tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48667404422869686762024-03-14T02:54:31.368-05:00Over-Educated Nymphotoo smart and too horny for my own goodOver-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-50665119392424135182015-01-21T21:12:00.001-06:002015-01-22T21:36:08.175-06:00What I've Learned as OEN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here's what I've learned since I first started Over-Educated Nympho in 2005. Now you'll know it too and you can pass it on to all your friends and maybe after a generation or two, all men will be proficient in giving oral sex to a woman. After all, sharing is caring! --slides down a rainbow squeeing all the way--<br />
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<li>Girls have hot orgasm faces. Guys do not. Shut your eyes accordingly or you may never want to fuck him again. God forbid he sounds like a nursing whale. [guess which ex of mine that is]</li>
<li>Online dating is more entertaining than doing a Scrooge McDuck into a vat full of chicken nuggets. In fact, I advise all single people to try online dating for one month just for shits and giggles and so what if a much older man asks you to bear his children. Be proud people find your genes worthy of procreation.</li>
<li>Guys do not always bring condoms to your first hookup. That's fine if sex is spontaneous, but if this excursion was planned and he shows up empty-handed, he's a dick. Tell him to go fuck a nursing whale. Yes, even if he is really really really really really hot. That's just bad sexiquette.</li>
<li>Always use a condom. Nothing kills your sex life like catching crotch rot.</li>
<li>Always use a condom or there could be a bug-eyed alien growing inside you. And you know what babies are? POOP MACHINES. You can Google it.</li>
<li>If you give a guy the best blowjob of his life, he will never ever forget you and you will be in his Spank Bank Hall of Fame for life. [Yes I know I am the Queen of Blowjobs and have written a fantastic series on how to give a blowjob, but you will have to wait for me to post it another day when I don't have two class's worth of writing homework to do.]</li>
<li>People still do booty calls in their thirties, they just have the decency to text you before midnight. Or, you know, you sleep through it because you're old.</li>
<li>The saying is true: guys with small dicks give <i>fantastic</i> oral sex. They have to or they'd never get laid twice.</li>
<li>Guys with big dicks sometimes think that them standing there with a hard-on and putting His Throbbing Manhood inside you automatically makes for great sex. No. SO no. No no no no no. If that's the case, climb on top, tell him to shut the fuck up, and show him how sex is good for a woman.</li>
<li>Guys who don't love love love going down on a girl? What the fuck is wrong with you? Go get with some girl who refuses to give blowjobs and get married and have a hoard of your very own poop machines.</li>
<li>No one kisses anymore. What happened to all the kissing? Just because you're old enough to have sex now it doesn't mean you can't make out like horny teenagers.</li>
<li>Men. Listen to me and remember this if you remember nothing else from my most entertaining blog post. Men have absolutely no excuse to be bad at oral sex. You have Google and porn on your phone. If nothing else, ask her how she likes it done and if she has two wits about her she'll instruct you in what to do. Also? GOOGLE IT, JACKHOLE.</li>
<li>You never know what you'll remember about a date or sexual encounter. For example: my first memory of Hot Scott is that he was wearing pale blue ankle socks with red Converse. Come on, that doesn't even match. One of the most buff, gorgeous guys I've been with in a couple years and what do I think of? Bingo. And then there's Persian Guy, whom I am very fond of, and my first thought is of him gasping "Oh, VIX" when he cums. IN A PERSIAN ACCENT. Come on, that's as ridiculous as Tywin Lannister wearing a bowling ball bag for a hat.</li>
<li>The extra weight I've put on doesn't seem to have slowed down my dating life at all. I've been bashful in bed and guess what? No one gave a fuuuuuck what my jiggly tummy looked like. But then again I don't date vain douchebags anymore [two imaginary cupcakes to the reader who guesses which ex I'm talking about!] I'm not hot anymore but I still get guys way out of my league. You know why? PERSONALITY. Wait I think I read that in Tina Fey's book. Or was it Amy Poehler's? Doesn't matter, read both.</li>
<li>Before you start Tweeting and posting comments, let me say this--yes, confidence itself is very sexy, looks be damned. So is "having a great personality." That actually starts applying in your early thirties!</li>
<li>Young guys really are into older woman. Be warned: that often means they expect you to be the one to pay. Also some are really inexperienced so you have to show them every damn thing, like "WHY are you using teeth on my pussy?" [Tywin Lannister's imaginary bowling ball bag hat if you can guess who this was.]</li>
<li>I swear half the people my age don't know how to write a goddamn text, let alone sext. If you write some stupid shit like "wyd wanna bw me [emoji of a skeleton head next to a sailboat next to a no walking sign]. What is this drivel? I'm thinking about how awful the sext is instead of the sex itself. I mean, what the fuck is that? SEXTING IS AN ART FORM STOP RUINING IT [EMOJI OF A BICYCLE].</li>
<li>Unicorns are better in bed than men. Or other women, but I'm biased because I know I'm right.</li>
<li>A lot of people have not experimented much--BDSM (bondage, domination, sado-masocism), sex toys, anal sex. That's so sad. Why do you think I am blogging again! There's a national crisis.</li>
<li>Sex with the lights dimmed is best. You can see each other just fine but you can't see the weird nipple hair situation he has.</li>
<li>Keep condoms in your purse in the little pocket because you never know when you'll be having hot car sex. It's something you never grow out of! Unless you have a Fiat.</li>
<li>Don't date anyone who does the scary drugs because you'll never know when they wind up in the ER talking about some girl named Molly.</li>
<li>Date guys at least 4" taller than you so you can make good use of stilettos in the bedroom-- unless you have a waterbed, then have duct tape ready. Always be prepared!</li>
<li>You can tell in the first three seconds a guy sees you if he wants to fuck you. I am entrusting this information with you because I know you will use this knowledge for good, not evil.</li>
<li>Anal sex is super fun. Actually I knew that one before I was OEN. It's the Catholic way!</li>
<li>Being a squirter means you're special. Being a gusher means that he will never forget how you squirted in his mouth or that when you were on top you spread your gushing river all over everywhere so his entire torso was covered in you. Talk about a huge wet spot though. I've slept on the couch instead.</li>
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Lastly: once an over-educated nympho, always an over-educated nympho. To my beloved female readers, especially the ones who have been with me through so much over the years.</div>
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<br /></div>
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xoxo</div>
<div>
Vix</div>
</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-31751298460695676352015-01-20T22:13:00.000-06:002015-01-22T21:42:50.148-06:00Dear Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
January 20, 2025, Portland, Oregon<br />
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Dear me at age 33, </div>
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<div>
...still stuck in Houston, Texas with all the good ol' boys who think it's cute as grits that you know how to drive a truck. No wonder you ran like hell to a blue state.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
First off, your ass still rocks a miniskirt, in spite of the cellulite underneath. Imagine me high-fiving you from the future (where there are no flying cars, but there are now multiple flavors of Nutella, and Tina Fey is president of the United States, so it's cool..) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Secondly, you have <i>got</i> to be nicer to yourself. Stop beating yourself up for the mistakes you made, buck up, and go be awesome. Because that's exactly what happens. You pull yourself out of it and now I'm happy as fuck thanks to all the hard work you're about to do to get your shit together. Stick with therapy. You cry a lot so get the last session of the day or else your mascara smears so bad you look like a coke-addicted whore. But therapy's great.<br />
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It will all be worth it. One day. It's not a day anytime soon, but I promise it will all be worth it.</div>
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Why?</div>
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Because one day you have not one, not two, but three published books, and that means you make enough money to quit your lame day job and instead go be surrounded by your library of books while you write with your desk at the window where there's an actual mountain. The writing deadlines are hard, and you occasionally dream about Norse mythology, but you love it so hard your husband accuses you of having an affair with it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
By the way, you should know the whole bipolar thing you're going through makes for fantastic fodder for your third book. "How did you write such a realistic character?" Um, maybe because she's based on me and I'm real?" and then you throw a handful of Lithium in his face at which point he asks you if you're on your period and you throw an angry cat at his face.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You're married to the love of your life. Going through all those ex-boyfriends will be worth it when you meet this man, this amazing, brilliant, sweet, hilarious, handsome man who almost always remembers to hang up his wet towel after a shower. And he's taller than you even when you're wearing your tallest heels! Oh, and you do not have sex on the first date because YOU CAN KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS LIKE A GODDAMN LADY.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I'm so thankful you bought that Wonderwoman diaper bag ten years ago. I'm the coolest mom on the playground. Even the moms with fancy designer diaper bags compliment me on the one you bought me on clearance for $17.49 with free shipping. The burp cloth is a fucking cape for fuckssake. It just doesn't get any cooler than that. </div>
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Don't bother freezing your eggs. You get knocked up at 39 and again at 42. God bless those uber-fertile Catholic genes. Gotta spread the Word of God, after all!</div>
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Now the real purpose of this letter: stop fucking drinking. You don't think it's holding you back that much but it is. You should have been a published author by now but you were too busy sucking face with a wine bottle.</div>
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Stop that shit. Now. Or I'll find a time machine and come back to 2015 and punch you in the cooch and then in the face for symmetry of bruising.</div>
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<div>
Lastly, this bipolar thing. You will never stop being bipolar. Deal.</div>
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There are a few other things I think you should know about the future, just as a precaution:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
George R.R. Martin's last ASOIAF book sucks. Tyrion dies.</div>
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Kale is still all the rage even though it tastes like how I imagine the icky crumblies between my toes are after two days in fuzzy socks.</div>
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Justin Bieber comes out as a lesbian.</div>
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All your exes are fat and divorced, and one has a blog for his cat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
The women from "Sex and the City" look like walking mummies which is so scary it makes your daughter cry and ask "why are the skeletons moving?"</div>
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Don't bother re-piercing your nipples because you'll be breastfeeding a few years later.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Start taking magnesium. It's the real secret to the war on osteoporosis. That and Nutella.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But really, good things happen for you, Vix. Buck up and have faith.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Love, </div>
<div>
Future Vix</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
P.S. Absolutely do not paint the master bedroom plum. It will take four coats to cover when you repaint it white, which your husband will remind you he insisted was fine in the first place.</div>
</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-34765446475937301932015-01-18T22:45:00.000-06:002015-01-22T21:36:59.070-06:00Withdrawal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
Your feet feel asleep. Dead. It’s so hard to walk
when you can’t feel your feet, like you’re walking on faith, hoping that your
feet instinctively know what to do even though you feel like you’re walking on
stumps. Doing this in four inch heels is a goddamn obstacle course through a
maze of cubicles.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Your hand shakes no matter how hard you try to
hold it steady. Your handwriting is dreadful when you’re like this, and it
looked “serial killer” to begin with. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But really it’s the vibrating. Your entire body is
humming, vibrating—no, pulsating really, and each body part is doing so at a
different rhythm. It’s like each individual part of you is manic at the same
time, but separately. Your body no longer belongs to you.<o:p></o:p><br />
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This is what withdrawal is like, and it now happens
to me the day after I drink too much. The other day I drank a lot (which my
swollen ankles were quick to remind me of), 8 glasses of wine instead of my
allotted 3-4. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I felt it all day the next day. </div>
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First off, you shit differently. It’s green. And
not cute green like a baby, but “oh my god, how did that come from a human
being” green. As if that weren’t enough, you can’t shit it out all it once. No,
it takes you six times a day to get all that disturbing projectile green alien shit out of
your system.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Withdrawal can get kind of brutal. And by “kind of
brutal,” I mean, completely humbling. It puts you in your place so hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You can’t walk properly. Instead you look like
some kind of dumbass puppet who just learned how to walk that morning.</div>
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Your kneecaps vibrate uncontrollably when you're like this. You drop things because you lose control of your hands. There's random twitching, like you're an old, broken down person. You have to hold your coffee mug with two hands. </div>
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You absolutely can't stand completely still. You have to lean against things to keep yourself from falling down, especially if your dumb ass decided to wear heels that day. You have to play dumb at Thanksgiving when your perfect father asks you why your hand is shaking.</div>
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Your mouth is permanently in a state of yeast infection from the sugar in all the alcohol you've imbibed recently. You can feel the different texture in your mouth along your teeth line, fitted perfectly to your teeth. </div>
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This all is nothing compared to how withdrawal was when I was detoxing from 10 glasses of wine a day. Withdrawal incapacitated me for hours at a time. I could barely walk down the hall to the restroom, let alone walk up or down stairs.</div>
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At that time, I kept Kahlua in a thermos in my car when I went to work. Not so I could drink during work, but to keep the withdrawal tremors at bay, This was back in April and May, when it was already hot in Houston and therefore the contents of my thermos was warm and thus completely disgusting. But I had to drink something alcoholic at my lunch break to keep from being a complete spaz. It was terrible; I never want to go through that again. I felt like a stranger inside my own body.</div>
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The point is that you spend most of the day wishing you hadn't had so much to drink the night before. And feeling like a huge jackass.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yet you do it again and again. </div>
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Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-54334680745238457492015-01-16T05:35:00.002-06:002015-01-22T21:38:07.454-06:00Why I Drink<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hi. I'm Vix, and I'm an <a href="http://overeducatednympho.blogspot.com/2012/11/whiskey-love.html" target="_blank">alcoholic</a>.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is that I drank very little in college and none at all in high school, minus the wine coolers my father let me drink while we watched "Star Trek: Next Generation." Alcoholism ran in the blood, but I figured if it hadn't hit me by the time I graduated college, I would be okay.<br />
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I was very, very wrong.<br />
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At the age of 27 I started drinking wine after work regularly because I hated my job and wasn't sure the industry was right for me after six years of schooling for it. I bought a couple bottles a week, no problem.<br />
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Shortly before I bought my house, I reeeeally hated my job and was drinking a bottle a night most nights. Still manageable though. I wasn't worried.<br />
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When I lost my job in January 2010, I bottomed out in upper middle class white girl terms. I drank tequila straight, whiskey on ice, and vodka sodas all day long. I barely recognized my puffy alcoholic's face in the mirror.<br />
<br />
Within months, I was drinking half a handle of vodka a day. But as long as I could be drunk off my ass and still have the coordination to run three miles on the treadmill at the gym, I figured I wasn't doing too bad, minus the vile green vodka shits the next day alerting me to the fact that something was so incredibly not right.<br />
<br />
Drinking may run on my father's side of the family, but I never blamed my drinking on my bloodline. I knew it was all on me. The bipolar disorder, though? I blamed that entirely on my mother and her shitty genes. It still feels like a much bigger problem than my drinking because I have only moderate control over my biochemistry, whereas I have complete control over how much I do or don't drink.<br />
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When I was diagnosed as being bipolar a year and a half ago, many, many puzzle pieces in my life started clicking together. It all made sense. In fact, it was kind of amazing I hadn't turned into a cokehead by then, which was certainly well within my personality.<br />
<br />
When I started out drinking, it was because I hated my job. Actually, I hated the entire industry. I drank to forget those eight hours a day.<br />
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The thing was, I noticed my writing/blogging was better if I'd been drinking. It was raw and gritty and painfully honest. you can't buy that kind of gold.<br />
<br />
So I started drinking on purpose. I needed to get past all those filters so I could write what I really felt. Raw and gritty were exactly what I was after. If that required a bottle of wine, so be it. Having a cleared out mind and a hangover in the morning were worth the price as far as I was concerned.<br />
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What it comes down to is that drinking helps me write. It helps me get past the demons of self-doubt and "you're no one, why would a single person give a fuck what you think" and "Stop. Just Stop. You're being a stupid bitch." <br />
<br />
Eight months ago my psychiatrist demanded that I stop drinking so I could give all the many medications I'm on a chance to do their job. The man started talking about treatment programs and that scared me into action. Within a month I was drinking only 40% of the wine I used to drink. He says that's not enough, invalidating the pride and sense of accomplishment I feel for scaling back so much after years of drinking half a handle a day.<br />
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People assume alcoholics have something to hide. I'm on guard stone cold sober because the full-force blunt of my personality is NSFW. It's heaven to unleash everything I have in my writing. Drinking helps me feel like the real me.<br />
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Also, it just plain old tastes so damn good.<br />
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The problem is that I don't know how to write sober. Sure I can write, but the writing doesn't feel enough like <i>me.</i> It feels falsified, cold, like something a killer robot would write. It feels like there's a wall between me and the world. I can't have that. So I drink and I write. And the results prove that it's not a bad writing process.<br />
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Sucks for my attempts at sobriety though.<br />
<br />
My goal is to one day be able to drink like a normal person. Drink only a glass or two of wine some nights, nothing on others. The problem is I have no idea how to pull that off. I don't know how I'll write the same way I do now. Any suggestions would be welcome, by the way.<br />
<br />
Until then, I will bask in my three to four glasses of wine a night and try to figure out a way to write as well sober as I do drunk. I will also bask in having normal shits for the first time in years.<br />
<br />
Oh how it's good to be Vix.</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-4621812754385961882015-01-13T23:53:00.003-06:002015-01-22T21:38:21.385-06:00Is 'Hot Mess' Available on Blogspot?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
Today I had an appointment with my psychiatrist.
He was the one who officially diagnosed me as bipolar a year and a half ago
when I was wiiiiiildly manic and swore I was a messenger of God (hey if you
listen to my side, it made complete sense at the time (which is a book I plan
on writing one day soon-ish)). He was also the one to tell me I was an
alcoholic and needed to cut way the hell back. Which I did. But.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first thing Psychiatrist asked me when I sat
down was how my drinking is going. I paused. That pause fucked me for the rest
of the session. My drinking? Four glasses a night. Yes, that is the scaled back
amount. I used to drink ten glasses of wine a night. That’s two and a half
bottles. In five hours. But a glass every half hour doesn’t sound that bad,
does it? Yeah, well. Still an alcoholic, albeit one with newly learned
self-control.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On that note, l still have the breathalyzer my parents put on my
car to keep me from getting a DWI. At the time I was furious, but now—now I get
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As Psychiatrist’s Eyes of Judgment bore holes into
my soul, I caved and told him that recently several people in my life (Dear Ol’
Dad, Bestie, and Supervisor semi-jokingly) have said I should get a therapist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought the fucker was going to cartwheel and
live-Tweet right there. Jackass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He talked about my undeniable need for therapy
even more than he talked about my drinking problem. I clutched onto my Kate
Spade purse to keep from punching him. And by “punching him,” I mean crying uncontrollably.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I am so sick of crying. I am sick of my life
sucking. I am sick of being the only single girl at the party. I am sick of
Texas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s why I’m leaving. This spring, my townhouse
complex is being demolished for a bright shiny new skyscraper, so I figured if
I’m moving, I might as well move somewhere I want to actually be: Portland,
Oregon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As Psychiatrist was rather fond of saying, change
of geography doesn’t mean my problems won’t follow me and oh yeah since he
hadn’t mentioned it in two minutes, I REALLY NEED THERAPY.<o:p></o:p></div>
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--punch-cry—<o:p></o:p></div>
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It wasn’t so much that Psychiatrist was forcing
Ugly Truths into my face (I already see them stamped on my forehead, a big
scarlet HM for “hot mess”), it’s that he did so in a way that really made me
feel like I really am the disaster I see in my bathroom mirror every morning.
Someone who is a waste of potential, a failure in spite of all the privileges
and opportunities she was given, a bad investment. And by investment, I’m
alluding to the quarter of a million dollars my parents so mistakenly paid for
me to receive eighteen years of the best private education available. So I
could be barely-employed for four years then suck at a job I hate at a B-level
company I don’t respect that should have fired me ages ago for a number of
offenses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
My parents placed their bets on the wrong horse.
Not that it mattered, because my little brother is literally a rocket scientist
and he climbs mountains in Nepal and shit. Despite the five and a half year age
gap, he surpassed me so long ago that it’s embarrassing. Oh and did I mention I lost
my house in foreclosure? My parents bought it, but still. When I leave this
house I’m leaving with zero dollars in my back pocket from it. Back to the land of apartments and
pet deposits for me, just like when I was 25. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When Psychiatrist was talking about my drinking
problem with clear disdain, I wanted to throw a full glass of wine at his
stupid fat head and scream I USED TO DRINK HALF A FUCKING BOTTLE OF TEQUILA A
DAY ON A SLOW DAY. THIS IS *HUGE* PROGRESS, FUCKHOLE and then gouge his brain
out through his nostrils.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hi, world. My name is Vix and I’m a big fat hot
mess. Literally big: I’m about fifty pounds overweight. I’m nearing 34 and I
can barely take care of myself or sustain a job. Also I’m a bipolar drunk and I
secretly still think I’m a messenger of God but now at least I know better than
to talk about it. Love meeeeee! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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--punch-cry and pours another glass of wine--<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So what am I going to do about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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First off, leave. I need a fresh start in a new
city. I want a new job, new apartment, new dating pool, new bookstore to lose
myself in, and new weather to bitch about on bad days. Hell, I want to be gone
already.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes, I know that moving to Portland won’t fix any
of my existing problems, but at least I’d feel like I was starting to put down
roots in a place I actually plan on living in for the next twenty years. That’s
right, one day, I want to fall in love and marry a nice non-hipster man. Many
days after that, I want to have a couple of his non-hipster babies. I want to
be happy, damnit. I want the white picket fence and obnoxiously cute Christmas
cards we send out every year of all of us in hideous matching Christmas sweaters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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--If only I can fix my life. I have to do that
first to get to the mostly happily ever after part.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These days, the only thing that keeps me from manic-raging—other
than an anti-psychotic medication called Geodon—is writing. I take classes at
Litreactor.com and they keep me sane. I take notes for my fantasy book and it
keeps me from crying for hours. I read a book on the craft of writing and I can
look my psychiatrist in the face without punching it into a disgusting pulp. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Why do you think I started blogging again, today
of all days? So I don’t spend the next two days curled up in bed sobbing
because I hate my life so much, upper middle class white privilege be damned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The worst part was that I didn’t cry during the
session like Old Vix would have. Instead I blinked at him. None of this is new
information. After all, I conceded defeat long ago. I thought that was obvious
from the fact that I hate my life. Why did he have to rough me up all over again?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But you know what? I haven’t lost hope in getting
my happy ending. I have three book projects to work on. And do you know what I did last week? I ordered a Wonder Woman
diaper bag from thinkgeek.com. No I’m not pregnant; but I have faith that one
day I will have a husband I love and a child I had on purpose, and that child
will have a red cape for a burp cloth, because that’s the kind of mom I am.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank you for welcoming me back to the blogosphere<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
xoxo Vix<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-44541581747681936382013-02-15T01:17:00.002-06:002015-01-22T21:39:00.228-06:00Sweet Worship<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I came across Persian Guy on Match.com months ago, shortly after I broke up with Olympian (just before Halloween) because of the theory that the best way to get over someone is to get under somebody else. Or some shit like that. And I'm determined to fuck that adage true.<br />
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The day after Persian Guy was supposed to come over to my house to cook me an authentic Persian dinner for our first date (but he cancelled due to a stomach bug), I realized that I was in no position to date anyone and called it quits across the board of my many dating contenders. A few thought it was a manipulative bitch of a move on my part, but it wasn't. I was broken, and the only person who could fix me was me. So I bailed on the dating scene. </div>
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Since then, Persian Guy had been nothing but class, patience, and understanding: the classic Nice Guy. Even though my sexual assessment dubbed him "inexperienced," he was at the top of my To-Do list thanks to his endearing eagerness to please (i.e. eat me out for hours without expecting or even wanting anything in return, as against my nature as that may be) and my personal preference for 1) foreigners and 2) the tall, dark, and handsome type. </div>
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Yada yada yada, we finally had our first date on Saturday. I was not expecting a lot, pretty much just a sexual play-thing to keep me subdued a few more weeks until I could find a better match to keep me occupied during my dating down-time that is the year 2013. </div>
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Since this blog post is overdue, and I've been drinking so I'm likely to pass out at any moment, I will gloss over the PG-rated portion of the date with the following summary: Persian Guy was awesome, much to my delight and surprise. He was hilarious, witty, flirtatious, dorky, and undeniably fuckable. And not just because he had taken me to Fogo de Chao aka a Brazilian steakhouse aka an all-you-can-eat top-rate meat buffet upon seeing that my original steakhouse choice had a 45 minute wait and OH BY THE WAY he is rich. News to me. The older and broker I get, the more I likey me the tastefully quiet-but-rich guys, especially if they will be attending med school next year with the intention of curing cancer like Persian Guy. Also I'm 4-5 weeks into the Paleo diet so my only food requirement these days is "lots of meat, twice as many vegetables." </div>
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The dinner portion of our evening was fantastic. Never a pause in conversation or a glance at the watch for an excuse to get the fuck out of there, go home, and watch Netflix in the comfort of my bed with two farting dogs. After two hours of eating many fine cuts of red meat, I invited Persian Guy back to my place to "watch a movie." </div>
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Yeah. I think we watched a big fat three minutes of some 80s movie before shenanigans ensued. </div>
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We hadn't kissed yet. I kept waiting for it to happen throughout the evening--perhaps when we were at his car, or in the car (where he had smoooooooth jazz playing the whole time), or after he'd given me a piggy-back ride from the restaurant to the car because my heel broke and it was rainy and I wanted an excuse for his hands to be wrapped underneath my thighs (for future reference: a bad and possibly ER-inducing idea if you've used two different kinds of lotion on your legs before your date), but... NADA. </div>
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So we went back to my place. I put on a movie I knew we wouldn't watch on the DVD player, we sat on the couch, and at last we were kissing even though I have no idea who initiated it but who gives a crap because HOT TAMALES WE WERE MAKING OUT AND IT WAS HOT AT FUCK. </div>
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I really must give Persian Guy credit, for all throughout the evening up until the kiss he had been a complete gentleman, in spite of my many efforts to discourage him from such behavior. I'd worn one of my favorite form-fitting miniskirts (knowing that he was an ass man), a form-fitting camisole top, a form-fitting sweater, and high, high heels. Poor bastard didn't stand a chance. </div>
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His gentlemanly disposition broke the second I mounted him on my couch. </div>
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At first I was gentle but eager, learning and adjusting to Persian Guy's style since I had expected him to be on the more traditional/conservative side. For all I knew, a girl climbing onto his lap might be reason enough for him to expect my father to show up at the door with two goats and a pig for my dowry in the morning.</div>
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I don't know what it is, but there is a compatibility to anything and everything sexual, something about being in sync, on the same wavelength as each other. Persian Guy and I had that all fucking night long, as if our bodies were made for each other. Chef is the last partner I've said that about--it's a large part of the reason I couldn't keep myself away from him even when he was being an undeserving jackhole, which was far too often for me to have an excuse otherwise. Same with The Russian, the previous fantastic fuck (with no logical reason, that is) on my sex roster.</div>
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We kissed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. In his accent, Persian Guy kept stopping to pant, "I did not expect this!" and then he'd continue sucking on my tongue. Eventually he grew bolder and started to wander: his mouth to my neck and bare shoulders, his hands up my bare thighs to my ass. I welcomed it all, grinding into him slowly, surely, hungrily, my hands wrapped around the back of his neck. </div>
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"It is not fair to me, my hands can feel your ass but I cannot see it!" he gasped, clutching me tighter. </div>
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"It's not fair, you say?" I said teasingly, pulling my top off. "Does this help at all?" Persian Guy stared at my tits, contained by a black lace bra with pink accents. He buried his face in between them, his hands clawing at the clasp. Within seconds my bra disappeared. He gasped audibly when he saw my nipples are pierced, then covered my left breast with his mouth. </div>
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My head fell back and I groaned. Not because that's what girls are supposed to do at this point in the story, but because Persian Guy's mouth on my body felt <i>fucking awesome</i>. His fingers dug into my ass my thighs my back and it took all of my will power not to let loose his hard cock and bury my pussy on it until both of us were screaming. </div>
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At last, I stood up, grinned at Persian Guy, turned around, and unzipped my miniskirt. I thought he was going to fucking CRY. Instantly his hands went to the top of my panties and pulled them down a little, just enough to reveal my little peekaboo tattoo and the top of my ass crack. He kissed me everywhere all over and then some. "Your panties, they are so sexy. I like these colors," he told me. "They look gorgeous on you."</div>
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I placed my hands over his and grinned at him. "I think it's time to go upstairs," I said to Persian Guy. </div>
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He said nothing. His eyes said everything. I was damn near ready to melt already. </div>
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At the base of the stairway, I turned the light on. Unbeknownst to Persian Guy, before our date I had placed the dimmer switch at exactly the right setting to accent my bootyliciousness without illuminating my cellulite. YES, SERIOUSLY. THIS IS HOW GIRLS WORK. I parted the curtains, grinned at Persian Guy, and started my slow, seductive ascent to the bedroom. With each step, my hips and ass rotated for maximum affect, my calves flexed, my hamstrings tightened--I was a walking goddess. </div>
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Some women's bodies were made for plunging necklines or push-up bikinis or six-inch heels. Mine was made for walking up stairs wearing nothing but itty-bitty panties. </div>
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Once I turned into the bedroom with Persian Guy speechless at my heel, I knew the night was only going to get better. I turned and fell onto the bed with a grin. He followed immediately, kissing my bare shoulders and breasts with the hunger of no man I'd seen in years. </div>
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"It's not fair that I'm nearly naked and you still have all your clothes on," I said teasingly, reaching for his shirt.</div>
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"Why see me naked? I concentrate on your pleasure tonight," he answered, pulling at my panties. Ohhhh, how I love foreign guys because <i>they actually talk like this.</i> I managed to get his shirt off before giving in entirely. Persian Guy was a master at distraction, I'm happy to report.</div>
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"I want to taste you," he said as his body rose above mine on the bed, his smile wide with a grin. Oh sweet holy FUCK is there anything a girl loves to hear more than that. NO THERE ISN'T. </div>
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I gave in happily. With my legs spread wide open for Persian Guy, he quickly proved himself to be no novice. I damn near fucking <i>cried</i>. </div>
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What made Persian Guy so unforgettable as a lover? Sweet merciful christ, so many things:</div>
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His genuine eagerness, willingness, and determination to eat me out for as long as he wanted. He didn't give a <i>fuck</i> if he got off. It took me three attempts to blow Persian Guy before he conceded to a proper letting me give him head. AND I GIVE DAMN GOOD HEAD. But he didn't care. All he wanted was to be between my legs. For ages. My knees still go weak just from typing that. </div>
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He couldn't--wouldn't--stop complimenting me. In English, his native tongue, in Italian, French, Spanish, even Latin (albeit poorly) once he saw my tattoo--he told me <i>you're so beautiful</i>, <i>your ass is amazing</i>, y<i>ou're so gorgeous</i>, <i>I can't keep my hands off you</i>, <i>your pussy tastes so delicious</i>, <i>I want to bury my face in your ass</i>. Sure, none of his exes had let him enjoy ass-play of any kind, whereas I consider that, just, well, normal, so when Persian Guy buried his tongue in my ass and I moaned, of course he lost his mind. Next his fingers explored and all I did was sigh happily and obviously he will never forget me not even on his deathbed, but so WHAT. That's not the point. He loved my ass, I loved him loving my ass. There's nothing but happiness there. </div>
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My favorite moment of the entire night was when Persian Guy openly worshipped my body. It was after Persian Guy had gotten me off with his mouth several times, but before we had really gotten to the good stuff: he laid naked on the bed between my legs as I perched above his body. I was hot and sweaty and happy from cumming repeatedly. Since it's Texas, it doesn't matter that it's technically winter, I had the air conditioning running and the ceiling fan blowing at full-speed. To fend off the beads of sweat building, I pulled my curls together and lifted them to the top of my head to let the gusts of air cool down my neck. With my eyes closed and my cheeks flushed, I felt Persian Guy's hands move up my thighs to my hips.</div>
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"You are so beautiful. I could look at you like this all day, like a statue in a museum. But you're better than a statue because you're here with me." His hands rubbed up and down my skin, his eyes up and down my entire body with nothing but complete desire. I blinked at him. </div>
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OH MY FUCKING GOD. THERE ARE ACTUALLY GUYS WHO TALK LIKE THIS. </div>
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I couldn't believe my ears. When it comes to beauty, I'm still stuck in the fifteen year-old bespectacled nerd-girl version of myself, so normally I'm deaf to compliments like this, on the rare occasion I actually hear them. As if he knew I doubted him, Persian Guy's hands wandered over and clenched my body as if he were afraid it would disappear within his clasp. </div>
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Persian Guy... he looked at me in a manner that has raised the bar for all lovers for the rest of my life. His eyes were full of nothing short of <i>awe</i>. Never before have I felt like such a goddess. It was afuckingmazing. It was glorious, as if my body were made of clouds from the heavens and my gasps of pleasure came from Venus herself. His hands. Wow. His hands, they were everywhere and all over and inside and outside and caressing and grasping and... just.. wow. He looked at me with nothing but adoration--awe--<i>desire</i>--in his eyes.</div>
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THAT SHIT DOES NOT HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE. Or so I thought.</div>
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That's right. It got even better. He pulled me onto his face, and he ate me out so hard that I came and came and came, with only my hands grasping onto the headboard to keep me from collapsing. </div>
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And then--and then, he fucked me. Like a dying man who's got five minutes left to live and he intends to make every thrust count. I opened my legs for it all. </div>
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By that point, Persian Guy had eaten me out so much and fingered me so much that I was fucking HAPPY. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the perfect place to be for squirting. After two or three minutes, I started squirting every time his pelvis pounded into mine. Being a shameless braggart, I had already told him I'm a squirter (not that it's easy to keep such a secret when you have to break out a squirt-pad a few minutes into hooking up), so it shouldn't have been a surprise to Persian Guy, but it was anyway. When I get going, I tend to squirt with each thrust, and over a minute or two that is a LOT of squirting. Gushing, really. He exclaimed "it's so warm!" every time I did as he felt me spraying up against his torso. Sometimes when it ricocheted, I felt droplets entering my mouth. I gulped them down and kept on fucking with nothing but pleasure.</div>
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By the end of the evening, I was happy to say I had discovered Persian Guy had a mild fetish for pain. </div>
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Every time I dug my nails into his neck while we made out, he shuddered. I liked having such an affect on him. When I bit his earlobe, I thought he was on the verge of dying. </div>
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Eventually, Persian Guy left. After he had made me feel like a goddess on earth. He came twice during sex even though he eventually admitted that he'd cum four times that morning in anticipation of our date. There was nearly a third time when we were saying good-bye at the door, but I'd run out of condoms and I was enjoying being a bitch and bending over for him with nothing but booty shorts on. That's the first time I can say I literally thought a guy was going to cry from not being able to have sex. </div>
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It's good to be Vix.</div>
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Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-33288715981455630512012-12-21T15:42:00.002-06:002015-01-22T21:39:36.675-06:00Last Minute Christmas Present Ideas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm sure many of you are last-minute Christmas shoppers, much like my own brother who is known for going shopping for all of us on the afternoon of Christmas Eve and somehow miraculously comes back with genuinely awesome gifts (enough of the time anyway), and since a couple of you Tweeted me @vixoen requesting suggestions, I thought I'd help anyone who is still looking for presents whether in town or online for siblings or a girl/boyfriend.<br />
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<b>Generic presents that you should absolutely avoid unless you need something RIGHT FUCKING NOW to give your great aunt or second cousin you know absolutely nothing about, in which case it's fine because what the hell else can you do</b><br />
Bath salts, bubble bath, lotion, or pretty much anything from Bath & Body Works<br />
Scented candle<br />
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<b>My go-to awesome places to go shopping</b><br />
Liquor store - at this time of year liquor stores of full of nice gift boxes of liquor, like Maker's Mark bourbon with two highball glasses.<br />
<a href="http://thinkgeek.com/">thinkgeek.com</a> - fun quirky tshirts and desk stuff, good for someone to have at their desks to play with<br />
<a href="http://bustedtees.com/">bustedtees.com</a> - fun, quirky t-shirts. I personally own the Scrabble "<a href="http://www.bustedtees.com/triplenerdscore">Triple Nerd Score</a>" and "<a href="http://www.bustedtees.com/whatthefrak">What the Frak</a>" t-shirts.<br />
Half-Price Books, or any used bookstore - find a book that is perfect for the specific person you're shopping for. That does not necessarily mean they will like YOUR favorite books. Although if they've never read Harry Potter, I'd say the first book is a safe bet. Go hardback.<br />
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<b>Gift ideas for most</b> (some of which are more appropriate for a girl/boyfriend than your sister)<br />
Craft beers - go to a liquor store and get several either local or Belgian beers, such as Duvel or Chimay. I also personally recommend Rogue.<br />
Mix CD - cliche, yes, but still kind of awesome, especially if you know your music and can introduce them to some new stuff they'll like and would never otherwise hear on their own<br />
Magazine subscription - New Yorker, Maxim, Wired, How it Works, Bust<br />
Baked goods - see explanation below<br />
Year subscription to Netflix or Hulu Plus. Especially if you're sick of giving out your password and finding all sorts of weird shit pop up in your queue.<br />
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<b>Gifts for someone you are or hope to be sleeping with</b><br />
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A giant box of condoms<br />
A giant box of novelty condoms<br />
Vibrator or anything from an adult toy store<br />
Perfume - can be very hit or miss, so get a small bottle or rollerball version. The ones I wear all the time are Hanae Mori (my favorite of ten years), Vanille Abricot by Comptoir Sud Pacifique, and the classic J'adore by Christian Dior. All three get me compliments by dates and friends alike.<br />
Coupons for crazy kinky sex - yes, you SHOULD include things you normally find "icky" or "immoral." THOSE ARE THE FUNNEST THINGS TO DO<br />
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<b>If you're broke</b><br />
In my not-so-humble opinion, the key to finding an awesome gift for someone is to come up with something specific to them. The thought really does count more than the amount spent. The example I often give is when BF, my live-in boyfriend of years ago who helped me start OEN, bought me a $500 day at a fancy spa for my birthday. It was nice and everything, but NOT my thing. If he were willing to spend such an absurd amount of money on me, I would have preferred at the time that he put it toward buying me a laptop. Meanwhile, one of my dearest friends Barbie bought me a pair of Wonder Woman underwear which couldn't have cost more than $15. IT WAS AWESOME. One pair of super cute and Vix-appropriate cartoon superhero underwear was ten times better than a day at a spa, in my opinion. KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE.<br />
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Or BAKE something. Your brother loves chocolate? Bake him some pimped out chocolate chip cookies that will ruin all other chocolate chip cookies for him for life, such as <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/275484/chocolate-cookie-recipes/@center/276956/cookie-recipes#284274">chocolate chocolate chip cookies</a> or what I call Triple Threat, <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/316240/peanut-butter-chocolate-chip-oatmeal-coo">peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal cookies</a>. My coworkers used to beg me to make these constantly.<br />
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Better yet, MAKE something. Since my barely-self-employed ass is broke during my slow season aka now, I'm making acrylic paintings for my parents and brother. All of them have gone on some amazing trips in the last year, so I asked each of them to pick out their favorite photo, and I'm painting it on a big canvas. Way cooler than enlarging a photo.<br />
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If you're not artsy, that's fine, what are your talents? If you have a great voice, sing them their favorite song. Cliche perhaps, but who gives a fuck? Even better, WRITE them a song, and then sing it. Or sing one of my jacked up Christmas songs here on the blog and make everyone laugh by being a huge ham while you sing it. Can't sing? Write a funny or moving story about something the two of you shared.<br />
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So what if you can't make or do anything or spend any money. My dad got me into "Star Trek" when I was young, and at Thanksgiving I was shocked to find he's never seen "Battlestar Galactica." Since he doesn't do the torrent thing, I downloaded all the episodes of BSG so I can burn them to a DVD for him to watch on his own since he doesn't have Netflix, Hulu Plus, or Amazon Prime. Same with my cousin who loves "Scrubs," and my mother who loves "New Girl." I would do "Mythbusters" for my brother, but they're already on Netflix.<br />
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<b>If you're lazy</b><br />
Gift cards are your friend. You can buy them anywhere these days, including the grocery store. I recommend Best Buy, Target, Home Depot (for new home-owner, for example) Amazon.com, even Etsy.com offer gift cards now.<br />
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<b>If' you're really lazy</b><br />
Put a bunch of cash in a card. If you're going to be this lazy, you have to put in a lot more money than you would if you had gone to the trouble to buy a gift card. Bonus points if you dress it up by doing origami with a fifty dollar bill or if you give them a bajillion singles and make a joke in the card about how you know where they'll be spending their evening and you thought you'd spare them the trouble of getting change.<br />
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I hope this was helpful. If you have some gift suggestions for fellow readers that I didn't think of, then please, by all means, post them in the comments. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fuck!<br />
xoxo Vix<br />
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Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-34054512490162445722012-12-20T15:26:00.001-06:002015-01-22T21:41:52.498-06:00"Have a Slutty Smutty Christmas"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px;">This bastardized Christmas song is dedicated to all my slutastic readers. May every day be a slutty, smutty one. </span><br />
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<div style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Have a slutty smutty Christmas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s the best time of the year</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t know if you'll go ho</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">but have a pint of beer</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Have a slutty smutty Christmas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And when you strut down the street</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Say Hello to guys you'll blow</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Get yourself some meat</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">WHOA-OH, the booby show</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There for all to see</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Somebody lusts for you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Kiss him once (then me!)</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Have a slutty smutty Christmas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And in case you didn’t hear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You're so nutty</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Have a slutty smutty Christmas this year</span></div>
</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-88575582362324577772012-12-18T19:09:00.003-06:002015-01-22T21:43:39.166-06:00Putting the XXX in Xmas Songs: "O Cum, All Ye Grateful"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Back in the olden days of OEN, I wrote dirty and satirical words to beloved Christmas songs because I'm an asshole like that. I keep meaning to dig through my archives and post some of them, but until then, there are plenty of others I have yet to bastardize with my dirty old man Santa ways. Hope there aren't too many easily offended Bible-humping readers out there. If so, kindly go fuck yourself on aforementioned "Good Book" and let me know how many times it made you gasp in pleasure. As for my beloved perverts, enjoy!<br />
<br />
O cum, all ye grateful<br />
Joyful and triumphant!<br />
O cum ye, o cum ye to orga-a-sm<br />
Cum and eat some pussy<br />
Born the lord of vixens<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
O cum, let us adore her<br />
O cum, let us explore her<br />
O cum, let us implore her<br />
Cunt is queen<br />
<br />
God of god<br />
Moan of moans<br />
Lo, it's heaven when she spreads her legs<br />
Very god,<br />
Beholden, not besmirched<br />
<br />
Groan, hoards of lovers<br />
Moan in exultation<br />
Lust, all ye citizens of heaven inside!<br />
Glory to cunt<br />
It's the sweetest<br />
<br />
Yea, queen, we greet thee<br />
Spread this happy evening<br />
Pussy, to thee orgasm given<br />
Feast of the heathens<br />
Now in flesh she's cumming!</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-84642134733936211242012-12-16T16:50:00.001-06:002015-01-22T21:43:53.153-06:00Faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Each relationship, and each subsequent break-up, each near-miss of a promising future, it makes it that much harder to stay hopeful that I'm going to meet that amazing guy who will make all of this fucking bullshit be worth it. I'm sick of dating, of boyfriends and first dates and wondering if this time, maybe this time, the guy in front of me will be The One. I'm sick of all this fucking nonsense. I'm ready for my next boyfriend to be my last.<br />
<br />
And then I go through another fucking break-up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
How do I stay hopeful when time after time, a different wonderful boyfriend has fallen out of love with me? They still fancy me of course, and say and do most of the right things, but I feel it. Something changed in them. In us. It's damn near soul-shattering. Again, and again. Fuck staying hopeful, how do you stay <i>whole?</i><br />
<br />
Right now, it looks so much easier to give up. Give in. Date the next generic nice guy who asks me out and is stable and looks good naked and can overlook my many flaws if I blow him often enough. Because I'm not sure how many more tries I have left in me.<br />
<br />
I've never been a god or religion kind of person, but love? Love I could have faith in. I've seen how wonderful just the inklings of love can be. Sure it wavers and sometimes on really dark days, I wonder if that cold-hearted bitch of an exterior I used to put on as a protective shell has finally seeped inside and become real. There have been times over the last couple years when I wished it would happen, or have willed it to happen. Fuck 'em and dump 'em. It came easily enough to me, as long as I didn't let myself think about it too hard. Or at all.<br />
<br />
And then, inevitably [queue the music], someone or something always reminds me about the power of love. Not the Hollywood bullshit that makes audiences of two hundred cry at once, but the quiet and far less glamorous kind of love that has roots so deep it can penetrate years and miles apart, and yet have two people always so in sync that it makes me believe soul mates are real.<br />
<br />
I want to be with someone who makes me glow with love, and I want to do the same for him. Keep in mind I'm not saying this with the never- or little-broken hearted of a know-nothing twenty year old. I'm thirty-two. I've been there, done him, lived with him, been engaged to him, and left him. And I've been left to go try yet again.<br />
<br />
It's just... I have <i>so much love</i> in my heart, and I want to give it to someone. All of it. I want to knock him over sideways with the sheer force of how much warmth I have stored up inside me. Sometimes I expect it to burst out of my body because there's so damn much inside me, I can't contain it anymore. Then other times, like these last few days or weeks, I'm shaken by the fear that I will never find someone to give all this love I have in my heart, and it will slowly extinguish itself.<br />
<br />
Last night, crying myself to sleep in the most utterly cliche of cliche ways, I listened to the sappy and sweet song "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaoUcZifYNU">All Your Life</a>" by The Band Perry, and I sent all the warm-fuzzies I have in my heart out into the world with the silly little hope that some amazing guy senses it feels me is warmed by the glow of our future love, and he smiles. <br />
<br />
I just hope we find each other before I lose faith that it will happen one day.<br />
<br /></div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-5169096744327077782012-11-11T15:18:00.000-06:002015-01-22T22:31:35.719-06:00Whiskey Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Originally written October 2011, with some editing today. Inspired by a tweet that became the first sentence of this piece.]<br />
<br />
<br />
3 a.m. Whiskey in a glass, face in my hands.<br />
<br />
I'm here again. I've been here a lot lately. Fuck.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I look up at the ceiling through my fingers. I feel the weight of my inner demons pressing against me. It's okay, chica, this part never lasts long. Just wait it out.<br />
<br />
My dog whimpers at me. I look down where she leans her head against my calve. How the fuck does she stay in such an awkward position. More whimpering. I look at her. She looks back. Her whimpers turn more pitiful.<br />
<br />
"Not now," I tell her. I don't recognize my voice; it sounds mean and hollow. Maybe that's what I sound like these days.<br />
<br />
I stare at the brick wall. It says nothing back. Cunt.<br />
<br />
The notebook before me has nothing but a few marked out sentences, each one more violently crossed out than the one before. Last time, whatever the vile sentence was, I scratched it out so viciously that I felt the pen going through the sheets below, already tainting my future writing. Thanks, bitch. Didn't need the help.<br />
<br />
I sigh. I must have sighed loudly because it wakes up my other dog.<br />
<br />
My hand reaches for the glass of whiskey next to me, an action as reflexive and easy as breathing. First the cool condensation on my fingertips the glass pressed between my lips, my head falling back to drink it all down leaving my neck exposed as if to a lover a beast and that's what this, is isn't it, it's a living breathing life-sucking thing devouring me even though I'm the one drinking it down glass after glass.<br />
<br />
Whiskey chill enters and runs down my throat, sending back up in its place a hair-pulling burn. For an instant just an instant it feels as if my entire body is on fire.<br />
<br />
It feels like sex.<br />
<br />
No. No. Not like sex. It feels like fucking.<br />
<br />
Spilling pooling staggering wet sweaty mindfuck oblivion fucking is what it feels like. Each time I pour another hearty gulp of alcohol down into my mouth splashing over my tongue like jizz like pussy juice like fucking I feel it pulling me down with it like a whirlpool.<br />
<br />
The highball glass so cool in my hand then like fire the whiskey shoots down my throat blowing me wide open like a gun to my head a cock to my pussy a gasp to my center it's focusing me then spreading all over every part of me like a dream I never want to leave.<br />
<br />
I crave it. The intense fiery focus then the warm comfort of nothingness yet simultaneous everythingness spreading all over me down to every nerve in my fingertips and every thought in my head. It's that moment when I'm just body no mind no heart that I wish I could live a thousand years in. I would I have cut my wrists to feel that way a little bit longer. Please. All I need is a little longer to feel everything and nothing at the same time. To feel my version of happiness. But it doesn't work that way. And why the fuck should it.<br />
<br />
So I keep drinking. I keep fucking. Always chasing that low high, that glorious place where all feels right, because this maybe I think is where I was born to be.</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-43687187493084861042012-11-08T10:45:00.000-06:002012-11-08T10:45:00.574-06:00Blog Status<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've gotten a few emails and tweets regarding the status of my original blog at www.theovereducatednympho.com. So here we go:<br />
<br />
<b>Why did it disappear?</b> The company who was privately hosting my blog went out of business without telling me because the person who had set up our agreement had left a year earlier. Christ, it's like "Gossip Girl" meets "The I.T. Crowd."<br />
<br />
<b>Did you lose everything??</b> No, I have multiple wordpress backups from the original blog, minus the most recent posts before it disappeared into the blog blackhole. Even if those don't work, I have all the best posts saved on my computer. Meanwhile I'm looking for a cheap webhosting service that doesn't break my nearly broke bank account.<br />
<br />
<b>Why is it still gone?</b> Because I got depressed, frustrated, and lazy. One of the many gripes my latest ex-boyfriend had with me was that I never got the blog back up in spite of his weekly pleas to do so.<br />
<br />
<b>And it STILL isn't up because...?</b> The pain-in-the-ass factor. Ask me again when I've proven I can function for more than three days without booze or sex without going all bat-shit crazy.<br />
<br />
<b>What's the deal with this new blog?</b> This blog hosted on blogspot is meant to be temporary until I can finally reinstate the old blog at the old site, at which time I will incorporate all posts from this one as well so they can all be in one place. At least that's the plan. I may need to hire an intern to figure it all out for me, in which case I will happily buy his illegal ass bottom-shelf liquor in exchange for his services.<br />
<br />
<b>Where do we go from here?</b> Since many new readers discovered me on Twitter (heh, or as I like to call it, Twatter), after the old blog went down, I thought it would be nice to include old posts from my archives on here for a taste of the old Vix. If you have requests for particular favorites of yours, then by all means, please post them in the comments.<br />
<br />
Lastly, thank you to all my readers and followers for having stayed with me through so many ups and downs and WTFs over the years. I love all of you madly, minus the creepers. Unless you want to buy a pair of my worn panties in exchange for a mortgage payment, which I am totally fine with.<br />
<br />
xoxo<br />
Vix</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4866740442286968676.post-48202775410417824562012-11-06T23:21:00.005-06:002015-01-22T22:32:19.284-06:00The Fairy Tale of the Girl Who Said Fuck This Shit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Vix. She was kind of totally awesome. So many miles she traveled and fascinating characters she met, who always recalled her dressed as the friendly neighborhood vixen in a short skirt and high heels. People from all over the world gathered in the magical land of the blogosphere every morning to hear her stories of adventure, brazen behavior, and unlady-like dalliances. Ohhh how she adored sharing her tales! Everyone laughed and smiled and tinkled themselves in delight. Afterward they would ask Vix questions and share their own stories with each other, many becoming friends over time, for they all understood what it meant to be among such kind hearts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Over time, the girl named Vix slowly told fewer and fewer stories, for she was very sad, and she had grown to fear the sound of her own voice. <i>Why?</i> asked the very people who had been enjoying her tales for years. <i>We don't understand! We miss hearing your stories!</i> Vix heard these familiar voices, but all she could do was shake her head in silence.<br />
<br />
What no one could understand, including Vix herself, was that she had stories she didn't want to speak of, because as soon as the words left her mouth, she would have to see them reflecting back at her in the faces of all her friends around her. It had been some time since she could look at her own face in the mirror, it had become full of sadness and hatred where it once showed joy. She did not know what to say, or why she couldn't say it.<br />
<br />
And so the girl went to hide in a cave far away, where she thought no one would be able to find her. Vix decided she would stay here in the darkness until she could come back out into the world with a smile on her face and love in her heart.<br />
<br />
She stayed there a long time, growing sadder and sadder, and quieter and quieter until it had been months since she had heard a breath pass her own lips. It were as if she had never talked at all. She began to wonder if her memories of being a story-teller had been something she imagined. A few times, a friend as if by magic was able to find her buried in this unknown cave, and beg her to come out. Each time, she pleaded silently with her wet eyes to leave her be.<br />
<br />
And so she sat alone in the cave for a very long time.<br />
<br />
Then one day Vix woke up inside the dark cave with stirrings coming from deep inside her. She knew it, as surely as the rain falls and the snow melts, she knew deep down inside that her return was inevitable. But Vix also knew it was important to wait as long as it took for the stirrings deep inside her to be so strong that she no longer felt anything else, neither hunger nor thirst nor fear.<br />
<br />
She continued for some time to stay safely hidden in the cave, but now she began to test her voice. At first a mere whisper scratched her throat and left her silent again for days, but she couldn't keep herself from trying. Over time Vix's voice grew lovely and strong, as she had hoped all along it would. It was only then, she realized she had been scared to hope before.<br />
<br />
At last the stirrings deep inside filling her entire body, the girl took a deep breath, said FUCK THIS SHIT, and left the shadows of her cave.<br />
<br />
And that is how a girl named Vix returned to her perch in the magical land of the blogosphere, bursting with more stories than she ever had before. When she sat on her favorite rock, long worn smooth from the many hours she once resided there, Vix felt the warmth of the sun on her cheek spread across her face. She could not help but smile, for she had a story to share.<br />
<br />
************<br />
It is so, so very good to be back.<br />
xoxo Vix<br />
<br />
November 6, 2012, 10:25 pm, Dallas, TX</div>
Over-Educated Nymphohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807884065709360080noreply@blogger.com18