Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Why I don't like (receiving) oral sex:

Aside from the fact that I’ve only met one man that could do it without making me feel like a turkey being glazed before stuffed.....

It’s all Michael Bolton’s fault.

That’s right. That long haired crooner of the 90’s ruined oral sex for me.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I liked him alright. “When a man loves a woman” was a classic...a ballad for lovers young and old. “How am I supposed to live without you” made me want to get on my knees and raise my hands to the sky and shout, “WHY! WHY!” before collapsing into a heap of teenage angst on the floor.

My mother was completely obsessed with him. I don’t mean, “Gosh, he’s just so handsome. I love his music. I have all his albums. My friends and I are so excited his concert tour is coming through!”

Nuh uh.


She had so many t-shirts with his face plastered on them. Most of them were sleep shirts so she could “lie against his face”. Yeah, I’m serious.

I still remember the day the announcement came over the radio that he was coming here for a concert. We were in the car. I almost died that day. She swerved and yelled and if it’s possible to do the mambo while driving...she did it. I still blame my bad (selective) hearing on her Michael screaming fits.

She’d hidden her camera in her pants to get it into the concert and came back with 4 rolls of film. Where she put them all, I never want to know.

Evidently, while singing one of his soulful songs, Michael decided to walk down an aisle and into the fevered group of middle aged women. Schmuck.

My mom had an aisle seat. As soon as he got to her row (and I’ve heard this story 70 thousand times) he stopped. He looked at her as he crooned into the microphone. He got took her hand. After a second, she jerked her hand back, whipped out her camera, and snapped a picture

Her friend said the poor man couldn’t move for about 15 seconds. Just stood their singing and blinking while my mother screamed, “MICHAEL MICHAEL I LOVE YOU”. It’s lucky for mom that her friend hid the camera. Otherwise, I never would have had the pleasure of gazing into an 8x10 blown up photo of Michael Bolton’s startled face every single day for about 10 years.

And now, we’ve come back to ME.

I was young, dumb, and full of false bravado when it came to boys.

I was also home alone quite often. My sister stayed at a sitters or a friend’s house until my mom collected her, as I was not to be trusted. Something about feeding cat food to her and her friends. Whatever.

One summer I had a very eager and experimental boyfriend that we shall call Big Nose, or BN for short.

BN didn’t live very far and he would ride his bike through the woods to come see me almost every day.

After weeks of making out, he finally convinced me to allow him access to the Holy Grail. (Yes, I said weeks. I wasn’t always slutty.) And so we progressed from only under the shirt feely action and tonsil hockey to fingering.

I was less impressed by this fingering business than my friends. Mostly because BN had no idea where the clitoris is....or probably even WHAT it is. Probably thought it was a myth, like unicorns and free hookers.

I braved his fingered onslaught like a champion, only occasionally saying, “Would you hurry up”, when he got a little too excited.

Then one afternoon he made me an offer I was too bored to refuse.

“Wanna let know?”

“What”, I said, popping my gum.

“Go down?”

Big sigh. “I guess. Saved by the Bell doesn’t come on for another half hour anyway.”

He dragged me back to my parent’s bedroom, of all fucking places, because “they have a water bed and I hear it’s better.”

To which I replied, “I’m not having sex with you.”
And he said, “I know that...I mean I think it’ll be more fun.”
Gum pop. “Uh huh.”

And so we arranged ourselves on the bucking water bed. I was nervous and hiding it pretty well behind my practiced disdain.

He reached over to hit the play button on the tape player and said, “Just for a little background...” and out came Michael’s voice.

I gritted my teeth and looked up at the ceiling as he made his move.

Ok. Alright. This was fine. Weird, but fine.

As I turned my head to the side, Michael started in on “Time, love, and tenderness” and my eyes locked on the giant framed photo of his face. Staring at me.

And the water bed was making little slosh slosh noises...and BN was making weird slurping noises and poking me (unpleasantly) with his gigantic nose...and Michael was staring at me and singing, “Oh baby, oh baby, you just need some tiiiiime love and tendernesssssss” and BN started moving his tongue in time with the lyrics and it was FREAKING ME OUT. Time, lick, love, lick, and, lick, tenderness, three fast...lick lick lick.

And it scared me, ok.

Something about the combination of the water bed, that giant nose, and Michael Bolton timed licking knocked me off oral. It took me years not to hear that long haired fucker in my head every time a man dined in.

The one that finally managed to make it seem like a pleasure and not a thing to get out of the way was, go figure, a man whore and the kid’s dad. I’m sure he could tie cherry stems into knots with his tongue. Maybe even lift a five pound dumbbell with it.

The first time he came after me with that thing, I ran. Well, crawled relatively fast across the bed. Once I explained the problem to him, and he finished laughing hysterically, he held me down and tried to cure me. And there was no love and tenderness involved.

Now that he’s out of the picture and leading a life of abstinence, (ironic laughter) I’ve reverted back to my old issues. There’s just not been another that knows what the fuck is going on down there.

And that is how Michael Bolton gave me an oral sex complex.

The End.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Weekend conversations and split personalities

Friday, 4:30pm, driving home from work

Received following text message approximately seven times before responding late Saturday evening:

Fisher Price: I need to ask you a question. (x7)


FP: Never mind now. Wanted you to meet my daughter.

Me: Weird.

Self: How in gawd’s name did he father a child? He practically has a vagina.
Self2: That wasn’t nice.
Self: Eye roll. Why don’t you go fuck him again then?
Self2: Why don’t YOU!
Self: Why am I splitting my personality?
Self2: Because you need material for therapy.

Friday, sometime at night, lying in bed not yet asleep, phone rings

Me: Hello?

Person I don’t know: What are you wearing?

Me: Old lady pants.

Person: What?

Me: Does your mother know you’re calling?

Person: Is this Stephanie?

Me: Does Stephanie wear old lady pants?

Person: Steph quit playing around.

Me: This conversation may be recorded for quality assurance.


Saturday 9:30am, sleeping peacefully, phone rings

Me: Uh.

Cousin K: Are you awake?

Me: Uh.

K: Great. Ok. So, we won’t make it to the church until around 10:30 – 11. We have a lot to do, but I’m running a little behind this morning.

Me: Uh.

K: So don’t rush...

Me: Mumble mumble, fuck off.

K: Thanks for offering to help! See you around 11!

Saturday, around 1pm, making and cutting sandwiches in church kitchen

Me: Why are we wasting all of this bread by cutting these sandwiches with stupid cookie cutters? There are starving cheerleaders at my house.

K: You can take all the bread scraps home if you want.

Me: I refuse to be THAT person...the bag lady...the one that loads up all of the leftovers and waddles away.

K: Ok. We can give them to Larry. (The goose)

Me: Fuck Larry.

K: We’re IN CHUCH. Could you not...

Me: Sorry.

5 minutes later, two big grocery bags are STUFFED with sandwich scraps

Aunt D: What’s in that bag?

Me: Your lunch.

Aunt D: What?

Me: Sandwich scraps. Wasted bread and turkey and pineapple and cream cheese....

Aunt D: I’ll take it. (Picks up bag and waddles away.)

K: (looking at me) Don’t say a word.

Me: Wasn’t gonna!

3 hours later, in kitchen cleaning up, scooping weenies into cup

K: Did you get any cake squares to take home for the kid?

Me: Yep.

K: What are you doing?

Me: Raiding the weenie pot.

K: But you wouldn’t raid the sandwich scraps?

Me: Nope. Weenies beat buns, hands down. (Grin)

K: Why do I even talk to you?

Me: (stuffing weenies in mouth) Dunno.

Monday, The Grandmother’s house, just arriving, walking up path to door

Me: There’s a baby squirrel in front of the steps! Look!

Mom: Squeal, squeal, annoying rabies rant.

The Kid: I wanna see! I wanna see!

TG: (looking through screen door) I’ll kill it! Nasty things!

Baby squirrel huddled against the bottom step staring at loud humans with wide, fearful eyes.

Me: Aw, no Grandma! You can’t kill it! It’s just a whittle baby!

Climbed stairs and faced TG.

TG: (mean face) Well, you can just take it home with you and cuddle it then!

Me: (eyes narrowed) Are you going to be nice today or do I have to leave?

TG: (looking sheepish) Yes! I’m going to be nice to you today! I even wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget!

Me: You had to write remind be nice to me?

TG: (entirely serious expression) Yes.

Me: Oooook.

Everyone else: laughing

Self2: Now THAT is a therapy moment.
Self: Exactly.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Gangster therapy, wicky wicky

Aren’t words fun? I think so.

Take “Fuck” for example. It’s fun to do, fun to say. If it were a high school student “Fuck” would be the class president. Or the retarded kid on the debate team because they always address him by name, you know. “Fuck, it’s your turn.”

That’s not really relevant to what I’m talking about today. Just thought I’d share.

I’m looking for a new therapist. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen one up close and I have issues that need to be fondled. Resolved. Taken care of. Explored.

The last one moved away suddenly to parts unknown, which I was told had nothing to do with me what-so-ever and was because of “familial issues”. That wasn’t terribly reassuring since it came from the building’s night janitor.

"Well Fuck, man! (See what I did there?) That’s why I’M here! Familial issues! Sins of the father! I’m convinced The Grandmother is Satan! My boss put a bun in my oven and it came out fully cooked and covered in goo and now I don’t know what to do with it!"

I’m kidding about the janitor part, of course. He was just a sloppy man nurse that looked like a janitor. But he did give me some advice free of charge. “Stop talking. Go home.”

I forgot to mention I have anger issues too. It didn’t take him but a few seconds to figure it out though. Wow. He must have been a very skilled reader of the body language. Or I might have kicked him in the shins and ran (side stepped slowly) away yelling “Thanks asshole!” Or not, in case there’s a warrant or something...

Anyway, I was really upset about her (the therapist) leaving. She was the first one that, in a session with my mother, told me I was right. HA! FACE!

My very first therapist was a large woman with curly black hair named Nancy. I was around 8, I think. My parents sent me to her for reasons I’m still not clear on. Either I tried to play plastic surgeon with my little sister or it was because my dad was always in jail and shit. Like, one of those programs...therapy for children with criminal parents, you know? Could’ve been both. I’m so gangster. Wicky wicky.

But I really only remember one session with her. We were sitting at a little table and I was sulking, as I so often did when adults made me interact instead of sticking my nose in a book and my hand in a chip bag.

She put all this different colored playdough on the table and said she wanted me to pick a color for each member of my immediate family and mold it into what I thought best represented them. It could be anything, she said.

After the proper amount of disinterest, I finally allowed myself to pick up the purple dough. She sat there and watched quietly while I rolled and patted. I balled my hand into a fist, leaving one finger up, and pressed the back of it into the flattened dough. I held it up for her to see: a nice outline of my birdie finger.

“And who does this represent”, she asked.

“My sister”, I said.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because my mom says she eats like a little bird, but she doesn’t. She eats all my snacks.”

“Uh huuuuuhhhh.”

Even therapist grown ups didn’t get me. Sigh.

I reached for the yellow dough and fashioned a smiley face with a big gaping mouth.

“And who is this?”


“Can you tell...”

“Because she’s always smiling when she doesn’t want to.”

“Ok. And your dad next...”, she prompted.

I hesitated. I thought, “What could I possibly make that would describe my daddy so she’d understand and stop asking me to do stupid kiddy stuff? I’m eight and reading Wuthering Heights for gawd’s sake. The fat kid isn’t stupid.”

I picked up the red dough and rolled it into a ball between my palms. I put it down in front of me and looked at her. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but before she did, I lifted my arm and brought my fist down hard, slamming it into the ball of dough and smashing it into the table.

She stared at me, speechless.

“Because he’s an asshole”, I offered. “Got any chips?”

My next encounter with therapy wasn’t until my late teens. My grandmother was convinced that I was possessed by a demon that made me smoke “the marijuana”. She offered to get me another car (my last one was taken, but that’s another story for another day) if I agreed to see a therapist for my anger and drug issues. I didn’t have any drug issues. I loved pot. But I agreed. Free car bitches. Wicky wicky.

Yeah, it so wasn’t worth it. A Neon. Pssh. Nothing gangster about that.

The guy was a pompous dick. I mean the whole enchilada: steepled fingers, tiny goatee, tiny glasses, and the facial expression of a puckered asshole.

We had four sessions, two of which included my mother and The Grandmother. The only thing he accomplished in those four hours was to tell me how much of a shit head I was and drool all over The Grandmother’s orthopedic shoes.

He tape recorded our sessions, which I found irritating...especially since the majority of it was his voice. He kept the tapes, but he made copies for me (read: TG). Like I’d want copies! What was I going to do with them? Masturbate to the sound of his nasally undertones? Not likely.

At our fourth session, I’d finally had it. I don’t remember what he said that sent me over the edge...but over the edge I went. I jumped up and stormed out, but not before leaving him something to remember me by.

The tape recorder was recording away on the little table in the middle of the room. On my way by I leaned into the speaker and said something that included “Fuck”. And probably asshat. Wish I could remember the whole thing because I'm sure it was quite brilliant, and for some reason I didn't get a copy of THAT tape...mores the pity.

TG decided that she’d still give me the car if I agreed to a gym membership. Because everybody knows that if you can’t go to therapy, exercise is the next best thing. So is pretending that you’re exercising at the gym when you’re really having hottanasty sex. Wicky wicky.

I’ve had other therapists less memorable and quickly gotten rid of, but now it’s time for another.
And this time, I’m going to get the right one. One with a sense of humor and a no nonsense attitude. One that won’t lick TG’s shoes or disappear into the night.

One that will use word association....because that’s really what it’s all about. They say when...I say where. They say how...I say much. They say penis...I say yes, please. They say prescription medication...I say true THAT.

Dear Future Therapist,

I’m coming for you.