Category Archives: Slutty Sundays

Comedic Relief

Rhys DarbySometimes, when life gets you down, there’s only one thing to do… laugh it off.

I’m not going to say that laughter is the best medicine, because apparently someone else has already said that, but I will say that comedy is the one thing I can count on to restore my faith in love, life, and humanity… you know, for a good hour or so.

Because the truth is, nothing seems quite so bad if you can get yourself to laugh at it.

Speaking of which, have you all met my new boyfriend?

Jemaine Clement

We’ve never met, of course… but when you are in love, I think you will find that you have to deal with all sorts of little obstacles, and it’s best to try not to let them overwhelm you.

And now, for a quick rendition of that old classic, Slutty Sundays:

Pick a comedian to be your secret lover, and give a (semi) detailed account of your perfect date together.

For example: On my secretly loving date with Jemaine, we will walk down the streets of Paris, serenading innocent passersby with a choice selection of show-tunes, which we will sing at full volume and without apologies. Later, we will go skinny-dipping in the Seine and be caught by an American paparazzo, who just happened to be walking by at the time. After being bailed out of prison (by none other than Rhys Darby, of course), we will retire to a perfectly charming Parisian hotel (or , you know, The Ritz) and eat chocolate-covered strawberries while Jemaine sings “Business Time” whilst playing the guitar… and of course I will be so impressed by his ability to both eat and sing and play the guiture that one thing will lead to another… and well… you know…

(We’ll get slutty.)

Your turn!!!

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Filed under Happiness, I Think I Have a Crush, Love, Lust, Slutty Sundays

The Elevator Question

This is the part where you get involved in the hypothetical sluttiness…

The set-up: You are stuck in an elevator with the celebrity of your choice. (Being that this is of course Slutty Sundays, this must be a person you want to get down and dirty with!)

But here’s the catch – you are going to be stuck in this elevator for TEN HOURS!!! (Don’t ask why, you just are, okay?!) Which means that you really should be able to stand this person after the sluttiness is over.

So choose carefully…

(Your answers go in the comment box. Have fun!)

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A Different Kind of Happy Hour

One thing crashed to the floor, and then another. Piles of paper that were once simply messy were now spilled and scattered. A chair fell over heavily, hitting itself on one of the legs of the table on its way down. There was so much commotion and upheaval of things that under normal circumstances would have gone quietly un-heaved, that it would be safe to assume there was something like an earthquake going on, and that anyone inside the apartment was in a state of panic as he or she observed the danger which had suddenly come upon them. But an earthquake there was not. Rather, there were two people, attempting rather clumsily to be had by one another. For the first  (and quite possibly the last) time.

As they continued to crash into the dining room set, and one or another of them stubbed their tow and tried not to howl about it, the absolute violence of their emotions were so excessive as to render the scene almost entirely comedic. Finally, the boy hoisted the girl on to the table as she flung off her top with wild and hilarious abandon, and eventually undid her bra as well and threw it across the room in no particular direction (but not before the boy had tried and failed to unhinge it himself). The boy’s shirt was unbuttoned (or rather the buttons were ripped off ), her skirt was shimmied off her, his pants got rid of, underwear hit the floor, shoes were kicked off almost as an afterthought, and socks remained on because really, who has the time? After what seemed like years of peeling off clothing, they both clamored up the table, her scooting rather ungracefully back it as he crawled over her, inadvertently  smashing her hand under his knee, and subsequently apologized profusely. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” – she assured him, kissing his lips fiercely lest the moment vanish underneath them.

“Shit” he said “I forgot the condom!”

“Well you don’t need it yet!” She growled.

“Better get it out ahead of time though, don’t you think?”

She sighed.

“I’ll just be back.”

“Well hurry up!” She yelled, exasperated and impatient, as always.

“Got it!” He chirped, looking up at her apologetically.

“Well come the fuck on then!”

He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows mockingly.

“Darling?” He said, teasing her.

“Oh, Jesus Christ… will you just get up here?”

“Only if you tell me you need me.” He answered briskly, enjoying his moment of power.

“I don’t need you!” She barked, and promptly began touching herself in front of him.

He stared, and was beaten. An involuntary groan escaped his lips too soon and she knew that she had won.

“Okay! I give up!” He sang, and began kissing her calf, her knee, her thigh, and continuing up to replace her hand.

She made a noise that was more like a smile than a sneer, and promptly dropped her malicious act to the floor where it belonged.

They had found their rhythm at last.

The two of them, though passionate and decided on this particular evening, were alas completely ill-suited for each other. Where she was ambitious and domineering, he was calm and harmonious. Where she saw potential problems and failures, he saw opportunity and hope. They would never agree on anything… but they didn’t have to. They were the exact right kind of wrong. And what should have been one quick shag after work would become the unlikeliest romance any of their friends had ever witnessed. They would become that couple who would probably kill each other if it weren’t for the fact that they were so hopelessly in love. And who could say an ill word against that? The bitch in black with the smiling child of the sun? It would be a marriage of the cynicism of reality with the dream-world of fantasy, the harsh edges with the soft lines, the water with the fire, the dirt with the air. It would be a universe all its own.

It would be a relationship.

It would be a perfect mess.

And above all, it would be hot.

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Threesome

I want them both, at once!

That’s all for Slutty Sundays! In the comment box, submit who you would want to have a threesome with!

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The Pianist, Part 2

Part One is here.

 

Photo Courtesy of David Barrington

Photo Courtesy of David Barrington

 

It was strange… but it wasn’t.

As her breathing quickened and his body found hers, she felt a bewildering sense of excitement and at the same time, of calm.

She had only been with one other man before him – a long-term boyfriend who had broken her heart years ago. She did not condone casual sex, she never had. But in this one moment, she didn’t care.

The morning was filled with their moans, their sweat… the slow, rhythmic way they gave into each other. They writhed around in those demolished sheets for hours, the sunlight pouring in on their warm, naked bodies.

They were strangers, but they didn’t seem it.

The night before had seen them wild, frantic, desperate for each other. They had hardly known the reason for their attraction, let alone their insatiable desire, but they had not required such logic. They had been intoxicated, literally, and had left all form of reason far behind. But this morning was different – they were both fully present and, miraculously, only slightly hung-over. The night was hazy; the morning they would remember.

At last, they grew tired. 

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with too many thoughts… too many questions.

“Adrien?” She said, glancing over at his face, relaxed and exhausted.

“Hmmm?…” He murmured in that strange, deep voice.

“How old are you?”

He laughed. “Thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five” She repeated.

“Why?” He asked. “How old are you?” 

“Twenty-one” She answered, picking up on the sudden hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Oh.” He breathed. “Thank God!”

His laugh was invigorating. Even knowing him for so short a time, it was fast becoming her favorite thing about him. She would miss it. She would miss it when he’d gone. Tomorrow probably.

“How -” She began.

“Yes?” He asked, a bit of mocking in his voice.

“Never mind.”

“You want a cigarette?” He offered, already lighting one of his own.

“Sure.” She said, disjointedly. “Why not.”

He handed her the cigarette and proceeded to light it.

She put it to her mouth, breathed in, and choked.

“You okay?” He asked, trying hopelessly to smother his laughter.

“Huh!” She gasped. “Fine.”

“You probably shouldn’t inhale.”

“Right. I’ll remember that. You can stop smiling now.” She chided.

His grin widened. This was getting ridiculous. How could she still want him? She’d had him all afternoon already!

There were still questions though, she reasoned. She would have to keep a clear head.

She turned her gaze to the ceiling, concentrating. “How many women have you been with?”

He paused, letting  the smoke out of his warm, wet mouth.

“Twenty.” He answered.

“Even?” She asked. She didn’t even know if that number was high. If it was… normal.

“Well, around twenty, give or take.”

She sighed.

“You?” He asked.

“Me? Ummm… two.” She answered, almost whispering.

“Including me?” He asked, a note of surprise in his voice as he looked at her face.

“Yah. What should I do with this?” She asked, waving her cigarette in the air.

“I think you should smoke it.” He answered.

She looked at him. “I don’t like it.”

“Try again!” He laughed.

She made a face. She didn’t want to “try again.” She’d already choked once, and the taste was not to her liking. She shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.

“Just breath it in, Amber.” He said. “No inhaling.”

She looked towards the ceiling.

“Just take what you want.”

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Slutty Sundays: The Pianist, Part I

 
Premise: This post
Celebrity: Adrien Brody
Most famous for: Oscar winning role in “The Pianist”; freaking hilarious role in “Darjeeling Limited”
Freak factor: The Nose, followed by obvious weirdness in general

 

Photo Courtesy of David Barrington

Photo Courtesy of David Barrington

 

Sunday morning found the pair of them asleep, sheets in wild disarray from the activities of the previous night. They clung to each other without knowing… each lost in some fleeting dream or morbid nightmare. At last, he opened his eyes and beheld her.

“Hello beautiful” He croaked, in his strange, Eastern-American accent. She opened her eyes, confused, and grunted something unintelligible.

“Umm… hi.” She answered, surprised.

 It was apparent that she had not retained the memory of their affair as she slept. She paused, puzzled, her body tense as she wondered how rude it would be to run screaming from the room.

“And you are?” She said, jokingly, attempting to ease the awkwardness she so clearly felt.

“Aww…” he teased, “You don’t remember me, Verona?”

He rolled her over onto her back, arms still wrapped around her, as it became clear that he wanted to have another go.

“Right, listen…” She said, her discomfort increasing by the second. “This might be a good time to tell you that my name isn’t Verona.”

“It isn’t?” He asked, loosening his grasp only slightly as he peered into her face. “I was sure that’s what you said…”

“It is, yah.” She said, her tone flat and completely devoid of anything that could possibly be perceived as interest.  “I lied. It’s Amber, and if you don’t mind, I’d love to brush my teeth and put some clothes on.”

“Well, pardon me!” He said in that casual, mocking way in which he seemed to say everything.

She got up quickly and shrugged into a white hotel robe, crossing the room to the sink, her body angled away from him as she attempted to locate a toothbrush.

“Was it really so bad?”

“Hmm?” She mumbled, brushing her teeth violently and barely looking in the mirror.

He was still in bed – his long, narrow body covered by a white sheet from the waist down. His head was propped against a pillow as he gazed at her, amused, but curious.

“I thought it was pretty good!” He teased, smiling.

“Oh… I guess.” She answered, in that simultaneously light, breezy, and dismissive tone.

“Well, you sure were a good fuck.”

She spit.

“Okaaaay…” She said, the breezy quality disappearing from her voice.

“Oh, come on Amber!” He said, almost purring.  

“It’s not as if this was all my idea… we are in your room, after all.”

Christ, he was right. She knew he was right. Vague images began to re-shape themselves in  her mind, as she struggled to remember exactly what had happened. 

A piano. There had been a piano. But why?

“Did I… sing?” she asked, nervously, attempting to piece it all together.

“Of course!” He laughed. “I played for you… ” He continued, as he sat up and picked his pants up off the floor, searching his pockets for something.

“Great.” She muttered. “How drunk was I?”

“That’s hard to say…” He answered, fishing out a cigarette and sticking it between his lips. “I was pretty shit-faced myself.”

He lit the cigarette.

“Could you not smoke?” She asked, annoyed.

“Come on!” he crowed, cigarette still in his wide, smiling mouth.

She sighed. “So you don’t remember anything.” Clearly, this was not something he found upsetting.

“I remember some things…” He said, dragging his eyes suggestively from her neck downwards.

She blushed and rolled her eyes. It was hard to stay upset with someone so buoyant. His cheerfulness was beginning to get to her. As was his confident, relaxed manner. She eyed him suspiciously, looking for some sign of greed or malice. But all she saw was his dark brown hair, that boyish smile that lit up his entire face, his bare chest, and that stupid sheet.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, smoothly. His strange green eyes fixed on hers as he took in her change of expression.

Somehow, she no longer looked as uncomfortable and frantic as she had before, but amused… her body language altered ever-so-slightly.

She hadn’t even noticed the change until he mentioned it. But it made sense. She had remembered something too.

“Get back in bed, you bitch.” He grinned.

She laughed and shook her head.

And then, she did.

Part Two

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Slutty Sundays

Today is Sunday, a day which I love. (Unless I have work, then it sucks.)

Sundays are days when, for some reason or another, it becomes acceptable to stay in one’s pajamas all day long, watch TV in the afternoon, and just be generally lazy and loafish (not that I don’t also do this on Tuesdays, Thursdays… basically any time I don’t have to be anywhere before 2… but today it is socially acceptable that I do so!)

However, there is one thing about Sundays which I have always felt I am missing out on…

For some reason or another (probably pop culture, as with most things) when I think of Sundays, I picture happy couples in their big, white beds, having continuous, languorous sex. I know this is probably not accurate, but I don’t care… it is in my mind!

So, in honor of this particular fascination, I have decided to add a new weekly installment to Confessions of a Weirdo:

Slutty Sundays

Slutty Sundays will involve the picking of an off-beat celebrity to play my boyfriend (feel free to offer any suggestions!)… a semi-detailed list of “ingredients” (things to set the tone for the combined me/celebrity sluttiness) and a brief excerpt of our time together (dialogue should be interesting!)

Stick around… this is going to be fun!

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