You know, I never had much of a sex life. I got married way too young.  And I forgot to try before you buy. And I couldn’t ever afford a new model. So, basically, I’m a one trick pony. Or rather, I’m stuck with one.

So, I have lived a lot of my (sex) life vicariously.  Crappy romance novels, good erotica, and even the occasional flutter at a really nice ass in a movie. (Speaking of which, when are we going to grow up and get to see man-parts in movies? Huh? Just sayin’.)

Okay. So that wasn’t entirely true. I have lived ALL of my sex life vicariously. There. Happy now? You made Auntie Vodka tell the truth and now she’s crying and looking for her special glass again. Feel better?

The only way to cope with such a miserable existence is alcohol and imagination.  Not necessarily in that order, but it most definitely works best with both. Other wise you end up with the problem I had last nigh…..er… the other day.

You see, I am getting old. And fat. Yes, I’m old and fat. Great! Rub it in! Think you can hurt me? Well, you can’t. And you want to know why?

Because there is nothing you can do or say that can possibly make me feel worse than the things I think to myself do. So there. Next time you want to tease the fat lady and make comments about her needing a beeper for when she backs up, just remember, she’s already thought of it. And considered installing one, just to let everyone know she’s got a sense of humor, and then rejected the idea, because it just kills her fantasy of being like everyone else that much more.

So what happened to me recently?

OOOO! There was this cute little Mexican man.  He’s of a rare breed now-a-days. Nice shoes, nice clothes, sexy little fedora hat. Polite, charming, cute accent (not the Ricardo Montalban type, more like Speedy Gonzales).  He kinda did it for me, you know?

So I took that thought home with me for my adventures in vicarious living though imagination and alcohol.  I used to have this fantasy of riding through sex like a cowgirl, waving my hat over my head with one hand and screaming “YaHoooooooo!” at the top of my lungs while holding on for dear life with my other hand.

Then my realistic self-image had to get in the way.  I’d forgotten to use enough alcohol with my imagination.

Do you remember this cartoon?

Yeah. It was like that.  Except instead of a Chihuahua, it was my cute little Mexican man. And instead of my ass…

Never mind.

By the way. I wanted to give the cartoonist credit and a link-back, but I couldn’t figure out who drew it. If you know, please let me know, so I can credit him/her.

And next time you feel like making fun of someone for physical things, just remember, they are most assuredly already more aware of it than you are.