a problem is an opportunity on the wings of change
“Your dreams happen when you wake up.”
Dish me up your devious dilemmas at: guttergrl69.hotmail.com and come visit me at the Shack ‘O Sin on Myspace at: myspace.com/houseofsin .
The bitch is back! My fiftieth birthday seemed to unravel a stream of airborne events that picked me up, carried me as high as the largest pines, and then sent me corkscrewing, head over heels, ass backwards into this wedded bliss. Yes, that’s right, Mz. Conduct is married! Here is the story of how Mr. Conduct came to be.
Initially, as many friends have pointed out, I didn’t even want a boyfriend, simply a decent man/boy to bang me like a cheap screen door several times a week and get the hell out. After hanging with Romeo in Black Jeans, whom stimulated my mind but didn’t share my overactive libido (and like most all of my exes, has remained a dear and true friend), I felt I needed more. The next candidate came along and although cutting the mustard in the sack, left me still with a void in the intellectual department. He broke up with me after I revealed that I had a romp with the Yum Yum boy (oh well!), but then forgivingly asked me back a few days later. I relented, as this was all there was for the moment and he was very sexually talented (always a difficult thing to dismiss for me.) But then a man I met years ago, and wasn’t ready to take on at the time, for some of the reasons men may try to entangle you, i.e. being the philanderers that they can be. However, in the meantime, this man was honest with me, respected me for seeing through so much crap and not taking it. He shared his relationship battles and bulges, as people do so easily with me, knowing full well that I would not be party… except as the Mz. Conduct advisor guru. We kept a distant contact always. A year flew by, with polite, inquisitive emails from him, and once again an offer to swill cocktails together, I finally agreed. I stood him up. Not intentionally, but for the simple reason that I was all over the map at that point, (as with many points in my life), and in the back of my mind there was always an unready, strange intensity I felt with/in him. Couldn’t quite figure it out, but I didn’t try too hard either.
Another year of his same remote inquiries came and went. Then soon after my “Ohmagawd, I’m half a century young!” birthday, he once again offered a night out, a celebration no less. Christ in a corset, I decided I would finally get it over with, maybe figure out what the baffling connection was, or maybe not. It was a warm, dizzy, half moon night and my boytoy at the time was working out of town, so why not?
When I flounced in to meet him, at the apropos Starry Sky Club, I was dressed in a black, short, babydoll dress, my prick-me-pink ruffled bloomers and red cowgirl boots. I was, as always, doused in my orange cinnamon oil, and fashionably late no less. I saw him sitting in a booth, bespectacled… writing, and my heart did a little black flip. Covering nicely - as I rarely ever get swept away by such boyish charm- I sat down and ordered a vodka and lime. I, brat that I am, immediately informed the wait person that I wouldn’t be paying for anything, it was all on him. That’s the moment when he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, he says. Well, of course!
Later, after five hours of sordid storytelling, and gazing into each other’s same sea green eyes, I told him it was time for me to go. He walked me to my car, looked at me under the fluorescent moon and told me I was trouble. Okay, so you don’t have to be a Rhodes Scholar to see that, but it was the universal whisper that let me know that he was trouble too. That, and the way he grabbed me by my pigtails, yanked them hard (oh baby!), and slammed me into the side of my car, kissing me like a nomad finding an oasis. He drank me in. I let him, as I allowed myself to swallow his energy too. Twenty minutes later, I forced myself to drive home. Alone. All the while feeling like a hurricane just hit my heart. I knew then that I had been his all along.
The next morning, waking up in our own beds, we realized the mutual mesh of emotion which had taken us both over. There it was, refusing to be ignored, insisting on forever.
So, after making our lives more available for one another, we met again. We drank Veuve Clicquot, shared our souls and a zillion parallels, we dove head on into unknown yet somehow familiar waters. We haven’t surfaced yet.
Don’t get me wrong, the ups and downs have reared their ugly heads, but we are two peas in a precious pod, and we both know we can’t change what we can’t change, that all of our vicious past shenanigans have made us exactly who we are. Neither of us would change that. We have what is necessary: Respect, honesty, total acceptance, trust, security, communication, laughter, creativity and support, uninhibited play, experimentally open… and finally a man who can keep up with my insatiable self! Or in any case, he may die trying, we’ll see. As he puts it, ‘Sweetheart, you fuck like a banshee on PCP”. Uh… ya think?
A month later he proposed to me, under the next half moon. We are halves of each other and the half moon seemed to hold that meaning too. I moved in to his house, which by the way was a brothel in the 1800’s. You can imagine how tickled I was at that fact! I then ripped out thirty feet of overzealous blackberry bushes and planted a now flourishing garden, sprouting flowers in all the colors of the rainbow, orange mint, green beans, herbs and passion vines. Next project, he and I planted a thick, green backyard lawn, where not only did we continuously canoodle on, but several months later were married legally in the same consecrated spot. Mr. Conduct in his tailored black suit, skinny vintage tie and I, in a made-for-me short, blood red, cabaret dress, both of us barefoot, we said our ‘I do’s’ in the sandalwood air, cool champagne baths mixed with the heat of the evening, and under yet another half moon. I am told daily, by the groom, that I am not a handful, but two handfuls, and thus, the love of my life, the crazy, creator monkey, the sexiest beast and beast master, Mr. Conduct was born!
We had a houseful of loved ones, family, and several exes on both sides attending, as they all told us they knew, that from the moment they saw us together, we were already married in our hearts. The Transient Trollop arrived with the Rooftop Rebel (and a large dead salmon), Raphael came bearing a case of vineyard heaven, Mr. Bo Dangles and his lovely wife showed up, as did The Lion King and his angelic other. My son even flew out from law school! Homer K. was there, Punk Girl and her Pretty Boy Toyd were joined at the groin as always, Romeo in Black Jeans came bravely stag, and oodles of other unwritten characters celebrated with us. Much appreciation to my adoring fans that sent well wishes and gifts… you are part of the reason I write!
The bash was fabulous, with only the minimal drunken escapades: Mr. Conduct’s brother tossing his stomach contents all over the back of my truck, a friend of Mr. Conduct’s nudging another guy, sleazily saying ‘wouldn’t you have loved to bang her [pointing to me] at least once before she got hitched?’ and the other guy turning to him and saying, ‘dude, that’s my freakin’ mom!’ Embarrassing laughter ensued. And then there was yours truly introducing my new mother-in-law to someone as Mr. Conduct’s wife. An uninvited guest unloaded her cocktail on my son’s friend, I made out with two girls and while insisting on changing a light bulb, fell off the porch and bruised up my ample keester. Other than that, and a small gardening accident which caused me to have a shredded forearm on my day of wedded bliss, things were absolutely perfect.
Mr. Conduct has formed a new band, with Punk Girl rockin’ out the vocals, and her Pretty Boy Toyd on drums. I have an article, bio and picture in the September issue of Playgirl, so things are progressively creative around this old brothel. Mr. and Mz. Conduct are making the neighbors run to purchase ear plugs… in so many ways!
Dear Mz. Conduct,
I seem to have an ongoing problem or pattern, and I can’t figure it out! I am an intelligent, pretty, 32 year old woman with a career (although I change gears sometimes), my own place and a loyal dog and cat. I have no problem meeting men and even having boyfriends- for a little while anyway. All these guys seem great and seem to like me, they tell me how cute I am, etc. until all of a sudden they either admit that they are still hung up on their exes or they aren’t ready for a monogamous relationship. There is always something! This is driving me crazy and I don’t know how to break this pattern! Please help me? I know you’ll have an explanation.
Loose ‘Em Lucy
All I can say is that you seem to need the approval of these boys you’re meeting, which most likely bleeds through and is uber unattractive. Men like bitches. Now when I say that, it doesn’t mean that you have to be a pissed-off, snappy, unkind woman, I simply suggest that you pull out your good bitch. Be full of confidence, don’t give a hoot about approval (only your own), and be sure of what you want and how to get it - or at least know what you don’t want. That’s a start. Once you feel secure with that, and you venture out into the world of dating, you will put forth a different energy for others to pick up. I’ll bet my double-headed dildo that you will attract different, more suitable men. You seem to let the men be in charge of where your life is going (relationship wise), and my advice is to never, ever let that happen. Now, go summon up your inner bitch while I perfect mine.
Dear Mz. Conduct,
I am a guy who’s interested in being with a couple (man and woman), and finally met some people online that I feel I click with. We were planning a meet when they sent an invite to ‘felch.’ I’m not sure what to tell them because I don’t know what that is. I don’t want to ask them and sound like a vanilla dork. Help?
Okay, without passing judgment, that’s disgusting! Yeah, okay, I’ve been a fluffer in a *Bukkake show, so whatever, but felching is licking cum out of another person’s asshole, dude! Sometimes people cum swap while kissing after ass banging, and sometimes sick folks even use straws. Hey, to each his own, but it’s sure not safe sex, so remember that, if nothing else.
*In feudal Japan, many moons ago, if a Japanese wife was unfaithful to her husband and this was discovered, she’d be tied to a post in the centre of the village and all the local men would masturbate over the woman. This was not the law, but sort of the unofficial, accepted punishment for infidelity. Sex play parties sometimes perform this under safe conditions.
© All Rights Reserved Kim Boylan