Tuesday, January 4, 2011

sex is weird and awkward and gross.

i had my suspicions before, but now i am THOROUGHLY CONVINCED that one of you assholes put a hit out on my vagina that expired december 31, 2010 at 11:59 pm. because 2011 wasn't even 48 hours old before I BUSTED MY YEAR-LONG NOT HAVING SEX SLUMP. that's right, i've had nineteen advil and thirty-seven celebrex today because i had actual sex with an adult human male last night. you should be turning a fucking cartwheel.

goddamn, my body hurts. apparently the muscles you use to give some hot dude the night of his young life AREN'T the same ones used for lifting tacos and shaking cocktails. my neck is sore. i have an icy hot patch on my lower back. MY ARMPITS HURT. how are you dudes having regular fucking sex?! are you just in really incredible shape? because okay, i can admit that i need to do some fucking push-ups or something, but i don't recall needing two vicodin and half a tramadol after the last time some neanderthal put it in my butt. i'm going to have to hire a goddamned hooker the next time i'm not getting laid, because twelve months is eleven and a half too many according to my dislocated hip and twisted ankle and bruised knees. even my fucking TEETH are in pain, which is a shame considering that i'm skilled enough not to use them. hi-yo! seriously, though, i either need to 1 never have sex again or 2 have sex every other day for the rest of my stupid life; i didn't get out of bed until TWO O'CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON. i didn't eat, i didn't get a drink of water, i didn't feed helen, i didn't do SHIT. at one point i rolled over to get my ipod and listen to the new deerhunter record over and over and over (GET THAT SHIT), and between naps i managed to watch the movie "greenberg," but mostly i just did fucking nothing while trying not to lift my arms over my head too quickly. and before you give me too much credit for my acrobatic sexual feat, IT WAS NOT. it was like vanilla frosting on yellow cake sprinkled with saltines and served on a bed of white toast. TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. but delicious nonetheless. (i would totally eat that cracker cake toast. just saying.)

so i totally fucking forgot that i had a match.com profile. mostly because that shit didn't fucking work. match is for white thirty-somethings who are tired of fucking the skankbags they meet vomiting in the street outside of wrigley field. or recently divorced people trying to get some action after twenty years of soul-crushing domesticity. none of those dudes were EVER trying to get at me, so i stopped paying for that shit after six (incredibly expensive) months. it's a shame, too, because my profile is goddamned hilarious. anyway, it was too depressing to even get those stupid "someone's been checking out your profile!" emails in my regular inbox, so i changed it to an email address i give to dudes i don't want to have sex with and old navy and amazon and any other place i buy shit from on the internet. i remember to check it once or twice a month, and the last time i did i saw that i had a MESSAGE. from a DUDE. on MATCH.COM.

shit got stupid then. because in order to read messages from your potential future beloved, you have to PAY. for at least a month of service. a month of service that is going to set you back THIRTY-SIX DOLLARS. now let's be for real, i DRINK more than 36 bucks every day; so the money wasn't an issue. but what if i dropped that kind of cash to read a sleazy message from some cock knocker who is five feet tall and functionally retarded? you can't tell from a picture if a dude is a good speller and has a handle on grammar. so i said "fuck it" and didn't pay. but it kept taunting me, that unopened message. every day i would think "that cute dude could be awesome," and i would get out my debit card and punch half the numbers in before feeling like an asshole and deciding against it. then james handed out our bonuses a couple weeks ago and i took that as a sign that he wanted me to buy myself some sex for christmas.

he asked "what are you going to do with yours, sam?" and i responded "try to fuck this hot dude on the internet!" while tearing open the envelope with my teeth and booting up the computer. he sighed. "sometimes i wish you wouldn't be so honest. would it have killed you to just say 'pay a few bills?'" YES IT WOULD HAVE. anyone who knows me knows full well i'd get my ass evicted before i let some hot sausage go to waste. fuck com ed.

so i paid. and it was worth it, because his message was smart and funny. AND he made it clear that he had read my fucking profile. which is a little thing, but a little thing that made me want to hang out with that dude. men are so stupid, sometimes. you act like we demand so much and are so insufferable, and maybe some of these bitches are, but i decided i liked this dude because my "about me" referenced my being a beer-swilling borderline alcoholic, and what did he do? OFFERED TO TAKE ME OUT FOR A BEER. amazeballs.

there wasn't a whole lot of fanfare prior to our date: no over-texting or emailing too much, and NOT EVEN A SINGLE PHONE CALL. and i've decided i like it better that way. on one hand i was like "i really don't know SHIT about this fucking guy," but on the other hand it wasn't like i spent weeks on the phone getting to know and like a dude who was going to show up with a tucked-in shirt or criminally bad body odor or half a foot shorter than his description had promised and have to figure out a polite way to tell him fuck you very much, now beat it.

i got to the bar first because i have to. i'm ordinarily not this much of a control freak, but i just can't be that bitch who's all flustered and not composed rushing into a bar and searching for some dude who hopefully isn't too disappointed in how gross she looks. i don't fucking need that shit. so i get to the bar or restaurant or golf course or shooting range, wherever we've decided might be the most fun to get to know one another, FIRST. got there, got my drink, got involved in that boring-ass seahawks game, then noticed that i was alone. for longer than i'd expected to be. so i pulled the book i'm reading out of my bag ("a visit from the goon squad" by jennifer egan) and went into i just got stood up mode. which means i pretend that coming to this place and eating this meal all by my lonesome was EXACTLY WHAT I'D INTENDED TO DO. i get tired of looking like a fucking asshole, so i've developed this handy mechanism that works in just about any situation, except falling down suddenly or unexpected vomiting. you just act like whatever just happened was engineered by you to happen in exactly that way. i'm not a bitter old stood-up spinster hag! not at all! I, as a matter of fact, AM A CONFIDENT SINGLE WOMAN WHO WANTED TO ENJOY A MEAL ALONE ON A SUNDAY NIGHT. i'm not going to hide in my apartment with a bottle of wine and a hot pocket, i am going to TAKE MYSELF OUT FOR A BEAUTIFUL DINNER. because I DESERVE IT. and it stings a little at first, but all you have to do is believe that shit until you've read a few chapters or finished a couple drinks, at which point you scoop up your dignity from where it puddled around your feet and drag it back home. then you can cry and throw shit and play sad records on repeat.

he had been calling, of course. but i never have the ringer on, so i had no idea. OF COURSE. he had gotten lost but would be there soon. likely story. anyway, the date part is mucho boring. i mean, do you really care where he went to college or what he was wearing? the highlights: smart, funny, degree in information systems (whatever THAT fucking means), handsome, working, dressed nicely, smart, LACTOSE INTOLERANT, handsome, funny, working, laughed at my jokes, wicked smile, smart, funny, employed, watches good shit on tv, not dumb, hot body, smart, AFRICAN. oh universe, you've opened your butthole and shit down my throat YET AGAIN.

born here, no real accent, not wearing yellow shoes, but african nonetheless. the internet has obviously decided to make a mockery of my life. sure, bitch, you can get some action. yeah, you! you over there! go get you some! but here's the catch: he's going to be african. african in a way you won't be able to tell from his pictures. (usually, I CAN TELL.) and he'll be all westernized and hilarious, and your dumb ass will LIKE HIM and INVITE HIM UP TO YOUR PLACE. why? because you talked shit about people from the continent on your silly blog, that's why! now shut the fuck up and EAT YOUR KEYBOARD.

dang, interwebs. why you gotta be so mean? i fucking knew it. deep down in my soul i knew the only way i was going to fuck my way out of this black hole was on the torso of some hot african dude. because my life is dumb, and because i obviously needed to be punished for making so many loincloth and cheetah jokes. the way it happened was pretty hot, at least. he scoffed and shooed me away when i tried to pay for my dinner, then walked me out and offered to drive me home. except i lived down the street, literally comically close, and it seemed ridiculous for him to drive me. "i guess you didn't have a good time," information systems said. "otherwise you'd let me take you home."

well my vagina knows a challenge when she hears one, and she forced my brain to tell my mouth to say, "i had a great time. where's your goddamned car?!"

there were two cars in the parking lot. one an expensive-looking mid-sized sedan, and the other a beat-up red sports car with tiger stripes painted on the door (really, dude?!??!!) and a garbage bag in place of the driver's side window. i slowed my steps and tried to come up with an excuse, and just as i was about to try to force myself to shit my pants information systems jingled his keys and the fancy car blinked to life. i clamped my sphincter shut and scurried over to jump in the heated passenger seat.

you know what i hate? that stupid i-think-we're-going-to-have-sex-so-i'm-driving-around-to-find-a-parking-spot-in-your-neighborhood awkward small talk. i have to move the fuck out of rogers park. we drove around for fifteen goddamned minutes, making dumb jokes and collectively holding our breath at every empty space that turned out to be a fucking fire hydrant, NPR droning in the background. i know you smartypants all love your national news and interesting stories, but sometimes a girl wants to hear A GODDAMNED JAM. you know, to get her in the mood.

helen keller greeted me at the door, as usual, her salty sour puss primed to go off on me. "damn, bitch," she started, "would it have killed you to fill my fucking bowl before you left? what the fuck did i tell you the last time you left me here without a meal? don't make me punch you in the OH MY GOD YOU CAME HOME WITH A MAN." she automatically wound her way around his shins. "pardon my outburst," she purrrrrrred. "nice to meet you. i'm helen. can i get you something to drink?"

helen fucking loves dudes. it's the only time she stops acting like a total asshole and puts her nice pants on. too bad she doesn't encounter one very often. i let her entertain information systems while i tried to hide all of the empty cereal boxes and tied up baggies of cat shit on my floor. that's how you know i hadn't planned this evening of debauchery: sexy sam would clean the fuck up. i mean, i wouldn't go CRAZY, but i might run the swiffer and wipe down the bathroom with one of those clorox towels i keep under the bathroom sink. i would have taken out the trash, too, and hidden all the porn in my sock drawer. it's not my ideal to be running around my apartment with a whole foods bag throwing out all of the empty beer bottles that have accumulated on my desk. and this fucking dude kept turning the goddamned LIGHTS ON, squinting at my books and shit. i know what you're doing, african. quit pretending you haven't read fucking twilight.

helen was busy tap dancing and doing magic tricks while wearing a sign that read "will you be my daddy?", so i took the liberty of going into the bathroom to put my pajamas on. well first i chewed up a handful of tums, then i put my jams on. which leads to more evidence that this skullduggery wasn't premeditated: I ATE A CATFISH SANDWICH WITH COLESLAW ON TOP AND NEGLECTED TO TAKE ANY MEDICINE. whenever i think i'm going to get some action i order water with a side of water with more water sprinkled on top. i don't eat real food. because real food gives me diarrhea, and i haven't met a hot dude who is into that just yet. and then i put on the real shit i wear to bed: floor-length pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. in case of a robbery or fire. duh. i can't be the bitch standing outside in a negligee. no sir. not going to happen.

i rounded the corner and dude was stark naked. the first thing i thought was "boy, i'm glad i didn't put my hand brace on," then he laughed and pointed at his boner and was like, "LOOK AT MY AMAZING PENIS!" and my second thought was, "this fucking dude is AWESOME." not because of his penis, which was amazing i guess, but because he's funny. and having a dick you can hang a coat on isn't bad either, i suppose.

he took inventory of my outfit. "is this really what you wear to bed?" he asked.

helen jumped on the bed and rolled her eyes. "yeah, is THIS really what you're fucking wearing?!" i eyed her crate and tried to calculate how fast i would have to move to wrangle her and successfully throw her ass in it, but she followed my eyes and was like, "fuck that shit" and disappeared into the kitchen.

"that pregnant cat is hilarious," he said, and helen's head shot out around the corner, a rotten piece of pork tenderloin she'd rescued from the trash dangling from her mouth. "what the fuck did he just say?!"

"she's not pregnant, she's just fat,"
i sighed. that bitch is now on this expensive ass new food that's all protein, essentially the atkins diet for cats, and she hasn't lost a goddamned ounce in two months. she just sits by the food bowl. or on my head, pointing to the food bowl. and it kills me not to feed her. is it my fault that she eats her feelings? i just want her to be happy! i've resorted to starving her while i'm gone during the day and feeding her right before i go to bed so she won't keep me up all night, but i can't turn to the cool side of the pillow without that bitch jumping on the bed and pawing at my face. at my wit's end, just about. maybe i'll just have to keep telling people she's pregnant.

so i start getting out all of my beginner tools, and apparently that was system overload for mister amazing penis. "you really use that stuff?!" he giggled. "oh my goodness!"

"are you being serious? i didn't even pull out anything SHARP."

man, that is the fucking BEST. vanilla sex dudes are the greatest. i like feeling like a rock star in bed, and it's nearly impossible to do so when a dude wheels a suitcase full of leather restraints and ball gags into your apartment. a normal person cannot keep a dude like that happy. FOR CEREAL. i'd have to bring a goddamned blowtorch into the bedroom on our third fucking date. i like being the best sex some dude ever had without having to work that hard. no need to throw my back out just trying to get some idiot off when i can just put a vibrator on his balls and lie there. i forgot, though, how awkward and embarrassing fucking is. how stupid and clumsy one feels with somebody new. how it's smelly and sticky and wet, sometimes in unexpected places. at one point i was like, "i don't think i missed this as much as i thought i did." the nice part is the thrill of having some hot dude want me. oh. and orgasms.

so it was great. great-ish. mostly because i didn't sweat too much and kept him away from my bad arm. and he didn't goddamned care. he just kept laughing and saying "WOW." it's nice to be naked around a positive, cheerful person. especially one with an amazing spear. even if his last name is probably spelled sdpkpsmkdp *click*