Physical Therapy

You guys know I am pretty open on here about everything. I mean, I talk about my vagina. All. The. Time.

 

And puking. And having sex. And even peeing myself.

 

But there is one thing I am still pretty hesitant to talk about. And that is pooping and farting. I’m actually blushing just typing those words. I don’t know why I am so weird about that and apparently nothing else. It would make more sense for me to be shy about some of those other things.

 

My sister J loves to talk about those two subjects. And I do for her sake. Pretty much constantly. And it doesn’t embarrass me to do so with her. But with most other people I shy away.

 

So I have been putting off on telling this story for over two years.

 

You guys probably remember me falling down the stairs and hurting my back.

 

Well, the first thing I did. After having an allergic reaction to my steroids and staying the night in the hospital. Was to go see a physical therapist.

 

I had never been to one before and had this idea in my mind of what it would be like. Based 100% on movies. Which are really the best thing to base everything on, right?

 

So, if movies taught me anything it’s that my physical therapist would be a sexy but tough woman who would help me learn to walk again. She would be firm but fair. I would be in intense pain. We would fall in love. Cue to me haltingly taking my first steps into her open arms. End film.

 

Turns out my physical therapist, J, was a very attractive lady. Who was happily married with two kids. Also, she was maybe five feet tall. For those of you that don’t remember, I am six feet one inch.

 

So I meet her and explain about how I hate people touching me. As I do the first time I meet any doctor or person that has to touch me for their job. I like to set the right tone in my relationships.

 

J takes me back to one of the therapy rooms and does an examination of my back and has me bend and stretch and do all sorts of things. Just to see what I’m about. And what I am about is that I do a lot of yoga and she said she was impressed with how flexible I am. For my height (whatever that means).

 

She has me lie down on this little bed that looks like a weightlifter’s bench. And she’s telling me what she wants to do to help me with my back and my pain and all.

 

I’m cool with it. So I tell her to go ahead.

 

She reaches under me and kind of wraps one arm around me in an awkward way. Her hand is directly beneath my spine. My arms are crossed over my chest.

 

With absolutely zero warning, she throws herself down and kind of propels herself onto me. She was like a tiny WWE wrestler trying to take me down.

 

Two things happened at once.

 

She knocked the wind out of me. And…she knocked the wind out of me.

 

I farted. So long and loudly that there could be absolutely no mistaking what had just happened.

 

Despite my extreme mortification, I also immediately started laughing. Because I am an immature child.

 

She was very mature about the whole thing and pretended to not realize what I had just done. So she stood there over me, arms crossed. Patiently waiting for me to stop.

 

But I couldn’t. This was our FIRST meeting. I had known her for all of 10 minutes. This physical therapy was not going as planned. But most things don’t.

 

After a solid 10 minutes of me laughing so hard I couldn’t speak, my eyes filled with tears and my face getting redder and redder. I finally stopped.

 

She had barely cracked a smile. I don’t know how she managed it. But once I finished she just kind of nodded and said “Shall we?” And got back to it.

 

I saw her every week for over a year and she was kind enough to never bring it up. Ever.
And I did my part by making sure that little incident was never repeated. Ever.

The Science of (Bad) Sex

 

Just got back from a nice vacation with my sister and her boyfriend. (who I do like, C!) And she reminded me of a story that deserves to be told to all of you lovely and  patient people.

 

Also inspired by the date I had this weekend with a man who was gorgeous but the worst kisser I have ever experienced in my entire life including both elementary school and the time G burped in my mouth while we were frenching.

 

In high school, I was dating G. The boy I lost my virginity to. Sex with him was consistently bad. He was unimaginative, unadventurous, squeamish, and very shy about his body.

 

We never had oral sex because he didn’t want to. We never even had digital sex (handjobs or fingering) again because he didn’t want to. In fact, there was little to no foreplay. I didn’t even really know what all that was about until the third guy I slept with almost 3 years later.

 

I remember the first time we had sex I was lying there thinking “I don’t get what all this hype is about sex. People risk STDs and pregnancy for THIS?!” It definitely did not seem worth it. And it continued to not seem worth it for the duration of our sexual relationship.

 

We kept doing it, though. I was determined to figure out what the appeal was. My sex drive had stemmed from scientific interest in the process and the desire to understand human emotions/sensations. Plus, I just KNEW there had to be something magical about it.

 

I hate to say it, but at this point, my experience and desire has not changed. I have had mostly bad sex in my life. I feel that most straight men are just not very good in bed. No offense guys, but I have a lot of experience in this area.

 

But once, while I was still in high school and having sex with G, we were hanging out at my house with my little sister, J. She and I shared a room right up until I moved out.

 

I pulled G aside and asked him if he wanted to have sex in my childhood bed. Of course he did, who wouldn’t?

 

So we told my sister we would be upstairs for a while and commenced to getting it on. Now, you would think J would know better than to come upstairs and enter our shared room without knocking.

 

But you would be wrong.

 

She shoved the door open and was privy to a no doubt shocking eyeful of G’s hairy ginger-blonde ass. G and I were doing missionary (what else?) so she was thankfully spared the image of my naked body.

 

She screamed, slammed the door, and ran down stairs to sit on the couch, traumatized. And hopefully having learned an important lesson in knocking when the door is closed.

 

G pulled out immediately as the mood was most definitely unceremoniously halted. But I looked him right in the eye and demanded he get it up again and finish fucking me. And god bless that teenage boy, because he did as he was told.

 

I am a little ashamed that I had just wanted to finish. But in the name of science, research, and discovery; I really wanted to get off.

 

Waterbed Sex

Growing up, my period was as unpredictable as a wild animal. I could go months without getting it at all. And there were a few times I would get it twice in one month. Usually it would only last a day or two. But every once in a while it would come at me with the fury of a rabid wild creature.

 

Why have I been cursed?!

 

As an adult (and now that I am at a healthy weight) it is extremely regular and mild. Except those rare occasions that it comes at me like a wild rabid creature the way it did this weekend.

 

I was sort of expecting it, but I had no idea when I went to sleep Friday night that I would wake up to a crime scene in my sheets Saturday morning. But I did. And this is why women make good serial killers. We know how to get blood out of anything.

Not shown: cramps

 

But this weekend reminded me of another time I got my period.

 

In high school, I was dating the exchange student. We had only had sex once or twice and I was NOT comfortable with discussing bodily fluids with him (and I never would be).

 

My parents had a California King size waterbed with a massive wooden headboard and canopy awning. This thing was a monstrosity and it took up my parents entire bedroom. We only owned one blanket that fit it. A beautiful green and yellow quilt that had been a wedding present to my parents.

It was like this but bigger.

 

Naturally, G and I decided to have sex on it. I had certainly never had sex on a waterbed before. And I figured my parents’ would be my only chance. Unless I went back in time and slept with a dude from the 80s.

 

G and I started kissing. He was one of the worst kissers I have ever experienced. I’ll gladly take part of the blame since he was the first person I had ever kissed myself; I doubt I was any good either. But one time he burped IN my mouth while we were kissing. It was repulsive.

 

We got naked and had sex. Again, not the worst sex I have ever had. But even I knew this was not good sex and he was the only person I had ever done it with.

The quilt I tried to ruin was pretty similar to this one

 

Sex on a waterbed was also a total pain in the ass. The water makes it own waves that tend to fight against your movements. Plus there was no mattress spring action to help us out.

 

It was like trying to swim against a rip tide in the most unsexy way possible. Maybe that was just me, though. I’d love to hear about someone else having a better experience.

 

It was when he pulled out that we saw it. There was blood everywhere. All over him, all over me. It looked like he had been stabbing me with a knife instead of with his dick.

 

Oh, the horror

 

And there was blood all over my parents’ wedding quilt. I started freaking out when I saw it. My parents were never going to get over this if I couldn’t get the blood out.

 

G got angry with me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on your period?”

 

“I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t know I was.”

 

But he didn’t believe me. He thought I had tricked him into having sex with me while I was on my period. Then I got all pissed off because he thought I was lying. Plus I was embarrassed about what had happened. Embarrassed that we were now having a discussion about my period.

 

But let me tell you guys something, I have a rule: If you won’t bang me during my period then you don’t get to bang me at all. If you can’t handle my bodily fluids then perhaps you would be happier with a man.


And it turns out, G was happier with a man. So there you go.

Catholics and Condoms (NSFW)

This is a semi-sex story that I told my sister, J. I think this story makes me seem like a bit of an asshole. And I probably am. But J convinced me it was hilarious and I should blog about it. So, here you go.

 

The last guy I was sleeping with was R. This feels like a lifetime ago, but it was actually only last year.

 

R was 15 years older than me. He was divorced and had a lot of kids. He was also an ex-Catholic. If you have read My Life’s Mottos, you’ll know that one of them is: Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.

You cant argue with those bitchin’ churches, though.

I have dated many ex-Catholics. And every single one of them has had some serious sexual hang ups. That’s not to say all that all ex-Catholics do, or even that all Catholics do. I am only talking about my experiences.

 

R’s biggest hang up was wearing a condom. He was against them. Extremely. Once, he got up in the middle of us making out, got dressed, and went home, because I wouldn’t have sex without a condom. That was one of the last times I ever saw him.

 

Not being a man, I don’t really get what the big deal is with condoms. I guess it doesn’t feel as good? It seems a small price to pay to minimize the risk of pregnancy and STDs. But maybe that’s just me.

 

One day R and I were hanging out and he asked if I was interested in having sex. I was, but I didn’t have any condoms. So we went to Walgreens.

 

We went inside and I walked right over the the condom aisle. I already knew where it was because all the Walgreens are set up the same. Also, the aisles are pretty clearly labeled.

 

Have you guys been to the condom aisle lately? I remember when I was a teenager in my shitty, small hometown, you had two brands to choose from and maybe two varieties in each brand, if you were lucky. You basically got Trojans or Lifestyles. And good luck finding anything else fun or interesting.

This was basically the only choice.

But nowadays the condom aisle is like the candy aisle! There are so many options to choose from!  There are ribbed, studded, flavored, glow in the dark. They have warming lubes and ‘massage oils’ and all kinds of brands and sizes and materials to choose from.

Like so.

So R and I were standing there, and he was red faced and whispering to me about what we wanted to buy. I am not embarrassed about buying condoms. I never was. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m proud. I’m like “Look at me! Having sex! With another person!”

 

A Walgreens employee walked by while we were talking and asked if we needed help. R got even redder and I laughed and told her “No thank you.”

 

By this point R was looking around all paranoid, like god himself was watching and judging (which, if you believe he exists, he always is, right?). So he got kind of rude with me and told me: “Just pick something already so we can get the hell out of here. People are staring!”

 

I looked around the empty aisle. “What people?”

 

“The woman that works here.” He hissed.

 

“So what? She knows we’re buying condoms. Big whoop. Who gives a shit?” I said to him.

 

“What must she think?” He asked, looking worried and embarrassed and annoyed with me.

 

“Um, that two consenting adults are buying condoms so they can have safe sex?” I was super confused by his attitude. I wasn’t underage. We weren’t having an affair. We were just two people buying condoms together.

condom ad 2

I’m guessing I’ll never have a better chance than this to show off these amazing AIDS awareness ads from Europe that I adore.

“Hurry up so we can get out of here!” He was losing his temper with me. And I thought it was hilarious.

 

I naturally decided to fuck with him.

 

We picked out a box of condoms and walked up to the register. The checkout person was a guy about my age. He rang up our purchases and I said to him, “Hey, guess what?”

 

The checkout guy asked “What?”

condom ad

I just love them. I think there are four in total that I’m going to share.

I said to him: “I’m buying condoms. And I’m going to use them. Tonight. With that guy.” And I pointed to R.

 

The checkout guy laughed and said “I figured as much.”

 

“We’re going to have safe sex tonight and it is going to be awesome.” I gave the checkout guy a thumbs up and a huge grin.

condom ad 3

And this.

R was seething now. But the checkout guy laughed again and said “Good for you. Enjoy!” And he handed us our purchases.

 

Maybe I should have stopped there. But let me remind you that R is in his mid 40s. He’s been married. He has multiple children with multiple women. He is allegedly an adult.

 

We walked outside and there was a young, hot, dude smoking a cigarette outside the building. He was maybe 20 or so.

 

I walked up to him with a big smile and said “Hey, guess what?”

 

He smiled at me in a friendly way and said, “What?”

 

And I said, “I just bought condoms in there. I’m having sex tonight! With him” And again I pointed to R. “I’m excited because it’s going to be awesome because he is great in bed.”

man condom ad

And this one. Aren’t they great?

The young, hot dude started cracking up laughing and said, “Good luck!” Then he high fived me.


R wouldn’t speak to me the entire drive home. He didn’t have sex with me that night. In fact, I’m not even sure we had sex ever again after that night. And we definitely never bought condoms together again.

Bar Fight

You guys probably all know at this point that I highly dislike being touched. The closer I am to you, the more lax I get. And someone I am dating generally gets all my physical affection. I don’t even really like touching friends and family unless we are really close.

 

I’m not sure why, but I can feel wherever someone has touched me. If someone casually puts their hand on my back or shoulder, I can feel it for the rest of the day. If someone hits me or kisses me, I can feel it for days. And some touches, I feel like they are invisibly tattooed on my body forever. Like sex, or physical violence.

I totally love this tattoo! I am getting a white ink tattoo soon.

So I take touch very seriously. So seriously that it has gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past. And probably will in the future.

 

One time, a few years ago, I was out with my brother T and my sister J. We went to a karaoke bar. Just so you know, yes, I do sing. I’ve got a good enough voice. On this specific occasion I sang “I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. I like to sing that song because #1 I LOVE Bruce Springsteen. I have seen him in concert 4 or 5 times. He is a brilliant writer and his lyrics are like poetry. #2 I really like that song. #3 It is easy to sing and short which is the key to good karaoke.

Also, he is completely fucking hot.

But before we sang, T and I played a game of pool. I used to be a good player, but now I am not so good. But better than T. We played our game, I won, and we abandoned the table to go sing.

 

Once we were done singing, we agreed to play one more game before leaving the bar. I walked over and grabbed a stick. My brother T also grabbed one. There were no quarter stacks on the table to indicate that someone was waiting to play so we loaded up our quarters and racked up a game.

I found this on Pinterest and I love it.

We had not even broke the set when a large man came strolling up to me. He was about 5’10” and very large. He was wearing a leather jacket and had his wallet on a chain. He was your typical tough biker type.

 

And he was walking right towards me.

 

Being taller than everyone grants me some privileges. I can reach things off the top shelves. I can gain a lot of weight before it is noticeable. And people generally don’t start shit with me.

 

But this guy walked up to me and said. “This is my table.”

I was really confused. “I’m sorry? Your table?”

 

He smiled. “I won the last game. You have to play against me.”

 

I still was pretty confused. “Um, no thanks. I want to play against my brother.” I gestured to T who was standing on the other side of the table watching us.

 

“But I won the last game. That means you have to play against me.” He was whining now like a petulant child.

 

“No. It doesn’t. I don’t want to play against you. There were no stacks on the table. I paid for this game. And I am playing it against who I want to.”

 

He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder in an over-friendly way with his face close to mine. “Listen sweetheart-”

 

I did not smile. I shoved his hand away from me and got right up in his face. “No. You listen. I’m not your sweetheart. You have no right to touch me. I am not playing this game against you. You will wait until I am done. And then you can do whatever the fuck you want on this table. Are we clear?”

His smile instantly faded from his face. He took a few steps back from me. It was loud in the bar and probably the only person that had overheard was my brother, who was expressionless, just watching. Waiting to see what would happen next.

 

The biker walked over to my brother next. I moved closer to hear what he had to say. I am very protective of my friends and family. And I thought maybe this guy didn’t want to hit a girl and would start a fight with T instead.

 

“Hey man. I’m talking to your girl over there-”

 

My brother interrupted. “She’s not my girl. She’s my sister. And I heard you talking. And I heard her say no.”

 

“But if you just talk to her…”

 

My brother interrupted again. “I’m not talking to her. I don’t want anything from her. YOU go talk to her if you want to. But she already said no. And you shouldn’t have touched her.”

 

I should mention here that T is 6’4” but very thin. He is also not very athletic. This biker no doubt could have kicked his ass. Easily.

My brother looks and acts like this.

“But it’s my game!”

 

“Technically, my sister won the first game on this table tonight and then we walked away. So it is still her game.”

 

The biker was now stuck. He looked at me and then he looked at T. It was pretty clear we were not going to be intimidated by him. He was a fucking amateur compared to the kind of treatment we were accustomed to from our parents.

 

The biker went over the bar and sat and glared at us all through the game, sulking. I intentionally missed every shot I could. We dragged the game out longer than we’d ever played before. I could feel the biker seething at me. And you know what? I didn’t fucking care. I don’t like being bullied. And I like being touched even less.

Wah! I ‘m not getting what I want.

When my brother tells this story, his friends ask “Why didn’t you go over and help your sister when some creepy biker was touching her at the bar?”

 

And my brother always says, “Help her do what? She didn’t need my help. He was an idiot that didn’t know better than to start something with her.”


And he is right. Because I would never start a fight with someone over a game of pool. But I sure as hell would over being touched without my permission.

Sex Story

You guys probably remember from my last post that I recently met Ann St. Vincent. She has convinced me to tell a sex story as a guest post on her blog. I don’t normally talk about my sex life. And am actually pretty nervous. So, if you know me in real life or just don’t want to think about me having sex, do not click here. Or if you maybe lived with me when this all happened *cough cough J*. Otherwise; you’ve been warned.

Meeting Ann

I spent the day with Ann St. Vincent on Sunday. You know you guys are jealous. And you should be.

 

Before we met, I’d had this image of her in my head. Something like a cross between Anne Bancroft in  Mrs Robinson, but blonde and blue eyed, but with the hairstyle of Tippi Hedren in The Birds. I don’t know why I was imagining her as some woman from the 60s. She is barely older than myself.

I just noticed they are both smoking.

And in the same pose.

I tried not to build her up too much in my mind before I met her. After reading her blog it is almost impossible not to. But I needn’t have worried. She was as charming as she seems to be on her blog. And just as funny too.

 

When I first got to her hotel, I got a little worried. It was fancy. Way fancier than any place I’d normally be comfortable. And I wasn’t comfortable.

 

She had me valet my car which is really only something I’ve done at the fancy-pants Emergency Room I go to. When I walked into the lobby it smelled like money and sexy man cologne.

 

I went into the hotel’s bathroom to pee before going up to meet her. The bathroom STALL was bigger and classier than my entire bathroom in my apartment. It had a frosted glass door for fuck’s sake.

20141102_103010

Seriously, look at this beautiful place!

When I finished, I went to wash my hands. I coated them in liquid hand soap and then paused. There was no knob to the faucet so I expectantly put my hands under the sink, expecting it to be an automatic. But nothing happened.

 

I looked around. Was I missing something? I started twisting things and pressing things. It was like trying to play a game of bop it.

 

I held my hands under the faucet again. I tend to have issues with automatic dispensers. I can only assume because I do not have a soul.

I haven’t walked into one yet, though.

But nothing happened. I started pressing more and more unlikely things. I was pushing on random tiles in the wall. Like it was some secret passage in a castle that would lead me to the land of water.

 

And still, I couldn’t figure out the magical combination to get that damn sink to turn on. It was like the three seashells in Demolition Man. I was just stuck, with my hands covered in soap. What I really needed was an adult, but they are never around when you really need one.

Look J, a three seashells joke for you.

So I finally broke down and rinsed them with the water in my water bottle.

 

I went back out into the lobby feeling like a failure. I couldn’t even pass the first fancy person test of washing my hands in the bathroom. An entire family was mean mugging me while I waited for Ann to come meet me. I was starting to regret the whole thing.

 

And then I met Ann. She greeted me with a big hug. Which I normally don’t like, but for some reason, it was okay with her. I suspect she just has that ability to put people at ease.

 

She completely swept me off my feet. She paid for my valet parking. She bought me lunch. I felt like the prostitute in Pretty Woman, only less pretty. I joked several times that I was going to swoon. If she was trying to get into my pants, it was totally working.

My outfit wasn’t that bad. I hope.

But she wasn’t.

 

We talked until my throat was sore. She is an excellent conversationalist too. I was my typical weirdo self. We talked about everything from my usual serial killers and cannibalism to sex and the hilarity of unsolicited dick pics.

 

We even got to talk about the real problems with lesbian porn (fake fingernails, fingering, and probably some gross vaginal bacterial infections from funky fake fingernails). My issues with betiality (lack of consent on the part of the animal). And pegging.

 

She’s even trying to get me to do a guest post on her blog, so stay tuned for that.


If I can be serious for a moment (and I can because it’s my blog). I never expected this blog to be more than some good therapy/entertainment for me. But instead it has turned into this whole community of wonderful people and connections. I have gotten more emotional support from my blog friends than I have from most of my real life friends. And as I am turning my blog friends into real life friends, I am so grateful to be here and to know the people that I know. Thank you guys.