The List . . .

Wanna know something I hate about living in Chicago? No, not all the snow we've been having. Nope, not even the sub-zero weather that keeps coming back like a bad yeast infection.

It's Eric and Kathy.

For those of you blessed to live in other radio markets, The Eric and Kathy Show is the Chicago radio version of Regis and Kelly, only without the clever banter. Kathy is basically a reformed party girl who pretends like she was a virgin on her wedding night. Eric is an uber-dork, an evangelical Christian who panders for ratings with mildly risque subjects designed by some asinine MBA program director to titillate your average housewife. And there must be someone listening, because these two are each paid more than a million bucks a year.

I can't tell you how bad they are, or how unfunny they are. And yet, when I happen to be driving to a client's office at that time of the morning, flipping the stations on the FM radio (oh, if I could only splurge on a Sirius receiver), I find myself coming back to their crappy show. It's like a scab that I can't stop picking at.

And there I was the other week, picking away, when Jackass (that would be Eric) starts talking about updating his "List" for the new year. Yeah, yeah, the list of celebrities that your spouse has to give you a free pass on if you ever get a chance to fuck them. Now Eric is such a tool that his wife (a pretty hot dental hygienist - yeah, they met after he started making that million a year) knows he's got zero chance of banging any of the chicks on his list. I mean, he's such a loser that he couldn't get George Michael to bang him if he had a baggie of crystal meth taped to his ass. So she probably humors the loser about what a stud he is, should he ever have the opportunity to cross paths with Jessica Alba.

Which of course got me thinking about this whole concept of the List, and how ultimately patronizing it is. It's essentially about your spouse, patting you on the head like a toddler, saying, "now, now, sweetums, of course you can sleep with Britney Spears. You have my full permission."

Because it's never gonna happen.

Which makes me angry. I want something more subversive than some "safe" List where the chance of any danger is less than that of lightning striking you in the middle of a Chicago winter.

You know what I want to see? The real List for people, the one we keep in our heads, and never tell anyone about. The list of friends and acquaintances, co-workers and in-laws, that we really would fuck. Maybe we've flirted with them in the copy room, maybe we exchanged questioning glances with them at the Starbucks. The people that we'd drop our trousers or lift our skirts for if we get just that right combination of cocktails and opportunity and alibi.

I want to see a List that could actually happen. And that would be so shocking, or improper, or just so surprising that your husband's or your wife's jaw would drop when they heard who it includes.

So please readers, feel free to tell me about the pastor at your church, or your wife's younger sister. Your husband's boss, or the next door neighbor's college co-ed. My own list includes a certain ex-boyfriend with a nine-inch cock that for some reason drives Mike insane with jealousy if I even happen to mention his name. Yes, the same Mike that fantasizes about seeing me with other men.

The comment section is now open. I promise I won't tell a soul.

Cock Blocked . . .

My apologies - that title implies that there's something sexual about this post, when it's more about blogging.

I'd like to post more frequently, but I just don't seem to have any adventures to add, even in the realm of fantasy. I mean, it can't really be considered writer's block if I don't have anything to say? I feel like that does a great disservice to all the amazing writers who have great ideas that they want to put down on paper, yet the words just don't come. At work, I write up a storm - business letters, research papers, you name it, it comes flowing out of my copy of Word.

It's me really - I just haven't been thinking about sex enough in general. And cocks in particular. I just don't have any stories that I can put down on paper. So I guess that makes me cock-blocked.

So there you have it - the first reported case of cock-blocking perpetrated on a female.

But . . . the writers will tell you that sometimes, you just have to write your way through it. Keep putting words down on paper, no matter that you can practically smell how bad the writing is even as your pencil keeps moving.

So I'm going to keep putting my cock fantasies down on paper, and I guess I'll tell you about my dream, and you'll promise to forgive me in advance for its lameness. You see, the other night, I had this dream. A dream about that Indian guy from the Harold and Kumar movies. Now, not that there's anything wrong with it, but I've never had a real strong attraction for Indian men. Just my preference, I guess. But the other night, Kumar shows up in my dream. And of course he brings his weed with him. Which, without fail, makes me ragingly horny. And because my husband's a square about those things, I've been deprived of that particular pleasure for more years than I'd like.

So in this dream, Kumar has got me stoned, and I can't stop thinking about how smooth and hard and brown his cock must look. And how smooth and hard and brown his yummy body must look under those clothes. So before you know it, I'm stripping down this B-movie star, and then we're banging away on my couch. And I am loving it. And for the past couple of days, I am looking at every East Indian young man that I see, and wondering if he wants to smoke a joint with me.

So afterward, I wake up from this dream, and of course I'm horny still, so I wake up Mike, and as we're having sex, he asks me what got me so fired up. And I tell him about Kumar while we're fucking, and that reminds him of something that happened a long time ago, when we were just dating casually.

So he tells me about how he was seeing this married woman at the time also, and how she was also fucking this other guy, and how the three of them would get together so that Mike could watch the married woman have sex with the other guy, who just happened to be Indian (yep, that's my Mike). Anyway, at some point, this woman happened to see my picture in Mike's wallet, and asked if I'd be interested in joining their little adventures.

Clearly, Mike didn't know me very well at that point, because he told her that he thought I was too much of a "good" girl to be down with having a mini-orgy with this couple. How wrong he was!

So that little tidbit pretty much sent me over the top, and then some. The past couple of days, I've had to rub out a couple more orgasms just thinking about Kumar and that lost foursome opportunity. Ah, maybe one day . . .

Young People . . .

. . . Fucking (Y.P.F.) is a movie that Mike and I rented last night. Mike basically rents any quasi-indie sex-related movie he comes across on Netflix (0kay, one more link here to another good sex movie), and he gives a movie bonus points if it has anything to do with threesomes or swinging. Now, since the list of good movies about these very interesting subjects is nowhere near as long as it should be, he's dragged home some real winners over the years.

So we really had low expectations for this particular movie. But we were really pleasantly surprised. Okay, so you're saying that there are lots of pleasant, sexy movies out there - is this blog turning into Mike and Angie at the Movies?

No. But given that wife-watching and hotwife fantasies are one of the biggest turn-ons for us, as well as many of our readers, I have to cite this movie as having the single best depiction of this scenario I've ever seen outside of a porno movie. It's not totally sexy (although the actors in this film are nearly all gorgeous to a fault), and it's quite awkward at times (like real life) but it was pretty hilarious.

I won't spoil it, but let's just say that whenever I finally grant Mike the pleasure of watching me have sex with someone, he's going to be bringing a comfy recliner and a roll of frozen cookie dough into the bedroom with him. So give it a try, and let us know what you think.

On that note, Mike and I happened to be in bed reading the other night, flipping through our local newspaper, when I happened across an ad for my gym. There in the center of the ad was my new trainer. Now, I can't say that there's been any vibe between me and him (it's hard to keep up a flirtation with a young stud when the babysitting room is paging me to come claim my tornado of a toddler), but when I showed the picture to Mike, he was very impressed with this handsome young man. He basically told me to go for it if I ever get the chance.

So maybe if I'm lucky enough, I might bring home a sexy tale like Hotwife Jamie's. I'll keep you posted.