Article first published as TheFurFiles - The Blame Game, Desperate To Do It, Tequila Sunrise on Technorati.
Madame Floretta "Fern" De Villiers, a.k.a. "Amanda Fox" is an author or erotic fiction and commentary. This is her weekly advice column.
I liked this girl. When I asked my friend what to do, he told me to play it cool. She then moved on and started dating someone else. I am extremely angry with my friend for making me miss out on this opportunity. Do you think it is reasonable for me to hate him?
Tardy In Toledo
You must be the type of person to fart on the bus and then say, “Oh my gosh grandma, you stink.”
You must be the type of person to throw your leftover Harvey’s bag out the window while driving down the highway, and then, when a huge accident erupts behind you, you send the police the license plate number of your next-door neighbor and tell them that you witnessed the incident and that it was indeed his act of self-righteous negligence that caused all the trouble.
You must be the type of person that when you go fishing and you catch something, you look down at the poor creature gasping for air and you point to your buddy and say, “Hey fish, it was HIS idea to come here, and HIS worm.”
You must be the type of person to have sex with your girlfriend KNOWING you have an STD (which you picked up from sleeping with HER best friend), and before she has time to discover she has something, you sit beside her while she sleeps and use hypnosis to convince her that when she was out clubbing with her girlfriends the week before, she hooked up with some random stranger in the washroom, sans protection. Then, when she wakes up the next morning and she confronts you with her cheating ways, and as an apology, bakes you a chocolate cake from scratch and buys you a new Rolex watch, you retort, “I can’t believe I ever trusted you, you skanky biatch.”
You must be the type of person that says you couldn’t call 911 to save your boss from choking because the number (with area code) wasn’t clearly posted on the office bulletin board.
TIT, you can’t go around blaming other people for your failures. Friends don’t know everything.
I am a single woman who hasn’t had sex in about ten months. I am getting desperate but there just don’t seem to be any good guys out there these days. What should I do?
Randy In Raleigh, NC
Desperate? Let me tell you about desperate. Last year I bought a LaBaby “Wonderkin” doll from Dollmart. When it arrived, I was surprised by the downright magnificence and eatability of the UPS guy. Sure, I may be married, but I’m not blind, and the guy had my inner loins throbbing so bad that I couldn’t even cross my legs at the PTA meeting later that same evening. “Wow, that’s a bit too much information,” you say. “So don’t listen,” I reply.
Anyway, in order to get a gander at this guy again, I ordered a few more things that needed to be shipped by UPS – from car parts to sports memorabilia to collectible DVD’s to handcrafted jewelry to a 1981 Las Vegas $20 gaming token on eBay – and every day, I made sure that I was home between nine and four just in case something were to arrive. Every day, I’d get dressed in my sexiest jeans, do my hair and nails, put on some lipstick and wait.
About seven days later, at 9:34 a.m., finding myself a little behind schedule from having to deal with a nasty clog in the downstairs washroom and flooding in the basement caused by a sock in the laundry sink, I hadn’t had a chance to make myself look presentable, and while sitting on the toilet flossing my teeth – two activities I routinely do together – I heard the doorbell ring. In my haste to answer it, I somehow tangled myself further in the floss, running with my pajama pants down around my ankles, my fingers so tightly bound that my circulation was being cut off. I knew by this point that I wouldn’t get to greet my hunky piece of man meat in the flesh – that I’d have to watch him leave through the skinny window at the side of the door – but a peek was all I wanted and I hunkered down on the floor and drooled at him as he walked away. Now if THAT ain’t desperate, I don’t know what is.
I’m not really sure what to tell you about meeting someone though. You could try going to a few of my favorite pick-up locations, like you could try hanging around in the lobby of a low-income apartment building and pretend you’ve forgotten your key. Someone is sure to talk to you, or in the very least, you’ll come away with some bomb headies for 20/g. Make sure to take money with you. Drug dealers don’t always take “no” for an answer. You could also go to the self-serve car wash and pretend not to know how to work the change machine. Either the attendant on duty or the next person in line (both likely to be men) should come to your assistance.
Actually, a thought just occurred to me. DUH!!! You could always try buying something that needs to be delivered by UPS. If a guy named Eros happens to come to your door however, just remember: that scrumptious stud is mine!
For the past few weeks, Jimmy – my husband’s best friend – has been staying at our house. He lost his job and is now trying to get his life back in order. I’ve known Jimmy for as long as Kyle and I have been together – ten years. He is a very attractive man, but he’s not very responsible or smart. He’s fun though and I’ve always enjoyed his company. One night when Kyle was out of town for work, Jimmy and I got to drinking. We ended up sharing a whole bottle of Tequila and one thing led to another and we had sex.
I barely remember what happened but when we woke up the next morning, we were both naked and lying in the same bed. At least, we found a used condom on the floor in the washroom.
Fern, what we did was a huge mistake. It should never have happened. Sure, Jimmy’s a nice guy for some other girl, but I don’t want him and I certainly never intended to hurt Kyle. The worst part is, Jimmy is still living with us. Can you say awkward? I can’t tell Kyle to kick him out because he will want to know why. He knows I like Jimmy; he just doesn’t know that we $#%@ed. Both of us feel bad. Well, I feel bad. Jimmy is more proud than anything, and he would probably do it again. I wouldn’t though. My question – do you think I should tell Kyle?
Should I Let The Cat Out Of The Bag?
Dear I Think You Should Get INTO The Bag And Let The Cat Scratch The $#%@ Outta You,
My daughter and I like to play this game with each other. Actually, she likes to play the game and I am simply forced to participate. Now, this banter is best enjoyed when her hormones have kicked into high gear and she is being a “super bitch”, and when I am ultra-tired (which is MOST of the time) and resting (which is hardly ever).
It always starts with her sauntering into the room like she is the queen of the world, albeit with a hot poker shoved up her you-know-what.
“Fill in the blank,” she says, a caustic tone in her voice. That is the name of the game, after all. “I want you to ________ my blue shirt.”
Staring wearily down at my hands, which, in anticipation of the game, I’ve clenched tightly in my lap, I say, “Find… You want me to ‘find’ your blue shirt.”
“No,” she snaps, causing me to look up. “That is NOT it.” To my dismay, I see the blue shirt slung pretentiously over her shoulder.
“OK. Wash… you want me to ‘wash’ your blue shirt.”
“The shirt is already clean. You washed it yesterday. Is your memory really that bad?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.” Seriously, how could I be so stupid?
“Guess again.” She is getting angrier and even more impatient as teenage girls quite often do.
“Give me a hint.” In the background I hear the cat making that familiar heaving-from-the-intestines noise, which is then followed by the sound of liquid splatting on something.
“The cat just threw up on my new shoes.” A distant voice bellows from the front hall.
“Clean it up,” I call, daring to take my attention away from my daughter for a brief second.
“I’m not touching it. It’s gross.” The far away voice whines back.
Turning to my daughter, I see that she is tapping her foot on the floor, her arms crossed in indignation. “So?” she smirks expectantly.
“I don’t know. I just DON’T know. Can’t you tell me this one time? I have cat barf to clean up.” I am begging now, screaming almost.
“Why is it when I ask you a simple question, you go completely crazy? Never mind. I’ll just iron the shirt myself. Who cares if I do it wrong and it looks terrible?”
It’s at this point in the game (when she has left the room) that I want to break down and cry. The moral: there are just some contests you’ll never win, and some circumstances you won’t be able to escape. And as my husband always tells me, you’ve brought this one on yourself.
What are you going to do? Well, you’re NOT going to tell your husband. Even though I don’t condone lying, he doesn’t deserve to suffer for something YOU did. As I have to live with my daughter who is really just like me but with a better body, you have to live with the shame. You screwed up and now you should suffer. Maybe the guilt will be enough to ensure that you don’t do it again.
You know that movie called “The Kids Are All Right” with Julianne Moore and Annette Bening? Well, my partner Silvia and I are the real life version of that. She is a doctor and I stayed at home with our two children who, unlike in the film, were conceived from the sperm of two DIFFERENT men as we didn’t want to put our eggs in one “basket” so to speak.
Anyway, now that our daughter and son are older, I am trying to carve out a career for myself and I find that I am very busy with work, not to mention that I still support Sylvia with her career and devote a huge chunk of time looking after our two teenagers.
The problem is that Silvia gets very grumpy. She says that I don’t make our relationship a priority. So I said to her, “Do you remember those nine long years when you were going through medical school and residency and you were never at home, and when you were, it was like I was living with Cruella DeVil, and I’d say, ‘Honey, I think we need to spend more time together,’ and you’d just push past me on your way to bed?”
When I ask her this, Silvia replies, “But we need to spend more time together now. Our relationship is important.” I don’t think she realizes that me wanting to make something of my life takes time and energy on top of being her servant and raising our children. And why is it that when she was doing what she wanted, us “spending time together” didn’t seem to matter? All these years, I’ve supported her and our children. Now that it’s me being busy, she sulks. I feel us drifting apart. I feel her resentment. And although she’d never say it, I feel like she’s going to seek attention elsewhere if I don’t do something to change the situation. This is NOT fair! What should I do?
Axe To Grind
I was driving home from the pet store the other day after buying one of those big 40 lb. bags of “wheat” kitty litter – the kind that’s a lot more expensive than the regular stuff but much healthier for my cats’ lungs. Anyway, as I was motoring down the street, some jackass suddenly pulled out of his driveway right in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes and utter profanities under my breath. With “idiot driver” now slowing my speed to an “aggravating as hell” 20 km/h, I continued on my way.
Not more than a hundred meters ahead however, somebody else decided to do the exact same thing to him. Driver extraordinaire number one braked (as I had done) but he also laid on the horn for a good ten seconds and rolled down his window to give this newest vehicular blockhead the middle finger. See Axe, for some people, it’s OK when they do something, but it’s not OK when someone else does the same thing back to them.
After much thought, I’ve also come up with a few more harsh realizations about life:
1. I think that the world is being taken over by fifteen to eighteen-year-olds, with Justin Bieber as their leader.
2. As beautiful as she is, it seems probable that Jennifer Lopez’s butt will only get bigger.
3. As you may or may not have noticed, fresh blueberries come in very tricky packages. Those clear plastic repositories LOOK secure but when you go to take them out of the fridge and accidentally drop them on the floor, they flip open VERY easily, causing a huge purple mess. “Bad, bad blueberries,” I always say when this happens. And for punishment, I painstakingly gather them up and douse them in lemon juice and baking soda. Sure they are a little bitter when I eat them, but they were asking for it.
4. Furthermore, it seems apparent that we humans have fooled ourselves into believing that we are creatures of substance when really we are just like the rest of the animals on the planet – all we want is sex, sex and more sex, and we don’t want any trouble getting it either.
5. And finally, I’ve come to the conclusion that in any working relationship, one person is meant to be the “giver” and the other, the “taker”. Mistakenly, I thought that this happened only in female/male relationships, but as your situation is evidence, I guess I was wrong. As such, I think your problem is that you are not clear on your role. In the animal world, the female lion never tries to go out and hunt for prey. Well, maybe she does, but you are NOT a lion. So as much as I hate to say this, I think you should stop trying to make something of yourself and get back in the kitchen. Obviously, Silvia wants you to be available whenever she snaps her fingers. It’s inevitably (if not sadly and most unfairly) where you belong. It’s where I am seven out of my sixteen waking hours each day – it’s either there, the laundry room or the bedroom. Don’t feel too forlorn about it though. There are ways to fight back. For instance, my apron says, “Watch it. There could be razor blades in your food.” And I also have this really sexy black lace bra that, although it looks normal, will NEVER unclasp because it has been sewn shut. I made it myself. Oh, the sweet, sweet satisfaction of provoking uncertainty and frustration in the lives of those who think that only their needs matter.
Causes Amanda Raynor Supports
The Ottawa Humane Society, The National Capital Region YMCA/YWCA, Harvest House in Ottawa,