The New Year and 12 Months of Sexy Pants

Well a month has passed in the New Year so I am writing this in the toddler portion of 2009. Thus far I have managed to keep to my resolution of sexy lingerie every day, all year, not matter how I feel.

I purged my collection of “utility” and “I feel fat” pants and exchanged them for the “Saloon Girl” frills and honestly I couldn’t be happier. In the past, it never would have occurred to me to purchase quality lingerie for every day use…I usually had the utility pair on unless there was a remote possibility of showing them off or rather showing them off for the five seconds before they came off. Why wait? Now I am proudly mincing around with frills, lace, sequence, satin ribbons, bows (not all at once mind you).

I appreciate that the world is mess and going down the shitter but I am not Atlas. I have done my bitching about the derivative market and lack of corporate oversight to anyone who would listen, including the drag queen Empress Martina who ran in my riding for the last federal election . At this point all we can do is hold on by our fingernails. And while we collectively dangle over the cliff’s edge, I will do it in an outrageously perfect, lacy number.

In “ The King’s Whore” red no less.

Another year over...

Summing up 2008

So another year has ended.

Economic ruin for many, war, destruction, election after election resolving nothing…you would think with all this doom and gloom it would be a piece of piss to get laid…no money in the bank? No problem, bend over…repossessed car? No problem, get your tits out! No job? Pull out your “pork sword” sweetheart and see how you feel with your balls being juggled (only this time not by a bank).

Everyone should be whoring around like no tomorrow. Lets face it, we are all sitting on the deck chairs of the Titanic and since we aren’t steering the damn boat we should at least be able to taste some champagne before we gag on sea water…. but nooooooooooo, not in this town, not in Toronto.

Toronto is still the dull, sexually repressed village it has always been and will always be…

Ok, Toronto has its good points. The gay village is fun. The Nuit Blanche art show is fun. The Danforth festival is filling and fun. McVeigh’s is still my favourite Irish bar. But I still have to fly to Ireland to have a good, flirty time.

Thus, to finish off 2008 I will be flying with Masur on Boxing Day to spend New Years Eve with the northern boys. With a positive approach and crossing my fingers and toes both Masur and I are hoping that there will be some serious moral lapses in the local population. After the disappointment with Edinburgh, I am looking forward to returning to my favourite isle... touring around the Donegal coast, visiting Derry and maybe catching the mummers in action.

And should the sex gods prevail, a ringing of bells (or rather bell end’s – oh my)

Tits Malone’s New Years Resolution

I promise to wear quality/slutty lingerie every day (no excuses!) for the whole year.

Shit for brains but in a hellofa suit

So here we are in a global recession. Everyone on both sides of the political spectrum are scrambling to point fingers and lay blame. So much of it is just foaming at the mouth hysterical rants but I have a primo example of why I am currently scared to death by the inner fuckwittedness of portfolio managers.

Elevators confuse them.

Yes, that’s right - elevators. I spend almost every trip to work either in a cramped elevator or sometimes flying solo with some high powered suit yet somehow there is this weird confusion with the entire process of going up and down. How difficult is the concept? Pressing a button – a button that conveniently lights up to the floor you designate - seems to be too befuddling and beyond them. Thank god it is just up and down. I can't imagine if elevators could go sideways - it would be suit-chaos! mayham! distaster!

Instead, I look in wonder at these self-styled masters of the universe - why yes Mr/Madame Suit, should you wish to visit the 34th floor - you have to press the 34 button! Every fucking day they stand there and then jump when they realise the elevator didn’t stop. How dare the elevator not know just who the fuck they are! And I watch whole packs of them try and scramble out at the same time when the doors are about to close. It's like Keystone Cops in Armani.

That really scares the shit out of me. Even today, ten suits and yet not one of them thought “we all work on the same floor but look! - somehow the right floor number isn’t lit up, maybe I should press the button.”

But no. Doesn't seem to occur to them.

The pushing and shoving is awesome to witness. And then the laying of blame as they realise they have to go all the way up or all the way down to get to their floor. For you see, we have express elevators...and if you miss the floor, you are in for a ride. Unless you jump out and wait for another elevator. Again, most towers in the core are built the exactly the same way. It is not a new development. The scary part is that these people are responsible for the growth of pension funds for fuck sake.

And elevators defeat them!

For all the bitching you hear when they miss their floor you would think Castro was behind it.

So kids, if you want some friendly advice, get used to Pedigree Chum Soufflé!

Or blame elevators.

Birthday

Is that a new wrinkle (or should I say “joy line”) ?

So I am a year older…and what has my new status of ‘Princess Cougar’ brought me?

Well, apparently quite a bit of attention from dumb 20yr old men looking for some sex-credibility … the question is…do I take the plunge? So far, these wee things are just too packed full of cum to have a conversation with. Just once I would like to be sober and coaxed out of my lingerie…in a lingering, fully engaged sort of way. The boys that I seem to attract are the puppies-in-a-sack sort of sexual experience rather than an Alsatian with a Mammoth’s thigh bone I have been hoping for.

I appreciate my own hypocrisy of continuously seeking quality time on my back but then ignoring the boys-a-plenty from the ages of 20-30…this year, I have decided to go “puppy”. It will be a year of saying yes to those 20 somethings …I will get laid in this boring town even if I have to invade city hall myself and take up residence in my own Coup de Vagina.


Year of the Cougar

Starring T.M’s fabulous lingerie collection
Co-starring: My “visitors-only” toy collection

Plot synopsis: Toronto lady with dreams of sexual fulfillment within her peer group, spends one too many weekends draining batteries and decides on her birthday that this year it will be different.

Lord Simcoe Day...or lets take a day off in August everyone

Lord Simcoe Day

Well, if we can celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday for delivering us our capital city Ottawa (look how that place turned out) the best way of celebrating a bullshit holiday - based on yet another repressed, inbred, aristocratic Limey - was to spend it naked by a pool.

And for once, getting my tits out had that extra special meaning ...and in true Tits style and with a tip of a glass, the day had nudity, great company, great food and lots and lots of sunscreen...40Fs need plenty of coverage (not unlike the UK)

You have to hand it to those Limey bastards. They all seem to manage to be born in a great summer or late spring month (what a coincidence). And where would we be without a pukefest May 24 (cheers Vicky!) or Lord Simcoe (otherwise known as Civic)

Lord Simcoe....actually deserves a bit of respect. He abolished slavery within Upper Canada by 1810 and established Fort York as a capital which would become Toronto. And if that hadn't happened what the fuck would I have to complain about...

Other than:

Hockey (Leaf fans)
TTC (an embarrassment)
Every loser that stands me up or shows up on a first date wearing a disco coloured plastic visor, a Hawiian shirt, Burmuda shorts and tube socks (but drew the line at sandles)

Ugly condos destroying the waterfront
Pigeons
West Nile mosquitoes
"Where do you work" as an introduction
ditto for "what do you do" or "what firm do you work for"

Anyone who thinks that the city continues beyond Eglinton (mistaken)

Most people with a telephone number that begins 905
Certain CBC personalities that need to be bitch slapped for a variety of cheese crimes...at least Mansbridge has the balls to be bald and boring at the same time...
Straight men that wear baby pink (although not exclusive to Toronto)

Ottawa: Spent a year there in just 48 short hours

Have you ever had a dreamy dream about a city, run by an army of sexually repressed, cyborg accountants with small cocks?

If yes, get your ass to Ottawa...because baby, paradise awaits

Those of you with genitalia and mental faculties intact...go for the museums and then boot it over to Montreal before the overwhelming vanilla of the place makes your brain (and possibly other bits) shrivel...

Curcit Boy 1 Bare-Assed Crazy 0

Oh how I love my neighbourhood sometimes...

I was lounging on the sofa decompressing from the day. From my homey oasis, I heard some loud yelling from the street. Knowing my neighbourhood as I do, drama will never be far away, so I went out on my balcony to investigate what was all the hub-bub...and lo, and behold...

In the middle of the street below (and in broad daylight I might add) a man was using an orange pylon as a megaphone screaming "Hey Vaginas". Which, in of itself was amusing...even the Canadian lunatics are polite...hahaha

Then after having a bit of a shout, he would then pull his pants down and start waving his (rather) small cock to oncoming traffic...This happened a few times and I was a bit amused...however I live in a very, very gay neighbourhood...and waving your pink bits to a bunch of millitant lessies...is just asking for trouble...thankfully, the only reaction was from some passing (very) gay boys who laughed at him and then yelled from across the street "Hey buddy...are you a lesbian because your cock is for pussies"..HAHAHAHA

Oh the sulk from the crazy bastard after that...told off by a circut boy wearing a girl's bikini top and satin shorts...that will learn ya!

An Ode to a city block

Yesterday, a city block burned to the ground. The old historical buildings housed long established, family run stores, bars and the famous Duke’s cycle. It is all shocking and sad because of the lives forever changed and the street landscape now altered and smouldering.

Masur owned a bar, on that very block, in a space which was now on the news and on fire!
Holy fuck!
Masur and her business partner had the warehouse space way back in the olden days (during the early 1990s)and spent many years trying to make a profit, handle insane liquor laws, pacify crazy go-go dancers and deal with people fucking in bathrooms. It was an experience that made owning a bar look glamorous at first until the realisation that the long, long hours didn’t really pay off and you lived like a vampire (yet poor). The sex as a customer however, was noteworthy!!!

Great memories ...and all mostly tarty (you don't say). Good tarty though. The type of sexual free-for-all that you get away with when your nipples point upwards. One of the boys that really turned my head in those bricks and morter now on fire was Shakespeare.

I met Shakespeare when the bar space was a cocktail/grunge hang out called Mrs. Smith’s Cocktail Party. Shakespeare was one of those fateful encounters that opened my eyes (not just my legs) and sent me down a path of sexual enlightenment and with a new sexual dynamic. Sure he was over the top but then so was I…the folly of youth. Shakespeare was one of the very, very few men I have met or even seen in public that could pull off leather pants.(or at least I hope my memory is accurate and not just dreamy dreamy) As a RSC (yes that would be the Royal Shakespean alumni darling!) he was a natural luvvie could sashay with the best of them…Poser, you ask? honey he was the king of posing! He was a king-poser and I in my lamb-leather, biker kitten outfit...would be the Queen St W Queen of posing...so take that poser-boy!
And no poser sex would be complete without images of entwined limbs and those fucking engineering boots... footwear just retarded enough to get laid for implied coolness ....and since I lived both abroad and in Toronto, the luckiest and most internationally successful boots I ever owned!!!!!!!!!!!!

women...when watching news, reading the paper, doing the washing or just daydreaming about past loves somehow, it is always about the shoes...

And then when no longer thinking footwear (see, I can't help being girlie) I was bombarded with other memories including various back alley naughty shenanigans, compounded with morally questionable evenings (finally, back to the sex)..especially with someone who was at the time - a bit of an international pop star...who shall remain nameless...and then once with ... oh god...what a drunken idiot...stop typing bitch...etc,etc,etc...

So it was interactive wake-up-to-past-sluttery evening news.

I may seem a bit trivial to refer to my past escapades in light of circumstances of people losing all they possess. No insult is intended. Just that those bricks and mortar represented so much of my youth, my memories and some of the best moments of my drunken idioticy. And now without the physical evidence...

I donated at Scotiabank and I urge all of you to donate to your own favourite charity.(I regret nothing mon chere)

May they have the imagination to rebuild something with character and not a Home Depot monstrosity.