Get That Thing Out Of Me

Tony, Type 1 Diabetic

(Photobomber: Mystery Brother)

In regards to trading his insulin pump in for some old school needle action:

"I'll explain it in terms you'll understand, Kris. Sometimes, your body needs a break from constantly having a foreign object inside you, and I get nostalgic around the Holidays. But I believe you call it your thirties."

Good to know I've made a lasting impression. 

Things I'm NOT Thankful For

Asked my brother to borrow his car to pick up a friend (we'll call her Liz) from the airport, since I'm back home visiting and my car's in LA.

My brother comes along for the ride. 

I glance down at the center console and see:

So many questions, like "I could have sworn Liz said you were bigger," and "Is that a needle?"

Without dignifying my first question with an answer, his response to the latter: "I needed something to poke holes in them with."

Things my brother's not thankful for: Irish curses.

MY BROTHER'S ON FIRE! (No, really. He caught on fire.)

Tis the season to be thankful.  Good thing I like my brother so much, or the ending of this story would be a real disappointment to me.  As it goes, he lived.  So here's what happened:

It was 2000, and the whole extreme sports craze was just heating up.  I lived in Huntington Beach at the time, which seemed like the epicenter of non-conformist, white tattooed punk rock kids, eager to give a big "fuck you" to any type of authoritarian.  Johnny Knoxville made being a jackass SOP, and Fred Durst was doin' it all for the nookie.

I lived with a few pro-skateboarders for a stint, and then came the Crusty Demons.  Those crazy sons-of-bitches were fearless, and before I knew it, everything was dirt bike this and dirt bike that.  I got a KX125 and found myself on frequent camping trips to the desert so my poser boyfriend could channel Seth Enslow.

My brother, on the other hand, is a legit rider.  But on one such trip to Ocotillo Wells, he demonstrated some less than legit decision making skills.  Namely mixing alcohol consumption with a game of "watch me make rings of fire in the sand using this gas can and the campfire!"  Invented by my much older boyfriend who should have known better, my impressionable and inebriated brother apparently felt the need to make his mark...

…Which he did.  Physically.  I sat and videotaped the following chain of events:

• Brian, sans t-shirt, twirling the can of gas through the campfire
• An illuminous trail of fire dashing across the sand as it ignited the gas around my brother
• Brian tripping over himself, splashing said gas across his body
• Flame igniting Brian
• Brian screaming, and beginning to run
• My boyfriend tackling him to the ground, extinguishing him.

It took a few minutes to register what exactly just happened before I put the camera down and ran over to find my brother, layers of skin curling off his back and torso, in immediate shock.

No cell reception meant a car-ride that felt like an eternity to the Ranger Station, where I used a pay phone to dial 911, and then my parents.

*Side note: this story is the reason they hate 2am phone calls, because mine went something like this, "Hi mom.  Brian caught on fire.  Here, talk to my boyfriend."

Brian clung to me, shaking, until the first ambulance arrived and peeled him off of me.  The kid went from wanting to die to a euphoric smile the second the first shot of morphine was administered.  After the chopper Medevaced him to San Diego, I looked down at my shirt, covered in his skin, and threw up.

Brian, upon arrival at UCSD Medical Burn Center

He was burned 1/4 of his body, deep tissue 2nd and areas of 3rd degree burns.  He was in the hospital for a month, and released, appropriately, on the Fourth of July.  The above picture is the only surviving evidence of the incident, aside from scars that turn purple whenever he drinks.  He's like a personified Hypercolor t-shirt.

Anyway, I know this story isn't necessarily "funny," per se, but it does serve as a reminder to:

A) Be careful, and

B) Be grateful

Also, "If you can't be a good example, be a fair warning."

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.

GAME: What Did I Have Waxed? (Pic)/ Weekend Recap

Happy Monday!  Let's start this week out with a little game I like to call:

Guess What I Had Waxed?

A) My ass
B) Happy Trail
C) Side Burns

*Tweet your answer to @KristynCarey, or simply respond in the comment section.

Either way, please note that I am a hairy beast, and I was tired of moonlighting as Teen Wolf.  I'm not exactly booking lots of dates from male suitors, and this may be why.

Weekend Recap:

Beastliness aside, this wasn't how I envisioned launching the blog this week, but my weekend felt like a disjointed mess of crazy, and I thought I may as well purge the madness here.

Friday - Fagitaboutit.

Saturday - Business as usual, until evening, when I had the privilege to speak as a panelist on addiction (I may have familiarized myself with the topic through extensive research in my twenties) and recovery at a lockdown psychiatric facility. Did I mention it was lockdown? It was locked-the-fuck-down.

It's funny how things work out.  On a daily basis I roam through life feeling like I'm the one on crazy pills, and then I'm introduced to a group of people who really are.  And wanna know what?  It was nothing like I expected.  I don't know what I expected, really.  A few years back, I sat through a NAMI course designed to familiarize the "sane" (and I use that term loosely, because I was in class) with the inner workings of the mentally not-so-sane, and I'd love to tell you what I learned, but I was too wasted to remember anything.  Maybe Saturday night was my penance.

But it turned out well.  I was surprised that, after being escorted through a series of locked elevators and corridors by a security guard, I saw nary a straight jacket. Just sayin', I'm not easily surprised these days.

Sunday - While running errands, I saw:

1)  a woman in a pair of shiny rainbow Unicorn spandex pants, complete with fuck-me pumps, and -

2)  a gentleman, who had tied a can to the end of a make-shift fishing rod, "fishing" off the sidewalk into the cement waters of Ventura Blvd.

In other words, pretty much back to normal.  Which is to say most days, the world, to me, seems ass-backwards and fucked.

Also, I got waxed.  So I no longer look like an Action Figure.  Or Elvis.

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: *10 SECOND VIDEO*

Sorry, this would be me, being a cock tease - a real whore for page hits.

Since this is the last day of One-Night Stand Week, I thought it would be appropriate to pontificate the fact that Muppets' can't enjoy a single night's pleasure because they lack the genitalia it takes to participate.  So, here is my 10 second tribute to sexless puppets.

May we all share a moment of silence after.



Except, or course, for these puppets:

A Ghostly Gang-Bang

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: *SPECIAL GUEST SUBMISSION*

I will not release the identity of this individual, but I will offer her my most heartfelt amends over the Holidays, when I present her with a Just-In-Case. Whore.

Have you ever had a one-night stand?  I never have.  At least, at the ripe old age of 30 I hadn’t.

My friends, two of the sluttiest drunks on the planet (one of whom is the curator of this blog,) decided one sleepy Wednesday that it was time for me to spread my wings (or legs I suppose) and venture into the world of meaningless sex.  I hadn’t really lived, they argued.  Did I think I was better than them[1]?  They met my reluctance with bullying, and name calling until I relented.  

I knew I had made a terrible mistake the moment I stepped into the home of the 22 year-old that I deemed the best looking guy at the bar.[2] Never the less, I felt obligated to proceed with my friends’[3] challenge.  The 22 year-old ripped my clothes off and marveled at how incredibly hot I was.  To paint a picture, it was winter and I hadn’t been laid in a year, so my Sasquatch legs were in full bloom.  Also, he was cheap, and wouldn’t turn on the heat, so in turn, I refused to remove my socks.[4]

At some point in his life, some other dumb slut must have told him he was hung, which resulted in him making sure I was “ok” every time he thrusted his cocktail weenie my way.  When it was finally over, I sprang out of his bed, eager to get dressed and get the fuck out of there.  That’s when 22 year-old informed me that he had hidden my clothes and that we would be cuddling ALL NIGHT.

As I lay shivering throughout the night, with only my thin cow socks and a small-penised clinger to keep me warm, I accepted that there is no God, and that my friends were evil schadenfreude bitches that would pay dearly if I ever found my pants.[5]  It was the longest night of my life. 

When I was finally released in the morning I met the slutty drunks for breakfast, where they spent the entire meal heckling me for being such a whore.  I drove home, turned the heat on full blast, and took a shower, relieved that the nightmare was finally over.  That’s when I got the text requesting that I “cum over.” Which was tempting and all, but then it wouldn’t have been a one-night stand.

Name Withheld 

---

[1] Yes, I definitely think I am better than them.

[2] It was a Wednesday night in December, at a dive bar that doesn’t accept credit cards, in a town with a population smaller than my checking account balance.

[3] Slutty drunks

[4] INSERT SOCK PHOTO HERE

[5] You may be wondering why I didn’t get up and look for my clothes once homeboy fell asleep.  I tried.  He had an angry Great Dane that held vigil over the bed all night, and went bananas anytime I so much as thought about moving.  It was very Cujo. 

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.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: No Truer Words Were Ever Spoken

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.

PIC OF THE WEEK: I F*ck On The First Date

Remember this classic?

knowyourmeme.com

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

"I'm always looking for meaningful one-night stands." - Dudley Moore

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: The Escape Artist

It was his eyes. The eyes will do it for me, every time.

It probably also had something to do with the three or four tumblers of Vodka Tonics I'd consumed. (Bartenders are so irresponsible these days.) Honestly, at that point, I think I was seeing stars in just about everything, so I may have mistaken the Devil in his eyes for a "twinkle." All I knew is that I wanted to go skinny dipping in those eyes - eyes as blue as the deep blue sea...

They were fuckin' sexy, is what I'm trying to say, alright?

But I digress. The year was somewhere around five or so ago (give or take), and it was probably a Tuesday? In other words, the mood was just right for an evening of sweet, sweet love making.

Or super ghetto fucking, as it turned out. Dude wore a gold chain necklace that kept knocking me in the chin with every thrust he made. With each, "Oh, guuurrl" I was instantly aware that I was too conscious for this experience. And then God threw me a bone and I blacked out.

When I came to the next morning, Dude was no where to be found. I breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as I rolled over on to my side, but my bliss was cut short. That's when I saw it: his pile of clothes AND his wallet on my bedroom floor. He's still here… FUCK.

Photo courtesy of the inklingsoflife.com

But the place was quiet. Too quiet. I reluctantly rolled out of bed, and - wrapped in my bed sheet - began a room-to-room search for Mr. Thug Life, taking an inventory of any missing items… And that's when I discovered I was short (1) cat-hair covered blanket, and (1) pair of flip flops. Also, Homeboy was LONG the fuck gone.

Yes, apparently I'm that good in bed.

I never did get opportunity to thank him for breakfast...

Why I Hate Surprises

Because if you catch me off guard, this is what you'll find:

As discovered by my best friend, who flew into town this morning and just showed up on my doorstep at 8am.

She informed me she's cool to sleep on the couch. 

QUOTE OF THE DAY

My Last Sunday Funday

Wanna know how to stop traffic? Launch yourself, head first, over the handle bars of your bicycle in front of a car or two. That usually does the trick. And make sure you're not wearing a helmet.

To effectively pull this off, it helps to be drunk.

With any luck, you'll be able to walk away with a mild concussion, or just look like you spent a Tuesday night with Chris Brown.

Circa 2008

Same… '08 sometime

PIC: a MOTHER F*CKER! moment

In case you're wondering; yes, I did show up for my date like this.

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"Don't shit in a gift horses mouth." - Kristin Mineo, grateful recovering perfectionist & comic

PIC: You Know Alcohol is a Problem When...

… Your friend sends you a text message that reads:

"Just landed in New Orleans. Something about this place made me think of you."

Louis Armstrong International Airport

Something tells me New Orleans is a city after my heart, er… liver. I've always said if I start drinking again, I'm goin' out on a big glass of Mardi Gras.

My Hawaiian Rapist

Have you ever had to pick the cop who raped you out of a line-up? Me neither, but I totally almost had to.

Allow me to digress: the year was 2003. I had recently familiarized myself with cops as I was fresh off my first (and only) DUI the previous week. A little R and R and a dozen Mai Tai's seemed just what the doctor (definitely not the judge) ordered. So, accompanied by my BFF, off to Hawaii I went.

*Side Note: If you're looking for a partner in crime, don't bring the chick with a boyfriend on vacation. Not only are they a real wet blanket, they leave you unsupervised to gyrate some unholy dance moves while they're glued to a phone talking to their life-ruiner.

Meanwhile I'm out to dry, thinking I'm the hottest seductress that Moose McGillycuddy's had ever seen. I may as well have had bullseyes for nipples and a big flashing arrow pointed at my cucaracha cuz Officer Roofie was all about it.

So it comes as no surprise (in hindsight) that the Roofinator just happened to be available to give me a lift home at the end of the night. At first he insisted his buddy take my friend so he could have me all to himself (listen, I'm like Gumby when I drink. In other words, I'm pliable. I'm not exactly putting up a fight), but I was able to slur my resistance.

Off we sped, seated three deep in the front of his patrol car. The road to Kaanapali from Lahaina is long and dark, and I was getting thirsty. Fortunately, my hospitable driver offered me a sip from his Starbucks cup - which was filled with beer, the sweet nectar of the night. It was just the drop I needed to push me over the line from, "I can stand" to "sohaeneone ahold awa mya haaiwr…"

I was pushing buttons, playing with his siren, laughing, throwing my head back, giving him my sexy eyes. In his professional opinion, he decided what we needed was more alcohol (so I would lose my shirt and my friend would lose the stick up her ass.) He stopped at a liquor store and we grabbed a twelver.

He seemed genuinely surprised when we parted ways. (I am genuinely surprised we ever reached our destination.) My friend grabbed the beer as he coaxed me to "take a drive" with him, and when it occurred to her I was actually contemplating taking him up on his offer, she grabbed me, too. For all I know, the guy was proud of his Island and just wanted to share it's majesty with me… at 3 AM.

The moral of the story is: On second thought, bring the chick with the boyfriend on vacation. Odds are she'll probably end up saving your life, or at the very least, your vagina.

Reuters

I Love Butt Sex

There's varying degrees to which this is true, but it's an attention grabbing headline, no? Since I'm a bit hard pressed for submission material, I may as well throw myself on the cross with this one. 

(If you think this is crass, you only have yourselves to blame. Send me your stories. This is intended to be a forum of shared experiences.)

That said, here's the deal: wine did funny things to me. If I want to add a dash of accountability (choke, cough, spit), irreverence (still) does funny (totally subjective) things to me. But add alcohol to my already inherent lack of respect for all things socially appropriate, and what you end up with is an obnoxious 20-something year-old floozy sharing the intricacies and pleasures of anal penetration at a neighborhood dinner party hosted by her parents.

As recalled by my BROTHER... I have no recollection of this happening, so as far as I'm concerned, I allegedly love butt sex. My parents' neighbors, however, are fairly certain I'm a prostitute.

…I'm sorry, Dad.

Water Seeks Its Own Level

Allow me to preface this by saying you're judged by the company you keep, at least that's what I've always been told. Growing up, my father tried (God knows how hard he tried) to instill in me the idea that when you do worthwhile things, you meet worthwhile people.

I spent my 20's in dive bars. These are my friends, my "kind of people":

HIS

HERS

They're twisted and inappropriate. They're the life of the party. They're dark and irreverent, and some of them are brilliant. They're harmless. They make me laugh, cuz God knows if I weren't laughing, I'd be crying.

I thought things would change after I quit drinking. I guess you can take the booze out of the girl, but depravity seems inherent. I still gravitate towards people with my same sick sense of humor, my "tribesmen," as I like to call them. Guess I'm a Gary Larson's Far Side kinda gal for life.

I'm a firm believer that every relationship you have with another individual reflects the relationship you have with yourself. Well, I like my friends, goddammit. They're good eggs.

So, as Stuart Smalley would say, seems like, "I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And, doggone it, people like me." And if they don't, fuck 'em. I like myself.

PIC OF THE DAY: The Office Photo

Some people love their job…

…And some people LOVE their job

Crossing my fingers my day feels like the latter. Happy Monday!

That Patches O'Houlihan Is Full Of Shit

Translation: I've always had a hard time dodging balls. 

A story, in pictures:

Fuck.

Think we're gonna need more than a band aid, doc. If you said Percocet, we're speaking the same language.

Why, yes, that is my bone, split in half.

I'm pretty high right here.

This didn't do shit...

… As I now have a permanent Dr. Evil finger.

"I found that if you have a goal, that you might not reach it. But if you don't have one, then you are never disappointed… And I gotta tell ya, it feels phenomenal." - Peter LaFleur (Vince Vaughn), DODGEBALL

MORAL OF THE STORY: Stick to doing nothing.

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.