A Little Rain Must Fall . . .

Lest you think the life of a sex blogger (gawd, I shudder to think that's what I've become - my parents would be mortified) is a non- stop orgy, let me remind you about the joy of conference calls. Sex bloggers have to pay the bills, too, you know.

Of course, they always fall during my period. Let me tell you, I'm not one of those girls from a Judy Blume book that sees her period as a visit from the blessed fertility goddesses. In case you men didn't realize it, it pretty much sucks to lose so much blood that you seriously consider the merits of a tourniquet over a tampon. And I haven't even started on cramps, which the mommy bloggers have already covered in far greater detail than I ever could.

The subject of any conference call has pretty much been covered already by hundreds of emails. It really exists to bring the boss "up to speed" (please spank me later for using that phrase. Please?) I generally like to bring a boss up to speed by shooting him out of cannon, which is probably why I'm not the boss. Of course, he could also check his Blackberry for the emails and spare us the call, but that would require reading. Did I mention that the chairman of our local literacy campaign hates to read? No, I haven't, because I'm still trying to tell you how nothing says clueless poseur like a middle-aged white guy with a Blackberry. Here's a tip on how to get into my pants, guys: don't fill up my Inbox with pointless emails that just say "thx".

Of course, while Mr. Blackberry is verbally recapping said emails, I distract myself by cruising the Craigslist Casual Encounter ads. I'm trying to imagine why sex with a couple that is attending a Robin Williams show is supposedly superior to sex with people who think RW is just an irritating nanny-fucker.

"What do you think, Angie?"

"Mmm-mork?" That Blackberry-sucking motherfucker. I'm blank.

Impatiently now, "Angie?" Oh, don't get all superior with me, you cocksucker.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Is someone on a mobile - that last part broke up."

You get the picture. I can practically see that smug look through the wires. The one that says, "what more do you expect from a woman with two kids working from home."

I answer his repetitive question and spend the rest of the call searching the web for email-borne Blackberry-destroying viruses.
Not that fuckslit would notice anyway.