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Posts Tagged ‘TMI Thursday’

Guys! I’ve been asked to preface menstrual TMIs with a warning for my male readers. So here’s your warning: Vaginas bleed. If you don’t like it, don’t have sex with ’em. (You’re welcome, Muscles.)

Also, enter by NOON TOMORROW to WIN AN IPOD NANO! z0mg!

NTKOG #109: The kind of aggressive oversharer who uses her period as an excuse for everything and makes a valiant effort to keep the world at large up-to-date on her personal, uh, punctuation.

I am: one of those lucky few women whose periods just really aren’t a big deal. I barely notice it.

I am not: going to talk about it when I do notice it. I mean, unless it’s with my girlfriends, obvi, ’cause talking to women inevitably leads to discussions of menstrual blood and wedding plans.

The Scene: My uterus? So here’s a thing about periods, if any guys penetrated my severe warning and made it this far: they are fickle and perverse creatures. And there’s no quicker way to anger them than claiming that yours are never painful or aggravating. I thought of this NTKOG a few weeks ago, and laughed to myself, “Ohhh what an acting job! How could I complain about my light, pain-free period? It is practically a pleasure to host!” Cue me waking up three days later with hyperventilating, blinding, crying cramps. Thank you universe! Universe inside my reproductive system!

Anyway, set out to overshare in a variety of situations, from which, three vignettes:

Objective: Escape convenience store judgment: The Ex always argued I’m unnaturally concerned with the way people behind cash registers perceive me but, dude, you try buying red licorice and a Fresca at 10:59 PM from some translucent-skinny retail girl who weighs forty-five pounds — half eyeliner — and obviously had to filet herself to fit into her jeans. THERE WAS JUDGMENT! There was judgment.

Filet o’ salesclerk furrowed her brow for a sec when she looked at the licorice. I smiled: “Period. Crazy sugar craving, you know? Like mega period.” She looked up and gave the tiniest pulse of a smile. Foolish, heartened, I continued. “The worst part is I never see it coming. Then one day I realize I’m crying at 30 Rock and surrounded by empty pudding cups. Menstruation, eh?”

The smile wiped off her face as she gave a dignified moue of disgust. Sooooo. I guess I know whom I’m not asking if I ever need to borrow a tampon.

Objective: Tardiness with impunity: It has come to my attention, over the years, that girls periodically use their periods as an excuse for being late. I’m … just not at all sure why. But damned if I wasn’t going to give it a shot. Due to an admittedly avoidable cause, I was running about ten minutes late for the writing class I’m taking, which is taught by an elderly woman and attended by four other students. Awesome, dude. My Cher Horowitz moment.

TKOG: Sorry I’m late. I’m like super menstrual.
Old Hippie Instructor: I’m sorry, what?
TKOG: Oh, you know, I’m like on my period in a major way.
OHI
: Wait, what does that have to do with you being late?
TKOG: Uh, cramps?
OHI: [reproving glance]
TKOG: …midol?

Not quite as quotable as surfing the crimson tide, it transpired. And still haven’t solved the mystery of why periods excuse lateness!

Objective: Avoid credit card minimum in sourpuss convenience store: A different convenience store next to my house, the employees of which are positively draconian about their $5 credit card minimum (a policy which, btdubs, violates companies’ terms of agreement with credit card companies). I was picking up a travel pack of Advil to ward off a random headache, but the total came to $2.18 and I had no cash.

TKOG: Dude, seriously, please help me out here. I’m begging you.
Surly Clerk: $5 minimum. Buy something else.
TKOG: But I don’t need anything else! I’m on my period and I have terrible cramps and I need an Advil right flippin’ now.
SC: Sure. If you pay in cash.
TKOG: Dude, come on, my cramps are so bad that last night I dreamed I was giving birth to a llama.

True story, btdubs. Dude wouldn’t relent. So in desperation I glanced behind the counter at the tiny home-improvement section and, remembering the leaky aerator on my kitchen sink, asked him for a set of pliers. He rang ’em up and looked at me for just a moment, confused or at least a little surprised.

“Yeah,” I told him, ripping open the Advil as I walked to the door. “Just, like, in case a tampon gets stuck?”

You’re welcome for the visual, sir. You could have just sold me the damn Advil. But whatever, mind the mood swings, ’cause if you hadn’t heard, I had a good excuse.

The Verdict: Ugh, still not sure why women sometimes do this. I’ll admit I’m a little on the prim Victorian side when it comes to discussing bodily functions (except, apparently, on the blog — yikes), but I just don’t see what possible good can come from bringing up your period with people who aren’t actively seeking a menstrual-based conversation.

That said, as someone who enjoys behaving badly, I did quite appreciate the pale mottled shade of green the last guy turned. So. Keeping it in my bag of tricks as an emergency-conversation-escape smokebomb.

TMI Thursday! Meta-TMI about giving TMI! Go look at Livit, Luvit for more TMI! Also, while we’re housekeeping: new comment policy, kittens. If your comment friggin’ creeps me out, I will delete it wantonly and without warning. This policy will not apply to 99.9999999% of comments, but I am hereby reserving the right forever.

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NTKOG #105: The kind of rule flouting bladder-centric dude who lets an urgency to pee eradicate the societal construct that is separate-gendered restrooms.

I am: a lady.

I am not: sure what y’all other ladies are doing in there that make our lines so much longer than lines for the men’s room. Seriously, girls.

The Scene: Restrooms up and down this fair city for the past month and a half. If there was a line for the ladies’ only, I dashed into the men’s. And, dude? If it’s a single-occupancy restroom (as is the case in so many of the space-starved commercial lots in this pinched city), there is virtually no difference between the rooms. You can use whichever one you want with literally no repercussions. WHY HAVE WE BEEN WAITING IN LINE WHILE PERFECTLY GOOD RESTROOMS SAT OPEN?! We’re like some primitive bladder-masochism tribe that stands around worshipping the blue and white triangular dress idol. What will future cultures think of us. Honestly.

Non-fortress-style men’s rooms, however, were a bit more difficult a prospect. As moxious as I am, I did my utmost to avoid entering one where a guy was peeing at the time, both out of respect for guys’ privacy and because I didn’t want to catch an eyeful of anyone’s junk. (Figurative eyeful, that is. Although, uh, literal too, now that you mention it.)

However, one night, out with the ladies at a bar in Brighton that skews to the youth demographic, I may have had a drink or two too many, and was emboldened to duck into the men’s room. A dude stood in there, poised to decant over the urinal. He locked eyes with me and barked: “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Ladies, if ever you get in a similar situation — face burning with embarrassment, social reputation on the line — and are already wearing heels and lots of make-up, allow me to give you the five magic words to instantaneously extricate yourself:

“Pre-op. Wanna feel my genitals?”

I’m all class, y’all.

The Verdict: Chalk another one up for “nobody cares what you do, dumbass,” ’cause, truly, nobody seems to care a whit either way which restroom you use. Unless you’re, y’know, watching them pee or whatever. (Please don’t watch other people pee without their consent. Or if you do, please don’t write about it in the comments section.) Although my days of recreational restroom switching are officially past me, if I’m ever at a restaurant with single-stall restrooms and one of them is open, dude, I’m totally using it, regardless of what the little pictogram on the door sign is wearing.

This would have been more of a TMI Thursday if the guy had actually taken me up on the offer to feel my genitals; nonetheless, I submit it for your approval. Go check out Livit, Luvit for more TMI hilarity! And have you entered to win my iPod Nano giveaway yet?!

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NTKOG #86: The kind of trendy bistro-hopper who happily chows down on cold dead fish — because in this day and age, in the words of Adam Brody’s character in Thank You For Smoking, “I guess you kinda have to.”

I am: so pupil-dilatingly afraid of fish that even the sight of my own foot in the bathtub often gives me cause for an alarmed shriek.

I am not: that trendy of an eater to begin with. If that’s not evidenced by my passion for bar food.

The Scene: Cafe Sushi in Cambridge, with Anglophile and Porn Star. Both are big sushi fans, and Anglophile swears that the sushi here will change my life. For better or for worse, though, it’s impossible to say. We hang out by the prep area for a few minutes while I lose a staring match with the gaping carcass of a spiny-headed sea beast. Finally the waitress escorts us to our table and takes drink orders. “A Sapporo!” I blurt out, and when she asks what size: “A big one! Your biggest!” Call me psychic, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the beer will end up being my whole dinner.

I suggest we get one of the chef’s sample platters to maximize exposure, then tuck into my beer ’cause my part of the ordering is over. Anglophile and Porn Star bandy about words like “sashimi” and “nigiri” and I assume they’re just reminiscing about their favorite kabuki troupes, but apparently not, because after a while,some food arrives. Except I’m using the term “food” loosely. Like, look, I may not know much about sushi, but one thing I know for sure: it’s supposed to be cute. Like, huggably cute. I was expecting layered little rolls of rice and nori, with some chopped raw fish shoved under a bit of avocado. What I got instead was:

Holy vomming hell. Just straight-up fish. Anglophile and Porn Star immediately start drooling in foodlust; after biting one of the pieces, Porn Star’s eyes roll back in his head and he points at its mate with his chopstick. “That’s the one. Try it. It’s fucking incredible.”

I chopstick it without looking too hard, hold it up to my lips and — and nothing. For ten minutes I raise and lower the piece to my lips — sometimes I even get up the nerve to hokey-pokey it into (and immediately out of) my actual mouth, but whenever I get close to biting, every fish word I know keeps rushing through my head: Scrod. Chum. Mercury Poisoning. No no no.

By this point, Anglophile and Porn Star have finished the platter and are eyeing my piece of apparently scrumptious dead fish. “It’s not going to taste any better now that it’s warm,” Anglophile tells me. I know this but — scrod.

“Quick!” I tell them, “take my mind off of it! Tell me a story! A good one! Filled with lots of sexy violence!” Same approach I use when getting blood drawn. And it looks like it’ll work, but Anglophile and Porn Star get engrossed in a semantic debate about British heavy metal music, and as much to end the boredom as anything else, I pop the piece in my mouth.

Quick cross-section of my mind during the chewing: This isn’t so bad. The flavors are kind of dainty! It’s soft. Like a marshmallow — a marshmallow … made of meat. That’s the muscle. There’s the skin. Oh god there’s the subcutaneous fat. How do I even–bleeeeech.

To my credit, I did not actually vomit directly on the table. But that’s about the best I can say. I promptly deposited the chewed-up fish into my napkin and decanted about three ounces of straight yellow bile right on top o f it. Then, because all I know about the Japanese is that they are polite, and asking our cute little waitress to carry my fishvom seemed a little oafish even for me, sat through the next forty-five minutes with a rapidly heating goulash of chewed fish and gastric juices seeping a hole through the paper napkin clenched between my knees.

Clearly I was right about one thing: the large beer was in order. And half a bottle of saké afterwards. And a new tube of toothpaste when I got home.

The Verdict: This was ultimate, epic fail. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that any food with the phrase “subcutaneous fat” in its tasting notes is right out for this guy. I’m potentially up for trying this experiment one more time, though, with the mild-mannered sushi rolls I first envisioned, and not huge glistening mounds of raw fish. Anyone have suggestions for good novice rolls?

Sorry to have failed y’all on the sexy violence front, but hopefully you at least enjoyed some gross-out words on this TMI Thursday. Oh, while we’re at it, don’t forget to vote for the 20SB Bootlegger awards.

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Have y’all entered MY GIVEAWAY yet?! If not, you probably should. I guarantee this story will make you want to take a very cleansing bath.

Tonight, while catching the Top Chef finale at Sister’s to root on my imaginary boyfriend, Kevin (so cute!), Sister and I became aware of an uninvited guest in her kitchen. I was headed in to grab some water when a huge mouse scampered across the floor. And let me say, though I’ve always mocked the cartoonish stereotype that any woman in the presence of a mouse immediately shrills “EEEEK!” while jumping on the nearest ottoman — dude. Totally came to pass. The wonderful experience also reminded me of the time earlier this year when my house in California hosted its own plague.

For much of last March, I woke up every morning from dreams that minnows and crawdads and other hideous beasts were swimming underneath my skin. I’d jerk myself to consciousness in the wee hours, scratching bloody rivulets through my thighs and lower stomach. But since this was a pleasant change of pace from my usual nightmares (killing former flames in car crashes is often thematized), I bandaged myself up and thought surprisingly little of it. As the days passed, I started scratching a lot, but none of the four guys I lived — not even The Ex — had any bites or complaints, so I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

Then, on April Fool’s Day (of course!), I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and saw a little speck scuttle across my thigh. Holy friggin’ shit. I scoured my skin and saw two of the little dudes — translucent beasts, the size of a pencil point, looking in every respect like miniature crabs. Wait, did I say translucent? Right before my eyes, one of them turned a glowing crimson. The little dude was recharging his hit points by DRAWING IN MY BLOOD.

After some discretionary shrieking, stared down the bathroom and everything looked normal except — jesus, the whole wall by the toilet was moving. It was covered with the bugs so thick that the drywall looked like it was shimmering. But translucent, right?, so you could only see them if you were looking for them. Judicious application of my google fu revealed that not only did we have tropical rat mites, but, inevitably, somewhere, rats lurked.

Frantic calls to all the big extermination companies could only get us an appointment for a screening a week later, with treatment beginning after two weeks. TWO WHOLE WEEKS. During which time, The Ex and I had no choice but to launder our sheets every night and sleep while under siege.

Except for some freaky reason (I blame menstrual pheromones?), rat mites are more attracted to women and children than men. So despite the fact that The Ex was sleeping next to me, he woke up with his skin whole and smooth as a fresh-baked dinner roll, while my stomach and thighs were bitten into a purple, craggy mess. In fact, I’m not prepared to swear my skin wasn’t oozing at some point. (Forgive me. I do so relish the grotesque.)

All that said, the grossest part of the story? I called in the biggest-name extermination company in the area to take a look at the problem, and ended up taking a day off work to show the guy around. What’s the problem?, he asked; tropical rate mites, I told him with authority. He didn’t even ask where they were — just flipped over the mattress, said he didn’t see anything and couldn’t diagnose the problem without a live sample, then got ready to leave. But wait!, I said, and showed him the squirming wall of arachnid delight. Without a living sample, I can’t diagnose the problem, he said, bolting for the front door.

Um, dude, what about all those live mites I just showed you? I asked, then forced him to come upstairs and look yet again. Again, he shook his head and charged toward the door.

I don’t understand why you won’t take a sample, I told him.

There aren’t any mites in your house. It’s all in your head. Are there any men who live in the house? Maybe I could talk to one of them, he conceded to calm down the poor little lady.

It can’t be in my head! I may or may not have shrieked. Look at me, I’m a fucking leper. I showed him my upper arms, purple and bloody with little raised bumps the exact size of tropical rat mites.

Whether he used precisely the phrase “menstrual hysteria” is for historians to debate, but he finally agreed to take a sample of the mites from upstairs, incorrectly (it transpires) identified them as avian mites, then told me to have my boyfriend call him.

I didn’t, of course. I called another extermination company, who managed to eradicate the vermin in less than a week and not even reify the patriarchy while doing so. Still, I ended up feeling shitty and mistreated for weeks after the encounter, but never got up the balls to do anything about it — not even write a pissed-off Yelp review.

Just one of those stories that reminds me of the kind of girl I was, and the kind of girl I’d really like to never be again. Now, of course, it would seem like child’s play to call a manager and complain my way up the corporate ladder until I was sure the incompetent jerk would feel some repercussions. It’s nice to look back on what I’ve done for these past few months and think that I totally wouldn’t take shit from this guy again; I wouldn’t take it from anyone. Except vermin, I guess, ’cause you kind of have no choice about that.

[Edit: My mega apologies! The Ex wants the world to know that he was bitten as well! I just didn’t remember, because apparently he suffered in silence and anyway I was too busy fending off rogue vampires and leper colony recruiters! So spare a little sympathy for him, if you’d like.]

These lovely descriptions of my feasted-upon flesh provided under the auspices of TMI Thursday, hosted by LiLu. Be sure to check out her Post Secret TMI Thursday today, where I promise I am not scarring your eyes with any more of my grostesque secrets.

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You guys, not playing around with the TMI tag today. Not to be read while eating!

NTKOG #67: The kind of eating disordered girl who decides to cheat her body out of a few calories by the weirdest method possible. To wit, the “chew up your food then spit it in a bucket” diet.

I am: quite fond of eating. The whole process. Including, y’know, the swallowing step.

I am not: the main character in a Lifetime Movie.

The Scene: My apartment. Ballsy though I am, I couldn’t quite bring myself to trying this one in public, so I picked up a slice of pizza and a piece of carrot cake at the mediocre pizzeria down the street.

Good thing the REALLY GOOD pizzeria across the street was closed for construction, though, 'cause I don't think I could have trusted myself not to cheat on the eating-disorder diet with a slice of their buffalo chicken pizza.

None of this food actually made it into my stomach.

For context, The Ex is actually the one who gave me the “chew it up and spit it in a bucket” diet idea. Over the many years we were together, periodically he would jolt up in bed during pillow talk moments and crow, with a just-cured-cancer awe in his voice: “Instead of bulimia, why don’t people just not swallow?! Why don’t they just chew up the food and spit it in a bucket?” My answer: “Uh, ’cause then someone would have to clean the bucket?” But the idea always compelled me, so why not give it a shot.

Once I got the food home, there were two big questions: 1) What am I going to spit the food into?; and 2) omg seriously what the fuck?! Although there wasn’t much to do about the second question, I solved the first by spitting the thoroughly chewed mouthfuls into the paper plate that the pizza came on. (No, I won’t gross you out with pictures. Have you ever vommed pizza? It looked like that.)

I rather expected that the experience of chewing up food and spitting it out — and keeping it in plain sight! — would trigger a for-realsies bulimish response and send me puking immediately, but it honestly wasn’t as gross as I expected. I chewed every mouthful basically down to paste — much more thoroughly than I’d chew a normal slice — and tried to focus on extracting and enjoying as much flavor as possible. And the actual chewing bits were nice, but spitting the bites up on the plate? Kind of reminded me of vomiting, though with less velocity.

I think it’s because when we’re normally chewing food, the high-profile flavors hit your tongue immediately (pepperoni! spicy sauce! gooeyness of cheese!), and in the normal bite-swallow-repeat process, you don’t have time to fully experience the more understated flavors (like how a thick, cardboardy crust has a bland sort of cornmeal sweetness to it). And when do we actually experience those flavors in full? When we’re vomiting, of course.

That, and slick, slippery mouthfuls of pre-chewed food just sort of falling from your lips? Um, yeah. The comparison is pretty close to begin with anyway.

The carrot cake was even weirder, ’cause the cake part was stale and dominated by thick, cold cream cheese frosting. There were really only a few chews in each bite, then I was left with not much to do but swirl some rapidly heating sweetened cream cheese around my tongue before sliming it out onto the plate. You guys. This was just about as attractive as it sounds.

The Verdict: What, are you friggin’ nuts?! Don’t do this. Don’t ever do this. It ruins the taste of good food, provides none of the satisfaction of swallowing and digesting, and makes you look like an absolutely crazy person. Although it is perhaps the least invasive form of psychotically disordered eating, um, maybe let’s all agree to just actually eat food like normal people and maybe not freak out if we go a few calories over?

Sorry, The Ex, to put a damper on your diet scheme, which is brilliant on paper. But all this ended up accomplishing was filling my Scottish-Jewish heart with guilt for wasting $5 on food I didn’t eat, and forcing me to take out my trash in the middle of the day. ’cause, I mean, ugh.
___

Guys, even without gross-out “after” pictures of the process, can we all agree this is totes a TMI Thursday? Keep up the appetite-suppressin’ bloggy goodness by stopping by LiLu‘s awesome blog and checking out her TMI Thursday archives.

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So, the competition’s over. This is officially THE BEST POST that will ever grace my humble little blog. As a pre-Thanksgiving treat (posted early, ’cause who actually surfs the net on T-day?), MY MOTHER agreed to write me a little guest post. While, judging by her stellar comments on this blog, I knew it would be pretty fabulous, I didn’t really what a doozy it would be. What follows is, she claims, the Really Quite True story of my conception. I — I don’t even know what to say, except: 1) I can 100% vouch for her story in re: The Ex last Thanksgiving, and 2) can you just imagine how friggin’ wonderful and hilarious my family’s Thanksgiving table talk is?! ENJOY!
__
The holidays are upon us, and as an empty nester I’ve become extremely sentimental: longing for the days one could zip off to Walmart and buy a carload of plastic Christmas toys, wrap them and that was that.  The simplicity of construction paper turkeys, baking cookies, trimming a tree, writing cards and hanging stockings was all so fun and the nostalgia makes me cry.  I will not bore you with stories of the “Unfair Christmas” etc.  Let me pop another Zoloft and make it a 200 mg day.  On a more personal note, Christmas and Immaculate Conception make me think of Sister (Sister does not like to discuss XES, so we told her she was conceived just like Baby Jesus), and Thanksgiving and the turkey baster reminds me of TKOG.

With Dad in the Amazon (Manaus to be exact) with no Internet connection, I can freely tell the story of TKOG’s conception.  Oh, yes, for years I told TKOG that she was conceived on the eve of Sister’s christening in England. That, however, was a lie and a big one at that! (A sidebar: guessing that Sister was bound to be an atheist, we insisted that she be christened Church of England. Now, to my delight, the guys in Rome say that she can be a Catholic to boot.)  But I digress and so the NTKOG conception story continues.

For years I’ve read the tabloids and tacky women’s magazines with storylines of “how to lose 40 pounds in two weeks,” “bright ideas” (use higher wattage light bulbs!), “how to de-clutter your house,” and my favorite: “cupcakes for every holiday.”  There was one story that always stood out in my mind.  There were two sisters: one had a child and the other could not get pregnant.  In-vitro fertilization was way too expensive, so the simple solution was to use the brother-in-law’s sperm in a turkey baster.  This involved a magazine, a turkey baster and brother-in-law.  Insert turkey baster in sister who is without child and viola: sister magically becomes pregnant without the hassle and expense of fertility doctors.

Since Dad was on the road most of the time, and Sister needed a playmate, one thing lead to another.  Occasionally I would go out to a club that featured comedians and variety acts.  On one occasion I came across this act who actually played music on a turkey baster.  No kidding.  He fascinated me and I thought if I could just have one more child, let it be from the sperm of a musical turkey baster man.  I guess I had drunk too much wine — in fact, I know I did.  My limit is two glasses; the third is a mistake and the fourth is like sodium pentathol (ask TKOG’s ex about last Thanksgiving Eve when at a deli in L.A. I asked him what his intentions were towards TKOG and then proceeded to chide him as to why he would order spaghetti in a world-famous deli).

My real father shows off his instruments...

Anyway, the Turkey Baster Musician and I hatched out a plan that he would send me a sample of his manliness via United States Express Mail (more cost effective than Federal Express)and that together we would create a NTKOG or NTKOB.  He was excited because no one would date him–ever–and I was excited because I was going to surprise TKOG’s “dad” with the news of my pregnancy, which was timed with his homecoming.  But, it was not to be.  When the postman delivered the specimen from TBM the little rat dogs (there were three at the time) grabbed the unsuspecting postman by the legs, jumped up, tackled him and ate most of the package: thus foiling our plan.

Foreplay?!

I was in despair, frantic, not on antidepressants and very, very angry.  I shouted at the postman, gave him a new turkey baster that I had bought for Thanksgiving and asked him to go to the side of the house and fill the thing up.  He did, and without giving further intimate details, TKOG was conceived.  We never told her “dad” the entire truth, but he always wondered why TKOG anxiously awaited the mailman, and commented that she looked a little bit Hawaiian and not much like Sister, who resembled BJ complete with halo.

This is a true story (although Sister may have her doubts about looking like BJ) and I wish all the readers of NTKOG and my dear family a very Happy Thanksgiving.  Rest assured that the little beastie rat dogs will be feasting on non-basted turkey drumsticks.
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Amazing, right?! Also, dude: turkey basters, illegitimate children, sperm-eating dogs — ohhh you better believe this is TMI Thursday bound. Check out Livit, Luvit for more amazing TMI Thursday goodness! Although probably not written by people’s mothers…

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NTKOG #55: The kind of compulsive Sex and the City watcher who basically feels it is her moral friggin’ imperative to make with the non-stop TMI about sexing.

I am: like moderately buttoned-up about specific details of sexing. Unless you’re one of my beloved girltalk co-conspirators. In which case. Bring a poncho.

I am not: actually sure what I meant by that.

The Project: That’s right, you guys! No scene today! A whole bally project for your amusement and potential edification! Not content with my slavish devotion to this blog, a few weeks ago I started a little pet project called:

Awkward Erotica

(in part because I thought the name blowjobsandkoans.com might be a little too intellectual; plus, “awkward” is having such a cultural moment right now.)

The Concept: micro flash vignettes (all under 200 words) of erotica, focusing on decidedly unerotic moments. You know. Accidentally biting out pubic hairs, sneezing in your partner’s face — all those wonderful, horrible little moments during sex that normal erotica, with good reason, just kind of skims over. Moments during sex that point to the weirdness and isolation of the human experience. You guys. You guys. It’s FORLORNICATION!

Every weekday at 9am Eastern time, the site is scheduled to publish another micro-vignette, at least until December 1. From there, I’ll go ahead and decide whether to keep the project alive, reduce the blogging schedule, or just self-deconstruct the whole shebang.

Can I just tell you how much fun this craziness was to write? Coming up with awkward sex moments (thinking about stories from friends, situations from novels, digging through my personal archive, and just straight-up imagining bad sex) took way less time than I could have imagined. Amusingly, I’ve been walking around for weeks with my laptop stashed in my bag, clutching a list with hand-written phrases like “vom and swallow” and “blind uncle,” snatching a few minutes here and there to jot out crazy little sexual tableaux. Guys, I can’t even tell you how much of this I wrote on the T. Kind of makes you rethink peeking over people’s shoulders as they type, right?

The Verdict: So, I’ve got to admit, my usually supportive friends and family are pretty categorically poised against this particular project. (Sheesh, you can slough off a four-year relationship, pack up your bags and move to a city you’ve only seen twice and in which you have no job and, y’know, no problem, but you start one little erotica site…). I’m hearing the objection that, dude, the whole project is kind of weird and only very slightly funny. And, I mean, I guess they could be right.

But I’d like to think that the idea behind the project is putting my voice out there in a conversation that, culturally, we’re really not having enough about sexuality.

Day to day, we get so many messages to hate ourselves. We’re supposed to be unhappy with our bodies and disappointed with our jobs and why the fuck do you have time to sit around reading a blog anyway? — evidently you don’t have enough friends or fun or orgasms or really much of anything worth having because you. are. doing. it. wrong.

And maybe I’m like the worst-ever at peer pressure, but I’m not unhappy with myself. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. I like the ways I’m doing it wrong. (What it? Everything it, more or less.)

Why sex in particular? Because it’s funny, and it’s wonderful, and you really can’t beat it as something to write about while eating cereal in the morning. And I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been girltalking with Justice or Kiss-Ducker and a situation has come up in which one of us — after many awkward pauses and apologies — confesses to some mortifying, shellshocking moment of mid-hook-up “omg am I truly a monstrous failure at life?,” only to have the others sigh in relief and shoot back our own tales.

What can I say? I kind of like the idea of quitting all the cringing, and accepting these moments of dumbness or dumb-hotness as sort of enjoyable facets of the human friggin’ experience. I mean, dude, as far as I see it, your options boil down to: stew in self-loathing? or write some goddamn erotica during breakfast. So. I kind of think my choice is the only defensible one.

Anyway, check out Awkward Erotica, if you are so inclined. I feel like this is a pretty okay idea. And if you don’t, then, y’know, whatever. (Even though I know my readers are basically the most badass dudes in the world and you guys totally have my back on this weird flight of fancy. Right? Right?!)

Um, yeah, while this post itself is pretty tame, I think we can all agree that Awkward Erotica falls safely within the TMI Thursday realm. Also, if you’re skipping out on the awk erot (FAIR ENOUGH!), be sure to check out LiLu‘s TMI Thursday archives instead! Or her post today, which is another edition of PostSecret TMI! Also, one of them is totally, totally mine.

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