Douche-Baglette

As planned, I went to Atrio this Friday and made sweet lovin' to a strip steak with peppercorn reduction sauce (12 ounces and I ate it all like the fattie that I am). Before doing so though, I took a picture and texted it to my friend Jack, who replied with, "Did you just take a picture of your food at a fancy restaurant?"

Me: Yeah...

Jack: You're odd, babe.

Me: Did I just pull a douche move?

Jack: No comment.

Me: Okay...

But later I got to thinking, am I douchy sometimes without even realizing it? Then I got all excited the next day and performed a survey among twelve friends on the top seven douchy things girls do. Here they are in all their glory:

THE EPICURIOUS PHOTOGRAPHER

DUCK FACE HERO

For every two girls out in the world, one has made a duck face at some point or another in an attempt to look sexy. Yeah, I know...It's not sexy. It's not even alluring. But I still do it all the damn time and I don't care what people say. Duck face hero til' I die!

THE WOO GIRL

You know what happens when someone points something out you'd never noticed before? A curtain is pulled from your eyes. Such was the case for me and the "Woo Girls." Ever pay attention to those drunk girls on television or at a club that get excited and start screaming "Wooooooooo, wooooooooo!!!!!!" That, is a 'woo girl'. She will usually have a pink martini in hand and be armed with at least two other 'woo girls' on each side, ready to start a motherfucking woo party.

THE I-JUST-GOT-A-BOOB-JOB CHICK

She was a double A, now she's a double D. She feels the need to show the world this trivial fact. She will flash her boobs to any innocent bystander, let the homeless man on the corner grope her newly enlarged ta-tas, and wear the sluttiest outfit she can find at her local hooker store because goddamnit she paid for those titties, and she's not about to let 'em go to waste!

THE "PICKY EATER"

She's on a date and she's starving. Her stomach is making more noise than a Miami hurricane but there's no way in hell she's going to eat in front of her guy, so she'll order something light in an attempt to look cute.

One hour later...

Ever heard that saying "It isn't stealing unless you get caught?" Yeah, it also applies to pigging out.

THE SNEAKY CHECK GIRL

We all know a girl that's guilty of said offense. The urgent need to use the bathroom only arises as soon as the bill comes while out on a date. In fact, it doesn't even have to be on a date. It could be on a night out with girlfriends. Either that or she'll have "forgotten her wallet" or been mugged by aliens before arriving at the money-spending destination.

THE I-WANT-HIM-CUZ-HE'S-MARRIED GIRL

This is by far the worst type of douch-baglette around. She'll be out and spot a guy and think Meh, he's alright. I definitely wouldn't sleep with him.

Three months later she sees the same dude at the same club but this time he's sporting a wedding ring. All of the sudden, he's perfect and she can't get enough of him and his married man smell. She must have him and pop out twenty of his babies or else she will perish, alone and manless.

I Am Survivor

By this point you know having my parents out-of-town this past week has been like battling an army of crack-driven zombies with a sword made entirely of cheese.

Still, I feel that for an underslept Cuban surviving on a diet solely comprised of wine and vodka and crackers I've done a pretty good job at purveying decent posts <------- if you disagree clap twice.

I want to confuse you into loving me more by disclosing information you probably don't know, like the fact tons of exciting posts will be popping up next month here at Red such as another collaboration with Dan about blow jobs (then I wonder why my blog has been classified as porn) and the things I learned while abstaining from sex. Also, some naked pictures and how to properly insert a tampon and me in a monkey suit (fun!).

Tonight I will make sweet love to a piece of cow meat at a trendy little restaurant in downtown Miami called Atrio which I love because I'm gay and pretentious that way. Don't judge me.

Have a Happy Halloweener and pretty please email me snapshots of you in your costumes (sexy or naked pictures encouraged) at annahbanana@rocketmail.com. Maybe we can do a little collage as Monday's post? <-------- Stealthy attempt at being lazy in advance.

As Dan would say if he was here and not somewhere getting drunk and trying to get laid but failing miserably: HOUSE IT!

Update: I hate to do this but seriously today's search "key words" for my blog are way awesome to keep to myself.

The only thing not funny about all this is if real serial killers are trying to find costumes online for Halloween and they run into my blog. So with that said if you're a serial killer reading this I just want to say, "Hi. I hope you have a great weekend and that shirt looks really nice on you."

Ay, Pedro.

Hi.

Do you like my blog? Yeah? I'm so happy you do. I really hope you've enjoyed it, too, 'cuz there's a high probability it will cease to exist and no longer churn madness after my parents return from vacay on Saturday.

Tuesday night, I felt the imminent need to "loosen up" while writing my first naughty post, hence deciding to open a bottle of vino I found in my dad's little cellar and rocking out with my blog out. I think the post came out pretty good if I do say so myself and as I finished walking the last dog and came back to polish off the bottle, my parents called from their little piece of paradise in the land of the plantains and super tans.

Me: Gordo!

Dad: What're you doing?

Me: Meh, here. Writing a blog post. Trying for famosity. The usual.

Dad: (chuckles) You're ridiculous. Go back to school!

Me: No. Famosity!

Dad: What's your post about?

Me: Ehhrrrm. Bananas.

Dad: Bananas? As in, ripe plantains? You're never gonna become famous like that, niña. People on the internet have nothing better to do, apparently.

Me: Yeah I know. Tell me about it... So, how is it?

Dad: Great. We've had enough lobster to feed all of Havana.

Me: Yum! I hate you.

Dad: You could've come and said no, so no complaining.

Me: I know, gordo. But who was going to take care of all these dogs?

Dad: I already told you, lynch 'em all.

Me: Mom will *kill* you if she hears you say that.

Dad: I know. She's in the bathroom putting on lipstick. Weeeird.

Me: Uh, weird indeed.

Dad: So, what else?

Me: Well I opened that Pedro bottle you had lying around in the cellar. Fucking delicious.

Dad: The 2008, right? (a tinge of annoyment in his tone).

*Searching frantically in the garbarge for the bottle*

Me: Yup. The 2008.

Dad: Good, because the 2003 was a gift from Ciro and I intend to drink it when Castro dies.

Me: I thought you were drinking the '99 I bought you in Madrid.

Dad: I actually drank that already when they said he died on the news a few months ago, remember?

Me: Uh-huh. Well how much did Ciro say that bottle cost? I um, maybe I can buy it for the holidays.

Dad: I don't know, Annah. Jesus you ask the dumbest questions sometimes. It's a gift. People don't *tell you* how much gifts cost. I think I saw it at the wine shop though for like a hundred dollars. Anyway gotta run. The crazy is out of the bathroom and we're going to dinner.

Me: 'Kay... uh, have fun.

I have this distinct feeling I'll be scalped on Saturday by my father. Or, he'll chop me to bits and make pork cutlets out of me for Thanksgiving because let's face it, those go really well with rice and beans. Neither of these things are conducive to famosity. On second thought, maybe I'll just throw on the sailor costume and go on a prostitution binge while I literally "work it" for a hundred dollars.

Wait No More

Disclaimer: It goes without saying this isn't up my usual post alley and I feel strangely inadequate at trying to describe something so intimate. It also needs to be said that in a strange way I feel in sharing this, I'm turning a new page on this madness machine of ours and frankly I kind of like it. It can't always be funny or silly, and I really hope you're okay with that.

Also, there aren't any illustrations so if you're one of those people that reads magazines because of all the pictures then you should probably wait until my next post but that means you'll miss this momentous occasion known as celibacy break.

Second also? Grab wine. I'll wait patiently while you do this and refill my glass in the meantime. If you're one of my Aussie readers (Trish) and happen to be at work, grab coffee and throw some brandy in there, Hemingway style.

The door closed behind us and I immediately felt it, the very first rumblings of nerves mixed with anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Nothing good could come of all this, but my mind was on a one-track course to get what I wanted and what I wanted was him.

It'd been months since that first time we'd sat on my couch on a Friday night, drinking white wine and talking about his ex-girlfriend, my friend. Months since he'd stolen that first kiss and I let him. Months since I'd told him this thing between us could never be. Months, since we'd decided friendship wasn't a feasible option. Months that enabled the sexual tension between us to boil over 212 degrees, allowing for one night to perfectly align in our favor and inevitably lead us to this moment.

"I'm going to have a glass of wine," I told him, aware I didn't need it but unable to stand there looking at him in that costume as his eyes studied my every move, asking questions he wouldn't dare verbalize. I felt his gaze go through me as I walked to the bar and poured slowly, taking my time and letting it all sink in.

"Do you want something?" I motioned to the bar.

"I do." He covered the distance between us in several strides and I could physically feel the shift in power when he reached me, welcoming it gladly. He took off my hat and unpinned my hair, letting it fall around my face as he held a strand between his fingers. "Feels like we were just here yesterday," he whispered.

"Yesterday was ten months ago."

He eyed me curiously, ambivalency in his eyes but a certain determination in his stance. "I can't believe tonight..." He let the thought trail off, one finger tracing an outline from my jawline to my lips, resting there defiantly.

For reasons beyond my grasp the night's events had snowballed with this particular outcome as our end. No point in going against the current, I thought. Especially when you want nothing more than to swim in it.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, his arms circled around my waist as my hands moved to his shirt. We undressed each other slowly, relishing the moments that would all too soon be gone. He ravished my lips as we fumbled in the dark with zippers and buttons and made our way to my room, red wine spilling and lipstick marking a clear path for celibacy destruction.

"Wait," he pulled away, snapping me out of the trance. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure," I exhaled. "Tomorrow we'll wipe this from our memory and clean the slates. Tonight, just fuck me."

He sighed but after a few moments of hesitation did as instructed. He pulled me in and we collided, my hands tightly grasping his back as we became one, the pain almost unbearable but the need to have him much stronger. Sweat and bite marks and scratches infused with blood and muffled screams made up the first round. Then came the second.

When I finally laid my head on his chest the sun's first rays were emerging as he stroked my hair silently and smoked a cigarette in the dark. Sometime later the phone woke us and work tore him away from me, breaking the spell at noon like some warped version of a grown-up Cinderella. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and watched him dress, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously as he sighed and looked at his watch.

"What now?" He searched for my gaze.

"I guess we'll see each other around".

He cocked his head and muttered something under his breath as he walked towards my room door, putting his hand on the handle and taking a deep breath. But instead of turning it he grabbed me, forcing me upward to reach his mouth once again. This time there was no fumbling or hesitation, my robe coming off in one clean sweep along with all his clothes. Our bodies smashed violently into the wall as candles shook against glass on the chest drawer, climax shortly following. We laid naked for a few minutes and a comfortable silence filled the room. A neighbor talked on his cellphone somewhere in the distance. A dog barked somewhere nearer. I kissed his hands, glue from last night still stuck on his knuckles.

"You know? Before you go I need to say I don't regret this. At all."

"I'm sure you will eventually," he said matter of factly. "It's how you are, Annah."

"I know that I won't. None of this was planned and now it's out of our system for good."

And it should've been.

Except I hadn't counted on wanting more.

Sailor Moon!

My birthday's less than two months away but after Cassie's soiree I think we're going to have to do a bring-your-own-cocaine-and-get-naked-party or something to that effect because seriously? That sort of madness is hard to top.

I got this picture via email last night of me and Leo trying to drunkenly emulate that infamous sailor kiss picture from the 50's and although we failed miserably, I still love it.

p.s. Leo is not celibacy breaker (just a friend). What, you don't pop kiss your friends? You have to do something about that, darling.

All I Really Wanted Was To Be a Serial Killer

I'd expressed my interest in being a killer for Halloween this year to anyone who would listen but not many paid much attention except a reader who emailed me a picture and said: Here, this is what one looks like.

Then Thursday I posted this on Facebook:

Two minutes later my friend Cassie was like, "I have a nurse costume you can borrow since I know you're on a budget ."

Me: Didn't you just see what I wrote?! I want to be a killer. A KILLER.

Cassie: Well the nurse costume is really hookerish. So you can be a hooker.

Me: Hooker does not equate killer. Hookers get killed, not the other way around.

Cassie: .......................

Me: Unless they kill you with an STD or something, then I guess hypothetically they "could" be considered killers.

Cassie: What is wrong with you, Annah?

Me: Nothing's wrong with me. What is wrong with you?

Cassie turned 29 on Saturday and celebrated with a wild costume party, meanwhile my parents departed for Dominican Republic and left me in care of their home plus seven dogs. So far I'm cross-eyed with exhaustion and confusion and dog poop in my hair and vomit on my shoes but I'm alive and ass-kicking to the max so I guess we're good.

When the birthday girl called to ask what I was finally going to be for her party I was all "Be? What do you mean what am I gonna be?"

Cassie: Yes, crazy. It's a costume party, remember?

Then I realized I'd completely forgotten about that minor fact and had nothing planned so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Something scary."

Cassie: Oh brother, not this serial killer shit again.

Me: No no. Something scarier. It's a surprise, you'll see tonight.

So I mentally calculated how much time I had between volunteer work with the elderly and feeding time at the zoo to go buy something that made me look terrifying. Then I whined to my friend Leo how I didn't have a minute for anything and almost started crying because honestly guys I'm incredibly overwhelmed and he's like "Wear a straitjacket and go as yourself" but I ignored him and said "Let's just grab blankets and be ghosts!"

Leo: Huh?

Me: Yeah we get some blankets and punch two holes and we can be ghosts.

Leo: (Looking strangely excited) Where do you want me to punch the holes?

Me: In your face, asshole. The holes are for your eyes, so you can see. Like this:

Leo:  Meh. Boring. What if the holes were somewhere else like say, three holes in your blanket and one in mine?

Me: Seriously? You're such an idiot sometimes.

Leo: And you wouldn't have it any other way.

This is the part where I end things with a picture of me in my stupid ghost costume but it turns out I changed my mind two hours before the party when it dawned on me I'd be the only asshole there in white sheets bumping into everything and spilling my drink on myself as I failed to sip vodka in the dark. So I purchased a slutty sailor costume and was pretty satisfied until I got to the party and realized I'd subconsciously bought a pass for a membership to the hooker herd.

Then some dude who was slightly intoxicated came up to me and jokingly said "Hey, what are you supposed to be?" and I was all "What does it look like? A serial killer." Then he did this squinty-eye thing down at me trying to decipher whether I was serious or joking and I stared back into his dialated pupils with a serious face and he laughed and said "You're funny." But instead of smiling I sort of hissed and asked him to fetch me a drink while I stood there trying to look dignified in my hooker costume.

Little did I know three hours later he would perform an exorcism on me and violently murder a seven-month streak we like to call celibacy with nothing but his bare hands and human sword.

Orgasm Exorcist

Last week I was surprised to discover there's an upside to being celibate for six months and twenty-nine days (not like I'm counting or anything). If you're sensitive to or offended by personal information I urge you to stop reading right now. If you're a close friend and don't want to know details about my sex life I urge you, stop reading now.

Still there? Pervert.

I was in the bathtub the other day giving myself some much deserved pleasure thank-you-very-much and was delighted to bring forth fruition five times in less than an hour. When it was all set and done I contemplated sleeping in the tub as I could barely command my body to move but then the water got cold and I wasn't going to sleep in frozen devirginized water 'cuz that's just creepy.

Then on Saturday we were having mimosas at my place after the night of lunacy that was high school reunion and I relayed this bit of information to Lola, whose green eyes opened wide with horror and said, "My friend, that's not good."

Me: What do you mean "that's not good"?

Lola: Dude, do you know what you're going to sound like the first time you get back in the game again?

Me: Um, no (laughing nervously).

Lola: Like this.

 

 
 

Lola: Your fucking head is going to twist around in circles and the guy's gonna think you're possessed. If I were you I'd sleep with someone you don't like the first time because if not you're going to scare the hard-on out of that poor guy.

I stood there biting my nails and clutching my champagne glass a little too hard, weighing out my options: 1) inevitable celibacy break or 2) running off to Italy and joining a convent. From what I can tell, Blogger thinks I should take Option #1.

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The post above is officially over. This is the part where I do something lame like post a picture of my dog so if you want to keep scrolling down then suit yourself. If you choose to start your weekend without looking at my gay dog and his undying love of red heels I'm okay with it and will not be upset. But if you don't, then it's obvious you love dogs, gayness, and/or red heels so by default you have excellent taste.

Hello.

I'd like to acknowledge there was male genitalia drawn as a spot on the cow from last night's post and none of you pointed it out so it goes without saying I'm very disappointed in you guys.

Today is the first ever World Statistics' Day and with that in mind I felt like doing some statistics of my own with a little help from Google. By now you're probably aware of the brand new shiny tab titled "STATS" that Blogger has incorporated as a tool to help us blog whores keep track of the amount of people visiting us (among other data). This new little gadget has a place to monitor your traffic sources and where your main audience is from on the world map. My top two happen to be the good ol' U.S. of A plus Brazil and seriously I don't know why Brazilians are so interested in my blog but "Obrigada! E eu gosto muito de voces!" <-------Thank you and I like you very much (or something like that).

The most awesome part of the "STATS" tab is finding out which key words others use to find your blog and according to Blogger I'm a porn star and masturbation expert and you should totally visit my blog if you want to learn about the art of self-pleasuring and your favorite sex position. I honestly should've known something fishy was up when Sheanna sent me this email last week:

So today I decided to do a little research of my own and now it all starts to make sense even though I'm still really really confused.

In other news I befriended a complete stranger yesterday on Facebook in the name of blog prostitution because that's what people do when they want their blog to be read, they whore. (whore to the max, damn it!).

I thought I didn't know him so I added him in hopes he'd eventually click on my blog link and tell other people hence starting a chain reaction of famosity but the fact is we have friends in common and once he accepted my friend request I realized he's not a complete stranger after all, but a guy I used to crush on in high school.

Fail.

Tonight I had every intention of staying up until four in the morning and writing a real post about a new type of sexual experiment I learned about last weekend but it's my cousin's birthday and they're cutting him a cake and I've been commanded to attend. You guys know how much I love cake so it pains me to say you didn't stand a chance. Which is really fucked up if you think about it because I know of more than one occasion when I said "I love you guys more than cake" so not only am I a porn star and blog whore, but also a compulsive liar.

This post would've probably made more sense had it been divided into three but honestly pornography + whores + cake go together like peanut butter + jelly + sliced bread so don't judge me when you see pictures of me on the internet naked and eating cake while holding my blog address up on a sign.

Blogging To My Deathbed

I really wanted to blog about something serious tonight like the fact I love cows but also enjoy eating steak so my relationship with them as of late is kind of dysfunctional and I'm avoiding red meat altogether, finding myself subconsciously staring at other's steak dishes while drool drips down my chin at restaurants. Then I told my friend Gary "I want to blog about cows!" and he's all "You mean like the animals? Or fat people?"

Then I decided maybe I'll just leave the serious stuff to other bloggers and drink some NyQuil because apparently trying to be serious just isn't possible around these neck of the woods.

And so I did.

The Cop Out

I came home to find 7 glasses of champagne, 5 glasses of white wine, 2 of red, 3 of vodka and God knows how many beer bottles strewn all over my apartment. Jenka was drinking Smirnoff from her doggie bowl. Bruno was hanging from a ceiling lamp and wearing a red thong. There were shoes, clothes, even underwear, scattered all over my couch and the worst part was I could not remember for the life of me how it all got there.

I gathered up the dwindling remains of my energy and picked up the entire house. I fed my dogs, walked them, washed all the dishes, and drank a Red Bull in my bra and underwear with my heels still on from the work day. I laughed by myself for apparetly no reason and Bruno eyed me funny and then chewed on a red heel he found on the floor.

The garbage hadn't been taken out in a week and when I finally got around to it I knew for sure I'd killed three people at some point and stuffed them in my trash bin.

Then I told my friend Miguel I had to blog about something, anything. And he said, "Just put up a picture of a naked chick and your readers will forget about you owing them a post." But I couldn't find any naked pictures of Jackson Rathbone and I know that's the only person you want to see naked.

Fine!

p.s. After publishing this post I went to take a shower and noticed Bruno quietly hiding in a corner while he chewed on something and as I got closer I realized it wasn't the red heel he'd been chomping on a few hours before. I guess it won't be long before we attend 12-step meetings together.

p.p.s. I just pulled a douche-move and after Googling Jackson and Scarlett, I image Googled myself. This is what comes up under images for "Annah Rondon."

Seriously I'm not even famous yet and there's already naked pictures of me on the internet. What a friggin' disaster.