Maldicion!

Is a Spanish cuss word. Sometimes it stands in for "fuck" other times for "dammit." I think it mean the latter.

Anyway, my darling readers, I know, I have been VAR VAR busy, but you know I am on a forced vacay but an evil dictator who won't pay me any benefits of any kind. My professional life is a fight to the finish and I am weary.

Should I enlist the help of an ambulance chaser on a sexual harassment lawsuit for something that happened six years ago? (How long did Anita Hill wait?-And you know what? I totally believed her. That Clarence Thomas is/was/and will always be a pig.) Should I? Is it believable? That a woman would harass another woman? Jealous of my youthful looks and fine body was it fair that I be discarded? Was it fair? No. It was not. But then, some might ask: was it fair my opponent have an ass like an elephant's? I say: we make our own asses!

But you are not here to hear me babble, you're here for your fix.

So let's do it.

Let's get it on, Hilda-style.

I know that some of you wonder: does this stuff REALLY happen?

(in a nutshell: none of your FUCKING business)-what do you think the point of fiction is ANYWAY?!

The mint whoopie pie. I have not yet confessed. I ate it, not once, but twice. And both times I saved the dreadful chocolate frosting for later, licking it all out of the plastic box, using my fingers and the tiny fork they provide.

And then there was Brian, yes, I know you know about him. And you probably wonder how the Captain feels about it. Well, they don't exist on the same plane so it isn't a problem. So shut the fuck up!

Now, for an entirely new plane, or shall I say train(?)of thought.

It was a Tuesday, just a plain ordinary Tuesday, but I had nothing to do, so I wrote to R and asked him point blank about his cute friend K (we had all met at a mutual friend's house). But of course, I liked R as well, so the negotiations would be tricky, at best.

He wrote back that K had been pining over me for the longest time and that I really should give him a little something something.

It turned out that R was free for coffee, so we met up and I was astonished at how much he resembled the Captain.

"Hello," he said. "You look beautiful. Different, I mean, your hair is different."

"Nice save," I smiled. "I curled it this time."

"Well, it looks amazing. Turn around."

So I did.

"Cute. Now have a seat. I got you a rooiboos, no cream, no sugar."

"You know what I like."

"Well, K, for one thing."

"Yes," I said, lighting a cigarette, "K." I put it in my mouth and sucked meaningfully.

"Oh to be that cigarette," R plucked it out of my mouth and took a drag. "that's enough." He put it out and popped a breath mint into my mouth and his.

"Ah, Binaca (TM)!" I said.

"Very funny."

I got up and pranced in a circle and then sat down and primly took a sip of tea. "Delicious!"

"Finish. I want to take you somewhere."

"Uh, all right." I sucked my tea down and we were off! Or as I like to say: promulous!

We walked a few blocks until we came to a parking lot. He drove a red Corvette(TM) and when I saw it, I laughed. "I have a friend who has one of those. He's a Marine too."

"Small world," he opened the car door and helped me in.

"Where are we going?"

"To a small hotel, that we know so well, we're going to hell.."

"Are you drunk?"

"Drunk on life, Hilda. Drunk on you."

"Funny boy!"

He took me to a Hilton. The one up on Aero drive, off Kearny Villa Road. I think it's a Hilton. It's posh.

Inside the hotel there was a bar. The walls were a warm shade of wood and all the tables and chair matched the walls. One would imagine that would be tacky, but somehow, those Hiltonites managed to pull it off.

"Would you like a drink?" He helped me into a chair.

"That would be splendid."

"What would you like?"

"I'll let you order for me. See if you really know me."

"All right."

When the waiter appeared, R ordered me a dirty martini.

"Dirty martini for a dirty girl," I said.

"I got one too, you know."

"Right. Dirty boy." I gazed suggestively at him. Tilting my head, I said to him, "Did you get a room?"

He laughed nervously.

"Did you?"

"I did. What are you going to do about it?"

"Hmm. Well, I probably," I was interrupted by the arrival of the martinis, took a sip, "ah, that's the stuff. Now, I'm going to eat the olive." I took it out and felt the sour vinegar taste upon my tongue and the hardness of the olive against my lips. I bit. Salty ecstasy. "Mmm. Can have yours?"

"No!" He grinned and quickly ate his olive. Then laughed. "We can order more, you know."

"Lo so. Lo se."

We drank.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really," I said.

"Well, I am!" R flagged the waiter down and ordered a steak.

I watched him eat, occasionally taking small bites off his plate.

"You know you can have your own, you know."

"I know. I just want a few bites, that's all."

When the check came, I was marvelously drunk because after the dirty martini, he had ordered me a mai tai. It was full of fruity pineapply fun.

"Listos?"

"Si."

We got up. He held my hand and then put his arm around me. We went into an elevator and up.

"I LIKE it!" I exclaimed.

"Then you'll love this," he said, kissing me perfectly.

He took me down the hall and unlocked a room. Inside there were two beds.

"Wow, one for me and one for you," I said.

"Very funny," he scooped me up and carried me in and placed me gently on the bed. "I am now going to take your clothes off, Miss Stinson, so speak now, or forever hold your peace."

He removed them and then admired my new bra and panty set. "Pretty."

"I thought you'd like it."

"I do. But of course, you know, it has to come off."

"Of course," I lay back and allowed this.

He kissed me and said, "And now, no more talking."

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

That Supermarket Smell..

that we know so well.

Oh. Hell.

This is what happened. I was walking down the baked goods isle. There was a beautiful non-specific smell of baked goods. It was heaven. And the the smell of bread. Oh. Bread.

And then? There was this awful unwashed bum smell. And it pervaded the entire store.

I left, then came back, hoping it would dissipate but no. There it was. This awful awful smell.

So I checked out quickly and left, vowing to move to Rancho Bernardo (where there ARE no bums!)

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Vegan Lunch

Broccoli, perfectly cooked in my waterless pan. It had a nice crunch to it. And a Masala (TM) burger. Which is really mostly potato. And two glasses of almond milk with stevia in it.

Delicious.

Like what happened this morning after I got out of the shower.

Brian Kinney, gay man, extraordinare was in my bed. He wore a towel and a mischievous grin.

Underneath the towel? His giant cock, fully erect and ready for business.

"Aren't you supposed to be gay?"

He shrugged. "You're the one who turned me on to the Sleeping Beauty series. There is no more gay. No more straight," he looked into my eyes, "just sex." He took my hand. "Come with me,"

he said.

We stepped through a door and voila! We were in his loft. "Wow. How'd you do that?"

"In fantasy, everything and anything is possible." He took off my towel and steered me toward the bed.

I got up on the bed and lay on my stomach. His hands gently massaged my back and then his mouth caressed my bottom and he opened my legs. "Up," he said.

I got up on my elbows, bottom in the air. His hand grazed between my legs. "You're so wet," he said and licked me from behind. "Mmm." He then turned me over and licked me again and again, until I could take it no longer.

"Brian."

"Yeah."

"I want to fuck you."

"Not yet," he said, "you need to come one more time-and then, THEN maybe."

"All right."

And so it was. And then, after he'd fucked me, he came all over my stomach and then he licked it off.

"Do you like that?"

"Oh I do."

He was hard again. "May I?" I took him in my mouth and began sucking.

"You're pretty good at that, for a woman."

"Oh, you funny boy! No more gay or straight!"

"Right."

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Wen(TM) and Pickle Flavored Toothpaste

For those of you unfamiliar with the infomercial, let me assure you, you are probably not missing out. Of course, I am entirely too conscientious of my low economic status to actually buy Wen(TM) itself, so I bought a generic version.

Now to be sure, generic versions are not necessarily the same thing, or even as good as. But the man at Sally Beauty (TM) told me that women are "saving a lot of money buying this instead of Wen(TM). You just have to get used to the low lather." I took this to mean that it was just as good.

All right. You also have to use a LOT of product. It's time consuming to use. Well, maybe not if you have short fine baby hair. My hair is long-and stong (and 'read to get it ON!-sorry, couldn't resist a song riff, not sure where that's from. "Big Butts"? I think?)-there's a LOT of it. And this Wen(TM) knockoff made it kind of dry and full of body. Which is the last thing somebody like me needs. Who knows? Maybe the real thing is fabulous. I don't know. Probably not. I'm accustomed to hair products not working for me.

What I've noticed is that the sulfate free Loreals work for me. They do. I mean, you know, as if there was really anything all that good for MY hair, torn between Caucasian and Negroid, an incomplete dominance, making it very difficult to work with. But once it's worked: it is STUNNINGLY gorgeous. But the key word here is work.

In other product news: pickle flavored toothpaste. You're probably wondering, who in their right mind would ever BUY something like that?! Well, I didn't buy it. My dentist gave it to me. He is always giving me toothpaste samples, as if I am some degenerate that doesn't believe in toothpaste and is unable of buying it for myself.

If you know what I know about fluoride, or fluorine (which is the true chemical name for it)- you will know that dentists have been recommending it for years. And now? They are too embarrassed to stop. Go ahead and read up on it. It's a by-product of the aluminum industry, which has been linked to Alzheimer's, not that fluoride gives you Alzheimer's. Just that when they make aluminum, they have so much fluoride left they have to DO something with it. There's a lot of stuff on the internet about it. I encourage you to give it a Google.

I have always contended that cosmetic companies are putting toxic waste into their products. This is why cancer is so prevalent. So toothpaste, makeup, shampoo-all kinds of things. Full of toxic waste. As a consumer it's hard to get away from it. Like I said before, the Loreals are great on my hair. But of course, they probably have something bad in them, but what can I do?

I suppose I SHOULD be using John Master's Organics. But I just can't afford shampoo that is 20 dollars a bottle. Although, I suppose if I ever get a real job, I COULD. But then, I don't even know if it will work on my hair.

On the toothpaste. I bet you're dying to know what kind it is. All right. It's Sensodyne.

Dreadful!

I remain, bleeding out,

Hilda Stinson

Things to NEVER talk about: My Time-DO NOT READ!

For those of you who are squeamish. It's time for you to vete. Out. Go on, go. It's about to get hard core.

It began yesterday morning and disappointed me AND my cousin Danny-and god only knows when she will have time off again, but I could NOT traipse around Disneyland in this condition.

I know that the tampon commercials tell us that we can "do ANYTHING!" It's just such a big fat ugly lie. You know what I do? I lie in bed all day. That's what I do.

Underneath me, I place a beach towel. Because tampons and pads? It doesn't matter, something ALWAYS gets all OVER my panties. Blood all over the place. Blood on the towel, on the sheets. As long as it doesn't get on the BED (because I have an expensive bed, whose safety is compromised by the cheap mattress cover which split in the washing machine one day. We've talked about the washing machine before. How it destroys sheets and coverlets. The holes.)

The very best tampons? I couldn't tell you. I just hate them. Uncomfortable. And then there's the dangling string: you have to think about how maybe it dangles in the toilet water when you go to the bathroom. Which is unacceptable.

There is also a diaphragm-like device that is supposed to hold the flow. It doesn't. But in its defense, they make it for everyone. And I suppose they figure most women have had children. Why don't they make it in sizes? They should. Real diaphragms come in sizes.

As for pads? So far, the best ones are the Always Infinity (TM). Not that there are never leaks or times when the blood goes off the pad. But it's comfortable and absorbs a lot. I always get the overnight ones even for use during the day. They're not bulky or anything. Although, sometimes I worry that because they are so thin that they won't work.

As for food? You thought I was never going to get there, didn't you? All right. I can eat anything I want. That's right. Nothing sticks to me during my time because my metabolism has speeded up quite a bit. Because I did not leave the house, I did not have access to bad goodies. The worst thing I did was eat three quarters of a chocolate bar (this was over the course of the day). Although I did fantasize about eating McDonald's (TM) french fries. Perhaps if and when I leave the house today!

Painfully yours,

Hilda Stinson

Monday Blues

I am not gainfully employed at this very moment, unless you consider this blog employment. Well, to be fair, it is an endeavor, but it is not yielding me any cash.

Yesterday I went to the movies and then window shopped. I don't have the money to buy things. Food. Okay. And movies are cheap if you go before noon, so I have no compunction about going to the movies. Historically, it's what the unemployed have always done: go to the movies.

I was going to go and visit my cousin and go to Disney (I have free Disney money), but unfortunately, my period showed up around five-ish the morning, making all travel, leaving the house, the comfort of my bed and moving around not a good idea. And later, I know when I go back in and re-read this: there will be errors that I will miss because I am truly indisposed. A slave to my body.

But to get back to yesterday: readers, I have some truly juicy things to impart. First, I saw an incredibly cute bra and panty set at Intimacy for 55 dollars. It would have been PERFECT for Pride. But, of course, like I said, we will not be buying anything that isn't food or for personal hygiene. Truly I don't "need" this bra and panty set. But it was SO cute. It was bright blue with India Indian accents. Probably the sort of thing I would consider getting a spray on tan for.

Second: I had a date. Well, to be completely fair, two dates, but one was Mr. E (who says he isn't attracted to me), so I don't suppose it really counted. But maybe it did because he did get me lunch and a child's pak for the movies. But I did get the tickets. Mainly because I was afraid that the movie might sell out.

Third: The second date rocked my world, so to speak.

But, to be completely fair, it is my sound and profound belief that he would be truly horrified if I wrote about him. On the other hand, I know with an abject certainty that he would never read my blog. He was so completely and utterly unlikable that I was astonished with myself for trucking with him, but the fact was: there was an undeniable attraction and he liked ME so much. So I allowed it. It was very strange, he was likable at one point, but it seemed that whatever I had to say offended him. He was offended by my baudy book club, he was offended whenever I spoke of anyone other than himself. He wore a frown whenever I dared mention some other man. I felt as if I had to censor myself. It was dreadful. A complete opposite from a date I had the previous Wednesday with a man that I found TRULY delightful. Which is not to say that I believe THAT will go anywhere either, but at least, I don't despise Mr. Wednesday. At least I know I enjoy HIS company. And that is something.

Cap is telling me now that I should rest.

So I shall.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

I Am NOT A Chicken!!!!

The invite said, "Bring doggie goodies."

It was a baby shower for my friend Agnes' new dog baby, Brutus. It had been about a year since she had first gotten him from the breeder and she felt that it was now time to introduce him into society.

Mal had flown me in especially for the party. "Now you have a good time, darlin'," he kissed me.

"I will. Are you sure you can't come with?"

"I really need to go, my crew needs me."

"Well, all right. I shall bring back some of Agnes' cookies."

"I surely do am looking forward," he said.

And then he kissed me and handed me the present we'd picked out together for the new dog baby. "Chocolate" chip doggie biscuits that had been lovingly placed into a fancy doggie dish and covered with cellophane. "Safe trip," I told him.

And he was off. I found my way to the gate.

When she answered the door, Agnes, seemed a bit agitated. "Ah, hello," she said. "Give me a mo'. " She pushed what seemed to be a rather large object to the side and said to it, "DOWN, boy." Turning to me, she opened the door and said, "Do come in. BRUTUS! LIE DOWN. So sorry," she took the cellophane covered dog dish. "Oh this IS lovely. Thank you, so much. BRUTUS!"

The dog was upon me. His large paws pulled the front of my tank top down and his tongue rolled and licked my face.

"I am NOT a chicken!" I roared at the dog.

He then tried to fit his mouth around my wrist as if to say, "What nonsense! Of course you are!"

Agnes removed his mouth and wrestled him to the ground. "BRUTUS! DOWN! I am so terribly sorry, Hilda. Please DO have a seat."

Brutus was pushed away and led into the kitchen by his collar while I sat on the couch, which was, unfortunately, covered with dog hair.

"There, I'm terribly sorry," Agnes emerged from the kitchen carrying a pot of tea and a plateful of cookies.

"Um, am I the first to arrive?"

Agnes sighed. "Actually no. To be completely honest with you, this was a terrible idea. Brutus is just not ready."

"Ah, so others have come and gone?"

"I'm afraid so. But I have locked him away in the kitchen so that we can

have our tea. You do still want to stay for tea?"

"Oh yes, darling, of course, you always make a stunning tea."

And it was. The cookies were an assortment of homemade chocolate mint cookies, peanut butter chocolate chip and plain sugar. Fortunately Agnes had made them all in miniature so that I could afford to try each kind.

The chocolate mint cookie , melted in my mouth, the dark chocolate blending superbly with the mint. I took a sip of green tea. And then I reached for the peanut butter chocolate chip. It had just the right salty/sweet peanut taste, expertly blended with the chocolate chips and crunched perfectly. Last, the sugar cookies were tender and moist with large visible sugar crystals on the top which felt a bit rough on the roof of my mouth. Nevertheless, I found that each cookie was wonderful in its own way.

"These cookies are simply divine," I told her.

"Yes, it has been awhile since I've had occasion to bake. My son Estaban is home from Harvard and he does adore my cookies."

"I don't believe I've met Estaban," I said.

"Well," she chuckled, "he's a bit worse than the dog. I find that I cannot introduce him to my friends, particularly the more attractive ones because he always tries to seduce them," she paused. "Actually, to be completely honest, it's more like he tries to molest them."

"Molest them? Now that's a bit odd."

"It is. It happens at parties mostly. They get a bit drunk and he leads them off to his room-removes their clothes-and then satisfies himself and when they protest that he hasn't done anything for them, he simply shrugs, puts forth a half hearted effort and then leaves the scene. Dreadful boy."

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

"Well, you know, being his mother it's hardly my place. But you'd think that one of my friends would, you know, take him in hand so to speak and help him to learn. Apparently he's dreadful. You wouldn't be interested?"

"Oh my dear no! To have to teach a young boy. I can't imagine anything more tedious."

"Neither can I."

She paused, "How is Mal doing?"

"He's fine. He's on ship right now, off killing dragons and whatnot."

"He's so SEXY. You are so lucky to have him."

"Indeed. If only HE could teach Estaban. Of course, he wouldn't. He just doesn't DO college boy. Or any boy at all you know. He's not "sly" that's for sure. The young ones are dreadful though, so persistent."

"I know. I'm constantly fighting off Estaban's friends. Dreadful little pervs."

"I heartily agree!"

We sipped our tea in silence for a moment. A loud whining noise was coming from the kitchen.

"Oh dear, I'm afraid I must check on Brutus, please excuse me," Agnes got up and opened the door to the kitchen, at which point, Brutus came bounding out, his tongue out and on his face was a huge doggie smile.

"Hello, there, boy," I said.

Brutus came over to me, hopped up on my lap and proceeded again, to mistake me for a chicken.

"I am NOT a CHICKEN!!!!!"

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

White Knight

When I met him, I was astonished as to how beautiful he was. His hair was a brilliant white and his eyes were two smoky blue orbs of shifting shades of blue and green. But the kicker was his skin: darlings, he was WHITER than yours truly. I kid you not. My marmoreal epidermis had been eclipsed so that I appeared nearly brown next to him.

"You're so beautiful," I said.

"Aw, shucks," he said, "you're the one bringing the beauty."

And so it was. Over sandwiches I learned that he had climbed his way up from the trailer park to a high rise, a CEO of a small, but VERY successful company. I was enamored.

We went to Bloomingdale's where I helped him pick out shirts and ties. He admired my taste, and then purchased me a new briefcase.

"You can't just go to work with just an old tote bag," he said.

"All right," I said. "Thank you."

Next he took me to yoga. Which was nice but of course, there were a few things that bothered me. Mainly the religious flava of it all.

Later when I got home I wrote a poem.

Here it is:

White Knight

Puppyish kisses

You are codeine, licking me

away from despair.

A brief release from

My own reality, black

formless, hope devoid.

Effortlessly you

Lift me out of my closet

Into a new space.

It isn't real this

religion you suck into

your pores. It isn't.

Feels good, doesn't it?

This fluff peddled to you for

enlightenment. Peace.

Emotionally

unavailable? Really? You

whose heart is "open"?!

Open for business

The business of the world is

survival-that's all.

Breathing next to you

I am in another world.

One you will not know.

Okay that was the good poem. This one isn't so good, but maybe you'll like it anyway:

The 19th Floor

Soulmate

who lives

in the sky.

Exotic & white

my skin

compares golden

besarme embolden

structurally slight

but very strong

engineered

rightly

daily or

nightly

flow

& ebb

stop & go

yes or no

and oh

yeah:

spoon.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Lusting in Your Heart

A few days ago, I attempted a column on this very topic, whilst visiting un novio and using his computer. It was lost. This will be better. Lo prometo.

The latest research has indicated that we will eat less of a bad food if we ponder upon and lust in our hearts for it before we consume it. So let me begin by saying: I have got some lust to get off my chest today.

First, I want to thank the bakery at the Hillcrest Ralph's. The ladies behind the counter have been nothing short of saintly. Yesterday when I was there the nice lady behind the counter offered me a cookie. It was a white chocolate chip cookie-and while it looked very nice, it was not why I was there. You know why I was there: tiny chocolate cupcakes with HUGE mint frosting heads. Alas, they were conspicuously absent. When I mentioned that those were the only cupcakes I wanted, the nice bakery lady pointed out the mint filled whoopie pies, presumably filled with the very SAME mint frosting.

Coldly I glared at the plastic box containing the whoopie pie. It was a large box. The kind that a croissant sandwich would fit into. The pie filled the entire box. I dared not. I feared the damage would be too great, so I left sans bakery goody.

Later, in bed, I remembered something a fan had written. He said, "I haven't had sex with food for a long time." Well. Something must have chambered the lock of inhibition in my mind because I found myself fantasizing about this whoopie pie.

I imagined I would take it out of the plastic box and put it on the bed (something I would never EVER really do because of the mess it would make) and then, naked, freshly washed, I would get on top of this whoopie pie and press my pudenda into it. Next, I would remove the top and then just get all that mint frosting all over my nether region, in short, I would hump this pie.

Now this is an odd fantasy for me, being that I usually dream of EATING the confection in question. But I suppose at this point, the Captain would have to show up, absolutely starkers and hold me from behind and stroke the mint frosting into my body. And then, he would turn me over and ingest all of those bad calories until I was clean. The Captain DOES know how to show a girl a good time.

I remain, covered in metaphorical mint frosting for you, my darling fans,

Hilda Stinson

The Frozen Tundra of San Diego

Because the weather girls on channel six (which is a Fox channel, btw) have predicted a heat wave, it is NOW absurdly cold. It is June, my dear readers-and as I sit here at my computer in my jammy bottoms and topless, I am frozen solid. I shall have to put on a jammy TOP.

"Unacceptable!" I can just hear you all chorus. Well, yes. BRB.

All right. Now I am wearing a jammy top. And I'm still cold, so this column will be short. Then back to bed.

Last night at my book club, Mr. E made these incredible spring rolls. The chewy rice wrapper contrasted nicely with the mint, cucumber and tofu ingredients. YUM. And of course there was sweet peanut sauce for dipping! Next there was a pad thai, which was complete with noodles, deep fat friend tofu (which I LOOOVE), peanuts and various sundry ingredients. Last? The potatoes and red peppers in a creamy coconut sauce, which was to be served over sticky white rice (which I didn't eat, because, you know, white rice IS the divvil!). Delicious.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Italian Tonight!

I got the biggest shock of my life when Mr. E asked me out to dinner. Imagine my surprise, on the way to the supermarket, I see all these pink things on sale (we have a pink event coming up)-so naturally I had to call him. And he says he'll take me out.

He collects me, precisely five minutes late.

The dinner: standard Italian fare-of course, the meatball must be tasted-eh, it's okay. Doesn't suck. But does not give a foodgasm (so Thor remains correct about San Diego meatballs). Mr. E is a vegetarian so all the sauces must be vegetarian for both the lasagna and the eggplant parm. There are three cheeses in the lasagna. Very nice, but the pasta is heavy and lifeless. Good sauce. The eggplant is deep fat fried, but Mr. E eats MOST of this, ergo, it was difficult to judge. The best part was the Coke(TM). It was perfectly mixed.

Mr. E had warned me that he would eat everything in sight if not checked. I did not check him. It was, after all, kind of, sort of, our first date, so he ate prodigiously. The plates were cleaned, save one, which he begged me to stack on the bottom of the other plate to prevent further caloric damage.

After, we went for coffee at Claire de Lune's. I had a rooiboos and he had some sort of chocolate banana concoction that looked suspiciously more like a sundae than a coffee. We also shared a large chocolate chip cookie. Over done. Not happy. I ate a small piece. He, in full throttle, finished the cookie. In other words, ate most of it. Truthfully, I didn't want any more. It was the perfect situation. I COULDN'T overeat. I was calm and happy because to be completely honest with you, my dear readers: I am and have always been madly in love with Mr. E. Always. Ever since I saw him for the first time. He, on the other hand, has made it clear he likes me just as a friend. So I don't pursue it. Tonight, when he kissed me goodnight, it was a peck on the lips. I wanted to pull him to me and suck on his bottom lip and give him a real kiss. But I refrained. To kiss him like that simply wouldn't do! But I can't help but wonder: is he beginning to feel a mad love for me? Is he suppressing his urges with food?

In Wonderment,

Hilda Stinson

Clark Kent Triumphs

He wrote me an email with little icons kissing, which was, to be sure, a bit cute for my taste, but I liked it anyway.

And so I went over to see him. He wore a silk robe. Red with little patterns on it. He smelled slightly of Drakkar Noir (Polo? I can't tell any more) and pulled me inside his house. Kissing me full on the mouth and then taking my hand, we went into his bedroom, which had a "Kansas City Madam's" bed. For those of you who don't know what that is: am I your cultural dictionary? *Sigh* I suppose I am. Well all right, what it means, for those of you who don't know is this: it means the bed is so high off the ground, that it would be possible for..-you know if you don't GET this, then stop reading my blog-immediately-and go find yourself a nice Jehovah's Witness. You might be happier.

"You look very nice," he said as he hopped up on the bed.

"As do you," I smiled, kicked off my sandals and came aboard.

"What are you wearing?"

"Well, I had to wear clothes."

"True, but you don't any more." He ran his hand up my shirt and kissed me full on the mouth. "I want you to take it off."

SO I did. Along with my jeans. Under it all I was wearing a black bra with pink lace and matching boyshorts. He inhaled sharply as I carefully folded everything and put it on the lampshade.

He turned me on my stomach and began kissing my back, undoing my bra, which I reached up and also put on top of the lampshade. And then he gave me a look, which said, "The panties?"

But I slid down on my stomach, ignoring the plea of his eyes. "You may massage me now," I said.

He carefully got on top of me and began to do my back-and then, when he got to the bottom of my back, he got off me, took the initiative and slowly peeled off my panties. He rubbed his hands slowly and carefully over my bottom-and then, he covered it with little kisses.

And the rest? The rest my darlings? After he was finished with me, he fed me tiny little chicken fingers that he had deep fat fried himself (oh my!) and a mixed green salad, complete with tiny slivers of avocado in a honey mustard dressing (that he had made himself). For dessert? Tiny chocolate cupcakes with HUGE frosting heads!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Guest Star: On a Veal Chop

My darling readers, every so often I am moved, nay commanded by the gods to put forth some bit of writing other than my own. So without further ado, let me present Evan Berkeley.

We had been writing back and forth and he was lamenting that he was so busy with work that he would have to simply forward payment to a restaurant so that I could write about it.

I had written back that I could do that, and pretend he was there, as in, "I'll have the filet mignon, medium rare and he will have the lamb chops, also medium rare."

My friend was amazed and delighted that I would choose lamb chops for him. "How did you know?"

Of course, my dear readers. We know that I just KNOW things.

But I wrote back, "I did consider a veal chop, but I thought it might offend you."

And THIS is what he wrote:

"T'would require more than a naked veal chop to offend me, Love. I've always suspected, but refrain from saying aloud in mixed and un-qualified company, that such epicurean delights are often accentuated by undercurrents of cruelty and psychic dominance. Our egos often require some such fantasy to provoke a truly blinding foodgasm.

I may partake, and all the while be floating in a delicious (no doubt chemically induced, would those be endorphins?) spasm of juicy, meaty, savory delight. But when I augment the experience with the fantasy of killing that baby myself? It's only then that raging ejaculations of saliva come forth to overwhelm and transcend...a meal that becomes a "rite of passage" -- where, in some sense, ceremonially, the eater and the eaten, become one.

Excuse me now...I need to find a linen napkin to wipe clean my carnivorous mouth. "

Is he not divine, my darlings?

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Marry Me, Bob Cesca

Marry me, right now.

Every time I go to HUFFPO and read this man, I want to propose.

"Bob Cesca wrote a new post The Biggest Crime in the Anthony Weiner Scandal" (copied from the email alert sent to my home email addy. Yes. I subscribe to Bob Cesca Posts!)

SO Bob Cesca (if you're out there somewhere) I dare you to read me and then, maybe, just maybe we can fall madly in love, get married and not have children.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

The Virgin Mary Room & Mr. Bunnah

It was last week when I was at the mall, when I saw her walking toward me. An absolutely stunning nubian goddess, wearing a white skirt with diamond sequins down the front in a curious pattern. The top, form fitting, also white, completed the outfit along with the sweeping hijab that covered her head, but not her face. I was inspired.

The very next week, I was to meet the legendary Mr. Bunnah, who is a very famous rock star whose real name, I dasn't divulge. Suffice it to say, he has enough female fans to pull a Wilt Chamberlain, but, being selective, HE does not.

We met at a sandwich shop: Which Which. Which is, simply delish. He had ham with bits of bacon slipping out. He had to get a spoon. I got the meatball, which was simply divine by virtue of the veggies and condiments. The meatballs, I took pains to taste solo, and they were, sadly mediocre. So my friend Thor is right. There are no good meatballs in San Diego, save his house, or mine. (He has challenged me to a "ball off"-but has not yet had the motivation to set a date. Hmm. Perhaps he thinks I'll WIN. But I digress.)

After we ate, we went to Balboa Park. He wore jeans and one of his band t-shirts. I was afraid he'd be recognized, but fortunately, he was not. Inspired by the nubian princess, I wore a long skirt, form fitting at the hips, but then freely flowing around my legs. No panties. The jersey top I wore matched the skirt and perfectly off-set my boobs, which peeked out over the top of my bra.

"These," he said, touching them, "are MMM," he bent to kiss the tops of my breasts and ran his mouth up my neck. "You smell so good," he said. "Do you want to make out in the car?"

"Sure, if you do," I said.

So we did.

And then he decided to take things a bit further.

He put his hand under my skirt and smiled the smile of heaven. "No panties?"

I shook my head.

"Mmm." He pushed the skirt up and, while fingering me, licked me and licked me, until I came. And then he licked me some more. "You taste so good," he said.

"And you," I said, reaching over and unzipping his fly, "are ROCK hard. And perhaps might like me to taste you!" I took his cock in my mouth. It was my very favorite kind: hard and thick; I ran my tongue over the tip and his frenulum. Then, enjoying the broadness of his shaft, I brought my hands and mouth up and down on it. Again and again. I could feel his cock stiffening, getting longer and harder, getting ready for the ultimate release. At which point he said:

"Stop, I want to fuck you. I NEED to fuck you," he amended. "But not here. Inside the museum."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Of course I am. That's why you like me so much," he kissed me and I could taste myself on his lips.

"Come on, let's go on in," I said.

We walked to the Tonken art museum and into the Virgin Mary room. The walls were green, alternating different shades and textures and the art was painted on wood. Gold was the predominant color that I saw when he took me over to the Northwest corner.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, backing himself into the corner, putting me in front of him, my back to him. He pushed me up against his hard cock and rubbed until he was ready. He unzipped, lifted my skirt, bent me over and I felt his thick cock enter me. "OH," he moaned. "You're so tight," he whispered in my ear.

Quickly, he pumped a few times and then, before anyone could see us, he came inside me, pushed down my skirt, grabbed my hand and we ran out of there, laughing.

It was the perfect afternoon.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

A Life Worth Living

Yesterday, when I was out with a boy 21 years my junior (why he was even interested was beyond me, but okay, he did buy me lunch) he said something particularly salient and it was this:

"..if that [The Stand- we had been talking about if 99 percent of the population died off] happened, then life would be worth living."

And it was interesting because we both hold the same view: life, to be worth living, must be lived in luxury. In a beautiful house with a beautiful car and a beautiful spouse. There it is. A life worth living.

As for those of you who get off on "helping the poor"- bully for you. Sacrificing things has NEVER made me happy. In fact, it's been the opposite.

The observation is: life is cheap. Death on demand. Beauty is our best and brightest quality. And luxury is the pinnacle of existence.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Out of It

The other day I had a date with an extra hunky guy who reminded me of Clark Kent. He wore specs and was gloriously built.

But what he did not know what how to do what I needed him to do.

He was waiting for Godot.

Completely and utterly out of it. Unable to respond to anything of seriousness I had to say. He had lost the ability to think in a morass of little green bundles, crumbled into a pipe and smoked. Oblivion had hijacked his mind.

And there were cupcakes. Chocolate ones. With HUGE heads of mint frosting. OH. So sublime. And I brought him donuts.

At one point, I wanted to place a donut on my stomach and have him eat it off. It was the only just and right thing to do. Except maybe, I was too tired? Wanted HIM to think of it. I don't know.

And he snored. But this time, I would have no truck with that. I left.

I remain exhausted by life,

Hilda Stinson