I am considering changing the theme of the site yet again, in light of Neil’s comment on the last post. I feel like I need to develop an official seal. And around this seal should be stenciled my blog-motto:

Helena Lazaro
To Titillate and Amuse

I am accepting concepts for said seal.

That being addressed, on to the smut!! And lest you say you weren’t warned, I’m making this clear: Way Too Much Information Ahead.


As you may know, I’ve been single again for exactly three weeks today. In only three weeks I’ve gone from Brokenhearted Man-Hater to to Twitterpeated Schoolgirl. If you think this is confusing, try dating me. Scary as hell. But totally worth it.

I have spent a lot of time with my friends, with my notebooks, and with the city. I have NOT spent a lot of time with dudes. And that means, in case you couldn’t infer it (which I know you can, but I’m gonna spell it out in case you’ve had a long day), that I haven’t had any action.

I know, I know. Three weeks is not long by the standards of many. But I’m not talking about the standards of many, I’m talking about MY standards (which are unreasonable and exacting). And by my standards, apparently, three weeks is too long. But I was unaware of it, until this need manifested itself in my dreams.

The night before last, I was dreaming about work. I was working late, I had a pile of product that we wanted to ship out to various associates. However, there had been a printing error on the packaging. I stood in the mail room, getting ready to ship off the wares. Then this guy from Legal walked in.

Jim's musky scent overwhelms me as I bury my face in his plaid, short-sleeved shirtIn my six weeks here, I haven’t said more than three words to him. I only know his name because it’s on the outside of his cubicle. But apparently I know enough about him that when my subconscious is casting the role of Cock in my sex dream, it chooses him. He’s tall and lanky, and wears short-sleeved button-up shirts—usually plaid. He looks young, about 28 or 30. And very serious. The only hint of personality I see in his workspace is a figurine of Cheech and Chong sitting atop a giant joint (an image we licensed). Perhaps it is this glimpse of depravity that drew me to him.

So in walks, uh, Jim. He stands behind me and says, “These are all going to have to be fixed.”

“Fixed?” I ask, unsure what he means.

“Yeah, this legal line right here, ‘©2005 Studio Studios, All Rights Reserved,’ is wrong. We have to blank it out.”

“Oh. Which line?” I am still confused, somehow.

“Here, let me show you,” he says, taking the white out (it’s white packaging) and painting a little stripe across the error. “See?”

“Ok, I think I get it.”

“I’ll show you again.” He stands directly behind me and puts the brush between my fingers. Holding my hand with his, he guides me in a steady line. I feel him get aroused.

“Should we wait for it to dry?”

“Yes.”

Mood LightingAnd then we do it with me bent over the counter, sending Star Trek action figures flying everywhere.

That’s as much as I’ll elaborate, because otherwise I might have to make this a paysite.

But seriously, how pathetic is that? The best my suppressed sexual desires can come up with? The guy from Legal in the UPS room? I’m disappointed in myself. This means I need to start dating, or reconsider my hasty judgment of Harriet Carter’s more salacious offerings.

The best epilogue I could have imagined for this story…on my way into work today, Jim walked into the lobby at the same time I did. We got into the elevator together. Zero words were exchanged, and during the longest four floors ever, I managed to turn four shades of red. I also noticed that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. And if my dream was any indication, he’s no slouch in the sack…something to consider, perhaps.