUM!” and come at me like the cougar I’ve been accused of being.  I hear my male friends long for the days when they were crazy and wild, how they want a sliver of the hot hormone driven days of their youth back, how they just want their woman to meet them at the door, not merely naked, but nekked naked, sexually dripping something down her cleave.  But as I near 40 (it’s always down the road somewhere, and I’m okay with it), I am turning more into a practical type person, like, I don’t want to tent camp unless the tent is in a jacuzzi room at the Hilton and by “tent” I mean king size bed, with extra pillows.  Chocolate and S’mores are still a must tho.

This is my issue; I think in pictures.  My mom used to have this curse, and it has definitely carried onto me.  When my friend so-and-so tells me, “Gosh, I wanted him to take me right there in the tavern parking lot, it was so hot!” I think, “Wait a minute.  Um.  Ew.” because my brain has already started downloading that specific parking lot.  I see pictures of spit loogies and gum stuck to the pavement, which now happens to be on her ass, then I run down the path of pondering if I know this friend well enough to know what kind of panties she wears, and I would bet silk that rides up her rear end uncomfortably, so she would most definitely want to ditch those suckers fast and then how do you explain the smell of Hubba Bubba and excitement to your recovering self the next morning in a hungover haze?

Visually and mentally, I am so distracted.  Not to mention emotionally harmed at this point.  All my senses are already finishing her sentence.  I see the kissing and the groping, I hear the slurping, but I also smell the Miller Lite and Watermelon gum.  My self gags, and quite honestly, I hope it’s the smell that’s doing it and not the thought of imaginary groping.  I’d like to think I’m above all that.  

So if I hear of Restroom Ridiculousness ensuing, I first think of every ladies’ room I’ve ever been in (I’m not even going to fathom sex in a men’s room...talk about the bad kind of gagging.  Ack!).  High-end restroom or highway oasis truck stop, every woman’s room has weird tile somewhere in it.  Browns or mustards or odd greens.  This is just not an acceptable means of me getting into my groove.  Sorry, boys.  

There is always a dripping faucet and I can only imagine it would make my wandering mind think of paying the water bill soon so it’s not late this month again.  Speaking of water, have you EVER NOT seen water spillage across the vanity top in a public bathroom?  It makes me believe bathroom users are just as uncouth as they come.  Can you not even get your hands in the sink when you wash them?  Do you hold your thumb over the spigot end like we did when we were 8, trying to make the garden hose spray further?  I know that brown, shitty paper towel bathrooms have suck dick in the field of absorption, but could you at least pretend to mop it up afterwards so I have somewhere to put my purse when I wash my own damn hands, please?

You see where this is going, and why I’d make a terrible hot tryst to someone.  I remember one time trying to recreate some version of unrealistic sex by giving it up on a staircase.  Rug burns and hurt pride don’t even begin to cover the muscle pain in my back on that night.  So, no thank you.  

“Fun” outside up here in God’s Country will land your pretty parts in poison ivy, deer poop or ticks.  So, no thank you to that too. 
I’m left to wrestle with what’s left over, and what it means for my inner seductress. 
Am I boring?  Does he want me out of desire, or out of familiarity?  Is he settling for me?

These are truly questions I’ve asked, many times over.  While I don’t think I’m a necessarily insecure person, reading it in text form now, I sound as if I’m wailing from my floor, “I just wannnnnt someone to lovvvvvve meeeeee...” from the bedroom of lost souls.  

So here’s where I’ve found the delicate balance of sex kitten VS. old marm for what it’s worth; I cook dinner for the family and sometimes I think back to the time a friend sent me a homemade porn shot of how he “attacked” a plate of berries on a nice summer day.  Domestic chore VS. Sex Kitten fodder, even if it’s a very distant memory.  Visual.
I light incense, every single night, to end the evening & close the day.  This is a ritual I’ve gotten myself into, and sometimes I’m sound asleep before the stick even burns down, but I drift off to the exotic smells of Myrrh or Jasmine and remind my psyche of every bad romance novel I’ve ever read.  It’s never as easy as they’d want me to believe, but.  Aroma.

I try to shave daily.  To this end, I am annoyed 6 times a week, for sure.  But as I slip into bed at night, I feel smooth legs, and feel good, no matter if my jeans were a little too tight today or not.  If Bicepual isn’t around to feel it, I can feel it myself.  Touch.
I kiss him.  Whether it’s morning or night or a dozen times in between, I suck the tiniest bit of his lip into mine at some point in the day.  That nip can linger on my lips or be gone before he’s out the door, but the point is, I take his flavor in.  Maybe a bit of a stretch, but, taste.

I remember wilder days of parties and flirting.  I know what it felt to have a carefree take on the future, anything was possible and fun.  God! It was so much fun.  Now tho, I look forward in the knowledge that if sex doesn’t end up getting crazier as I age, it will always continue to get better and that’s what keeps it hot for me.  I used to look forward to the hook up, the parking lots and, you know, the gum in life.   What I now realize is dentures may not be able to handle Watermelon Hubba Bubba. 
Sexy lace doesn’t really hide adult diapers well.  

Bunyons are a bitch in stripper heels.

Aging can be a relentless dominatrix of self loathing. I’m not quite there yet, but I will be.  We all will be.  While my wits are still about me, I’d like to try to figure it out.  Who knows where it will take me.  I may no longer be taking applications, but I’m always open to suggestions.