January 31, 2011 § 1 Comment
Smitten. Total swoon. Crushing hard. Gaga. Head over heels. The whole nine yards. Okay, enough! It’s time to have the sex. Eventually, one way or another hands are going to wander to where they should not be and bodies will surrender to impulses. It’s only natural, we are all raw human beings. After the climax you ponder… Was it worth the wait? Or… How do I avoid seeing him ever again?
It shouldn’t be anything less that phenomenal. You’ve both done it before (unless someone has a secret) – it’s an instinctual act, there really isn’t much that can malfunction. We’re all adults here. Yet, trying to do it together for the first time is more awkward than watching and extra large person try to buckle themselves in for a domestic flight in late July. Sweaty, furrow-browed, and chafing. There’s nothing pretty or glamorous about it.
I feel judged quietly. Being of the female gender, I stew over the episode until the next time I see him. Seeing him completely naked, him seeing my bare ass… it’s completely game changing. He now knows about that unsightly scar, that questionable mole, the shape of my southern lips and every little dimple more commonly called cellulite. On the flip side, I now know exactly how much body hair I’m dealing with, how much he truly works out, the sweat factor, and everyone’s favorite: the size of the dong.
While I’m being honest, even the prettiest of pricks can be unsatisfying if there is no rhythm. It’s as if the best song in the world was performed by a tone-deaf vocalist. No matter how many times we say it, they still don’t believe it. It’s not the size of the ship but the motion in the ocean. I had to convince an old boyfriend that he was actually growing, “Babe, I swear it’s getting bigger, I can tell.” It took months of unsatisfying sex and faux measuring tape to get him to feel comfortable with his size. Amy Poelher said it best in a SNL guest appearance on Weekend Update, “We can’t waste time arguing over penises. Besides, ladies don’t care how big a penis is. Unless it’s really big or really small.” You got to own it, guys. Own every inch of it and know exactly how to use it. Don’t be lazy with your love muscle. Let’s not forget that sex does take some athleticism.
You’ve been painting yourself as a fair maiden this whole time, but once the legs are spread the whole ladylike mirage goes straight out the window. I don’t even know what comes out of my mouth. I’m a gal who likes it a little rough, so if my ride isn’t up to par I might blurt out some instruction. “Let me tame the bull,” seems to be a favorite segway for a position changer.
Never mind the lady bits hair-do situation, especially if I’ve been caught on an off week. I could be known as “the prickly one” to all his friends from here on out. Which is another thing, yes, we talk about it, and they talk about it. I don’t like to kiss and tell, unless I’m asked twice. Us gals, we call it Brunch and that’s where we swap sack stories (get it? sack stories).
When you go to there with someone new, even if it’s not your first rodeo, it always feels like you’re in the middle of the ring without your rope. The pressure is on. Measuring sexual chemistry is different than adding up sexual tension. If he flops maybe give it another turn on the merry-go-round? Beyond that, it might just not a good fit, and be honest, it’s probably not you. There are stickier situations you’d rather be in, and I hope you’ll find them with someone else. Above all, condoms on hand, back up lube, and safety third.
January 24, 2011 § Leave a comment
You wouldn’t walk through a supermarket shouting obscenities, you wouldn’t get black-out drunk and piss yourself in front of your mother, you wouldn’t share details of the color and consistency of your shits with a complete stranger, so why are you doing it on Facebook? If you don’t use your privacy settings, if you don’t censor yourself at all, every pimple, every mood swing, every sexual encounter is broadcast to even the most casual acquaintances and archived FOREVER via the World Wide Web.
I don’t think I’m alone here when I say we need to take responsibility for our Internet actions. I blame the user, not the digital book of face. Enough of the inappropriate social blunders flying around on status updates and post comments clogging my news feed like the ten page produce mailer from the grocery store I’ve never set foot in. I’ve got a few examples of outrageous behavior publicized on the Internet by Facebook. If you are as appalled as I am, help stop it by practicing good netiquette. There is a delete button for a reason. No worries, we all make mistakes and experience occasional poor judgment.
Let’s start with the TMI faux pas. You are giving me too much information if you are an expectant mother whose dilation progress is announced in my news feed. I regret logging on that day your water broke. And truth be told, do I really need to see that graphic picture of you and your newborn? You just gave BIRTH moments ago. I know, I know, the miracle of life. By all means, share it. I just think some things should remain personal. If you wanted your mother/aunt/cousin/baby daddy to see it, why not attach the pic in an email or send it as a personal message? Facebook gives the option. Maybe if I had squeezed out one of those miniature human things, I’d feel differently about this, but for now… keep it in your own circle.
You are giving me too much information if you are self-publishing gloomy prose about your most recent break up. This is not a poetry jam this is a social network. It’s sad and pathetic and after 6 weeks, I no longer feel bad for you. In general, broadcasting your misery is not attractive, and did you ever think that saying nothing at all says a whole lot more than updating your digital friends on your FEELINGS every twenty minutes? Would you say the same thing into a bullhorn if you and your ex were at the same party? Facebook is a party, and your wall is a bullhorn. What exactly are you shouting about?
You are giving me too much information if you are posting pictures of your every meal. I don’t need a review on every piece of nourishment passing your lips, it only makes me think about how your next bathroom break is going to go. Yeah, I’m gross, but amateur photographs of food taken on a cell phone make any edible item look like shit.
Next, I want to address something in a serious manner: Sympathies. Dying is a part of living and although we have advanced so far technically, it’s still apart of our modern life. I know that the community of Facebook just wants to cheer up a member who’s down, but however you heard about it, if they aren’t posting about their loss on their own wall, should you really be the one to do it? While some people wish to publicly express their hardships, others wish to be consoled privately. Some members of Facebook may have crossed this line in regards to the sympathy wall post. Makes me feel icky. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to express your sympathies no matter your relation is to the bereaved, but again, Facebook has made the option available for you to privately send a message. Also, you might be surprised to find out that Facebook now memorializes deceased members preserving their page on the Internet. What might you be leaving behind? Maybe you have some deleting to do?
This brings me to my next point of interest, birthday wishes. The Facebook wall post really just become another notch in the lazy American’s bedpost, right along with drive thru windows and the acronym ‘lol’. Pretty soon we’ll be doing away with emails, phone calls and greeting cards as well. A while back I was surfing the “book” and I came across a friend’s page. Someone had wished her husband a happy birthday on her wall because they were unable to post to his wall. Again, it’s called privacy settings, people. And if you can’t post on his wall, he probably doesn’t want the clutter of your birthday wish. Yet again, you could send a private message, you have the power. I resolve to no longer wish a happy birthday on Facebook walls. I vow to text, because if we are really friends, I’d have your phone number. And if you’re special, I’ll give you an actual phone call, that is if we are still calling them phones.
When using Facebook we MUST begin to ask ourselves: how would this person like to receive this message? Talk about impersonal; is there some sort of high to get from seeing your name on another’s wall? Do you need the proof that you were there first? Or have we become so lazy and thoughtless that we cannot exercise the option to send a private message to our loved ones? That is not what friendship is, people.
With little to no rules on Facebook, I really think there should be at least some sort of grammar police. Some citizens diligently make corrections, but no matter how polite, they are not well received. Still I’m astonished, some users basically type in all acronyms. High school students are in essence Facebooking in another language. Then there are some people who straight up violate grammatical rules and just don’t care. You know who you are. And then there are some people who just make a few honest mistakes, typos, or they were never very good at spelling (that’s me). I’m okay with a little correction here and there. I’ll take your correction and repost, which is how you avoid making the same mistake again. It’s sad to see the English language bashed with such regularity. Also, please, can we scale back on the profanity, there are kids on here. Is nothing sacred? I’m Facebook friends with my eight year old niece who likes to look at the pictures I take of California sunsets, and in the same album I have people dropping five F-bombs in one comment. What’s wrong with you?
I’ll say it again: I don’t blame Facebook, I blame the user. Whatever happened to thinking before you speak? Or in this case: type. We were better off when we didn’t have websites asking us what we were thinking about constantly. Don’t even get me started on Twitter, that’s just a breeding ground for inappropriate posts and bad grammar. Facebook could become a cesspool like Twitter or Myspace, or we could all take on the social responsibility of cleaning the place up. You don’t need to share everything on the Internet, it’s not like it’s going to get offended, it’s not going to be mad at you an not invite you to it’s birthday party. Let’s be real.
Here are some additional thoughts on the subject:
and my own two cents.
January 17, 2011 § 1 Comment
I know this is a little forward because we haven’t met yet, or we have met and maybe I’m waiting for you to get a promotion, or for your ex to move to a different city, or for you to stop getting your “tips” frosted. Regardless, I have a list of things you should be aware of when the time is right for you to swoop me off my feet. Swooping to be done in the happy-ending-romantic-comedy way, not the Fantasia-dancing-hippo way (that ended badly). I write this prematurely in part because I know my future-self will get immense pleasure out of saying, “I told you so.” So without further explanation, my list of requirements and dealbreakers are as follows:
- First and foremost, never lie to me. It has less to do with core values and more with the fact that I can’t lie. You see, I cannot control my facial expressions, I read like a billboard. You’ll have to come down to my level on this one.
- If you’re a vegan or a vegetarian that has to end now. If you aren’t into seafood, you’ll have to become more adventurous. Eating is one of my favorite hobbies, I don’t want to be forced into personifying the animal I’m about eat, like when fish is served with the head, his huge saucer eye looking up at me. So if you’re not into splitting a cute little cow, back off my steak!
- Making it your personal mission to make me laugh will be rewarded amply with sexual acts.
- Cheating at cards, stacking the deck or otherwise is considered a federal offense in my book and will not be tolerated. My Grandmother is watching.
- Must look adorable in a baseball cap, but not wear one too often.
- I’d really prefer it if you didn’t have a criminal record. Besides a few unpaid parking tickets, if you need to call a guy to get the slate wiped clean, you should do so now.
- Know hot your ass is and purchase pants accordingly. And if you don’t know, ask me for advice.
- Cut apples into perfect bites so we can share.
- Get a fun car and a serious car, but let me drive the fun car most of the time.
- Desire to dance drunkenly to a classic rock cover band on a steamy summer night.
- Random acts of flowers accepted.
- Know I can’t take a complement, but shower me with them anyway.
- When asked to name three things you can’t live without, sex should be one of them.
- Put grand ideas in ways I’ve never heard.
- I’m not asking you to plaster pictures of us making out on your facebook page, but at least hide your relationship status so you’re not advertised as single.
- To ensure I am attracted to you for a lifetime, it’s better to be a hot potato than a couch potato. If you’re a whole sack of potatoes, you’ll need to make some dietary changes and get a gym membership to keep up with me, I’m not into slackers.
- ‘Slackers’ brings me to my next point, as the song clearly states: I don’t want no scrubs. Have a job, have a goal, have a passion. If you don’t, you’re not bringing much to the discussion and I’ll end up talking too much. No one wants that.
- Love The Big Lebowski and be able to recite almost every line in addition to perfecting the ultimate white Russian. This is not ‘nam, there are rules.
- Please don’t make me go to church on Sundays. Not only am I not a morning person, but I was raised Cathloic, I’ve put in my time.
- Understand my love for the Big Ten Conference, specifically Michigan State Basketball and the lord of the dance: Tom Izzo. I will watch your team, pro or college, with the same enthusiasm in return. You can’t get a girl this cool and not give a little back. You will bleed green.
- Cook with me.
- One day a week, stay in bed with me until noon.
- Come to a happy medium on the whole PDA thing. I’m not really a hugger, and I am defiantly not a lap sitter. I will, however, hold your hand, offer a quick peck on the lips, give the “oh Honey, you’re being dumb” pat on the arm, and I’ll let you slap my ass in front of your friends for comedic effect.
- Zero drama please. Let’s not do petty arguments or fester feelings over small stuff like toast or handsoap. If you feel something, say it. If you want something to change, do something about it.
- On occasion, pick me up and carry me to the bedroom, even if it’s firemen’s style.
- Let me have my independence, but desire to take care of me.
- Be okay with watching television marathons, even if that’s all we ever do on Friday nights, and never stand to watch a movie in full screen.
- I can hang with the boys but there will be times when my friends and I need a chaperone. These ladies are my family, we come as a package and, unfortunately, you have to deal with the shenanigans.
- Think my parents are as hilarious as I do.
- Put the toilet seat down, for God’s sake. This goes for when you’re mad at me too. I know retaliation when I fall in it.
- Take me to places fancier than us just to act inappropriately.
- Have enough kindness and understanding to pick me up when I’m feeling down, bring me soup when I’m sick, and talk in funny voices when I cry.
- Text me jokes during the workday.
- These legs don’t shave themselves and the snatch is even harder to groom. Give me a grace period, but tell me when I have an extraneous evil hair.
- Don’t be afraid to dance. Not in the sexy way, but in the silly way, most likely in the kitchen laughing hysterically doing the running man.
- Try not to over use emodicons and acronyms, and never initiate an argument over Instant Message.
- Know how to swim, build a fire, change a tire, use a power drill, drive a boat. Basic man things, yes, but you’d be surprised how many city boys are 0-5.
- You have to actually read something, like books or the newspaper. Maxium and Playboy don’t count. Your interest in something other then sports or video games is mandatory. In addition, have a broad vocabulary. I refuse to dumb down my lexicon for the rest of my life because you can’t pick up a novel.
- Lovemaking should be… athletic.
- Please travel well. None of this ‘afraid of flying’ or ‘fear of heights’ or ‘I don’t like camping.’ Saying you want to show me the world doesn’t hurt either, it worked for Aladdin.
- Don’t father me, I already have one of those.
- You’ll receive a big bonus for perfecting pancake breakfast on Sundays.
- Don’t keep me waiting, but don’t get mad if you need to wait on me. I know it’s hypocritical, but let’s weigh the facts. You’ll shower and get ready in under 10 minutes. I require 30-60. Believe me, once we get that grooming conveyor belt-thingy the Jetsons have, then you can get mad.
- Do the dishes without a shirt on.
- Enjoy a comfortable silence.
- And last but not least, put a ring on it. If you want me forever, I got to get some bling. My aunt got a canoe instead of a diamond, but it works out because she’s been woken up with a cup of coffee in bed EVERY morning for over 25 years. So if you aren’t prepared to get your Folgers on, find a good jeweler.
I don’t think this is asking to much. In return I will always greet you with genuine joy, allow you to laugh at me when I spill food on myself, let you rummage in my kitchen in the middle of the night, look pretty and be personable when it counts, and act foolishly just to see you smile, among other things between the sheets that shall remain unmentioned.
Truly yours, and hoping to no longer be,
The Internet Bachelorette
January 12, 2011 § 7 Comments
Believe it or not, humans have been trying to have sex without consequence since before the first recorded condom in 3000BC. I’m going to spare you the description of the first condom because you’ll cringe at the thought. The barrier method was very popular across the globe as well. Ancient African women used plugs of chopped grass or cloth, Japanese prostitutes employed balls of bamboo tissue paper, Islamic and Greek thought wool would be a good idea (though rough and itchy), linen rags were used by Slavic women, even a concoction of crocodile dung and honey was thought very progressive. As early as 1838 the first diaphragm was born of vulcanized rubber (angels singing).
Back in those days, abortion was also a very popular choice until it was declared murder by Pope Pius IX in 1869. Then there was all that junk the church spewed about sex being immoral if practiced for pleasure. What else would you practice it for? Today’s society seems to think that people weren’t having recreational sex before the 1960s, but if cavemen were wrapping their dongs in fish bladders, I think there was some ancient hanky panky going on.
After the church came down hard on sex (that’s what she said) birth control was illegal all together in the US. Gasp! It wasn’t until 1938 was the law deemed unconstitutional, 65 years after the ban. I’m going to take this moment to give a shout out to my girl Margaret Sanger, a devoted Suffragette who dedicated her life to making birth control available by prescription to anyone who desired it. She also is responsible for raising the money for the pill. If she were alive today I’m certain there would be a parade in her honor. She should have her own day with a long weekend so the good people of this country can fornicate.
Enough with the history lesson and back to my own diaphragm experience. Although it’s 8% more chancy then taking hormones, a diaphragm incredibly cost effective. Each ‘phragm is less then $70 and can be used for up to two years. My Ortho-Tri-PMS prescription was costing me upwards of 50 bucks a month! I convinced myself further on the barrier by doing some more math. A diaphragm when used correctly with spermicide is 11% more effective then withdrawal and natural family planning so I figure if I use the diaphragm AND I keep my calendar-o-ovulation AND he pulls out when times are dangerous, the three combined will be just as effective if not more then getting my tubes tied. Seems right to me. I discussed this with my Polar Bear and he was cool with it so I marched on into my Gyno and asked for a fitting.
My lady bits doc was delighted to hear that I wanted a little flying saucer of my own given the hormone hell I had gone through previously with my missing period. Best not to mess with the cycle. He was down there doing his thing asking me the usual questions, “How’s the job, How’s your parents” etc. When he asked me what I was doing for New Years he cut me off and said, “I know, you’re going to be using your new diaphragm!” I started laughing hysterically right there on the table in my paper robe. What can I say, he knows me.
Next was the search for spermicide, which there seems to be a shortage of. We must have gone into five different drug stores. We gave up and decided to erotically read each other the diaphragm directions instead, which are quite lengthy. Sexy time was turned off when I learned about the huge risk of UTI. If you’ve had one, you know you need a prescription to get rid of it, and there is nothing worse then to ALWAYS feel like you have to pee really really badly. As we’ve covered above, prescriptions are expensive, so I promptly bought a cranberry supplement when I went out to get the calendar for family planning. This is lot of hoopla just to replace the pill.
During the next couple days of reading up on the ‘phragm and devising the insertion strategy I came across something I didn’t expect: there is nothing sexy about excusing yourself to go put a silicone cup in your vagina. When it came to game time I said in my most seductive whisper, “let me slip into something more… protective.” With that I marched off to the bathroom. No, he was not going to get a show, of course not! I got my directions out and lubed it up with the spermicide. Note of caution: it will be very slippery, be sure to have the lid to the toilet seat down.
So there I am wrestling with the slippery little bugger, trying to follow the step by step illustrations with my leg practically over my head, and having no real idea what I’m doing. There is like some choreography you have to execute in order to get it in the right spot, which is covering your cervix. I was told your cervix should feel like the tip of your nose, but I must have been put together wrong at birth ‘cause I don’t think that’s what it feels like at all. So I emerge from the bathroom with the bad lunch face and say, “I don’t know, but I think you’re going to have to check my work.”
The Polar Bear thinks quickly on his feet and launches into some role-playing where he’s the professor and I’m some dumb blonde student. Now that I think about, I’m pretty sure he was mocking me for his own amusement. Regardless, I was feeling more comfortable when he started going down on me and confirmed everything was in place. The during part was fine, I couldn’t even feel it, and the only complaint from him was that he thought the spermicide made his tongue numb. So I guess we did everything right. There’s only one way to know for sure and it’s the first exit on the crimson highway.
The trouble came the next morning. See you need to leave the diaphragm in for up to SIX hours after intercourse. Makes sense, you don’t want any little swimmers sneaking by the ropes into the deep end after the pool’s closed. I stumbled, half still asleep, into the bathroom to remove the apparatus from my bathing suit area. Not to be too graphic, but my fingers were up there as far as possible and I could touch the ‘phragm with the tip but I could not grab hold of it. I talked myself through it, “Okay, don’t panic, the Polar Bear’s got longer fingers then you.” Aw man, I had to ask him to do this for me. I slowly opened the lavatory door, he’s just stirring awake. “I have a tiny bit of a problem,” I said. When I explained what was happening with the catcher’s mitt of love lodged so deep I could not retrieve it, we laughed about it and he did agree to lend a girl a hand. He’s no magician, but it was like some kind of raunchy allusion. Embarrassing.
I’m not one to write off something because of one experience, so we tried it again that night. In the morning I had the same result and my manfriend needed to assist me in the removal. Bless his heart, he’s okay with the way things are going to have to be until I can figure out how to do it myself. There has to be some sort of finger extender or grabber. We have now started to affectionately call it Framsies and I think it’s a great addition to our sexual activity. If I come across a solution to my little short of reach problem, I’ll be sure to let you know. Until then, I’m using my diaphragm.