The Unseeing Eye

I can be nice when I want to be. That’s why I’m giving you fair warning (especially any family members, boyfriends of family members, or squeamish old people) – this post is about butthole (dis)pleasures. And just so we’re clear, being warned means you can’t complain if you read on and feel the urge to vomit, actually vomit, or maybe just die a little inside. I know I’ll likely participate in two out of three just by writing this.

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I was involved in a casual sexual relationship with The Fireman for a little over five years. He was a complete dick, but great in bed and, I’ve gathered, far more experimental than most men his age.

I had a lot of firsts with him – choking, an actual working threesome, handcuffs, pictures, shower sex, watching porn together, and more. But the most memorable experience he introduced me to, as you’ve already gathered, was anal sex.

Women have a way of saying no to anal sex without actually opening their mouths – it’s a bit like boxing. He does a bit of jabbing around, pretending to be going for one hole, when he’s actually faking you out and making a play for the exit. But with a quick shift, a bob and a weave so to speak, the woman throws him off balance and directs him back to the preferred course. Most men will recognize that for what it is – a body language “hell to the nah” – but there are always a few that can’t be deterred. I’ve been in a battle like that more than once: they kept trying, I kept dodging, and pretty soon we were locked in a dance worthy of Muhammad Ali. The end result was never pretty. No, or a sucker punch to the head, does in fact mean no.

The Fireman, thwarted more than once, finally decided he was going to win our ongoing asshole battle by stealth. And by stealth, I mean he waited until I came over one night blitzed out of my mind, talked me into getting in the shower, and pretended we weren’t doing anything but having a jolly, soapy old time.

I was blissfully unaware of the danger lurking behind me when I bent to pick up a rag from the tub floor. Then, suddenly, before I had a chance to stand back up he...well, he attacked me from the rear. With gusto. I would have shrieked, but I had to grab the sides of the tub to keep from toppling over and, as luck would have it, my head was directly under the spray. Every time I tried to open my mouth, water filled it; mascara burned by eyes and matted them closed. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown, and to say I was traumatized would be putting it mildly.

The next day we had a family dinner and I drew more than my fair share of attention with my duck like walk and geriatric sitting techniques. My cousin Christine, who I unfortunately told everything to back then, found it hilarious and made sure to work in plenty of snide remarks and ass slapping. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets ass raped in the shower”, I shouted at Christine. “I could’ve died! My obituary would have read, “Poor young woman dies from ripped rectum/drowning!”

And my best friend was also unmoved, telling me that I should’ve just done what she had done from the beginning. “The first time they try it or ask you to try it, just say ‘Why, are you a fag?’. They generally don’t ask again.”

Though The Fireman did indeed ruin my first anal sex experience, its more than safe to say that I’d never planned on having one to begin with anyway; it wasn’t something I’d been even remotely curious about. For a while after that episode, every time a man suggested or attempted it, I became borderline hysterical. There was no more body language bobbing and weaving, it was simply “don’t you even think about putting it in my ass, motherfucker”. I found out that there’s a whole clan of straight men that pursue asshole sex with a passion. It seemed like every man I slept with wanted to be a bun bandit.

Then, as most of you already know, I had quite a lengthy dry spell. Now, if there was one good thing about being celibate for almost nine months, it was that no one was trying to make me a human hot dog. But that also means that I forgot to be vigilant, to expect it, to be ready with a karate chop to the jugular if need be.

The first time I had sex again it was, as I said here, with Sam. And it was fantastic. It was hot, it was freaky, and so what if he did slip one little finger in there mid romp? It didn’t hurt and I was so busy with the rest, I barely even noticed. He has long, thin piano player fingers because, you know, he plays piano and just...there was only one. The only definitive reason I can come up with for why my ass didn’t blow the rape whistle is, I suppose, because the rest of my body was too busy trilling to the tune of “Whistle while you work”.

I didn’t think anything of it – it never crossed my mind again. Until the last time I went over there.

Everything started off grand. I showed up at his house dressed to fall over on my face in a tight black skirt, a ruffled blouse with an easy access zipper on the side, and the strappy caged high heels he liked so much. We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a few minutes of distracted conversation on the couch, it was clear that dinner would simply have to wait.

I was sitting astride his lap, shirt off and skirt ruched up around my waist when he stopped kissing me and said, “Bedroom. Now.” Standing up, I clacked up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. I hopped up on his bed, crawled to the middle, turned around, and started to pull my shoes off. “Did I tell you to take those off”, he asked, throwing his clothes left and right. “Nope”, I said laughing.

He was being a lot more forceful that he’d been before and that should have been warning number two (after the piano finger, you know). Forceful and hyped up are butt sex indicators, apparently. To his credit he waited until later, two O faces in to be precise, to pull his shenanigans.

I was on top, working on O face numero tres (perhaps to the rhythm of Digital Underground’s The Humpty Dance) when he said, “You know what I want?”

No, I didn’t. I had no idea; because I was too busy getting what I wanted. But I got all excited thinking it was going to be something awesome like, “I want you to let me slather you in Chick-fil-a dipping sauce, maybe slap your ass once or twice.” (He’s not really a hitter.) Or, you know, something simple like, “I want to make you scream”. Everybody likes screaming.

“Tell me”, I said – not breaking pace, because I’m a hardcore rodeo bitch like that. (“...I’m a freak. I like the girls with the BOOM...I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom...”)

He stared at me. I stared at him. He stared at me. I started to get nervous. He stared at me. I stopped waving my arm in a circle over my head and kicking his legs with my heels.

“Get on your knees.”

Happy clap! Doggie style! OOWA OOWA! We’ll get back to the Humpty Dance later.

Staring nerves temporarily forgotten, I did as he asked. But then, leaning over, he whispered in my ear the words I should have known were coming. “I wanna fuck you in the ass.”

“Um...I don’t...err...not really my thing...”

But for some ungodly reason, I ended up eventually agreeing. Maybe it’s because I like him and wanted to please him; I don’t really know. Either way, it turned out that done correctly (and by correctly I mean with a warning and lube), it isn’t painful at all.

That does not mean I enjoyed it. On the contrary, it did nothing for me what so ever. I thought it was extremely weird and I was counting down the minutes until it was over. And when it was, he was so happy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I was thinking the majority of the time: “I’m totally having prison sex right now. This is what people do in jail. Ohmygawd I'm his bitch. I wonder what they use for lube...ew, no I don’t. I said what what in the butt...”

Later, stretched out beside him, we talked about it. I relayed my horror story and he looked appalled. “No wonder”, he said, rubbing my hip. But he also went on to tell me just how much he enjoys that particular pastime and how much he was looking forward to doing it again...among other things, but still. Ugh.

On my way home that night, after a comfortable few hours of pizza and movies, I wondered if I would let him do it again. I thought to myself, “Even though it does nothing for you...it doesn’t hurt. And he really likes it. Maybe it could be like a ‘you’ve been a very good boy’ treat.”

However, I formed a very different opinion over the next few days.

I typically stop by the makeup store on my way home and catch up with the women folk – my lovely godmom and her sidekick, the hilarious Jules, who is also doing the online dating gig. We share our horror stories, our sex stories, our “you’d better never breathe a word of that to anyone stories”...and we laugh a lot.

That, of course, means they have to be kept up to date on all things Sam related...and no subject is taboo.

“How was the other night”, they asked.

“I let him put it in my butt”, I said matter of factly.

They laughed. And knowing my unhappy history with anal sex, then they asked questions.

“It wasn’t bad. I mean, it didn’t really hurt or anything.” I went on to explain the logistics of the encounter.

“So are you going to do it again?”

“Well here’s the thing. I’ve decided that it’s not the act that bothers me anymore, it’s the after affects. For almost two days after that my ass was FUCKED UP, ok! It was just...things were...gross...not cool. I don’t remember that happening before. My body was taking its revenge.”

They laughed, the bitches. And while they were laughing, Jules threw her palms in the air, made an ‘oh no’ face and said, “Your ass was like...GASP! Someone’s been here!”

Then I was laughing even harder than they were. Someone may or may not have said, “Abort, abort”, but I don’t rightly remember because I was too busy dancing in place with my legs crossed, trying not to pee.

Yes, we’re classy like that.

So, anyway, now over a week has gone by since I’ve seen Sam. He was out of town this past weekend with the boys, but he let me know when he got back on Sunday (which was cute and unexpected). We’re supposed to see each other later this week and, unfortunately, I need to have two very important conversations with him.

The first is the typical female need for clarification – I need to know if all he wants is sex...he’s never actually said exactly what he wants. I like him, but I find myself falling into my same old habits. We hang out and we talk, but the majority of the time we’ve spent together, we’ve spent in the bedroom. And even though I do immensely enjoy the (normal) sex, that’s not all I want anymore. It’s great that we want to rip each other’s clothes off, but I also want someone to go out and do things with more often, to meet my friends and come to the Halloween party. I (holy shit) actually want to date.

This is all very new to me and I want to be as honest as humanly possible without sounding like a needy girl. And I don’t think of myself that way, really, because even though I like him a lot, I’m not emotionally invested at this point. So I’m going to ask him where we stand and, hopefully, I’ll do it in a way that makes me sound normal...because sometimes I get nervous when I have to talk about shit like that.

Then, of course, the second important conversation we need to have (if we even need to have it after the first one is over) is about my ass. I’m looking forward to that one even less. Because, honestly, how am I supposed to tell him it isn’t going to happen anymore? We’ve already had the “that wasn’t so bad, was it” conversation. How do I explain?

Do I just come out and say,

“Listen, I don’t particularly like it and it doesn’t do anything for me. However, I was prepared to take one for the team every now and then because you enjoyed it so much. But you know...later...Sigh. Um. See, it’s like this:

Sometimes, in the case of organ transplants, the body will reject the foreign organ. The immune system’s job is to say “bitch, that don’t belong here” and then it goes all kung fu on said organ and tries to destroy it, which causes all sorts of problems. They have medicine to help with that, but it still happens sometimes.

Basically what I’m trying to tell you is that my ass rejected your dick and tried to destroy it, several hours later and for a period of almost two days, in a very unpleasant manner...but your dick wasn’t there anymore so I’m the only one that had to suffer. At the moment I’m unaware of a pill I can swallow that will make my ass happier about being invaded, and I’m worried that next time it’ll realize your dick is there much sooner than it did previously and...well, you know. Plus, I really don’t like spending that much time on the toilet. I don’t know how you men do all that reading there, it isn’t comfortable.”

That’s what I’m working with right now, and I have less than a few days to polish it up and have it ready for presentation. I’ll draw a diagram if I must. It has to happen, no matter how uncomfortable a conversation it will be, because there is no fucking way I’m going through that shit again. Pun, unfortunately, completely intended.

“Peace and humptiness forever.”

Beyonce should write a song about this shit.

A few years ago my mom was dating the most gawd awful man.

He was socially awkward, but not in that endearing way some people are, when everyone around knows that they simply can’t help themselves. Those people are accepted into the fold and embraced for their awkwardness. “Oh, that’s just John! He’s a few cards short of a full deck, but very nice once you get to know him.” No, not like that at all. He was socially awkward in a Fatal Attraction meets Law and Order sort of way. “...and these are their stories! DUN DUN!”

They were introduced by my godmother and her (now) ex husband, going out on a few double dates with them and such. I wasn’t terribly concerned with their relationship; in fact I pretty much ignored it...until he started spending more time at our house.

In the beginning the only opinion I had about him was that he was ugly as homemade sin – short, oddly shaped, with coarse black hair in a V that stuck out over his forehead, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes ruined by the fact that they were covered with a thick black almost unibrow and so close together, you often had to look twice to make sure they weren’t crossed. And then there was the rather large tattoo of SpongeBob Square Pants on the side of one calf. I kid you not.

But eating dinner with him at the same table and sitting on the couch opposite his Hunchback of Notre Dame frame, I became uneasy. He never said much of anything and when he did, it was strange and had a tinge of faux cheerfulness. And the way he looked at and touched mom made my stomach turn.

I’ll admit I tested him – ignoring him, being rude - if looks could kill he’d be six feet under. I had suspicions. And when, after barely a few weeks of seeing each other, he was showering her with expensive gifts and sending flowers to work every day, I knew I was on the right track to psycho town.

I was sitting alone on the porch one evening reading when mom came out to ask my opinion on an outfit. I looked her up and down, nodded my approval, and went back to my book. Still she stood there until I looked again, a thoughtful expression on her face. “So”, she leaned across the back of the chair in front of me, “what do you think about SpongeBob?” (It’s what we called him behind his back. Still do, in fact.)

I looked at her with exasperation. She already knew what I thought of him as I’d said so loudly and more than once. I believe the most often used phrase was “fucking creepy”. But mom is one of those people that will continue to periodically ask the same question, always hoping for a different, more satisfying answer. I sighed, wondering just what I needed to say this time to prevent her from ever asking again.

“I don’t like him”, I said seriously. “Every time I look at him I think to myself ‘it puts the lotion on it’s skin, or else it gets the hose again!’”

She immediately burst out laughing. I’m admittedly an amusing impressionist, but I meant every word. And I couldn’t help chuckling a bit at her reaction, but I followed it with a sobering “just you wait” in case she doubted my sincerity.

I needn’t have bothered. Mom happens to think 95% of people are insincere, hence the repetitive question asking I suppose. My answer became a running joke, repeated often at the family gatherings that he didn’t manage to weasel his way into, and yet she still continued to date him.

The more time he spent around her friends and family, the more insistent the clamor became – “There’s something wrong with that guy. (Dun Dun!)” And though he was not an intelligent man, as evidenced from our previous stilted and juvenile conversations, he was street wise. He recognized the signs of unease and he made changes to his routine. Rather than sending her flowers every day, he took it down to once a week. Rather than just giving her an expensive present, he also gave them to my sister and me. Rather than just sitting on the couch and staring off into the distance at Sunday dinner, (I’m assuming it was the distance... Like I said, his eyes were almost crossed) he painted the outside of my grandmother’s house.

I wasn’t very happy about the situation, but I was also being bought. Which is nice, terrible as that may sound? (Especially when you’re a single parent whose baby’s daddy is a man whore that fathers more children than a Polygamist cult leader and your kid is last on the child support totem pole.) And as an added bonus, there was talk of them moving in together and mom giving me the lake house outright. Creepy fucker with a SpongeBob tattoo or not – a free house is nothing to sniff at.

But after they’d been dating for several months, mom had to have major surgery. I took the day off and planned to stay at the hospital with her overnight, but that morning he joined grandma and I in the waiting room and he never left. I couldn’t get rid of him to save my life and being close to him for that long was making my skin crawl. The minute they informed us she was out of surgery and in a room where we could go in, he was off like a shot. I was livid.

He sat beside her the entire afternoon and into the evening, leaning over the space between the couch and the bed, and rubbing her right hand raw while her left repeatedly jabbed the little red Morphine button. To make matters worse, when she had visitors he refused to move – just sat there with his ass crack hanging out of his stupid shorts, chafing her hand like a lunatic.

I left. I couldn’t help it. Grandma took one for the team and said she’d stay the night because if I had to sit in the same room with him for one second longer, they’d have had to do emergency surgery and remove my foot from his ass.

A few weeks went by, with mom laid up in the bed at home. He continued to drop by and call, but miraculously she seemed to be coming around. She started avoiding him and making excuses. I thought his behavior at the hospital had finally pushed her through the veil.

Then she showed me the ring.

Apparently he’d proposed to her some weeks before and she’d kept it to herself. She told me that she wouldn’t give him an answer, so he just gave her the ring and said to wear it and think about it, or something of the sort. I was horrified.

Lucky for me (and probably her skin), when she started to distance herself a little, he shot himself in the foot. Stepping up the psycho routine, he sent nutty text messages and had his mother call my grandmother and cuss her out for no apparent reason. Adios, SpongeBob. You don’t fuck with my grandma.

And though he was everything but a gracious ex, he did refuse to take the ring back.

Now mom has a relatively normal boyfriend who we love and the ring is snug in her jewelry box. We even laugh about SpongeBob sometimes, even though he’s done and said disgusting things since their breakup, some of it pertaining to me (which I wrote about here).

Sadly, the ring is quite gorgeous. So much so that occasionally, when I rifle through mom’s jewelry box for something and see it sitting there, I can’t help but slip it on and wonder.

How many women have accepted a shiny, expensive rock from a broke down prince? How many are desperate enough for that fairytale that they’ll brush aside their real wants and needs? How can anyone ever be that lonely?

And you know what fucking sucks?

I think I might be on my way to figuring it out.

Hypothetically speaking

Life is all about choices.

After your choice comes the inevitable ‘follow through’. You take some sort of action – be it passive or aggressive. And then comes everyone’s favorite part: consequences. Right or wrong, good or bad – everything has a consequence. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes?

Alright then. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, you know someone that knows someone. And the someone you know works with a woman. Allegedly this woman is a nice woman, if a little nerve grating from time to time. However, as much as the someone you know likes this woman they cannot help but be a tad disturbed by her ... habits.

See, this someone you know was in the bathroom they share with this woman. They were a bit bored, because sometimes the gopher shits take awhile, so they decided to go through the drawers of a cabinet right in front of the toilet. Previously they’d only ever opened the top drawer because it’s where they store their feminine hygiene products, but that day they were curious. Upon opening the bottom drawer they noticed a box of wet wipes and they were pleased because everyone knows that wet wipes are the best invention ever, second only to The Bullet (The zzzzzzz kind, not the POW kind).

But upon further investigation they noticed several clear, plastic Ziploc bags stashed behind the wet wipe box. The bags appeared to have been there for awhile, condensation was visible on the inside plastic. Upon even further investigation it was noted that these bags contained wadded up pairs of women’s underwear matted together with, well, shit and mold. They then yelled, “Holy mother of gawd! *gag*”

Now, it’s safe to say that this someone you know got what they deserved for being nosy: disgust, embarrassment, and the hardship of keeping a straight face every time someone says “shit” in the office. However, you can also argue that this is a shared bathroom and the drawers are now communal property. (And by drawers I mean the pull out kind, not the shitty kind.)

Now, herein lies the problem: Does this person you know tell the woman that they know about her dirty little secret? Do they hint around so that she cleans out the drawers (both kinds, if we’re being technical)? Or do they continue to keep silent and check to make sure they are still there, turning it into a running joke with their friends: “Who had $20 on three months? You lose! It’s been 4 and they’re still there! Who wants $10 on ‘the collection will be added to by 5 months’?”

Whatever choice they make, there will be another consequence and another. Until eventually they’re old enough to understand what it’s like to lose control of their bowels and start shitting in their own drawers, though hopefully they dispose of them properly. Is life depressing or what?

How are some people so decisive when there are all these choices?

Let’s try another one. Something a little different.

Let’s say that, hypothetically, you haven’t had sex since New Year’s Eve. And even though it was sex, it wasn’t great sex. And the guy was a complete tool bag man whore masquerading as a nice guy and he stabbed your clitoris, repeatedly and viciously, like the Romans stabbed Caesar. Et tu Bruté?

Let’s also say that you’re trying this new thing called getting to know a person before you fuck their brains out. You’re trying to be mature. You’re trying not to act on a sexual whim or 8 liquor drinks and a bong hit. You kind of want to remember who, what, when, where, and how the hell he did that thing with his...whatever. You’re not slutting it up anymore. High five to well-behaved, classy you!

However, here’s the crux of the matter: You’re dying. Not literally dying, but seriously, if you don’t get screwed by something that doesn’t take batteries they might put you in a mental hospital and change your middle name to ARGHHHHHHHHH!, because that’s all you ever say anymore. Everyone thinks you’re bipolar or schizophrenic, but you aren’t. You’re suffering from NoDick Disease. To complicate matters, you’re actually about to get more alone time than you ever get. Also, you may or may not have a ridiculous crush on someone that you totally shouldn’t have a crush on and you couldn’t sleep with them right now even if you wanted to.

So do you go back on your promise to yourself, go out and pick up a six foot, green eyed cure with a David Copperfield complex (Surprise! He’s in there!)? Or do you continue biting the heads off of random passersby, because they look like they just got plowed, until you finally meet someone, date them, and then fuck their brains out?

If you just do it you may get satisfied, but then again you may not. Either way, you’ll eventually be slapping yourself silly because you totally ruined your well-behaved, classy plan.

The consequences are a motherfucker on this one either way you go, right? Maybe you should just go back to your old routine: Do it. Like it. Don’t care. Suffer the consequences. Still not care. Do it again. But no, it’s still a cycle! Sigh.

Last one. This is super hard, you guys. I know. My head hurts too.

Let’s say that, hypothetically, you and your five year old kid live with your mom and teenage sister. Said teenage sister is, like, ohmigawd, so perfect! You’ve always tried to relate to her, but it makes your head hurt. Until recently you never really had anything to talk about.

But now all of a sudden you’re being sought after for sexual counseling and advice, and being asked to fill the role of the mom that's popping Xanax like skittles and sticking her head in the sand because “no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-will-ever-have-sex-nononononono” by taking said teenager to the health department for birth control. And then your nosy nature, combined with all of this sisterly bonding, suddenly culminates in the form of a cell phone video you wish to gawd you had never opened *gag* vagina *gag*...hold on a minute, please.

Ok. *deep breaths* Lalalalalalabia. In-out-in-out. *gag*

Sorry. Let’s continue.

So now you’re supposed to be the cool older sister that’s completely ok with this pimply fucker hanging around all the time and railing your sibling and talking about it to all of his friends, but you aren’t allowed to talk about it to your friends because she’s, like, ohmigawd, so perfect and no one can ever know. And she starts fucking up all the time and getting caught doing stupid shit, but everyone brushes it under the rug and she never gets punished, unlike you at that age, who totally got locked in the guest room and bitch slapped into next week.

So you take all of that angst and confusion and combine it with this most recent issue.

You’re in charge while the teenager goes to the prom. You’re supposed to monitor the time she comes in and make sure there’s no funny business going on. On one hand, you were totally doing funny business at that age and thoroughly enjoying it. On the other hand, you totally got knocked up and had to move back in with your mother. You understand the shit she’s going through, but you feel like you have to be the adult in this situation, ok.

She actually comes home at a decent hour, boyfriend in tow, to watch movies. She’s also brought along a friend and her friend’s date too. You’re completely fine with this because: A) you’re sitting on your porch getting shitfaced drunk on wine while having a fascinating four hour long phone conversation with a stranger and B) what are they possibly going to do with you RIGHT there and with their friends RIGHT there.

Everything is fine. Everyone leaves. You pass out. You wake up the next morning, pick up the kid from the non-in-laws, and park her in the other room to play while you nurse your killer headache.

But that evening you’re cleaning up the kid’s playroom and there’s a bright yellow wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and it’s an empty, torn open Trojan condom packet. You gasp and yell for the obviously guilty party. She comes in, angry at being interrupted from staring at herself in the mirror. You hold up the evidence and she immediately claims, “That’s not mine!”

“Who the fuck does it belong to then”, you say.

She rattles off the names of her friends that were there last night.

You blanch. “You mean to tell me that you let them fuck on my daughter’s playroom floor?”

“I didn’t know”, she whispers.

You are livid for many reasons: How dare someone else get laid in this house when you aren’t getting any? How dare some teenage kid deliberately bring her boyfriend over and secretly have sex in this house? How disrespectful is that? How dare your sister let them do it? IN YOUR KID’S PLAYROOM where she’s been playing ALL DAY! There could be jizz hiding anywhere! In her kitchen set teacups! You were sitting on the porch. Right there!

Before you have time to think about anything else, you decide not to mention it to your mother. Then later, once it’s percolated, you realize a few things: You’re an adult. You were technically responsible for these kids. Maybe you should say something and let them suffer the consequences, just like you had to when you were a disrespectful little shit. Or maybe you should continue to be the cooler, understanding older sister.

You demand an apology from the teenage friend and force your sister to listen to three, randomly spaced, thirty minute monologues about how much she sucks, her friends suck, her boyfriend sucks, and it sucks being an adult that has to deal with this shit and FUCK, you don’t want to think about it anymore.

And yet you continue to wonder, even after its pretty much over, if you should have done things differently. Because right now the consequences you’re suffering from are a slightly guilty conscious and the urge to vomit.

What kind of choices would you guys have made?

Of course, this is all completely hypothetical.

When everything turns to shit

Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.

A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.

I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.

I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.

The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.

Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…

That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.

Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.

I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.

I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.

The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”

“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”

I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.

That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.

As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.

I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.

“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”

I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.

I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.

While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”

“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.

“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”

“I didn’t do that either”, she said.

“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”

CLICK.

Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.

I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.

I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.

And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.

The only way was to get on my knees.

And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.

After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.

I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.

“I’m hungry”, she said.

I stared at her in disgust.

“What?”

Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.

“What’s…oh…oh!”

That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.

After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”

“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.

“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.

The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.

“Mom”, she said.

“What honey?”

“It still smells like shit in here.”


*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*

If there was an Oscar for best performance by a fat kid...I'd win.

Memories of my early childhood are sparse. The ones I have are like an old movie reel. Grainy, with barely legible subtitles and cheesy music.

I was about seven when things switched to glaring color. Pictures, people, and places – all thrown together like a discount movie bin, all at war with each other to be placed on the shelf and labeled: horror, romance, comedy, drama.

There are classics, pulled out and played again and again when I’m alone. There are low budget sequels...

And like every video library, there are those you lend out.


Title: Satan’s Birth
Genre: Horror
Released: September 1992

I’m no longer going to be an only child.

I’m the forgotten child, left standing in a bedroom at four in the morning while my mother is hustled out the door and to the hospital. Left with twin teenage babysitters that are too involved with themselves to care when I lock myself in my room and refuse to come out.

I’m taken to The Grandmother’s to wait and am slightly mollified when she plies me with cheetos and ice cream.

I haven’t seen my dad in days, but who cares? He’s the one at fault for this mess anyway. My cousin told me to check my new sister’s head for dents when she comes home. No one is amused when I repeat this information to my Nana’s Jehovah’s Witness friends. Nana threatens me with the yardstick.

Mom finally comes home. She’s tired and goes straight to bed, taking it with her. I watch them sleep and wonder what the big deal is anyway. It doesn’t even look like a girl, with a thick patch of black hair on its fat head and as far as I can tell, no neck. It wakes up and starts screaming. I might have poked it by accident.

I’ve never heard a sound like that in my life. My ears are ringing. “Shut up”, I tell it loudly. My mom is trying to quiet it, but then turns to me, angry. She tells me to go to my room. As I walk out I pick up a hand mirror from the dresser.

“Take it back”, I scream throwing the mirror to the floor. Glass shatters all over the kitchen and in the bedroom doorway. I see my dad heading toward me and I know it’s all over.

They’re going to kill me now. Kill me and feed it my snacks. Give it my room and my books.

As he drags me off down the hall, I pray they have cheetos in heaven. The puffs, not the crunchies.


Title: The Curious Case of Brian’s Bullying
Genre: Suspense, Drama
Released: September 1993

It’s not easy being the smart, fat kid. Being badly dressed doesn’t help either.

It’s the first day of third grade and I have to be at the bus stop early. My mom dressed me in kaki pants, white turtleneck, patterned vest, and Keds. I hate my outfit. I know I look like the kid that swallowed Nancy Drew, but agree to wear it when she presents me with a new lunch box. It’s full of my favorites: a snack pack, cheetos, and a ham sandwich. I stuff in another snack pack when she isn’t looking.

I hate the bus. Mine is the first stop in the morning and the last stop in the afternoon. It feels like I spend an eternity bouncing around on those hard black seats.

It’s too dark to read in the morning, but on the way home I stick my nose in a book. People usually leave me alone, but not today.

The normal ruckus is going on around me – kids screaming and jumping, tramping up and down the aisle. Sometime later a body falls into my seat, knocking my book from my hands. I look up and angrily shove them out, sending them across the aisle.

It’s a high school boy that lives down the road from me. His name is Brian and he’s a tall, beefy, red-faced asshole. His book bag has come open and papers are falling all over the floor as he tries to steady himself. I pick up my book.

He turns around and yells curse words in my face, spit flying from his lips. A drop lands on my cheek and I brush it off. “You’re disgusting”, I say with bookwormish dignity. “Fucking nerd”, he screams back. Snatching the book from my hands, he starts ripping out pages.

“Stop”, I yell, but he doesn’t. Furious, I do what my Nana told me to do when boys are being “sonsabitches”. I pull my leg up in the seat and kick him hard in the crotch. I’m amazed when he drops to the floor like a stone. While he moans and cries, I attempt to gather up the pages of my book. They’ve flown all over the place and I have to crawl around under seats to retrieve them.

It’s taking me a long time and I’ve practically forgotten about stupid Brian. But as I’m crawling under another seat, I’m yanked from behind. He’s gotten a hold of my legs and is dragging me down the aisle. I try to kick him loose. He picks me up by my shoulders, squeezing hard, and holds me as high as he can.

The bored bus driver finally decides to intervene. “Put her down. Now!”

Brian grins up at me and yells, “Ok!” Then he throws me down and away from him as hard as he can. I slam into the floor, my head striking a seat leg, and lie there stunned. Before I can get up the bus pulls up at Brian’s house. He laughs as he steps over me on his way out the door. The bus driver shakes her head, but doesn’t comment.

I’m hurting all over, but at least I’m almost home.

By the time I’m dropped off and make the long trek up the driveway, my face is swollen from crying. My mom is standing in the kitchen when I go in. I stand in the doorway, holding my shredded book in my hands, tears coursing down my cheeks. She immediately runs to me and asks question after question. She feels the knot on my head and surveys my dirty clothes while, in between sobs, I explain.

Later she repeats the story to my dad. He’s just gotten home from work, but he’s had a “few beers” first. He is angry and irrational. He takes a gun from the cabinet and tells mom he’s going to go over there and shoot Brian’s dad. Unable to stop him, we wait. He doesn’t come back for hours.

I’m lying in my bed with a compress on my head when I hear him come through the door, singing. He’s drunker still and in good spirits. He and Brian’s dad have bonded over a bottle of Crown Royal.

I turn over and attempt to sleep off his betrayal. Goddamn rednecks.


Title: The Accidental Flashing
Genre: Comedy, Horror
Released: Summer 1995

I’m rarely indoors during the summer months. Every day is long and action packed. It’s the only time of year that an activity takes precedence over reading. I swim and I tube and I ski. My bathing suit is my skin for three months.

I eat less too. Not because I want to eat less, but because of the “no swimming for thirty minutes after you eat” rule. And I never break it. Not because I don’t want to break it, but because my Aunt once ate three pieces of birthday cake, “dove” in, got a cramp, and I had to help tow her in before she drowned. She’s at least 350lbs. People are lighter in the water, true, but I’m not a trainer at Sea World.

I’ve been trying to learn how to water ski with only one ski, but out of all the water sports I do, it’s my least favorite. This is most likely due to the traumatic way my family tried to teach me two years ago.

Flashback:

They hooked the rope to the Jet Ski and handed over the training skis. Brandishing a video camera from the dock, they called, “No matter what you do: DON’T LET GO OF THE ROPE!” Simple enough, right?

They started to go and I tried to pull myself up. I wobbled a bit, then crashed down, sliding beneath the surface. They continued to drive forward while I alternately sunk and rose, holding on to the rope for dear life. Probably around my third or forth time breaking the surface I heard them shouting, “LET GO OF THE ROPE! LET GO OF THE ROPE!” I did as they said. While the Jet Ski turned to come back for me I shouted indignantly back at the dock watchers, “BUT YOU SAID NOT TO!”

They play the video tape all the time. Even for guests.

Today my dad is going to ski. He uses one and he’s pretty good, but he only does it once a year. He’s sober so he probably won’t fall.

I climb in the boat with the rest of the onlookers while dad sits on the dock and straps on his life jacket. He lights a cigarette and climbs down the ladder so it doesn’t get wet. I roll my eyes and toss him the rope as we go by. He gives the driver a thumbs up, his cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.

He’s up immediately, though it takes him a minute to gain his full balance. On the straightaway he hooks an arm through the handlebar, takes one last puff of his cigarette, and tosses it away. He jumps waves and does a few spins while we clap.

I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming with my cousins. Except for the 10 minutes I stand with my nose to a post on the gazebo for punching Andy and pushing him off the dock. It’s no so bad though. Ben whispers “Andy’s a wiener” every time he passes by and I giggle.

It’s time to go home and we start the uphill walk. “You did good on the skis”, he says. He’s being nice today. Ben said it’s because he smoked pot behind the shed with his dad, but I already knew that. I like him better when he smokes pot. Not my uncle though because he laughs really weird and calls me “Ralph”. “I don’t get it”, I tell him, but he just laughs harder.

I go straight to my room to take off my bathing suit. I pull on the shorts my mom laid out for me, but I choose a different t-shirt. The one she picked has a picture of a pink cartoon elephant on the front. Once she put it in my soccer bag and I had to wear it to practice. That woman is on a mission to make me a laughing stock.

I head to the laundry room to put away my bathing suit. The folding door is partially open and I yank it back, coming face to naked crotch with my dad. For a minute we are both frozen with shock. He turns his back, but I’ve already seen it. I turn around quickly and go back to my room. I feel sick and embarrassed. I lie on the bed and press my pillow over my head. Maybe if I press hard enough the image will go away.

We avoid each other the rest of the night. My mom asks me why I’m acting weird, but I can’t tell her. When I go to bed I hear them talking in murmurs. I know it’s coming even before it happens.

She bursts out laughing and I hear her say the words “you” and “penis”, but that’s all I can make out. I’m horrified. Now she’s going to tell all her friends about it and they’re going to laugh too. It’s not like I wanted to see his nasty thing. Ugh!

I get up the next morning and peer out my door. I’ve decided that I’m going to peek and shout to announce my presence before going through any doors or around corners. It’ll be a pain, but it’s better than having to see that again. I’m convinced I’ll be scarred for life, like that kid at school that caught his parents doing it on his four-wheeler. Now he won’t ride it anymore and he wears dark sunglasses all the time. I’ll probably have to move in with my grandma if it gets too awkward. That thought cheers me up a bit though because she has better snacks at her house.

I make myself a bowl of cereal and turn on the TV. My sister wanders by in her footy pajamas, heading for my mom’s room. After a few minutes they come out and go to the kitchen. It’s demanding grits and eggs again. I figure I can eat twice.

My mom looks at me across the bar and grins. “Good morning.”

I glare at her then turn my face to the TV. She’s never going to let me live this one down, I know it. I plan to call grandma as soon as I finish watching my show and eating breakfast. And maybe a snack.

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.

I mean, “OH MY FUCKING GAWD LOOK AT THAT MAAAAN! I WANT TO CLIMB UP THAT BODY AND STAY THERE TILL I MELT OFF! SCREAM! THEY’RE PLAYING MY FAVORITE SONG! IT’S MICHAEL IT’S MICHAEL! WHEN A MAAAAAN LOVES A WOOOOMAN! SWOON.”

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 right.up.in.her.shit...and took her hand. After a second, she jerked her hand back, whipped out her camera, and snapped a picture right.up.in.his.shit.

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 me...you 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.

The Champion

It took me five days to get over that fucking flu. Five miserable, snotty, head aching days. And I know that sweaty bastard has to be the one that gave it to me. HAS to be.

So, before I disappeared last week to smother myself with tissues I’d planned on writing about the aforementioned sweaty bastard that most likely gave me the flu. I was a little hesitant about it. At first I though, “Wow…this probably makes me look like a big slut.” So I put it off.

Now that I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, “Who gives a rat’s ass. I have nothing else to write about…and it’s nothing if not, um, entertaining.” I comfort myself with the fact that I’m not really a slut. There are men out there ten times worse than I’ve ever had time to be. Screw the double standard that will likely never die.

That night I went out with my cousin and his fiancé and another girlfriend of mine. We went to dinner and then to a bar in the small downtown district. I’d usually rather sit home and stare at a wall before I’d go to a bar in my town, especially this particular one. I avoid it like the plague. It’s like a high school reunion every time. Ugh. However, my cousin doesn’t like the city night life like I do and he was paying for all of our drinks so I said, “Why the fuck not?”

It actually wasn’t bad. They had a sort of early St. Patty’s thing going. We went upstairs where it was less crowded to play a couple games of pool. Of course I ran into the usual small town school folks that never leave, (I’m still desperately trying NOT to be one of them.) but it wasn’t so bad.

A guy that my cousin knew well was playing at the table next to ours. He graduated a few years before I did, but I knew him from parties, rumors, and the usual small town run-in. He’d recently gotten back from Iraq, which surprised me. He’d been pretty big into drugs last I heard.

Anyway, he came and said hi to everyone and I could tell he was pretty wasted (but probably only slightly more than I was). When he got to me he shouted, “HEEEEYYYY! JIMMY’S DAUGHTER! WHAT’S UP?”

Yet another reason I avoid small town bars. There’s always one…always…that fucking calls me “Jimmy’s daughter”. I cannot stress just how much I hate being referred to as JIMMY’S GODDAMNED DAUGHTER. As if having the man show up to nearly every party for my entire high school career wasn’t enough embarrassment to last a life time. Not to watch out for me, never that. He was either already there and drunk, passing out god knows what, when I arrived or showed up later. Everyone thought he was fantastic of course. No one else’s dad partied as hard or gave out as many free illegal substances as old Jimbo. He’s a legend. It’s been years and he’s still causing me embarrassment merely by name association. Sometimes when they talk about how cool he was I want to tell them, “Yeah, he’s the coolest! I think it’s great that all of you got to snort my college fund up your noses!” I digress.

I sneered at him. “That’s not my fucking name.”

“I know your name, geeze, Ally...chill.”

We all went back to our games. My cousin started buying shots. About an hour and a half later (I’m estimating), I was lit like a Christmas tree. Everything was lovely! The originally offending party was especially lovely with his military muscles and tattoos. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to sleep with him or not. He’d approached my cousin and expressed an interest I was already plainly aware of, even in my drunken state.

The deciding factor that tipped the scales in his favor? He said, “You know, your dad and I were at (somewhere) once (back when I was still in school) talking and he opened up his wallet for something. I saw your picture and I said, ‘I didn’t know she was your daughter. Nice!’, and he said, ‘Stay away from my daughter’. He scared the shit out of me. He doesn’t live here anymore, right?”

I laughed so hard I spit my drink out, barely missing some poor player.

“No, he doesn’t. We’re leaving soon. Are you coming with me?”

That was all she wrote. He left before we did and I made plans to meet him where I’d left my car. HA Jimmy!

Skipping over the majority of the in transit details, I met the other guy and he rode with me to my cousin’s house. During the drive, we were both more sober and had a pretty decent conversation. Nothing to write home about, but he was a little more intelligent than I’d originally thought. We hung out with my cousin and his fiancé for awhile before they went to bed. I took him to the guest room.

I really didn’t want to complain about another sex partner. I didn’t want it to seem like I’m this really hard to satisfy bitch, because I’m not. I just have really, really bad luck. Evidently. So here it goes.

Before I could do anything he had my arms pinned to my sides and was trying to swallow my entire face. I ended up jerking my head side to side so much I’m surprised I didn’t end up with whiplash.

The sex itself wasn’t so bad...at first. Then the sweating started.

Sweat is normal. I understand that, especially given the acrobatics he was pulling out. But his sweating was not normal at all. He started to get slick. I started to get slick. It was fine as long as I stayed on top, but he kept throwing me around all over the place. It started to drip off his forehead and nose and when he pulled me back under him, it started soaking my hair. I was gritting my teeth and trying to decide if it was funny or disgusting when a giant drop fell directly into my eye. INTO MY EYE.

I froze and opened my mouth to say, I’m not exactly sure, but that wasn’t a good idea. I sputtered and coughed and made him get out and go get a towel.

He was apologetic and wiped my face and his. Against my better judgment, activities commenced. That’s when it got weird.

I love talking shit. Love it. It can be quite sexy. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was not. I didn’t initiate the talking. He asked me once if I liked it rough. I said yes and he took that as an OK to turn into the Shump Daddy. (Taken from his last name…how clever.)

He started pulling my hair. Ok. Great. Good. Fine.

“…you like that baby?”

“…uh huh…”

(This is gonna get graphic…)

“Whose pussy is it?”

“What?”

“WHOSE PUSSY IS IT?!”

“Um…yours?”

“THAT’S RIGHT! Say its Shump Daddy’s pussy!”

“What!?”

He yanked hard on my hair.

“SAY IT’S SHUMP DADDY’S PUSSY!”

I started convulsing on top of him…with laughter. I was biting my lip so hard, but little noises kept coming out, which he took as pleasure.

“SAY IT!”

I choked it out as best as I could, trying to keep from laughing out loud completely which made me shake harder, which made him think I was about to have a melt down.

“DON’T STOP! RIDE IT LIKE A CHAMPION! YOU’RE A FUCKING CHAMPION! A FUCKING CHAMP! CHAMP!”

I lost it. I stopped and doubled up laughing, out loud this time.

“What’s so funny!?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He was perturbed. He grabbed my hair in one hand and my throat in the other, not really putting any pressure on it, but the intent was clear. I gasped when he pulled my head back. Which meant game on again, I guess.

He got so excited that he flipped me under him again and, pardon my rough and descriptive phrasing, pounded me so hard if I’d been a nail, he’d have hammered me through a whole stack of boards. You know how guys sometimes do that REALLY fast, vibrating, jack hammer thing? Yeah, it was like that. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over my face, as much to muffle the laughter as to stop my head from jolting off my neck.

That’s probably the worst of it. It turned out to be about a two hour ordeal. I finally had to fake the most dramatic orgasm I’ve ever faked in my life. And I really, truly hate to do that because then they think they’re great and make other women’s lives miserable. But he was crazy. I didn’t really have a choice.

While he went outside to smoke I started cleaning up the room. The sheets were completely soaked with sweat. I mean SOAKED. They could have just come out of a washing machine they were so wet. I took everything to the laundry room and threw it in the washer. Then I went to the bathroom.

I looked like maniac. My hair was wet and matted, mascara all over my face, bruises starting to show up all over. I combed my hair out with my fingers and put it in a ponytail and prepared to get rid of the Shump Daddy.

Thankfully he went kind of quietly. With a parting, “I really pounded you good, huh?”

I couldn’t answer without having hysterics, so I just nodded.

I went directly home (it was 6am by now) and got in the shower.

The guy had to have been on something other than alcohol. I’m guessing cocaine. Of course I had to tell my cousin and his fiancé about it. They thought it was absolutely hilarious and have been calling me ‘The Champion’ ever since.

Lovely.

It’s that asshole’s fault I got the flu. I know it.

Ah well. Another notch, another laugh and I got 2 ½ days plus the weekend off from work. Still, I’ll be avoiding that bar and the Shump Daddy indefinitely.