Thursday, February 17, 2011

how to be awesome at banging.

sexy vagina update time. so i went to the gynecologist finally, only to discover that my vagina is broken. OF COURSE. how is it that the one part of my body i rarely fucking use is the ONE PART OF MY BODY THAT CAN'T GET HER ACT TOGETHER? first we sat and talked about my uterus, which keeps rsvp-ing yes to my monthly period party yet bowing out at the last minute to wash her hair or whatever. bitch. he asked if i could be pregnant, and i was like, "are you insane?! I AM NOT HAVING SEX." but slow down, whore, wait a goddamned minute. you DID have sex. WITH THAT AFRICAN DUDE. "holy shit, vagina doctor. i banged another import. it is possible that i could be pregnant with the next heir to the throne of zamunda. i guess i'm going to need some bloodwork." he scribbled furiously in my chart. we talked about birth control, which i am lazy about taking, but that's okay, because my ovaries are apparently lazy about ovulating. we talked about drugs, we talked about booze, then we talked about babies. "none for me, thanks," i said as if he were trying to pass me the brussels sprouts at dinner, "i don't like those." he asked if i was performing my routine breast exams once a month, and i said, "nope. doing that makes me feel gay." plus, the one time i laid on my back in the bed with one arm slung over my head while pressing little circles into my boob and armpit 1 helen keller bit me and 2 i got totally grossed by the number of hair follicles tits have. BLARF. fucking monkey boobs. plus they're all fibrous and weird and every little thing i felt made me fucking hyperventilate. and i don't need that kind of stress. we talked about STDs at length, during which i asked, "hey handsome, is vaginal malaria a real thing? or did i just make that up?" he flipped through my chart some more and said, "oh no, i think my notes are incorrect. i thought you'd said the gentleman was from africa, not that you'd been there when you two had sex. did you get the malaria vaccines from your GP? have you been feeling feverish?" "i didn't go to africa, i'm just a bitch. don't start crossing anything out just yet." my doctor is cool, because all my doctors are cool, and he laughed. "you can't get malaria from seminal fluid. would you like a pamphlet?" what's more depressing than not having sex? READING ABOUT SEX WHEN YOU ARE NOT HAVING SEX. don't waste the paper on me. yet i remained undeterred: "what about ebola? i could have THAT, right?!"

he sighed and snapped on a glove then tried to pull out my fallopian tubes with his fingers. or at least that's what it felt like. goddamn these dudes are SO ROUGH. "do i need to do a rectal?" he asked, and i rolled my eyes and was like, "i have had 937 colonoscopies in the past three years. you can skip that part." out came the speculum and that awful noise it makes when they screw it into place, then all of that uncomfortable scraping that makes you want to die. die and shit on the table. and then die again because you SHIT ON THE TABLE. thank goodness i didn't. after i put my clothes back on the doctor told me he wanted me to start taking a course of hormones to force myself to hatch a few eggs and some strong antibiotics as a prophylactic against infected taco meat. in case i sometimes i get poo in my vagina. which is happening to all of you, just so you know. being a human is so fucking gross, man. fucking cats are goddamned cleaner than we are, with all that licking and so forth.

speaking of licking cats, during our lengthy Q and A i told the doctor about my plans to start letting chicks sit on my face or whatever. i don't know if i was expecting a ticker tape parade or what, but he just sat there looking at me like, "so...?" and then i stammered like a fucking asshole and was all "so this will be the last year of all these std screens right, homie? woot!" and THEN he hit me with a bunch of gross shit. like how i should use a dental dam on a bitch who has her period, because menstrual blood is concentrated. (and he obviously could tell that i'm an asshole and cut my gums when flossing, but more important than that, I AM SUPPOSED TO PUT MY MOUTH ON YOUR PERIOD?!) and how i shouldn't share sex toys, and if i have to i should put a condom on them. (word?!) he said i also should be careful not to ingest a woman's breast milk until she's been tested (whut), that vag-to-vag scissor action should be protected by a latex dam (whutt), and that i should wear snug-fitting latex gloves for finger-banging. (WHUTTT?!)

are you bitches really doing all this or is this dude just setting me up to look like an asshole the first time i encounter a freshly-made, sweetly-scented bed full of estrogen?! can you fucking imagine? she's pulling out her lacy bra and panties when my dumb ass walks into the boudoir dressed like bill nye the science guy, decked out in goggles and gloves and a motherfucking hazmat suit. goddamn it, i thought having some dude trying to shoot syphillis in my butt was tough shit to worry about, and NOW i gotta think about some hot broad leaking period AIDS on my hand?! i have lots of hang nails and busted cuticles and shit! seriously, though, not to sound too much like that sketchy dude you just brought home from the club, but don't all those gloves and dams get in the way of all the smokin' hot sex?! i'm trying to get LAID, not do a goddamned chemistry lab. safe sex is a drag. HOLY FUCKING BALLS. then he dismissed me with a handful of prescriptions and told me he would call the next day with my bloodwork results. which were all negative. like my salty attitude.

last weekend jeff emailed me a link to a self-help seminar he was thinking of going to and asked whether or not i'd like to go. i love everything about seminars (weirdo people-watching, raggedy snack tables and watery punch, dank conference rooms within shitty one-star hotels, instructors who barely made it out of the eighth grade yet feel qualified to bill themselves as life coaches and experts), so i immediately said YES. jeff has always been similarly unlucky in love as yours truly, and we have spent COUNTLESS HOURS in tiny classrooms and smelly auditoriums taking notes about connecting with our inner children and finding our love paths and blah blah hippie bullshit blah. i looooove that shit. and i go because what the fuck else am i going to do? go out on fabulous dates and field phone calls from my many suitors? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. yeah right. the seminar was called "improve your lovemaking techniques and bring a woman ultimate pleasure" or something fruity like that, and the dude in the email looked confident and virile and masculine and SEXY. so i paid my fifty bucks and squealed with glee the minute the confirmation hit my inbox.

you can never tell with these things, but from the course description i gleaned that not only would we be taught the technical aspects of the female genitalia (yes) and how best to cater to it (YES), but we'd also be given the chance to demostrate our current methods and get critiqued by the instructor (OMGYES). it's worth mentioning that since i have been taking this shitload of hormones my sex drive is turned up to to TWENTY. holy fucking shit, dudes, i'm burning hot 100% of the time, my tits are so swollen my bras almost don't fit, and i immediately want to mate with anything that walks too close me. god, hide your kids hide your wife FOR REAL. i've never felt anything like this in my entire life. sex is literally pouring out of my mouth. i just want to tackle every person who maintains eye contact for too long. this shit is better than ecstasy, for serious. and i'm not sleeping with anyone currently, so i'm forced to rub my crotch on my office chair and spend extra time alone with the shower head. which is not detachable, so you can imagine the kind of awkward mess that is. heh.

i'm supposed to take this shit for two weeks every couple months, and i don't know how well i'll be able to control myself. eventually i'm going to need a straitjacket, just to keep from yanking bitches pants off on the train. maybe you kids could organize a gangbang or something the next time i fill these meds. i hate to think of all this unbridled sexual energy going to waste. needless to say, i was AMPED to sit in a room and talk about vaginas all afternoon.

jeff picked me up in his fancy truck and we stopped at this bar that only alcoholics go to because you can start drinking there at ten in the morning for a couple of road beers. places like that are TERRIFYING, because even in broad daylight they are dark and smelly and old dudes with yellowing gray hair are always sleeping with their heads on the bar in a puddle of their own vomit. GROSS. i walked in, looked around, and immediately decided that we were going to drink our beers in the hotel parking lot. and we did exactly that after driving an hour out to the suburbs blasting ghostland observatory ("kick clap speaker" is a goddamned JAM) and the rapture. party music. i've never understood the appeal of living in a place surrounded on all sides by strip malls and schools. i hate all those trees and weather. i like being in the city where it's filthy and smells like nutsacks outside. and let me tell you how many black people we saw: NONE. and i'm not that black, but i like to see one or two dotting the landscape every few miles or so. because i need to know that there's someplace nearby i can find some chicken or get a weave.

we chugged our beers under the scornful eye of the valet whose services we'd refused as we pulled up (he literally tried to yank me out of the car!), then tried to walk in the hotel like normal, non-drunk, civilized assholes. first thing i noticed the second we walked in? some sort of old cat lady sewing circle symposium happening simultaneously. the lobby was full of future sams: grouchy old broads in kitten sweatshirts and easy spirits toddering around bitching about how cold it was with unlit cigarettes dangling from their lips. i peeked into the conference room in which they'd congregated with its tables piled with homemade crafts and scrapbooking materials and said, "let's just hang with these bitches." unamused, jeff said, "you can, but I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO FUCK." and that was that.

we found our appointed meeting room and the minute i walked in the decent-looking black dude at the podium in the front of the room (the same one from the online brochure!) called out, "no need to worry, lesbians are welcome here!" i was too caught off guard to blush or make any coherent words come out of my mouth, so instead i grabbed my crotch (isn't that how you girls say hello?) and found my name tag on the table near the door. "SEMANTHA ERVING." really, dudes? FOR REALS?! is there ANYONE ON EARTH who spells "samantha" that fucking way?! and considering i'd filled out the application myself and am unlikely to have forgetten my own last name, i decided immediately that if this homeboy couldn't get my name right there was NO WAY IN HELL he could teach me how to get a woman to let me stick my powder-free latex gloves in her babymaker. ASSHOLE. so i snatched the tag intended for "HERMAN JENKINS" (there are still real people named herman?!) and pinned it to my sweater. because fuck them. the room was full. and by full i mean PACKED. and not just weirdos and perverts, either. actual normal-looking dudes. i'd say the median age was maybe forty-five, and the crowd was made up of mostly professional-looking gentlemen, most of whom you'd call "sir" if you had to get one's attention and didn't know what his name was. which is tough for me, because i like calling dudes "dude." or "homie." or "butthole." anyway, it was a pretty nice-looking bunch, all suited up and smelling nice with fresh haircuts and shit. truth be told i was expecting a room full of sad sacks wearing too-short dockers and their shoes on the wrong feet, so color my ass surprised.

good thing i decided to put my grownup clothes on, these black donna karan pants that cost too goddamned much and a sweater from eileen fisher that i borrowed from your mom, otherwise i might have felt like an asshole sitting there in my regular clothes. seriously, i have to stop leaving the house in pants with the goddamned crotch eaten the fuck out. i'm too old for that silly shit. anyway, we each got a folder full of study materials and a syllabus for the day's lesson, then were ushered to a cluster of tables on the other side of the room. i made a note of the exits (the number one thing i check for after THE BATHROOM) and picked the table in the furthest corner, so i could inconspicuously eat everything on the catering table behind me and giggle to myself in peace. okay so i knew the minute i signed up that i'd probably be the only woman at that shit. which is cool. and i expected some staring because, COME ON, i'm a bitch at a seminar on how to seduce bitches. but these dudes were flat-out GAWKING. and not in a hot way that made me feel sexy, but in a gross way that made me feel like i was intruding on some super secret boys' club, a fuck failure fraternity. just as i was admiring all those men's wearhouse $50 suits and shit, these assholes were all giving me MAJOR STANKFACE. jerks.

i don't know, i suppose if a dude walked into my weight watchers (i should do that) meeting at curves (i should go there) i might be salty (i totally should), but i would at least give him the chance to explain that he was gay or had mommy issues or listened to too much lady gaga or whatever before i TOTALLY SHUNNED HIS ASS. these dudes were looking at me like i was their ex-wife and shit, like i was going to make fun of their tiny penises or wack kissing style. i just wanted to shout, "HEY, SIRS, I COULD GIVE A SHIT. I'VE GOT DENTAL DAMS TO WORRY ABOUT," but i decided to let them wallow in their shame while i instead wallowed in the pulled pork arepas and crab cakes. i told you this shit was fancy. after a brief introduction and overview (ie three arepas, half a crab cake, two bites of jeff's bruschetta, and a teriyaki chicken wing) maurice, the dude from the internet!, got started with our lesson. you dudes better thank whatever dieties you pray to that all anyone ever gives me as gifts are journals and notebooks (really, friends? you don't think this WRITER likes to eat food or spend giftcards? trust me, i am NOT that introspective. and my preferred medium is the computer,  so anyone who wants to get me a laptop, HOLLER), because i pulled one out and took notes on all this awesome. i wouldn't want you to miss it.

so the first half of the seminar (semenar?!) was labeled "common mistakes men make in their approach to lovemaking" and was accompanied by a powerpoint presentation so mind-numbingly terrible that if kind of breaks my heart that you weren't there to witness it firsthand. i'll do my best to do it justice.

mistake #1: MOVING TOO QUICKLY. women generally have a different attitude to sex than men and most do not want to be treated as sex objects. so, move slowly and deliberately. take note and be considerate. so i burst out laughing at this one. SERIOUSLY?! you dudes need to be told this?! i'm sorry, but if i have to remind you that i am a walking, talking, THINKING human being, then you better get the fuck out of my bed, because i am going to chop your penis off. HO-LY SHIT. "go slow," i wrote in my lesbian handbook. "don't treat bitches like a fleshlight."

mistake #2: NOT KISSING. make sure sex is preceded by plenty of kissing and cuddling. women LOVE the intimacy of a kiss.
i like to be kissed. FOR REAL. and it makes me feel like a fucking hooker if a dude is DTF but won't let me taste his chapstick. and you gentlemen need to memorize this shit. good kisser trumps your terrible grammar and hideous jeans, so practice on your hand or your pillow until you've mastered it. kissing = awesome. so do it, and do it OFTEN. "smooch these bitches up."

mistake #3: NEGLECTING FEMALE EROGENOUS ZONES. great areas to target are the neck (kissing and nibbling of the neck is highly erotic) and the bottom. the bottom is an area all women tend to be conscious of so kiss it, caress it, and make sure your partner knows you love it. other great erogenous zones to touch and kiss are the inner thighs (she knows what's coming next) the feet, the back of the knees, the spine and lower back (just at the end of the spine is a highly sensitive area). these areas will drive your partner wild so target them.
it totally weirds me the fuck out when adults use the word "bottom." like, when is the last time someone said "sit on your bottom" to you? or told you there was "cat hair stuck to your bottom?" i couldn't even focus during this one, as the powerpoint displayed a picture of a dude kissing a bare ass cheek while maurice kept saying the word "bottom. don't be afraid to kiss her BOTTOM. be adventurous and put your tongue in her BOTTOM. i was squirming like a little kid in church. why did he have to keep saying that?! i swear if anyone said, "may i caress your bottom?" during foreplay i would fall over dead. nibble is another repulsive goddamned word. BLARF. "lick her butt and knees."

goddamn it i have so much to say about this that i don't even want to write what he said, but that would make me an asshole. quite simply, if a position is to complicated you will spend more time trying to maintain your position than you will focusing on your partner's pleasure. and that, in a nutshell, is why fucking dudes is horrible. i literally shouted "amen!" when he said that position shit and jeff, mortified, grabbed a mini club sandwich and tried to stuff it in my mouth. maybe you dudes will finally learn that trying everything you see in porn is useless and wack, but until then i'm just going to relax  my muscles and let some lady spoon me. here's how sex with chicks looks in my brain: two kittens snuggled in a soft blanket barely moving and not saying anything mean about each other's body issues, not trying to pin each other's heels behind their necks or whatever. and maybe it doesn't work like that, but ignorance is bliss. so leave me alone. "side-by-side, zero exertion banging."

mistake #5: MAKING A WOMAN WORK TOO HARD WHEN SHE IS ON TOP. for most women, sex a passive activity except when she is on top. most men take this as a signal to lie back and let her do the work.
he said some other shit on this subject, but i stopped listening after that because 1 i hate doing that on top business and 2 A DUDE FINALLY CAME IN A SET UP THE WET BAR. jackpot. jeff was already halfway across the room by the time i even stood up, and he waved for me to stay in my seat and guard our lamb kabobs. "i'm going to skip this part entirely."

seriously, has this dude been reading my diary OR WHAT? it's like every single one of my old boyfriends and fuck buddies used this shit as a goddamned how-to manual. "concentrate solely on my own orgasm? don't mind if i do!" BLARFFFF. communication is the key to good sex so don't be embarrassed talk to each other and learn each others innermost desires and then try and satisfy them. chicks love talking and, despite the fact that i bore easily, listening to someone talk about sex isn't that hard. i imagine the only problem would be salivating with your eyes bugged out of your skull wanting to GET THE FUCK GOING ALREADY, but patience is a virtue. or so i hear, because i don't goddamned have any. let them know how much you enjoyed sex with them kiss, cuddle, hold, and compliment them. i know that female currency is subjugation, deference, and compliments, but i don't know if immediately after the coitus i could lie there (and remain sentient and AWAKE) long enough to think of compliments that don't sound lame. i mean, could anyone? "thanks baby, that sexytime was, um, amazeballs."

we had been sitting in that hot ass meat locker for almost three hours at this point, and i was starting to get fidgety. besides, i already know how to make the bedroom look special and smell nice. plus, "making love on top of rose petals" sounds MOST and ITCHY. i was too self-conscious to participate in the question and answer period after he listed each mistake (OMGTHEQUESTIONS), so eventually my eyes started to cross and glaze over because i was bored. and also because i was a little drunk. that bell boy who was mixing our cocktails (there is NO WAY he was a licensed bartender) was really heavy-handed with the booze. LIKE.

i laid my spinning head down, for just a second i swear to god, and when i picked it up i glanced at my phone (which NO ONE HAD CALLED, ahem) and realized another two hours had elapsed while i was "giving my eyes a break." pfffft. jeff was standing at the front next to a diagram of a human vagina, pointing to her various parts as dudes shouted the names from their seats. "clitoris!" "rectouterine pouch!" "mons pubis!" that shit was really bumming me out, man, so i grabbed my bag and made the MEET ME AT THE CAR WHEN YOU'RE FINISHED eyes at jeff, then i went and sat at the hotel bar with one of the many novels i am always carrying around with me. you know, like a winner. twenty minutes after i sat down my reverie was interrupted by a cloud of toxic waste fumes that turned out to be the cigarette smoke wafting off a grubby old cat lady's sweatshirt. i snapped my book shut with excitement, trying to come up with an amazing icebreaker.

"let me get a seven and seven!" she barked loudly at the bartender. "extra ice!"

a goddamned seven and seven?! this old broad was my DREAM COME TRUE. i wasn't on no dirtbag sexual shit (ew,) but i imagined her regaling me with tales from bitter spinsterhood while i sat at her feet petting one of her eighty cats and eating werther's originals. right before she took me to the bingo hall. i was just about to ask what shade of memaw blue she dyed her hair when she turned to me and chuckled. "i don't know what's in that book you're reading, but if you really want a laugh there's some guys in that conference room down the way playing vagina flashcards or some shit. what a bunch of FRUITCAKES."