Tampons Are Not Sex Toys

I've had some pretty indecent proposals in my time, but this one takes the cake.  Happy Friday.

#Romance

People fall in love in different ways.  When I'm in the throes of a budding relationship, my view of the world shifts.  Around every corner, I'll see something that reminds me of him.

They sky looks a little more blue.

I recognize ceremonial sand paintings.

Signs appear… from God. 

Dessert... 

… Even holidays seem a little more joyful.

And when you find a guy that sends you a text like this...

… after your home team kicks ass in a playoff game, you know it's time to take it to the Twittersphere (aka: Mountain top) and hashtag (shout out) Romance, cuz this shit just got real. 

Chocolate Covered Ball Sack

Apparently I'm on an island that celebrates this sort of thing.  News flash: pooping's not that big an accomplishment after a night of boozing.  Particularly drinking beer.

Point in case: (real names withheld for the sake of safeguarding some last shred of dignity,) Sally and Billy were a couple of wild and crazy kids who spent most their days drunk on Bud Light and love.

Since their drinking schedule and level of consumption precluded them from doing the horizontal tango at night (limp dick, ya know), morning sex became their thing.  And because Billy was a lazy fuck, Sally usually found herself riding him.

One should know this is dangerous for a couple reasons:

1) Gravity, &

2) Beer shits

Now couple that with the pressure of an above average-sized you know what cock-a-doodle-doing you, and what you end up with is chocolate covered balls.  And I'm not talking about truffles.

Also, Billy lived with his parents.  His very Mormon parents.

True story.  

Sally eventually recovered, and after some therapy sessions, was able to jump back up on that pony - just not Billy's.  And she switched to wine.

A (Toxic) Shock On My System

You might have a problem if…

Nothing stands in your way of a good time.  And by "nothing" I mean tampons, and your idea of a good time is sex.  And your name is Kristyn.

The details of the evening in question are  inconsequential.  All you need know is I was under the (natural) impression that not being able to locate said clotting device the next morning meant I had remembered to remove it before play time, and had disposed of it.

Turns out the exact opposite had occurred, and essentially I'd been hammering a nail into my coffin.

http://kterrl.wordpress.com/tag/toxic-shock-syndrome/

Oh, yeah.  Toxic shock syndrome is fatal.  Sex kills - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.  Just like booze.

Eleven days later,  I'm layed up in the hospital with a series of tubes and IV's running through me; kickin' it on a goddamn gurney that had a built in scale - my ultimate nightmare.  ANYONE could freely access my weight at any given time.

A series of things happened over the course of the three days I was incapacitated:

1) My brother graduated from college.  Which I missed.  Because I was recovering from toxic shock syndrome.  Can't get that moment back.

2) My ENTIRE family was in town!  (For my brother's graduation.)  So I had LOTS of visitors.  Who "knew" what happened to me.  I'm a whore.
     
             2a) Know who didn't visit?  My boyfriend.

3) It was the first time I was informed by a medical professional that I might, in fact, have a drinking problem.

To which I responded: "Man, I need a fucking drink."

Mortifying Moments w/ The Parental Units

We've all had them - still frames of life with our parents that make us want to curl up in a little ball and die.  Whether it's them embarrassing us, or just being caught in a super awkward situation we have the misfortune of sharing with them, this shit happens.  Hell, I declared I how much I love butt sex in front of my dad.  My adult life has been a goddamn shame spiral in front of my parents:

• The aforementioned butt sex incident.
• That family trip to the movies to see Boogie Nights

Dirk Diggler's Junk

• Weddings: 
• Telling my dad I'd found a new ride home with Tim or Joe or Dan or whoever the fuck looked good on the dance floor.
• The time I passed out in the gravel parking lot with my dress above my head at the wedding of my parents best friend's daughter.  
• Getting caught with my pants down (literally) drunk fucking my ride home from the bar in his car parked in front of my house.  Their bedroom window faces the street.  Also, my bare ass hit the horn a few times. 
• The time I was laid up in the hospital for three days while I was treated for toxic shock syndrome.  Over my brother's college graduation weekend.  So the WHOLE family was in town.   They came to visit.
• Also, that was the first time I was informed by a medical professional I might have a drinking problem. 
• (This blog…)

The list could go on, ad infinitum.

The point is, I'm not the only one who who experiences these moments of character degradation, as evidenced by the following text a favorite girlfriend of mine sent me over the Holiday:

I immediately feel better about myself.  And less alone.  In fact, I think this would be a good topic to expand on.  We should make this a thing.  Send me some mortifying moments you've had with your Toads.  I'll post anonymously.

Email to: KEC310@gmail.com, or comment below.  Or Tweet me.  

DARK HORSE ONE-NIGHT STAND SUBMISSION

Brining up the tail is this gem, submitted by some mystery Industry creative I have the pleasure of interacting with.  I know one-night stand week ended last Friday, but since I half-assed the last post of the series, I'm putting this one up today, cuz it's well written and is "cute" to me.  I say "cute" because this man is mortified by a one-off experience that could have been an average Wednesday night for me back in the day.  Adorbs!

This is the story of a one-night stand that pretty much ended me ever having another one night stand.  It’s a story I cannot tell using my real name, and that I can never publish as a blog or short story because I have daughters (hello there Karma) and really… they do not need to know just how messed up their father was.

The setup is this:  I was in a band in the NW from 90-93. Just as “grunge” broke.  This meant that, by 92, every goddamn label in the world was taking you to dinner, re-enacting Pink Floyd’s Have a Cigar, regardless of your musical merit (or lack thereof).  If you wanted to take advantage of this, you had to have an EP or Studio Demo.  We wanted money and cigars, so we headed to Seattle the last week of December to record.  We were in the studio on the 29^th-30^th, with “mixing” January 2^nd with Industrial Partying scheduled for New Year’s Eve.

I and the members of my band, along with some other friends who were in bands, rolled into Pioneer Square around 10pm. We paid the $8 that would allow us to get in to 8 different bars and went to work, going from bar to bar, drinking like fish, and by the time we ended up at the Pioneer Square Saloon, it was late enough that the bar was out of mugs.  That’s fine, we were problem solvers, solution oriented, so we simply each bought a pitcher and drank from that.

Things get WAY fuzzy from there.

Generally what my bar Holidays looked like. I'd bend over for just about anyone… Just sayin', I can relate to where this story is going… ('08)

At some point, hammered out of my mind, I stood in the VERY long line to use the ONE bathroom in the bar.  When it was finally my turn, a girl dodged in ahead of me, which caused me to say something drunk like “Whassa…issa MINE turny!”  The girl informed me that she was going in WITH me, so that AFTER I pissed, then I could guard the door while SHE pissed.  Even drunk to near blackout I told her I can’t pee in front of people, but I’d guard the door for her, then I’d piss in happy solitude.  She did, sticking her tongue down my throat as she left.  I thought it was funny and wrote it off.

The rest of the night, every 15 minutes or so (Drunk subjective time) this girl would circle back, grab my ass, make out with me, stick her hands down my pants.  The band members kept asking “Who the hell is that?!” to which I could only give the drunken suave shrug, telling them “Fuhhh iv AH noes.”

Cut forward to midnight and this girl is hauling on me, telling me to come home with her.  I do not live in town, I’m staying with a friend. I am drunker than I’ve been that one time when the Mom of a high school classmate gave me Everclear. I have no car. I can’t go home with her. I will be STUCK.  I tell her all of these things. Repeatedly.

15 minutes later we are at her sister’s place. Which is a one-room studio.  The guy her sister picked up is busily fucking away, and this girl that has accosted me tries to start things going mere feet away.  I can’t pee in front of people lady, you think fucking in front of them is gonna happen?

We try a number of locations… hallways, foyer, laundry room, before finally settling in the bathroom.  Things are finally moving along when the phone rings.  The girl answers it. While we are fucking and proceeds to have a very long and loud argument about “Well, you should have thought of that BEFORE you slept with HER!” 

At this point, I’m a bit freaked out… the weirdness of the situation leaking through the gallons of booze in my system and I stop thrusting.  Her response to this is to cover the mouthpiece of the phone while hissing at me “Don’t you DARE stop, I’m about to come!” 

I followed directions, glazed, stunned. She came, then yelled into the phone “FUCK YOU, I’ll be over in 30!” before slamming the phone down.  She seemed baffled when I told her that, no… I did not want to “finish”, but hey, thanks anyway.

She got dressed and left to go “make up with her boyfriend”, leaving me to find a cab at 4am on New Year’s Day, in 20 degree weather, with $3 to my name and no idea how to get to my friend’s apartment.

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: *SUBMISSION* - An Unexpected Voyeur

This one comes to us from XY in TEXAS

Photo from idatedaily.com

I was 22 and, like I am now, hornier than I was smart. A beautiful girl approached my group of friends and singled me out. She said that she had something to tell me and took me by the hand.

We walked toward the door and she looked me in the eyes, "I promised myself that I wouldn't fuck a stranger tonight but I saw you and changed my mind."

That was the only pick up line I needed and we headed for her car. We drove to her apartment and, once inside, I got my first feeling that something wasn't normal. The apartment didn't have the vibe of a girl's place.

Before I could speak or question her, she was naked, standing in front of me in only heels. We were a pizza delivery away from filming porn.

As we made out, she narrated everything we did, "you're rubbing this" "I'm sucking that" sort of thing. It was hot in a weird sort of way.

We starting having sex and, no matter what position we were in, she insisted that we orient ourselves diagonally on the bed. I powered through although at this point I knew something odd was afoot.

Not more than five seconds after I came she gave me my clothes, pushed me into the living room and shut the door. My post-orgasm brain had the sense to hit the road. I dressed like the building was on fire.

As I shut the door I swear I heard a man's voice. I didn't know where I was but figured I'd walk until I found a phone.

At the end of the parking lot she drove up behind me, offering a ride home. I told her that there was no way and begged her to tell me what just happened. She drove away.

I was walking and thinking about how glad I was to be alive when her car approached again. She rolled the window down, said, "my boyfriend was in the closet, thanks for helping us out" and drove away.

I saw her at a football game years later. She looked as mortified with her memory as I was.

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: *SUBMISSION* - A Premarital Mess, Vegas Style

SUBMITTED BY XX, LOS ANGELES

Nothing says "hot sex" like Vegas. Whether ushering weekend flings down a corner Chapel aisle, or breaking-up relationships, Sin City never disappoints when encouraging poor decision making.

This is one girl's story:

blog.deltavacations.com

Vegas, 2009. My friend and I are hanging at a chill bar in the MGM Grand, expecting to have a "tame" Friday before a more raucous Saturday, but bitch, please - when does that ever happen in Vegas? So we end up meeting this group of handsome English gents, and start drunkenly wandering around the casino with them, having a grand ol' time. My friend gravitates toward this one guy, while this other cute guy (we'll call "British Chris") became my buddy. It's Vegas, so we didn't get into personal details... though my friend's guy kept repeating, "This guy is like my brother," about British Chris. Okay, so they're close. Luckily so are my friend and I. So I didn't think much of it when we each started hooking up with our respective Englishman in side by side queen beds in their one hotel room. Just a little strategic use of the comforter and it's like you're in separate suites! 

Then I hear the hotel room door slam. I look out from the covers, still mid-hook up, and we see that my friend and her guy have left the room. British Chris suddenly has a look of terror on his face. "Shit!" he says. "Stay here." He throws on some pants and hurries out of the room. Now I, thoroughly confused, do not "stay." I throw back on my dress and heels and head for the door. But when I open it, there was British Chris with a bloody face - and not bloody in the English sense of the word. Bloody as in I'm definitely NOT kissing that anymore. 

"My future brother-in-law just punched me in the face," he says. "I think I've just ruined my entire life."

Oh. So that's what you meant when you said, "This guy is like a brother to me." Got it.  

I just blankly stare back at him. I mean, he's an idiot. Really, hooking up RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR FIANCEE'S BROTHER?? But he knew his fate was sealed. He gave me a sweet kiss and said, "See you in another lifetime." And I just shrugged and walked across the Strip at 7am, an innocent bystander to some English wedding that will never happen, hoping they didn't pre-order too much bangers and mash for the occasion. 

Vegas. At Night. Through tears.

SUBMISSION: Her Yeast Was Kneaded Hard by KIM, HOLLYWOOD

My mom always told me, there are Jackies and there are Marilyns.  There are girls who get married and girls who serve as cautionary tales.  I'm a Jackie (sort of)  and this is my Marilyn….

Junior year in college I was friends with a co-ed who was known around campus as Sexler (actual surname Wexler, you get the idea).  Sexler was a great gal to be friends with.  She could get us into any club, bar, restaurant, party because she was sleeping with the bouncer, bartender, matre'd, keg tapper, you get the idea. 

I had a friend who slept with her and he said afterwards, although he'd never been with one, he imagined it was what banging a prostitute would be like.  She knew exactly what she was doing. 

It came as no surprise then when she developed a serious yeast infection.  Her yeast had been kneaded pretty hard.  Luckily, her medical condition didn't slow down her social life at all.  She simply made sure to have a large tube of Vagisil handy whenever we went out.  Depending on the size of her clutch, she would occasionally ask one of us non-infected to hang onto it.  If she needed a hit she would use the code word "sil" as a reference.  Unfortunately, after a few cocktails, I became forgetful and would refer to it as her tube of "vag".  Easy mistake.

This being college, we often went to sporting events (truth: our college was not known for its athletic department and this was the only game I ever attended, also the experience was traumatic, as you'll see).  I happened to get my hand on 4 front row tickets to a basketball game.  I invited Sexler, a mutual friend, and a totally unacquainted pal who we'll call Caitlin (cause that's her name).  The four of us piled into the back seat of a cab and headed off to the arena.  The cab traveled exactly one block before stopping at a red light at which point Sexler, who had been twisting and squirming the entire block, suddenly started shaking her head, opened the cab door and said, "I'm sorry.  No.  I can't do this."  (First time those words ever fell out of her mouth.)  She proceeded to leap out of the cab and RUN home.  Although our mutual friend understood why sitting still had become too much for Sexler, poor Caitlin was confused and horrified.  I was a poli sci major but that's a tough situation to spin, let me tell you.

Here's the moral for all the young ladies reading this: when your sex life makes it difficult to endure a cab ride, take a moment to pause and consider whether or not you're on your way to becoming the cautionary tale. 

Belize it or Not: Or How You Know Your Relationship w/ Your Boss Isn't Professional Anymore

So your hot boss is in the process of a messy break-up and you're in customer service.

This is still unprofessional, and absolutely has my stamp of approval.

Pack sunscreen. And also, beware of indigenous bacteria that will thrive in moist crevices; read:

Be smart where you have sex.

Why You Shouldn't Have Personal Packages Shipped to Work

I received the following email from the mail services department where I work after I had a package with "illicit material" shipped to me at the office. In my defense, the apartment complex I live in has a door code that thwarts FedEx and UPS deliveries more than burglars and rapists. I didn't feel like running an errand (totally defeats the purpose of delivery), so I had my new toy sent to work.

I'm an idiot.