Sense and Sex-ability

by Julie Robinson

I’ve been having a reoccurring dream lately where I’m walking along a wooded trail with my dog Bennett on a gorgeous fall day when it begins to rain.  The orange and yellow leaves begin smacking my face as the wind picks up.  We turn around to head back to the car but are forced to trudge along on a trail that has turned to mud.  As my feet grow heavier and heavier, I look down and see that the mud is now wet concrete.  I bend down to pick up my dog and fall.  We both flail around a bit but cannot get up.  The muck sucks us down.  We’re stuck.

Dramatic and a bit obvious, I know.  All the same, waking up all tied up in sheets and blankets night after night has gotten me more than a little perplexed.  How am I going to get out of this mess?

Star Collision Course

by Julie Robinson

 Sometimes the stars align just right and you find yourself the center of attention, surrounded by suitors who want nothing more than to wine and dine you.  These are the kinds of nights when it pays tenfold to be a single girl.  You look fabulous, feel even better, and say such witty, delightfully charming shit—you wonder what really cool alien sucked out your brain and implanted itself.  If you’re me, the stars collide and . . . .

1.      You bump into a new lover unexpectedly while out with friends;

2.     You have plans to hook up with an old lover later that night but you're meeting him here at happy hour first;

3.     Even though you know better, the old lover is in a committed relationship;

4.     The two lovers see each other, happen to be great friends (you didn’t even know they knew each other) and chit chat all night;

5.     At first you’re scared shitless that the new lover will figure out the whole charade, but finally you grow bored with their boy chatter and start talking to some random Fat Guy.

Fat Guy is an ex-minor league left fielder, and seeing how much I like baseball, this piques my interest just enough for me to hand over my business card.

ME:  I would have taken you for a pitcher—not an outfielder.

FAT GUY:  Ouch!  Are you calling me fat?  I broke a leg last year.  I’m usually 60 pounds lighter.

ME:  (not the least bit impressed) Hmm. 

FAT GUY:  Hey!  It’s my birthday.  You can’t be mean to me on my birthday!

Three Women, One Man and that Stinky Blanket

by Julie Robinson

 We decide to meet for drinks and snacks at Hamburger Mary’s because the beer is cheap, the patio is festive, and it’s always fun to chat up the trannies.  It is our first girls’ night out together and seeing that the conversation quickly steers its way to penises, I feel right at home with my new friends.

Diana, a sexy brunette who has a great job and an even better sex life sets the tone by saying, “Thumbs down.  Seriously.  The damn thing tapered at the end.” 

Seeing that in all of my years of extensive penis experience I had never seen one like that before I ask, “You mean it got narrower at the head?”

“Yeah.  You know when you sharpen a pencil?”  Diana raises her eyebrows while I nod slowly.  That’s unfortunate, now isn’t it?

Beware of Ghosts

by Julie Robinson

Up until a week ago, the only ghost story I could tell with any real conviction was the time when my Buddha dog, Gunnar, briefly turned into a demon and barked ferociously at someone (or something) I couldn’t see while walking upstairs—backwards.  For folks who knew Gunnar, it remains a pretty compelling tale.  I tell the story every chance I get and stand firm that the only plausible explanation for his behavior was that a ghost was haunting our stairwell.  Yeah, right.  I believe my newest ghost, however, may be even scarier (or creepier, depending on your viewpoint).  You see, a man I buried almost two years ago called (okay, he wuss texted), and asked me out (that is, if you consider “I have an extra ticket . . .” a proper invitation).

How did I react to this dead man’s proposal?  Was I cool, calm, collected, and just a wee bit coquettish?  I may have pulled off my reply in a manner that didn’t give myself away entirely, but let’s just say that I’ve been howling at the harvest moon ever since he contacted me.

Will entered my life three springs ago, and it’s safe to say that I fell hard.  Part of the blame went to our excessive drinking; another chunk I attribute to his very persuasive, “I love you’s” on the nights he stayed over; but to be perfectly frank my stupidity is the main reason I got sucked in. 

So I killed him.

Get Your Kicks: Road Trip to Texas

by Julie Robinson

Facebook is bound to get you into trouble from time to time if you let it.  This is especially true if you fancy yourself a writer and believe people actually want to hear about your sorry ass life just because you have a knack for writing about it (or so you’ve been told).  Posting “statuses” on the toilet two minutes after getting kicked out of a bar pretty much guarantees you’re posting something that’s better off “staying in Vegas.”  Oh, how I wish I was only in Vegas.  I know Vegas.  I get Vegas.  And I can handle Vegas.

Little Ol’ San Antonio, Texas—that-shit-kicking-town-full-of-nothing-but-tourists—kicked my ass tonight. 

I was up and down that damn River Walk maze until I was just about blue in the face.  “Every single place just screams, ‘You are a fucking idiot tourist, come eat here!’” I complain to my brother just before I find what looks like a terrific dive bar above the whole tourist-labyrinth below.  I hang up the phone and notice three young men boldly flirting with an older (okay—my age) woman lugging two suitcases.  One of the boys winks at me.

After I enter the It-only-looks-like-a-non-tourist-trap restaurant and settle in to the perfectly empty bar, the three young men from upstairs swoop down beside me.

ME:  What?  You got tired of harassing women just getting off of the bus?  Now you’re here to bother me?

YOUNG MAN #1:  How did you even notice that?

ME:  (in my most sarcastic voice I typically reserve for only my mother) I’m a woman? I’m alone?  You stupidly winked at me?  It’s my job to notice my surroundings.