"She puts the whore

in 'horrible'."
"She puts the itch in 'bitch'. Big Red doesn't have feelings. Just testicles."
~Whitney and Courtney, Bring It On

I know. It's pretty sad that I can remember lame ass lines like the above.

LDs, if I was batting for the other team (so to speak), I'd be all up in Kisha's shiz like 'white on rice on a paper plate and a glass of milk in a snowstorm.' (LDs, if you can name that movie, take 900 points).

I like to think that she's helping me be a better blogger, and in turn, it's going to make me a better writer. I had a dream last night that I was at a ball, dancing with this handsome younger man, and instead of holding my right hand in his left, he intertwined his fingers with mine. Do you ever wake up feeling slightly bereft based on the dream you had? Ok...totally digressed on the post I was intending to write. I might go back to this one later on.

I started this postie with a 'whore' quote. Kisha is spoon-feeding me with 'one word association' and I'm doing a pretty good job rolling with it. Don't let her hog all the spotlight - give me something, yos! Her suggestion was 'whore.' He he he...

And this one's kind of a long one. Sorry.

~~
Whore. I haven't been called that in a long time; at least, not in seriousness. If you find that me talking about sex and sexual conquest might disturb you, you might want to stop reading.

Now.

Mr Realist calls me 'his whore' (which, technically, I am. I am married to the guy, and he'd better not be gettin' it anywheres else *grin*). But...once upon a time...namely my freshman year in college, little under halfway through my first semester....

See, I was dating this guy; we'll call him Bob.* But before I get there, here's a small bit of background on me.

I was a virgin all the way through high school. I was one of those 'good Catholic girls' that didn't do more than a bit of heavy petting. My first real boyfriend was Catholic as well, and we were both determined to be virgins when we got married (and yes, a year into the relationship, we'd started talking about it. It might have been the beginning of the end: a year later, we called it quits). There were a couple of times it had come down to beingthisfreakingclose to saying, literally, "Fuck it." But we didn't, and we move on.

Freshman year. Bob.* I was ready. He was ready (wtf is with these virgins??). I had it planned (come on, who has sex on a fucking schedule? Me, apparently). We did it about two months into the relationship...and again, that was the beginning of the end. He told me he loved me because I was different - that I didn't care what people thought, that I was beautiful and witty and athletic and artsy. After he took my heart, tossed it into a blender with some fava beans and a nice Chianti and had it for dinner, I found out from his roommate that he got told that there was 'no way I was a virgin - she was way too into it, and how could sex be that good with a virgin?' Um, fuck you? I did what felt good (and by the time you're 18, you've probably seen your fair share of sex scenes in movies) and I ran with it.

I must have taken that "I didn't care what people thought of me" to heart, because I went all Tiger Woods. Became a 'jersey chaser' (going after the sports players...but I never went baseball. Wonder if subconsiously I didn't because Bob* was one?).

Football players.
Soccer players.
Basketball players.
Nerds.
Rednecks.
I was an equal opportunity whore - if you had alcohol you were willing to share (and on a rare occasion, weed) (some may say slut, but I see those words as interchangeable), but I was still selective. I mean, I didn't sleep with just anyone.

I remember being called a whore to my face, very cruelly, by a football player that I'd denied. He could be violently angry when drunk, and on the weekends, he was that most of the time. I was at a party with some girl friends in the all-guys dorm, and there were quite a few people around. The guy called me this, and I stood my drunken ground, and said, "No, I'm just a bitch because I won't fuck you, right?" He was furious, and a couple of the football guys had to bodily remove him from the party. I went down to the girls' bathroom on the first floor, and a couple of my soccer mates followed me to make sure I was ok. One asked me why I said what I did, and I had to laugh. I'd heard a joke not long before:

"What's the difference between a whore and a bitch? A whore has sex with everyone; a bitch has sex with everyone but you." Rob* came down to see if we were ok, and he found three of us sitting on a nasty bathroom floor, laughing hysterically. He wanted me to come to his room with him. I went.

I was trashed, yos. He made me lay down, got me a glass of water, and talked to me. He didn't try anything, and I passed out. Several hours later, I woke to find a sheet over me, and Rob* sleeping on the couch.

It made me realize that I was a fucking moron. I put on my shoes and grabbed my keys and left. What I didn't find out until later was that Rob* liked me. As in 'wanted to be with me.' He and I talked. I couldn't be with anyone until I figured my own shit out. I skipped too many classes, got drunk quite a bit, baked a little less often, but quickly shut down the "Free Sex" factory. I actually don't think I had sex more than a couple handfuls of times the rest of the second semester. Almost flunked out of college, too. He graduated, and I haven't seen him since. Rob*, I hope you've found a good woman that you deserve.

For a brief time, I was a whore. Like Coconut Pete says: "Have a good time, all the time; always eat the worm." (Club Dread) I've changed my ways, LD.

Of course, one of my conquests just had to tell Mr Realist several years ago at our Homecoming, just after we got married:

"You do know you're now the President, right?"
"President of what?"
"President of the 'Who's Messed Around With Mrs Dreamer' club." (we'd talked about all our sexual partners long before we got married, so he knew.)

Here's to President Realist. *raises glass*

And before you ask, yes. I was on the Pill AND I made Every. Single. One. wear a condom.

Heepwah, and be safe out there (of course, I feel bad writing heepwah and talking about being a whore in the same postie).

Your retired whore
Mrs Dreamer

PS: *names have been changed to protect the innocent.

PPS: I love that a story from more than ten years ago can be commented on with something from today's world.

PPPS: Yes. I smoked weed in college (quite a bit, actually). I haven't done it in years, and I have no intentions of doing so. It wasn't worth gaining the 60 pounds in three years. If you think less of me, well, then, that's your problem.