Monday, March 29, 2010

the golden rule.

in case you missed it, and EFF YOU if you did, here is what i read last night at the sex show.

when most people make life-altering changes, that decision is usually motivated by some major external event or personal milestone. like, "i need to lose 120 pounds by my wedding in three months" or "since i am on the verge of giving birth to a child, i should probably stop shooting heroin."

sometimes you make changes at the behest of someone important in your life, like when your mother asks you to move out of her basement finally and get your own fucking life because you're, like, 35 and you have never had a girlfriend and you wear the same pajamas for weeks at a time and you smell weird and she would like to start exercising her post-divorce vagina. and occasionally you make minor adjustments because you want to impress someone awesome, like that time i stopped eating meat for two weeks so i could fuck that hot vegetarian. in case you're curious, in the end it wasn't worth it. i much prefer actual kielbasa to that dude's shriveled veggie dog.

ten years ago, during a brief and fleeting interlude of introspection and emotional maturity, i decided to make some important changes in my life. i was turning twenty, knee-deep in the process of blossoming into the beautiful and delicate rose i am today. i sat in my bed on my 20th birthday and made a list of every single thing i absolutely hated about myself and needed to change, then vowed to fix all 137 of them. i was fully fucking committed: i was going to stop eating hot pockets for every meal and having a beer or three before i went to work in the morning; i was totally going to buy sensible shoes and walk through shopping malls carrying a pedometer with the old milkshakes at six in the morning and try lift something heavier than a dude's hairy scrotum every once in a while to maybe build some muscle definition. i had this whole plan all mapped out. and i fucked it all up within a week.

two days after i posted that shit on the refrigerator door i was back to cussing and talking shit and gossiping and fucking sketchy dudes and getting drunk all the time. part of me was disappointed that i had the determination and endurance of an infant, but a much bigger part of me was thrilled to have a dick back in my mouth. there was one promise i made to myself that i managed to keep, though. a really important decision i made that would be the foundation of my love life for the rest of my life, a pledge upon which my sexual future would be built: i vowed to never let an african put his penis inside me EVER AGAIN.

africans (and we're talking fresh off the boat, straight from the motherland, plate-lipped bone-nosed managed to dodge the slave trade AFRICANS) fucking LOVE me. they really do. i don't know if it's because i'm the physiological representation of the limitless bounty that is life on american soil, but i can't walk by a goddamned taxi stand without seventeen skinny motherfuckers in church shoes jumping out and asking for my hand in marriage. african dudes always look like they're on their way to some formal event to which you could never even DREAM of being invited. except something about the outfit is always a little bit skewed, like dude'll be wearing a tuxedo that's missing one piece in the middle of the day or whatever. just walking around on a thursday wearing a shiny black vest with a white shirt and bowtie. it really does catch me off guard, and i always turn to look for the rest of the groomsmen.

before i knew any better, i was fucking nice about it. what's the harm in eating a little goat with a dude who could finish the boston marathon in forty-five minutes? back then i was much more optimistic about my prospective boyfriends; you never know when you're hollering at a cab-driving neurosurgeon or if the dude ringing up your mcnuggets and fries is really the heir to the throne of zamunda. i dated a dozen of them, trying in vain to find my prince. but hans christian andersen doesn't write fairytales like that, where surly little black girls with an attitude problem are whisked off to palatial african kingdoms, over which they rule to the death with an iron fist. no, my scary tales were full of prepaid international phone cards, basement "restaurants," and sweating the fuck to death at outdoor summer festivals in washington park. before long i started to notice a pattern with these dudes. more often than not they were bossy. and DEMANDING. and i'm an arrogant fucking american. i wouldn't let a field negro yell at me like that, and i'm CERTAINLY not going to eat shit off a dude who grew up without SHOES. i mean, please.

and i got goddamned tired of hearing, "in MY country..." totally fucking BORING. "in MY country i have much land and own successful business, and woman like you would have to bow to me."

"okay, nigga. well in MY country you empty garbage cans and wash windows. and you missed a spot." i don't need all that yam yam from an asshole who, in profile, could be confused for a piece of linguine. fuck that.

so i decided to cut them off cold monkey. and at first it was totally easy, because african dudes are usually pretty easy to spot. every time a man approaches me wearing electric blue pants with a royal purple shirt i'm like, "not so fast, homie." seriously, it doesn't take a rocket scientist. i came up with my own handy little strategy for identification and avoidance. for example, if a dude with a bluetooth in his ear who is wearing woven sandals in the winter is headed toward me, i duck into the nearest starbucks and wait for him to pass. africans LOVE JESUS, too, which is why i never walk too close to a storefront church. some dude might drag me in, put one of those big fabric headdresses on me, and force me to marry him on the spot. because marriage is high on the priority list for these fellas, right between deference and subservience; they start talking about weddings on the first fucking date, asking how big you expect your tribe to be before the waiter even brings the goddamned water.

three years passed while i ignored the rest of my list and dated only worthless, shitbag americans, dudes who had to actually LOOK UP directions and didn't have pockets full of singles with which to make change. totally lame. i lived in this pretty horrible building which was a total piece of garbage but had a laundry room ON EACH FLOOR, rendering it awesome despite its obvious flaws, like intermittent hot water and suspect elevators. one night, after discovering that all of the washing machines on my floor were otherwise occupied, i went down to the third floor to use theirs. i had my back to the door, sorting my laundry into piles of really dirty and SUPER dirty, when my penis radar went off and i felt a presence behind me. this smoking hot dude was standing there, smirking at me. he introduced himself and caught me off guard, since he looked like a regular old black dude yet had a silky european accent. i was smitten instantly.

needless to say, i was naked in his apartment three days later. now, it TOTALLY goes against every rule in my sex book to fuck a dude i might run into in my sloppy pajamas with cake frosting smeared across my glasses while taking out my disgusting trash. an episode of "friends" my life is not. i would hardly appreciate coming home to my obnoxiously friendly neighbor perched on my couch eating all my sun chips, ruining the hot time i was planning to have with some other dude. but this one, and for the purposes of this story we'll refer to him as "amistad," was too delicious to pass up. i'd just have to suck it up and get my shit together and take my garbage out in eyeshadow and high heels.

amistad was a special breed of african that i'd never before encountered: those of the wealthy, cultured, erudite variety who'd been educated in swiss boarding schools and spent their summers frolicking on beaches in brazil. i read a LOT of fucking books and think i'm such hot shit, but THIS asshole was the real deal. handsome, custom suits, genius level IQ, fluent in four languages, MBA from some fancy london school, six-figure income, blah blah blah. TOTAL hot shit. i didn't even realize i was breaking my cardinal boyfriend rule until the third time i was in his place with the lights on and saw a couple batik daishikis peeking out from his closet where they were carefully hidden between soccer jerseys and ralph lauren purple label suits.

for whatever reason, maybe it was all those crispy, expensive suits, i decided to keep hanging with him. i could learn to wear loincloths and chase cheetahs or whatever. i thought it might be fun, like an episode of tarzan or a rudyard kipling story come to life.

the sex was sort of weird, all sensual hand-holding and deep eye-contact and other shit you only see in softcore ladyporn. i was used to rough and violent wild animal fucking that ended four minutes after it began, not extended "lovemaking" sessions with a dude who recited pablo neruda right before he stuck his tongue in my butt. i got used to it, though. even started to think i had found my very own prince akeem. i learned to like having my face caressed and my needs acutally attended to. IMAGINE THAT.

one day after he'd parted my nile river (four or five weeks into our latenight sneak downstairs fuckathon) i got up to pee like i always did, and he followed directly behind. ordinarily i would wrap the sheet i'd snatched off the bed to hide my thighs in the light of the tv tighter around me and and ask, "what the fuck do you think YOU are doing?!" but despite my cruel and evil exterior, at heart i am the GIRLIEST of girls, and my stupid brain was ridiculously flattered and saw this weirdness as a sign of intimacy. "oh my god, this is SO CUTE. we're, like, totally connected and stuff," my estrogen gushed. i peed and he brushed his teeth right outside the door and we were just like a happy little married couple, without all the joint bank accounts and bitter fucking resentment. i was SURE it wouldn't be long before we were cooing at each other while picking out bathroom fixtures and kitchen tiles to be installed in our royal palace.

bladder infections are the handiwork of satan, so every time i let someone tinker around in my woodshed i kill the mood by launching myself immediately from the bed to the toilet to try to piss out whatever cockteria is rapidly swimming up my urethra. even when dudes are all, "come on, let's cuddle!" i roll out of the bed and into the bathroom to spare myself a raging UTI followed by harsh antibiotics and an overgrowth of vaginal yeast. so it was refreshing to have a guy not only withhold his objections to my leaving the warmth of the bed, but to also stand naked sentinel in the cold hallway outside the bathroom while i flushed my kidneys. what a gentleman.

it only took another two weeks for him to ask if he could come in and watch. now i will indulge pretty much almost any filthy fantasy a hot dude who likes having sex with me is into. but the peeing i didn't understand; not because it was gross, but because he couldn't really SEE anything, what with the toilet being opaque and my hips and thighs hanging over the sides and all. and i get performance anxiety. it's one thing to psych yourself up enough to put on a spiked dog collar or eat half a dozen deliciously glazed donuts, but peeing on command is HARD. it made me NERVOUS. but i kept trying. i am a total quitter, albeit a selective one, but even after the first few times of sitting on the toilet under his watchful eye for twenty minutes sweating my goddamned ass off trying to produce one measly drop i DID NOT GIVE UP. i would drink a gallon of water as soon as he called to tell me he was pulling into the garage, and i would race down the stairs and stand doing the pee pee dance while waiting for him to open the door. i'd get out of my pants and plop down on the can as fast as i could, DESPERATE to squeeze it all out, only to find that the pressure of his eyeballs searing into me (not to mention the distraction of his hand moving around inside his pants) completely shut off the faucet. i had no idea where the pee went, it just disappeared. i was sure i was going to wind up in kidney failure or something.

thank god for cheap beer. we went to the glenwood arts fest one summer afternoon, and i drank approximately 42 pints of fucking old style while burning to a crisp under the sun, and the second we walked back to my apartment i had to pee. BADLY. i could barely get my ass on the seat before the floodgates opened, and it was one of those orgasmic pees, the kind where you've held so much for so long that you almost weep tears of joy when it comes pouring out of you. little did i know that orgasm was reciprocal, as i looked up to find him jerking off into the sink when i reached for the toilet paper. sexy.

from that day forward he always just happened to have a six pack around whenever i came over, and drunk jackoff peeing became something of a ritual. i even kind of liked it because, let's be honest, i'm into any sexual act during which i am not required to work too hard. sitting down and peeing was literally the simplest request that had ever been made of me. but, as with most weird fetishy dudes, he started out with the simple shit before he hit me with what REALLY got him off: actually being peed ON. which was a relief, because i'd been expecting him to go all r. afrikelly on me at any minute. now i'm no idiot, but it took a minute for me to figure out and conceptualize how this might physically happen. a TOTAL neat freak, amistad shit a brick when i spilled some barbecue sauce on his tablecloth; i couldn't imagine that he'd be down for my PISSING in his BED. and i've had my urine tested enough times to know what totally repugnant and messy business that shit is when you don't have a penis. i've pissed all over my hand and on the floor of every hospital bathroom i've ever been in, spilled it down the back of my pants and inadvertently dumped it down the sink. i couldn't even begin to imagine how i was going to get urine on some hot dude.

well. things sort of crystallized for me when i was standing over his naked body stretched the length of his bathtub, deep breathing and relaxing my kegels to try to produce a long, slow, steady stream instead of weak little drippity drops. i suspect that even if i had legs the diameter of broomsticks i would have run into this bit of trouble, but it's kinda sorta IMPOSSIBLE to contort a real human female body into whatever position is optimal for spraying urine into a dude's face within the confines of a coffin-sized apartment bathtub. i almost broke my fucking teeth on the edge of the motherfucking sink falling out of the tub while trying to make sure the pee ended up somewhere in the vicinity of his upper body rather than running in rivulets down my legs before pooling along the side of his torso. i ripped three shower curtains, destroyed a bottle of shampoo, and gouged my cheek on the faucet skating and slipping and sliding around in my own liquid waste. it might be helpful to admit that while peeing on the toilet in broad daylight was no big deal, i REFUSED to let him keep the lights on while i hovered over him spreading my labia apart trying to play sharpshooter with his face.

i just didn't want to look down and see THAT. you know what i mean. because i'll indulge some weird perversion for the sake of a good story, but it doesn't necessarily garner you my respect. it made me embarrassed to think about him down there gasping and begging to get some of my urine on his face. what a pussy. it just made me want to push him off the swings and kick him off the jungle gym or something. it didn't take long for me to master the art of peeing on demand, on a target. i was 100% committed to getting this shit right. in school i never gave a damn about getting stright As, but i wanted to be at the head of amistad's class and bring home a report card with straight Ps. i pretty much got that shit down to a science: i'd get drunk, strip naked from the waist down, spread my lips apart, go. he would take a shower, i'd wait in bed, then i'd sit on his face or whatever other sexified thing you want to imagine.

early one morning i peed on him before i went to work (morning pee was his favorite, all hot and concentrated; it was like uncut sexual cocaine), and he turned the shower on while i was still standing in the tub. so i'm not usually one for the shower duet, as i don't feel like anyone really gets clean, and i hate standing at the back of the shower with my teeth chattering in the old while he scrubs off his smegma and dingleberries. but i was late and it seemed economical to just wash my smelly parts and run to work. and it was sort of sweet, you know? it was cute that he wanted to wash my hair and stuff. i really had to jet, and as i started to get out of the shower he pulled me back in to kiss me goodbye. that's romantic, isn't it? it was fairytale perfect. you know, the fairytales in which the beautiful princess wakes up from her coma and defies her wicked stepsisters and kisses a frog who magically morphs into a handsome prince? a handsome prince who then proceeds to SPIT A MOUTHFUL OF URINE DOWN THE PRINCESS'S FUCKING THROAT.

i should've known, man. i should've heard it collecting in his mouth, i should've been suspicious since he hadn't said a word. but only a crazy person would hold someone else's piss in his mouth for five goddamned minutes before expectorating it down that someone's gullet. and i know all you sassy bitches are all, "i woulda beat that dude's ASS." and that easy to say, because no one is piss-snowballing you right now. at the time i just stood there, thinking about how i'd just swallowed easily three-quarters of a cup of my own pee pee. goddamned african. i didn't even know black people were INTO shit like this, and i certainly never anticipated that it would happen to ME. i tried to spit some out, but he'd forced it in so hard that i couldn't help but to drink it. i considered vomiting it up, but then i figured tasting pee+stomach acid might literally kill my ass.

he was all proud of himself, telling me how he wanted to, and i QUOTE, "share the experience." asshole. why doesn't anyone ever want to share the experience of having money in the bank or share the experience of front row bulls tickets? he couldn't understand why i was so "upset." i'm sure he said a bunch of other shit, too, but it's hard to hear a person when you're gargling half a bottle of listerine and scraping your tongue with a brillo pad.

needless to say, our relationship sort of DRIED UP after that. and never since have i EVER broken my GOLDEN RULE.