“I think I’m going to buy some of those diet chips”, Diane says.
I prop my bare feet on the edge of her desk and cross my ankles. “Make sure you read the bag carefully. Some of those diet and sugar free foods can cause anal leakage.”
She throws back her head and laughs, the sound echoing down the corridor. I smile and shake my head as she launches into a story about a woman that had to have her asshole reconstructed, due to her penchant for taking the dirt road. I’m going to miss these daily dicking-off fests more than I originally thought. And I’m going to miss her.
I remember the first time I sat in this chair, in her horribly messy office, wearing a brightly striped sweater, black skirt and black old lady pumps. I was a nineteen year old kid with a month old baby at home and I had no idea what I was doing. Diane sat me down, explained the job, spent a half hour gossiping and then showed me around the suite.
I immediately wanted to work here, not even considering the corporation as a whole...just this little area where the work space rang with laughter and the halls smelled of coffee and someone’s breakfast burrito. It was my first “real” job.
But though the woman who hired me is my supervisor, she’s never been just a boss. From the day I interviewed until this moment, this last day we get to sit here together as employee and employer, she’s also been my friend, mother and psychiatrist.
She cosigned for my first loan to help me establish credit, she made cakes on my birthdays and sat drinking wine with me all night on her living room floor. Just recently, when I had to go to the doctor for what was apparently vertigo, she came, without asking, in sweats and tennis shoes on her day off. Just in case I needed someone to hold my hand and drive me home.
She’s lectured me, made me listen to the same stories over and over again, occasionally irritated me so much that I wanted to scream...but I love her. She gave me a job, she gave me a chance and she’s continuously put up with all of my tardiness, grouchiness and immaturity.
And now, after weeks of wondering and waiting, the day has finally come. The transition from old job to new will be complete tomorrow, when I pack up the last box and they cart it two blocks away. I’ve been excited about taking a step up the career ladder, about more money and more opportunities to grow and learn. I’ve been excited about my new chair and my new title, about rubbing elbows with presidents and COO’s. Excited and a little terrified, but not sad. Not until now. Not until it really hit me that in order to grow up and move up, I’ll have to give up a few things too.
This is the last time I’ll sit around with no makeup on and a frizzy ponytail, barefoot and relaxed in the privacy of an office that’s more like home. The last time I’ll dance on tiptoe around her door and primp in front of her mirror to make her laugh. The last time I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit for an hour in the mornings. The last time I’ll wear flip flops and leggings, play games when no one is looking and close my door for an hour with a current bestseller.
And perhaps the saddest thing of all, right up there with saying good bye to her and other coworkers I’ve come to think of as family - this is the last time I’ll sit at this desk and write.
Showing posts with label what what in the butt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what what in the butt. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Thursday, December 16, 2010
You are NOT the father!
I’ve been dicking around for at least a week now – starting posts, then scrapping them and getting caught up in reading other people’s blogs. Or maybe I’ve been reading more of my own blog than I have anyone else’s. Is that not the height of vanity?
It really wasn’t meant to be that way. It actually started because I wanted to jog my creativity, maybe pull some new ideas from the dregs of old posts. But it ended up with me sucking down diet Pepsi and tweeting about “Extreme Masturbation” in between rereading posts from a year ago and wondering what happened to that girl. She wasn’t having sex very much, but she was funny. And she certainly didn’t have writer’s block.
I know the part of the above paragraph you’re most interested in is “Extreme Masturbation” and honestly, I have no clue where that idea came from. But suddenly I got a mental picture of the sport they call “Extreme Ironing” and I thought, “How fucking badass would it be if they made a reality show about people that masturbated under extreme circumstances? Like parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing, scuba diving, race car driving, or getting arrested.” Just imagine – if a dude can keep it up (and finish!) through conditions like those...then he’s bound to be worth a ride. Or a laugh.
Then, of course, I thought it was most likely a moot point. The Japanese probably came up with that idea ages ago.
Anyway, since I can’t come seem to complete a nice, streamlined post, I figured I’d just give you a few updates on the dating front:
I’m no longer seeing Sam because he is a self absorbed bore that wouldn’t stop trying to put it in my butt. Seriously. I’m done. The man is completely incapable of compromise in the bedroom. I asked him to pull my hair once and he acted as if he were completely offended. After things were done and we were just lying there I said, “What is your problem with hair pulling or slapping? Why are you so against it?”
“It’s really just not my thing”, he said. “Plus, when someone asks me to do it...it just seems really stupid and awkward to me.”
“Well I wouldn’t have to ask you to do it if you would’ve just tried it, at least once. Besides, you certainly had no qualms about “asking” to put it in my ass. And pardon me, but that’s really not my thing and I find that stupid and awkward.”
Then he posted a series of rude, racist, and misogynistic “notes” on Facebook. And that, friends, was the cherry on top of the end of my first, ill fated, online dating relationship. But you know what? You live, you learn, and you start sleeping with someone that has your blog address and knows exactly what you like sexually...and has no problem giving it to you.
I mentioned this very briefly several posts ago (only one line, in fact), but yes, it’s true. There’s a man I know in real life that actually has this blog address. It was a bit of an accident, really.
See, he was really the match of a friend of mine that’s been doing online dating too. But after meeting, they decided to just be friends. One night she and I planned to meet for drinks and she invited him along.
We all hung out – eating dinner, drinking, and playing pool. And my friend, not thinking anything of it, mentioned my writing. At first I was a bit surprised. I’m not used to talking about my blog in public. But in the end I decided that it didn’t really make a difference whether he knew about it or not, since he wasn’t a romantic prospect.
But after a night of incessant drinking, laughing, and sharing every embarrassing sex story ever to grace this blog – I somehow ended up in his bed. And there wasn’t much sleeping involved.
Then, obviously, I was faced with a dilemma I’ve never had before. I always write about my encounters, but under a comfortable layer of anonymity. The thought of having the subject of a post analyzing every word I wrote about him was a bit daunting.
I thought, “Well, of course that means I just won’t be able to write about him.” But recently he informed me that he has in fact read my blog, and he has no problem being the topic of discussion. Something about not wanting to hinder my creativity...
My first reaction to that was, “Sweet! A free pass!” But after thinking about it a little more, and actually attempting to write an entire post about him and him alone, I was stuck. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he may not agree with my assessment. And while I’m still unable to go into the amount of detail I normally would, I can tell you this:
The sex was fantastic. All of it. And he’s rather insatiable. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I suppose I’ve been mistaken in the assumption that older men have lower libidos. He’s 43 to my 25 and I’m not sure what he’s like the next day, but after I leave his place I’m exhausted for the next 24 hours.
However, I can’t really give him complete marks because he was practically given a roadmap. He knew just about everything I liked and disliked from our hours of talking shit at the bar. As a matter of fact, I actually told him the face slapping story. And he, unexpectedly, gave it a go...even though we both dissolved into laughter immediately afterward.
We went out to dinner a few weeks ago and I watched the SEC championship game at his house. He makes me laugh when we hang out and it’s actually kind of nice not to worry about what he thinks of me...because he already knows all of the bad stuff. I can just be myself.
I’m under no illusions that he’s a one woman man and I couldn’t say how long this...mm, tryst, of ours will last, but right now I’m just enjoying it. (Except maybe that one time when he kissed me, then said in a rather terrible Darth Vader voice: “Ally, I am your father!” Umm...well, you could be.)
Tomorrow night we’re supposed to go out for drinks and, I think, play a few games of pool. Maybe it’s like drinking beer – the more you drink, the easier it goes down. Maybe the more time I spend with him, the easier he’ll be to write about.
Or, maybe I should just ask him to stop by and give his side of the story – “What it’s really like to sleep with the woman who writes about her sexual conquests, yet never gives them a chance for rebuttal.”
Perish the thought.
It really wasn’t meant to be that way. It actually started because I wanted to jog my creativity, maybe pull some new ideas from the dregs of old posts. But it ended up with me sucking down diet Pepsi and tweeting about “Extreme Masturbation” in between rereading posts from a year ago and wondering what happened to that girl. She wasn’t having sex very much, but she was funny. And she certainly didn’t have writer’s block.
I know the part of the above paragraph you’re most interested in is “Extreme Masturbation” and honestly, I have no clue where that idea came from. But suddenly I got a mental picture of the sport they call “Extreme Ironing” and I thought, “How fucking badass would it be if they made a reality show about people that masturbated under extreme circumstances? Like parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing, scuba diving, race car driving, or getting arrested.” Just imagine – if a dude can keep it up (and finish!) through conditions like those...then he’s bound to be worth a ride. Or a laugh.
Then, of course, I thought it was most likely a moot point. The Japanese probably came up with that idea ages ago.
Anyway, since I can’t come seem to complete a nice, streamlined post, I figured I’d just give you a few updates on the dating front:
I’m no longer seeing Sam because he is a self absorbed bore that wouldn’t stop trying to put it in my butt. Seriously. I’m done. The man is completely incapable of compromise in the bedroom. I asked him to pull my hair once and he acted as if he were completely offended. After things were done and we were just lying there I said, “What is your problem with hair pulling or slapping? Why are you so against it?”
“It’s really just not my thing”, he said. “Plus, when someone asks me to do it...it just seems really stupid and awkward to me.”
“Well I wouldn’t have to ask you to do it if you would’ve just tried it, at least once. Besides, you certainly had no qualms about “asking” to put it in my ass. And pardon me, but that’s really not my thing and I find that stupid and awkward.”
Then he posted a series of rude, racist, and misogynistic “notes” on Facebook. And that, friends, was the cherry on top of the end of my first, ill fated, online dating relationship. But you know what? You live, you learn, and you start sleeping with someone that has your blog address and knows exactly what you like sexually...and has no problem giving it to you.
I mentioned this very briefly several posts ago (only one line, in fact), but yes, it’s true. There’s a man I know in real life that actually has this blog address. It was a bit of an accident, really.
See, he was really the match of a friend of mine that’s been doing online dating too. But after meeting, they decided to just be friends. One night she and I planned to meet for drinks and she invited him along.
We all hung out – eating dinner, drinking, and playing pool. And my friend, not thinking anything of it, mentioned my writing. At first I was a bit surprised. I’m not used to talking about my blog in public. But in the end I decided that it didn’t really make a difference whether he knew about it or not, since he wasn’t a romantic prospect.
But after a night of incessant drinking, laughing, and sharing every embarrassing sex story ever to grace this blog – I somehow ended up in his bed. And there wasn’t much sleeping involved.
Then, obviously, I was faced with a dilemma I’ve never had before. I always write about my encounters, but under a comfortable layer of anonymity. The thought of having the subject of a post analyzing every word I wrote about him was a bit daunting.
I thought, “Well, of course that means I just won’t be able to write about him.” But recently he informed me that he has in fact read my blog, and he has no problem being the topic of discussion. Something about not wanting to hinder my creativity...
My first reaction to that was, “Sweet! A free pass!” But after thinking about it a little more, and actually attempting to write an entire post about him and him alone, I was stuck. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he may not agree with my assessment. And while I’m still unable to go into the amount of detail I normally would, I can tell you this:
The sex was fantastic. All of it. And he’s rather insatiable. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I suppose I’ve been mistaken in the assumption that older men have lower libidos. He’s 43 to my 25 and I’m not sure what he’s like the next day, but after I leave his place I’m exhausted for the next 24 hours.
However, I can’t really give him complete marks because he was practically given a roadmap. He knew just about everything I liked and disliked from our hours of talking shit at the bar. As a matter of fact, I actually told him the face slapping story. And he, unexpectedly, gave it a go...even though we both dissolved into laughter immediately afterward.
We went out to dinner a few weeks ago and I watched the SEC championship game at his house. He makes me laugh when we hang out and it’s actually kind of nice not to worry about what he thinks of me...because he already knows all of the bad stuff. I can just be myself.
I’m under no illusions that he’s a one woman man and I couldn’t say how long this...mm, tryst, of ours will last, but right now I’m just enjoying it. (Except maybe that one time when he kissed me, then said in a rather terrible Darth Vader voice: “Ally, I am your father!” Umm...well, you could be.)
Tomorrow night we’re supposed to go out for drinks and, I think, play a few games of pool. Maybe it’s like drinking beer – the more you drink, the easier it goes down. Maybe the more time I spend with him, the easier he’ll be to write about.
Or, maybe I should just ask him to stop by and give his side of the story – “What it’s really like to sleep with the woman who writes about her sexual conquests, yet never gives them a chance for rebuttal.”
Perish the thought.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The stalker's book of irritating faces
The internet has brought people watching into a different arena. You can see someone do their daily routine on a YouTube video, read and track their every move on Twitter, see what their interests and passions are on a forum. You can find out what they wore that day, what they had for dinner, and with certain people who over share (that shall remain nameless), you even know how many times they got off the night before.
In some cases you learn more about a person by watching their videos and reading their words online, than you can by watching their hand gestures and lip movements from the bushes across the street with a telephoto lens. Am I right, guys? What some call “cyber stalking”, others call “sitting in my swivel chair and wearing a bib to catch the drool while I look through all 793 of your photos instead of driving past your house three times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse as you walk by the window”. Or, you know, “social networking”.
I’ve found that I’m occasionally more interested in a person via their online dealings than I am if they’re in front of my face. I think it’s mostly about safety: I can watch them without worrying that they’ll come up to me. I can click an X and they’ll go away. I can laugh at pictures of them and they’ll never know. I can pick my nose and wear my pjs covered in baby chickens without fear of discovery. But there’s one site I’m on the fence about - Facebook.
Truthfully I don’t spend a lot of time on it. I only reopened my account this past summer (which I swore I’d never do after my very large Aunt, whose main hobbies are sucking down troughs of sweet tea and reading Harlequin novels in a recliner all day, bombarded my wall with messages not three minutes after I clicked on accept) when pictures of me started cropping up all over the place. I decided I would reactivate it so I could swap photos with my friends easily, etc and so forth. And for the most part it’s worked out quite well, especially since my Aunt has now forsaken FB in lieu of some new gaming site.
I’m not sure why, but I find Twitter far more interesting. (Maybe because I only use it for bloggers and there's no pressure to behave.) The only reasons I really pay attention to someone’s Facebook updates are if: they look like they can benefit me in some way, I’d like to see them naked, they are about me or contain pictures of me, or I happened to see a vulgar word. Vulgarity always gets my attention.
I don’t mind admitting that I’m very particular about who I accept friend requests from. The main reason for that is that I don’t really like people. The second, and more accurate reason, is that if I start accepting whoever, my blog could get out there. Then I’ll be forced to start a new one about baking pies and making flower arrangements, rather than whom I got busy with the other week (Which, in case you were wondering, is the 43 year old I haven’t written about because he has the link to this blog and that would be so rude (right?). Hello, R. Round two? RAWR!). And no one wants that, least of all me. I’m terrible at flower arrangements and I prefer cake.
But there are people that I can’t say no to. Though I am particular about whom I accept there’s no way I can turn down a friend request from, say, my kid’s grandmother. Or as I like to call her, “The Non-In-Law”. (My mother calls her “Heinous Hair”, but that’s another story.) I don’t particularly want her to have my updates and I definitely don’t want to see my feed bombarded with her ridiculous mystery eggs and fake lost cows. And it may sound completely illogical, but when she sent me an instant message through there the other day, I got really aggravated. Contact online was not necessary – especially since she has a million other ways to get a hold of me. Stalker.
Hell, before we’d gone on our first date, Sam sent me a request. I was absolutely appalled. I remember saying to my sister, “The motherfucker has gone and infiltrated my Facebook! If I say no, he’ll think I’m hiding something. If I say yes, he’ll find out things I might not be ready for him to find out yet...which doesn’t count as hiding, so shut your pie hole. I mean, give me a chance to say hello before you feel me up, am I right?”
“What? Feel you up? But I thought you hadn’t...”
“Go away! You suck at this game!”
No matter how particular I am, I always end up with a few people that make me want to vomit. I occasionally put up a bit about my kid, but it’s never really touchy feely. Write a whole post that makes fun of her giant behind yet also shows how much I love her? Sure, no problem! Write a paragraph update on FB about how she makes tears come to my eyes every time she punches me in the ovaries, not because it hurts, but because she’s such a glorious miracle from God? Hell no.
When a certain friend posts a status about her toddler or puts up photos of her family I think, “How are you even old enough to have a family? Are you on uppers? Please, for the love of Christ, stop posting every five minutes about how wonderful your life is and how your child said something completely dull.”
Case and point –
One of my updates: “So apparently my crumb snatcher starts Kindergarten on Wednesday. Man, I feel old.”
One of her updates, paraphrased because writing it outright makes me gag: “Like, waiting on my fantastic husband to get home with my little prince. I’m so lucky. Blessings and, like, flowers, hearts and heavenly trumpets, venereal disease is a total myth, ya’ll!”
I can handle that kind of thing in small doses, but this is like an everyday occurrence...saying the same exact shit. And each update is half a fucking page long. Get a mommy blog for fucks sake! Ahem. I’m hoping I can delete her unobtrusively in the near future.
Don’t even get me started on the damn farm and treasure hunting stuff. I haven’t explored it all, but I asked a friend just what exactly they were supposed to do on this Farmville shit. Apparently all you have to do is click on things and holy crap! You’re a farmer! There was a longer explanation, but it all boils down to this: It’s the most boring “game” I’ve ever heard of in my life. Maybe even more coma inducing that golf.
But, as of this past weekend, you know what the best thing about Facebook is?
Signing in, glancing at your feed to see if there’s anything there about you (because hello, that’s what it’s all about), and instead being slapped in the face with a picture of the guy you’ve been seeing and a woman that’s hotter and skinnier that you. It sucks, even if you weren’t crazy about him. Because no woman wants to find out, through the fucking internet, that the guy she let put it in her ass, against her usual better judgment, has been shacking up with someone that’s better looking.
The only positive aspect is that I don’t have to wonder anymore. Now I know why he hasn’t called lately – It’s not because he’s dead or I offended him. He’s just balls deep in some hot old broad.
I guess my main issue is this – It isn’t blog land. I can’t say anything I want. Well I could, but I was taught to respect my elders and, as much as the Non-In-Law and other older family members irritate me, I can’t bring myself to call them fuckers or demand they stop bombarding me with their stupid cartoon crops. And I can’t tell my old friend that I don’t give a rip roaring shit about her completely generic kid. And I can’t post a comment on a photo that says, “It really doesn’t matter if you’re a little bit prettier than me. He’s just going to shove your face in the pillow anyway. I said What What in the Butt.” Because feelings could get hurt.
And because, in case you weren’t already aware, Facebook is real life dot com.
In some cases you learn more about a person by watching their videos and reading their words online, than you can by watching their hand gestures and lip movements from the bushes across the street with a telephoto lens. Am I right, guys? What some call “cyber stalking”, others call “sitting in my swivel chair and wearing a bib to catch the drool while I look through all 793 of your photos instead of driving past your house three times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse as you walk by the window”. Or, you know, “social networking”.
I’ve found that I’m occasionally more interested in a person via their online dealings than I am if they’re in front of my face. I think it’s mostly about safety: I can watch them without worrying that they’ll come up to me. I can click an X and they’ll go away. I can laugh at pictures of them and they’ll never know. I can pick my nose and wear my pjs covered in baby chickens without fear of discovery. But there’s one site I’m on the fence about - Facebook.
Truthfully I don’t spend a lot of time on it. I only reopened my account this past summer (which I swore I’d never do after my very large Aunt, whose main hobbies are sucking down troughs of sweet tea and reading Harlequin novels in a recliner all day, bombarded my wall with messages not three minutes after I clicked on accept) when pictures of me started cropping up all over the place. I decided I would reactivate it so I could swap photos with my friends easily, etc and so forth. And for the most part it’s worked out quite well, especially since my Aunt has now forsaken FB in lieu of some new gaming site.
I’m not sure why, but I find Twitter far more interesting. (Maybe because I only use it for bloggers and there's no pressure to behave.) The only reasons I really pay attention to someone’s Facebook updates are if: they look like they can benefit me in some way, I’d like to see them naked, they are about me or contain pictures of me, or I happened to see a vulgar word. Vulgarity always gets my attention.
I don’t mind admitting that I’m very particular about who I accept friend requests from. The main reason for that is that I don’t really like people. The second, and more accurate reason, is that if I start accepting whoever, my blog could get out there. Then I’ll be forced to start a new one about baking pies and making flower arrangements, rather than whom I got busy with the other week (Which, in case you were wondering, is the 43 year old I haven’t written about because he has the link to this blog and that would be so rude (right?). Hello, R. Round two? RAWR!). And no one wants that, least of all me. I’m terrible at flower arrangements and I prefer cake.
But there are people that I can’t say no to. Though I am particular about whom I accept there’s no way I can turn down a friend request from, say, my kid’s grandmother. Or as I like to call her, “The Non-In-Law”. (My mother calls her “Heinous Hair”, but that’s another story.) I don’t particularly want her to have my updates and I definitely don’t want to see my feed bombarded with her ridiculous mystery eggs and fake lost cows. And it may sound completely illogical, but when she sent me an instant message through there the other day, I got really aggravated. Contact online was not necessary – especially since she has a million other ways to get a hold of me. Stalker.
Hell, before we’d gone on our first date, Sam sent me a request. I was absolutely appalled. I remember saying to my sister, “The motherfucker has gone and infiltrated my Facebook! If I say no, he’ll think I’m hiding something. If I say yes, he’ll find out things I might not be ready for him to find out yet...which doesn’t count as hiding, so shut your pie hole. I mean, give me a chance to say hello before you feel me up, am I right?”
“What? Feel you up? But I thought you hadn’t...”
“Go away! You suck at this game!”
No matter how particular I am, I always end up with a few people that make me want to vomit. I occasionally put up a bit about my kid, but it’s never really touchy feely. Write a whole post that makes fun of her giant behind yet also shows how much I love her? Sure, no problem! Write a paragraph update on FB about how she makes tears come to my eyes every time she punches me in the ovaries, not because it hurts, but because she’s such a glorious miracle from God? Hell no.
When a certain friend posts a status about her toddler or puts up photos of her family I think, “How are you even old enough to have a family? Are you on uppers? Please, for the love of Christ, stop posting every five minutes about how wonderful your life is and how your child said something completely dull.”
Case and point –
One of my updates: “So apparently my crumb snatcher starts Kindergarten on Wednesday. Man, I feel old.”
One of her updates, paraphrased because writing it outright makes me gag: “Like, waiting on my fantastic husband to get home with my little prince. I’m so lucky. Blessings and, like, flowers, hearts and heavenly trumpets, venereal disease is a total myth, ya’ll!”
I can handle that kind of thing in small doses, but this is like an everyday occurrence...saying the same exact shit. And each update is half a fucking page long. Get a mommy blog for fucks sake! Ahem. I’m hoping I can delete her unobtrusively in the near future.
Don’t even get me started on the damn farm and treasure hunting stuff. I haven’t explored it all, but I asked a friend just what exactly they were supposed to do on this Farmville shit. Apparently all you have to do is click on things and holy crap! You’re a farmer! There was a longer explanation, but it all boils down to this: It’s the most boring “game” I’ve ever heard of in my life. Maybe even more coma inducing that golf.
But, as of this past weekend, you know what the best thing about Facebook is?
Signing in, glancing at your feed to see if there’s anything there about you (because hello, that’s what it’s all about), and instead being slapped in the face with a picture of the guy you’ve been seeing and a woman that’s hotter and skinnier that you. It sucks, even if you weren’t crazy about him. Because no woman wants to find out, through the fucking internet, that the guy she let put it in her ass, against her usual better judgment, has been shacking up with someone that’s better looking.
The only positive aspect is that I don’t have to wonder anymore. Now I know why he hasn’t called lately – It’s not because he’s dead or I offended him. He’s just balls deep in some hot old broad.
I guess my main issue is this – It isn’t blog land. I can’t say anything I want. Well I could, but I was taught to respect my elders and, as much as the Non-In-Law and other older family members irritate me, I can’t bring myself to call them fuckers or demand they stop bombarding me with their stupid cartoon crops. And I can’t tell my old friend that I don’t give a rip roaring shit about her completely generic kid. And I can’t post a comment on a photo that says, “It really doesn’t matter if you’re a little bit prettier than me. He’s just going to shove your face in the pillow anyway. I said What What in the Butt.” Because feelings could get hurt.
And because, in case you weren’t already aware, Facebook is real life dot com.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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.
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.”
**********
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.”
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