Extra Tip

I made it.

I somehow got through moving day. Moving in July in Manhattan is nothing less than a circus: movers, parking (or lack there of), slow elevators, angry neighbors, and tons of bags and shoes that need to be delicately handled.

So we found these movers in the east village... and by movers I mean two men with a large enough vehicle to fit my things. After a few hours of awkward chit chat I found myself oddly attracted to the fully tattooed east village hipster who was throwing my nice things around. Long story short, we made out and I dry-humped him. It was strange, but it was fun. I feel like a badass.

Now its time to sit on my overstuffed boxes with a glass of wine and my crazy roommate. This here begins a new chapter in my life, and many new tales for my faithful ducklings.

-Bella

Darwin fucked up

"And the Oscar goes to...."

(Silence and fake smiles)

"Bella!"

(Applause and even faker smiles.)

This was part of the dream I had last night. Before I went to bed I smoked a cigarette, before that I took a shot of whiskey, before that I took a vallium, and before that I kicked out the man who had just given me inspiration for my oscar worthy performance.

I just faked the best orgasm ever. I could teach a class.

After being jabbed and prodded and slobbed all over I simply couldn't take it any more. I stared at my cieling while this sad excuse of a man fucked me like a blow-up doll. I am a human, I have a pulse, and you're officially hurting my va-jay-jay.

After what seemed like an eternity it was as though an imaginary director screamed "Action!" I arched my back, began to pant, threw my legs around his hips and lightly dug my nails into his back. I moaned and groaned and clenched and looked him dead in the eye pretending he was Keanu Reeves. He finally came, and my imaginary director FINALLY yelled "Cut!"

Someone please explain to me why this beautiful man, with a beautiful dick, who is a talented musician was one of my top 3 worst lays ever? False advertising from head to toe.

This made me quesiton Darwinism. In Manhattan, survival of the fittest has morphed into survival of the most attractive. A good set of genes allows you to strut, cut lines, smile and get your way. He had it all going, what a fucking dissapointment. I now have to do double my kegel exercises to repair the damage he inflicted on my delicate lady-bits.

Guys please, I am begging you, if you are attractive learn how to please a woman. I am not a hole in a mattress nor am I a porn star. It takes effort to give a blow job, and even more effort to endure horrible sex.

Learn to fuck or fuck off. The choice is yours.

-Bella

Lace and Leather*

I am currently at my friends apartment on Christopher St. enjoying the sites and sounds of the west village. Who needs to go see a movie when the fire escape is just as entertaining...plus you can smoke.

I hear cars passing by blasting Michael Jackson (R.I.P), the bass coming from the club beneath us, the jazz drums from the bar across the street from us, and the elongated "s" sounds from the gays all around us. Tonight, however, there is a noticeable difference: The gays have taken over. There are feathers and whistles and snaps at every corner. The gays are out...and they are proud.

As they should be, the gay pride parade is tomorrow.

Bedtime Story #1

Since I grew a pair of tits the gays have been in love with me and who am I to deny them a quick feel. I actually remember accompanying my fagalicious friend to Mr.Black (back when it was still on Broadway and still cool), after a few shots of tequila I really took over the dance floor and I'm sure there was a nip slip here and there. This gay couple came up to me and just looked me up and down and said "Mmm, tasty!" I perked up and strutted over there feeling confident and fabulous.

They then informed me that they were plastic surgeons and that they simply couldn't believe that my breasts were real. I, shocked and intoxicated, insisted that they were 100% silicone free. After a brief back and forth I actually took their hands and put them up my shirt. Trust me, that's all the proof they needed. They gave me some more compliments and bought me a few drinks. They later admitted that they weren't plastic surgeons and that they just really liked my boobies (who doesn't?). Then things get blurry.... Something about a threesome maybe?.... Minor detail.

The moral of this story is 3-Fold:

• Straight Women: If you're in a funk and need a pick me up go to a gay club dance your ass off and enjoy the incoming compliments.
• Straight Men: Learn a thing or two from the gays, it only took them 2.5 seconds to get to my goods. Beat that.
• Gays, Lezzies, and Fag Hags: I love your enthusiasm but the gay pride parade isn't until tomorrow. I will dance with you in the street demain, I promise. But unfortunately tonight Flow came to town; I need more tea and vallium and less high pitched screams and elongated "s" sounds. As a reward, tomorrow I shall let you all touch my boobies.

-Bella

*The title of this post is dedicated to Britney Spears... she's my bitch