Wednesday, September 21, 2011

let's just be lesbians.

issue four. here's why i refuse to worry about medicare and social security, despite the fact that i'll probably need both within the next five years: my end of life plan involves settling down in a progressive community with a retired wnba forward and maybe a small dog who doesn't require a whole lot of exercise or attention. SERIOUSLY. at this point, i'm not going the fuck back to school. as the gap between what i'm into and what "the kids" are into continues to widen, i become less and less convinced that one day i'm going to feel like dragging a desk across a linoleum floor to make a circle with a bunch of 19-year-olds so that we might hold hands and discuss the ilead. i already know that i want to spend my old age eating hot wings and sobbing through lifetime movies, and do i really need a college degree to do that? all of my suburban white friends are probably shaking their heads over their plates of wilted arugula and cold beet soup, but i have to be realistic up in here. i work fifty to sixty hours a week, and when i was going to community college in addition to this full time fucking job i would get home and literally fall asleep with my head in the algebra book after leaving the class that let out at nine. NINE IN THE EVENING. then i'd get up and try to figure out integers or some shit while riding the goddamned train to work at seven in the morning. homeless dudes would be standing over me rubbing their crusty testicles while correcting my work. "you forgot to carry the one, babygirl." KILL ME, PLZ.

i don't know how you bitches do it. magazines are always full of some uplifting trifle about a bitch with a crack addiction and nineteen fatherless children who lived in a paper bag while prostituting her way through princeton, and i'm always stunned. if i get a motherfucking hangnail i'm half an hour late to work and spend the whole day whining about how much it hurts, so i simply CANNOT COMPREHEND how these bootstrap broads pull it together and earn a masters degree while eating one can of soup a week and buying their bras from walgreens. and i guess that's why my 401k will forever have $37 in it, because the minute shit gets difficult and complicated i quit fucking doing it. i like to sleep a lot and go to big star twice a week, and if it takes remaining a goddamned idiot to do that, then that's what imma have to do.

HEY GIRL. every time i see a cialis commercial i think, "oh my fucking GOD, i bet the last thing that old broad wants to do is wait for that old dude to finish raking those leaves while his boner pill kicks in." isn't the sweet shit about getting old that you don't have to do that shit anymore?! you know she would rather be somewhere with a light pink sweater draped over her shoulders and a pair of magnifying glasses dangling from a chain to nestle in her bosom watching daytime television, not rolling down her knee-high beige stockings while waiting for arthur to turn off fox news long enough to remove his oxygen mask and bang her for 45 strong, hard seconds.

sooner or later every installment of your favorite vagina rag is going to have a section called, "have you gone gay yet?" or give you a step-by-step guide to transitioning off the penis. these dudes are just doing too much. you know i revel in other people's misery, and i've had SO MANY terrible conversations lately with my lady friends who are still climbing back into the dating ring after being TKO'd over and over and over again. ambiguity, assholery, dickballism, YUCK. and even the positive stories from the fucking frontlines are tempered with, "well he hasn't been an asshole...YET." being on the sidelines is just brutal because, despite this hardened exterior, I'M A SENSITIVE FUCKING PERSON. listening to these poor girls crying because a dude dumped her over breakfast cereal (true story men are shit die die DIE) makes me want to cry, too. women all over the country are sobbing on one another's padded shoulders about all of the dumb shit their men are unnecessarily putting them through. and it's inevitable, sooner or later all that commiseration is going to turn into a hand-holding trip to home depot. to pick out heated floor tiles.

i hate talking, though. i like emailing and texting, and if i could only express my love for a person through smiley and heart emoticons i could die happy. i'm not fucking kidding. and that's why i keep my penis hopes alive, because BITCHES GOTTA TALK.

when sarah and i were roommates i would come home every night and before i could even get my MOTHERFUCKING COAT OFF it was, "how was your day? are you tired? did you go anywhere? did you see anyone? how was work? how is everyone at work? did you do a lot of work? were you busy at work? why didn't you answer when i called you at work? are you hungry? do you want pasta? can i get you some advil? do you want a cocktail? what should we watch on tv tonight? is that what you wore to work? what happened to that red shirt? did you feed the cats this morning? is this milk in here spoiled? did you vacuum last weekend? why was your toothbrush in the sink when i got home? do you like this weather? did you put gas in the car? did you see that ginger snaps are on sale at dominicks? do you want me to get you some when i go there? why do you still have your shoes on? aren't you going to take your jacket off? when are you going to put those books away like i asked you to? why did you leave this laundry in the dining room? have you taken the recycling out? samantha irby, WHY DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR COAT ON IN THIS HOUSE?!"

and i would stand there in the hallway in stone silence, THOROUGHLY DEFEATED, thumbing through my mail that she already "accidentally" opened, getting bludgeoned over the head by questions i had no cognitive ability to answer. because i worked all goddamned day, bitch, and all i wanted to do was come the fuck home, sit in the goddamned bathtub for twenty minutes, and then EAT THE BIG PIECE OF CHICKEN. i wouldn't speak, i would just go sit in the bathroom while she talked at the back of my head. and before long i'd hear little padded footsteps outside the door. "well, since you're being so quiet, i'm just going to tell you about my day. traffic was terrible, dunkin donuts gave me a CORN muffin instead of a BLUEBERRY muffin and i was SO MAD when i got to work it totally ruined my day, none of the kids did their homework and they all failed the test, the salad i took for lunch was spoiled and i left the low-fat vinaigrette on the counter, my check engine light came on, and ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME WHILE I AM TALKING TO YOU?"

i'd silently take my bath to the soundtrack of what was on the car radio when she left school, brush my teeth while listening to how busy whole foods was and she only stopped there to get that quinoa salad because SAM LIKES IT and she could make me the same thing for half the money why do you have to be so picky, put on my pajamas while she explained, yet again, why i shouldn't soak the cast iron pans with dish soap and hasn't she already told me that five times and if i'm not going to do it right, why bother doing it at all?! and finally, two hours after walking into the house i pay half the money for, my supposed sanctuary, it's so late and my eardrums are so abused that i'm not hungry anymore, i'm not thirsty anymore, all i want to do is get the fuck away from the sound of this asshole's voice. because i love her to pieces and everything, but if she says one more motherfucking word to me I AM GOING TO CHOKE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS BITCH.

please tell me how you menfriends tolerate it. not that any of you deserves a medal, but i can't fathom putting up with all of that every day. sarah and i lived together for three years, but i at least could shut my door and throw myself across the bed and put my headphones on. it was like she spent all day thinking about ways to chap every bit of skin off my ass. i don't know how her students learned any biology, because i'm convinced she sat at her desk all day every day writing a list called "how sam is ruining my life." she'd get herself all lathered up during the commute home, and the minute she heard my key in the lock every evening she'd step away from whatever dinner she was making me (pro), and light into me about how i left a knife out and hadn't given the plants enough water (MOTHERFUCKING CON). and, by the way, do towels just put fold themselves?! holy fucking shit, GIVE A GUY A BREAK. they lure you in with a homecooked meal, and as soon as you take your shoes off, BAM. nag nag bitch bitch nag. we just had a fight a couple weeks ago during which she sent me TWELVE CONSECUTIVE TEXTS. TWELVE. EACH ONE CONTAINING THE MAXIMUM 160 CHARACTERS. and i responded to that onslaught with one word, to which she text-shouted "IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!" sigh. i don't know if i can do it, man. maybe i'll have to wait until after i go deaf. AND BLIND.

let's fuck while balancing on a tightrope over a volcano. here is a REAL LIFE example of the position of the day: THE PASSION PROPELLER. your man lies on top of you and enters you traditional missionary style, but then YOWZA! he starts doing a 360-degree spin, all the while keeping his penis deep inside you. as he's rotating and thrusting, help guide him around your body the way a propeller would spin around the top of a helicopter. make sure to lift his legs when they swing around over your head. omg, IF YOU COULD SEE MY FACE RIGHT NOW. you bitches are not doing this. are you?! because if you are it's obvious i have to retire my vagina as of yesterday. i never took physics in high school because i was too busy playing in the marching band and singing in the goddamned choir (jesus, i'm the most winningest winner), but i know some smart people who did. and i'm sure any one of those nerds could draw a diagram and shit to demonstrate how this is impossible for anyone without "jenna" or "jameson" in her name. first thing, dude needs to have a MONSTER PENIS. not even regular big, i'm talking firehose-length, beer can-width, unhinge your jaw enormous. and those horse dicks aren't worth the trouble, believe me. because 1 chafing 2 painfully rearranging my slowly digesting dinner 3 he'd never get into anything like this anyway, because those dudes are ALL convinced that all that is required of them is to SHOW UP. i'd rather let a dude with a tootsie roll midgie shove a lightbulb up my asshole than suffer through another fledgling wannabe porn star congratulating himself with every stroke. BORING.

okay. so you are on your back, helping to spin this dude's entire body weight atop yours. PROPELLING, as it were. even if his penis wasn't curving in an awkward direction and he didn't have a gut that was sweatily mashing against yours, unless you have kegel muscles built like fort knox, HE IS SLIPPING OUT. especially if you're wet, which you should be, because listening to this dude complain about his fantasy football roster over the entree you two just split at chili's was TOTALLY SEXY. so then it goes something like this: 1 you're sweating 2 he's sweating 3 your meat suite is slippery 4 you shouldn't have eaten so many beans at dinner, OMG 5 his slightly below average length penis is barely in to begin with, and after a quarter turn is out completely 6 was that the condom coming off? what is that on your leg?! 7 his butt is in your face 8 HE JUST KICKED YOU IN THE HEAD 9 he's too heavy to turn, you should really do some biceps curls 10 you're dry now 11 ouch! watch the elbow! 12 his knee is crushing your left breast 13 he's soft, and sportscenter is about to come on 14 you push him off and get up to catch your breath and wash off the lube that is now smeared everywhere but your sexy parts 15 he calls you a cab and gives you ten bucks, which makes you feel like a prostitute, but your salty because it takes twenty to get to your apartment 16 at home you order a pizza then masturbate to the first twilight movie while the cat sleeps next to you on the couch 17 life is totally fucking stupid.


thank god my sabre-tooth tiger coat is back in style. my favorite, FAVORITE magazine thing is the "we let a clueless celebrity pick out an outfit for you." or, even better, the ubiquitous celebrity STYLISTS, who are rapidly becoming more famous than the zombie mannequins they hang expensive clothes on. i was flipping through a glossy fashion spread nibbling on some bald eagle and trying to figure out what would go best with my panda skin leggings and sea turtle boots when i happened upon a feature put together by a stylist entitled (something like) "how to have style, without even trying!" last time i checked, wasn't NOT EVEN TRYING a style? i've been dressing that way for years! anyway, there was the usual spread of skinny jeans paired with fat sweaters, maxi dresses to hide your bloat while you're wearing a maxi pad, and there in the "curvy" section, was a goddamned shiny pink vinyl trenchcoat. "a fat bitch would look like a beanbag chair outside in that shit," i said to helen keller, who surveyed my inside pants with a sneer and said, "UPGRADE." what a little jerk.

seriously, though, i'm over this whole "everyone can dress like lady gaga" thing we're going through as a nation. can't we just wear pants and shirts and sometimes a dress if it's not so hot that your touching thighs will burst into flame? i like for celebrities to look like celebrities, and for poor people next to me on the bus not to think they're kim goddamned kardashian.

i have a phD in anal sex. i want to know where these sexperts got their degrees. for real, does the university of phoenix have a doctoral program in sucking dicks? seriously, i want to see proof of qualification for the title of SEXPERT. do you just have to bang a lot of dudes or whatever? successfully survive a round or two of chlamydia? not that you need a graduate degree to advise some jerk on how to fuck some dude standing up in a bathroom stall, but i always wonder "how do these bitches know?" and i know you're saying, "awfully rich coming from an assbag who has the nerve to write advice columns," and to that i say, SHUT UP. just kidding, whenever i don't know something i say so. i'm an expert in: tacos, kittens, and DIARRHEA. as a matter of fact, that's what my magazine is going to be called. good luck explaining that one to your overly judgmental letter carrier.

can i borrow your baby? i swear i'm not a pervert or anything, but all the cool people have them and i'm feeling a little bit left out, sitting on my towel in the grass while everyone else is out wading in the kiddie pool. so can i hang out with your baby, please? don't worry, i'm not going to do anything harmful like turn on spongebob or let him have a sip of my natural ice light, i just want to walk around the park pushing him in a stroller while flirting with all of the stay at home dads. by the way, do you maybe also have a dog i could borrow? dudes fucking love dogs. is that cool? AWESOME. okay, so i'm going to wake up around noon and roll through your place maybe 1ish? after you've fed the kid a couple times and changed all his shitty diapers i'm just going to slide through and whisk him off for the few hours of the afternoon that he's calm and happy and pretend he's mine and shit while i try to use him as manbait.

for real, sister. i know a lot of bitches with c-section scars getting banged by hot dudes they don't file a joint tax return with, and I WANT IN ON THAT. but i'm not shitting out any alien spawn, so i'll just borrow yours. except not when he's teething. or tired. or hungry. or at that stage in his life when he just asks "why?" all the time. fucking exhausting. you can go take a yoga class or whatever, or enjoy half an hour of uninterrupted sleep. imma just be over here making your daughter do a fake tapdance on the counter at starbucks and COLLECTING DIGITS. you know you need a shower, bitch. lend me your smiling eight-month-old for an afternoon, and you can take a shit and drink a beer and eat all the rare steak you want until i decide i'm tired of listening to this little asshole cry, which will probably be in ten or fifteen minutes. that's long enough to prove to some handsome passerby that i am caring and gentle and maternal, AM I RIGHT?

magazines always want to tell a bitch how to chart her ovulation, when the knowledge they really need to be dropping is how to look sexy while juggling your best friend's baby and trying to save a hot dude's number in your touchscreen phone. i refuse to believe i can't capitalize on the sexual activity of all of my friends. because how else do i know so many children with STEPfathers?! remember the days when having both "never married" and "childless" on your dating resume was THE MOST AMAZING SHIT EVER?! back then you could take your birth control IN PUBLIC and bitches would applaud you for it; now motherfuckers look at you like you have herpes or something. i'm not kidding, from the ages of 29-42 people are like, "what the fuck is wrong with you?" and move their goddamned chairs away when you tell them you haven't cracked your pelvis in half pushing an infant through it. my typical response is, "YOU SHOULD THANK ME FOR NOT GETTING KNOCKED UP. I WOULD TOTALLY BE SUCKING UP YOUR TAX MONEY ON WELFARE." god, i need to hurry the fuck up and turn 43. all of my friends are goddamned liberals.

so i'm working on this book (for serious) that is essentially about being INCREDIBLY AWESOME yet NOT GETTING FUCKING LAID EVER, and a male (read: idiot) friend of mine responded with this unsolicited response to my endeavor: "hey stupid, your problem is that you aren't warm enough and you make jokes all the time. men want to know that you are nurturing, they want to feel cared for. no one likes laughing that much. you need to go the extra mile to make a man feel wanted. cook for him, let him know he has your support." it's not enough that i had to go to the emergency room after some rhythmless neanderthal face-fucked me so hard once IT BROKE MY NOSE, true story, i also have to let him know that i'll kiss his boo boos and make him a pot roast just for having a penis? GROSS. thinking about that makes me stupid tired. can't we just have sex with murderers on craigslist? can't i just tell a couple jokes and not have to learn how to saute woolly mammoth burgers to make someone fall in love with me? CAN'T WE JUST BE LESBIANS?!

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

to catch a predator.

i have an embarrassing confession to make. i am 31 years old, i've had my own place (in some form or another, when i was 19 i temporarily lived in my car) for thirteen years, i have a full-time job, yet for at least two or three months out of the year people pay me to stay in their really nice houses while they are away on vacation. every single time someone who's just met me asks, "bitch, what are you doing this weekend?" and i respond, "HOUSESITTING," that response is met with a blank, open-mouthed stare. then that stare usually turns incredulous. "i thought you had an apartment? aren't you a little OLD to be doing that?"

YES. yes, i am too goddamned old to be packing a bottle of conditioner and a handful of underwear into my big all-purpose black bag-purse and hauling it on the train to stay in some other adult's home. i'm too old to leave three bowls of water and a ripped-open bag of diet cat food on the floor for helen keller while abandoning her to spend two weeks walking a dog that doesn't belong to me. i'm too old to spend three hours trying to figure out the six remotes that operate fancy networks of televisions, cable boxes, tivos, and dvd players; too old to try to figure out where rich people hide their toilet paper and extra kleenex; too old to remember garbage day and recycling day and cleaning lady day; too old to deal with these gangster ass suburban possums and skunks that just don't give a FUCK about rolling up on the porch to fuck with the family dog; too old to be sleeping on pull-out couches in the den or in the lumpy bed of the son that's away at grinnell.

but bitches will pay seventy-five bucks a night for me to water their plants and sign for their UPS packages and watch movies on showtime with their dogs, and I'M NOT TOO OLD FOR THAT. the first time i did it i was living in a tiny apartment with two roommates who never went the fuck to sleep EVER, so when my old boss was like, "want to stay in my house while i'm in mexico for two weeks?" i was wearing her robe and testing the water in the jacuzzi bathtub before she could even finish asking me. i was raised by wolves, remember, and i could not believe that people had so much money just lying around that they would pay me more than i was making in a week to just lie around their palatial homes, eat food i'd never heard of, and make sure the dog didn't starve or die. back then my broke ass was eating packets of lipton soup mix and day-old (read: HALF PRICE) bakery goods every day because my third of the rent and utilities plus gas money was bleeding me dry (seriously, i'm surprised i didn't get scurvy because fresh fruits and vegetables were not in the goddamned budget), so the prospect of living someplace air-conditioned with fresh fucking cheese was AMAZING to me.

since i had my own little shithole to smoke crack and bang hookers in, i had no desire to ruin any of my vacation homes, and word got around that there was an awesome house-stayer-inner on the scene who wouldn't have her friends vomiting in your flower pots and shit. and the requests just started pouring in. in 2003 i shouldn't even have had my own place; i was always staying up in kenilworth, sleeping on some pratesi sheets and bathing in la mer and shit. listen, everything i know about fancy neck cream i learned from staying in some rich woman's house. my mother's beauty secret was rubbing alcohol and vaseline.

last weekend i was housesitting for tom, whom i've been sitting for for eight or nine years. which is a really long time to have a relationship with someone that consists primarily of text messages that read, "september 5-19, are you around?" i've seen tom less than ten times in nine years, which is hilariously awesome. i know his medicine cabinet better than i know him, and that's the beauty of this whole thing. i feel like such a creep, letting myself into someone's empty house and drinking all of his good beer while feeding the dog scraps from his fridge, but that's the way this works. i wish i could do this shit as my real job. it's like being the personal assistant to an inanimate object, and your only boss is a typed sheet of instructions left on the counter next to a set of emergency keys. sometimes your boss is just a post-it and a blank check for the maid. now glance into the office of the prematurely balding sexual harrasser who signs your paychecks and tell me you wouldn't trade him for a list of neighbor numbers and emergency plumbers.

pictured above is tom's yard. and tom's dog sammie, who is sweet and old and wondering why i'm trampling this dude's hydrangeas to take her picture when i could be inside boiling a ham bone for her. sammie's the best because she's low-maintenance and doesn't give a shit about other dogs, which is handy when walking around a neighborhood where no matter what time of night i'm out in my pajamas WAITING FOR THIS DOG TO SHIT, someone else is out there, too, wondering why i didn't put a goddamned bra on. that, by the way, is the reason i don't have a dog of my own, because i refuse to spend my life at the mercy of another creatures bowel movements. like my own aren't enough? people with dogs plan their entire lives around that dog's shit schedule, and i'm not having any part of that.

so some white people are still afraid of black people, gasp. even in obama's post racial utopian america! and last week i was out early one morning with the dog, wearing the least threatening flamingo-print pajama bottoms in the history of plus-sized casual wear, doing the crossword while waiting for sam to poop, and this pale, rickety blonde woman comes out of her house and asks, with a TONE, "excuse me, do you live in this neighborhood?" i may be a little out of touch with the current state of race relations, but is "driving to a white neighborhood to let my dog shit on some cracker's lawn" a new thing my brothers and sisters are doing? has the NAACP sanctioned walk-by poopings?! i obviously haven't been watching enough BET. "i've never seen you before, and i don't want that dog on my grass."

"why, because i'm a lesbian?" i figured why not tap into all of this bitch's latent fears at once? LET'S MAKE THIS SHIT FUN. she immediately retreated back into the house and slammed the door, while i solved a five-letter word for "backbone."

even though we hadn't been on that bitch's grass i dragged sam a few yards east and willed her butthole to loosen up so i could take my nipples back in the goddamned house. FINALLY it came out, like carrot-flecked manna from heaven, and while i was crouching to pick all of it up a shadow appeared over me, and i froze. my first thought was that this bitch had called the police and i'm out here with a handful of dog shit and no keys or identification and i was going to go to a well-appointed suburban jail in FLAMINGO-PRINTED HOUSE PANTS when all i wanted to do was let this old dog do her business before i had to leave for work. i stood up and was confronted by a decent-looking young black dude, not in uniform.
"did you drive your dog over here to take a dump, too?" i asked him.

"leave her alone!" he shouted toward the house, and i caught a flash of curtains closing in my peripheral. "i saw what happened, that old lady is such a bitch. always giving us a hard time. just ignore her," he said to me, before introducing himself. i don't brush my teeth to walk the dog, i don't hike my tits up to walk the dog, i don't wear my glasses to walk the dog, and OF COURSE when i'm out in the street looking like the maid on tom and jerry some hot and sweaty basketball-carrying gigantosaurus rex has to come up and marvel that i do the crossword in pen? WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?! all i could think was, "my mouth tastes like old soup someone spilled on a goodwill sweater." seriously.

"i've never seen you before, do you live around here?" SIGH. dudes never get the message that you'd rather not be talking to them while standing around in your inside bra, and this one just kept asking about my tattoos and the dog and where do i live and i seem really cool while i just stood there paralyzed, mortified to be having a conversation with an attractive human being while outdoors with dusty slave bedhead. AND HOLDING A BAG OF SHIT. and even though the thought of letting someone new get a look at my vertical smile is revolting to me right now, it is ingrained in deep in my ladybrain that when a killer dude is talking to you you at least hear him out for a few minutes. so i listened, and tried not to breathe in his direction.

after a few more minutes sammie was like, "come on asshole, FEED THE DOG is number two on your goddamned list," and i thanked hot and sweaty for running interference between me and old mother hubbard earlier and politely excused myself to go wash the smell of bed and dog breakfast off me. "we should hang out sometime," he called after me. "maybe i can find you at school? what period do you have lunch?"
while i should have been flattered that someone in the tenth grade might mistake me for a person who could occupy the desk opposite his in study hall, all i could think was "bitches in high school have this much errant eyebrow hair?!" this was obviously a young man in the slow class, because i'm pretty sure the last thing anyone who has met my surly, misanthropic ass in real life thinks is "HONORS ALGEBRA." even when i was in high school no one thought i belonged there, scowling and frothing at the mouth as i always was. also, it isn't really much of a compliment when a goddamned KID wants to hang out with you because he thinks you're impressive and cool. kids are impressed by snooki. game, set, match.

but i couldn't say "i'm too old for you." even though i felt like an asshole, i just couldn't bring myself to utter the words "I AM EASILY TWICE YOUR AGE." i tried, i really did. even sam was throwing shade and trying to bark "this bitch is thirty-one!" behind my back. i had let a dude too young for chest hair waste twenty minutes of my life, yet i couldn't say, "i bet your mother and i were classmates."

so instead i said, "i go to a different school." dumb. "a private school." DUMBER. and when he asked where i couldn't think of the name of a single private goddamned school in the metro chicagoland area, so then i just stood there like an asshole before admitting my age. i wasn't trying to bang this dude, i'm just having trouble coming to terms with all of this fucking gray hair. hair that was VISIBLE TO THIS LITTLE DUDE, i might add.

and instead of thinking i was still "fly and shit," this dickbag was like, "HOW old? you still walk DOGS for a living?! damn, my MOM is only twenty-nine!"

"your mother is a whore," i replied under my breath, then i yanked on sam's leash and dragged her past the wicked witch's gingerbread house. she was in the side yard, pretending not to watch me coaxing the dog along with promises of a porterhouse if she hurried the fuck up and spared me just a fucking OUNCE of blistering shame.

"that boy is a CHILD," she hissed at me over the fence. i seriously considered chucking the bag of shit I WAS STILL HOLDING at her. i tried to think of something to say that wouldn't land my ass in jail or on dateline. just picturing being tackled by child services in those motherfucking FLAMINGO PAJAMAS was making my chest constrict with anxiety. i don't have the kind of disposition that would lend well to my survival while incarcerated.

"for your information, we're in the same social studies class," i snapped, and then i ran down the street to tom's house so i could jump in the goddamned shower. i didn't want to get a detention for being late to homeroom.

flamingos, helen keller, and the bed linens even your two-year-old would consider garish. SIGH.

Friday, September 2, 2011

fat fuck.

some dirty asshole on craigslist sparked an anorexia debate on my fan page this morning, so this is getting reposted. eat it up.

a few years ago a gorgeous man approached me at the gym while i was sweating profusely and seconds away from cardiac arrest on the treadmill. i am not now, nor have i ever been, one of those weird people who lives for the gym. i don’t think vigorous exercise is like torture, i would just much rather be eating something stuffed with butter, and cheese, and BACON, while horizontal in front of the television than trying to get my heart rate up to its maximum optimizing cardiovascular calorie burning zone. or whatever. and that is never going to be possible because i walk a lazy 18-minute mile while daydreaming and frantically searching through my ipod for something, ANYTHING to make that monotonous bullshit go by faster.

when i "work out" i wear a garbage bag. not a literal hefty cinch sack, but its apparel equivalent: the loosely gathered drawstring yoga pant and voluminous loosely fitted undershirt. and my dangerously low self-esteem thinks that’s the way everyone at the gym should dress, regardless of size. i think that the gym, just like the hospital and jail and every other hellhole into which you enter expecting to fucking die, should be the great equalizer: everyone is miserable and teetering at the precepice of hell, therefore no one gets to look better than anyone else. i don’t wear lipstick to have a pap smear, and i wouldn’t wear it to spend an hour climbing the stairmaster. not so for some other women who frequent my gym. in the locker room, while i am trying to reinforce my bra straps and unstick my thighs from one another, these other broads are clustered around the shared mirror straightening their weaves and touching up their makeup. the first time i witnessed it i thought for sure that they’d just finished a workout and were headed out to a fancy dinner or something. it never occurred to me that adjustments might need to be made prior to the actual workout.

if i have shit on my face it congeals and itches the second i start breathing hard, let alone the sticky tan paste that would form during half an hour of torrential sweating through moderately-paced calisthenics. i would claw my fucking face off. but the furious dabbing of yellowy beige makeup sponges let me know that it was NOT SO for these hoes; there are big, muscular fish to be caught swimming around the free weights, and this blush and mascara and lip gloss are the hook that will snare them.

i caught sight of one of them through the smelly after-work masses, literally posing on the elliptical machine. she was moving so slowly the machine could not possibly have been ON, making “fuck me” eyes at all of the meatheads who walked by. she had her tits propped up so they rested just below her clavicle, and she was wearing those late 90s bikershorts with an ACTUAL LEOTARD over it. my inner angry feminist was all “bitch, please,” but that ploy appeared to be working. that fake-ass jane fonda had dudes drooling all over her, while i was sitting on a dirty pilates mat in a puddle of my own drool because my dumb ass thought using that mountain climbing machine was a smart idea and had debilitating cramps snaking up my whole right goddamned side.

so i am on the treadmill next to this smoking hot girl with a body like a rubber band. lithe, lean, smooth, bendable limbs, running half-naked at a speed reasonably close to that of light, her ponytail bouncing staccato in my peripheral vision. kill me, please. the naked at the gym thing destroys me. not "locker room naked" as, for me, that is just a frantic messy whirlwind of ripped off work clothes and struggled into gym clothes with the least amount of possible exposure, plus i am amused by the sight of another woman's cellulite and full bush. but "naked on the machines naked," ie "you should just give up and go home and eat an entire snickers bar garlic mashed potato pizza," makes me want to fucking DIE. for every person drowning in clothes that look like she snatched them off the corpse of someone homeless (me), there are TWO with band-aid sized sports bras and “shorts” the size of my period underwear, lunging and squatting and doing backwards crossways upside down lateral raise lifts while balanced on an exercise ball and suspended in mid-air (THEM). and they make sure you see them in all of their tanned and toned glory: running faster than you without ever breaking stride. or a sweat.
and this girl is pounding the shit out of the fucking treadmill, running so fucking fast that i felt like i might have been walking backward in comparison. i had set the timer for forty minutes, and i was halfway there. i usually hit a groove after fifteen minutes or so, when my muscles start to feel warm and limber and i stop bothering to wipe the drops of perspiration that collect at the tip of my nose.

i never look anyone in the eye while i’m working out, for fear that one millisecond of eye contact and these health nuts will figure out that i’m a fraud, that i don’t really want to change my sedentary lifestyle, i just want to feel a little less guilty the next time i eat half a birthday cake. my usual MO is to just stare at the calories burned counter, lost in fantasyland, imagining that bag of m+ms i ate on the way to the gym being melted off my thighs.

so color me surprised when i glanced up to find the most delicious piece of dark chocolate ass i’ve ever laid eyes on making his way over to me. he was doing that thing that confident, stunningly attractive people always seem to do while you are watching them; that gliding thing that makes them look like they are on invisible roller skates or some shit. now i’m not one to sweat a motherfucker too tough, but i might have gaped a little bit. this dude was outrageously handsome. he was one of those naked people in tight-fitting shorts and tank made out of that fancy sporty material that they only sell at those fancy sporty stores i’ve never seen the inside of. he looked like he had been cut from the face of a fucking mountain: taut skin stretched over hard bulging muscles, a roadmap of veins humming beneath the surface of his hairless arms and legs; slender, spectacularly defined legs leading down to those tiny athlete ankles, pecs you could eat your dinner off of, chiseled abs rippling under that clingy bodybuilder shirt. or something like that. i can’t totally be sure. like i said, i just glanced.

even flo jo's ass next to me slowed down to drink in this tall glass of water, and that snapped me right back to fatreality. of course. he’s not coming over to talk to ME, he’s coming over to talk to THIS BITCH. his workout partner and physical equal. in that instant i pictured their life together: doing crunches and pull-ups, cooking healthy meals, giving birth to a tiny track team. so i turned up the volume on my jams and focused on trying to burn off those oreos i had eaten, too. but curiosity killed this cat, and when he was standing below me, beaming up at me with his colgate smile, i stopped the music altogether thinking, i am going to vomit and then kill myself if i have to stand here and bear witness to this american gladiator love connection. i looked at the timer, and was crushed to realize i still had twelve more minutes to go.

“hi,” he said. his voice was a rich, deep velvet that made me die inside a little bit.

“hi!” she said brightly, slowing her treadmill so that she could talk, and it was still twice the speed i was walking. bitch. i could see the visions of their acrobatic future sex life dancing in her head.

he turned and smiled at her and nodded, and then turned back to me. “i was actually saying ‘hello’ to YOU.”

and then my heart stopped completely and my stomach fell out of my butt. “WHUT?!"

but he continued to smile and extended his hand, which i wouldn’t shake for fear of how sweaty and gross mine would be. he introduced himself and started talking, and the whole time the only thing i could think about was how i was at the point in my "workout" where breathing with my mouth open is the ONLY option. i stopped the treadmill and stood there watching his teeth go up and down, making words i couldn’t comprehend through my thick haze of disbelief. so i just kept smiling and nodding while carl lewis started her treadmill up again, running so fast this time that her shoes started to smoke.

our first date was at a starbucks, because i do not believe in food dates. and not because i don’t believe in food. i believe in food more than i believe in most humans. in fact, it’s this love of food that made me pick starbucks. because talking and eating don’t go together. either you never fucking speak or your fifty dollar steak gets cold. i've seen more than my fair share of after-school specials, and even as i was pushing open the goddamned starbucks door i expected this to be some cruel joke he and his jock friends had decided to play on the ugly duckling, that they were all in the bar across the street, huddled over their beers giggling while watching me sit by myself at the table in the window. but gym dude was already there when i walked in, dressed in form-fitting trendy clothes. i was suspicious the whole fucking time, trying valiantly not to like him too much, even though he was warm and relaxed and told hilarious stories that weren’t trying too hard. two venti mochas later i decided i was going to fuck him.
fast forward a month, and we had been on several really nice dates at swanky places that required nicer shoes than any i had ever previously owned. we made out a few times, during which i’d resisted the urge to stick my hand in his pants (which took more inner strength than you could possibly imagine). we had our first apartment date on a sunday, and he arrived with a chocolate cake. after the dinner it took me two hours to make, he asked me if I would mind eating it in front of him, which sounded weird but not weird enough to stop me. he sat on my bed and watched me intently, licking his lips. i asked if he wanted some, and he politely declined. his goddamned loss. that cake was fucking delicious.

the next time he brought brownies, which asked me to eat out of the pan with my fingers. the time after that? a rotisserie chicken, which he asked me to pick up whole and take a bite of it. then a blueberry pie. it never really struck me as strange, i just thought he had really good manners and was, like, the perfect houseguest. although he never ate anything himself, he didn’t always sit and stare while i ate. he would busy himself looking through my cds or working on a crossword, but always making sure i ate until i was full. i thought it was sort of sexy even, a dude who appreciated a woman who likes to eat. weeks of this went by, trips to the movie theater and museums and night clubs punctuated by nights spent at my place or his stuffing ourselves (er…myself) full of delectable treats.

while i didn’t really have a reason why, a huge part of me was flooded with guilt when i would think about gym dude and what it was we were (or weren’t) doing. i couldn’t quite put my butterfingers on what exactly was embarrassing about our relationship, but i knew deep down in my cholesterol-swollen soul that something in the milk wasn’t clean. i didn’t tell anyone about what we were doing. it was my scrumptious little secret.

and then he gave me a reason to be filled with searing fucking shame. four months and we still hadn’t had sex, which was fine by me as i had started to feel like a brown whale propped up on bloated feet and contortionist sexual positions seemed totally out of the question. he showed up late on a saturday with two grocery bags of goodies. at that point he had begun to figure out what i really liked, and i lit up like a christmas tree when he pulled out a pint of chubby hubby.

"eat that naked,” he admonished softly.

i don’t know if it’s stupidity or what the fuck makes you not even think twice about something like that. but I didn’t, i just said “okay!” and took all of my clothes off standing in the middle of the kitchen. “can i have a spoon, please?”

“eat it slowly,” he said, handing me a spoon, and dropped his pants.

now THIS is what the fuck i’m talking about! i'm a dirtbag in the worst way, and i had been chomping at the bit to get a piece of that action. four months is like a lifetime to a dumb slut like me, and i was itching to be validated by the hottest dude i'd ever again get my hands on. fat feet or not. i ate that ice cream while he watched me and masturbated, twice, before pulling his pants back up and apologetically skulking out of my apartment, leaving me with a frozen hand and a confused look on my face. ben and jerry should make a flavor called blueberry balls.

you always find a way to justify whatever horrific and disgusting shit you're engaged in, and i convinced myself it was worth a little sexual deviance to be that close to such smoldering manhood. plus, i was saving a ton of fucking money on groceries. so i let him come over again. we carried on like that for months, him awkwardly jerking off in my kitchen while i consumed fat grams by the thousand. i needed new pants and he bought them, telling me i was beautiful when i complained about the weight i was putting on.

at the time my crohn's hadn't yet been diagnosed, but even then i had a considerable number of stomach issues, and this little episode was murder on my guts; i would go days at a time without a formed stool, just rivers and rivers of liquid diarrhea. we still went out and did normal things, when i wasn't shooting brown fire from my anus, and that helped to enable the lie i’d formed in my head about how real our relationship was.

“the fetishistic practice of feederism can involve inducing weight gain to the point of helplessness. feederism refers to the acts of feeding, encouraging eating, or being served large quantities of food. sexual pleasure is derived from the act of eating itself, and/or from the process of becoming fatter.” i read this information, or something along those lines, in a pamphlet in gym dude’s bathroom while shitting out the half dozen or so krispy kremes i had eaten earlier that day. krispy kremes, i might add, that he had placed his erection through before asking me to eat them off of his penis and jerking off in my fucking face. that was the sugary glaze that broke this whore’s back, and after i nearly third-degree burned my fucking asshole cleaning my intestines out, i figured my blood pressure and i would be better off never calling hot gym dude ever again.

to this day i see him at the gym, flexing his glutes and pumping up his traps and delts and lats. i try to pretend i don’t see him and those glistening muscles straining against the wet fabric of his workout gear. my sphincter still shudders every time we make eye contact. he has only spoken to me once since our escapades ended. i was on my way home after a workout, sweaty and gross beneath my winter coat. he flashed that dazzling smile at me and i felt my resolve start to give.

“i miss you, sam,” he said sadly in that gorgeous voice of his. “we had something special.”

“YOU had something special,” i snapped. “what i had was early-onset heart disease.”

he smiled. “call me if you ever get hungry.”

and if i ever do i just might. it's a goddamned recession.