From the category archives:

Sex

Don’t look at me like that

July 23, 2011

When I was younger, maybe from about age seven to age thirteen, I would wish for two main things. A wallet that dispensed endless cash and some sort of something – potion, incantation, electric shock, whatever – that would make me irresistible to all boys. Of course, neither materialized. I had to settle for middle class luxuries like name brand cereal and a garishly pink, phone-shaped phone book – get it – sparsely populated with the numbers of boys who didn’t want me to call.

Fast forward about twelve years and things are a little different. I’m nowhere close to having that wallet, although steady income is certainly close enough for me. As for being irresistible, well, that’s debatable.

I mean, I did just hear from a guy who begged to eat my pussy, cancelled a month-long road trip because he was scared I’d find someone else, and thought I was so ‘amazing’ that someone must be playing a joke on him. All after meeting me once. More than two weeks after rejecting him on all fronts, I wake up to this text:

“It’s Chris. I’d like to see you again. You can be straight up with me and say no. I understand. That’s life but I don’t think we gave each other a chance.”

I think I’ll stop wishing for that potion now.

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No one wants to have sex with me and that’s okay I swear

April 19, 2011

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

 

*We follow each other on Twitter

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I’m lucky I still have a vagina

April 2, 2010

I waxed my vagina. At home. On a towel. In a room with one 60 watt light bulb. The scene was just one step up from what would typically be provided for a dog before giving birth. About the same amount of blood though.

I’ve had an issue with body hair since I was about nine years old. That’s when I let my own paranoia falsely convince me that other girls my age were shaving their legs, so I should too. For weeks I went to school with noticeable cuts around my ankles and in the government subsidized light of my classroom, noticed that without their dusting of blonde hair, my legs looked a lot like discounted lunch meat. From there I moved on to my arms, 60% of my eyebrows and, soon after learning about nocturnal emissions and birthing hips, my pubic area. My endeavor to turn myself into the surface of a bowling ball came with very little conscious effort. Most of it was simply motivated by the need to be consistent.

However, my pubic hair was an entirely different beast. I vacillated between a bush so voluminous it was noticeable through jeans and Barbie crotch. I could get away with it because, other than my tracings of rare dog breeds, no one ever saw me naked. Still, I preferred to be completely bare. Years of trial and error informed me that orgasms were easier to come by when I actually had direct access to myself and not something akin to a squirrel pelt. But since I had no real reason to be fastidious about maintaining a vagina suitable for moonwalking, I slid back into indifference.

Then I discovered oral sex and the details are hazy from there. But from that moment, I became nearly obsessed with what I could do to make my vagina more welcoming for someone’s face. I knew that my pubic hair could grow to almost inhumane lengths and I never wanted to go back, fearing that both the frequency and sensation would wane. Luckily, not even my ham-fisted attempts at shaving around my ski slopes could dissuade the shared inexperience and desperation of 17-year-olds.

Eventually I found myself in a relationship where cunnilingus was nearly a daily activity and not just something that was done when his parents left to go grocery shopping. I soon realized that my razor could no longer keep up.

Which is why, when my boyfriend suggested that I wax my vagina, I agreed. He even said he’d do it for me, all I needed to do was order the wax. The first sign that I was absolutely fucked came when he decided to slather wax on my cunt like he was buttering toast, instead of applying it in strips. By the time I looked down, the wax had already hardened and I was left there wondering why I let him do this to me, considering that I still have to find socks for him in the morning. I started panicking because I knew that, outside of melting the wax off with an iron pressed against my labia, I was now committed to having my pubes torn out en masse. Aside from being unable to find even one sock out of a collection of 50, he also lacks manual dexterity. I learned this when it took three or four pulls to successfully emancipate each portion of flesh from the wax puddle he created. The pain was immense, but I couldn’t really be too angry because I probably would’ve stripped myself of the ability to urinate if I tried to do it myself.

After each abortive yank, I had to ask him to stop so I could drain the tension out of my muscles. I also needed to make sure I still had a clitoris. During this time he would apply ice to the area that now had its own heartbeat and remind me that I could hold on to him to help with the pain. If I hadn’t been busy wiping the torture-induced tears from the side of my face, I would’ve asked him if he also goes to the Burn Ward to offer patients advice on how to crate train a new puppy. Because unless he was going to spontaneously secrete morphine, that offer was useless to me.

Somehow, after many suggestions that I pet my freshly removed hair because, ‘it feels like a cat nose,’ I got through it. I couldn’t argue with the results. My vagina felt like a handful of baby powder, but it would’ve had to start whistling The Best of Bobby McFerrin for me to consider it a winning value proposition.

I resented my boyfriend for a few days after that. I took most of it out on his face, seeking solace in the fact that he could hardly breathe. Yeah, it’s a weak victory – I go through a medieval level of pain, he gets to eat pussy. But just give me a few months, when I welcome back the Barbara Bush. And force him to formally address her. And remove her smart little skirt suit with his teeth.

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As if anyone is brilliant enough to manufacture a sex doll that pisses itself

January 1, 2010

A few weeks ago, I found a new hobby. For an hour or so every night, I would collect a handful of the most illiterate and horrifying Craigslist personal ads imaginable. Then, I would send the links to my boyfriend and before bed, he would read them to me as phonetically as possible in order to really emphasize the I am so fucking desperate I can’t be bothered to spell-check this well and mostly because my internet access at the library is about to expire quality of each ad. As bedtime stories go they had everything – a fallen hero (or more realistically, someone who never got up in the first place), usually some sort of infidelity that required a clandestine meeting, and of course, the deeply disillusioned idea that their dick was worthy of a honey baked ham, much less a woman with an equally savory, but somewhat less edible, vagina.

Like many of my hobbies, it was short lived and able to be done from the couch. There are really only so many times you can laugh at the fact that an alarming number of people don’t know that there is a difference between ‘woman’ and ‘women.’ Oh, and not surprisingly, seeing the cock and balls of men who seemingly traded in all of their potential for extra hair on their taints can put a damper on your sex life.

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