Thursday, September 2, 2010

i shaved my pubes for THAT?


i tried to get laid for you guys this weekend, i swear to horus i did. i'm just as tired of WRITING about the dickonomic downturn in my vaginal bear market as you are of READING about it, and i fucking lobbied congress hard for a decent-sized stimulus package. alas, i am still a born-again virgin, but not for lack of tryyyyying. and i didn't half-ass the effort, either. i put fresh batteries in my little cordless beard trimmer and found my vagina under all of the moss and algae that had grown over it during these months of abandonment and neglect and leveled all the overgrowth so he could find it; i even greased it up and used a razor to get to the bonus places, my ass crack among them. i deep conditioned this hair that is already so crazy long and driving me insane, and i NEVER do that. not for anyone. i cleaned my house, i put my foot in helen's little goddamned ass, i washed the dust off the clothes hanging in my closet that a bitch might get fucked in, and I GOT A MOTHERFUCKING PEDICURE.

pedicures give me diarrhea.
so it's a big fucking deal whenever i can be bothered enough to get one. every single time i drag my disgusting ass into a fancy nail salon to let some diminutive person squat at my feet to scrape the callous off my heels, i spend the entire time contorted into an unnatural shape with sweat running down my back willing her to hurry the fuck up so i can get to a bathroom. i know i talk a lot of shit, but i really do have decent-looking feet. gorgeously wide nail beds, no fungus, no gnarled-up toes, no bunions or corns. despite this fact, i usually spend the whole day prior to the pedicure racked with anxiety about having my cuticles dug out or whatever the fuck it is they're doing down there.

i worry because every time i have ever gotten my feet worked on i have either 1 almost fallen while getting in to the chair or 2 almost fallen while trying to get out of it. it's fucking slippery, man, and i'm worried my expensive jeans are going to unroll themselves down my calf and get soaked in whatever hot toxic chemicals are being shot out of those jets. and they lotion the shit out of your fucking feet, then expect you to maintain your poise and balance while trying not to fuck up the seven coats of sticky shit they've lacquered all over your nails AND not spill your starbucks or ruin that copy of us weekly you were really trying to read?! i am not that goddamned coordinated. i can't just jump in and out of vibrating spa chairs without fucking something completely up or falling to my goddamned death. except i don't set my chair on vibrate, because folding my intestines in thirds to put my knees in my goddamned throat so she can work on my soles has already made me nauseous, and that circular vibrating motion just makes my torso feel like it's roasting my insides until they're tender and juicy. rotisserrhea.

i don't get the parrafin treatment either, because it feels like my feet are encased in slick plastic bags of warm human waste. plus they never get that nastiness cleaned all the way off, and i can hardly be expected to go about the rest of my day leaving bits of wax everywhere i go. i don't need my enemies tracking me down hansel and gretel-style. and while we're on the subject, NO NAIL POLISH. now i like looking down at my neat and spotless feet and everything, but what girl doesn't want a little lincoln park after dark peeking out from under her flared dark jeans? nothing makes you look expensive and put together like perfectly applied almost-black nail polish. and while my dream is to look like i can really afford this lavish and extravagant life i'm living (my lunch today cost TWELVE WHOLE DOLLARS), i will forever look like a garbage-composting bitch on a commune, one with clear polish on her toes at least, since i am usually clawing at the sides of the chair after forty-five minutes of foot-swapping and "i'm not really an asshole" small talk.

god, the fucking GUILT. nothing reduces me to a blubbering pile of idiot like paying someone to be subservient to me. you would think that having grown up around all this money that i'd have learned that trick that makes cleaning ladies invisible or how to ignore the person wrestling with my foot while i shout into my cell phone, but i grew up BROKE. and, if it weren't for some cunning manipulation and careful strategery, i might have ended up the dead-tired beaten down bag of shit you're admonishing, in a tone best reserved for a fucking four-year-old, to use a TOOTHBRUSH and BLEACH on the bathroom grout, do you speak ENGLISH? i don't take anything for granted, and i'm not a fucking asshole to service people. because swap that emery board for a parvo puppy and now who is in service to WHOM? holy shit it makes me physically uncomfortable to be around people who are rude to service people. BARF.

laura's ass went to a wedding this past weekend, and FOR HER i agreed to have my viscera put through the meat grinder otherwise known as "the mani-pedi." even though on the outside she appears to be a normal, adult, human-type female, this bitch is almost thirty years old and has never subjected herself to the girly joys of overpriced pampering. and i'm with that shit 100%. i've only ever gotten them because my friends have forced me to accompany them, and once because i was going to be in nina's wedding in san diego and didn't want my feet looking like goddamned dragon claws. but they did anyway, because i got red polish and promptly SLAMMED MY FOOT IN THE DOOR OF HER TRUCK ten minutes after we left the shop, then felt too fucking dumb to go back in and ask them to fix it. listen, i'm not trying to have some bitch cuss me out (LOUDLY) in laotian while the girl at the next station pretends to watch chinese game shows on the staticky, grainy mounted television. plus, i was limping. FUCK THAT.

and since it was HER TREAT (my favorite words!) we went to this swanky place where they make you coffee and shit while you wait. AND we got manicures which, for me, meant a pale wash of something sparkly and unoffensive on my nails that i keep INFANT SHORT because i could hardly sit still long enough to wait for nineteen coats of base, ridge filler, dark color, top coat, quick dry, and oil spray to dry. seriously, it's POINTLESS for me to attend to myself in this way. bare toes and fingers that would look right at home on a toddler? for fifty bucks?! yeah fucking right. give me a sturdy swedish file and a bottle of hard as nails and i could recreate that shit for a fraction of the cost.

but all that pampering and frilly shit sort of makes you feel damned good, doesn't it? and it makes you feel like you're worthy of your vagina. the mere fact that you possess one is not alone a testament to your femininity; you have to DO some shit to PROVE it. and i don't think wearing grimy gym shoes and drinking fancy beer is it. sometimes a girl's gotta spend her rent money on a double-process dye job or a full body seaweed wrap to feel all pretty and special. not me, though. i can hardly be bothered to shave my fucking legs, let alone get hot stone massages or pay some homo three hundred bucks to dump chemicals in my hair. i have to put so much time, energy, and MONEY into counting pills and spacing out meals and keeping a shit diary that by them time i'm done with all that i can't be bothered to do maintenance of any other kind.


but men aren't trying to hear that shit, and i can't pull my pants down and be like, "hey kid, i know my pussy looks like the jungle book come to life, but i've had FOUR normal stools this week!" i especially can't pull that nonsense with someone i've just met, because i like to play the "i'm normal just like you!" game for as long as i can reasonably get away with. and that's where i find myself now, with a handful of dudes i maybe like and who i'm probably going to let put their dicks in my butt, for whom i have to conjure up some sort of nicely-preserved physical specimen. i wish i could just show a motherfucker an xray or a copy of one of my CTs and say, "look asshole, give me a fucking BREAK," but i'm not at the point yet where i'd like to shatter any illusions. i like to let that wait until i'm invited to dinner at his mom's house and am forced to remove my underwear and shit in the bathtub because i put too much charmin in the toilet and can't locate a plunger. does it go without saying that i wasn't invited back? i thought it might.

prior to one of my many a colonoscopies i spent a few lucid minutes before succumbing to the anesthesia apologizing for my hairy butthole. i spent the first few minutes of my pedicure apologizing for my leg hair. my armpits are hairy right now, too, but i haven't found anyone yet to whom i might apologize for their state of naturalness. man, THIS is why dating is hard. because the whole fucking premise is built on being your nicest, fakest, most accomodating self, and hoping a bitch hangs on once he finds out what a rotten piece of shit you are at the core. and keeping up that facade is hard work. EXHAUSTING. so of course now that i've got all this possible sex on my horizon, i can't help but think about why it might be so much more awesome to keep my vagina to myself. let's explore the reasons why:

waxing hurts. while i hardly mind the ten seconds it takes to have a few stray eyebrow hairs ripped out of my face, letting some eastern euroslavian torch her way through the acreage in my nether region is fucking HORRIBLE. i am never doing that EVER AGAIN.

shaving is worse. and depilatories STANK. hair removal is serious fucking business, man. it's dangerous and time-consuming and even when you think you've gotten every last extra hair plucked or trimmed or threaded or naired or razored off of your body, you're never completely clean. and that's frustrating. and even if you do manage to get yourself scalped enough to competitively swim a 100m butterfly, the shit starts growing back 30 goddamned seconds after you get out of the shower! it's a losing battle in this "don't you want to bang me?" war, one i'm often too lazy to pick my gillette up and fight.

exfoliating is gross. i hate fumbling around in the shower with a greasy jar of gritty exfoliant, attempting to smooth out my grody knees and elbows while at the same time trying not to fall and crack my skull open on the edge of the tub because that shit is always oil-based and makes everything slippery.

makeup is expensive. and requires too much effort to artfully apply it. plus, it doesn't make you look much better. which is why i've sort of stopped wearing any entirely. it makes me feel so obvious and conspicuous. BARF. besides, if you DO get all made up, then you have to worry about smearing the shit on a collar or pillowcase. and if you do, that makes you an ASSHOLE. a tranny asshole who wears too much makeup because she's ugly. duh.

clothing is difficult. i just made a promise to myself the other day that i am only going to buy and wear articles of clothing that are black, because never do i ever feel comfortable and not awkward in anything but. i got rid of 2/3 of my clothes a few days ago, because i really only wear the same five or six things all the time and i should really stop pretending otherwise.

dudes are stupid. and getting to know that about a new one can sometimes be a lengthy process. and who has all that time to waste? because, for the most part, they've all got that initial impression thing NAILED, so that after the first time you speak or meet you think to yourself, "well, he seems like a nice guy. i like him!" and you start thinking about him and developing fuzzy-ish feelings for him and writing about him in your diary. then you're all disappointed two dates later when he slips and lets his asshole out, and you feel angry and cheated. cheated out of the relationship you deserve and totally thought you could have with first date dude. only to find out that he's really more like third date dude, letting doors fall closed on you and demanding you pay for your own movie ticket and popcorn. *sigh*

dating is HARD. what do i wear? where should we go? what day of the week? what time of day? when do i give him my number? when can i tell him my last name?  should i use my dummy email? what if he wants to be facebook friends? will my friends think he's dumb? who picks up the check? can i kiss him on the first date? how many dates until i have sex with him without looking like a slut? at what point do i let him know where i live? what if i hate him? what if i like him more than he likes me? when should i call him? how many texts is too many? when can i take a dump at his house? is it too soon to tell him about my weirdo sexual fetishes? at what point do we have "the talk?" what if he keeps checking his phone while we hang out? should i tell him i'm seeing nine other dudes right now? what if he was better online than he is in person?

the problem is that at one time in my life this whole game was fun. and it'll be fun again as soon as i can hang out with someone consistently who doesn't chap my fucking balls off. these shitty dudes are DEPRESSING ME. goddamn. and i have no idea how you bitches who are out there looking for lifetime partners to have splashy weddings and conceive children and buy two-story houses with are doing it; i have the least possible requirements when it comes to what i expect from some asshole, and every penis i throw at the wall bounces right off. seriously. it doesn't stick to a fucking thing. i can't IMAGINE if i were looking for a fiscally responsible, commitment-ready babymaker who wanted to be my husband. i mean, come on. that's impossible, right?

"the wind went out of his sails" is maybe the nicest way i can describe how my vagina was foiled again this time. it's the first time that's ever happened in my presence. and i'm not saying that in an asshole, every dude is so hot for me they never lose their erections way; i'm just being honest. because i felt like an idiot for a minute and had no idea what to say. or do. for instance, i can't say "don't worry, it happens to everyone," because in my vast experience that just isn't true. and even if said nicely, the words "that has never happened to a dude i've been with" isn't really that fucking reassuring.

it felt like someone was pressing a slightly-warmed ham sandwich against the crack of my ass. a ham sandwich thick with mayonnaise and melting cheese that some careless asshole had left sitting out in the sun, wrapped in clingwrap. (you know, the condom.) moist, mushy testicles and a half-empty water balloon squishing repeatedly into my left ass cheek. it felt so yucky and shameful. two quick things: 1 from behind just FEELS BETTER. for me. it's just better. i like it more. my preferred method of coitus, so i suggest it immediately. but you have to be working with a certain amount of sausage. in general, but also because i have a big ass and a teeny little pecker isn't going to get in all the way. and what is the point of that? 2 it's a good way to hide the crushing disappointment or debilitating embarassment that goes along with being the victim of a TERRIBLE lay. when a dude is huffing and puffing and FAILING on top of you there's no way to hide your incessant eye-rolling and nonplussed facial expression. you're just trapped there beneath all that awful, with nowhere for your giggles to go. lame.

so i knelt on my smooth, hairless knees (i told you i put forth a valiant effort!), counting the threads in the withered old comforter his mom probably gave him (gross) while waiting for his boat to smoothly slice through my water. and it did, sort of. except the wind kept dying, and the boat kept capsizing. and i have a built-in wind machine, but he wouldn't let me use it. this might have been better as a bicycle or automobile metaphor, but let's just continue with what we've got. i don't know why (maybe one of you gentlemen can explain it to me?), but he scoffed at my proffered assistance, which isn't really that big of a deal to ME, as all my necessary parts are easily serviced and had already, ahem, risen to the challenge.

if a dude goes soft inside me i can't stop thinking that every second he's in there i'm catching AIDS. for someone so gross i surprisingly have quite a few OCD tendencies (lots of hand washing and sanitizing and refusing to touch loose change), including making dudes wash their hands before i let them put those hands on me. i know that everything and everyone is 100% covered in grime and bugs, but it makes me feel better. so when i feel that slow retraction as a dick shrinks back to its normal size and whatever piece of shit asshole i'm in bed with JUST LEAVES IT THERE, leaking semen and influenze and HIV into my birth canal, i sort of have a mini heart attack. and by "mini heart attack" i really mean "i use my kegels to force him the rest of the way out and push him off of me before escaping to the bathroom to douche with bleach."

but at first i didn't realize that's what had happened. at least not until he said "i need to suck your tits again" (what a fucking romantic, BARF) and latched onto my breast like a starving infant. the entire experience was like that, awkward and choppy with too much talking and too little finesse. every move was a herky-jerky surprise, like trying to fuck a rabbit or a thirteen year old. and there were a whole lot of things that just didn't make sense, like why did he keep his jeans on? why wouldn't he let me see (or, at the very least, touch) his penis? and what dude on earth ever refuses a BLOWJOB?

i try to use every weird and gross sexual encounter as a learning experience (pshaw), and this one was no different. so here is what i wrote on my take-home exam:

1 no more sexting before you've had actual sex. so we already have our golden phone rule (thou shalt never call a man), and now we're going to have to make an addendum to include this. because i wouldn't have been so salty about paddling my own life boat if i hadn't had three days' worth of "i'm going to fuck the shit out of you"s prior. SERIOUSLY. this sextuation wouldn't have been nearly as awkward if i hadn't been primed to expect a "rock hard dick." can we just talk about how awful dirty texting is? you know how hilarious i think phone sex is, but there's an actual person involved. a person breathing heavy and moaning sexily into my sweaty eardrum. from jump texting is worse than a phone call because there's a built-in delay, and i've given enough handjobs to know that if you

pause in the middle they

won't

enjoy it nearly

as much oh my god just keep doing that exactly like that please don't stop i'm almost finished.

so i'm fairly sure you kids aren't beating off to misspelled, truncated text-speak. give me a fucking break. and i might get a little flutter in my pants reading something like that, but then what am i supposed to fucking DO? get my vibrator out and try to make something happen while reading "i cant wait 2 fuk u?" ABSOLUTELY NOT. so i will just keep eating cold udon and watching top chef, too distracted by braised lamb to respond with anything other than "great."

2 kissing wrong is worse than fucking wrong. maybe i already knew this about myself, but i like to be kissed. not just kissed but KISSED. kissed like your tongue is an extension of your penis and you're trying to make a baby in my stomach. i don't like to be pecked half to death, and i imagine you kittens don't either. leave your mouth in one place for a few seconds, mmkay? it doesn't make me hot in the pants when you kiss me the way i imagine you kiss your grandma, like you'll catch alzheimer's or liver spots through your lips if you leave them on her face too long. that's the opposite of sexy. and i like sexy sex. not granny sex. ew.

3 if i ask a man to do something i like and he refuses, he should be dragged out and shot. or, at the very least, never given the chance to smell my ladyparts again. when i GENTLY mentioned how the rapid-fire pecking of his beak might be turning my vagina into the sahara, his response wasn't to slow it down and heat things up; instead, he said something akin to "you can't always get what you want" and continued stabbing be in the face with his mouth. unless you're a rapist, is it really ideal to PISS OFF THE WOMAN YOU'RE TRYING TO FUCK? especially when you're about to shame your entire family by pretending your moist, sticky scrotum is a penis as you weakly hump my backside.

4 i am now more vehemently opposed to dudes who dare to speak too much. debate isn't a turn-on. i don't know that i had much of an opinion on this before, but i am 100% CERTAIN NOW that sitting around hypothetically arguing with another human being is nothing i ever want to spend a whole lot of time doing. my friends get drunk and talk shit. we make fun of assholes, talk about music and television, and make plans to go to fancy restaurants. we generally share the same politics and have similar cultural tastes. it's not a homogenous group by any means; i think like-minded people tend to just find one another, cosmically.

i grew up in a politically progressive, racially diverse community, and my friends and acquaintances reflect that. we're a tolerant, respectful bunch of people. tolerant of everyone except fucking douchebags, at least. so there aren't very many opportunities for us to get into heated, passionate debates. what, i'm going to bite your head off because you don't like the national's new record? yeah fucking right. i'm going to do a shot, think "this bitch is an idiot," and keep it moving. it's even less appealing to argue with someone whose pants i want to peel off, because nothing proves how dumb you are quicker than when someone smart makes you defend a point you're ill-prepared to. myself included. i can think on my toes and everything, but i'd much rather think on YOUR toes. pointless arguments are boring, and if i am outwitted (that never happens, but let's pretend) i get PISSED OFF. and even if i haven't lost, by the time my sparring partner concedes i'm too angry to think about taking my fucking shirt off. please.

i'm trying not to be too deflated about this whole thing, but my tires are going flat. i need to go buy a pump. FAST.

psssssssst.