The Bailiff, The Banker, and The Breakdown

After last week, I feel like the long-lost fifth cast member of Sex and the City, the dysfunctional one whose sexcapades end in extreme embarrassment. I will let you know what happened but just promise to not get all “too much information” squeamish. If it can happen to me, it could happen to anyone. And if I had to live it, then you can hear about it. That’s my motto.

As you know from the previous post I had, in internet dating-speak, “a casual encounter” with a young buck, aka the mocha pheromone bomb. I was trying to find a cure for insomnia. Anyway, Boss had a super freaky tongue that could reach down to his Adam’s apple. And he wasn’t afraid to use it and! he was super talented…just like that guy on Sex and the City who eats the fig that they nickname Mr. Pussy. Now I don’t want to make you jealous, but you should be because it was mind-blowing. He could teach a course at the Learning Annex. It was a combination of tongue action, finger placement, and pressure. Forget what you read about how to pleasure a woman in Men’s Health, the master was not spelling out the alphabet on my lady parts. He was working magic, we can call him the Pussy Wizard or Whisperer since mine is so inconsistent and unruly.

At one point though, he asked: “Do you have a piercing up there?”

“Oh my God, no! Who would pierce up there? That must be the G-Spot. it is supposed to be hard and ridgey!” According to Cosmo.

“Wow, then it’s super hard and super ridgey, Cougar!”

“Carry on then!”

Two days later I went on my own finger patrol and was like, what the hell is this? And I pulled out my Diva Cup that I had completely forgot I put in earlier that day of the date! A Diva Cup is that awesome thing that modern-day ladies are using instead of tampons. It is a shot glass made of medical grade silicone that is inserted up the vagina and has this tail-like thing so you can pull it out. It’s not completely easy but once you get used to it, trust me, you will never go back. I slipped it in that morning to see if I still had residual flow and neglected to take it out.

Anyway, I realized with complete horror that dude was feeling the Diva Cup and he must have thought my G-Spot felt like a petrified lizard carcass. I cannot let him go through life thinking I had a dinosaur fossil embedded in my canal. So I called him.

“Do you know what a Diva Cup is?”

“Yes! Those are peanut free, I eat them all the time,” He says. He is one of those young ‘uns who is deathly allergic to peanuts. And he is confused.

I explain what happened and that I’m not a freak and not to worry, it’s sanitary, blah blah blah. Oh how we laughed. He took it pretty well but disappeared into the ether nonetheless. Not that we didn’t expect that. But the cougar is on the prowl now.

On Canada Day, I took Betty for a walk on the boardwalk and followed a big black dude around like the Pied Piper. He had a massive snake (a real one!) strung over his shoulders. The snake kept flicking its tongue at me and at one point, it slithered down they guy’s back and hung its head down and yawned right at Betty, who was completely oblivious. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I tore myself away and went home and tossed and turned that night, as per usual.

And then as quickly as the mojo was resurrected, it was shot down again. The next day in the mailbox was a letter from “The Bailiff.” It seems I had owed some property tax from last year in spite of all my attempts to have it come out of the mortgage, it didn’t happen. It was one of those snafus that is my mostly my fault but means a trip to the bank to cry a river of tears in front of my favourite mortgage specialist, Adrian. He is a super handsome Goan man with nicest smile. He knows how to coddle the hot mess that is me.

But Adrian wasn’t there! He was on vacay with his family! Instead I got whisked away into another man’s office. He had a commanding way about him, like he could be a motivational speaker or a professional magician. I showed him the Bailiff’s letter and told him that I might cry because that’s what I do with Adrian.

“Don’t worry, these things happen, we’ll fix it,” he pulling up my file on the computer. He starts scrolling through, which is the worst feeling in the world, a financial colonoscopy, I’d rather have him probe my butt at this point.

He checks out a few things, we have some diversionary banter and laugh at the font that the bailiff uses as a letter head: Ye olde tymey Shakespeare type that might have seemed important and threatening 400 years ago but looks really dumb in 2012. After we go through some payment options too depressing to talk about, he turns to me and with the most earnest facial expression and says: “Kristin, what can I do for you that will make your life better?”

And that’s when I try and swallow the lump in my throat and fight back the tears. I can’t speak of course, but I really want to say, “‘How good are you with your tongue?” But I start to cry instead. And it was good. And after what seemed an eternity, he gave me his card and I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling fan.

And here’s the original Mr.Pussy on Sex and the City:

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3 responses »

  1. Pingback: Deep Sea Divers Wanted | my toronto EH

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