Sex and Laughter: Hindsight

Recently I asked Chris how he was so much smarter than me (again, slow on the role genetics plays in one's life). It seems I always pose the question that is the exception to the "there are no stupid questions" rule. He paused, pondered and very diplomatically replied, "You know, I wonder some of the same things you do, I just give myself time to figure it out before I speak."

After a good laugh, I realized that the number of times I have acted or spoken before pausing to figure things out is staggering. Something pops into my mind and without taking time to fully process it, I expose my lack of forethought.

My most humiliating example is the time I asked a woman when her baby was due. You must know where this is going. Imagine my mortification when she replied that she wasn't pregnant. She was amazingly classy and did everything she could to ease my obvious discomfort, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be swallowed whole by some spontaneously produced chasm in the Earth. Since that regretful day, I no longer assume any woman is pregnant, even after she has told me to my face that she is expecting a baby. I'd just rather not go down that embarrassing road again.

Other times, what I say isn't all that humiliating, it's just unexpected and maybe a little odd. It is absolutely not out of the ordinary for me to tell the cashier at the grocery store that she has beautiful eyes or the teller at the bank that her complexion is flawless. A few weeks ago, a friend and I were power walking through her neighborhood and a very attractive, older woman ran past us. Her silver hair was stylishly cut in a bob, her legs were fit, and she looked amazing in her running shorts and shirt. Without even hesitating, I turned and called to her, "You are stunning!". Her pace faltered a bit and she cocked her head as if she didn't hear me, but then got an incredulous look on her face and said "Thank you!". I have no filter, I suppose, for better or worse.

Sometimes though, it isn't even my words that get me into sticky situations, but rather, my actions. One day, after a hard workout, I settled into the tub and realized that my butt was stinging. I jumped out and stood on the rim of the tub, water dripping everywhere, to get a better view of my rear in the mirror. As I twisted myself like a carnival contortionist, I discovered I had a "spot" on one side of the top of my butt crack. Quizzically, I wondered what it was and how I might have gotten it. I truly was clueless.

Because I have a history of weird skin reactions and rashes, as well as three, oftentimes grungy boys in my home, I promptly called my dermatologist and wanted to make an appointment for her to check it out. Typically, she wasn't in the office that week, but I was able to see a new, male doctor. As I perched on the table with him examining my backside, he said that he really had no idea what it was, but that it wasn't ringworm,impetigo,staph or any other sort of disgusting skin disease. I felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment flush through me. I thanked him sheepishly and quickly hightailed my tail out of there.

Two days later, after another grueling workout, I settled into my bath and my bottom stung again! I hopped out and awkwardly examined things only to find another spot on the other side of my butt crack! I was indignant and angry that the doctor had misdiagnosed the condition, as whatever it was had obviously spread. Sporting symmetrical "spots" on my ass, I revisited the office, this time seeing my regular doctor. As she examined and considered all options, she finally said, "Macy, I really don't think this is anything. Honestly, it looks like a friction burn to me. Have you done anything to cause friction?". In that instant, I knew immediately what had happened.

My two previous workouts had involved an ass load of sit ups involving a heavy medicine ball. Truly, I'd done over one hundred sit ups at those workouts and in doing so, had rubbed friction burns on my bottom!

As I handed over my credit card to cover my co pay for the second time that week, I realized that I should have thought things through a bit longer before rushing to the doctor in a frenzied panic. I also realized that the doctors in that office were going to have a great laugh at my expense. I could hear their conversations in my head, "She said it was sit ups" and then bouts of hysterical, bowled over laughter with much eye rolling. In hindsight, I should have stopped and considered all plausible scenarios. I should have remembered the massive amounts of sit ups, should have taken my anatomically flat ass into account. But no, that would require, um, well...too much thought.

Chris is right. It's wise to take time to assess a situation before speaking or acting. And I will do my best to master those important life skills. Yet, I'm sure I'm bound to embarrass myself again, either through the spoken word or the unbridled, reactionary ways I display. I'll throw myself out there at the mercy of friends and strangers alike, always good for a laugh. Well, unless of course, I mistake someone for being pregnant. There's nothing funny about that at all.

Sex and Laughter: Daydream Believer

Today I burned myself in the bath tub. I love a nice, steaming bath and as I adjusted the water for a blast of full throttle heat, I didn't realize my foot was perched under the running stream. I jerked it away with the realization I'd been daydreaming.

Incidences like this happen to me all the time. How I made it through school is beyond me. I was the scatterbrain who rushed into class as the tardy bell was ringing, hair askew, toilet tissue stuck to the bottom of her shoe, bumming notebook paper off the boy to the left and a pen off the girl to the right. Breathlessly settling into my seat, it took everything in me not to let my thoughts start wandering, most often to whichever boy was occupying my mind at the time.

Through the years, the written word has been such an ally in these mental dalliances. Whether the source is a book or the lyrics to a particular song I love, it's not unusual for me to use another writer's prose as my jumping off point. Diving into the role of the heroine has always felt so romantic, so warm and fuzzy. I dreamt of being Romeo's Juliet, although in my version we got to live and love a bit longer. Okay, a lot longer. Not as poignantly tragic, but in my daydreams I get to edit the script.

Lately, I read less than I'd like, but music is always there, serving as the backdrop to my daydreams. It can transport me to a moment in time I'd like to relive or an imaginary scene I could only hope to experience. All it takes is one line from a song and I am envisioning a dream that is movie montage worthy. Think carnivals, cotton candy, balloons and hair blowing in the wind. Or sunsets on the beach, waves crashing, linen dresses and sun kissed shoulders. You get the idea.

These tangents can strike at any given time, without warning. I can be completely focused and in the moment and before I know it, I'm propelled into la la land. More than once I've opened the kitchen cupboard only to find something on the shelf that doesn't belong, like the soy milk. With an admonishing shake of my head, I snap back to reality.

One such tangent occurred in New York City a few years ago. After a particularly benign, but supremely amazing experience the night before, one which I kept reliving in my mind, I mistakenly took the train to Brooklyn instead of uptown. Sadly, it took me several stops to realize I was headed the wrong way and consequently was an hour late for a lunch date. This remains a gaffe I can't live down. Anytime I'm with my friend in the city, she laughs about me going to Brooklyn in a haze of doe eyed wonder.

Which brings me to this. Daydreaming is amazing. I don't think I could stop even if I tried. I'm hardwired to let my mind wander. But, in doing so, I have to be careful not to miss the here and now. Savoring the moment is a true gift. Lunch that day with my friend and her cute co worker would have been a lot of fun, warm soy milk always leaves one sour, and a burned foot is never necessary. I shall work hard to remember these things. But, despite it all , I still must bid you sweet dreams.

Sex and Laughter: Girl Power!

Men are super. I am honestly a HUGE (pay attention to the all caps) fan and my girlfriends can attest to the fact that I am not into bashing or trash talking the opposite sex. Well, not that much or that often. Anyway, I've established that having a crush on a man is an inherent part of who I am and I embrace that. It's lovely.

But, while men are great, women are divine. Through the years, I realize, I have had crushes on my same sex sisters as well. Before your imagination gets ahead of me, let me say that my crushes don't involve any hopes or dreams of girl on girl action. Sorry fellas. While I find the female physique to be exquisite, when I find myself crushing on a woman, it's because she possesses qualities that I find becoming, characteristics I wish I could own, or at times, DO own. I want to be her or see part of myself in her.

My first girl crush was Brooke Shields. Seeing her in those Calvin Klein commercials from the early 80's, I found her to be the most beautiful and exotic female I had ever seen. I wanted dark, thick eyebrows, flawless skin, long legs and yes, even size 10 feet to match. My understanding of genetics was sadly and sorely lacking. I knew that oftentimes big feet translated into height, so I wanted big feet to ensure I'd grow tall. What I neglected to realize was the role my parents and their parents played in determining my stature and shoe size. I fell quite short of the mark on all accounts. Even my eyebrows are a sparse comparison. For kicks, I just YouTubed those commercials, and while she was beautiful, they are torture to watch. You have to admit though, she looked amazing in those Calvin's. Bitch.

Real life crushes include a girl a grade above me in elementary school. She wore saddle oxfords and her headgear to school and for reasons I cannot explain, I found that fascinating. Imagine my chagrin when my orthodontist informed me I would not be needing to wear a headgear! How dare he deny me? At least my mom bought me some knock off saddle oxfords. They had to be knock offs because I don't ever recall getting name brand wares. I swear, if we couldn't make it ourselves, it came from some discount source. I'm not sure why those things about that girl stood out to me. Maybe I could sense her confidence as she sported a mouth full of metal and a strap around her head? I can't say for sure. What I can safely say is that my tastes have always leaned towards the eclectic.

Since fourth grade, there have been many, many more girl/woman crushes along the way. I will always love amazing women such as Katharine Hepburn, Audrey Hepburn, and the unparalleled Maya Angelou. They are brilliantly exquisite and my love for them will never falter. Ever.

Other crushes that I seriously question and were more a "flash in the pan" variety include The Spice Girls (on a side note, I could never choose between Ginger or Posh), Kate Pierson from The B 52's, Gwen Stefani AND her abs, Pink, and Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones. Man, that character really hit home.

My latest crush, though, is "Liz Lemon" from the NBC sitcom 30 Rock. As someone who puts her foot in her mouth nearly every time she opens it, I am thrilled to see someone on screen who makes me feel normal. I love that she is average-pretty, smart, and so quirky it makes you feel like your hangs up are minor by comparison. The fact that she loves to eat, embarrasses herself constantly, and stumbles through life makes me adore her even more. More often than not, when I see her on t.v., I feel validated and justified as I blow through life like a tornado. She has a real body, food on her clothes and in her hair and I bet she even forgets to put on deodorant or brush her teeth some days. I love, love, LOVE her.

Recently, I visited my fair maiden of a city, Manhattan, and soaked up the experience. I wore my Aubergine wellies, danced drunk in a park after dark, took stupid "arm pictures" with my best friend, and had the time of my life. Said friend took a picture of me near our hotel sticking my head into an antique lion water fountain and when I showed it to my five year old son (who yes, has seen partial episodes of 30 Rock) paid me the best compliment I've had in ages. As the photo flashed onto my monitor, the first thing he said was, "You look like Lemon". I felt woozy, beamed a stupid grin, and had to have a moment alone with myself. What a great day!

So men, while you truly are where it's "at", you can also "suck it" for a while, so I can get my kicks off with the girls. Just say "blerg!" and hold tight. I'll be back soon.

Sex and Laughter: Grounded Decisions

I'm guilty. I bet you're guilty too. Lately, it seems I've been doing stupid things, even though I know better. What is it about me that makes it so hard for me to learn my lesson? I know I'm smart, but sometimes I genuinely question that line of thinking.

This errant decision making affects all areas of my life, but today I can't quit thinking about me and shoes and the trouble I allow them to create. I love shoes. I am a shoe fanatic, although I'm too cheap and practical to truly indulge my passion.

Last winter, with exciting girls' trips and concerts in mind, I bought the most exquisite pair of black pumps. Even though they were on sale, I spent more than I'd ever spent on shoes. Although it was love at first sight, I didn't buy them on first encounter. I tried them on, walked through the store, stopped, turned, admired the beauty of them. I left telling myself that while they were amazing, I could find black pumps anywhere. Later that day, I found myself talking non stop to my friends and husband about the shoes. I googled them and compared prices elsewhere online. I imagined how sexy I would look in them. Essentially, the shoes consumed me.

The next morning, as soon as the store opened, I drove straight there and bought the shoes. Without one ounce of buyer's remorse, I brought my designer shoes home with a smile on my face and a dent in my pocketbook. I loved the "new shoe" smell, the suppleness of the leather, the line of the stiletto heel.

Even though they'd seemed to be the most comfortable heels I'd ever tried on when I was in the store, I decided I needed to wear them around the house before my trip so I could get used to them. Two passes through the bedroom and I realized these shoes were not any more comfortable than any other pair of heels I had ever owned.

Deep down, I knew they would give me trouble, but, I reasoned, how could something so beautiful be so hard? It baffles me that I could even ask that question after having children, but, I digress.

As I headed out of town, with my beauties packed carefully inside my bursting suitcase, I imagined how wonderful it would be to walk into a room in these heels. One friend called them my "F*ck me" pumps, and while I would never have coined that term myself, I truly couldn't disagree.

The big night arrived and I got dressed and put on the shoes. By the time I left my hotel room and got one block down the street, my feet were screaming in pain. I looked at the time on my cell phone and realized I had another six hours left in these "beautiful and amazing" shoes.

Walking in heels is never an easy feat for me, but imagine my feelings of betrayal as I struggled to move with composure and grace across a crowded room. I suffered through the pre-concert party, hobbled into the venue, found my seat and took the shoes off for a bit of respite.

During the concert, I alternated between heels being on and off. Admittedly, I love the height the shoes add, but the pain was relentless. As the show ended, I calculated the distance we had to walk to get back to our car and said...'forget it!" Off came the shoes and in an instant, I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk feeling trashy and dirty. But, my beaten and bruised bare feet loved me for it. Stepping on glass shards or discarded gum was favorable to having to walk in the heels. The shoes had "f*cked me" alright. I swore, then and there, that I would never wear those shoes again.

Apparently, some promises are made and then forgotten and I found the shoes on my feet again a few weeks ago. Picture wobbly walking, cobblestone streets, a dark, cold, night and no option for going hillbilly. Hailing a cab never seemed a better idea!

A wise friend of mine brilliantly pointed out that my time with those shoes had come and gone and that I needed to say goodbye. I couldn't agree more. I will bid a fond farewell to them very soon. I truly believe I have learned my lesson.

Just yesterday though, I wore flip flops to the rodeo. As we trudged through the livestock barn, walked though the sticky, dirty carnival, and then traipsed through the dirt in the parking lot, I swore I would never wear flip flops to the rodeo again. Right.

Sex and Laughter: No Crying Matter

After a really busy, chaotic day, I feel zapped. I'm fresh out of the bath, wet hair still wrapped in a towel on my head and I just don't think I can move a muscle. For some reason, I carb loaded today and my blood sugar is taking a nosedive. In a nutshell, I feel the melancholy blahs coming on, despite not having a valid reason to make a visit.

When I'm blue, instead of trying to combat it, I perversely like to ride it out for a while. It's almost as if I inherently know that if I don't clear it all out now, the lingering remnants will pull at me until they knock me down only to start the process over again.

Tonight is turning out to be one of those nights and Itunes is an ally for my mission. No matter how many songs you have in your catalog, no matter what genre of music you enjoy, I am positive you have something on your Ipod that is slow, doleful, painfully poignant and beautiful. Maybe hearing it reminds you of a loved one you've lost, the one who got away, even the one you might have wanted but could never have. Maybe the song reminds you of all those dreams you dared to dream, once upon a time, that seem light years from where you are now.

For whatever reason, when I find such a song and I am in this frame of mind, I can listen to it over and over as I work through the cobwebs in my head. The lyrics become my life, as if sprung forth from my mouth, my actions, my thoughts. My heart aches at their clarity and certainty. I feel as if, in that moment, I am the song.

Usually, the song is sappy. I confess, when it comes to music I am not very discerning. At all. I am fully aware that The Beatles have a ton of amazing heart wrenching songs. The Beach Boys have some high caliber gems. John Coltrane and Miles Davis are excellent choices for the 'ride it out' blues. There are many, many talented artists from which to choose. And yet, I can be satisfied with Helen Reddy. Seriously.

Sometimes, I'll cry. I can cry a few silent, solitary tears or I can unleash an unabashed waterfall, after which, I feel better. Tonight won't be one of those nights, mainly because I am not alone and there are far too many distractions. Kids are playing outside and all around, the dog is trotting through and "Must See TV" is on the agenda. My blahs don't seem to be what they were an hour ago.

Yeah, come to think of it, tonight isn't one of those nights at all. The kids are still making noise, the dog counter surfed the leftover Chinese carbs, NBC is coming through with The Office and 30 Rock, and it turns out, I don't even have Helen Reddy in my Itunes catalog. Must've just been my sugar rush wearing off after all.

Sex and Laughter: Crushed

Habits. I have a lot of them. Some good, some bad. Some just are what they are. Falling into that last category is my habit of developing crushes on people.

A unique, or sometimes not so unique, individual can cross my path and a few hours later I find myself thinking about that person. Other times, I will meet someone and not know I have any feelings for them one way or the other until I see them again and I realize I am reacting in a way that would indicate my crush meter has moved to 'high activity'. I can also develop serious crushes on complete strangers after seeing them on t.v., hearing them on the radio or reading about a character in a book.

My first crush was on a boy named Chris and I was seven years old. My cousins dared him to kiss my cheek and after he did, I was smitten. He was scrawny and tan, with brown hair. I wish I could remember more about him, but time has washed those memories to the sea. What I do remember is the inexplicable, but undeniable, butterfly feeling in my stomach. Both pleasure and pain, I loved the sensation it provided. Over the years, little has changed.

Throughout childhood, there was always a boy in my grade school class who was the object of my fascination. Darren, Andy, and a few Jeff's stepped up to occupy those spots, whether they knew it or not. I'm afraid most of the time, they knew it. I didn't limit my crushes to just real people though. I fondly remember having a thing for Lynn Swann of the Pittsburg Steelers and Drew Pearson, who played for the Dallas Cowboys.

When I got older, the crushes seemed to hit more frequently and with an ever greater force. My expanding knowledge of life and love helped set the scene for some pretty nifty daydreaming. Junior high was fraught with more opportunities for unrequited love than I care to divulge. And yet again, despite the despair, I couldn't stop. Didn't even want to stop.

As usual, my crushes seemed to blindside me when least expected. One summer, I made my friends go to the local water park as often as our parents would let us, so I could swim around and generally drool over a lifeguard who wore sunglasses like Simon Le Bon in the "Hungry Like the Wolf" video. Aside from faking a drowning, I tried everything to get him to notice me, but to no avail. It probably had something to do with the swimsuit I was wearing (see previous blog). It should be duly noted here, though, that I was never and have never been a "Simon girl". My most fervent crush of all time has always been John Taylor. Hence the blindsided feeling.

High school brought no relief. My family moved, yet again, and I was greeted with new faces, new people and a plethora of boys who made the butterflies flutter within me. The boy 'du jour' would occupy my every waking moment and multiple pages in my melodramatic journals. I could fill spiral notebook pages full of Mrs. Macy 'insert last name of current crush here' and count down the minutes until the dismissal bell rang so I could time the walk to my next class to ensure I had eye contact with said crush. Again, most were unrequited and my heart continued to take a beating. But stop? No way!

Fast forward to today. Despite being a grown woman, I still find myself crushing on people I encounter. This morning, we had an appointment with my kids' pediatrician, and I must confess, I have a crush on him. This time it has far less to do with how he looks and just about everything to do with how he treats my children. He's knowledgeable and sweet and I find that endearing.

The thing about crushes is that they are often ill timed; like the instance I was mesmerized by my mother's neurosurgeon during a very critical time in her cancer care. They are ill directed; like when you crush on your husband's best friend or your best friend's husband. And they are ill mannered; like when they cause you to willingly embarrass yourself or act like a stammering fool, when in reality you are not. At least not THAT often.

There are many benefits to growing older. Gaining wisdom is one of those perks. Now, at least, when I realize the butterflies are stirring, I know there's no need to practice writing a new name, no need to revisit water parks or doctor's offices, no need to cry crocodile tears into my pillow at night, and no need to do anything more than just enjoy the sensation. Oh, and possibly sport a warming blush that flushes my face when my latest crush waltzes by. It's a habit I'm not willing to give up.

Sex and Laughter: Waxing Poetic

It's fascinating to me what I remember from my childhood. Such odd tidbits and snippets of memories filter through my mind. I always am left wondering how much of what I concoct is genuine versus the patina that the years pile on.

One of my random memories is from when I was roughly four years old. I can see the fluorescent lights of the department store, the racks of swimsuits, and the most amazing bikini I had ever laid eyes on.

This bikini was divine! It was chartreuse with purple and orange circles all over it. The piece de resistance were the purple, plastic "o" rings that met on the sides of the bikini bottoms and in the middle of the halter top. Despite being a preschooler, I innately knew there was something exotic and magical about this swimsuit. I'm sure I wore it all summer long as I slipped and slid my way across our St. Augustine green lawn in the oppressive, Texas heat.

Sadly, though, that was my one and only bikini in life. Okay, in all honesty, I might have worn a bikini once or twice in public since then, but I never, ever purchased another one with such glee and innocence and most importantly, with such confidence.

For reasons that are best left for another blog, I was never really simpatico with bikinis. Year after year, they were the holy grail of the swimsuit season, the elysium that I was never able to achieve.

At some point, I realized that it was ridiculous to pine for something that wasn't meant for me. Life is too short to dream about certain things that have no basis in reality. And with somewhat content resignation, I moved on to the one piece and then the tankini with as much joy as swimsuit season allows.

This year, though, as warm weather creeps into our bright days, I have a renewed joy. While I won't be wearing a bikini at the pool, I will be happily sporting a bikini wax!

I'm not sure why it took me so long to embrace this practice. I tried for years and years to master shaving my bikini zone to perfection. One friend's advice is that you must "soak that shit" to avoid irritation and bumps. I'm here to tell you that I could have been a raisin in the tub and I would still have issues.

Then, finding the right razor is a nightmare. Grocery aisles overflow with various razors such as the Gillette Venus Divine, the Gillette Mach3 Turbo, the Gillette Fusion, and the Gillette Fusion Power. And these are just a sampling of what is to offer. I must have 15 different razors in my medicine cabinet and yet not one was able to work their advertised magic on my bikini zone.

Add in the decision about which shaving cream, lotion or soap to use and it's very easy to want to just opt for the Sasquatch look.

Something compelled me recently to have a bikini (plus a bit) wax and the results were fabulous! While not comfortable, I felt about as awkward and embarrassed as I would trying on bikini swimsuits in a poorly lit, cramped, dressing room with those mirrors that hold you hostage to every cookie you might have ever eaten.

Getting waxed puts you in a compromising position, but for most of us, so does dropping that swimsuit cover up and making those first tentative steps to the edge of the pool before we can slip in and hide under the water.

For those of us who have given birth, it's actually a walk in the park. A well groomed and manicured park at that.

Without sounding any wackier than I actually am, I must confess that I love my newly waxed bikini zone. Being waxed makes me feel sexy, smooth, and sublimely female.

I am confident that there is not a single bikini in the world that could make me feel so great. Not even a chartreuse, purple and orange one with "o" rings on the bottoms and the halter top.

Sex and Laughter: Surprises!

I love being surprised! The pleasant unexpected is divine. When I have a particular mindset about something or find myself in a quagmire of opinion and thought, there is nothing better than being shocked by the unforeseen.

Lately, I find myself being surprised and aroused by the strangest of things. Most often, I let slip a mild gasp and widen my eyes at the interest that is piqued.

For instance, for the past few days, the muscles in my husband's back have been taking up space in my imagination. I caught a glimpse of him as he was dressing for work, as I laid cozy in bed, and my reaction was intense. The way they curved, sculpted, shifted in accordance to his every move was heavenly. I was mesmerized. All day I found myself wanting to text him a message telling him I missed him. Yes, him. And his back.

Another bizarre attraction lately is scruff and facial hair on men. Historically, I have adored baby faced lads who exuded innocence but perhaps, one would hope, a glimmer of mischief. Think Matt Damon or Chris O'Donnell. You know the type. Yet these goateed men who cross my path have got me thinking very naughty things about whiskers and tender skin and raw emotions and breathlessness. Think Robert Downey Jr. Scandalous!

My other obsession, one which I'd never truly considered, are hands. A man's strong hand, with some callouses on the palm or a stray cuticle, weathered and dry from winter's rage, is so attractive to me. Particularly, I love short, square nails, life lines, love lines, and a firm grasp. Powerful hands equate powerful pleasure to me.

Speaking of hands, my heart will stop, my knees will melt and my mind races when I am led into the room with a hand placed in the small of my back or on my hips. I have never been ultra feminine, but I love that feeling of being protected by someone stronger and bigger. I will swoon on the spot.

These are just but a few of the random things that catch me off guard at a moment's notice and take my mind to places unexpected but exciting. All of these new found attractions are both surprising and arousing to me and with the mundane nature of life, I say bring them on!

Sex and Laughter: Girl's Night Out

There is a ritual in which I regularly partake. No, this one is not religious, but I do hold it in sacred esteem. The ceremony is known as Girl's Night Out. While not strict about the schedule, meeting regularly with girlfriends is something that I make a concerted effort to do. Sometimes it involves myself and one other special friend, other times there might be as many as ten women present.

Girl's Night Out for me and my crew almost often involves meeting at a restaurant for appetizers and drinks. We devour wares such as quesadillas, pizza margherita, drinks, and even more drinks. We share our daily woes, dreams and wishes, and we laugh. Oh, we laugh a lot.

Another thing we do during GNO is talk about sex. As a matter of fact, we talk about sex about as much as we laugh, if not more.

There are probably a billion studies on the number of times a man thinks about sex in one day, as well as a woman. I'm not particularly interested in Googling that information.

What I can tell you is this; my girlfriends and I are incredibly sexual beings. I am not really sure when that realization edged it's way into my psyche. Nevertheless, I am thankful for my group of soul mates who pour forth their thoughts and experiences as freely as the Merlot that fills our glasses.

As the hours speed by, we lean our tilted heads in closer and enjoy the stories that are shared. Maybe someone has a question about how often another is having sex, maybe we want to discuss the finer points of a certain position, maybe we just want to share a particularly hot dream we had. It matters not the particular topic. What matters is that we always find a kindred spirit who understands what we've just told and if not, then one who desperately seeks that level of understanding.

My particular circle of friends is open, frank and uninhibited, at least during GNO. I never drive home from a girl's night out disappointed or dismayed. I always leave with some kernel of validation and an even greater spark of curiosity.

In my experience, I have found that the more I talk about sex, the more comfortable I am with the subject. Being more comfortable, for me, translates into better, and more fulfilling sex. I have my girlfriends to thank for this.

So guys, embrace the notion of Girl's Night Out. Know that when your woman leaves to spend "quality time" with her friends, in the end, you stand a very great chance of benefiting from it.

I had a fabulous GNO last week and am already jonesing for another one. Girls, you know who you are. I need you and want you in my life; and my husband thanks you profusely for your presence in it as well.

Sex and Laughter: Save The Arts

While luxuriating in the bathtub today, a compelling thought crossed my mind. People spend much energy, time, and money working to keep the arts in their just places in society. All very necessary, noble and nice. Yet, there is another art that seems to be falling by the wayside. An art that is oft overlooked and seemingly forgotten. That, my friends, is the art of kissing.

In our rush, rush, hurry, harried lives, we fast forward to the end result so we can move on to the next thing. And in doing so, we blur past the small, but delicious, treats along the way.

Kissing, to me, is one of those things.

There is nothing quite like a first kiss with someone. If you're lucky, you have had to wait a while for said kiss. The chance to study the desired lips has presented itself and your imagination gets to take the driver's seat. The fullness and curve of the lips is etched into your mind. You can feel the softness, imagine the taste.

When the opportunity arises, while at first hesitant, you move in to taste the delectable treat. As your eyes close, lips meet, a surge of electricity courses through you. Now that the journey has begun, you become a full fledged explorer. Your tongue darts and dips inside to find their flesh. Your teeth nibble the fullness of their lower lip, maybe biting a bit too hard or lingering a tad too long.

Your fingers curl through the hair at the nape of their neck and you pull them closer to you. With lips still locked, you breathe in the scent of their being and as you exhale, you melt into them.

Slowly, you pull away and breathlessly look into their eyes. A slight smile curls your lips and you cup their face in your hands. You nibble your lip and pull them closer for more.

First kisses are delightful, but so are second, third, and forever kisses. The feeling of just stopping in an unexpected moment and drawing the one you love in for a kiss is divine. Scruff sore cheeks and swollen lips leave me heady with intoxication. As the kiss ends, you ground yourself to get your bearings and marvel at the beauty of something so simple.

There are many worthwhile causes in this life worth fighting for. I plan to start small and work to bring back the art of kissing.