the 941

I think my window of opportunity to become a lesbian has officially closed.

As a happily married soon-to-be-40-year-old, it seems pretty certain I’ll never have an intimate dalliance with a member of the female gender. How depressing is that! I’m going to go down in the annals of personal sexual history for never going down. This acknowledgement will undoubtedly cause a major nosedive in my hip factor among my more sexually adventurous peers.

When I was in high school, if you were a female who clearly preferred the ladies, you became the object of derision.  To be called a lesbian was tantamount to being called a leper. I vaguely remember a very manly girl named RJ who wore army fatigues every day to school. She was never referred to by her proper name; instead, she was disparagingly referred to as “The Big Dyke.” Wide acceptance of homosexuality had not yet hit the mainstream. Remember, folks, I went to high school during the Reaganesque, ultra-conservative pre-Ellen days.

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Even though I am happily married to the world’s most handsome man (in my humble opinion), I cannot shake my insatiable hunger for prime young beef that crosses my path.
While I would never actually act upon my lustful urges, I never miss an opportunity to ogle the young’uns. Whether they are the smokin’ hot Hollywood celebs du jour or merely the cute bag-boy at the local supermarket, I find myself imagining them like one would a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae: smooth, creamy and deee-licious.

A few days ago, I had a Wild Kingdom cougar moment. While waiting for my writing muse to appear, I dilly-dallied in the land of iTunes videos. I watched an episode of Showtime’s hit show “Weeds” in which a naked Silas, the frisky, almost-legal son of Mary-Louise Parker, was… ahem… orally pleasuring an older woman. Needless to say, I got heated up watching this little cutie going down. I almost splurted after peeking at his perfectly round tushie.

My latest big-cat encounter was with one of my niece’s friends, Paul (I have changed his name to protect the innocent and absolutely friggin’ adorable). Last night, my friend and I stopped by the bar at which my niece works to have a drink. Soon after our arrival, Paul sat down at our table and proceeded to have some sort of conversation with us, the contents of which I cannot recall. I was too busy drowning in his dreamy blue eyes with black eyelashes that extend to forever. This kid is something to behold; the way he looks at a woman can make her forget her own name. Between sips of my Summit beer, I guiltily imagined what other talents Little Mister Paul possesses. My niece would be horrified if she knew the extent of her dear old auntie’s naughty thoughts.

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Ed. note: This piece, by Theresa Rose, will appear in next week’s issue of Creative Loafing.

Sadly, my column this month would be more appropriate if it were titled “Sexless and the Suburbs.”
I’ve recently discovered that moving cross-country puts a serious crimp in one’s sex life. This week, my family and I packed up all of our worldly belongings, loaded up a 26-foot U-Haul and headed north to replant ourselves in my home state of Minnesota. When we made this major life decision, Michael and I promised each other we would go through the process with as much balance and joy as possible. Little did we know that lovemaking would not be included on the moving checklist.

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Ed. note: This piece, by Theresa Rose, will appear in next week’s issue of Creative Loafing.

My latest sexual sojourn was a spin through the land of cyber porn. What an eye-popping experience that was.

I recently arrived home from an exhaustive book promotion tour and was itching to reconnect genitally with hubby. Unfortunately, he was unavailable to service his libidinous wife: He was driving home from dropping off our wee sprite at camp in Savannah, Ga. Even though I only had a matter of hours to wait for my beloved, I was unwilling to hold off for the real thing. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Although I am not a regular viewer of adult video, I thought I would poke around and see what titillating movies there was to see, courtesy of my laptop, MacDaddy. Over the last several days, I heard no less than three references made to YouPorn.com, the best of free porn on the Internet.

I took my urges as a kinky cosmic sign that I should check out what all the fuss was about.

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Ed. note: This piece is the latest entry in Theresa Rose’s ongoing column, Sex and the Suburbs. It will appear in next week’s issue of Creative Loafing.

Tits. Knockers. Gazongas. Jugs. The twins. There are as many nicknames for mammalian protuberances as there are sets of them bouncing about. Might I ask, what on earth is the big friggin’ deal about boobs?

Ever since my own set started to sprout as a self-conscious, early-to-bloom fifth-grader, I recognized that breasts attracted a lot of attention, no matter the size. If a girl was well-endowed, then everyone called her “stacked.” If hers were an average size, then she would still suffer the humiliation of having her bra strap perpetually snapped by the school doofus. If, God forbid, a girl had smaller nubs, then she was labeled as being “flat as a pancake” or a charter member of the “itty bitty titty committee.”

In my day, this fear of being seen as too boyish prompted girls all over the nation to stuff their bras with handfuls of Kleenex. Nowadays, our society still has a fixation on cup size, but the accentuation technology has gotten more advanced. Every day, women across the country plop down $45 at Vicky’s Secret for a “Very Sexy” gel-stuffed plunge bra that holds more padding than boob. News flash, gals: A set of athletic socks will still do the job just fine.

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Ed. note: This is the first piece from Creative Loafing’s newest regular contributor, Theresa Rose. Her column will debut in next week’s issue, and is titled “Sex and the Suburbs.”

I am an almost-40 suburban housewife. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it?

Allow me to add even more pizzazz to the picture: I live in Lakewood Ranch, the antithesis of the trendy, urban vibe of downtown Sarasota. I admit it; I am decidedly unhip. I have no idea what the current hot spots are, I haven’t been out past midnight since the Clinton administration, my family and I don’t watch TV, and one of my favorite pastimes is reading Harry Potter with my kid. That’s how much of a friggin’ dork I am.

But look again. All is not lost with this particular Pleasantville Mom. There is a sassy, naughty side to me that I am dying to expose to the world. Even though my house looks nearly the same on the outside as the rest of my Stepfordian neighbors, there are some tidbits about me that would come as a surprise to my Labradoodle-walking Ranch brethren. For example, pomegranate martinis from Bonefish Grill make me unbelievably stupid, hubby and I practice Tantra every Sunday night (mmmmm…) and I regularly morph into a raving nutjob before taking my daughter to the bus.

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