[sinclairfan]

After my Saturday night barfight and hard fucking, I wasn't much in the mood for Spring Break'88 lovemaking with my Miami of Ohio suitemate at night in her bed.

But she was in the mood for cuddling with me.  So I showed her the mutual ass rubbing Fallon had taught me during my fling with her.  We'd lay side by side in bed at night, touch toe to to and nose to nose, and start carressing each others' buttcheeks.  My suitemate's ass wasn't as firm or hard or shapely as Fallon's ..... but it was better than I was expecting, based on the rest of her mediocre body.  (Is that mean to say?  I don't mean it that way.)

Do even average women have firm asses?

Is that why guys call girls "a piece of ass"?

In 1988, I have close to zero understanding of guys.  But my understanding of girls basically sucks, too.

Kinda like tennis, which I devoted my life to from 1975 to 1985.  I was ok at the basics .... but never came close to mastering even a full aspect of it.

Forehand--meh
Backhand--inconsistent
First serve--weak
Second serve--weaker
Unforced errors--numerous
Groundstroke winners--nonexistent
Volleying--pretty dam good, actually
Stamina--strong
Hard court--Good
Clay court--Unconfident
Footwork--unconventional

Actually, my forehand was above average.

But you get the point.  No obvious strengths to build a career off of.

My sex life was turning out the same way.

Lots and lots and lots of experience under my belt.

No sign of development .... growth.

How do people who are goid at something .... who master something .... how do they grow?

How do they become someone they weren't before?

How do they change?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

In the car on the way back from Cleveland to Miami of Ohio at the end on Spring Break'88, I had time to do lots of thinking.

I thought about the bad rap we native  New Englanders get for being resistant to change.

It's not that we're resistant to change.

It's that we don't like being Rookies at something.  Because Rookies make mistakes.  That's why they're called Rookie Mistakes.

My Dad is with Maria.  But it's because she's a Sure Thing.  He's been watching her for over a decade, when she would do sleepovers at my house, and me at hers.

Even Maria and I doing sleepovers with each other long after we had outgrown each other--long after our friendship had outgrown its mutual usefulness--betrayed our New England roots.  We didn't attend sleepovers with newer girls ... newer, more compatible friends...  because we didn't want to make Rookie Mistakes at those sleepovers.  Better to stick with the familiar, with each other.  Clinging to the remnants of our dying friendship.

What does this have to do with anything?

Easy.

It has to with sex.

Sex is the one thing in life where you CAN'T skip the rookie chapter.  If you do ..  you're still just a rookie.

I thought I could have an exotic summer affair with Tennis Tommy as a non-rookie.  I'd swoop in and be his worldly-wise lover to his naggy bitch girlfriend Lorraine.  He and I would have sophisticated lovemaking sessions behind Lorraine's back.

But out of the three of them, I was the virgin.  For all of their quirkiness, even Lorraine's closeted lesbianism, it was me who was the Rookie.  The loser.  The cuckold.

Thinking I could fake it till I made it.

Thinking the Game of Life has an Advance-to-Go-and-collect-$200 card.

Spoiler alert:  when it comes to sex, it doesn't.

Everyone needs to have a rookie season at sex.

There's no exceptions.  It's the Great Equalizer, the great leveller.

The nakedness of sex.... figurative and literal .... is the great Universal.

Trying to get around it just makes things worse.

And delays the inevitable.

Does any of this make any sense to you?

I hope it does.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

My ability to think thru long chains of past and current events, to make connections, are what finally got me back on the career/money-making path which I had self-sabotaged for myself at P&G and NYNEX.

As my junior and then senior years barrelled down the tracks at Miami of Ohio, I started writing big picture, 30,000-foot essays which caught the eyes of a couple of my business professors.  They started talking ABOUT me, and then TO me, about my eclectic ideas.  And starting working with me to develop these ideas.

I took rhe theme of rookie mistakes, how costly they can be, but also about how fear of rookie mistakes can freeze us into a slow, smothering death.  'Us' is us as people, us as business contributors or managers, us as small-, medium-, or large-sized companies.  I invented a saying, "The second mouse gets the cheese." 

Ever heard that one?  That was me.  Lisa, in 1989.  I invented that saying.

It means that the first mouse that ventures into the mousetrap gets decapitated.  And the third one is too late.

But the SECOND mouse climbs over the corpse of the first one and gets the cheese.

In the late eighties and early nineties, the business world was brimming with pithy sayings, parables, proverbs like that one.  They'd get picked up by the MAS, Management Advisory Services, wings of the Big Eight accounting companies, and other advisory firms like McKinsey and EDS.  EDS was founded by Ross Perot, a media-savvy Texas oil baron.  He ran for President in 1992 and got more popular votes than most any third party candidate ever.  He probably caused President Bush, the first one, to lose to Bill Clinton.

EDS hired me when I graduated in May 1989.  Because of my business Deep Thoughts at Miami.

But also because on my looks.  EDS new that sex sells, and many of the business consultants they hired  were fetching-looking blondes like me.  We didn't complain.  We appreciated the paycheck.  And the prestige of working for EDS.

And we learned a ton about business, about money, about technology.  We were all mapping out our futures.  Building our network.  Earning frequent flyer miles, and using them for vacations to the Bahamas, the Grand Cayman.

It was great while it lasted. 

Which was a grand total of 17 months.  I got pushed out in October 1990, when Saddam Hussein's asinine invasion of Kuwait put the world economy into a recession.  Consulting contracts dried up.  EDS didn't need as many of us blondes.  I saw the handwriting on the wall, and got a job with the Archdiocese of Cincinnati.  But not to live in Cincinnati.

It was to live in Cleveland.  To start closing down Catholic parishes there.  The city of Cleveland was de-populating fast, and had way way too many 95%-empty churches.  Which were way too expensive to maintain.

We needed to decide which churches to close, and who to sell the properties to.  It was all very complicated.

And wrenching.  Closing an inner city Catholic church is devastating to the parishoners.  They were baptized there.  They attended K thru 8 school there.  They were married there.  Then their own infants were baptized.  Then their parents' funerals were held there.

The parish was the center of their social life.  Lenten fish fry's.  Christmas bazaars.

And I was closing their parish on them.

Using my knowledge to devastate their memories, their link to their childhood.

I needed to distract myself from the pain I was inflicting.

I'm not proud--but I did it by finding women my age who shared my proclivities.

Getting in bed, and getting rough with each other.

Really rough.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When I moved to Cleveland in the ealy 1990s, I was still in my early 20s ..... ok, fine, mid-20s ..... and was still a fast learner, so I learned quickly how girls in downtown Cleveland would find each other for rough lesbian sex.

You might think you would dress up goth and tough-looking, but you would only go half-right.  That's how you end up in bed with a girl who wanted YOU to be rough to HER.  What if you wanted mutual rough sex?  Ironically, you would dress like a traditional homemaker wife--what they're calling today a 'Trad-wife', what we called in the early 1990s 'Amish'.  You still needed to look the other girl in the eye, chat her up, and make sure she really was 'hard', not too submissive.  Or, at least that she would turn that way once she had a few drinks in her.

The chatting-up was the 'date' part of the night.  Put all the best parts of yourself out there; embellishing, but not with anything that would get you busted later.  Dating.  Something I hadn't done nearly enough of in high school, and so was doomed to be permanently bad at.  Late a youth tennis girl, if she started at 15 instead of 11.  No amount of practice or coaching would ever get her up to the level she needed .... or wanted .... to be at.

So this was it, my dating life, forever.  Which was fine.  Especially because:  the traditional clothing thing worked out perfect for me, and my new job.  I mean, who has a fuller closet of traditional housewife clothes than a full-time paid Archdoicesan employee of the Catholic Church.  Especially before the Boston Globe 'Spotlight' story came out in 2002 and destroyed parishoner donations forever.

Yessirree Bob, 1991 thru 2005 was my cash earning 'Make It Rain' golden epoch.  Union-like benefits (except that abortion wasn't covered; which I wouldn't need if I stuck to fucking gitls), and a paycheck every bit as good as a non-managerial career at P&G or NYNEX.  And intellectually stimulating as well--rubbing shoulders with commercial real estate brokers (more on THEM later), city and county zoning officials, Parish Advisory Council volunteers who were big honchos in their former jobs, before they retired.  I dressed like an Little House on the Prairie school teacher or Preacher's wife by day.

And, by night .....

I hit the back alleys of Cleveland's decaying downtown, or non-Catholic ethnic neighborhoods (to avoid anyone who I might run into on my job), and looked to hook up with a 20-something or 30-something similarly inclined woman.

And we'd go to my place or hers .... either was fine with me, as long as she kept her bathroom reasonably clean .... and we'd kiss to get each other aroused.

And then we'd start hitting.

The face was as good a place as any to start.  The shoulders and biceps.  The chest.

The crotch, if she was into it.  I know I was.  I mean ... it hurt like the dickens and all to get hit down there.

But it got my adrenaline running like nothing else ..... except an all-out catfight .... ever has.

And all-out catfights were usually too short.  I needed a honeymoon-night-length hitting experience.  And only rough sex with a suitable .... and sexy .... sparring partner could get me there.  And get me over the top .... screaming orgasms .... the way I craved.

I enjoyed it so much.

Especially the honeymoon-night angle.

Bwcause it was becoming obvious to me, with each passing year, that I would never be going on my own honeymoon.

Nope, that ship had sailed.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

You might be wondering:  how did I reconcile the double life I was leading, collecting a paycheck (and those ever-generous benefits) and gifting my Time, Talent, and Treasure to the Catholic Church, all the while engaging in shady, casual lesbian sex?

To which my rejoinder is:  you have to keep in mind what my LEGIT, supposedly above-board job was.  It was closing Catholic parishes, scores of them at a time.  The beloved, tangible, architecturally beautiful settings of the baptisms, weddings, and funerals of hundreds of thousands of ethnic Clevelanders.  Where many of them had attended Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve for generations.  And sought comfort, or at least peace and hope, on quiet Sunday mornings.  Where they listened to organ music, for many the highest quality live music they would hear their whole lives, even though they were living in the home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I was the Angel of Death.  Closing, repurposing, or demolishing the structure forever.  A building THEY paid for, by the way.  Many secular people don't fully comprehend that when a Catholic or Christian or Hindu or Jewish or Muslim community builds a place of worship, possibly with an adjoining gathering place, meeting rooms, library and administrative office, it comes from the pennies and nickels and quarters and dollars of the congregation.  The centralized or diocesan office can rarely provide more than technical assistance, and in the U.S. we have separation of Church and States that walls off even indirect funding. 

So the ethnic Cleveland communities would sacrifice for generations to build, then maintain, their parish.

And then in 1997, Lisa would come to town and close it.  Without much in the way participation from the parishoners.

So, let me ask you this question.

If you spent your days figuring out ways to physically demolish the tangilble legacy of Cleveland's Irish, Germans, Poles, Slovacks, Croats, Italians, French Canadians, and Ukrainians to their descendants, such that by 2023 the world would already forget that Cleveland was once a vibrant, bustling hub of Catholic culture, where you could hear Mass and receive communion 24/7/365 with 6 blocks max walking distance of wherever you happened to be standing at this moment.....

.....wouldn't the comparative guilt of engaging in some Sapphic forbidden bedroom calisthenics with some energetic aggressive like-minded sparring partner pale in comparison?

Wouldn't it?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

I had promised you a 1991-2008 diversion into the world of Cleveland real estate brokers, and more specifically sex and fighting with them.  Female real estate agents  live in a world with constant sexual subtext--using their looks to make a deal happen, to turns a 'maybe' into a 'yes', to have key access to empty properties alone with clients (or each other), and just generally meeting by car in random locations.  Lots of opportunity for sex.

They would rarely just agree to go home with you after meeting, or at least not with me in my status as rep-ping a perpetual seller--the Catholic Church.  No sense scotching a piggy bank of potential future deals with a roll-in-the-hay gone wrong.  So, I didn't have many sexual encounters with real estate brokers.

Now, hitting each other, though--that was a totally different kettle of fish.  Being alone with a real estate broker wasn't particularly sexy--I still did .... and do .... believe in the Lord and the Baby Jesus, and didn't want to do anything kinky in their sanctuary.  But an abandoned parish K thru 8 school (especially the kitchen) or storage closet or basement?  Totally different story.

There was something about being in heels, skirt, business jacket, and coat during the long, gloomy Cleveland winters that made us want to face off alone in a staredown.

> Tough girl, huh?

> Tougher than you.

> Oh, is that so?

> You got soft ever since your bf bought you that new Lexus.

> I bought it, bitch.  With MY money.

> It'll be gone soon, next real estate crash.  You'll be a bag lady.

> Fuck you, bitch.  I could buy and sell you.  [They all assumed I was poorer than I actually was.]

> [Slap] Take that back, sweetie.

> MAKE ME, take it back.  I'd love too see that.

> [Double-slap.]

> You think that hurts?  [<Slap> to my breast.]

On and on like that for 30 minutes or so, by which time it was time to head back to our cars.  To masturbate to orgasm.

> Forgive my Father, for I have sinned.

> How long since your last confession?

> 7 days, Father.

> State your sins.

> Impure thoughts, Father.  A lot of impure thoughts.

I'd still be living that life today, I think.  Here in 2023.

If not for the 2002 Spotlight story in the Boston Globe, the collapse of Catholic Church collections in big- and medium-sized cities.

And the 2008 Financial Crisis, which destroyed Cleveland's lower middle class forever.

And got me fired from the Archdiocese in December 2008.  Four days before Christmas.

My world changed forever.  Like Fitzgerald says, slowly, then all at once.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

On January 2, 2009, my Dad died.  Maria was still living with him.  For 21 years, officially, so she was in Common Law wife, and inherited all his stuff.  Including his debts.  They had been living off of Home Equity Lines of Credit, HELOCs, from my childhood home in Rhode Island.  Rhode Island got nailed when the subprime mortgage market collapsed, and Maria was was way underwater in the house.

Good.  Serves her right.

Fucking bitch.

The funeral a few days later in St Peter Claver Church was awkward af.  Maria, my childhood best friend, as the 'widow'.  Lorraine, still living with my very aged Mom, escorting her as the Ex.

Maria and Lorraine were somehow Catholics in good standing at the funeral.  They had separately gone thru RCIA, the Rite of Catholic Initiation for Adults, in the late 1990s and early 2000s.  How they qualified, as adults living in sin with my parents, escapes me to this day.

I was escorted to the funeral by my Dad's biker ex.  She was letting me live with her while I escaped Cleveland.  She was older, too.  We weren't sexually attracted to each other anymore (SHE thought I had gotten older--can u believe that shit??  I was still only 42 years old), but enjoyed each others' company.

Neither Maria nor Lorraine spoke to me at the wake(s) nor the funeral.  I thought that was rude.

Then again, what did we have to say each other.  They both knew they were on my shit list.

They both knew I was back in New England for revenge.  To get back what was mine.

Lorraine last.

And Maria first.

My last conversation with my Dad had been in late 2008.  We watched his beloved Red Sox lose in thd round before the World Series to thr Tampa Bay Rays.

J.D.Drew struck out on a key at bat.

At least before he died, my Dad got to see the Red Sox win 2 World Series.  2004 and 2007.

And he got to see me fight Maria.  In 1988.

"You know I'm better than her, right?".

"I know, Lisa.  I always knew."

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

After being back in Rhode Island, I realized I had a lot more reasons than even before to be pissed at Maria.  She had caused me to miss most of the last two decades of my Dad's life.  She had bled the equity out of my childhood home to support her lifestyle for those twenty years.  And she had let the house fall into disrepair.

I don't know what her backup plan was now that foreclosure was staring her in the face.  Her parents were still alive, but were ill and broke.  One drunken night, my curiosity got the best of me and U called her to ask.

> Hello?

> It's Lisa, bitch.  Your worst fucking nightmare.  I have a question for you.

> What is it, slut?

> Where are you fucking gonna live when you get foreclosed on?

> Foreclosure takes years, hun.  I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

> The house will fucking fall apart around you, sweetie.  Long before then.

> Shows what you know, cxnt.  I'm getting free repairs.  Well, not quite free.  But Sal across the street owes me for years of favors, if you know what I mean.  [Maria must be drunk, too.  She's divulging secrets I can use against her now.  Sal is in the commercial construction business and always had access to hard to find building supplies .... and skilled workers .... during the housing boom.  He must have lots of free time now that construction has slowed.]

> So you were banging him while my Dad was still alive?  And YOU call ME a slut?  You have a lot of nerve.

> Your Dad slowed down in that area as as he got older, Lisa.  And he was too proud to ask for Viagra.  And anyways, just looking at my boobs is enough to get Sal off.  Unlike yours.

> You're giving me a headache.  I want you out of my fucking house.  [Especially now that I know I can go to Sal to get it fixed up.]

> Correction, sweetie.  MY house.  All mine.

> I'll fight you for it, tough girl.

> Now THAT's the first interesting thing you've said all night?

> Well?  Is that a yes?  [Have I fucked up with my offer?  Shouldn't I just wait for the banks to catch up with her?  Or maybe offer to short sale it?  This was a trick from my Cleveland Diocese days.]

> Call me tomorrow.  I'm tired of your voice now.  Fuck you.

> Slut.

> Bitch.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Sal was more than just the contractor who would get me building supplies and workers to rebuild my rundown (not quite decrepit) childhood home in exchange for blowjobs.

He also got me a job.  At Stop-N-Shop.  A job as a store manager.

My cash from my Cleveland Diocese job was running low.  But I also needed the health and dental insurance.  My teeth and gums were getting .... kinda gross.  From my years of growing up with flouride in my water, some of my molars needed fillings and even crowns.

This stuff was freaking expensive.

I reflected on how much I'd have rolling in of P&G quarterly dividends by now if I was there.  I'd be up to 23 years of service.  I'd be in management THERE now, not at Stop-N-Shop.  I wonder what downtown Cincinnati was like now.  How much the gentrified communities had been built on the crumbling sand of subprime mortgages, and what kind of toll foreclosures were taking now.  Cincinnati was more financially conservative than Cleveland, so I was sure they were faring better. 

But still.  If that was the case, why had all the department stores like Pogue's, and their classy tea-rooms, failed in the late 1980s?

The men and women in Lorraine and my intern classes who had stuck it out at P&G and had big houses now in Warren County, or over the state line in Northern Kentucky to minimize their Ohio taxes ..... with their kids getting ready to go to college now .... were they happy?  Was it worth it?

Were they getting laid?

Because I was.  With the employees at Stop-N-Shop.

Grocery store employees have lots of casual sex with each other.  In the store.  In the parking lot.  At each others' house after work.

I was finally learing the fine art of good sex with a 20-year old boy.  At 45.  I didn't tell them I was 45.  They assumed I was in my young 30s.

I wonder if they would have fucked me if they knew my real age.

Most of them were bigger than Tennis Tommy.  But a couple of them were small like him, but still fucked pretty well.

Or ate me out.

Damn, I love being eaten out.

Almost as much as I like catfighting.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As bad as the econmy, and Rhode Island's housing market, were in 2009, my real estate experience from my Cleveland Diocese years told me that the bad times wouldn't last forever.  My access to my cheap materials and free labor to get my childhood house gutted and repaired and modernized had an expiration date, probably in a year ot two, tops.

I needed to get Maria the hell out of the house, so that construcyion work could begin.

Was she serious in her offer to fight me for the house?  Would she actually leave if she lost the fight?  Would she actually expect me to go away if I lost?  Because that second scenario wadn't gonna happen.

Was I confident enough in my fighting ability to be assured in my ability to beat her up and throw her out?

It was my best shot, I decided.

I wasn't getting any younger.

All of my Stop-N-Shop coworkers were so much younger than me.

Where had the years gone?

I call Maria one afternoon.

> [She answers.]  Hello?

> It's Lisa.

> Oh, hey bitch.

> Fuck you, too.  You free to fight for the house now?

> I thought you'd never ask.

> I'm 10 minutes away.

> You better bring it.  Cuz I'm gonna try and maim you.

> Good.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

It really is true.

It really is true that when you return to your childhood home, it seems .... small.  Tiny, actually.

This house didn't seem tiny all those years in the 1970s, when Maria and I would hope sleepovers.  My Dad silently crushing on my friend Maria.

And then in the 1980s, as Maria and I grew apart, and slowly became frenemies.  And finally one day had a catfight in the backyard, my Mom watching the whole thing from inside the house.  Not breaking us up, because she had always been curious who would win a fight between Maria and me.

And because she thought it was a good learning experience for me to learn how to fight.

And, most important of all .... because, who doesn't enjoy watching a good catfight?

No one will be watching Maria and me catfight today.  We'll be fighting alone.

I knock on the door.  Maria lets me in.  We stare at each other.  This is the first time in middle age we've set eyes on each other in person.  It's been decades.  We're sizing up how time has treated us.  And the disappointments of life.

We look into each others' faces.  Maria looks like a classier version of herself.  Older, no doubt .... but classier too.  Elegant.  She has an expensive haircut.

> I'm not saying this as a put-down .... but....

> Everything you say is a passive aggressive putdown, Lisa .... [at least she didn't call me a bitch] ..... but go ahead .... say it....

> Your hair .... it looks .... good on you .... you never did a lot with your hair before .... it does look good.

> I could never afford to do anything with my hair before, Lisa.  That's something you never understood about our friendship.  I couldn't afford the blonde haircut you always had .... the sexy clothes .... the Catholic education ....the tennis lessons .... to going away to college in Ohio.  I never got to do any of that, Lisa.

> Maria ..... I wan't exactly rich.  And neither were my parents.  Is that why you stole my Dad?  Because you thought he was rich?

> [Maria slaps my face] Lisa, you dumb fucking bitch.... your Dad manipulated me .... worked on me for years .... complimenting me, flattering me .... divorcing your Mom for me....

> Maria, time out [she's pissing me off now] .... My Mom and Dad had issues that went way beyond you ... you're flattering yourself if you think he .... or ANY guy ANYwhere .... would get a divorce over you.  [I slap her back.] Dumb Fucking Bitch.

We stare angrily at each other.

We're both shaking and breathing hard.

> I think we're done talking, Lisa.  [She removes her jewelry.]

> Fine by me .... bitch.  [I put my purse down.]  Let's do this..... Oh .... and your haircut is fucking ugly.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

To this day, I wonder if Maria realistically expected to beat me in a fight, take my home, and live in it happily ever after.

Or, instead, if she knew that:
<1> Our friendship was over
<2> Our childhood and our youth was over
<3> The house needed to be torn down or at least completely renovated, something beyond her competency the achieve,
<4> She never had been, and never would be, in my league as a fighter and as a woman,
and therefore decided to go down in a blaze of glory, like Davey Crockett at the Alamo.

During our childhood sleepover, Maria and I had talked about the Alamo a lot.  This was the 1970s, when that whole story was more patriotic .... and politically correct.... than it is today.

What it was like for them knowing they were trapped.  We found it .... not so much erotic, but titillating .... to talk about.  Maria was always titillated when she was over my house.
<> Knowing my Dad was crushing on her.
<> Knowing my Mom had a secret fantasy of Maria and I having a spat, and catfighting over it.

Mom knew how two close girlfriends from different sides of track are.  Around middle school, their social differences.... and their socio-economic differences .... become harder to gloss over.  They become more noticable to the girls around them.

And to themselves.

So the girls either "power thru" and remain friends despite those differences.

Or they begin to distrust each other.  The less popular girl starts to wonder if she's being frozen out by .... or left behind by .... the more popular girl.  Tiny disputes escalate into bigger arguments.

Both girls feel betrayal .... disloyalty .... anger.

Sometimes it ends in a catfight.

Which my Mom was curious about watching.

When I had my 2009 catfight in my Dad's house, I was half-tempted to call my Mom and ask her if she wanted to watch it.

But the fight I was about to have with Maria wasn't the slappy-punchy roll-around we had in the 1980s.

It was 2 middleaged women trying to hurt each other.

And that's what happened.  Maria and I didn't say much.  We just went for it.  Throwing haymakers, knocking each other down, and going for a kick to the head or face of our downed enemy.

In a lot of TV show or movie catfights, if one woman gets the other down, she backs off and baits her enemy:  C'mon, get up.  Get up, I'm not done with you.

That never struck me as realistic, and it sure as hell didn't happen in my Final Fight with Maria.

When one of us knocked the other one down, we strutted over her and tried to stomp the guts out of her.  Kicking the head, the guts, the kidneys.

Stay the fuck down, bitch.  So I can fucking maim you.

And I was better .... and meaner ... at it than Maria was.

The fourth time I got her down, she never got up. 

I was the winner, and we both knew it.  Maria sat on the floor and cried.  I undid my pants and made her eat me out.

It was the most satisfying cunnilingus I ever received.

And probably ever will.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As we were remodelling my Dad's place and I cleaned up my Dad's 25 years of accumulated stuff (and junk), I noticed he had been saving years of Alumni magazines from Miami of Ohio, keeping alumni up at happenings at our alma mater, and on each others' accomplishments and successes.  I sent in a blurb on myself:

Lisa M. (B.A. Finance-1987)  recently returned home to Rhode Island after serving 15 years as the the Director of Advancement and Development for the Diocese of Cleveland.  She learned her management skills from Internship and full-time assignments in the prestigious Management Development Program at Proctor & Gamble's headquarters campus in Cincinnati, Ohio.  She is hoping to reconnect with classmates and can be reached at lisa*****@ameritech.com. 

I wondered if anyone would remember me and reach out.

I took pride in how my bio looked.  But it left out a helluva lot.  My dysfunctional relationships.  My fights.  That I had been fired from both jobs.  That I was now working at a grocery store.  That I was having my childhood home remodelled in return for sex.  That I was neither New Hire nor Girlfriend material to anyone who reached out to me.

Why DID I want people to reach out?

Was I lonely?  Was I sensing age catching up with me? 

Was I writing the bio for myself?  Was I a narcissist?  Maria had called me that.  More than once.

But she's a bitch.

Who never graduated college.

But I did.

And I beat her up ..... twice .... in no-rule catfights.

So suck it, Maria.

I'm going for Lorraine, next.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

My 2010-2013 encounters with my grocery store coworkers taught me something very discouraging about myself.  I had thought of myself as enlightened about sex and lovemaking and positions and varieties of sex.

But I was actually pretty clueless about many forms of heterosexual intercourse, especially one of the most common one's--the guy bending his female partner over and doing her from behind.  I had always been confused about what "piece of ass" meant.  I thought it was just a secret saying that had become disconnected over years from its meaning.

Do guys actually find that arousing?  Taking a girl into a stock room, her turning away from him, undoing her belt and taking her slacks down to her knees, and him doing all the work, standing up, and banging her for two minutes?

Yes, Lisa.  Yes they do.  The enjoy it, they did it all the time.  And when not doing it, they're fantasizing about it.

How would my life have turned out different if my first time with Tennis Tommy, in 1985 .... almost 40 years ago .... had been like that, instead of the boring girl-rides-boy style he did with Lorraine?

Would I have stolen him from Lorraine?

And had a regular boyfriend?

And fiancee?

And husband? 

And life?

Instead of the screwed up life I ended up having?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Around 2011, before Tinder and other hook-up apps came out, and then even continuing into after their release, but before they became fully mature, and before they had a critical mass of members (especially female members--the initial interations of Tinder were 97% male and 3% female:  not too many 'matches' were happening), there WAS one under-appreciated way to hook up on your cellphone.

With the first versions of the iPhone, you could see on the Maps section of your phone how many other iPhone users were near your location.  Sometimes as few as thousands of feet from where you were located.

And you could see their gender.

And you could "ping" them and see if it was ok to text them.

And if they said yes, you could almost instantaneously start a text conversation with them.  (Or a phone conversation, too, in theory.  But as time passed, the iPhone pretty much stopped being used for voice conversations.  Except to 'voice verify' that someone was the age and gender they claimed to be.)

A male manager at my grocery store job asked me what someone would use that iPhone functionality for.

"It's for sex, asshole."

"Oh.  Just wondering."

"I think you just wanted to hear me admit that I have hook up sex."

"I guess.  Guilty as charged."

I went thru a several month period of having hookup sex like that.  With both M's and F's.

How was it?  The sex--mostly underwhelming.

But the dopamine rush of meeting a stranger?  And of little-to-no-foreplay sex?

Intoxicating.  Addicting.

My dopamine tolerance rose and rose.

Soon, as the popularity of the iPhone increased, there were so many iPhone users "near your location" that it was .... less exciting than before.

Might as well just walk up to any attractive stranger and offer sex.  Eww.

But I still needed my dopamine rush.

I knew only one thing could give it to me.

I pick up my iPhone.  To make a phone call....how quaint.

> Hello?

> Maureen?

> This is she.

> It's Lisa.  What's going on?

> Not much.  Bitch.

> I'm glad you said that.

> Why, Lisa?  What's on your mind?

> Wanna fight?

> Where?  When?

> I was hoping .... tonight.  My place.

> Deal.

Good.

To be continued....