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Make me CUM….AGAIN

20 Jun

Today I was in a meeting behind closed doors. We were discussing future financial and budget predictions when I became quite antsy. I shifted my weight and crossed my legs from one side to the other.

It was getting hot, I took off my suit jacket.

I heard voices but it echoed. My body was over powered by a euphoric sensation, a feeling I didn’t want to stop and desperately tried to control.

I wanted it, I needed it, I loved it.

Beads of sweat are now on my forehead, my face was getting red, my toes started to tingle, my body shivered.

YES, YES, I wanted to scream!!!

I blacked out.


I said nothing.


I come to and open my eyes.

“Are you okay? You look flushed.”

I very well couldn’t tell three investors while discussing a 30 million dollar construction project I had a fucking orgasm.

“Where’s the restroom,,” I asked?

I walked fastly down the narrow hall as I listened to my heels clank and echo past the glass office doors.

Did my pussy forget I masturbated three times this morning? Four orgasms wasn’t enough, my pussy yearned for more.

I enter the bathroom and close the stall behind me.

I slid my pantyhose down each leg, lifted my pencil skirt up (Didn’t have to worry about panties because I don’t own any) and started rubbing myself. I laid back, closed my eyes and envisioned the following:

I opened the door,

you grab my throat,

throw me against the table,

shove your cock in me,

yank my hair,

grind me,

fuck me,


make me bleed,

I plea,

you ignore,

I beg,

you call me a whore,

you shiver,

you cum,

deep inside of me,

pull out,

breathing heavily you ask,

What is your name?


Another powerful orgasm. I’m done for at least another few hours.

Lesson Learned: Why I don’t give strangers a ride

19 Jun

I woke up at 6AM in my new apartment. I had just moved the previous day and I was exhausted!! I needed a cup of coffee but my coffee maker was hidden in a box I couldn’t find.

I grabbed my keys to go to the nearest McDonalds…..still in my pajamas but I didn’t care, I planned on going in the drive-thru. I was almost at my car when my new neighbor introduced herself. She was short, petite with blonde hair and big boobs. Similar to my appearance but a good foot shorter.

“Hi, I’m Reagan.”

“Priscilla,” I replied.

She welcomed me to the community and pointed out the nosy neighbors to avoid. When she saw that I was leaving she asked:

“Do you mind driving me up to CVS so I can get my prescription?”

I knew exactly where CVS was, it was a block away, next to the McDonalds. It was only a block away, she could have walked, and she should have but instead I said:

“Sure, I don’t mind.”

I dropped her off at CVS, went to Mc Donald’s and when I was about to head back home I wondered if she needed a ride. I looked around but didn’t see her walking. I made a loop into the CVS parking lot and parked by the front door. I waited for ten minutes but still no sign of her. Maybe she was doing some additional shopping I thought.

I turned my ignition off and went inside. As soon as the electronic double doors open I see her in a fist fight with the manager. Why I didn’t walk out and leave I don’t know. My instant reaction was to pull her off this woman.

I heard the manager say:

“I smell alcohol on you.”

Followed by:

“I’ve called the police.”

Again, I don’t know why I didn’t leave, but instead I grabbed my neighbor, we got in the car and I asked:

“What the hell was that about?”

“They wouldn’t let me pay for my prescription with my father’s credit card,” she replied.

It made no sense to me but whatever.

I started the ignition and while backing out of the parking spot I could see the manager through the glass doors and on the phone.

You could see our apartments from the store and as I was getting on the main road five police cars passed us in the opposite direction.

There they go I thought.

Before I could blink one was behind me with red and blue lights flashing.


What did this woman do, I thought? Does she have drugs on her? Did she steal something? What is she not telling me?

When the officer approached my window he immediately asked me to get out of the car.


“Officer what is going on,” I asked?

“I don’t know, you tell me,” he said?

I told him the story, he told me to sit down on the curb and I watched him join the other officers who were now talking with her.

The officer approaches me again and asks me to stand up. I did.

“She has a completely different story. She says the two of you are good friends,” the officer said.

“WHAT????? That’s bullshit, I just met her.”

The officer gets closer to me and asks:

“Have you been drinking?”

Drinking as in alcohol, I thought? It’s not even 7AM, I have coffee in my cup holder not a fucking beer.

“No officer of course not,” I replied.

“Step over here please,” he said.

Great, I thought. I had been through this eight years prior and he was about to have me perform a field sobriety test. Why the fuck does he think I’ve been drinking, I thought?

I wasn’t drunk, didn’t stumble or wobble. I was sober ,but he didn’t think so.

I was handcuffed and placed in the back seat of the squad car.

In the meantime, these jackass cops believed my neighbor’s story, gave HER the keys to MY car along with my cell phone. Gave my valuable possessions to a woman I didn’t fucking know!!!

Once at the police station they take me to a room, turn on the video camera, asked me to do a sobriety test all over again followed by questions.

Once again they asked how I knew that woman. My story didn’t change, I told the truth.

They didn’t believe me, one of the officers said:

“Do you not understand why we don’t believe you? It’s hard to believe in this day and age someone who give someone they don’t know a ride.”

I’m sure I had a pissed, dumbfounded look on my face after that comment.

“Give me the breathyler so I can go home,” I yelled.

The officers looked at one another and replied:

“We are not giving you that option, we want a blood test instead.”

“Blood test, why,” I asked?

“We think you’re under the influence of something.”

Okay, first of all I watched my cousin die of AIDS because of a an improper sanitized needle. I have no problem with needles or blood but trusting the needle is sanitized is a different story.

I have a problem when the hospital sticks a needle in me and I’m certainly not going to let the county jail stick a needle in my arm.

I refused and I went to jail.

When I got out, my car was safely parked at the apartments but I never retrieved my phone. I went to the CVS and spoke with the manager. I asked what had happened and she said the woman went ballistic because the card she tried to use came up as “stolen.” I informed the woman “I” was the one arrested and she was shocked.

“You were the peace-maker. I gave them the description of the other woman, not you,” she said.

The next day I visited with a lawyer.

“I want to take this to trial,” I said.

“Well, let’s just hold off on making this decision right now. Let’s look at your video tape first.”

I leaned towards him and said:

“NO, I am going to fight this because I am innocent.”

The next time I visited my lawyer’s office was to talk about my video tape. First of all, there were two tapes, one at the scene and one at the jail. The video tape at the scene was never found but after six months, the video tape at the jail finally appeared.

“So what did you think,” I asked?

My lawyer leans back in his chair, with his hands folded and said:

“It was one of the best tapes I have ever seen.”

I smiled.

“However, there is only one problem.”

“What’s that,” I asked?

“You look too happy having been arrested for a DWI.”

And it was true. I wasn’t angry or hostile in the video but rather calm and cooperative.

I said to my attorney:

“What good would it have done if I got angry, yelled and called them names? They had already arrested me, they were not letting me go. I had a smile on my face because I knew I was innocent.”

The case drug out for another year and now it was the morning of the trial.

I was nervous but not really. I had faith justice would be served.

Then my attorney approaches me and says:

“The prosecutor has decided to drop the case because the main officer was recently fired for falsifying a police report.”


It cost me $15,000 to be a good Samaritan, but partly it was my fault.

Then a year later the unexpected happened. I went into a convenient store and was standing in line when I noticed the officer standing in front of me was the same officer that had arrested me. In fact he was the dumbass who made the comment about people not giving strangers a ride in this day and age. I had remembered the name on his badge that day, Officer Barrett.

So I said:

“Good to see you again Officer Barrett, do you remember me?”

He turned around and said:

“No sorry I don’t.” (Perhaps he didn’t recognize me because that day I had no makeup on, hadn’t combed my hair and was still in my pajamas.

“It’s okay, I figured you wouldn’t,” I said. Then I continued:

“You arrested me about a year and a half ago at 7AM for a DWI. The case was dismissed because your fellow officer was fired for falsifying a police report.”

He said nothing. He just stared at me….shocked was a good word.

“So officer tell me… could I have been drunk when I recognize your face and remember your name?”

My Visions, My Curse

14 Jun

When I was nine years old, mother and I left the movie theater after seeing When Harry met Sally.

Mom unlocked the car door and instead of opening the passenger door as I always did, I reached for the handle of the driver back seat.

“Priscilla, what are you doing,” mother asked as she noticed my odd behavior.

“I don’t know, I just feel like sitting in the back,” I said.

Actually it was the first time I had ever rode in the back seat since I could remember. But on this particular day something told me not to sit up front with my mother.

During the short drive home mother continued to harp on why I chose to sit in the back seat. Maybe her feeling were hurt or thought I was mad at her. I was about to be mad if she didn’t let it go.

“Priscilla, are you okay,” she said glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yes mother, I ju……

BAM…….the car spins……we hit a telephone pole and a few cars before we come to a halt. By the grace of GOD, mother and I walked away from this accident without a scratch or bruise on us. However, had I been sitting in the passenger front seat that would have been the last day my mother had a daughter. Just to give you an idea, the passenger door was completely caved in and a few more inches the smashed in door would have punctured my mother’s arm.

It was shortly after this accident when I started having visions, visions that only occur when I’m in a motorized vehicle and which ALWAYS involves an automobile accident.

My first vision was a few months later when mother was driving me to dance practice. I saw a green car getting hit by an 18 wheeler. We drove a green car. One might think I was paranoid after the accident, but I wasn’t, it was REAL.

“Pull over, pull over,” I screamed to mother. She did and I started crying. I was freaking out, it was so intense.

I told mother about what I saw and she assured me we would not be in another accident because she’s now more of a cautious driver.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” mother said with her beautiful smile.

I half-heartedly smiled back, my heart still racing. Her reassurance didn’t exactly ease my worries.

Mother gets back onto the road and we notice congestion at the intersection ahead, two blocks from the dance studio.

There it was……an 18 wheeler and a green car. We looked at each other. I told you mother.

During my teens, the visions became more frequent, powerful and intense. I hated these visions because I couldn’t help these people. I couldn’t see the exact location of the accident and sometimes I would have a vision seconds before it happened. The worst part was before each vision I would get a werid feeling, almost like an anxiety attack, it was awful.

I hadn’t had a vision or an attack in over 2 years…..until this morning.

I woke up a few hour ago with sweaty palms, shaking fingers, could barely swallow and breathe. Not another attack I thought. I know things have been stressful lately but they have gotten better.

I drink some water hoping the attack will go away but it only gets worse. I get in my car and drive towards the neighborhood pharmacy in hopes there is an over-the-counter medicine to ease my rattled nerves.

Within the next few minutes my attack gets even worse, I am now feeling naucious……and then it happened……I had a vision.

I saw a woman wearing a yellow shirt crossing the street and hit by a black F150 truck to be exact.

I begin to cry. No…..this can not be happening again I thought as I made a U-turn to go back home.  I was about to turn my blinker on to turn onto my street when I saw something in the road. It was dark, the lights on the pole were too dim to see what it was. I get closer………

There it was, a woman wearing a yellow shirt laying on top of the windshield of the black truck.

Please LORD take these visions away from me, or give me the gift to be able to help these people.

Can you top this story?

12 Jun

When I lived in Florida the best part of my day was when I left for work, and HATED pulling into my driveway every evening as I entered back into the gates of HELL!!! My live-in boyfriend at the time DISGUSTED me and I don’t throw that word around lightly.

He didn’t work, couldn’t because he had just been released from prison, a small detail he lacked to tell me when we met. He was a slob, thief, lazy, lazy and lazy as he played video games all day while I was worked to put food on the table.

So how did he manipulate me into believing he was everything I desired but was really the EXACT OPPOSITE? It was a combination of my own stupidity and a powerful emotion we call “Love at First Sight.”

I was 1200 miles away from family and friends in Texas and I felt trapped!!! If I did leave he would have no means to survive, not to mention all my furniture was in Florida. I very well could not pack all my shit and furniture into a Uhaul and disappear before he woke up. Nor would I feel comfortable driving that far of a distance in what I would consider to be an 18 wheeler. One day I was about to say FUCK IT when he helped make my escape a WHOLE lot easier.

I came home from work one day to our dog jumping, happy to see me and a boyfriend who was high as a kite playing video games in the recliner.

“How was your day honey,” he said in passing still focused on his video game.

It was great until I got here I thought, but didn’t say.

My usual routine was to make dinner (yeah he was too lazy to do that too), take a shower and go to sleep until the most beautiful noise sounded which was my alarm clock, so I could yet again exit the gates of hell.

Except this particular evening things played out a little differently…..

“Come here,” he said as he put his controller down, moved to the couch and patted the cushion next to him.

Ehhhhh… I have to I thought?

I did as he wished but approached him in a less enthusiastic motion.

Then he attempted what I was afraid he would do……a kiss.

Ehhhhh…..and of course I played along.

He abruptly stopped the kiss and asked why I wasn’t into him anymore.

Ehhhhh……do you really have to ask I thought.

Then he said……

“I want to make love to you.”

Ehhhhh…..I knew this day was coming soon. It had been two months since we were intimate and I cherished every moment his dick was NOT inside of me.





He begged.

“Fine,” I said just to shut him the fuck up!! Except I was not going to fuck him, I would give him a blowjob instead because he came much quicker this way.

I swallow the chunks now arriving in my throat as I stick this disgusting person’s cock in my mouth.

I didn’t suck slow at first as I usually did, instead my mouth had become the energizer bunny to make sure this dick came as quickly as possible.


“Wait, wait,” he said.

WTF I thought? Now I have to get back in my “sucking a disgusting dick mode” all over again.

“I’ll be right back.”

I watched him jog to the bedroom then quickly reappear.

He kneels down in between the couch and coffee table, takes my hand into his, slides a gold band with a diamond around my finger and says:

“As you were giving me a blowjob I noticed something was missing on this finger. Will you marry me?”

I dashed to the bathroom.

Needless to say I didn’t finish the blowjob, I never wore the ring and I left him two days later.

He still wonders why I left him.

My Best Fuck EVER!!!!

11 Jun

I arrived at the parking garage of the hospital near the emergency room entrance about to visit my parents. I was anxious to visit them if only I could get out of the FUCKING car, something I’ve done thousands of times but NOT in this condition.

I swung my feet on the concrete pavement, lifting myself with my legs that were numb and arms that were about to fall off. The last time I couldn’t get out of the car was when I ended the night as my first day as a stripper wearing those six-inch stripper heels. Three minutes later I’m now standing up. I can somewhat breathe.

I cautiously walk towards the light exiting the garage. I am going to kill my Pilates instructor! I believe she hasn’t been hard enough on me. I follow the light, the sun beaming outside the garage if only I can get there.

Oh Shit!!! I dropped my keys.

Nice and easy, nice and easy I thought. My abs felt like rocks, my arms are swinging and my thighs are about to give out any second if only my nails would loop around my key ring that helplessly laid on the pavement.

I believe in GOD. There is a GOD, right? If so, please help me!!!! I don’t ask for much.

I slowly stand up and my back pops, ohhhh….I will deal with that pain later.

Now I am in the sunlight and out of the parking garage. The light gives me the “walk” signal and of course I walk. After about three steps into it the “walk” sign changes to “stop.” Yes, I know I’m a little slow but if I can survive last night than I think I can live another day if only I can make it across the street.

Horns are honking.

Shut your pie hole I yell!!

A line at the intersection is now forming waiting for me to cross the fucking street. Geez…you Texans really are horn happy, be considerate for someone who is hurt and making their way to the emergency room.

Yeah, I saw that asshole….there really is no need to flip me the bird!!!

Okay, I’m across the street. I made it. I’m alive…..still.

Now I have to walk across the side of the emergency room to the main entrance of the hospital. Alright….give me a second, I’m getting there.

Geez, grandma….do you workout, I thought as she strolled past me on her walker? Perhaps I should ask who her Pilates instructor is.

Ohhh noooo!!! Ohhhh nooo…. there are kids running towards me…..noooooo….noooo……don’t hit me!!!!! Please!!!! If you knock me down I won’t be able to get up!

Whew….close call but I’m still standing.

Now I am at the entrance of the building.

Awww…thank you sir for holding the door open for a weak and hurt young woman. I know your about 50 years older than I but one of these days I promise to repay the favor as I always do.

Ohhhhh nooooo!!!! Hold the elevator, hold the elevator!!!

Oh, your such a nice, kind young man I said to the five-year old boy. You are so sweet to your elders.

I think I need to write a thank you letter to the person who invented elevators!!

Five please, I told the young man.

Ohhh….okay so a few pit stops. People off, on, off, on….okay…I’m leaning against the elevator rail now not sure if I can make it to the fifth floor just standing still. Then….the light for the fifth floor lights up. FINALLY, I thought NOOOOOOOO…..hold the elevator doors please! Moving a little slow but I will make it.

I enter the floor and the doctor and nurses are looking at me. Hey guys, I brought you 50 pizzas yesterday, the least you can do is DON”T ASK!!!.

They smile and look away.

Only twenty more feet and I’m in my mother’s room.

Now five, four, three, two, one….. and I plop into the chair next to my mother’s bed. Yes, if one didn’t know better I had just ran a 10k marathon. I huff and puff, relieved to finally be sitting down.

My mother turns her head towards me and says:

“Priscilla, what happened to you?”

Huh, I asked?

The bruises on your right arm she said nodding with her head in a weak voice.

I look down and well……OH FUCK ME!!!!

So what did happen last night?

Well….a few weeks ago I reblogged a post from the MLF Diary titled “Pin Me.”

Oh was it ever smoking HOT and made my pussy wet!!!

The night before, I told Mr. WordPress Blogger:

“Remember that post I sent you?”

He replied, “Yes!”

“Well…I desperately need and want that done to me.”

He was a little hesitant at first and said:

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

I cried out…… NOOOO…..PLEASE….PLEASE….hurt me……I BEG OF YOU!!!!

So here’s what happened……

Pin me down, (Oh you did and hard.)

throw my legs over your shoulders, (Is that the reason why my thighs are numb?)

choke me out, (I yelled more, more, more…..okay I died and you brought me back to life when you teased me with your cock.)

call me your whore, (Well….you said that amongst other words I had never heard.)

slap my ass, (Yeah, your hand left marks.)

grab my wrists, (Is that why my wrists are red?)

shove your cock in me, (Well I feel like you shoved it, grinded it, swirled it and other descriptive words that aren’t yet in the dictionary.)

fuck me hard. (Oh….is that why I feel like I gave birth to an unborn child?)

bruise me, (One, two, three, four, five…..and still counting.)

beat me, (The bruises are proof you did that.)

hurt me, (I think you all know I’m in enough pain to believe that happened.)

make me not walk. (What should have been a 7 minute walk from the parking garage to my mother’s hospital room was actually 45 minutes.)

fuck me till you cum, (Oh you did and it dripped out of me STILL two days later.)

pull out and shove it in my mouth, (Yup…you were shivering and about to stick it in my mouth.)

cum in my mouth, (My mouth, face, chin and hair.)

in the back of my throat. (And….my best part…..yes, it was the best fucking desert I ever had.)

I was interrupted….

“So what happened mother asked?”

“I’m sorry mom. I was a bit distracted,” I said.

Oh, that I said nodding to the bruises on my arm. That’s nothing. I just slightly fell down the stairs,” I said without thinking.

Mother’s head slightly jerked upward.

“You fell down the stairs,” mother yelled out?

Oh shit, now she’s worried.

It was either that or tell her the night before I had the BEST FUCKING SEX EVER!!!!

Mr. WordPress Blogger: I love you dearly 🙂

My Dumbest Moment Ever…..

8 Jun

I’ve done a lot of stupid ass shit in my life but haven’t we all? Live and learn, right?

But there is one incident I did that makes me the dumbest fucking idiot of all and should have been broadcasted on the T.V. show “Cops.”

(NOTE: Please don’t drink and drive it kills, AND makes you look like a fucking idiot.)

Two months before my 21st birthday a friend bought me a six-pack of Budweiser beer. Half a beer made me tipsy so you can imagine what a WHOLE beer did to me. (Yeah those were the days.)

The list of my stupidity…..

1. I was STUPID for drinking and driving at 4:30AM

2. I was STUPID for traveling at 65mph in a 35mph zone

3. I was STUPID for jumping the curb and not paying better attention to the road

Now I have red and blue flashing lights behind me. Great, I thought as I pulled over. And of course my stupidity continues…..

4. I was STUPID for not hiding the six-pack of beer that firmly sat next to me in the passenger seat since I was under age

5. I was STUPID for not disregarding the beer bottle I was still drinking that sat in my lap

But what makes me the BIGGEST FUCKING IDIOT EVER was when…..

The officer approached my window, requested my driver’s license and insurance card and INSTEAD of reaching into my purse to give the officer this information I……..

Grabbed one of the beers sitting next to me, popped off the top, handed it to the officer with my dashing smile and said:

“Relax, have one on me,” as I cheered the bottle he was now holding with mine and chugged the rest of my beer.

Yeah, there was only one plea for me……FUCKING GUILTY!!!!

***Again, please do not drink and drive****

Is the wife PISSED? Hand her bleach and pine sol!!

20 May

I think I should change my blog slogan to, “What’s wrong with you women?”

I’m a woman and I don’t understand the female gender. I get a call from a male friend who needed a someone to talk to as he walked out of the house and the wife screamed in the background:

“You fucking asshole” and “Where are you going?” and “You always run from our problems.”

Don’t worry the wife wasn’t pissed because she thought I was fucking her husband, THANK GOD!! Instead this particular wife was mad because he left the lid of the milk carton on the kitchen counter before he put it back in the fucking refrigerator.


And she wanders why he’s leaving the house? Who would want to stay and listen to this shit for leaving the top off the milk carton???

In unnecessary and nonsense fights like this almost always the man leaves the domain to clear his head and to give the wife time to “cool off”, when he really wants to strangle the bitch and hit the “divorce” button that is if one were to exist.

An hour later the “wife” is texting him saying she’s “sorry”, begging him to come back home and when he does she’s still giving him the cold shoulder and the “fuck you” look.

Sound familiar?

Why do you need a doctorate’s degree to become a psychologist to figure this shit out? I don’t get it.

Women need to just shut the fuck up and walk away, or leave the house and come home a few hours later with 10 new pairs of shoes that the husband would normally complain about but would not at all care if it successfully shut the bitch up.


Women need to adopt MY mind-set and ask themselves, “What would Priscilla do?”

In every live-in relationship I have had the “spouse” would make sure the “back-up” supplies of bleach and pine sol were well stalked.

I may push men away before we get to the “relationship” stage but after the committment has been made, I have learned to shut the fuck up.

When pissed, and I mean ROYALLY pissed, no matter what the circumstance and reasoning may be, if the “spouse” comes home and or seeing me with bleach and pine sol in my hand aggressively cleaning the house he knows to leave me the fuck alone.

After a few hours of deep cleaning and sweating my anger away I am now too tired to remember what the fuck I was mad about in the first place. I will then lay in the arms of my ‘spouse” tell him I love him and probably fuck his brains out to relieve any excess anger I may have

The result:

1. He didn’t leave the house.

2. I didn’t bow down and say “I’m sorry”


3. No hurtful words were exchanged.


Oh, yes I forget….because us women are fucking drama queens!!!

The only reason to bitch at your spouse and piss him off is if your sole intention is for the ‘make-up” sex. That I can’t argue with, it FUCKING GREAT!!!

What happens if you send me a picture of your dick…..

11 May



(Sorry but I’m in a fiesty mood)

Six months ago if a guy sent me a picture of his dick on POF, I would immediately block him and delete the worthless small dick I wouldn’t have fucked anyways.

A month later all dick photos entered my “Dick Hall of Shame” and referred them to (I was curious to see how many dicks I could accumulate and who knows when I may need visual aid.)

Then three months ago all dicks continued to enter my gallery but I would send the following picture and tell them this is my mother:


But now when I am honored to receive another picture of a dick I do the following:

I accept his invitation to dinner and drinks, flirt, rub my hands on his thigh as I work upward in the direction of his cock, grope him, blow and whisper how bad I want and need his cock inside of me. He gets the check and pays, we walk out of resturant and he asks, “my house or yours?” I drape my arms around his neck and in a sad face I say:

“I can’t tonigt I’m in outbreak.”

Him: Outbreak of what?

Me: Herpes

Him: We can use a condom

Me: No its not safe

If he continues then I say:



In three months 194 dicks have entered my “Dick Hall of Shame” and I don’t want another!!

If you don’t want blue balls, don’t send me a picture of your dick!!

This man needs a CUSTOM-MADE glove for his DICK…..latex is NOT enough protection!!!

10 May

I have learned through trial and error during my dating adventure to think outside the box when asking the “getting to know you” questions.

For example, I ask every guy:

1. Are you bi-sexual and or have bi-sexual tendencies?

2. Have you been to prison?

3. Would it turn you on to drink my piss?

4. Do you desire to wear my panties?

Most men laugh and think it’s humorous that I ask such “ridiculous” questions as they call it but if only they knew the shit I have been asked, witnessed and propositioned.

I have now added the following question:


What’s your sex number?

A good guy friend of mine recently gave me some VERY wise advice. He said:

“Every man you date and definitely before you sleep with them, ask how many women they have slept with.”


What’s the pont, I though? Men are going to lie about it anyways. Yes, I know to multiply the number a guy gives me by 9 which will reveal the ACCURATE number of they’re sexual partners but shit, that’s too much math I care to calculate.

Before I continue I will go ahead and tell you my number. A year go it was 5, when I turned 30 and adopted the sex drive of a 17-year-old boy, my number is now 5+35.


Go ahead all onlinedatingjournal haters whom are all women, voice your opinion in the “comments” section of this post that I’m a “whore” OR how “Disgusting” I am. (I do strongly suggest you wait until you read this ENTIRE post before making your judgemental comment.) Bitch, your “whoring” days are just around the corner because most of us are grateful to experience the “sex phase.” Guys you know what I’m talking about. Wink. Wink.

Back in the day when my sex list consisted of one name, it was VERY important to me and asked every guy:

“How many women have you slept with?” I got the following answers:

Guy 1. Nine 9X10=90

Guy 2. Fourteen 9X14=126

Guy 3. Forty 9X40=360

Guy 4. Hundred 9X100=900


(I did not continue to date Guy 4 because his number was WAY too high without the calculation.)


I recently met a guy from POF for a few drinks and dinner after three hours of texting back and forth. He wasn’t the greatest looking guy that has escorted me but definitely was not ducking and dodging to uphold my image. Aside from already being a very blunt person, he too wasn’t afraid to honestly speak his opinion.  He was also very easy to talk to which is why I didn’t hesitate about asking him questions 1-4 as stated above. (Note: When asking these questions I always observe body language, hesitation, stumbling words, or if he looks away when answering the question.)

“Fuck No,” he proclaimed to all of the above. My observation when asking these questions did not give me a reason to think otherwise.

Then I asked the question my friend recommended I ask:

“How many women have you slept with?


I obviously struck a nerve I thought. I sensed hesitation when he took a deep breath, appeared to be uncomfortable when he looked around thinking of what to say and his body language became very jittery.

He takes a deep breath, takes a few gulps of his beer, leans back in the booth, looks me dead in the eye and says:

“I’m not going to tell you just yet.”

“Why,” I asked?

He is now starting to get a little fidgety and is becoming irritated that I’m being so persistent that he answer the question.

“Can’t you get to know me first before asking me that question,” he pleaded.

I told him it was a fair and appropriate question to ask and reminded him we all go through the “whoring” phase.

He takes another deep breath and chugs the half filled glass of beer until it’s empty and points to the glass for the waiter to see he needs a refill. He leans forward in the booth and says:

“When I was in the military, the pay was horrible making only $1200 a month.”

Okay I thought

“For extra money I started working in porn.”

Okay…..this is getting slightly interesting and or scary, not sure which just yet. I had never met a man who was in porn or one who openly admitted it.

“It was excellent money. They paid 2k a session and you could have four or five sessions in one day,” he said.

Okay……keep going I thought giving him the look………..

“In Korea alone I probably slept with about 4,000 women”

Okay, I was thinking around the ball park number of two-five hundred but……

4,000 women in Korea ALONE?????


Hell I’m an armature if not almost a virgin when I put my 40 next to his 4000!

Okay, so let’s do the math:

4000 X 9= 36,000


I didn’t bother to ask his TOTAL number, preferred not to know!!

I may be a little” horny whore” these days and hesitant to reach the three digits but NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER will the number of my sexual partners get to the four digits!!!

Someone needs to invent a HEAVY DUTY std glove to put over this man’s dick because latex is NOT enough protection!!!

I wanted to tell him if he ever wants to get laid don’t reveal this number to ANYONE, on the other hand, WOMEN NEED TO KNOW AND BE WARNED!!!

I want to thank my guy friend for suggesting to ask the question that turned out to save my life. I also want to thank this man for giving me an HONEST answer.

I was polite throughout the rest of the date, afterall I owed this man my life for his honesty!! After dinner he walked me to my car and asks:

“Can I see you again?”

I gave him the “Are you fucking serious” look. He got the hint and then asks:

“Do you have any hot, single girlfriends you could hook me up with?”

All you onlinedatingjournal haters, NOW you can tell me I’m how I’m a DISGUSTING WHORE!!

My Last Day as a Stripper……

2 May


(WARNING: I am about to share a true story that forever changed my life 10 years ago on May 1, 2002. Please bear with me because this was hard to write. I hope I don’t make you cry)


I try to call your mother but there is no privacy. I walk to the front of the strip club and police are roping off the crime scene with yellow and black tape. I go round to the back of the building and police are everywhere searching for evidence. I walk back inside and your friends and co-workers are crying and being interviewed by law enforcement. I head for the dressing room, the same trail you and I walked hundreds of times beside one another. I enter and lock the bathroom stall behind me as I clutch onto my phone, not prepared to make the call to your mother, after all you are only 20 years old.


I dial, the phone rings, and your mother answers with the ’you woke me up’ tone.
I say nothing, I only cry.
Her: Priscilla is that you?


I’m choking on my tears.
Her: What’s wrong? What happened?              


Me: Ty… (Crying)….ler….h… (Crying)…e’s…de…. (Crying)….ad
Her: What? Oh my God, what happened?
I could hear her wake up your father who was lying in bed beside her to break the bad news.
Me: Mrs. Long, your son is dead because of me. I’m so sorry, I said still weeping uncontrollably.


It was an ordinary day at the apartment. We were both scheduled to work, you as the dance manager and I as another unreliable ‘stripper’ who hated her job. Remember you often had to drag my lazy ass to work? I made many excuses to avoid taking my clothes off for another disgusting stiff dick who would go home and jack off thinking about the naughty lap dance I had given him.


This particular day my excuse consisted of studying for my final exams and having spent the night hugging my pillow while I watched old sappy love movies, which you hated.
You slapped my feet as they rested comfortably on the coffee table and said “Get your ass up, you’re going to work with me.” We debated on the subject for an hour. Aside from trying to convince me the money would be good because it was a Saturday night, and I needed to make my car payment, that I obviously didn’t have, your real reasoning for dragging me to work that day was because you liked working with me. I was your partner in crime, your best friend, roommate, co-worker and college classmate. Sometimes you gave up during our debate on this subject but most of the time you won.


My complaining about working that day continued during the two-mile drive to work. You firmly clinched my leg and with a smile you said, “It will be fun, trust me.” You pulled your car in the parking lot, where the pink flashing billboard sign of a naked woman stood, gave your keys as usual to Rob, the valet guy who was your second best friend and together we walked up the steps leading to the double doors we both dreaded entering and referred to as hell.


Once in the dressing room you immediately interrupted a cat fight with two of the “day time” dancers. I joined my fellow strippers on the bench, staring at myself in the mirror wandering why I let you talk me into coming to work when I could be at home watching Seinfeld. You checked the dance list and called to recruit more dancers, I continued to drag ass to get ready only wondering which Seinfeld episode I was missing.
“You better hurry up, you’re on main stage next,” you said slightly yanking my ponytail flirtingly.
“Yeah, I heard the DJ,” I replied.
You chuckled, sat next to me and said, “Do I need ask the DJ to cover for you again?”


You are referring to the fact my makeup is not yet fully applied, my hair not curled and my dress and 7 inch stripper shoes are still in the locker I have not yet opened.
“I told you before we left the apartment I didn’t want come,” I said applying the blush again to my already rosy cheeks.


There were a few seconds of silence, you still sitting next to me facing the lockers and me still staring at my disgusting self in the mirror when you said, “I tell you what, if you’re on main stage within five seconds after Ruben (the DJ) calls your name I promise not to kick out any of your customers tonight.”


Now you have my attention….


You had been suspended twice, hospitalized once, suffered a fractured rib and put many of my male customers in the hospital for touching me inappropriately, not to mention interrupting my cash flow. Any other stripper it was three strikes and you were out but me, my customers were thrown own without a fair warning.


“So what do you say,” you asked?


“Deal.” I said, and we shook on it. (Remember this ASSHOLE????)


“Then get your ass on stage,” you said this time flirtingly slapping my ass.


You stood ten feet back from main stage smiling and giving me the thumbs up sign when I entered main stage with a second to spare. The night went smoothly, you did not fuck with my customers as you promised, and thanks to our hand shake I was making money. At 1AM our eyes met. We were both proud of one another. I was on time when I entered the main stage and you hadn’t yet grabbed one of my customer’s balls and kicked them out as you usually did.  I did spot you several times lurking during a few of my lap dances, but you kept your cool and were true to your promise. And your reward for such good behaviour was when I blew you a kiss and you caught it smiling.

Then fifty-two minutes before closing time I approached the table I now regret. I sat in the lap of one of the four Hispanic men who could barely speak English and who gave me a $20 tip on main stage.  It was easy and fast money considering there was a language barrier. I gave the man in the white shirt at the table $320 worth of lap dances, who was drunk and incredibly horny, which explained his inappropriate, touchy behaviour.


I spotted you several times while dancing for him and watched you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to hold your end of the deal and reframe from kicking the asshole out of the club. I gave you the, “I got this, I’m a big girl” glance and you hesitantly backed away.  I gave him five dances and took a break, five more and another break. Then mid way in twelfth dance the man leaned forward and bit my nipple. Remember? There was no time to respond, you had already grabbed my shoulders, pushed me back, twisted the man’s shirt and literally carried him out of the club with the man’s shoes a good ten inches from the floor.


You lost and I won, I thought laughing to myself. You surrendered with only ten minutes until the party was over. I stood at fourth stage by the front door as I covered my breasts with one hand, and held my clothes in the other, standing only in my T-back awaiting for you to come back in to give you shit about losing our bet.


Then I heard the DJ announce bubble gum shots in the parking lot, code word for fight. Three managers run past me and out the front door almost knocking me over. The double doors to the entrance swing open and I briefly see your 6’6, 295 pound body lying on the brick concrete in front of the main entrance.


I run towards you.


I am now standing over your head as I watch a river of your blood stream down the front steps of the club. I kneel beside you still only wearing my T-back. Your white button down shirt revealed one bullet hole, then another, and another. There were too many gunshot wounds to count. I lay my body onto yours in hopes to stop the bleeding; I didn’t even notice our fellow co-workers wrapped a blanket around my bare body. I can now hear the sirens getting nearer. I perform CPR but you’re still not breathing.


 Then I look into your eyes and realized you are dead. Your energetic and enthusiastic spirit we all love was no longer glowing. I scream, I cry, I shake you to come back to me but no response. I feel someone or something pulling me away but I fight, I cling onto you with all my might hoping you will come back to me. But you don’t. You continued to lay there lifeless as I was covered in your blood.


After five hours of sobbing, watching paramedics cover you with a black blanket and being interviewed by the police, I get in your 76 Ford Mustang you named ‘Suzie’, your baby you would never let me drive, despite how many times I pleaded. The same car you drove us to work in that day and were supposed to drive us home in. An investigator was worried about me driving due to my devastation of your death and followed me back to ‘our’ but now ’my’ apartment.


My head is pounding from crying but I don’t care and with the little energy I had left I walked up the stairs to the second floor of our apartment, the same steps we walked down together 15 hours earlier. I hold your keys, the same key you locked our apartment with when we left, and the key you were suppose to use when we got home. Our front door swings open. I want to plop on the couch and you massage my feet like you do every night after we get home from work, but you’re not here. The shoes I asked you to take to your room before we left are still firmly planted on the living room floor. You said you would put them up when we got home but you can’t, you’re no longer here. I go throughout the apartment and turn over every picture of ‘us,’ I even threw our 1st place mud race trophy through the glass patio door. I enter your room and can still smell the cologne you sprayed on before we left. I collapse on your bed as I often did when you held me as I cried about a guy or failed a test.


For the next two days my tears soaked your pillow.


I am so FUCKING mad. I don’t know who to be angrier at, you or your killer!!! Why didn’t you fucking listen to me??? I didn’t want to go to work that day!! I’m a big girl, I can ward off evil and perverted men, and you don’t always have to protect me!!! If you hadn’t drug me to work that day and or stuck to our deal you would be laying beside me right now.


I HATE YOU!!! I cry harder.


“Yes, I do need to protect you. You’re my best friend,” you would say with a smile.


I didn’t go to your viewing. I didn’t think I could hold it together. I arrived 15 minutes late to your funeral. It was standing room only. I spotted your mother sitting at the first pew of the church and squeezed beside her. Tears rolling down both our cheeks, she took my hand into hers and we shared the, “I miss, and love him” look. That was the last thing I remember at your funeral. I blacked out. Our friends say I tried to jump in the coffin with you, shook you, begging for you to wake up, but I don’t remember any of that.


Apparently I didn’t snap back to reality until I was standing amongst your friends and family at the gravesite. You were being lowered into the ground, with thousands of red roses that had been gently laid on top of you by each and every one of us when we got the call….. The man who shot and murdered you was caught and now behind bars. But still justice has not yet been served.


May the man who killed you rot in hell and you rest in peace. In less than a year I will be sitting front row for the best movie I will ever watch. When the poison is injected into your murderer, and I watch his life being taken away as he took away yours. That is the day justice will be served and I will smile again.


After the funeral your mother gave me your daily journal that I never knew you had. She said she felt bad because she thought she was invading your privacy. She continued to say it would be in my best interest to read it that is when I was ready.


A year after you died I got a bottle of wine, poured a glass and opened your journal I had safely tucked away waiting for this moment. I read how much fun you had during our trip to Florida and how you planned my surprise birthday party. All your entries made me laugh, cry or both.


Then I read what you wrote two days before you died.

The day after you were murdered you had a special evening for the two of us. We were to have a romantic dinner at the restaurant, “The Craft” and stay in a penthouse suite at the Crescent Hotel in downtown Dallas.


I continue to read….I cry if not harder than the day you died.


I close your journal weeping about what I had just read. I couldn’t believe it. You were my best friend and nothing more….


My answer is yes, I will marry you! I only wish I could tell you in person.


I love you and always will.
Tyler Long April 12, 1981-May 1, 2002

On 13 August 2012 22:08, Priscilla Hayes <> wrote: