Monday, June 29, 2009
And there I sat. Tears running down my face discussing this with my councilor. There are not words to describe the despondency that I felt at this realization. Still feel, now, hours after I left her office. I'm still not quite sure which is bothering me more, the fact that this is happening in my life, or I've become so acclimated to it that there was no notice of it until today.
How many of us go through a day with out touching the people we love? Touch establishes intimacy, trust, it is a form of communication. It soothes, it consoles, it speaks to the heart in a way that no words can ever come close to. How many of us take for granted the people that we could reach out to and lay a hand on? How many take for granted that there is merely someone there that could be touched? How many touch and never realize what it could mean to live with out it? To many I think.
There is no one in my foreseeable future that is going to change this. Perhaps I'll make it a game. See how many days I go before I'm given a hug, or some one comes up and pats my back. In return, I shall make a point to touch those that I care about more often, to show them in my actions how much they mean to me, though it is a very small list and those that mean the most live the farthest away. Yes..a game it shall be. Tomorrow shall be day 1. My councilor gave me a hug before I left.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thus...I don't remember most of my life.
You are crap. And I would tell you why, I have a whole list of reason to declare, but I also have shit luck, and as such one of the 3 people who read this blog would probably recognize you, the facility, figure out who I am and I, subsequently, would loose my job. And then I'd be even more broke than I am now and would not be able to hire a lawyer to represent me in a wrongful termination suite. You are very very lucky.
But know this, as I mentioned above you are most definitely crap. The runny kind. And everybody feels the same way I do.
Your faithful employee
Thursday, June 25, 2009
So I'm stupid. And trust me...it hurts.
Kate..apperently I'm writing just for you. We might as well be txting.
In other News:
I managed to consume almost a whole box of Pepto Bismal chewable tablets and have here by seem to be managing my heartburn.
I went to a hippy retreat/black panther meeting over the weekend...will be blogging on that just as soon as I have time.
Got a goldfish on Sat...bonded with Cornelius by the time I got home by telling it my whole life's story...by Sunday the he was sickly and as I write this he is now teetering between life an death. I would like to say for the record that if something unfortunate happens to this fish..and by unfortunate I mean it dies...I'm going to be devastated. *insert awkward silence here*
I still am not tan...it has become my personal mission in life to become tan. I'm merely less white.
This is a txt I sent out while at the Hippy compound on Sat to let everyone know I was still alive
"Ok thus far we have eaten all vegan fair and now we are resting for an hour until the bell chimes taking the opportunity to journal and reconnect before the next wrk shop begins...um it's a compound type place, I opted not to drink the KoolAid, and thank god hippies don't get violent."
... so yeah...I don't think there's really anything left to say after that.
Friday, June 19, 2009
First...I have a HUGE OUTSTANDING secret, which unfortunately I can't tell you. But trust me, it is wondrous glorious news that is killing me, KILLING me to not be able to tell EVERYBODY. To the person that this secret is in relation to...you know who you are (we just confirmed id by the top secret virtual handshake) I love you, and I call first dibs.
Second...I don't know why this would be of any particular interest to anybody other than myself but I have heart burn. Concern. I don't get it very often. Observation- I think that one of the girls I work with is giving me an ulcer. Note to self, plan a office coup coordinated via the inter office mail system to remove her from her position and subsequently take it over.
Third...I don't know why but these are just two of the txt msg's i sent out today and in retrospect are note worthy.
"I failed to mention earlier this evening that while at work i accomplished a small miracle I made the perfect cup of ramen noodles using only a Styrofoam cup a microwave and my wits a feat that i hope i will be able to duplicate on a regular bases and until moments ago was unsurpassable, yes i say moments as i have discovered the perfect peanut butter to jelly ratio hereby creating the perfect Pb and j sandwich *insert look of humble assent* I know, i know. I am obviously outstanding"-from me to everybody in my phone book
"So..the Muslim courier is telling us about the time her husband paid a hooker in Manhattan 25 cents to stick his fingers in her front butt..and I've decided for my bday i want an Elvis impersonator/stripper"- sent to a select few people
I have quite the life.
At the age of 27 I can count on one hand the few times I’ve had my period. This is due to suffering from a very common affliction that a surprising number of women have, one out of three to be exact. Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, or simply PCOS. A mostly unpleasant syndrome involving hormones, insulin and my uterus; there is nothing life threatening about PCOS, and other than for some unfortunate side effects it’s mostly just a minor inconvenience. One such “side effect” would be, that unless I’m taking birth control and my sugar pill, my body will not ovulate and will not shed the uterine wall lining. I’ll translate. No period. Ever.
I decided, why I’m don’t really know, to get healthy and improve my over all quality of life. Thusly I quit smoking, joined a gym, started watching my diet and am getting divorced. Since I was making obvious and drastic changes and reductions to my life for some reason or another I decided to start taking my medication. And exactly 28 days later started what I’m here after referring to as hell week.
It started very slowly. First was the initial onset of PMS, or premenstrual syndrome. From my research and experience with the girls at work, this varies. Some women start pms’ing a week or so before, others during the week of. Some (lucky bitches…yeah I went there) not at all. Mine started about 6 days prior to my white pills. I watched my hormones take over my body with an almost morbid fascination. First I was irritable and cranky. Everything was an annoyance sent by the devil to torment me. Then there was a bout of melodramatic over reaction and exaggeration to small occurrences. Then came the feeling’s. All of a sudden I had feelings on just about everything and those seemed to be sadness, despondency and a overall feeling of general morose. My body decided that the only way to deal with said feelings was to cry about it. All the time. Over everything….everything.
Then came the eating. Primarily chocolate. I didn’t understand. Under normal circumstances I’m not a fan of it unless it’s covering peanut butter or something salty. But anything sweet, chocolaty or just generally fattening went into my mouth. Then, then came this other…feeling. I got horny. A lot. All the time. In almost a constant state of arousal, I went through a hole pack of batteries, discovered 2 new free porn sites online, and probably scared the bejesus out of my gym bitch….mostly regarding his brother. Obviously, after 27 years of virtually never going through this, it was a traumatic and emotionally scaring week….for me as well as everybody else.
I decided that when the period actually started, I would be ready. I went online and looked at graphs and pictures so that I would know exactly what was happening to my body each step of the way. I polled my friends, bought a box of tampons and pads. Had designated 7 sets of panties specifically for my time of the month. And then I waited. I wasn‘t disappointed. Two days into my white pills I started cramping and bloating. The cramps, oh my god the cramps. There are not words to describe the constant pain of having an organ squeeze itself. Like my uterus was giving itself a hug, constantly. Then my back. Back and forth. My stomach and my back. A constant dull ache that rolls over you. (Ironically the only thing that really helped was Midol and masturbation. Life is funny that way sometimes) Still I waited. Day 3 into my white pills. Nothing. Day 4, nothing. Thinking I might have possibly dodged a bullet, I went to bed. However, I woke up the afternoon of day 5 in silent horror wondering where the horse head was. It. Was. Everywhere. Hell yes I panicked. And of course, since my body the week prior had already decided how we were handling anything that happened to me, I cried.
I spent most of day 5 in disgusted horror at what my body was discharging. And after one awkward phone call from my best friend explaining to me the logistical application of the tampon and coming to terms with my gross immaturity, I decided I wanted nothing more to do with any of this. Ever. I still feel that way, even now, on the afternoon of day six. I have come to several conclusions. First, there is nothing natural about bleeding for 7 days; second, of all the places that this could be excreted from, why it has to come from my front butt is beyond me. Thirdly, I don’t feel more of a woman for having suffered through it. And fourthly, I can say, that there is absolutely nothing that makes going through this worth it. Save for confirming I’m not pregnant. But unless it’s an immaculate conception, I’m not even given that small respite.
However, it is over. Well not over, but it will be soon. And hopefully my life and my body will gradually return to normal. I feel better prepared next month for what will happen. I will make some small changes in my coping plan, be a little better prepared and at the very least, the instructional video for tampon insertion wont be necessary. Thanks any way Allison.
I am not a romantic. Not in the sense that most people think of when they describe someone as such. I do not want a trail of rose petals strewn across the floor, leading the way to a candle lit bedroom. Somebody has to clean all that crap up. Romance to me is the practical things that show that my significant other is expressing an interest in my life, essentially that they are paying attention. Do a chore I hate, put brake pads on my car, rub my feet, and most importantly, it’s not how much you spent on the card, its what you took the time to write inside of it. My weakness, however, is flowers. Those I absolutely adore, other than that things of a practical nature appeal to me. However, there is one romantic notion that I cling to, with an almost reverent desperation, and that would be the idea of soul mates. Something I just so happened to have a conversation about this evening, at the gym of all places, (sigh…please see former blog).
The idea of soul mates is nothing new. Of all the descriptions and ideas though of what a soul mate actually is, I’ve always found something in Plato’s description that appealed to me the most. He describes in his Symposium how, originally men had four arms, legs and a head consisting of two faces. Zeus, fearing the men split them, and condemned them to wander the earth forever searching for their other half. Poignant no? I find it ironic that, even now, it is mostly fear that will divide two people, fear of making the wrong decision, of making the right one, of the unknown. And thus we search, for our other half, knowing that when our search is complete will have nothing to fear. But I digress.
My concept of soul mates, I’m sure, is unoriginal and most likely trite and clichéd. But, it gives me hope; personaly I don’t think that God has condemned us to life with the possibility of one chance. One chance of finding “true love”, one chance of being the world to someone, and vice versa. Nor do I think they are gender specific and limited to relationships of a romantic nature. In fact, I have 2 actively in my life right now…Allison and Kate. A friendship that as corny and hokey as it sounds transcends Mr. Webster’s definition. I can not imagine them not in my life, and I am a better person for knowing them. They enhance me, they bring out all the best qualities in me, put up with the worst and for that there is never a time that I hope that I can not share the best and worst aspects of my life with them. For the sake of this blog, I will mention I’m sure that once, a very long time ago I had in my life a soul mate in the truer sense of the word; though, it is not my wish to dwell to deeply on the memories, but let is suffice to say that the years I had him in my life where some of the best, and never, thus far, has anyone made me as happy, gotten me more completely or hurt me as deeply as he did. But, as is the nature of these things, he too was lost. And now I am alone. And waiting, for when the time is right with much hope and a careful eagerness of what the future will bring.
At the risk of sound narcissistic, I know that I am to outstanding of a woman and have to much to offer the right person to spend the rest of my life alone, because I’m lucky enough to have realized a while ago something that I wish more people would. That although I am convinced that there is a soul mate some where out there made just for me, someone that I am searching for, be it actively or no, I am someone’s soul mate too, that there is someone out there, searching for me…..and what a lucky bastard he will be.
Relationship Urban Legend # 32
Prince Charming will rescue the damsel in distress…As long as her credit score is over 700.
Once upon a time, it was 3 am and a very tired, young, strikingly beautiful woman was waiting tables in a half empty truck stop. As she was refilling Mr. Charming’s coffee cup (Mr. C is incredibly good looking, tall, no children, never been married, obviously financially stable, emotionally available, educated, disease free, has a sense of humor and is endowed with a large penis. His limo blew a tire and he was waiting for it to be patched before moving on to the airport where his private jet was waiting to take him to Aspen) Mr. C was taking in her exceptional beauty and wondered to himself what she was doing working in a place like this. She looked over her shoulder with concern towards the kitchen where the cook was teaching her three young children how to read and wondered if he will leave enough of a tip so she can buy the kids’ breakfast, especially little Jonny, who although crippled with MS and is slightly autistic, never complains. As she fills his coffee cup, they make small talk and soon realize that although they come from two different worlds, they have everything in common and fall madly in love with each other. As his limo driver walks through the door to tell him they are ready to go, Mr. C decides then and there that he has to marry this women and spend the rest of his life making her happy. He whisks her and the 3 small children up in his arms (his driver gets Jonny’s wheelchair) and they are off to his plane to Aspen to get married. They live happily ever after. The End.
There are two things that one might deduce from this scenario. First, it is the basic plot foundation to every Lifetime movie…ever, and second, it’s complete and utter horse cockery, mostly because the man in the story doesn’t exist (obviously a work of fiction, what man has a large penis and is emotionally available?)But basically it’s because men don’t want to date/marry women who don’t have their shit together. And honestly, can you blame them?
I’ve noticed that most women have standards but they are usually regarding the living situation, the car the man drives, or his employment history, not necessarily how she expects to be treated in a relationship. Yet I notice a distinctive trend in the over reaction if the man in the relationship has certain financial or educational expectations as well. It is apparently too much for them to ask that we be able to balance a check book, pay our bills, and read above a fifth grade level. How dare they? Essentially this belief that there is a knight in a shiny 401k that is coming to scoop us up, whisk us away to his townhouse in a suburb of D.C., and live happily ever after is the result of a false sense of entitlement and accountability issues. Not to mention the myth that Prince Charming is somewhere out there is perpetuated along because we all know somebody who knew somebody that this happened to. And for the most part, it probably did. However for most people, they will never be able to see past the man that saved the woman, and wonder why or how. All they will ever be able to see is the saving.
I have only ever known one person that lived this particular urban myth. She was the twin sister of a friend of my mothers. She had a child with disabilities, worked 2 jobs, struggled to make ends meet for a very long time, and then one day met the man of her dreams. He took care of her, and unfortunately when he died, he left her in a financial position so that she would never have to worry about work again. But like I said, most women never see anything past the man of her dreams sentence. We tend to forget that life requires us to pay certain dues. This particular woman struggled for a very long time before she got what she deserved. And essentially, I think that is what this relationship urban legend is all about - that people get what they deserve.
The common theme seems to be that men, nowadays, want an activity partner who has a job, a vehicle and some small amount of education. Basically, they want a women who has her shit together. Because the woman who does is a strong independent super hottie (kind of like the person reading this), who in the very act of knowing she can take care of herself financially (she’s not scared to work two jobs, tighten the belt straps or live off ramen noodles when times get hard) oozes a type of self- confidences that is more potent than Spanish fly. It tells the man in her life that she doesn’t need to be taken care of and thusly will make the man much more likely to want to do it. And that desire to want to be there for each other, whether it’s emotionally or financially, is a core in the foundation to any good relationship.
It was a subtle transformation, one I noticed towards the beginning of last week with the addition of a gym partner. A permanent one. This was an easy justification. I need the motivation. We will inspire each other. It’s a good time and a new friend. And that little twinge of omg what are you doing was quietly rubbed out. Then came, and this is with the greatest of affection, the gym bitch. My go to guy who answers all my questions, offers insight and instruction and who has literally over night become a staple to my/our work out regiment. Again, I rubbed away that twinge of what are you doing? Why are getting to know the staff? However, when I realized that I was coming often enough to recognize and create pet names for some of the other patrons in the gym I panicked slightly and justified this behavior as an attempt to make light of a situation that was slowly spiraling out of control. It started with aimless wanderer. This is the guy who wanders from machine to machine without rhyme or reason, reading the instructions, trying them out for about two reps before moving on to the next. Then it was Grunt man. He lifts free weights and apparently the exertion of the weights compels one to grunt…loudly…every single time it is lifted Then there was disinfectant boy, who as his name implies, goes from machine to machine with a bottle of disinfectant and all I hear is squirt squirt squirt….grunt….squirt squirt…grunt…while stuck in the 80’s man some how manages to constantly stay in my peripheral with his halved sweat shirt and matching head and wrist bands, all the while I’m trying to keep Mr. Universe (this is a constantly rotating label I give to who ever is the hottest guy working out upstairs at the time) in my eye line without looking like a stalker. Not as easy as one would imagine.
Then I showered at the gym. I broke my one rule, that no matter what, I would never, ever be one of those people that showered at the gym. But I did it, I knew at the time, as I stood there and let that hot water run over my tired and aching muscles, I knew I was crossing a line and I liked it. Oh yes. It felt good in a very very wrong way. And I knew it would do it again. After I broke this one personal rule, all the others where easily justified away. Over the next couple of days, I/we were referred to as regulars by the night staff, other patrons recognized us/me and spoke, I started favoring certain equipment over others, and mastered that I go the gym strut coupled with a sense of superiority. I pull it off quite nicely I think. Never mind the fact that the phrase “the gym” is dropped into just about every conversation I partake in, I bought shoes and clothes to wear there specifically (and those who know me well I can only imagine your shock) and virtually arrange my entire day around the time I will be going to the gym. And then there was tonight, tonight the transformation was complete. It was a relatively simple thing that happened, comparatively speaking.
I sat with my gym buddy in the women’s dressing room slathering Bengay over my body, forgetting that this incredibly outstanding ointment is like an aphrodisiac to gym people, discussing the discovery that the cute Mohawk headed boy who works the front desk is leaving. And then as I joked about having to beat the guys off with a stick from the wafting prowess of the bengay I realized that I was genuinely distressed that tonight was his last night. And I realized why. He was nice, and I looked forward to seeing him and having him say hi to me, asking me how I was doing so I could reply with my usual response, Outstanding, thank you. I was upset, because in only three weeks, I had gotten used to everything, and most importantly, I had come to find the consistency of it all comforting. Ta da…the transformation was complete.
Trust me, no one is more upset over this recent turn of events than me. I have become one of those people that until yesterday, I joked. I hate that I look forward to heading to the gym when I get off work, that the mere action of walking through the doors makes me feel better about myself both physically and mentally. I hate that I get a small thrill and honestly, all joking aside, get a little creeeped out with the changes in my body, such as the sudden appearance of an ass (I really wish somebody could see me naked and confirm this). And above all else, I absolutely loathe the fact that I feel…off… on the nights I don’t make it the gym.
I have resided myself to the fact that I have turned into one of those creepy gym people, and not one of the cool ones either. But one of the ones that get dubbed stupid nick names, that perpetually smell like bengay and grimace slightly every time they have to take the stairs because she knows her gym partner is going to look at her knee and ask if that’s where that crunching sound is coming from. Yes, yes, I have joined the ranks of all those that live for power bars and heart rates, where extra strength deodorant and a supportive sports bra are a must, where it’s ok to get naked in front of complete strangers on a daily bases (as long as your in the locker room) so on and so forth. I’m sure my creepy gym behaviors will continue to manifest in different and disturbing ways. But, at the very least by God, I’ll look good doing them.
Well I did it. I have been smoke free for one whole week. I feel outstanding, I can breathe, I don’t stink, my teeth are getting whiter, food is starting to taste better ….everything is better. I am so proud of me. This was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, but the feeling of accomplishment more than makes up for the rough spots during the week, the surprisingly few times I lost my cool, had a nicotine attack and got rather…unpleasant and the massive amount of food I have consumed. Amazingly I have lost 6 lbs!!! So a great big thanks to the gym is in order, I’ve been going every night after work for the past 2 weeks, about 2 hours a day and I can really see the results. Honestly I think all the time I’ve spent in the gym and the abhorrent amount of water I have consumed have helped immensely and made this past week a lot more bearable. I also want to send out a very BIG thank you to my two best friends Kate and Allison, Kate thank you for making the effort to always have your phone on you and talking me through those rough patches. I love you and don’t think I would have done it with out your support. Allison, you’re the only person in the whole world who can take me being mean to them so well. I am sorry I was a bitch…those couple of times, but thank you for forgiving me and being so understanding. I also want to thank God…yes I really did type that and I’m not being sarcastic. I prayed very very hard (yes. I do f-ing pray) and I know that he has been moving in my life in very mysterious and wondrous ways. Well now that my blog reads like an Oscar acceptance speech I should skedaddle, I just got home from the gym and I stink so a shower is in order…there’s also a box of WW cookies calling my name….
p.s. I’ll be working on a new instatement to my relationship urban legends blog hopefully this week. I’m having trouble concentrating from the nicotine withdrawal and I also have to learn how to redo some things, such as writing at my desk with out getting up every 30 mins to go smoke…the ciggs helped me think. But I’m working on it.
I did it. I’m a quitter. Yesterday I quit smoking. As Twain said, “quitting smoking is easy, I’ve done it thousand times” no true words have every been uttered. I’ve been holed up in my room for the past 48 hours, playing…of all things…the Sims. I keep reminding myself why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because since I started smoking, 13 years ago, I’ve spent 26,867 dollars on ciggs. I’m quitting because I’m not going to pay for state funded health insurance for children…heartless yes, sorry no. The increase in the federal sales tax on cigs is part of President Oboma’s economic stimulus plan. Socialism any one? I’m doing this because it stinks, I need money, when I do decide to start dating again I wont be limiting myself to only 20 % of the male population, and most importantly I’m quitting because one out of every two smokers will die of a smoking related illness. I have shit luck and I don’t like those odds.
These past two days have been crap. I feel, edgy and it’s hard to concentrate. Bijiggity even. I feel like I have nervous energy and I desperately desperately want to go smoke …right now. But I’m not…I’m blogging and I’m thinking about how I’ll feel when hell week is over. Directions, directions, I’m following the directions from the American cancer society on how to quit smoking. I am remaining calm. I have a quit buddy…(I love you Kate) I have crunchy snacks and cinnamon flavored gum. In the past 48 hours I have consumed 3lbs of grapes, 4 apples, a half ..who am I kidding…a whole pan of brownies, a box of weight watchers cookies, a whole head of broccoli, about 4 banana’s….ahh lets just say that I’m all out of my quit smoking provisions and thank god I joined a gym. I have made my mind up that I’m a quitting smoking, will not start again, and anyone who knows me at all knows this, once I’ve made my mind up to do something …I do it. And it’s hell getting me to change it, I’m a pretty stubborn bitch.
We all have one, that indefinable ONE that got away, slipped through the cracks, joined the peace corps, got married what have you. While in their presence, violins played, fireworks exploded every time you kissed (even in the day time), and every love making sessions was something out of a Daniel Steel novel. We knew, we just knew, that we had found our soul mate, and then for what ever reason they left. Poof. No longer part of your life, usually with out much of an explanation. But life goes on, you get married, divorced, become a lesbian and forget about that one person who got you so completely, that made you so happy that if you didn’t allow your self to become numb to it, the pain of not having them in your life would render you socially and emotionally crippled. And then it happens. Your having lunch with an old friend, or see someone at the your high school reunion and you get asked a very simple question, Hey, do you remember? Do you remember so and so who was dating that guy for like forever and we all thought they were going to get married, but he disappeared in a freak spelunking accident 2 weeks before graduation. Well she got married, had like four kids and then a couple of years ago got divorced. You’ll never guess who she ran into at Starbucks! Yes, him. Apparently they found his body and he was in a coma for 12 years and the only thing he had on him was her senior portrait picture, which they used to track down his next of kin but it took so long she had already went to college and they couldn’t find her. So he’s on his way to physical therapy and stopped by Starbucks to get a latte and rolled right into her with his wheel chair. There getting married in June.
Now you have hope.
So you start to think. You think maybe, just maybe….no you can’t even dare put it into words. You pour over old year books, pull out the super secret hope chest that’s hidden under a loose floor board in your bedroom where you keep every single piece of memorabilia from the time you spent together. You find him on myspace, or facebook, and then stalk his page religiously every Saturday night while drinking a bottle of Boonsfarm. You read his blogs and every vague reference he makes to some random girl you wonder if he’s talking about you. He looks sad in his wedding pictures, so he must be thinking about you, he wont look at his girlfriend in her birthday party pictures, so he’s probably remembering your birthday party when you guys did that wild and crazy thing. Then you call your very old and very dear friend who was witness to your entire relationship and have her analyze, hypothesize, and relive every moment you to spent together a half a dozen times…(ahh please accept this as my formal written apology…you know who you are). And then, out of the blue maybe you see him, or maybe you get a phone call. And it rocks you to your very core. And you think, maybe, maybe this one guy who got away, is going to come back.
But here’s the thing. Barring some unfortunate accident where he had amnesia for 10 years, he’s not. He’s not ever going to come back. There I said it. Let’s just take a moment and let the words sink in. Go ahead and breath into your brown paper bag (god knows I did when I realized this) get mad at me, hate me, cry do everything you need to do. But when your done, please come back and finish reading. Because I’m going to tell you why. Time lapse-twenty minutes. Welcome back, see it didn’t kill you, but I’m sure you have questions. And the answer to every single question you might have is very very simple. He knew, and it was still not enough. He knew that you loved him, no matter what the nature of your relationship was, friendship or actual relationship, he knew how you felt, decided he didn’t and then walked away. Harsh, yes, but it’s the truth. Men, as much as it pains me to say this, are not as moronic as we think. They are perceptive. And there is nothing in this world that hurts more than to know that the one person who you valued above all else, for whatever reason found you lacking and did not want to spend the rest of his life with you. But when you can remove the rose colored hind sight glasses, and look at the past realistically, there’s a couple of things you’ll probably realize. More than likely, it wasn’t as good as you think it was. You where probably young, and in love which means stupid. You more than likely put up with a lot of horse cockery that you’d never put up with now. You might see that he took advantage of how you felt about him, that he was selfish and couldn’t do the right thing and let YOU go, so you could move on. Or that maybe, he wasn’t even that great of a friend to begin with. When you’ve realized that he actually did you a favor by walking away, well…that’s something to get excited about. Because although he may have decided that you weren’t enough…of whatever he was looking for at the time, there is somebody out there who will. There is somebody out there that knows that you’re an outstanding super hottie who will make them the luckiest guy in the world.
You may be thinking, but Shannon, what about that girl in the beginning of your story, or my friends cousin’s father’s roommate who wound up with her “one that got away”. Who after all those years realized his mistake and now there living the happily ever after fantasy. It happens. And you can’t tell me otherwise. Yes, your right, it does happen, which is why we have this particular Relationship Urban Legend. But what your not realizing is this, that those men who show up after years of separation, never really left to begin with. Though they may have been separated by time, space, or a medical condition, deep down in their heart they where always there. So their not really coming back and starting over, their coming back to pick up where they left off. And that is a very big difference. The right man is going to come along. The right man will never ever, choose his girlfriend over his best friend because the girl friend looks better, he will never pick his career over his wife (if it means him leaving her permanently), the right man will stop at nothing, move heaven and hell to get to you and stay with you. Becase the right man, will know how outstanding you really are, know that no one else will ever be able to compare, and ultimatly....the right man would never have left to begin with.
Relationship Urban Legend # 28
Looks Don’t Matter: Because they all look the same in the dark
Idontcare69: hey baby, I’ve been waiting for you
Pillsburyprincess: really, for how long?
Idontcare69: my whole life
Pillsburyprincess: you always say such sweet things to me
Idontcare69: so will you tell me what you like look?
Pillsburyprincess: can I see a picture of you first?
Idontcare69: sure baby, anything for you.
Insert picture via chat box of the hottest guy ever.
Idontcare69:so, what do you think? Tell me what you look like.
Pillsburyprincess: omg your hot
Pillsburyprincess: and your also the most funny and amazing man I have ever met/chatted with. I don’t think I’m your type
Idontcare69: what do you think my type is
Pillsburyprincess: well I’m not blonde and I don’t have an eating disorder
Idontcare69: just tell me baby
Pillsburyprincess: well, I’m 4’8 about 350 lbs, I have long stringy brown hair, brown eyes and because of my hump I walk with a slight limp…
Idontcare69: god you sound so beautiful can I have your number.
Pillsburyprincess: well I don’t talk on the phone very much…I have a speech impediment.
Idontcare69: please, I’ve never met a women like you before. I can’t stop thinking about you
Pillsburyprincess: I also have genital warts , nicotine stained teeth and some unsightly facial hair.
Idontcare69: I don’t care, baby, looks don’t’ matter.
This is obviously a dramatization. Because in real life, this will never, ever happen. I am probably going to have my woman card pulled (again) and get kicked out of the big girls club, but I’m going to say it. Looks matter. And when a man tells you that they don’t he is lying. It’s a numbers game really. We all know it, we all know our number and unless your rating yourself above a 7 we don’t talk about it. You see a girl who is a 10 on the hotness scale with a guy who is like a 9 . Or vice versa. What you seldom see is a 9 with a 2, or an 8 with a 1. It’s because that deep down, no matter how much we want to deny it, we all have a type. We all have a preference for certain physical qualities that attract us to the opposite sex. Research shows that people are attracted to symmetrical qualities. That’s why most movie stars are so incredibly good looking. There facial features are symmetrical. There eyes are the perfect distance apart, there lips are the exact amount of fullness. So on and so forth. And as much as I hate to say it. That’s ok. It’s part of our nature. We want to look good, and most importantly we want our mate to look good too.
It boils down to attraction. Because regardless of how outstanding you are ( and yes, we are totally bad ass outstanding women) there is absolutely no way for a guy to deduce that just from looking at you. I know, that in real life, because I’m still chunky, don’t have large breast and an ass that you can crack walnuts off of, that unless I’m wearing a sign around my neck that says: This person is the funniest, smartest, and most incredible women you will ever met. She is the women of your dreams and if you go up to her right now and get her number you will be the luckest man alive, that I’m going to get over looked at what ever venue I’m at where there are a large number of super foxes. And that’s ok. Because I know that I’m hot, and sexy( in a awkward way that makes most people uncomfortable), but I’m also not delusional.
I understand that we are a visually driven society and that just because the Mr. Universe didn’t think I was hot does not mean that he was a douche bag, and honestly, not only am I ok with it, I kind of want to encourage it. Not blatant shallowness. That’s wrong. But ultimately I think that having a type, or at the very least knowing who or what your attracted to, means you have standards. Personally, I don’t want to date the guy who has no standards. Should looks be the deciding factor, the most important thing on the scale, when deciding whether or not to date someone. No, they shouldn’t be. And they probably wont ever be. Because whether your aware of it or not, if you gone up to the girl in the bar, or given the guy your number, you’ve already decided if he/she is hot or not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to them.
It happens though, very rarely, but you will see a Brad Pitt look alike with a Roseanne Bar type. And that is what keeps the Relationship Urban Legend that looks don’t matter in circulation. Because even though the harsh truth is that looks mater, they are also subjective. You not witnessing a rare mathematical phenomenon, what your seeing it that the guy who is a 10 is thinking that the girl he is with is a 10 also. What your seeing is an awesome and beautiful women on the inside making her outsides match. It’s about confidence, working with what you have, and taking care of yourself. It’s her feeling good about herself, regardless of what everybody else think she looks like. Men notice things like that. And it’s those rare women who are able to exalt that sexiness and confidence no matter what size they are, or how big their hump is that give everyone else hope. That mislabeled perception, that hope is why in high school you’ll see the geeky boy tear himself away from the D and D table to talk to the head cheerleader. And it’s also why you had to awkwardly console your bff around her head gear when she got rejected by the captain of the football team. Because although looks matter, that they will ALWAYS matter, the truth is that when the right guy comes along, whatever his number is, he is always going to see a perfect 10, as long as you see it in yourself first…or if it’s just very very dark.
Relationship Urban Legend # 1
The Fixer-Upper: He Will Change, Because I will make him.
When I was in college I had a friend who’s cousin’s college roommate was dating a complete and utter douche bag. He cheated, he was verbally abusive, he drank, did drugs, gambled you name it. Virtually he indulged in every vice known to man. And then, they got married and almost over night, he became a changed man. His wife’s love and compassion, her strong will and her superhero abilities transformed him into the loving husband and devoted father he is today. Ok, this is quite obviously bull shit. However, we all have heard a story similar to this one about a man who had some horrendous personality trait that was systematically weeded out by the sheer strength of his girl friends will power. Essentially, she was able to change him. It was with stories like that in mind, which had been regaled to me in various forms, most of which from married friends and my mother, that several weeks before my wedding I found myself making a Pro’s and Con’s list about the man I was intending to marry. Yes really. On the con list, to name a few, where blatant insensitivity, selfishness, and gross immaturity. I debated, and several days later decided that those where traits I was willing to live with. I would settle, because his other qualities redeemed him. Or I thought I was making the conscious decision to live with them. What I was actually doing was ignoring them because, subconsciously, I figured I could change him later. Well, surprise, surprise…I was wrong.
This attitude that we women have, that we can change the things we don’t like about our significant other, is probably the biggest relationship urban legend in existence. Most likely, because to some extent it‘s based on fact. Or so we think. Every time I got him to stop peeing on the seat, or to close the cabinet door instead of leaving them open (oh my god, something that drove me absolutely crazy) was proof that I could bend him to my will, and those bigger things, like cheating on me, or the fact that he put just about everything on the more important than his wife list could actually be changed, it would just take longer. What I didn’t understand, until much much later, was that I wasn’t changing fundamental character flaws, I was just eroding bad habits. And unfortunately, most women never realize the difference, until it’s to late.
You are probably at the point where your thinking Yessssss Shannon I know that I can’t change people. THEY have to want to change themselves. Stop rolling your eyes. Because your still trying to do it. Think about it for a few moments. I’ll wait. Yes, I agree everyone knows this, but the point is that we women still try and do it, especially with men. I know I still do from time to time. For me, it’s because I tend to forget that men fall into the “people” category, and are subject to the same base laws of nature like everyone else, such as they have feelings, needs, and are not just inanimate objects subject to my will. Something that my friends continuously remind me of when dealing with them. Regardless of why we still continue to think that we can change our men, the point is that, unless he has some very key ingredients, the recipe for a whole new boyfriend, will fail. And unfortunately, the things on this shopping list are ones that only he can pick up.
For most, there has to be the ability to recognize that there might be something about himself that needs changing. This calls for a self awareness that most men, actually most people don’t poses. Once he realizes that there might be a need for change, he has to be able to recognize what exactly those things are that need to be remedied. He also has to have the tools to fix them. And most importantly there has to be a genuine desire to change, that‘s not being motivated or influenced by anyone other than himself. Unless he has done all this, no matter how strong your will is, or how determined you think you are, there is no amount of bitching, pleading, crying, nagging or bribing that is going to get him to stop doing the things that are hurting you.
You can not change him. There I said it. What you can do, however, is first figure out whether the man you are with actually has some deep rooted flaws or just bad habits. Bad habits, are just that, regularly repeated negative behavior patterns that one has picked up over the years. They are, but not limited to: the above mentioned peeing on the seat, dropping the F bomb in almost every conversation, never replacing the toilet paper roll when empty, ext… Character flaws, are much more serious and often much harder to spot. Lying, habitually cheating, insensitivity, laziness (and I’m not talking about laying on the couch trying to turn on the T.V. with Jedi mind tricks) alcoholism, drug abuse, being a horribly dresser. The list is endless. Once you have decided which category he falls into, then you have a decision to make. If it’s primarily bad habits that he is guilty of, then stay, and hope that he’ll eventually realize that it’s not ok to tell R rated jokes to your grandmother and will stop. Or leave and find someone with some class. If it’s the other, then make the conscious decision to stay, accept that you will never ever change him and then stop bitching about it. Or realize that you are a total badass, an outstanding women and walk away. Then go find the guy that you’ve been trying to turn your boyfriend into all along. Trust me, he’s out there and you deserve it.
Unfortunately this is not an idea that I can claim as my own, and I really wish I could because it’s absolutely brilliant. It was something that was mentioned once or twice in another book I read, (He’s Just Not That In To You). What I can claim however, is picking up the ball and running with it as I am want to do. They mentioned a couple and, having massive amounts of free time and an unusual perception on relationships I came up with a couple of my own, decided that it’s a topic that should be discussed and figured, hey why not. By definition, an Urban Legend is as follows: “An urban legend, urban myth, or urban tale is a form of modern folklore consisting of stories thought to be factual by those circulating them. The term is often used to mean something akin to an "apocryphal story." Like all folklore, urban legends are not necessarily false, but they are often distorted, exaggerated, or sensationalized over time.” Thank you Wikipedia. We all know someone, who knew someone who had a cousin that had a roommate, so on and so forth, that met the man of her dreams online in a chat room while weighing 400 lbs and after he left his wife they lived happily ever after. The fact is that, there are certain stories that we as women continue to concoct, and perpetuate in the attempt to offer hope, console, justify or excuse bad behavior from the men we are dating. While not necessarily a bad thing, everyone needs hope, it is my belief that there is a fine line between giving someone hope for a better relationship, and helping them create a delusional perception of the one they are currently in.
Please understand, I am by no means, an authority on relationships, I mean for god’s sake I’m getting divorced and I’m writing my own introduction. So you probably shouldn’t take to much of what I say as fact. However, I do have several things that I do think qualify me to write about this topic, at least in blog form on Myspace. Mostly, I have ridiculous experiences with people, mostly men. I also have a certain way with words, a very practical and blunt nature, a sense of humor and as we all know from previous blogs, absolutely no shame coupled with a very high embarrassment capacity. Personally I find it refreshing when someone will call the bullshit card, and give me the brutal truth if necessary, so if some of what I say validates, empowers and enlightens, then I am thrilled. If not, then I hope, at the very least, you’ll find it entertaining, and it will give you something to do while waiting for your laundry to dry, your face mask to harden or while waiting by the phone for your boyfriend to call…as soon as he can get away from his wife.
About a month or so ago, while freshly new to the dating scene, this book was recommended to me by a very dear friend. After reading it, in one sitting, I had an awakaning. It revolutionized me, it inspired me, it did all the things that a great idea will do. Virtually, it changed my dating life forever. Well…for the most part. I tried to let it change my dating life, and I think that save for the Great Dating Debacle of 2009 instance with Mr. Manic Depressive, if it’s not directly impacting how I date, it’s at the very least helping me get over who I date. The book is brilliant, because it’s honest. It’s honest and it’s practical in a way that most people choose not to be. And because it’s so honest and practical it’s also a threat to single women every where. The philosophy of the book is really quite simple. If a guy is not calling you, he’s not into you. If he’s not asking you out on another date, he’s not into you. If a guy is cheating on you, (big surprise) he just not that into you. It goes on and on to describe every scenario that we women come up with to justify why the guy we are dating isn’t calling, or asking us to get married or is sleeping with his secretary instead of his girlfriend, namely it calls the bullshit flag for all the times we women excuse men for acting like douche bags. It simply explains that most women are the rule, not the exception. So, you could see why this would be so threatening. Women need hope, (as I established in a previous blog). We need deep down on some primordial level to hope that there really is a knight in shining armor or a Prince Charming, and he must have a very very good reason as to why he’s not calling. Because this book was so brilliantly practical in it’s approach to dating, I was quite obviously thrilled when the movie was released.
I fully expected to go to the movie and be recharged, with the same since of confidence and prowess that I felt after reading the book. To say I was not, would be an understatement. I was devastated. I cried, right in the middle of the movie theater at the end. I cried, because the two main characters that we are supposed to be secretly rooting for all along wound up together, because the guy who wouldn’t marry his girlfriend of seven years finally proposed, I cried because the girl who kept having trivial online romances finally met her prince charming in real life. I cried because I was so frustrated, angry even. It was yet another chick flick with a happy ending. I didn’t want to see the happy ending. I wanted to see a movie about real situations that play out like how they do in real life. Where people get divorced, where the guy doesn’t call back, where you leave the ass who’s been stringing you along the whole time and you don’t round a corner and meet your soul mate. I wanted to see all that, and then see that it’s ok. Because, it is.
I will probably have my woman card pulled for the statements I’m getting ready to make, and I’m ok with that (thank god I’m sill a member of the total bad ass club) but if you know me at all, you know that if nothing else, I am honest. So honestly, here it goes: It’s ok if I get rejected, it’s natural and it’s part of life. It’s not going to kill me. If I meet a guy and he doesn’t call me or doesn’t want to go out with me again, that’s ok. It does not meant that he can’t handle how outstanding I am, that I intimidate him, or that he just got out of serious relationship. It means he’s just not that into me. And I can’t stress this enough, not every guy I met has to like me for me to feel good about myself, that if he doesn’t it does not mean he was a douche bag or I was to good for him.(Breath Allison) Nor do I have to like every guy I met. It’s more than ok that I’m not going to drive by some guys house or Google earth him to see if he’s home. It’s ok that I’m single. It’s ok that I don’t have to like it. It’s ok that I’m not making excuse’s for some guy who is rude, insensitive, or just a plain douche bag because I‘m scared of being alone. It’s ok that I have standards, expectations and yes, still hope. And it’s ok that I might be single for a very long time.
Deep down, I don’t believe that we are meant to be alone. I believe that there are people that God has in mind for us. This is where my hope comes in. However, it’s what we as women do in the meantime that will affect what happens when or if we finally do meet Mr. Right. In the meantime, have standards. Have realistic expectations. Know yourself. Know how truly outstanding you are. Know that you are a sexy, intelligent, passionate woman, know that you are a catch. By god, I do. I know that whatever man is able to catch me is going to be the luckiest man in the world, and a lot of people will probably feel sorry for him. I’m a handful. But I know that I’m a handful in a good way. And for all the one’s who didn’t…well you dodged quite a bullet. It’s a good thing then, that you just weren’t that into me.
The second great love of my life was James Frazier, from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. I was 22 years old and I remember quite vividly reading this book in one night, not wanting to put it down, for the fact that I was hanging on the every word of this gloriously manly man, a Scot from the 1790’s who is forced into a marriage to save one Clair Buechamp from a disgusting scoundrel in the English army who thinks she is a spy. She is actually a time traveler but that is neither here nor there. Obviously she is more than a little reluctant to the idea, but Jamie wins her heart with his incredibly charming and witty retorts, sarcastic barbs and his intense burning desire for her. At one point, in a very poignant part of the story he swears that she is safe, she has his name, his family, his clan and if necessary the protection of his body. And I melt. Who could resist a very glib and handsome man in a kilt who would offer the protection for his love with his very life if need be? This is obviously a rhetorical question.
The last and most recent love, was discovered about a year and half ago. Dean Winchester from Supernatural. I am using the term love here loosely because I haven’t quite decided if it’s actually love or just an intense lust for this man’s body. All I know is that for one hour every Thursday night I am glued to the television watching the hottest man alive save person after person from all manner of evil and unholy spectrals. Guns and holy water aren’t the only weapons in his arsenal. He come’s equipped to every battle with wit and sarcasm and his dashing good looks. In short the man is freakin hero, drives a car as hot as he is and his body is banging. Authors note-while writing this I have decided that I am in fact not actually in love with him, it’s more just unbridled lust but would be willing to drop the L bomb if it that’s what it took to get him into bed. Shameless….yes, I know.
I started to reflect on these past loves after reading, in one sitting I might add, Twilight. No need for further explanation, everyone is familiar with the phenomenon that is sweeping the nation and the panties of adolescent girls everywhere. Specifically it was a very short speech that Edward says to Bella, and I quote, “isn’t it supposed to be like this? The glory of first love, and all that. It’s incredible, isn’t it, the difference between reading about something, seeing it in the pictures and experiencing it?”. He is absolutely right. There is a difference. Namely that, compared to all the books, the movies, and the love songs, well…its crap. Love, in real life, can never live up to how it’s portrayed in the books and movies. Which is why, save for a select handful, I don’t read house wife porn or watch the proverbial chick flicks. Because mostly they just piss me off.
These movies and books create unrealistic expectations as to what men should say and do for the women they love. In all honesty no man could live up to James Frazier or Captain Birmingham. No real man will every say the things they say, mean them, or at the very least say them, mean them and keep a strait face. I couldn’t. These movies feed upon the lonely, they feed upon those among us full of bitter and romantic angst. So for the most part, on a good day I realize all this and have the normal response, anger. Mostly that I have been suckered in and fallen prey, though very few times, to these fictional characters.
Now you might be thinking, seriously, what woman out there doesn’t know this? What woman alive isn’t able to watch The Notebook, or Casablanca, or read a harlequin romance and know that it’s not ever going to be this way? More than you think. And as much as it angers me, I sometimes, am one of them. Hence the three great loves. Sometimes in my darkest moments, which usually are occurring on Saturday nights when I’m alone, I will pick up my tattered and dog eared copy of Outlander and spend the hole night in bed with the one man who will never, ever let me down. Why do I do this? Because even though in the morning, I know that real life is nothing like how it is in the books, that no man will ever look me in the eye while holding me in an embrace of steel and profess his undying love for me, it gives me hope. I think it gives all of us single/unhappily married women hope. And while I know Prince Charming doesn’t exist, nor would I really want him to, ( I mean seriously in the light of day when things aren’t quite so all is lost and woe is me who wants Fabio in the kitchen day in and day out making pancakes in the shape of hearts and saying things like I drown in the sea that is your eyes, or my heart yearns for the touch of your lips against my chiseled and hairless body…sorry I digress) it’s still nice to think that some where, some man could come quite close to living up to the simplest of expectations and standards.
Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps these books and movies do have some redeeming value after all. They show that we shouldn’t want the fantasy, we shouldn’t want a James like man coming home every night because fantasy’s are fake, that’s their nature. We should all know that something’s are better left to fantasy because the real thing is either better, or if anyone has ever had a bad sexual escapade acted out, it can be worse. We should all know, that fake, no matter how good it looks on paper in the morning isn’t real. And we should never settle for anything less.
No. Insert long drawn out sigh here. I’m just frustrated. I don’t need a man. What I need is a drink, a break and shit…more batteries.
After reading this article I began to seriously reflect on people and their perceptions of themselves. How does one go about formulating the idea that they are a vampire? It’s very difficult. I tried. For most of the car ride down to Virginia Beach I tried with all my might to believe that I was a vampire. I failed by the way, (I know Kate is panicking and probably already had Allison on the phone, relax it was for research purposes only). I was surprised because I have quite the imagination and can snowball with an idea like you wouldn’t believe. But it was beyond me to believe even for the 2 and half hours I was in the car that I was anything other than the incredibly outstanding person that I am, namely human and mortal. So how this man has not only formulated and lived the belief for the past several years that he is a supernatural being but ran as the Vampires, Witches and Pagan’s party candidate for the Minnesota governor in 2006 is beyond me, and can only be attributed to one of two things. Either he has an unfortunate mental condition that perpetuates this belief or his is stupid. I’m leaning towards the latter.
Now for all his obvious short comings this man presents a very unique opportunity, a test subject if you will. If someone could devise a device that could be worn, permanently, that would administer some type of shock every time this man was about to act out in his vampire type fashion, namely do something stupid, it is my belief that eventually he would stop. We are human and we can be conditioned, why it only takes three days, a hose and a little determination and you can brainwash a person (will blog on that later). Even if it was something as rudimentary as having someone follow him around and strike him with a 2x4 every time he tried to suck some one’s blood or climb into a coffin, if his stupidity caused pain to his person, he would stop being stupid. By god, I know I would, and the patent is pending.
Now, I am by no means an authority on the topic, nor have I engaged in any butt sex in quite some time, (please see previous blog) but the few experience I have had with it, have left a good taste in my mouth, so to speak. I think that perhaps most women have a fearful and disgusted attitude about this because their men aren’t really doing it properly. And I’m going to say it, us ladies are partly to blame. Let’s look at the nature of man. They have a tendency to just dive right into things, not really knowing what they are doing. If they wont stop and read the directions when putting the entertainment center together what makes you think they are going to do any research in the proper execution of an act that requites great patience and tenderness? That’s obviously a rhetorical question. Now in all fairness, perhaps you have not done your research either. You are relying on horror stories from your girl friends, or even more horrifying stories from your gay friends, possible involving toilet paper rolls and gerbils (will blog on that later).
To properly execute this act there are several key things and items involved, and they can not be substituted or forgotten. They are as follows:
1. Lube- the neither regions, unlike your front butt do not produce any lubrication on their own. Trust me on this, you will want lubrication there. Otherwise it will feel like he is trying to park a 747 in a very dry…and very tight air hanger. A good over the counter lubrication will suffice, such as Astro Glide, or my personal favorite KY, in the tube. If you’re a first timer, I would suggest making the monetary sacrifice and purchasing some Anal Eeze, which has an active numbing agent. This will dull the very very sensitive nerve ending’s around the opening making penetration less painful. Though please remember, if this is done right, pain will be at a minimum and sometimes…a little pain is ok.
2. Size and Frequency- yes, for this particular sexual act, size really does matter, well in all honesty size always matters regardless of what type of sex you are having, but in this instance bigger is not always better. Now the definition of big here is subjective. However things you should know-Your butt hole does not have the natural elaxasticity of your front butt. If a to big something or other is inserted to many times, it’s not going back to its original size. Then one encounters the problems of anal leakage, hemorrhoids, tearing and constipation. It is my personal opinion that if you can compare your mans love stick to the size of a horse or any other large animal then this is not for you. I also feel that butt sex should be reserved for special occasion. I.e. anniversary, birthdays, celebrating a job promotion you get the picture. Part of the appeal of butt sex and thus the turn on is that is still considered somewhat taboo. It’s not taboo if your doing it all the time.
3. Make room- before hand you need to have a bowel movement. This is self explanatory and if you don’t know what I’m talking about when I say bowel movement, then please see your doctor…immediately.
4. Condoms and Hygiene- Regardless of how many kiddies you drop off at the pool there is always the chance that fecal matter will stay in the canal. Due to health hazards and the very real opportunity of a mood killer your man should always wear a condom. Especially if he is intending on performing a double header, (no pun intended). If fecal matter winds up in your front butt it can cause infections of a very serious type nature. Then resulting to a trip to your local OBGYN and an uncomfortable conversation.
5. Pre Game- to get the full enjoyment of this act there needs to be a certain amount of pre game. One should enjoy foreplay as one normally does; if he dines locally at the pink taco, then let him, if he prefers a more hands on approach, let him. Let him drive you wild and get you hot and panting. This will work out very well for you later on. You will most likely be nervous and as we all know, increased arousal release endorphins that dull pain. If however the shocker is not part of your normal pre-game show, then it should be incorporated now. You need to get used to the feeling of having something put in there where usually things are coming out. This does not mean however that he should just shove his finger up there unmerciful and wiggle it around like he’s digging for gold. He should make the transition smoothly and very slowly.
6. Assume the position- the proper positioning for the act is really a matter of personal taste. However, it is my opinion that doggie style is the best possible position. Not only does it give the man room to see what he is doing, it also gives the women much needed control.
7. Patience and time- Now this is where it gets tricky and we seem to loose the men. Forgive me if the following section is crass and/or lewd, but in all honesty if your actually reading this blog then there really is no reason for me to mince words. You should be on your hands and knees, he should be applying lube to your person and to his fingers. Yes, that’s right I said fingers. Then there should be an insertion of a single digit. All stop. Get used to it. Ladies, this is your show, remember you are calling the shots. If it’s to much tell him. If you like it, tell him. After several agonizing minutes (in a good way), there should be a withdraw and then another insertion, several times. When your ready to advance, have him repeat with two. All stop. Again get used to it. There is no need to rush. You may notice heavy breathing on his part, and constant inquirers to your well being assuming he’s not a douche bag. After several minutes, your body should be accustomed to the invasion. But take your time, it’s different for everybody. When your ready there should be a constant insertion and withdrawal alternating between one and two fingers. Though, if you can and want it, let him go up to three. Gently, and with great patience he should systematically be kneading and expanding your tater hole. After a while, and you ladies will only know what a while is, and if he is doing it properly, you should be over your initial fear and well, it should be feeling very…very good. When you think your ready it’s time to move on the main event.
8.Back that Ass up- the reason I suggested doggie style is mostly because it gives the women all the control. Because quite frankly now matter how small his dick is, it will or should always be bigger than his fingers. When your ready, he should remove his digits and place (again crassness, forgive me) the head of his dick against your person. Now very slowly back up on it. It may take a little pressure as the head is usually larger than the shaft. After the head has made it through the very constricting sphincter, and this is what causes all the pain, stop. Get used to it. You will again probably note heavy breathing and inquires into your health and well being. When your ready, keep backing up the train. Go slowly, be gentle, because in all frankness if one where to just throw caution to the wind and just shove oneself down on his very sensitive member, it can hurt him to. When he is fully encompassed, (if you don’t know what I mean please ask a friend that can translate subtle sexual innuendo) all stop. Again get used to it. When your ready its time to hand over the reigns. Let him withdrawal, slowly, I can not emphasize this enough. Insert and remove. Rinse lather and repeat. You should by now have caught on. When your ready, and by ready I mean being driven wild, fingers clenching and unclenching at the sheets, sweat dripping off you and your channeling Jenna Jamison, than have at it. Just please, please remember that no matter how good it feels, it does not mean he should loose control or you’ll should go all crazy and starting randomly inserting any thing and everything up in there.
I am not delusional enough to believe that this one blog, no matter how detailed and explicit it may be, will change everyone’s opinion on the topic. You may have tried it, and its just not to your liking. That’s fine, all things are not for all people. And everyone women at one time or another has had a very bad experience with it, and it may have ruined it for you for all time. Because in all honestly nothing is worse than bad butt sex. It’s crap. But I hope, that by bringing it out into the open, and laying it all out there, I may have shed some light on what can be a very dark (and narrow) subject. And perhaps, there will be one women, somewhere, who is willing to give it another go and experience all the pleasure that good butt sex can bring.
After much pissing and moaning with my two best girl friends, a Sex and the City marathon and a hole bag of chocolate covered peanuts I have come to the decision that I need to be more proactive in this sexless state I have suddenly found myself in. Instead of just letting this not having sex…thing….happen to me, I have decided to take control of the situation. No, I’m not claiming celibacy, nor am I residing myself to settling in and just waiting out the dry spell praying to God that monsoon season will start soon. No, I am going on strike (Allison grab the coffee pot). A sex strike, that is.
I vow, here and now, in front of God, and all three people who read my blogs, that I am striking until my conditions have been met, or at the very least improve. And those would be the following: Condition # 1: A permanent position- those content with a temp/seasonal position, that’s fine, but please understand that benefits are not available . Condition # 2: Full time hours- I am very well aware that a part time position can turn into a permanent full time one, but until your logging in those full time hours your only eligible for part time benefits I.e. second base. Condition # 3- 90 day evaluation and job performance- just because someone can hold down a full time job doesn’t necessarily mean that they should. If I’m not happy with productivity, attendance, and performance, then its back to the unemployment line, or as most know it, happy hour at your local bar.
Those are my conditions. And I dare you to cross the picket line, you’ll be met with barbs, sarcasm and for those who are persistent, pepper spray. In the meantime I am continuing to accept applications and will be working on a solidarity theme song.