Archive for June, 2009

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the only thing

June 17, 2009

It started a decade ago. 

John told me that he was going to breakup with her. So, I fucked him in a room at the Doubletree hotel. Two weeks later they were engaged.

The first time I kissed Dave, he was already engaged. I had known him for ten years before I kissed him. The first night I kissed him was also the first night I saw him naked. We were trashed. Too many dirty martinis. We would have fucked. But he couldn’t get it up. Now, Dave only calls after midnight. He warns me not to answer the phone if he calls after midnight. Sometimes I don’t, but sometimes I do.

I fucked Keith in college. Not a good lay. His ambition was too big; his penis too small. I never slept with him again. He has his first child now, so I only see him for happy hour. But on the rare occasions he makes it out for a late night, he texts at last call. I don’t respond.

Jake was married the night I met him. Short with shaggy hair. I wouldn’t have given him the time of day but he was the one on the trip with the best pot. So we smoked and shed some clothes with no sex. He still IMs me every day at 4:20 pm.

Last night Brad held me. He embraced me in the parking lot beside my car.

“You are one of my best friends, and I thought you might never speak to me again.”

We haven’t spoken in two weeks. Ever since our friendship swallowed a sour mouthful.

He texts me all night every night. He says “love.” He kisses me on the lips sans tongue. He holds my hand. He knows me. He wants me. I want him.

I don’t care that he is married.

The only thing that keeps me from having him is him.

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TMI Thursday: Do NOT Google This

June 11, 2009

I’ve been wanting to do something wild for my upcoming 30th birthday. Something crazy and out of character to mark the occasion and soften the blow. It was then that a friend of mine got a vertical clitoral hood piercing. In case you didn’t know, that’s a bar or ring that runs through the top of the hood of skin that the clitoris hides under. Vertical piercings have the incredible benefit of laying right on top of your magic button. Can you think of a better birthday present?

I’m a wimp. I’m not a piercer. I have my ears pierced three times in my left ear and twice in my right- I couldn’t stand the pain of the third piercing in the second ear. Somehow I ended up with a tattoo, and I think the only reason I made it through was that I went numb about five minutes into a good twenty minute tattoo. This piercing intrigued me for reasons beyond the obvious. It was well off my beaten path. It was highly private- a dirty little secret that only myself and a few select people (to include the blogosphere at large) would know about. So I started the whole Google research process. The pictures (and let me say right now, there are some ugly effin’ lady parts out there!) were pretty cool, I liked the way they looked. The pain was supposedly minimal, as was the healing time. Disturbing things I ran into during my research: instructions for a diy VCH piercing, bondage tips (as in, how much weight will the piercing bear before failure.. *shudder*), rumors that these piercings would give you orgasms just from walking, and a few explicit descriptions of infection. Still, when I was done Googling, I was ready to make an appointment.

That’s when Mother Nature brought me my monthly gift. Oh, the joy. When Aunt Flo left town, I made plans to go the very next day. The friend who has this piercing offered to take me as an early birthday present, because she rocks. I wasn’t nervous. Well, I wasn’t that nervous. I knew it was going to be weird, and that it was going to hurt, but not that bad, and I also knew that the worst thing I could do was spend the whole day anticipating. I did have two shots of vodka before we left for the shop, because the idea of being completely and totally sober was a little intimidating.

When we walked into the shop, I was feeling warm and rosy from the vodka and a little nervous, and a lot excited. I filled out my paperwork, and one of the best female piercers in the state took me back into the piercing room. After all, you don’t let just anyone drive a needle through your lady bits.

Just like at the gyno, I had to strip from the waist down and lay down in the chair, where she had me scoot further and further down until she could easily get into my business. I was glad to see her gathering her supplies quickly, because being naked from the waist down in a black leather chair in a room with flowers hanging from the ceiling and a girl wearing a hippy dress was bringing the reality of the situation home awfully quickly.

She cleaned and inspected my delicate flower, slipping a cotton swab up into my hood to make sure I was suited to the piercing. I had done this two weeks ago in my bathroom, so I knew I was good. She marked her target, cleaned a little bit more, and peeked up from between my knees.

“Okay, we’re ready. Whatever you do, do NOT clamp my head between your knees or thighs. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth and focus on your breathing.”

My heart raced as I envisioned my knocking her out with my kneecaps,  needle still shoved through my junk. I dismissed that thought and put my arms up over my head and grabbed the headrest of the piercing chair, hoping to prevent any issues with my legs slamming shut like a vise.

I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out my mouth. As I exhaled, she drove the needle through the top of my hood and into the receiving tube.

It hurt like hell for all of two seconds. Literally, there was an awful, awful poke and then nothing. Until she inserted the curved barbell and screwed the balls on the ends. At some point in this process, she pinched me and I gasped. It was like skinning my knee but it was my delicate flower instead. Not cool.

She gave me an aftercare sheet and a pantyliner. I put my pants on and left the room. This is about the time it occurred to me that I felt really high. Endorphins and adrenaline and all.

Most people would have gone home. I went to an antiques auction and then went home with my friend. We stopped at the drug store and I bought some first aid saline and a spray bottle of bactine.

The next two days I spent at home, mopping and drinking and roasting hot dogs by the fire. I was careful when sitting down or getting up, and there were moments when it was a little sore. By Day 3, I could start to feel the sensation of that bar riding on my clit. It was by no means overwhelming, just a little zing when I moved a certain way. Days 4 and 5 were itchy days, but I can’t really complain about scratching that itch…

For the first six days, I used Bactine on the piercing twice a day, and saline in between a few times a day, when I thought about it.  I think what I was most grateful for was that it never developed “crusties” like some other people said theirs did. If there’s one place you don’t want crusties, it’s probably your pink places.

At almost two weeks, I’ve completely disregarded the care sheet and am having no problems whatsoever. A ton of fun, but no problems.

I would do it again in two hot seconds.

It’s completely healed as far as I can tell, and I’ve already broken it in, but that’s another post! 😉

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Judge Away. I’m Ready.

June 9, 2009

Only one person knows this about me.

I have lied to every single other person, because I know they would pass judgment on me.

But the truth is, I’m not really ashamed at all, despite the pressure from my family and friends to be ‘educated’ and ‘involved’ in our nation’s path forward.

So, here it is:

I have never voted.

For anything. Not once. EVER.

I just don’t care. I can’t help it. I don’t believe in our system- I don’t believe that I would make a difference.

Additionally, the only issues that truly stir my heart are a woman’s right to abortion, and that my gay friends are afforded all the same rights and privileges in their love that my straight friends are.

I’m not ashamed that I don’t vote.

But I am ashamed that I am not ashamed of it, if that makes any sense.

I am sorry that Sarah McLachlan”s ASPCA commercial moves me more than any political speech or agenda.

I am sorry that I’d rather talk about Real Housewives or Daisy of Love than Obama’s plan for Iraq.

I am sorry that I read blogs and celebrity gossip instead of the latest bill up for the vote.

But no, ultimately, I do not believe that I, my feelings, or my vote make one bit of difference. So I choose to spend my time on things that affect me directly.

And I am sick of pretending otherwise for everyone in my life.