Ruby Wildflower's Blog

Well I’ve concurred that sex is just plain awkward. It’s all so glammed up in the moofies but in reality, the mummy daddy dance is just awkys.

There’s that uncomfortable moment when you change positions, usually preceded by a ‘turn around’ or ‘how bout we do this…’ which is just fraught with complications. What if the one person misunderstands and you end up doing something completely weird? Donkey punch anyone?

Putting a condom on is ALWAYS awkward, there’s just no getting around it and you can’t make it sexy, no matter what you do with your mouth. Or ear. Uh huh.

The noises. Nuff said.

There always seems to be injuries. Someone usually gets punched in the face, or a leg bent out of shape or dire cramps. I have a dreadful leg twitch when… you know… and I sometimes clop the poor bugger in the side of the head – nothing like a bit of thigh to face action. I once left nail marks on someone’s arm so deep that it drew blood. Oops.

One of my friends put her shoulder out once and had to have reconstructive surgery. Ouch. Although she claims it was sex but I think it was something far more embarrassing, like Zumba.

There’s also that whole, ‘this isn’t really working for me’ thing. How do you tell someone to stop pummeling you so you can turn on 30 Rock?

Luckily for me, awkward turns me on and I live for agonizingly awkward moments. Bring it.

Since we’re on the topic of ridonkulous text messages I thought I’d share yet another.

I met a guy last year that I haven’t told you about (shit I keep a lot of secrets from you don’t I?). I liked him. Bad fucking luck for me.

Here’s his thoughts on things:

OMFG! This is where I’ve been going wrong all my life! I’ve been TAKING THEIR SIDE OF THE BED! Squeeeealllll!

Pfft.

Oh twenty twelve – the things you do to me! We’re seven days in and already things are pretty fucking awesome. I’ll go into detail another time but one of said awesome things is my ability to appreciate ridiculous situations for what they are. And laugh. Hysterically, like a crazy woman. Perhaps I’ve done a Phineas Gage and lost all inhibitions and just can’t stop doing random things that others would consider ridiculous and reputation severing? Perhaps my mind has finally surrendered and stopped thinking long enough for me to just do what I want to without having an anxiety attack over it.

So, I had a few wines (which I’m doing on the regular at the moment) and sent quick a rude pic to a boy. And here’s how it played out:

That awkward moment that you're not the only one sexting a "potential". Ha.

My favourite part is when he requests that I get “there” before he even knew who I was. That = I LOVE. To be fair, he is in a band so this kinda junk would not be too unfamiliar to him. To be more fair, I’m the fucking bomb so he could’ve at least pretended.

Happy Twenty Twelve Bitches!

Sponsored post by Nuffnang. Still all my work though.

I picked up a copy of Zoo Magazine this week. I love the way cashiers look at me when I do that. On page 24, there’s this super delightful article about Contagion. The article basically pointed out that we’re all about to get effed up in a major way. It stated there were five possible contagions that could wipe us innocent living creatures out – ebola, tuberculosis, anthrax, SARS and influenza. Yes, the flu people!

They also suggested that whatever gets us will most likely swoop in from Africa or Jakarta/Malaysia and could potentially wipe out 250,000 people in Australian in just ten weeks. That’s less than the time it takes me to return to my bikini waxer. Sad, but true. And there’s an explanation for that.

I was bit in love with this article because who knew that Zoo Weekly did facts? Scary facts at that. Like ninety five per cent of anthrax infections are passed to humans via contact with animals. We’re screwed.

Sure, the threat of contagion is scary but I’m far more concerned about the fact that there are frighteningly dwindling numbers of hetereo men left. And single, straight men? For – freaking – get it. Is this how we’re going to die out? We’ll no longer reproduce and the world will be one big gay club? Actually, that doesn’t sound so terrible, it sounds kinda fabulous, but a girl like me needs some horizontal salsa once in a blue moon. In fact, I probably wouldn’t even turn down a guy covered in anthrax, with TB, bleeding profusely internally with ebola and sniffling from SARS and the flu to be quite honest.

Or there’ll be pretty young lady things like me shrivelling away because we haven’t been touched by a man in so long that we don’t bother to get monthly waxes anymore. (See? I told you there was an explanation).

I ACTUALLY think I haven’t seen a straight, single man this whole week. Now THAT is my contagion people.

So if you know where these hetero men coagulate, do tell – I’d love to know. Til then, I’ll just keep buying men’s magazines. to find out how impressive facts that I can astound potential man suitors with…‘Hi, I’m Ruby, nice to meet you. Did you know that the Ebola virus was discovered in 1976?’ Smooth Ruby, real smooth.

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Back to the cock fest. Continued on from here…

Presenting.

I’ve noticed something. Boys love to peacock. To get your attention they will get their peacock on. They puff out their chest. They strut. The stick out their butt. Their chin raises as high as dear Amy W in her last few years. Their warble gets almighty loud. They slap backs of their mates. They present.

And they keep looking at you RELENTLESSLY to see if you’re noticing. And if you ignore them, they just ramp that shit up a notch. Gosh men spend A LOT of time and energy trying to get our attention. We should at least stop and grant them a small smile now and then to reward them for their exhaustive efforts. Now, let’s disregard the fact that THE ONLY way to get our attention is to actually have a conversation with us.

Like Endora had a little admirer (quite a bit younger) and had a body that could split your eyeballs. His chest seriously looked like an ice cube tray, I shit you not. He loved getting her attention. To the point where he kneed her in the butt (are we in high school?).

Here’s my take I why I think there were a few factors that led us to being peacock-worthy:

We were relaxed

We (well I) clearly didn’t give a shit what we looked like and were just there to have wine and a natter. Men can sense relaxation (but not neuroses apparently). We also didn’t look at them with scorn or laugh in their face, we appreciated their efforts.

We didn’t bitch

We consciously didn’t bitch out on other chicks. There is nothing worse than a gaggle of bitches sitting in a corner judging every other bitches ridiculously short shorts, unfortunate tan or overdose of animal print. Although, DJ Lansy did chuck in a few witty comments like, ‘heck, I can see it breathing from here’ when some lovely young thing had a skirt that was so short, I could see her navel.

We’re different

Okay, I say this in a non bitchy way (see point above) but seriously it was like every chick was the same that night. And they were dull. (The Computer said similar). And to me, they all look the same. Gorgeous, nonetheless but all samey, with their golden brown Scandinavian model look.

So we set the mood with our energy. Relaxed, carefree, non bitchy sluts. And we sat back and enjoyed the display. And went home alone.

Just a regular old sausage fest

I needed a wine. This happens like once a year, so when I tell my friends ‘I need a fucking wine bitches. Make it happen’, they make it happen.

So they picked me up off the couch from where I was crying about thinking I have Cottard’s Disease or whatever my latest paranoia is, slipped me into my thongs, let me out of the house in a dress that could quite easily have been a singlet, greasy hair and no make up (they probably just violated about six friendship codes right there) and took me to a pub in The Hills. It’s in the quasi country, I mean, who will see us in the borderline country?

Every man in the state, apparently. It was dick-a-palooza.

So me and my bitches – Endora, DJ Lansy and Betty Brown, took our thrones and watched the man meat parade past. At one point in the night, I turned to them and said, ‘it’s like we’re in a boy supermarket and we can have whatever the fuck we want’. This, my darlings, is how life was meant to be.

What’s more, men were trying to get our attention. A lovely young thing gave up his table for us so we could sit down and then the lovely bouncer went out of his way to find us an extra chair and we didn’t even ask! As we left he sweetly told us to ‘take care’. It was at this point that I was seriously convinced I had Cottard’s Disease… I mean, I MUST have died and gone to Heaven.

Also, The Voice was there. How bout that. My friends have decided to call him The Computer. Apparently, he sounds like a computer. Insert crude phrases about double clicking my mouse and crashing my harddrive. He asked me to do shots with him. I’m incredibly flattered that he thinks I’m young enough to still do shots. He had to rush off to the musical theatre (ahem) so you know… whatever…

To be continued…