The Men in Black


Once, a long time ago, before I was even born, my mother was a Jehovah’s witness. My family is full of secrets and I know virtually nothing about her life at that time. She probably had some awesome double life we’ll never know. But my mother eventually left the church. She moved many times and met my father and then, for some reason, had more children with him.


Growing up, my mother HATED Jehovah’s witnesses. I never knew why. I never even understood who they were. Every few months I would see them. Always two men (different men each time). Always in white short sleeved button downs with dark ties and trousers. Always riding bicycles.


From a young age I was fascinated by them. Who were they? What did they want with us?


When we moved, they seemed to follow us. I thought this explained my mother’s hatred. No matter what she did, these people would not leave us alone.


As I got older I started to believe they were part of some government conspiracy. Like poorly dressed Men in Black. Which I knew were real from all the books I’d read of eyewitness accounts after reported UFO sightings.


I was pretty obsessed with UFOs as a kid. And I didn’t have many friends. It probably had something to do with all the UFO books I read.


When I became an adult I discovered they were a religion. And not even a good cult-y one like Heaven’s Gate. Fun fact: I learned about meteors AND cults for the first time with that one. But a part of me has always preferred my conspiracy theories to the truth.


A few years ago, I moved in with my brother. The apartment complex we lived in was a common target for Jehovah’s witnesses. They came frequently. Almost on a monthly basis.


It was annoying. I rarely answer my door, even now. I am paranoid about unexpected company. It’s rarely good. It’s rarely something I am interested in. So we generally ignored them when they knocked. But still, it was irritating.


One day I was home with my then boyfriend, A. I am not sure why I was taking a shower in the middle of the day. Probably A and I had just finished having some messy sex. You know how it is.


I got out of the shower and was getting dressed when the doorbell rang. I could see through the partially opened blinds that it was the Jehovah’s witnesses. I decided to go ahead and answer the door this one time.


I pulled open the door with a wide grin on my face. “Hi!” I called out, cheerily. “How are you?”


The two men immediately backed away from the door. They did not seem to know where to look. They were holding their hands up as if to ward me off from advancing and possibly attacking them.


I was wearing a pair of pink mesh underwear and nothing else. The underwear were mostly translucent. And I was completely topless. I may as well have been naked.


One of the men stuttered that I appeared to be busy and that they would come back another time. But I insisted that I was not busy and invited them to come inside and have a talk about god and religion and whatever else they wanted.


They, not surprisingly, declined my invitation and practically ran from our front porch. They never came back for the entire time I lived at that address. I probably scarred them for life.

I still have a pretty bad habit of answering the door in various states of undress when I have unexpected company. But that’s why you should always warn me before coming over. Or you may not like what you see.

Blog Love

I think I am officially back from having my…emotional difficulties. While I was away I was nominated for multiple blogging awards. I think the lesson here is that the less I blog, the more awards I get. I’ll keep that in mind for future reference. Be patient and I will respond to all of them. It is a little overwhelming right now.

So, first, Eva from  the Tattoo Tourist nominated for a blogging award. I love her blog and her and apparently the feeling is mutual so we are in a common law blogger marriage or something. I’m not sure how all of that works. She’s better at legalities, which is what makes us such a great couple.

And now; to the questions…

1. What is the main purpose of your blog?

I used to think this blog was just a means to entertain myself and offset the sadfest that my other blog tends to be. But now I am seeing the value of sharing these stories as well. It sneakily somehow became one of the most fullfilling things in my life.

2. What are your three favorite blogs?

This is hard and I don’t like leaving people out. I like A LOT of blogs. I read a lot of blogs (though I have been horribly slacking lately). So, instead I will share my favorite genital related blogs because I am in a vagina-y mood (when am I not, right?). These are all NSFW.


Vagina Pagina: I know it’s LiveJournal and the formatting annoys the shit out of me. But I have laughed until I cried reading it. Top favs of mine to read are: Stained Undies. And Vagina Foods. Also their Vulvapedia is genius. If you haven’t guessed it is very very graphic.


Sexis: I’m sure all of you have read this because it is The Bloggess and she is my hero. But this sex column was the first thing I ever read by her. And this article is the first one I ever read. And I fell in love instantly. I also love her sex quizzes.


OhJoySexToy: This is a gorgeously drawn comic blog that does reviews of sex toys. They are funny, cute, wonderfully candid, open minded and accepting. It is basically everything I love in the world in one place. Their reviews are my favorite thing about the site. But they have some great Sex ed comics too. This one on Consent is a favorite for me to direct my partners to.

3. What is the weirdest/most controversial blog post you have written?

I don’t really feel like anything I write is that weird. I mean, it’s all just me. I think my ‘weirdest’ one was this one, about dyeing my armpit and pubic hairs. But my favorite one so far was the vagina fingering story. I don’t know, what do you guys think is the weirdest one?

4. Are you writing a book or screenplay? If so what is it about and will you try to publish it?

I have written several books (all terrible) and at least a novel’s worth of short stories. Plus poetry and my other blog. I am currently working on a novel right now that I am very pleased with. It is about monsters and childhood and growing up in an abusive home. It is a horror type of story. I would be happier than I can express to get it published someday.

5. Eggnog, yes or no? Followed by rum or brandy?

I fucking hate milk and eggnog. It repulses me. I’ve never had brandy. Rum is my deal! My favorite drink right now is Kraken rum (originally bought for the tentacled octopus on the label) with coke and a splash of Disaronno amaretto. It tastes like a Dr. Pepper and makes me feel so relaxed.

6. How do you feel about questionnaires?

I feel like nobody cares about my answers and I am pretty conceited to think anyone even reads this shit. But I love reading everyone else’s because I am endlessly fascinated by other people. Also, I am totally creepy and like peeping into your lives.

7. Will you blog forever or is there a cutoff point? If so, why?

Unless I become immortal, I will definitely stop blogging someday. However, if I can live forever I will need to make it a point to keep being dumb so I can entertain all of you forever. But I have no intentions of stopping any time soon.

8. Have any of your blog readers sent you something in the mail? And if so what?

Leah sent me three lovely, handmade hats. And I sent her three handmade bracelets. Also, I got uncountable goat accoutrement for Aussa from bloggers to send to her. And Debbie painted me a picture, but she gave it to me in person. But you guys should still know about it, because she is like some kind of wizard who is good at everything. If I missed anyone please tell me so I can brag about your awesomeness!

9. Boxers or briefs?

This depends on a lot of different factors. At work I wear men’s briefs because they are extra comfy and my job can be very physical. At home I wear women’s bikinis or thongs depending on my day and outfit. At night I wear men’s boxer briefs around the house or to bed sometimes. My favorite two pairs are: purple with glow in the dark skulls and lime green and covered with insects. They are fucking adorable. And I want more cutesy underwears like them.

10. Secret nicknames or pet names.

Um…None are secret. I get called a lot of things. Amazon. Wonder Woman. The Terminator (both for the way I dump men and the way I fire them at work). I get called a robot a lot (though that isn’t really a nickname). My favorite is Amazon Firing Machine.


I know I am supposed to do more with this thing, but I am not going to. Sorry, rules. Thanks again for the nomination!

Gas Station Bathroom

This story may be a new low for my blog. Up till now I’ve kept things mildly classy. And all that is about to go out the window. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later.


A few years ago I held a position at my job that required a significant amount of driving. In fact, all I did was drive all day long. Most of that driving was done in residential neighborhoods.


As such, I didn’t always know where I would end up going to the bathroom on a day to day basis. I tried to only use ‘clean’ places. Like Walgreens or Publix. But more often I was reduced to using gas stations.


I’ve gotten freakishly good at knowing, just from seeing the outside, how a gas station bathroom is going to be. It’s like a super power. And I’ve created a list of rules to live by.


Never use a gas station bathroom that has the bathroom entrance outside.

Hell. Fuck. No.

Hell. Fuck. No.

Never use a gas station bathroom that requires you to get a key with some giant thing attached to it. Common items are rulers, dolls, sawed off 2x4s. And finally, never use a gas station bathroom that is not a chain store.

The classic.

The classic.


There are rules about certain neighborhoods to not use a gas station bathroom in too. But I can rarely afford to be that picky.


I also have rules about certain chains that I will never use. But I don’t know if I want to slander anyone’s good name here. So I won’t.


Also, I always bring a paper napkin in with me in case there is no toilet paper. I keep a stash in the glove compartment of both my vehicles. I can do without paper towels, or even soap. (I have hand sanitizer). I can even do without a door that locks if I have to. But I absolutely cannot do without toilet paper.


One day I stopped at a reputable chain of gas stations to take a leak. This particular chain is the lowest I will go in a non-emergency situation. But it was also the only place around for miles.


I walked inside and was dismayed to see that this particular station only had one bathroom. For men and women to share. I have no aesthetic issue with sharing a bathroom with men. In fact, I use the men’s room almost as frequently as the women’s.


My issue with unisex public bathrooms is that: even though they get twice as much traffic, they aren’t cleaned twice as often. In fact, they seemed to be cleaned less than a gender segregated bathroom.


But it was bordering on an emergency and I didn’t think I’d make it to another location.


I walked in and found the room to be in my expected state of filth. I could handle it. I can handle almost anything as long as my expectations are met.


I pulled my pants down, honestly, farther down than I generally do. And I did my business. I don’t even know where my mind was. There was nothing remarkable about anything that had happened thus far in that day.


I should just go ahead and admit here that I love bathroom graffiti. It is amusing and entertaining. Actually, I like all forms of graffiti.



When I finished, I went to pull up my underwear. And that’s when I saw it. There was a brown smear all across the inside of my underwear. My lovely pink underwear that I had recently bought. In fact, I couldn’t have worn them more than once or twice.


Also, I knew I hadn’t had an accident. I was confused for a moment. Staring at what could only be poo. I leaned in to sniff it. Maybe it was, I don’t know, chocolate, somehow?


No, it was definitely poo. And it was definitely not mine.


I looked down at the toilet bowl. And there it was. Something I had somehow missed when entering the bathroom. Something I had somehow missed when pulling my pants and underwear down.


Someone had gone all over the toilet base. It wasn’t just on the base of the toilet. It was running down the underside of the bowl.


When I pulled my underwear down so far, I somehow managed to not only brush against it. I managed to smear it all over my lovely underwear.


I angrily went through the process of loosening my boots so I could step out of my pants, without stepping in my bare socks, on a public, gas station bathroom floor. I had to balance very precariously as I also didn’t want to accidentally touch myself with my ruined underwear.


I stepped out of the underwear and threw them in the trash. Then I got re-dressed. It felt wrong to go commando. I needed underwear. I hated the feeling of my jeans on my naked privates.


I washed my hands several times. As I exited the bathroom I breathed a sigh of relief that I had noticed the smear before pulling my pants up. Because that is not something I would have ever recovered from.

I won’t be offended if anyone stops following me after this horror story. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. Shit is going to start getting weird over here. And I have way more repulsive stories to tell.


I used to work for a residential construction company in Miami. I was 17 and worked as a laborer on an all Hispanic crew. None of them spoke English. But I was not worried.  I had taken my two years of required Spanish in high school. I had it under control.


Unfortunately, I had also taken 3 years of French and a year of German. So, all the languages were jumbled up in my mind. Plus, I am the type of person that immediately forgets 87% of the curriculum as soon as I passed the class. And even more so the second I received my diploma.


But, it turns out,  I picked Spanish up pretty quickly. I was immersed in it every day. And they were all too eager to teach me how to curse anyway. And really, what else do you need?


One day I was carrying a piece of scaffolding. It had been raining heavily. Normal Florida rains are nothing compared to the intense tropical downpours of Miami.

Miami, nine months out of the year.

Miami, nine months out of the year.

This scaffolding is not light. It ranges between 80-100lbs. So there I was, moving pieces of scaffolding to set up a structure.


And I slipped and fell in the mud. I fell hard.


So hard that the scaffolding flew out of my hands with a force that would have been comical had it not had the potential for so much destruction. Luckily nobody had been standing nearby or they could have been seriously injured. So, the scaffolding went flying and I landed in a very awkward split.

80 lbs of destruction.

80 lbs of destruction.


I am not a flexible person. I couldn’t even touch my toes until I began doing yoga a few years ago. I mean, I couldn’t even touch my toes as a child. I would get to my knees and then have to stop.


It turns out my jeans weren’t very flexible either. They split up the inseam from my knee all the way up to the seaming at the crotch. You know what seam I’m talking about. That weird little nub that makes you look like you have an erection even when you are a girl.

I stood up and brushed myself off, not that you can really brush mud off. Which, by the way,  I was also covered in.


The flap of my pants was hanging down and my underpants were horrifyingly exposed to everyone. To this day I’m glad I was wearing underpants at all. But they were an awful, neon yellow.


As fate would have it, so was my necklace that day. It was something I had made myself (I am still quite the jewelry maker these days) and the center bead looked exactly like a lemon drop.


I swear I don’t normally match my underwear to my jewelry. Really. But for some reason, on this fateful day, I was.


I didn’t have any spare clothes. My ride was away running errands and not returning for several hours. And there was nothing I could use to stitch up my torn pants.


At first I tried duct tape, but my pants were soaked from the puddle. Duct tape is amazing, but it won’t stick to soaking wet denim.


Then I tried staples. Which was tricky at best. Have you ever tried to staple your jeans, at the crotch, while you were still in them? Risky stuff. And in a way, kind of exhilarating. Or maybe I was just feeling high from my extreme, intense, soul crushing embarrassment.


Of course, my co-workers were having a great time. They even offered to help me.


One of the contractors that was out at the job site eventually gave me a few safety pins. I swear they must have called each other to come out. I think all our outside contractors were working that day. Even the sexy married guy whose advances I had so righteously rebuffed only a few days earlier.


The safety pin helped me contain whatever sense of shame I had left. Almost none by that point.

It was too late for me, though. For the rest of the few months I worked there my co-workers had all nicknamed me ‘amarillo.’