What I think about during sex…

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Because most of my friends view me as “comfortable with my sexuality”, I sometimes get weird text messages like this:
(Edited because my friend refuse to spell out their words)

Her: What do you think about during sex?
Me: Que?
Her: Did I stutter?
Me: Why are you asking?
Her: Today hubby came home and because the kids were away for a sleepover we got jiggy with it
Me: My vagina takes offense to this
Her: Excuse me?
Me: You got jiggy with it? You mean you fucked like rabid donkeys?
Her: Rabid donkeys?
Me: Lots of weird noises, slobber and other such goodness
Her: Stop changing the subject! What do you think about during sex?
Me: Depends on the sex, why?
Her: Because while we were making love I kept thinking about the grocery list and then I noticed how the ceiling was kind of dirty and the carpet needed a good deep cleaning. Do you catch my drift?
Me: Yeah, you two were going at it like oiled up woosels
Her: Rai! Answer my question and stop making up analogies!
Me: Haha! You said anal!
Her: …

I’m sure we all do it. Sex. Thinking about stuff during sex. Not all the time, but sometimes both can occur. Except sometimes I just think things out of habit. You see, my very first sexual experience involved a blow job and since my partner and I didn’t really want to have much to do with one another and we were awkward teenagers, I found myself pretending that my mouth was an elevator. Which led to me using too much teeth because I didn’t want those poor people to fall out of the elevator…

And well sometimes I find myself off in that weird imaginary world without even noticing until something catastrophic happens like my partner ruining the fantasy by insisting that I acknowledge his existence in someway.

Ok, that’s not to awful. I’m sure I’m not the only one who likes to play the elevator game with their mouth…or am I? If I am then this is another good reason to assert how unique and wonderful I am and state that I am not at all batshit crazy.

Because batshit crazy is conjugating French verbs in your head while going down on someone. Which is also what I did that first time. I mean, the guy was in my French class with me and we had a test in a few days and what better time to practice remembering how to conjugate irregular French verbs than when you get bored of the elevator game?

After telling my friend via text these were normal things to cross my mind during sex she pointed out that this is what I thought of while I was giving head. Which is totally a whole other argument because the blow jay is by far more intimate than sex and if people are working on the “first base, second base, third base” analogy with the while oral sex thing being third base well…most people just run from second to home. My friend even admitted that she never gave head to any of the guys she had slept with/been in a serious relationship with until she was really comfortable with them and they’d been dating and boning for sometime. But she still insisted on knowing what I thought about during sex, so I told her.

And basically I spend most of my sexual encounters fighting the urge to say all of the weird thing that pop up into my head. I also sometimes wonder whether it’s rude to crack your knuckles during sex, but mostly just lots of words happen to float across my mind that I think would totally make sense, but then I figure if they make sense to me then I had better not say anything because if I’m thinking it in a moment passion, then I should wait until the moment of passion is over to really think it over before saying it. Like the one time, this guy who I’ve known since my first year of university came over late one night and I happened to look up his nose. Don’t ask me why I looked up his nose, but I did and there in his left nostril was this booger that was amazingly splayed out like Jesus on a cross.

So I slapped him on the forehead and shouted “THE POWER OF CHRIST IS IN YOUR NOSE!”

I mean I was just so damned excited about this Jesus booger that I did and said the first things that happened to come to mind. He naturally responded by getting all butt hurt and shouty because I’d slapped him on the forehead and started babbling about Christ. Dude was all “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” and of course me and my vagina took offense to that because we were the ones that had discovered this awesome Jesus booger and only wanted to share the moment of it, so I wound up shouting back about how he had a booger shaped like Jesus in his nose and that he should probably thank me for helping him to figure out he was some sort of holy vessel for the guy that had died for all of our sins…

And he got up, walked into my bathroom, snot rocketed it into the toilet and flushed the Jesus booger away.

Of course the night was ruined because every time I looked at him he would yell “STOP LOOKING UP MY NOSE!” and then I would yell back “YOU’RE RUINING THE MOMENT!” So then I had to find other things to think about and for some reason really fixated on this patch of moles (not the ugly kind with hair, these were just cute dark dots on his right pectoral) that he has and the more I stared at them, the more I played connect the dots with them and the more I played connect the dots with them, the more I realized they were kind of in the shape of a penis. Thankfully the smart part of my brain that goes away during sex mad an appearance and told me to keep that thought to myself and I did.

But to this day I still see that penis in that patch of moles and have to force myself to think of other things so that I won’t get yelled for seeing a penis in his body’s moles. He’s touchy about that sort of thing. I mean if he reacted the way he did to a Jesus booger, how would he react to a penis that’s just always there?

At the end of our conversation which had turned into a full blown Skype call, my friend felt ok in thinking about her grocery list during sex. I mean as long as you’re having fun, feeling good and not slapping your partner on the forehead because of a Jesus booger, then everything is ok…right?

With all that said, what do you think about during sex?

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Packing for the Disorganized

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I’m not going to lie to you and pretend that I’m this crazy organized packer person who is ready to go three point two days in advance of going anywhere. I don’t have any tricks like rolling my socks up and putting them in my shoes or putting my shoes in shower caps to keep dirt from getting on my clothes. Nor do I have any insights on the rolling your clothes vs. folding them debate. Actually I do have some insights into that. I am a full and firm believer of scrunching my clothes up in anyway possible to make them fit into the least amount of baggage needed. But then again I also believe that I only need to pack 3 pairs of underwear for a week long trip because I’ll probably not want to wear any undies for at least two days. So I can’t be trusted on this matter at all.

But over the past seven years I’ve come up with a method to my madness. There is a reasoning behind and my rhymes and that happens to be:

FAKE IT TIL YOU MAKE IT BABY!

I may not be the least bit organized, but I sure as shit can pretend to be so my mom doesn’t yell at me for packing the day that we’re leaving the house. Which I always do, but I always try to make it look like I’ve been packing for days or even weeks in advance. And since I’m such an awesome person, I even broke my packing regimen down into steps!

Step One: PRETEND LIKE YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT PACKING – about a month ago my mom and I were in a Zellers (It’s like a Canadian target that’s getting shut down so that Target can replace it) and looking at all the stuff on sale. Mom was there to buy totes for storage in our carport that’s really extra storage space for my dad and his stuff, but they didn’t have any in the size she wanted so I wound up getting two cute pink totes because they were buy one, get one free. I figured that if I could slam everything into these two totes and my big purple tote then moving back to school would make our lives easier. Beyond that, there was no thought to packing…just thinking I could squeeze all my random crap into three totes.

Step Two: START THINKING OUT LOUD ABOUT WHAT YOU CANNOT FORGET – Like birth control or…In my case, it happens to be clothes. I forgot them once, I can probably forget them again with ease…probably because I’m too busy remembering what books I want to pack. I also talk to mom about what groceries I need in my hobo hole. Like ketchup and peanut butter. I start wandering around the house looking for stuff that I may or may not want to pack. And then, if you happen to be me, you get a weird boner when you find some old textbooks in the basement and drag them up to your room to read for the rest of the day. Then you ask your mom to remind you to pack these books because you absolutely need them.

Step Three: START GATHERING ALL THE STUFF YOU CANNOT FORGET INTO A BIG PILE –  Serious too. It helps me to remember that I need to pack if I make my room look like a bad Hoarders episode but piling all the shit that I can’t forget into it. So far I’ve found some of my nicer shirts that are tossed on my bookshelf right in my line of sight along with the text books that gave me a weird boner.

Step Four: HAVE SOME INTERNAL DEBATES ON WHAT YOU’RE PACKING – This year I really had to ask myself, Do I really need to pack the condom pop that I was given for my high school graduation seven years ago? I’m totally allergic to the latex it’s made out of, but it’s just so darn cute that I put it in my little treasure box (hehe) that’s attached to one of my photo albums that mom got for me along with fuzzy handcuffs, a Mardi Gras coin of Bacchus and five Pesos.

Step Five: CLEAN YOUR ROOM – Well you don’t have to do this, but I find my mom is less likely to yell at me if my room is clean. I also do it because I like to procrastinate and tidying my room seems better than trying to pack my stuff. My dad is also less likely to yell at me if he looks in my room and sees a relatively clean floor. Cleaning my room also had the added effect of leading me to the book,  1001 Natural Wonders You Must See Before You Die and I got another weird boner looking at some pages I have dog eared of the Amazon river and I totally decided that I don’t need to pack this book with me, but I do need to re-read it again before I  leave.

Step Six: PACK SOME STUFF YOU FOOL! – You need evidence that you’ve been packing. Or at least trying to pack. So I carefully packed up some of the stuff that I can’t forget. A few text books, a couple cook books, lubricant, vibrators, lotion (I used to be an independent Passion Party Consultant) and the little photo album that mom got for that has the fuzzy handcuffs, condom pop, Mardi Gras coin and five pesos.

And there you have it! My six easy steps to packing for the disorganized. Also known as: Fake Packing. Well not really fake because I did pack some stuff, but hey! I’m good to go until the night before I leave and my mom realizes that I have nothing packed and we go through the same routine as we do every year where mom tells me to pack and I dawdle around the house and my dad asks to make sure I have my clothes, keys, power cords and all the important stuff I need because he’s seen me forget all that stuff at least once despite the fact that I always remember to pack my fuzzy handcuffs and some Mardi Gras beads…And let’s face the facts here people: My parent’s totally know what I’m up to, but this is just how I happen to pack. If I do it any other way I’ll cause a snow storm in August or tear a rift in some sort of time/space continuum and the world will end as we know it.

Or I’ll forget to pack my fuzzy handcuffs, condom pop and text books that gave me a weird boner and that would just suck.

 

 

 

 

 

It tastes awful, but it works!

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I’ve been sick this week. I actually haven’t been this sick in a long time either. Normally I’ll get a cold, but I can function and generally exist in the world outside of my home. This time I can’t. This time I need to take a nap after walking down the hallway and make soup winds me. On the upside I’ve discovered my love for hot water with lemon and honey in it…chased with codeine infused cough syrup. And as much as I love codeine infused cough syrup, I still woke up last night choking on my snot and had to dry hack it up and spit several mouthfuls of the stuff into a nearby bowl.

Not only that, but my fever had spiked again so I wound up popping a couple of Tylenol while building the courage to stagger out into my kitchen to search for something more helpful than codeine infused cough syrup. But first my dog wanted outside, so after I took care of that, I started digging through the medicine cupboard while struggling to catch my breath…and then I found it. Mana from the Heavens, I found it. Buckley’s. Three bottles of varying fullness of the stuff.

As I debated which one to drink, I made my way into the bathroom because I had to pee real bad. Once I was comfortable seated on the can and doing my business I opened a random bottle of my mana from the Gods and took a shot of it straight from the bottle. Just like dad used to make me do when I was younger. And gee, that initial rush of good feelings in my throat brought back such awesome memories…

Like being 13 and my dad telling my sister and I just to drink it straight from the bottle and the two of us forevermore shooting back Buckley’s like whiskey swillin’ cowboys.

And boy, did we get some weird looks. I can remember being 16 and my sister and I were both sick. I’d gotten whatever it was that we had from her because I always stole her juice. We had just made it to basketball play-offs, so it was a crappy time for us to be sick, but alas we were. The day before our first play-off game mom took us to our family doctor to find out what was wrong with us. I actually didn’t care what was wrong with me, I just wanted to make sure I could play ball and not hack up a lung doing so. Instead of banning us from our game like a normal doctor would have, he made all sorts of recommendations for getting better and then told us we could play if we weren’t running a fever.

When game day arrived, Tiffy and I checked ourselves for any extra heat coming off our bodies and then got ready for our game. The communal deodorant was passed around, my shoes were tied, left then right, and my lucky ring was tied to my drawstring. Tiff and I were sucking on those Cepacol cough drops  so that we could breathe and swallow half decently because spitting on a basketball court wouldn’t have been attractive.

Just as warm-ups were coming to an end, I ran over to my bag and pulled out my trusty bottle of Buckley’s. It was worn from a long week in my basketball bag and was coming up near empty. Though it still had a solid six shots left of it. As I gave my sweet syrup a shake, a referee walked up to me. He walked up to me as I was swallowing the first of two mouthfuls and was giving me this horrified look.

“ARE YOU DRINKING?!”

His eyes were bugged out of his head and I nearly choked on my mouthful of cough syrup. His face had gone red and he looked ready to snatch my Buckley’s away from me.

I slowly swallowed whatever syrup I had left in my mouth, because it still hurt to swallow, and handed him my open bottle of supposed booze. The refs eyes narrow in suspicion, but he took the bottle anyway and sniffed it. Then his face pinched up. Eyes winced shut, his mouth was like he was sucking on the sourest of candies  and his nose was wrinkled like a pugs.

“HOW ARE YOU DRINKING THAT STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE?!

And I proudly replied, “Like this!” and took the bottle from his hands, took another quick gulp, put the lid back on and tossed my sweet sweet syrup back in my bag before joining my team in our pre-game huddle.

Do you have any good memories of your cough syrup?

The Downside to Piercing My Tongue

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My tongue was stretched out of my mouth. Clamped between these tongs that the piercer pulled a little. There was a circle that he had positioned over the dot he’d made on my tongue and I could see the needle he was about to stab me with. My heart was racing and I could feel the fear clawing its way up my chest and I held onto my calm exterior like a drowning man would clutch a floaty-thing. The fear was sugar-sweet and made my thighs quiver…and then he was telling me to inhale…exhale…inhale…exha-

Lightning swift the pain lanced from my tongue, down my nerve endings and between my legs where my adrenaline soaked heart took up its quickly pulsing residence. Yeah, I like pain. Some pain I hate, but this pain was bliss on crack as he quickly worked to get the barbell and its bells secured in my mouth with non-latex gloves that tasted like tingling after shocks of pain

When all was said and done, I had a lisp for a week, a swollen tongue for 9 days that I played with constantly and a pierced tongue that I was completely in love with.

But having my tongue pierced isn’t all sunshine and raspberries. Yes, I’d always wanted one so having one made my heart happy in a very shallow way, but sometimes…

5) I miss being able to blow really huge bubbles – With my tongue pierced I can’t stretch the gum properly to get a bubble big enough to cover my face when it finally breaks. Now the stud causes a week spot and it pops almost immediately after I try to fill my chewed piece of rubber full of air. Though that’s not as bad as…

4) Chipping my tooth on metal tongue stud – I did that one night while angrily chewing lettuce from McDonald’s. The Asian lady who spoke a common dialect of broken and shattered English messed up my order, as well as my friends, and we were in a parking lot ranting over her idiocy like only bratty and entitled North American kids can do…I was picking up the lettuce that had fallen out of the Big Mac that I had gotten, but not ordered and angrily chewing it. That’s when I bit down really hard and shattered the top off of one of my good chewing teeth. If I’m being honest, that wasn’t nearly as bad as…

3) My younger cousin asking me if I did it so I’d be good at giving head – I had no idea how to reply to it then and I still have no idea what to say to it now. I’ve even asked several guys that knew me before the piercing if it had improved anything and the still don’t really know what to say either. I also didn’t know what to say when…

2) My 200-level English prof was trying to talk a student out of getting her tongue pierced because it was “trashy” – I really had no idea what to say so I sat there in class with my tongue out until she noticed it. Then she spit out the water she was taking a drink of and nearly choked to death because she finally noticed me with my then neon pink tongue stud that glowed under a black light. Because everyone needs stuff that glows under a black light. But I’m not going to lie, the biggest and worstest thing about having my tongue pierced is…

1) The fact that I seriously never notice it’s there so I never notice when I play with it – Like this past weekend when I was involved in a conversation and was listening to one man talk about all sorts of neat stuff from when he was growing up while he talked to another (much younger guy) guy about…well I spaced out a bit because I was tired and next thing I know, I hear “You’re gonna have to suck a generals cock to do that!” and I’m running the top and bottom of my tongue piercing along the fronts of my teeth while the younger guy that I kind of work for totally saw. Ahh, yes, nothing is more awesome than looking like you’re slathering over the thought of oral sex in front of two men…

The life skill I want to use…

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Oh, I’m sorry? You need help getting ripped off? YEAH! I CAN DO THAT!

This weekend was busy and full of an incredible amount of laughter. At a couple of points I laughed so hard that I either choked on my spit or I started choking on my water that I was in the process of swallowing. I mean, yeah lots of of other stuff happened that was pretty cool too, but mostly I just laughed my fucking ass off. By the end of the night my face cheeks hurt and so did my tummy from laughing. Oh my throat was totally sore too from choking on stuff while I laughed.

But let’s face it, y’all…the highlight of my weekend wasn’t the fact that I laughed. Don’t get me wrong, laughing that much was awesome, but it was what I learned that really made everything extra special. You see, folks, learning for me is fun and it is especially fun when I learn something that is so incredibly useless to know, but someday it might come in handy.

Like ripping a persons ears off.

I don’t even remember where the idea came from, but next thing you know I’m asking about ripping someone’s ears off and…

“Oh, that’s easy. You just do it at a 45 degree angle.” I’m paraphrasing what the guy said, because I don’t remember the exchange word for word, but the gist was this: Tearing people’s ears off is easy. Then he completed it with a demonstration by moving his arm at a 45 degree angle like he was ripping someone’s ears off. Then I mimicked it and stored all of that information away for later.

Because you totally never know when you might need to rip someone’s ear or ears clean off their head…but now if the need ever arises, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll at least know how to do it in theory. I mean…I don’t image people will let me practice on them or anything. However, it’s still a valuable life skill and one that I want to use, but will probably never get a chance to.

What’s the most pointless thing you’ve ever learned but still want to apply in your every day life?

Oh and also: Hands down, this was probably the best advice I’ve ever gotten from a stranger.

I had to poop real bad…

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Today after work I decided to take a little bit of a nap. As I was drifting off to sleep I noticed that I had to poop. So I asked my lazy self, Do I really need to poop now? And I answered myself, No, I do not need to poop right now. So I curled up in bed and let myself drift off to sleep. I don’t know why, but in that moment closing my eyes was glorious and I was drooling even before I was fully asleep.

It wasn’t even 10 minuets later that I woke up with a start and thought to my self OH NO! OH NO NO NO NO! because I really really had to poop. Bad. So then I lay there in bed, drool still wet on my cheek and just felt the gas building up in my tummy. And it hurt. I not only needed to poop bad, but I also needed to fart. Oh but I knew that this fart would be dangerous, so I pinched it off with all the strength I had in my butt cheeks, colon and all my other body parts and I asked myself…

CAN I MAKE IT TO THE BATHROOM?

I lay there for a second and debated the alternatives. I could either shit myself, or I could ask my mom to bring me a bucket or something. It really wasn’t much of a choice so I scrambled up off my bed and bolted out into the hallway, slamming my door behind me to keep my kitten in my room and I started to waddle like a penguin who needed to poop real bad and was holding something between its butt cheeks. The moment I started to really move, I felt everything shift and I almost exploded there in my hallway.

But don’t worry, I totally made it to the toilet and I exploded in the proper poop receptacle.

What’s your worst “I tried to hold my poop” story?

Why I Love My Friends Kids

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Lots of my friends have kids, are pregnant or are planning on getting pregnant. I swear for every friend that I’m close to, there is at least two extra people in my life because of their collective children. But hey, I only work part-time, go to school part-time and generally don’t have any pressing priorities in my life unless I have a test or a paper is due. So this past year I’ve actually wound up being a by-default baby-sitter. Seriously too. They all hate asking each other to watch their kids because they all already have kids, so I normally get the first call…which comes once a week usually when I’m living near them.

“Can you take T-Dawg for a couple of hours today?”

“Do you mind watching Hell Spawn for an hour while I run out to get groceries?” (My friend knows I don’t change diapers so when she leaves me with 2-year old Hell Spawn she is literally gone for exactly one hour)

“Can you come help me with Accident, Larry and Peanut for the afternoon?”

And yes, I call all of their kids by these names. T-Dawg, Hell Spawn, Accident, Larry, Peanut, Squirt, Chewy, Nip, Tuck, Tad…they all get their own special nick name because it helps me remember who is who…because I’d hate to lose a kid and forget which mom I need to call. Not that I’d ever do that…but the one I call Squinty once got a ripper of a bleeding nose because he ran into a wall during a rousing game of “Don’t Wanna Bath” and I phoned the wrong mommy freaking out because I broke her child.

But I really do love each and every one of those kids in my own twisted way. Here’s why:

5) When I do something right, it feels like I’m on top of the world – Serious too! I only have to baby-sit maybe once or twice a week tops so I don’t have to deal with every day baby/toddler/kid stuff like bleeding noses, tantrums, potty training and “THE FUCK DID THAT KID JUST EAT?!” So when I do something for my first time or do something right, I celebrate and the kids celebrate with me. Almost every cool thing I do as a baby-sitter is a reason to dance like a moron and toss around some high fives and fist bumps. Except that time Peanut ate a worm…we still high-fived, but I still researched if he was going to die or not and called other moms to ask if I’d just killed Peanut.

4) Gosh darn to they have good snacks – My friends never send me off with their kids or have me help out with their kids without providing some seriously awesome munchies for both the kids and I. You bet I’ll happily share a sippy cup full of whatever organic, vitamin infused juice my crazy friends are pouring down their kids throats…that shit tastes like a freaking rainbow. Oh and the animal crackers. I’ve tried buying animal crackers on my own, but they are just so much more awesome when given to you by a spit-covered hand that just wants to share. Plus…it’s free and kids snacks are darn expensive.

3) I get to spend a few hours getting nothing accomplished that I need do, but still feel like I did a lot – Let’s be serious, folks, I should be doing my homework. I should be working on that essay due next week. I probably could have finished that chapter I was reading. Except I was totally playing with my friends kids for three hours because she needed to run a few errands or needed me to pick the kid up from daycare because she had to work late. That works just fine. I love playing and I love watching cartoons. I can skip a homework session or two for that.

2) They shit they say is brilliant – I’ll never forget the day I was in my friend, Kyla’s backyard playing with her twins Nip and Tuck who were 5 at the time. We were playing a game I invented called “Find Cool Stuff While Talking in Bad Accents” when Nip yelled out “HOLY SMOKING JESUS GIRAFFES ON A STICK OF SWEET VIRGIN MARY!”  when he found something on the corner of their house. I nearly died choking on spit and laughter because what he had just said was so freaking brilliant and blasphemous (Kyla is a devout Christian) that the phrase was purely crafted of pure win. Plus he’d found what looked like two grasshoppers humping but to him it was a two headed grasshopper.

1) I get to give them back – I love them, but it’s awesome that after the few hours that I’m trusted with the care of these wee children that I get to give them back.