by Julie Robinson I realize that you never heard from me after sending a friendly little email my way on a popular website you pay good money for so you can date women. I also realize that you are not entirely sure why this is the case. Did I get your email? Did I read it? Maybe I’m really busy? Have I already found a new boyfriend? No, no, no, and—uh—no.
by Julie Robinson Just last month I won a goodies bag chock full of sex toys. A beautiful, pink vibrator bigger than most cocks I’ve seen, anyway. Slimy lube. Silky panties. Breath mints. Other people might say, “I can’t believe my luck!” I just say, “Yeah, I win shit.” Big shit. I’ve won a weekend in San Francisco, a Mediterranean cruise, a week to the South of France, and a weekend in Omaha, Nebraska (don’t ask).
by Julie Robinson Over the years I’ve become quite skilled at doing exactly what I want, when I want, simply because I want. This approach to life—make every day count—is a choice that has left me happy/completely broke/sexually charged/selfish and for the most part I’m okay with that. Here’s my recipe for preparing for a day of self-indulgence: 1 C of waking up without an alarm at a time that completely suits me—sometimes early, sometimes late
by Julie Robinson Dare I say it? I’ve been having some trouble with the police recently. No, I’m not getting pulled over for public nudity / speeding while intoxicated / cooking meth in a two-liter jug in the backseat of my Nissan crossover. No. The cops I’m talking about are those fucking annoying Craigslist self-appointed cyber cops who willy-nilly delete the, albeit, quasi-legitimate advertisements I post on Craigslist a regular basis trying to promote my totally legit business. Whew!
by Julie Robinson Holding my tongue and smiling into the phone, I have my doubts. Shannon’s excitement grows as she shares yet another dripping wet detail about a friend whose marriage is breaking apart piece by piece. “He’s been hiring call girls when he travels. This has been going on for four years! And to think how indignant he acted when she admitted to her extramarital affairs.”
by Julie Robinson When it comes to sex, there are more than a few questions that make me squirm in my seat: What’s your “number”? Do you ever fuck girls? Is mine the biggest you’ve ever seen, baby? Who’s your Daddy?—they all leave me a bit perplexed about how truthful I want to be without having to launch into a full-blown explanation about my answer. I hate lying but, c’mon, is this really any of your business, buster?
The reality is that I get tired of lying to guys. It’s also entirely possible that it can be blamed on the fact that I have become lazy, lethargic, and (quite frankly) impatient. The whole idea of waiting around for men to come to me—being coy, conniving, a challenge—has flown out the window to be replaced by a grown woman with a teenage boy’s libido.
by Julie Robinson He saw me before I saw him, so he may have even been watching me for a while sitting at the bar thinking about getting up the nerve to come over and talk to me. When he did make the call, got me to answer, and ambled on over, the first thing I noticed was the pancake make-up and blush. A split second after that I noted very bad, old hair plugs. On the other hand, it could have been a poorly constructed wig.
by Julie Robinson Seeing that I don’t ever buy sex, it didn’t really surprise me that I hadn’t heard of a popular webpage entirely devoted to selling sex. What did surprise me is that I learned about this backpage of whores for hire while on a date. Kent and I met about a month ago after he bought the entire bar a round of drinks. This caused me to take note for a couple of reasons: 1. Kent is a tall, attractive older man
by Julie Robinson I like to play fair. You might think that this lack o’ cheating has something to do with a moral compass or some other reasonably positive personality trait—but you would be wrong. That’s right I do it for selfish reasons. Surprise! (Well, maybe if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written it wouldn’t be that big of a surprise.)
by Julie Robinson “She’s nearly 5’ 11” and she’s at least 200 pounds.” The grimace on Frank’s face says it all: My girlfriend is fat and I can’t stand it. Quietly, I wait for the: she’s got a pretty face--but it never comes.
