I'm down in Naples having a girls weekend to celebrate Sulie's birthday. I'm writing this on my my iPad. I hope it looks okay because you can't do formatting.
There has been a lot of talk about the guy I'm starting to see. I have made a vow to myself that I will not blog about him in a way that is not respectful. I've saved that for the parade of tools I've known in the past.
This subject came up in the pool yesterday while sipping mojitos--the age old "how much do I tell?" scenario. I am a firm believer in never talking specifics about numbers of past partners, positions, quotes like "the first time I saw his cock I asked, you think that thing will be able to fit in little ole me?", or anything else that remotely suggests that I've had sex before (even though I've been a licensed driver and sex haver for 30 years).
We also talked about therapy and medication. I said how (what do I call him?)... Let's say New Guy innocently looked at the pill box with M, T, W,T,F,S,S on it and said, "you have a lot of pills." I deftly went into my game face and replied, "yeah, vitamins, blood pressure and cholesterol." It wasn't a total lie...
That is when niece Jackie brilliantly said, "you know what? Your brain and coota are your business." First, let me explain the definition of coota. Coota, an off shoot of cooter. Cooter is a commonly accepted term in the south for the front butt on a woman. In our neice/sister language it has transformed to "coota". It started one night when we changed the words of Heart's "Barracuda" to "Stanky Coota".
It does make sense. I don't need to share any stories about the history of my precious coota or the ups and downs my brain has been through. Not now. The main thing is right now, my coota smells like a spring day and I'm feeling good.
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