Uncensored Self Expression

Conversation with my friend R_:

Me: My husband texted me to find out what I was doing. I told him, “Hot flashing Mother Fucker.”

R_: What!! Does B_ like it when you answer him like that?

Me: When we first began dating he mistook the pet name as an insult (imagine that!!), got butt hurt, and suggested I stop.

I hated the idea of conforming to social norms with a less spirited personality in order to please him. To change who I was–or who I was becoming–felt stifling, akin to the controlled environment of my past. As much as I wanted to please my sweetheart, I knew it was more important to stay true to myself…and my need for uncensored self expression. I responded with this:

Hell no mother fucker! How about I use it more lard balls?! Maybe if I use it often enough you’ll pull your pious throbbing butt stick out your frigging hairy anus and realize I’m just being the same adorable snarky girlfriend you were smitten with the first day we met. And, just so ya know ya shit twat, the word, Mother Fucker–and its associated variations of fuck, fucking, fucked, fucker, fuckwit, fuckup, fucktard, and fuckity fuck fuck–is a fucking awesome word! 😉 😉

Did ya see the two winky smiley faces I inserted my love? I used, and will continue to use, winky smiley faces so you’ll know I’m just messin around. Pay attention to the winkies ya plump-lipped, flat-assed, one-eyed trouser snake dingle dong.

#UncensoredSelfExpression

 

 

 

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Health Department Inspector and the Dildo Dilemna

I often send my friend, an inspector for the health department, stories highlighting my penchant for using up out-dated food from my storage room. She writes back telling me how she and her colleagues laugh at the lengths I’ll go to avoid waste.

So, yesterday, when I invited my friend to have lunch at my house, she seemed hesitant.

“I’ll treat you to lunch at a restaurant.” She offered.

“Save your money. I can make salads and top it with turkey instead of grilled chicken. You don’t mind leftover turkey do you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you. Let’s go out.”

“It’s no bother. Salads are simple to make. Don’t worry, I won’t use anything out-dated from my storage room.”

“Okay.” She relinquished.

As promised, I made a nice salad with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, diced apples, and candied walnuts.

While we ate conversation turned to an assortment of topics, one, of which, led me to reveal my latest solution to a dildo problem. It was too long…too painful to use. “So I cut off part of it.” I explained.

“Really?!” She gasped.

“How much did you cut off?”

“About a third of it.” I said holding up my fingers to give her a visual of the two plus inches that had been removed.”

“Which end did you cut?”

“The base,” I answered, “…didn’t want to mess with the smooth tip.”

“Smart decision. But if you removed the width of the base, how do you keep it from slipping out of the strap on?”

“Safety pins.” I announced with problem solving pride. “I experimented with other solutions but safety pins won out in the end. Silicone didn’t melt well with a cigarette lighter so I couldn’t cut out the middle and reattach the end piece. Thread cut through the silicone when I tried to sew it. It’s in the other room. Here, I’ll just show it to you.”

I stepped toward the bedroom to retrieve it and emerged moments later holding a bright red dildo hanging from a black strap on.

She examined it and said, “That’s perfect. But what did you use to cut through the silicone?”

Pointing to the knife on the kitchen counter, I said, “The same knife I just used to make your salad.”

Color drained from her face.

“But I WASHED it first!” I defended myself. “I swear it was clean.”

Princess Lucy

           “It’s a girl.” The doctor informed my father in the hospital waiting room on a wintery morning in 1963. (In those days, family members weren’t allowed in labor and delivery.) After three boys—Scott, Joseph and Peter—my father was thrilled to finally have his little girl.

           Later, when the nurse handed my father his bundle of joy, she said, “Congratulations. It’s a boy.”

           “We’ll see about that.” said Father, and then he pulled off my diaper.

           Yep. I have a vagina—making me the family “princess,” and, at the same time, a second class citizen in the LDS (Mormon) church.

           Two more brothers—Jeffery and Corey—were born after me and my role as “princess” became a necessary tool for survival. As with many Mormon families, my fight for attention began early in life. When no one in the neighborhood came to see Mother’s new addition to the family, she rectified the situation by taking me for a walk on the first sunny day in February. One step out the front door onto a thin layer of ice and down we toppled to the bottom of three concrete steps, granting me my first performance as “cry baby.” The neighbors came running. Mother was overjoyed.

            As with Nephi, in the Book of Mormon, I was born of goodly parents. Father was the absent-minded scientist and mother was the playful playwright—think Mary Poppins with a typewriter. Both were loving but nerdy. Neither had much time or inclination to parent us beyond the basic necessities. The Mormon way of raising obedient, drug-free, temple-worthy—virgin and non-critically thinking—children is to feed ‘em and send ‘em out the door to school, church, or sports.

By age nine, an emotional disconnect was fully in place, not just with my parents, but with my siblings as well. After school one day, I was watching Gilligan’s Island when Peter turned to me and said, “Pull my finger.”

           “No.” I said. “I don’t want to pull your finger. You’ll fart.”

           Peter farted anyway, even though I never pulled his finger, and then roared with laughter. My brothers and all of their buddies laughed too and then lifted their legs to poison one another with more toxic gas. I covered my nose and prayed for a sister‒a confidant who could share my disgust for ill-mannered boys. Maleness surrounded me, evidenced by toilet seats in upright positions and dried tacky urine on tiled bathroom floors. Even the dog, Dudley, was male and prone to dog farts. I complained to my parents but Father explained that flatus was a natural human function; which, he elaborated, “typically takes place eight to twenty times a day and is merely the expulsion of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, hydrogen and methane, the byproduct of bacterial fermentation in the gastrointestinal tract. The Nitrogen,” he qualified his statement, “however, is not produced in the body, but is a component of environmental air, which enters the body via swallowing.”

           It was important to him that I understand gas is not totally generated in the stomach or bowels as some persons erroneously believe. Father continued to pontificate, “It’s unnecessary to maintain excessive gas in the alimentary canal because it causes undue pain and therefore should be released whenever the need arises.” He punctuated his statement with a loud flatus emission and Mother smiled lovingly at him.

           Someday, I said to myself, “I’ll marry a handsome prince who’ll take me far, far, away.”

Minchin-gasm

I’m not what people would call a groupie. I love film but when I recommend a favorite one to my friends or family and they ask me who starred in it, I can rarely remember the names of any  of the actors or actresses.

I listen to all kinds of music but can’t tell you the names of my favorite songs, the words to any songs, or who sings them.

But, suddenly, I’m embracing one comedian/musician with groupie-esque zeal: Tim Minchin. I deem him a genius equal to Einstein and Beethoven. His songs, his insights, his humor, his performances are utterly brilliant. He’s the only famous person that could, potentially, make me go weak in the knees if I ever got a chance to meet him in person.

I’m posting this link to my blog so I can find it easily when I want to enjoy a Minchin-gasm.

Enjoy.


 

 

Fuck You, Dickhead

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. Certain names and details have been changed.

Are we back in kindergarten? Seriously, Richard—Dick…head—Franco, you don’t like poetry? Fuck you!

Those are the words I should’ve voiced last night when you said, “Stop with all the poetry on your blog.” But I can’t always get to the root of my real feelings until hours, sometimes days, later.

Not everyone likes poetry. I get that. You probably got turned off to poetry after reading Walt Whitman back in junior high. There’s no telling how many budding poets fucking Whitman will underrun. If I was his English teacher, I’d have taken a great big red marker to his papers…or just fucked flunked him.

Not all poetry is created equal. Some poetry gives me poemgasms and others make me want shoot the poet for raping his lexicon. Poetry is personal. What speaks to me, may not speak to you. But to take the whole genre of poetry and toss it in the trash is asinine, you smartass swine. (Ha! Proof that rhyme makes lines sublime!) It’s like eating liver as a child and then refusing to eat steak because you hate beef.

What you don’t understand, Dickhead, is that poetry saved my life. Yeah, I know that sounds melodramatic so I’ll explain. When I was married to a Fuckiopath, I adhered to a shitload of unwritten fuckcrazy rules. Here are just a few:

  • Keep Fuckiopath Happy.
  • Don’t say or do anything to upset Fuckiopath.
  • When Fuckiopath hurts me, don’t cry. Tears make him, “uncomfortable” e.g. unhappy.

So I screamed inside my head—a lot. But, after thirty years of holding in the tears, eventually, I sprung a leak and poems seeped out. Poetry gave pain a voice. And, just as a small trickle of water soon becomes a stream and the stream a torrent and the torrent a flood sweeping all before it, my words tore our so-called perfect pretty Mormon family-life asunder—setting me free from that suicidal monster.

In this year’s super bowl ads, this public service announcement demonstrates how dangerous it is for a victim to speak. Please take a moment to watch this 30 second ad. (http://youtu.be/tJaSj_qipic)

The take away is: “When it’s hard to talk, it’s up to us to listen.”

That’s right, Dickhead, even if my words come out in rhyme…or gibberish, listen up. They have deeper meaning than kindergarten small-minds comprehend. I’m grateful that you’re reading my blog. Truly, I’m honored. I’m merely asking you to take a moment, use your big boy brain—the brain you use to engineer architectural masterpieces, speak three languages fluently, and waltz with world-class grace—to hear me…savor my beauty—my work of art.

Yes, I write poems. I’d say I wrote this one just for you but I didn’t. It trickled out four years ago as I began to understand the complexities and value of poetry. But, don’t worry, I’m writing a poem just for you. It’s called, Fuck You, Dickhead.

Poems Right Me

by Lucy Furr

I write poems

sudoku poems

swapping words

back to front, front to back,

up, down

crisscross

NO

more like Rubik’s poems

multi-dimensional in purpose and meaning

a playground for my prisoned thoughts

respite for my battered soul

a sunny afternoon spent tête-à-tête with great minds

poets, dead and living

a melancholy waltz in God’s embrace

words lines rhymes

alliteration

buried secrets

twisted reality

knots unwinding

mysteries revealed

truth spins round and round

I am right

poems I write

poems right me

Oh, and by the way, Richard. Thanks for holding me last night in that awkward moment when I cried on the dancefloor—out in front of everyone. You knew it was cathartic and patiently let the tears flow uninhibited. That took nerves of steel, especially for an engineer, to not step in and fix the leak. Your gentle act was…well…poetic. And, thanks for encouraging me to write this scathing post for you. That took courage, too. You are, indeed, a dear friend. Thank you. (((Hugs)))

Bar Etiquette 101 – What Not to Say

Across the room a devilishly handsome man holds me in his gaze. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I return a coquettish grin. Then he tied me up and spanked me. Wait! That’s in my other book, Fifty Shades of Mormonism. Oops. Without turning my head, I watch him slowly wind his way past bar stools, a pool table, patrons in various stages of inebriation, to stand behind me. I turn, hold out my hand, and introduce myself.

“Hi, I’m Lucy.”

“Tom. Nice to meet you. I’m from Nevada…here on business—oil and gas.”

He announces his profession with brash confidence that screams of hidden insecurities. A real oil man—the rich tycoon he ineptly portrays—wouldn’t brandish his ace of spades with unsophisticated flair. I quickly deem him an out-of-towner hoping to plunge his dick into a Utah pussy bush.

“What do you do?” I ask, poking at his façade.

“I’m in oil and gas.” He announces again as though I didn’t hear him the first time.

“No, I get that. What do you do in oil and gas?”

“Sales.” He says, as his head drops briefly downward.

I imagine most women wouldn’t have noticed the almost imperceptible tipping motion of his head;  but I see everything—a singular raised brow, furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, twinkling eyes, eyes that turn from sweet warm hazel to molten hate–a survival skill learned from having lived amongst fuckiopaths for so many years.

“And you?”

I hesitate. I’m a realtor zealously attempting to transition into a full-time writing career. Even though I’m currently writing three books and a blog, I still won’t call myself a writer. I can’t claim that honor until at least one of my books is on the market.

But I hate the meaningless conversations that follow after revealing my profession. I can almost answer the next question, “How’s the market?” before it’s even asked. Jesus Fucking Christ, who the hell cares about the market! They’re just houses. The real topic is me—the passionate, kind, intelligent, sexually-charged, fascinating person wrapped up inside this hot, albeit menopausal, body standing in front of you Mr. Suitor. I’m not at a bar, wearing a mini-skirt and dancing shoes, hoping to sell my newest listing.

“I’m a…writer.” Oh, God. Did I just say that?

“Really?! Wow. What do you write?”

Fuck. Let the mental gymnastics begin. Do I say, “A memoir titled, The Naughty Wife,” giving him the impression that I put out—an easy lay? Or do I provide my new working title, The Obedient Mormon Wife, instilling the visual of a sexually-repressed dreary-old MoMo? Maybe I should say I’m authoring a blog, Church of the Pink Vibe of Latter Day Sex. But I hardly know him. Do I want the men I meet face-to-face reading my intimate thoughts? I’d almost rather bear my beautifully augmented breasts than expose my vulnerable inner world.

“A book,” I say, “The Obedient Mormon Wife.” I go the safe route since my interest in this wannabe-tycoon began to wane the moment he opened his mouth.

“Yeah? I’m Catholic. But I’m not judgmental. Doesn’t matter to me what religion you belong to.”

Not “judgmental”? I’ve heard that word a lot lately as friends and neighbors attempt to love-bomb me back into the LDS church. It’s the mother fucker of loaded words for religious folks, and apparently, not just for Mormons. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Love the person, hate the sin. He, who is without sin, cast the first stone. Only God can judge—and, of course, Mormon Bishops.

“Oh, I’m not Mormon. Used to be, but now I’m atheist.”

“Seriously! His eyes widen. “You don’t believe in God?”

“Nope.”

“But what about the afterlife?! You actually believe that when you die…it’s…it’s…ALL OVER?! Your loved ones put you in the ground…throw dirt over you…and that’s it?”

“Yep. You got it. Or incinerate me and use my ashes to plant a tree. Hell, I’m okay if they just flush me down the toilet. Once I’m dead it doesn’t matter anymore. At some point ya gotta grow up…use your critical-thinking skills…stop believing in Santa Claus…the Tooth Fairy.”

I turn my head to take a sip from my Mai Tai and…whooooooosh…he’s gone.

I chuckle. No. He’s not judgmental…as long as I believe in God.

To be fair, I judged him first. But, hello! Using one’s brain to judge someone isn’t a fucking sin! Yes, I prefer to have more data when making judgment calls, but, sometimes, scant information will suffice.

Lucy Furr Words of Wisdom, post 35, verses 1-2

  1. Behold,” sayeth the High Priestesshood of the Church of the Pink Vibe of Latter Day Sex, “Be not foolish, fair maidens hotties. Useth thy intellect at club-eths and bar-eths.
  2. Yay, yay, yay…yo, yo, yo…boom chicka boom boom…wo, wo, whoa…be ye therefore judgmental when God-believing—and non-believing—dumbasses seeketh to diveth into thy busheth.

(No…I don’t have a lispeth. Just making my scripture sound super-duper holy and legit.)