Sex on the First Date?

Growing up, I was a wee little thing.  Skinny.  Boney.  (Ohhhh, I STILL hate that word).  Many of you who know me personally probably remember. 

So nobody was clamoring and knocking down my door to “get with me”.

And by “get with me”, I’m talking about Doing the Do.

The Nasty.

Boning.

Screwing.

Getting some.

Fucking.  

Oh sure, I was known enough since I was a cheerleader and I was always easy-going and I drove my own car and I hung out with Menina, who was arguably one of the prettiest black chicks at Palisades High School back in the day. 

What I like to call “popular by proximity”.  Ha.

But that was SO it.

I think most of the guys thought of me as their sister.  And whomever I had a crush on, they didn’t have any idea.  Instead, I had to hear about some chick in my inner-circle that they liked. 

“Try to get Tish’s number for me.”

“Yeah, alright.”  Roll the eyes.

Get your own damn number, shit.

So I was a virgin on prom night.  And for a long time after that, but that's neither here nor there.

While all my girls were trying to figure out their dresses and hairstyles and shoes and limousines and all that, ole Rocky was trying to figure out if that night was gonna be the night she had her back blown out. (lol, that expression is so damn funny to me.)

 Then the bottom fell out when my “boyfriend” at the time told me he couldn’t be my date and I ended up going with a 22 year old drug dealer by the name of Lucky (I have no idea what his real name was) whom I met exactly two days before prom .

And ain’t nobody ever been further away from getting a piece of ass than Lucky was.

I mean, I was down to do it with the boyfriend, but I’ll be damned if I was giving it up to this man I didn’t know.

I mean, I ain’t no scallywhop or nothing.

And it was the first date.  The only date really.

Sex on the first date is a no-no.

Or is it?

Today, with all the diseases and talk about unwanted pregnancies and crazy folks on the loose, it is a whole lot to worry about when you go on a date with a new guy or girl.

I know that when I have a conversation with my single friends and they are talking about a new man, the whole sex issue is a major part of the discussion.

“He is so friggin’ sexy, Roxanne.  He’s got these big arms and chiseled chest and an ass you can open a can of vegetables with.”

“Really?”  I’ll say, smiling to myself.

“Yes.  Goddamn fine.”  They’ll say.

“So, you gonna give him some?”  Is the eventual question.

It gets tricky here.  Because your girl wants to tell you the truth without looking like she should be sporting her limegreen fishnets and feathers on the Ho Stroll.

 If it is not an immediate NO, then the answer always has all these contingencies.

“Well, if he seem like he’s cool and if we’re feeling each other and if he doesn’t say anything stupid and if he smells good and he has on the right clothes and his teeth are perfect and he pays for dinner and he opens the doors and he looks in my eyes and if he don’t have kids and if he’s never been married and if he’s…” 

Girl please.

Yes or no.

It’s such an easy question.  Do you or have you given it up on the first date?  Or if that is giving way too much information from you personally, how about you give your opinion from a bystander’s view?

You can start it like this: “Well, I personally never have done it on the first date but…”

See? 

What says you?  Sex on the first date?  

. 

In the Meantime...

I was talking to my girlfriend earlier today, let’s just call her “Michelle”, and we were going on and on about nothing in particular. I was telling her how I still hadn’t found the perfect brown shoe for 2011. 

“Everywhere I go…nothing. I’ve been to the stores, on the Internet; I just can’t find ‘em. Hell, I’d even take some more thigh highs if I could find some decent ones in brown…” I gushed at break-neck speed, because anybody out there who knows me knows when I want something, I get totally engrossed in the wanting. I BECOME the want, if there was ever such a thing.
She was quiet, then said, “Oh, well, I can’t wear those, my legs are too short. Too big on the top.”
I barely heard her over the thoughts running through my head:
What’s due next check? Cell phone, car note…hmm, maybe I can swing it…
When she never said anything else, I came back to our conversation.
“Well, maybe not the thigh-highs, what about the cute ones that come to the knee? Those would be cute on you. I hate when people have on saggy knee boots, they look better on people who can fill them in.” I said, thinking the thighs would be cute on her, but maybe they weren’t her style. She’s a thicker type, with the classic Atlanta-girl shape, big legs and butt, tiny waist.
“No, my calves are too big.”
Ok.
“How about the ankle boots? Those would be hot on you. They got some cute booties out right now, remember I was showing you…”
She shot that one down fast too. “Ankles. Or should I say Cankles.” She made a sour face. 

Sigh. 

Alrighty. Moving on. 

Later on in the conversation, she said she wanted to change her look.
“Why don’t you cut your hair?”
She whined, “Mmmm, no, my face is too round. I need my hair.”
“I don’t mean ski-bald, Michelle. Just a new something. Maybe layers? Bring your face out more.”
“Naw, because I wanna be able to have a ponytail.”
“Well what about a weave? Make it super-long. You can look like a cute little video-vixen.”
“No, because I’m too chubby for all that hair.”
Another sigh from Roxanne.
“Well then leave it the way it is then.” I said, bland faced.
She nodded her head, content that I finally agreed with her. She didn’t realize I was being facetious. And this is how our conversation went. She was such a downer on everything:
“You have such pretty skin, Michelle. I’m drinking more water to clear mine up, it’s been tripping lately.”
“I have these wrinkles.” She pointed to two lines around her eyes.
“I want to borrow that nail polish. It’s so pretty.” I’d said.
“I don’t really like the color.” She said, holding her nails out like she just realized that her nails looked a mess and frowning at them. 

Well shit! 

Is there any fucking thing good about you? I wanted to say. And I would have, but I knew that she was probably going to come back with a list of things that weren’t. 

I mean damn. 

Who the hell wears polish they think is ugly for an entire week? 

I was aggravated. And she had no idea. The way Michelle saw it, she was just two steps from the female embodiment of Flavor Flav, and she was glad she’d convinced me of the same.
At first I thought she was fishing for adulation. But when she stole another disgusted glance at her fingers, I knew she meant what she said.
Why are we as women so hard on ourselves? We hate every little thing about ourselves, and if someone is nice enough to give us some semblance of approval, we’re gonna damn near undress to show them how this one titty is bigger than the other. 

Do you like you? 

I like me. 

I got a little pot on my stomach and I don’t really care. I’ve gotten so good at holding in my stomach that it comes second nature. My skin has a fucked-up attitude problem. Too much soda and I get a few good pulsating bumps on my face, you know, the kind that feels like it has a heartbeat? But that’s not stopping me from liking my one dimple. One tooth in the front is a hair crooked, but I’ve learned not to smile too hard so you don’t see my gums (and I’ve had to re-take many pictures to counter this fact on many occasions, thank God for digital cameras). I’m super hairy, and my voice is so deep that whenever I order at the drive-thru, the person on the speaker thinks I’m a man.
An occurrence the kids find hilarious every single time.
“Ahhh haa!!” Joe and Jayda always howl, “She called you SIR!” 

I got all kinda shit wrong, but I love it. I love me, and that is not being conceited or self-righteous.
Can’t we love what we got? 

Apparently this is not ok. 

What’s wrong with you? 

Better yet, what’s right with you? 

I’m not going to get all clichéd and say that it’s not what’s on the outside, it’s what’s on the inside. I have lived long enough to know that not many take the time to get to know a great personality if the person is….well….less attractive. Hell, I used to be a teeny-meeny, boney, slight girl. They call ‘em “po” out here in Atlanta. My driver’s license from 1988 says 5’9, 105 pounds. 

Skin-NAY. 

I don’t have to tell you how hard it was to get any attention of the male species back in those days. 

I’m not perfect by any means, and I don’t trick myself into thinking that. I still have my problem areas I’m working on, so please don’t get me wrong. Some days I look in the mirror no less than 50 times before I walk out the door and still wonder what the hell is going on in the reflection. 

But ladies, we’ve really got to work on the acceptance of whatever we got. 

I mean, this here is ri-damn-diculous.
At least learn how to ABSORB a compliment. 

I don’t like to look at myself as a feminist, because Rocky loves to be treated well by her man. Like a lady. But I will say I am pro-woman. If I see a girl who is looking great, or her clothes are right, or she has some must-have shoes, or her hair slammin’, I tell her. If she’s pretty, I say so. Big, small, heavy, thin, mahogany black or high-yellow, White, Asian, or Latina. No hate here. And I will say that about only 40% of the time do they just smile and accept graciously. Most times I’m provided either a rebuttal or a strange look accompanied with a “thanks” and a shaky side-eye as if I asked them out for dinner and dancing. 

Girl please…you are SO not my type. 

I just want us to realize that whatever way we are is how we were intended. If you are positive that this wasn’t the intention, then change it. Take the steps. 

But more importantly (Michelle, yes you!), let us like what’s in the mean time.

Hanging With Your Girls...

I have a bunch of girlfriends. Good girlfriends. I love them to death. Really, we know how to get together and have a blast. Just a fun bunch of chicks.

But still, even with our connectedness, there are times when our moods ain’t all together in sync and you get an off night.
Off-nights are rare, but they do happen, and it ain’t pretty when it does.
I was sitting and thinking of all the things that can and have gone wrong in all the nights I’ve gone out with my friends over the years and figured that if only there were a set of rules, or a list of things to remember when you hang with your girls to guarantee a good night, you know, one you can reference to smooth that thang on out.
It's a necessary document.

So, without further ado:

Rox’s 25 Things to remember when going out with your girls – GROWN WOMEN’S EDITION:

1. Please check the attitude at the door - It is enough stress in life already without the rest of us girls trying to figure out your fucked-up attitude. Bigger the group, you may have more than one sourpuss.

2. Get your rest the night before - I know we all want to party like a Rock Star, but most rock stars are not 40 year old mothers with kids, and a 40+ hour a week job. The old yawning chick nodding off in the booth is not a good look

3. Get a babysitter - It is not okay to have Man-Man and Lil’ Sis in the car with a Big n Tasty Meal and a Nintendo DS no matter how many times you run out the club to check on them.

4. Get your outfit together early - I know it doesn’t always happen, but if you got a good little notice of an event, start working on your outfit from the gate. Especially if you know all you have in your closet are tennis shoes and the big t-shirts that you wore when you were pregnant. No, don’t nobody have a dress you can borrow that fits your linebacker shoulders or jeans for your tiny waist having ass 30 minutes before it’s time to go.

5. Be confident in your gear - Now this is a big one. Some of us girls, no matter how cute, how nice their outfit, how beautiful their makeup came out, ALWAYS likes someone else’s turnout better. “Oh, I should’ve worn that.” “I thought we were all wearing jeans!” “I feel dumb, I’m the only one not wearing black.” All that shit works the last nerve.

6. Tell someone when they have on something wrong - I don’t even have to explain this one, but I will. Big girls, thin girls, it doesn’t matter. We have all seen someone who we immediately said under our breath, “The hell does she have on?” Well, I blame the friends. Instead of staring tight-lipped and disgusted at your friend when you opened the door and she got her flap-jack-pancake-flat-size 40dd-titties in a low-cut spandex shirt and no bra, say SOMETHING. Please. If they still are ok with their outfit, you did your part. Hey…do you boo.

7. When at all possible, let’s meet up at someone’s house so we can caravan together.* - Just like Attitude girl, there is always at least one Lost girl who doesn’t know the directions to anywhere, even if they grew up in the city. Can’t read Mapquest, doesn’t know how to work Navigator on her cell. (It is in everyone’s best interest to keep Attitude Girl and Lost Girl as far away from each other as possible.)

8. Be prepared to chip in somewhere - What I mean by this is, if your friend is driving, offer to pay for parking. Or treat for them a drink. Cheap girl is always unwelcome.

9. Let the smokers all ride in one car - Hey, if you’re a weed-head, fine. But do that over there in that car. Y’all can keep your rotation intact and everything. This way, there’s no argument over rolling down windows, your allergies being inflamed, your hair stinking, the surprise drug-tests your job always have…none of that.

10. Let’s just relax and go with the flow - We have a long night ahead of us. Besides Lost and Attitude, there is On-Time girl, who makes everyone’s life miserable by repeatedly expressing the fact that “the invitation says the party starts at 9pm” and rushes us all just so we get to the party and the hostess is in a robe, still helping the DJ get set up. (Attitude girl and On-Time girl may or may not be one in the same person.)

11. Agree on what type of night this is going to be - One can’t be ready to hit the club and the other just wants to hang at a lounge, and the next wants to shoot pool. I’m telling you, when you cave in and agree to go to the club when you wanted a calm night, the loud music combined with overly excited dancers and Club Man (more on him later) can make you wish you’d just stayed the fuck home.

12. Make sure you have enough money to get in to a paying event - Listen, this is a recession. Unless you agreed separately with someone to let you borrow some cash, do not assume. No, I don’t “got you”. You need some money, your debit card work just like everybody else’s does. Stop at the ATM first.

13. When going to a paying event and you have some sort of hookup, look out for the ENTIRE group - Let’s face it, groups of girls have varying types of looks and styles. Some cuter than others. Doormen like the pretty chicks. Let them go sweet talk the man holding the list. Unless you got a good amount of charm, just stay back. Know your strengths! Pretty chicks – get EVERYBODY in.

14. Get your tired girl involved right away - She’s tired. She’s told everyone this no less than 50 times before you even got to the outing. A lot of times, Tired girl is hard to sway, BUT if you can get her 2 or 3 shots of Patron and then drag her out to the dance floor, you should be good. *Tired girl is the only exception in the caravan rule and needs to drive her own car BY HERSELF.

15. Beware of Club Man - Sigh. He’s usually just alright looking. He is nursing one drink so tough that his Rum and Coke is almost clear. He’s scoping out the club, looking for a girl he can latch on to with the hopes of her getting so tore down he can come up. THEY CAN DETECT WEAKNESSES. You don’t believe me, let your song come on, brothaman just appears out of thin air. Also note, these guys get better looking as the drinks go down.

16. Designate someone to lookout for the drunk - Another biggie. Groups of girls can quickly get rolling and the good times ensue. Older chicks have a whole lot more stress in life and therefore more reason to get it crunk right away. Before you know it, everybody is too drunk to be any good to anyone. This is BAD. At least one girl per every five girls should be “the eye”, watching for Club man, holding back long hair when someone is throwing up, and making sure no one in the group has turned a banister into a stripper pole somewhere.

17. Separate checks - I had 2 drinks. You had 14. Trying to explain why your part of a $265 bill is only $28 is useless to your girl with smeared makeup, a hole in their blouse that they have no idea how it happened, and a hopeless case of the giggles/crying/fuck you’s/I love you girl’s. Separate it from the beginning and let the drunk argue with her waitress.

18. Remember that at least one of your girls loves a good fight - We too old to be scrapping, plain and simple. But the wiry one in the group always seems to know when ol’ girl over there is staring a little too hard. Early in the night it can be confronted with a “girl, just ignore her”. Later with plenty of drinks, you’ll be mad at yourself for breaking your nails, tearing the strap off your purse, or scuffing up your $300 shoes for some bullshit. Plan for Fight girl (who is usually very fast and agile) and all possibilities.

19. Drunk texting may or may not be a good thing - You got a new man? Your baby eagerly waiting for you at home? You hooked up with the cutie in the shindig? Your booty call should be just about ready? Fine. That’s ok. But cursing out your ex’s new chick and telling her how your pussy is much better than hers is such a moot point. Fact in the matter is he chose her pussy over yours. Sorry to be so blunt, but it is what it is.

20. Have cell phone numbers for the ones who like to wander - Some chicks branch off from the group and that’s cool. We grown. But the old adage, “we came together, we leave together” applies here too. Looking for someone for 45 minutes can piss everybody off and kinda cloud everyone’s good time. If you can call them, it’s all good. Now, if they don’t answer their cell phone, when you DO find them, you have permission to cuss that bitch out with no reflection on the friendship.

21. Know when to fold ‘em - Nothing is cute about 9 girls who were so fly when they walked in but now just a mass of stumbling, talking-too-loud, sadly mistaking retarded-dancing for sexy-dancing, dirty feet from pulling off your shoes and stepping in God knows what, women. Try to leave 30 minutes before the event is over (I know this is sometimes impossible when the music is jamming, but try).

22. Get clear who is going home and who is hopping to the next spot - It is already confusion at the end of an outing. Comprehension is at an all time low. Make sure everyone is okay to get where they are going. Now, I know it ain’t right for anyone to drive drunk, but it happens. The least drunk of the group is the one to make this decision.

23. Even if Lost Girl is the least drunk, she CAN NOT LEAD THE CARAVAN HOME - You ever went to sleep in the car, heater on, music on, and blindly let Lost girl drive home? You wake up an hour later to her and Attitude girl arguing about how she ain’t even found the damn on-ramp for the freeway? Now you gotta collect your thoughts to figure out: 1. where the hell you are, 2. calm Attitude girl down, 3. type in the streets to your almost dead cell-phone, and 4. pray you can get a signal or connection long enough (drunk texting, anyone?) to get directions…all this just kills your buzz.

24. Bring it ALL THE WAY down - The fun is done. When you get back to the meeting place, everybody just get in your car and roll. Do not restart the party out in front of someone’s house at 4am. This includes keeping the music turned down, no dancing/singing in the driveway, no peeing in the bushes, and please no burnt rubber when you pull away.

25. Group text when you get home - Self explanatory. It just helps when you wake up the next afternoon to see that your girls made it home.

This should do it. But if I forgot something, please feel free to add below.

Happy Hanging! :)

I don't hate anyone....but the HATER. =/

I have a girlfriend, let’s just call her Kelly, who ALWAYS thinks someone is hating on her.

Our conversations go a whole lot like this most of the times we speak:

Kelly:  “Girl, so I just walked in the room and these two chicks standing over by the door, they just turn around and stare at my purse.”

Me:  “Well maybe they liked it.”

Kelly:  “No, them bitches was hating.”

Me:  “Why you think that?  They could’ve been admiring your bag.”

Kelly:  “No, cuz these silly ass women, you know how they are, they always hating.”

Me in my slightly annoyed/saracastic/bored voice:  “For real?”

Kelly in her no-having-a-clue voice: “Yeah, I don’t even know what it is either.”

I give her the annoyed/sarcastic/bored tone because I am so over hearing about bitches hating on Kelly.

Hmmm.
Hey Kelly, I know what IT is. 
It’s YOU honey.

The fact that YOU automatically think someone is jealous of what you have, own, wear, do, just because they ain’t got nothing else to do?  That is a direct reflection on some kinda screwed-up flaw within yourself. 

NOBODY IS HATING ON YOU.

NOBODY IS HATING ON YOU.

NOBODY IS HATING ON YOU.

Sheez, I can’t express this enough.  I hate the person who thinks everyone hates on them.

I guess you can call it reverse-haterism. 

Because any time you think that someone hates on you for no real reason (and many times no inclination for you to feel that they remotely give even the tiniest fraction of a fuck about you), that really says that YOU think you are so special that folks can’t help but hate on you.  YOU think that you are worth this person gathering up all these emotions and then waste them on hating someone they don’t even know. 

SMH.

When a woman stares at me, I think they either like what they see (be it my outfit, bag, makeup, hair, or even me – no homo, lol), they think they may know me, maybe I do look a little off that day (cuz you know, we all have our bad days) or they just have a staring problem.  I really don’t care if I’m stared at.  And never do I automatically jump to thinking that they’re haters.  I mean, really.  The assumption is actually very self-inflating, don’t you think?

Now, all this to say that I know the hater does indeed exist.  I didn’t write this because I am naïve enough to believe that there aren’t actual haters in the world.

I have another friend, we’ll call him Marcus.  He is an undercover hater. 
What is that, you ask?

Well, our conversations go a whole lot like this most of the times we speak:

Me:  “Did you see Jonathan’s new car?  It's nice.”

Marcus:  “What car?”

Me:  “The new Mercedes he just got.”

Marcus “Oh, yeah, I saw it.  The smallest one on the line. (indignant huff), he shoulda got the bigger one.”

Me:  “Well, maybe he didn’t want that bigger one.”

Marcus:  “Naw, he just couldn’t afford it.”

Me:  “You know, what difference does it make anyway?  A Mercedes is a Mercedes.  They are all nice.”

Marcus:  “Yeah but anybody can get the little one.  You gotta get the big one to be ballin’”

Meanwhile, Marcus got an old Honda with weathered burgundy paint and a whole back right fender a different color than the rest of the damn car.  Sigh.

You ever have a friend that no matter what you come up with, they know somebody who got something ten times better? 

“You think that spaceship is the bomb?  That shit ain’t nothin’!  That ain’t nothin’, I’m telling you!  Shit, my homegirl got a spaceship that go all the way up to Jupiter and Neptune AND it knows how to go through the black hole and still make it back to earth!  For real!”

Whew, I MEAN that gets on my goddamn nerves.

The sad part to both of these situations is that they will never understand how wrong they are.  Nobody hates on you Kelly.  Marcus, you are a hater who ain’t got nan-nothin’.  The worst kinds of haters. Brother.  

The hater and the hate-ee. 

What an ignorant phenomenon.

itsrox  

What He Does To Me...

I was nervous. Rushing. I knew the time was getting short, and I was anxious to get to him.
Ahh, my love.
We went back. Had some history. He was born in 1971, but we didn’t meet for quite some time after that.
I smiled to myself at the memory.
My friend and I were on our way to stand in line at 5am for a sample sale out in the Valley. She asked had we ever met.
I told her no, but the reputation was already out.
He was every definition of wonderful. Tall. Strong. Dark…oh, just my type.
I had a few girlfriends who had already met him, and they all agreed that we were perfect for each other.
I wanted to get to know him, but hadn’t yet had the opportunity.
Oh, but I did know about him.
And even then I wanted him.
The horn from the impatient driver behind me brought me back to today. And how I wasn’t going to see him if I didn’t hurry.
I ran through light after light, looking at the clock.
“8:27” it read.
Oh God. I hate to be late. We weren’t going to be able to sit in the nice chairs and shoot the breeze.
Shit.
I turned in the driveway, and saw car after car parking, everyone also trying to get a seat in the lounge.
I slipped my feet in my heels, grabbed my things, and slid out my car. I half walked-half skipped across the lot, the bounce in my step giving away my excitement.
Some of the folks that were walking up, I’d seen before. I nodded subtlety at one man as he held the door for me.
“Hey there, how are you?” He asked, a little more innuendo in that question than I dared to address.
“Fine.” I answered dryly.
I was only here for one thing, and that was my love.
I didn’t want him to see me giving my attention to anyone else. I already knew from experience that he was quite the jealous type.
Once, I was standing in the line to pay the girl and was just casually talking to a guy standing behind me. I know I wasn’t flirting, just being my normal self, but my love must’ve thought otherwise.
He was hot. Frothing. Steamed.
Next thing I knew, he went off with some other chick. She walked out the door with him and he didn’t so much as speak to me.
But I could tell he was mad. I even thought I saw smoke coming off the top of him.
I was determined not to have another one of THOSE situations, so I kept my eye firmly on the prize.
I was getting closer to him. I could see him over the little glass partition. He had on white with a brown jacket. A cute white cap. Everything fit perfectly.
He is so damn fine.
He was the color of a Hershey bar. Chocolate.
He smells good all the time. He even takes away the scent of others, his strong aura has a way of usurping all else he comes in contact with.
Plenty of times I had marveled at how beautiful he was, almost the color of night.
I love him. I truly do.
I actually think we were made for each other. Some days I look at him and see my reflection, and I can tell he feels the exact same way. Our connection is so strong that his eyes ARE my eyes. And what beautiful orbs he has.
There are even times when we are all alone, and there is nothing but the music playing in the background, I bring him close and we become one.
I can feel him moving through me.
He satisfies my every inch.
He calms me.
He elevates me.
He warms every bit of my soul.
Oooohhhhh….

Ok, where was I?
Oh yes.
So, without telling y'all just ALL my business, I’m anticipating feeling him in my hands again.
I smile when I think I catch his eye, yet he doesn’t turn around and directly say anything to me. Instead he stands just on the other side of the glass.
He’s over there with some other woman, thinking he’s making me jealous, but I ain’t never been that one.
Besides, I love when another lady appreciates what is mine. All that tells me is I have something worth having.
Plus, I'll have him soon enough.
I’m all the way at the glass. It’s a rush of activity around me, everybody trying to hookup with their loved ones too I assume.
The girl taking the money smiles at me. I smile back. I’m sure she’s seen me before.
“Hey! Roxanne, right?” She says over the combined music playing, people talking, and whirring sounds. She had a slight smirk on her face. She knows what he does to me too.
“Hey.”
I shift my purse onto my other hand, still wondering why I just have to have him.
She looks at me expectantly, and I slowly and deliberately say:

“One Tall Starbucks House Coffee w/ two pumps of Vanilla, extra hot please.”
Lol.

Enough with the pleasantries....sex toys anyone?

We’re all adults, right? 

We gon’ get a little down and dirty today.  We’ve got all the formalities out the way so far, wouldn’t you say?  I’ve kept it pretty basic, the topics on my YouTube channel haven’t been uncomfortable or nothing.  And y’all know I try to keep it as real as I can, right? 

(Now, I’m gonna need for those of you who know me personally to remember that this is itsrox speaking now…taking off my Roxanne hat…)

Let’s talk toys!  No, not the one’s they sell made by Fisher Price.

I’m talking about the good stuff.

Dildos.  Rabbits.  Butterflies.  Bullets.  Ben Wa Balls.  Strap-Ons.  Pocket Pussies.  Masturbation Sleeves.  Cock Rings.  Penis Pumps.  Anal Plugs.  And a partridge in a pear tree. 

Say it with me:  SEX TOYS.

Sex.  Toys.  Yes.

Man, you guys are so friggin’ stuffy.  You would think I was asking you to upload a video of you back in your college days when you had a bet with your homegirl of how many people you could sleep with in a year.

And speaking of getting to know yourself better…do you Roxstars ever partake in the occasional breathtaking experience of getting two fully charged batteries, close and lock your bedroom door, turn your television up real loud, put that sucker on high, and challenge all the cats in your area with feline-like howling and grunts that would probably bring the apes to your front door if you lived closer to the zoo?

I’m talking about your most favoritest appliance here y’all.

Before you even start, let me remind you that since this page is blog is new, I personally know about 50% of my readers of this page, and of those I KNOW 90% of you have a toy.  Hell, I was with you when you bought it.  So don’t be acting all brand new y’all…

However, I know this is a sensitive subject and nobody is trying to display their buckwildedness all up and full frontal and all so I’ll just write this as a commentary. 

My gift to you.  *smile*

Talking to my girls, both single and married, the conversation can venture off into quite the obscene.  Men would be SO surprised at how downright nasty women can be, especially when it is aided by rapid-fire rounds of Grey Goose and Patron Silver shots.  I always like to sit back and watch the different reactions to someone talking about a new pleasurable purchase.  Have you ever paid attention to the dynamics of sexual girl group talk? 

Well I have.   There are specific types of women when it comes to who is comfortable enough to share their desires with an object made of high-grade rubber and shaped like big fat shoe horn with varying sizes of prickles on it.  (sidebar – why is it okay to have a vibrator with prickles on it but don’t nothin’ bring that fuckathon you thought about and smiled to yourself about all day Friday to a close faster than an ACTUAL dick with varying sizes of prickles?)

Anyways…toys.

Ok.  So, one friend is the one who doesn’t use toys and the whole thought either grosses her out, embarrasses her, or she acts like her man/husband is such the bomb that they don’t even need one. 

The latter of which gets on my nerves. 

Because, really, it’s not about needs here.  I think we can all agree we don’t NEED a hot pink foreign object with pulsating veins and a bird with a very long beak attached at the top inserted up the cooch.  It’s about WANTS sis.  Stay with me here.  Do you WANT to get off really quickly?  Do you WANT to do it without having to get down on all fours and hook brothaman up, feigning passion while you tick off things to do in your mind for the next morning?  Do you WANT the never-ending and constant speed of a vibrator?  Remember, all that vibrating don’t get a catch in their calf, it doesn’t have to stop to keep from coming, and it doesn’t expect you to talk dirty back to it.  I mean, you could, but…you know.  Um, no. 

I particularly like to lay the nasty on pretty thick for the ones who are embarrassed.  And for those who are grossed out, I remind them that as long as they wash the crust off when you finish that there’s nothing gross about it at all.  Ha.

The category that I believe most fit in is the occasional user.  You know, have your one or two favorites, can appreciate a little one on one time with the Bullet, and once you get over the initial pain of trying to relax the mind enough to not remember that you are laying in some very odd position, spread eagle, panting and sweating all by your lonesome, then you will enjoy it.  For what it’s worth.  You are even open to letting your man/husband use them with you.  This way it takes all the extra think-work off you.  (And no, I don’t mean he can use it on him unless it is SPECIFICALLY for a man.  It is certainly ok to shut the shit down completely if your man is asking you to insert anything in him for the obvious and blaring flashing red signals this should reveal.  If he isn’t your husband, then you even have permission to find someone to kick his ass.  No, no and NO.  And trust me, Rocky is very liberal.)

Then, we got the professional.  She got every toy known to mankind, and have even made a few of her own. 

“Girl, we cut a tennis ball in half and glued it to the top of a FiniSheen can…” 

She can name off every toy in any catalog, and has a Neilson Rating’s Scale-like system for what good they are or aren’t:  “Oh no, girl.  That thing heats up after twenty minutes and it burned all the hair off the top…Oh yeah, that’s the Rockin’ Robbin 8000 with 65 speeds, the twirling chains in both pearls or metal balls, vibrates up and down, side to side, round about, swivels, comes in 4 colors, has disco ball lights and plays Stayin’ Alive out of a speaker that comes out the tip.”  She has stashes in a plant, on top of a bookcase, under the couch in the livingroom, like you just never know when the urge is gonna hit.  You can just look at her and know she’s clocked hour upon hour with straps, gels, apparatus’s, locks…you are actually oddly in awe and afraid of her at the same time.  The funniest about her?  She absolutely doesn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t have a plethora of the same.

(I have to say, my friend THE PROFESSIONAL scared me to death once when she came out of her bedroom closet with her prized possession: a butt plug that squeezes water out of it. 

“Someone doesn’t use that on you, do they?”  I asked incredulously.

“Yeah.” She said like it was no big deal.

What the fuck?

“With water?”  I asked, trying to grasp the mental jest of this situation.

“Yeah, hot water.  Well, you know.  Warm.” Just as easily, like she was talking about walking the damn dog.

I didn’t know what to say, because to me, sex shouldn’t be like taking a fuckin’ enema, but to each her own.)

Which one are you?  I believe we can all relate to one or the other, don’t you?  Life is all about balance.  Sex, like anything, can get boring if you aren’t willing to make some changes.  Do you think the toy is the change you need?

Who is ITSROX?

Who is itsrox?  Well, that name has a story in and of itself.

Back in 1989, when Dad took me to the Toyota dealer and bought me a brand spankin’ new pearlized burgundy Tercel (and I continued by putting the Inky rims, booming Pioneer sound system, and moon roof on it, y’all remember how it used to be in LA) I wanted something that would further set it apart from all the others Tercels.  A license plate.  A vanity plate, as they call them.  But what would it say?

I went over all options, obsessively ran it by all my friends, and then settled on itsrox.  That was simple enough, but in my opinion, it spoke volumes.

Here I am y’all.

It is Roxanne.

Hell, Los Angeles is a big city, but still, my plate made a name for me.  When I had the Jeep, for example, way back in 1992 (and two years before I would officially meet him), I was at a barbeque when a then unknown Errol (who today is my husband) said to me, “You’re the one with the white Wrangler, right?  I see you driving down Slauson all the time”.  True story. 

Talk about preceding yourself!!

Fast forward 21 years, 2500 miles away from my beloved hometown and with kids and family and dog and job and school and responsibility and LIFE, it is with me even now.  ITSROX is still displayed proudly on my little SUV.

My ace still looking out for my backside. 

Over the last few years I have contemplated blogging and the such.  I knew what I wanted it to be (talk about relationships, family, sex, love, lust, health, fashion, trends, and whatever the hell else I felt like talking about), what I didn’t want it to be (gossip about entertainers, pictures of famous folks, free music downloads, etc.) but I didn’t have a name.  Then I was nervous about…stupid stuff.  Self-doubt is a bee-yotch, let me tell you.  I promise you I could talk myself out of even the most deserved yelling, back-scratching, leg-shaking, dizzy from holding your breath type orgasm. 

Just ridiculous.  

But I think itsrox is perfect, don’t you?

I mean, what else embodies me?

So that’s what we got here. 

itsrox.

I like to talk.  I LOVE to write.  Like most women, I have an opinion.  I sometimes sit at my desk with no less than twenty topics floating through my head, and this is the outlet that I needed to express them. 

Don’t you sometimes just wanna say, “Fuck it.” or “Am I tripping?”   You know the best sex positions?  Did your boss rub you the wrong way?  You got a bomb recipe for Macaroni and Cheese?  Your hairstylist jack your hair up?  Do your kids get on your nerves?   Do you love your job?  Your side piece got out of pocket?  Were you inspired by something?  You want your own Amen corner?  You looking for somebody to call you on your own bullshit…we gon’ do all that here. 

FINALLY, an outlet for any and everything you need. 

Come here often and I promise there will be a little bit of something here for everybody.  Once a week for now, with a little bit of extra goodness on the sides.  (I’m still feeling it out, but there’s gonna be good stuff!)  Eventually, when life gets out of the way, my website will be up and running.  But until then, this is what we got.  A blog spot.  A spot to blog. 

Well alright.

Tell everybody. 

Y’all don’t be shy, we all family, right?  And we’re all grown.  Come on out and play. 

This is gonna be fun…..**devilish grin**

itsrox