Pokey and Lamb Chop Sitting in a Tree…NOW WHAT???????

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I’m a fretter. When I’m not fretting about something, I’m gearing up to fret. I long to not fret but fretting is my M.O. so if I don’t have something to fret about, I will make something up. I fret, therefore I am. Help. I need your love and support. You can fap to my fretting, it’ll be fun.

Back up a post or 3 for the new folks, but most of y’all too lazy to scroll and too catatonic to read unless you see some keywords like #pussy #fuckbuddy #gameofthrones, so I’ll toss them off my front porch for you to sniff….NOW COME ON IN and I’ll give you the TL;DR version and we’ll move on from there:

Lady Hermit (me) puts up a dating profile on OkCupid in the summer.

Seeks an “electrician” for a “lightbulb change.”

Logistically, this is something that has to be done by local fellers. The hipster in a towel, the hedonist in the Target parking lot. Just try not to get murdered, and game on.

Doesn’t get murdered. Instead, unbeknownst to her the universe is gearing up to throw her a bone like she’s never seen/heard/stuck in her mouth before. She’s an awake wolf now, in full-on hunt mode, frothing at the mouth and creaming up her panties. She clicks on a trillion profiles and finds her 99% match in Illinois. They begin a cordial (LOL!) internet courtship. Some sort of full moon happens, Lady Hermit’s flower blooms again after many moons of dormancy. She spontaneously menstruates whilst messaging her 99% match right after finding out his true identity of which in her wildest imagination could not be hotter. Then she frets. He can’t change her lightbulb because he lives 843 kilometres away in the middle of a cornfield.

He is Pokey, she is Lamb Chop. Dey fallz in luv like 2 stoopid LOLCats OVER THE GODDAMN INTERNET. It turns out it can happen so don’t go rolling your eyes and clucking like my mother. Just stay with me for the time being, I’m going to need you for the What Happens Next part.

So that was the condensed backstory from the last two posts you were too lazy to read, next headline:

POKEY CAME AND VISITED LAMB CHOP IN REAL LIFE.

Shit got real. I know, scary as fuck. It’s one thing to text, talk on the phone, and stalk on the internet, but it’s another thing to actually meet someone in the flesh. What if you don’t like each other? What if all the great communication was part of a fantasy you built up in your head and there is no animal lust? The sense of smell and touch finally come into play and those are the most primal indicators of attraction. Although I did send my panties to him so I know I was good sniffin’ but what if he didn’t like all my weird quirks, the hair twirling, always having to stuff things in my mouth like said hair, nose that bobbles up and down when I talk, walks a bit like a duck, can’t eat without spilling on tits, et cetera, holy shit there’s a reason I’ve been single for so long. As for me and my preferences, I’m weird about smell. I don’t mind pungent odours but if I don’t like the flavour of your salami-and-cheese-smelling underarm sweat, I probably won’t like you. It’s such a subtle thing, those pheromones are like poetry for the olfactory. I AM A SENSITIVE BEAST OF THE URBAN JUNGLE WHO WILL JUDGE A MALE APE BY HIS SHOES. Please don’t be pointy.

Also no matter how many hours that stretched out into days and weeks that we clocked in talking on the phone, real life is going to be nerve racking. We didn’t even FaceTime, too scary. We did make a pact that we would treat our 6 day date as an arranged marriage. There will be bone no matter what.There is no hotel buffer, Pokey is going to plant himself on my raft for the entire stay, no bailing allowed. My understanding of constant bone-age is that at some point the hormone of oxytocin will kick in and I will be all sexually addicted and lust crazed. I want this very much. Ask any dude whose had to put up with my show, I am like a cold, frozen fish that needs to be banged repeatedly on the counter in order to thaw out. 5 days should do it.

I had an outfit planned for his arrival, at least part of an outfit…a Chicago Bears shirt because HE LIKES TO WATCH FOOTBALL ON TV. I couldn’t figure out the rest of the outfit and a fucking fretted about it for a week. This is a good, the nerves, they keep your tits up, but PROTIP: never wear anything that you haven’t done a trial run in. I wore a skirt and pantyhose with high boots and everything felt bunched and pinched. Also, picking someone up at Porter is a lunch bag letdown because you don’t get out of the car and pose like a hooker because they make you twirl around and hover in your vehicle in order to prohibit upright intercourse.

Fret.

I warned Pokey ahead of time of my cold fish ways and not to interpret my initial standoffishness as repulsion, it’s just nerves and panic that make me look like an impenetrable evil Disney witch. It’s a defence mechanism and I can’t help that my eyebrows are exquisitely arched just so once sideways glance will make your balls shrivel up.

I do not remember the part where Pokey and I first met in the flesh and it was only 9 days ago. I mean, I could recount it as a video would have captured it in a court of law but I don’t remember how I felt or what I thought or how he looked or any other poetic detail that you have grown to expect of me. But! We did go first stop to the drug store to buy loob  and a vibrating cock ring, and this will the one bone I throw to you.

I could tell you all the details about the 6 day date because Pokey doesn’t read this blog so we can talk behind behind his back but I won’t because you’ll probably get all bored and eye rolly and mock me for wearing a Bears shirt and shake yo head in judgment our vanilla kink bucket list…that only got partially fulfilled because SIX DAYS IS SO SHORT FOR LOL CATS IN LOVE!

All I will say is that there was no fretting, just that floating blissful feeling that I got off those drugs they gave me when I had that colonoscopy in May, where you are only too happy to submit to an anal probe and everything is all good and at the end of it, you don’t care if you fart in front in front of everyone. THOSE ARE POWERFUL DRUGS. Shit, I gave birth to two babies with a clenched up sphincter cuz I was afraid of what would accidentally rear its head. It is fair to say I can compare my love for Pokey as the unclenching of my proverbial asshole and fearlessly letting all the shit come out like sweet relief. This guy is a keeper. And! I love his smell.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Okay,nice, now he is gone and we are back to all that texting only now we freely do FaceTits without worrying about angles or lighting. It’s much better than just talking. BUT! I’M BACK TO FRETTING.  I need you to talk some sane into me.

If he texts me without a thicket of emoticons like hearts, pine trees, and milk bottles, I immediately think he hates me. I spiral into a tailspin of despair and doom. I assume the worst.

What if I say something offhand that I think is meaningless and he takes offence and writes me off? Text messaging is a land-mine for misinterpretation and assumption. There is a cornfield filled with a whole lot of nothing where he lives so if I get dumped, it’s going to be personal.

I can’t handle being dumped so what if my inner trolling self-saboteur devil, you know the one that feeds off self-loathing, comes out and picks fights OVER THE PHONE, the worst, and he hangs up on me?

Why do I worry about things that haven’t happened yet?

Speaking of the future, what will happen or not happen? When do things happen? Why did I ever say take things day-by-day? Isn’t that for potheads? What is the fine line between “too soon” and “now?” How long is limbo? I hate limbo. I need an end goal.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT??????? This is not a rhetorical question.

Shit, also I almost forgot to tell you, in the midst of it all, I got fired from my job, although in truth, it was a horrible, inhospitable work environment that I am relieved to never have to experience again. But! When the universe throws me a bone, it feels compelled to taketh something away for good measure and now I have to once again compound my fretting with more advanced fretting like job searching.

I will get wrinkles fo sho. Fuck. Imma gonna need one of those special facials but he is 8 TRILLION BILLION MILES AWAY IN A FUCKING CORNFIELD! And no, I’m not going on Tindr. Jesus. I’m going to grow so much hair during the next full moon, I just know it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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