Ring Around the Collar

When I was a child there was an ad for a stain remover, its catch phrase was "ring around the collar". It couldn't have been that effective of an ad, mainly because I can't remember for sure which stain remover it was. Was it Spray and Wash (TM)? Shout (TM) perhaps? I don't know. Maybe it was for a detergent? But I do remember my mother used to say, "Her husband needs to wash his neck!" This sounded logical at the time.

Years later I discovered, being a B blood type that it is impossible for me to wear white without getting: you got it! Ring around the collar! My sweat is highly acidic and turns everything yellow. I wonder why they didn't talk about pit stains. Now those are an abomination. Perhaps it was considered too raunchy for TV. I don't know. I just wear black now; it's easier.

There are, however, worse things than ring around the collar and pit stains and so, now I shall present the seamier side of life, the squalid bits that I have not yet revealed. The horror, if I can tell it.

I have a friend from online (who shall remain nameless) that I have recently had occasion to visit because, well, she invited me over. Thinking that perhaps we might engage in a little cooking together, I brought over a bottle of wine, thinking that for sure she would have a chicken in her freezer.

The minute I arrived, the smell hit my nose-and I could not believe it. Would not believe it.

"You can park over here," she said, cuddling one of her darling babies (she had four little catties).

I parked.

Came in.

And spent an excruciating two hours viewing the movie she'd invited me over to.

"Popcorn?" She offered.

I declined. The smell did not lead one to want to eat. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

In addition to the cat poo smell, I could not fail to notice that she had neglected both bathrooms (can anyone sing the ring around the toilet song?!) and that the living room was also in shambles. This from a woman who had previously boasted that she would never pay anyone to do anything for her that she could do herself (she cut her own hair with astonishingly good results) and so this was why didn't hire anyone to clean, despite the fact that she made well over 100k a year.

When the movie was over, bid her adieu and left.

GOD! Cat Poo. No wonder my friend was so thin.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Theodore

"You know, you can come over, if you want," he said coyly over the phone.

"All right."

The house was white with a huge porch in the front. On the porch was a swing with a red cushion on it. As I walked up the driveway I saw him sitting on the swing. He wore a blue striped pajama bottom and his feet were bare, like his chest.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked as I walked up the steps.

He glanced down at his pajama bottoms, an erection-a giant one that appeared to be having a fight with America's finest fabric. "I gotta fever of a hundred and three!" He sang.

"Very funny. Inside."

He opened the door for me and then, giggling madly he swooped me up into his arms and carried me over the threshold. Panting, he put me down.

"Heavy, aren't I?"

He blushed.

"It's okay. I'm heavier than I look."

He grabbed my hand, "Shh, you don't want to wake up the cats!"

We tiptoed down the hall to his bedroom.

The carpeting was a deep maroon and terribly plush.

"Take off your clothes," he said hoarsely.

"I will not!" I snapped.

He laughed and then kissed me hard. "Clothing. Off."

"All right, already," I said, my heart beating faster and faster. Within seconds, I was starkers.

"Let me look at you," he said as he lay me upon the bed. "Oh, nice. Very, very nice. I especially like these," he ran his tongue over my left nipple and then my right. "Succulent," he said as he continued to licking at my nipples and sucking them, one by one-and then he put his hand on my little blonde vaggie. "Hot," he commented as he expertly toyed with my nether region. "I have to, " he brought his mouth down and he began licking me, his fingers spreading me open, his tongue hot on my clit. Back and forth he licked at me until I came. "Yum," he said. "Now I'm going to have to fuck you. Are you ready to fuck me, Hilda?"

"Yes."

He commenced by drawing his cock out of his pajama top. I gasped. It was quite large.

"You want to suck it first?" he asked.

"Yes."

He brought his cock to my mouth and I put my hand around it, and then the other hand and I licked his frenulum and then stuck the head in my mouth, in and out as I worked my hands up and down his shaft.

"Hilda," he groaned, "I NEED to fuck you, baby," he pulled out of my mouth and brought the tip down to my opening. "Wait," he stopped and began licking me again to be sure I was completely wet and then, his cock pushed. He pushed. And pushed. Ow..and then, oh. it went in and it was so nice. He fucked me slowly, "Do you like this, is this okay?" he said.

"Yessss," I moaned. "Fuck me Theodore, fuck me."

And he did.

For breakfast the next day Theodore made pancakes.

Shaped like Mickey Mouse(TM), they were god awful, but he MADE them for me.

AND- there was bacon!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

The Chicken Who Died for my Sins

My darling fans, fear not, I have returned.

Last night I had an inexplicable craving for lasagna and so, upon leaving the house to meet a boy for drugs (yes, drugs, that's right! I don't have health insurance and this particular boy has access) I decided that I would after go to the supermarket.

"Here," he said, "pertussis is going around. I just want you to get better." He handed me a card of pills.

Wow. And he was totally hot. Thick medium blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, he drove a black Mercedes. He wore glasses. A total dream and a half.

"Now you call me or text me if you have any questions," he said.

"Okay."

His name is Theodore.

He's a doctor.

Can you believe it?

But back to the food!

I went into Frye's and right to the freezer section, hmm. Lasagna or Chicken parm? Chicken parm!

The next day, for second breakfast (about 9-ish) I cooked said Chicken parm. It was a Weight Watchers (TM) entree. When it was time to eat it (5 min, 30 seconds of cooking 2 minutes of waiting) I found a cold piece in the chicken-no matter, it appeared to be prec00ked but the taste was NOT Italian! The dish has a distinct Mexican flavor about it. Now I don't know about you, but having hailed from San Diego has inured me to Mexican. It's okay if you WANT Mexican, but I wanted ITALIAN!!!!

Sorry Weight Watchers(TM)-you need to adjust your directions and fix your flavorings.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson