Monthly Archives: January 2014

Germs KILL unicorns, silly!

‘Tis the season for unicorn hunting:  the northwest mist occasionally turns to snow, the nights come so early, and the cedar-y fires are so conducive to cuddling inside with hot toddies and blankets…and what’s even better than one beautiful woman on a bearskin rug? Why, two, of course!

(For the laggards, “unicorn” is, as defined by Urban Dictionary, a “bisexual person, usually though not always female, who is willing to join an existing couple, often with the presumption that this person will date and become sexually involved with both members of that couple, and not demand anything or do anything which might cause problems or inconvenience to that couple…”)

My friends are a nice professional married couple, and this isn’t their first rodeo. But they don’t play on the professional circuit (some of the rodeo clowns were just inappropriate, and kind of creeped them out, frankly) and so it’s not like unicorns just wander up while Friends are out having an elephant ear and snuggle at their feet. Instead, my Friends must head to holy unicorn hunting land: Craigslist. (Which has the perk, of course, that even if you don’t find anyone who looks like a decent prospect for naked sofa-surfing, you could at least find a fantastic new sofa and not be too disappointed with the day.)

After a few (dozen) hours making a (somewhat fruitless) effort to weed out the frighteningly insane, the obvious creepers, and the downright repulsive, Friends settle on a lovely young lass who is beautiful, interesting, and pursuing a professional career. Perfect.

They meet for cocktails, and everyone is enchanted. They eat appropriate amounts of food in what seem to be ordinary ways; no red flags like separating each thing on her plate to not touch each other, no 8 bajillion dietary restrictions (“strawberries give me hives!!”), no sass to the waiter or display of Game of Thrones-style table manners. They all go back to Friends’ house and open a nice bottle of wine, stoke up the fireplace, and nestle into the couches to take this in a flirtier direction. Husband Friend offers to draw a bubble bath for Ms. Unicorn — what most women would interpret as a sensual, sexy gesture (although frankly – and maybe I’ve seen Psycho too many times – bathing with strangers isn’t really within my own self-preservation comfort zone…but I digress).

Ms. Unicorn announces: germs can travel in water, and she isn’t going to potentially expose herself to Friends’ germs like that.

(And a hush falls over the crowd…)

Ms. Unicorn helpfully volunteers that she has quite a few other rules and boundaries, and launches into a detailed explanation. She does not perform fellatio – at all. She does not perform cunnilingus – at all. She will not accept performance of cunnilingus on her, unless a dental dam is utilized. (A dental dam? Really? Have you ever met anyone who knows how to use one of those? Have you ever even seen one of those?)

She DOES mouth-kiss, which absolutely blows my mind, since I am willing to bet that if you swab-tested a freshly-bathed penis versus the owner’s mouth, the latter would reflect a stinking cesspool of filth compared to the squeeeeeeky clean bits farther south.

There is a mouth-kissing caveat, however. If Friends perform fellatio or cunnilingus on each other, they must rinse their mouths out with water and wait 10 minutes before kissing Ms. Unicorn. Yep. Water? Why not Listerine? Or, fuck it, straight rubbing alcohol? And waiting 10 minutes? Is that like before swimming? Will the bacteria drown in that intervening sixth of an hour and freshen the place up again?

Digital/tactile exploration will require immediate multiple handwashing, both before and after, and between orafaces (orafaci?), even if all on the same person. It goes without saying that there will be absolutely no penetration of any kind, unless perhaps she’s brought along a selection of autoclaved dildos which meet her sterility needs.

By this point Friends have opened up and are making an impressive wreck of a third bottle of wine, because, fuck it, there’s no way they’re getting laid tonight. By the time Ms. Unicorn announces that maybe she’d just like to watch Friends have sex with each other (from a safe distance that the germs can’t kamikaze divebomb her, I assume), Friends yawn and muse that they are so sleepy all of the sudden…maybe they’re coming down with something?

Ms. Unicorn gallops out of the house as fast as her heels allow her…and Friends retire to their soothingly disgusting, germ-ridden (but unicorn-free) bath. Friends haven’t heard from Ms. Unicorn, which we all assume means that she has perished, merely from her proximity to so many germs. I hope that when she died, she became glitter on the sea — everyone knows unicorns have no souls.


The Beaver State

My friends have been downright obsessed, lately, about whether it’s ever okay to ask a partner to shave or trim their bits…and, if so, what the acceptable manner of doing so is. Now, while I suppose “Hey baby, I love lunching at the Y, but I hate flossing with pubes” is probably walking the line of social ostracism, *I* thought it seemed like a totally fair and generally acceptable way to ask your beloved Sasquatch to trim down the field. However: #1, boy, was I wrong, and #2, I didn’t realize this was a social hot-button issue that implicates feminism, racism, sexism, and apparently bestiality. Put this one up with Religion and Politics as the “stuff you should totally not discuss with casual acquaintances whom you would like to refrain from burning your homestead to the ground.” In fact, you might want to wait until after you’ve already moved in together, or shared a communicable disease that sharply reduces the chances your partner can ever leave you for anyone else.

It’s not particularly difficult to get men to manscape: just point out that shorter hair makes their dangly bits look bigger and BAM, that lawn will be manicured more tightly than Wrigley Field on opening day. But just try to point out that a groomed bush makes a woman’s thighs look smaller or labia look more dangly…I’ll wait.

Do you want to go for a beer with me? Because you certainly no longer have plans for this evening, and we may want to find a steak to put over that shiner you’ve acquired richly earned.

I certainly understand the aversion to going completely bald-eagle. Putting aside the inflammatory protests that desiring a totally hairless woman smacks of pedophilia, or anti-Semitism/-Italianism/-Romanianism/-whatever, becoming hair-free just isn’t particularly quick, easy, or painless, despite what the late-night ads for that little torture machine that rips your hair out with a coil tell you. You can choose to slather your most sensitive mucous membranes with a cream that feels suspiciously like battery acid, in the hopes of dissolving all follicles (and feeling) at the same time… cheap, but ineffective, painful, rash-inducing and downright stinky. (What’s that? Oh, it’s “eau de Nair!” Like it? Bet you can’t WAIT to enjoy the aftertaste!) Or, if you’re really more interested in exploring BDSM and want an intro class, you can have a perky  twenty-year-old smear molten wax on your lady bits, rip out the hair with a depraved grin, and then bitch-slap your inner thigh “to distract you from the pain.” If you have a few hundred extra bones hanging around, you can pay a severe, white-coated Ukranian woman to attack your most delicate parts with a hand-held bug zapper; by the time the burning hair smell fades, you should only feel like you’ve been second-degree sunburned. For the cheap and in-a-hurry, there’s always the “shave it yourself” option, although in accordance with your relative ability when blindly maneuvering a safety razor angled 45 degrees upwards into the hereafter 10 minutes before leaving for a date, this may result in more of a “goat with the mange” look than the desired “sexpot porn star” effect.

When you’re done executing whatever your chosen hair-free method, and after you’ve hammered a couple tumblers of Jack Daniels to dull the PTSD, you might consider something to hide the burns/cuts/tufts of recalcitrant scruff: the Merkin. Popular in medieval times to hide open sores, Merkins today can be found in cute felt cutouts (an apple! a fig leaf! a mustache!) or disturbingly troll-doll-like neon fluffs, in addition to the “au naturale” look the American Apparel mannequins have been recently sporting ( Hey?! What’s not to love? All the feminism of hippie I’m-not-shaving-for-any-man’s-dictated-societal-ideals bush, in a removable, machine-washable adhesive applique.

On the other side of this are the ladies who, either by relative ignorance/inexperience, apathy, or decisive antiestablishmentarianism have a veritable bikini of bush… what I can only assume is the lady version of Portland’s weird obsession with hipster beards. I am willing to possibly believe that, like Samson, these ladies’ true strength lies in the lush curls of their shag carpets.  I completely support your right to sport your furry panties, Sheena, but you’ve gotta concede that maybe it’s not necessarily an anti-feminist attitude for an enthusiastic diver to like a more modest muff — you know, for “pro-breathing” reasons. (Like the equally practical reason I eschew hipster jeans on men: I think testicles are more comfortable and useful to everyone when they are outside of the body, not because I don’t support your right to look like a twelve-year-old girl.)

There’s a yawning social divide between the barers and the scarers, which I always assumed was breached by the “trimmers,” until recently a “landing strip” friend was told by a “hey girl” kind of disposable-partner that “although he doesn’t usually go for girls with any hair down there, she had a ‘sexy hippie vibe’ goin’ on” … with her 1/4″ long token tuft of hair. Sigh.

I fall in the camp of “feel free to ask, but be prepared for your partner to tell you to fuck right off.” I could totally see agreeing with the brazen-bush feminist let-it-grow-let-it-show side of this, though — if not for sociopolitical reasons, out of sheer laziness … if I wasn’t so attached to my Merkin.        …Does anyone know how to get Crazy Glue off of skin?

Just don’t f*ck on their face

This weekend, I went up to the mountain with about 100 of my friends, hoping there would be enough fluffy stuff to snowshoe. Many of us, determined to warm up mainly from the inside and attempt to forget how much actual effort snowshoeing takes, and hopeful for an evening enjoying a blizzard from the comfort of a steaming hot tub, stayed the weekend in the nearby town. In the interest of sharing expenses (and due to some of our compatriots’ less-than-stellar advance planning skills), fully ten of us shared one reasonably-spacious condominium. The makeup of the group was four couple-units and two individual bunkers, and through the course of the weekend, there were some “etiquette refreshers” I had forgotten since living with forty people in a dorm.

My friends aren’t modest by any standards, but the lack of pants by dinner on Friday surprised even me (maybe given the manhood-depleting conditions outside). Etiquette rule number one: despite the fact that your balls ARE impressively saggy, absolutely no one would like them to share table space with the salmon. (Do they go to the left or the right of the plate, anyway?)

Was that a knock? Did we order hookers? Pizza? Etiquette rule number two: Someone with pants should probably answer the door….

Between midnight and about 10 a.m. the house was suspiciously similar to conjugal visit day at the prison.  Etiquette rule number three: if the walls are paper thin anyway, then it is fair to treat this as a sporting competition and try to drown out the noise of others. Besides, this makes the surround-sound more enjoyable for those in the middle bedroom, who can all enjoy amateur-hour without even browsing youporn.

Etiquette rule number four: if you are prone to sleepwalking, or other mid-slumber oddities, it is helpful to let your roommate(s) know before you hit the hay. This does not prevent the night terrors which will inevitably arise when you fall out of the upper (single) bunk onto the lower (double) bunk. It will help, however, if you are unclothed when this occurs, enabling the gentleman in the lower bunk to blissfully return to sleep with naked women crooked under BOTH arms, visions of sugartits dancing in his head, and a renewed faith in a higher power (or, at least, an appreciation for the glorious theory of gravity).

Despite Saturday’s morning power outage, somebody figured out how to light the gas stove and make coffee to wash down the aspirin, while the rest of us made it a life goal to ensure that all six magnums of cheap champagne and four gallons of juice found loving homes in our bloodstreams. Eventually, we all struggled into our seven layers of snow protection, with “best in show” being awarded without competition to the man in the teal, 1960s-authentic bellbottom onesie, straight out of Saturday Night Fever. Immediate and obvious question: What are you wearing under that onesie?  Etiquette rule number five: Always ask permission before going commando in someone else’s snowpants.

Six hours later, sixteen bedraggled, sodden half-minds dragged themselves back to the comfort of home, throwing off clothing with the enthusiasm of meth night at the strip club in every corner of every room. Having somehow picked up an extra half-dozen friendlies, etiquette rule number six applies here: Do not, under any circumstances, exercise any sort of drunken modesty by occupying the room with the toilet in it to apply your bathing costume. No one wants poop in the living room, and no one minds seeing your boobs. It’s win/win.

As luck would have it, the couple air-mattressing in the living room are the ones who just can’t fight gravity anymore and are suddenly horizontal and unconscious in the center of the melee. The rest of us head for the master bedroom, where we crawl into an exhausted dogpile on the king bed and spend the next few hours watching youtube videos, periodically hollering random exhortations which could very well have made the living-room sleepers think that someone had forgotten their safe word (“grapefruit!” “Amsterdam!” “Snoop Dogg!”).  “Shouldn’t we keep it down, so we don’t wake the airmattressers?”  Etiquette rule number seven: “Nah. They’re fine. Just don’t fuck on their face.”

Etiquette: It’s that simple.

What do engineers use for birth control?

…their personalities.

Having spent a significant amount of time recently in the company of some wonderful and charming men (some of whom happen to in fact be engineers themselves) this is hardly a universal truth… but this isn’t about those men, because NICE SWEET WONDERFUL MEN aren’t what’s known as “FUNNY” for the instant purpose, now, are they?!

Back to our celibate engineers. Or, well, I hope they’re celibate, because if this behavior is working on actual, respirating women I should sharpen my axe and prepare for the zombie apocalypse, obviously right around the corner. Let’s meet Bachelor Number One:

So there I was, driving this fella home from what had been a pretty kickass party. We’d gotten on reasonably well at said party, finishing off the night by demonstrating that neither of us would ever, ever not be knifed if we are called on for a dance-off, South Park style, illustrated by our flailing madly along with Dance Dance Revolution. (For comparison, a seventy-year-old man beat both of our scores…combined.) We had fun. He seemed nice, if slightly socially awkward… but more Napoleon Dynamite awkward than, like, Dexter awkward.

So, Fella claims he lives “right around the corner” from me. Since we’ve already attempted to call one of the apparently-reserved-only-for-the-Kennedys cabs (TWO HOURS?! at 1 in the morning on an ordinary Saturday?!), and he doesn’t seem like he’s going to tear my limbs off and snack on ’em like those giant Smoked Turkey Legs at Disneyworld, sure, I’ll give him a ride home. Three minutes into our journey it occurs to me — and at six minutes in I just can’t stop myself from asking — whether I’m giving him a ride home because he’s actually too drunk to legally and safely operate his vehicle, or as an excuse to be alone with me. He admits to “a little of both?” … Sigh.

Mostly I tune out the next eleven-and-a-half minutes of him detailing the unique and/or completely fascinating reasons I should agree to go on a date with this man. He’ll buy me dinner! (Wow!) He’s funny! He’s nice! He has hair! “And, you know, unlike a lot of other guys, I don’t mind the bigger girls.”

Wait. What?

OK. I’ve put on a little extra padding lately…maybe too much enthusiasm for French cooking…and whiskey…and bacon…but I haven’t yet been relegated to shopping in “Women’s World,” and I still don’t have to buy two airplane seats (although I haven’t flown recently), so I think that this is a smidge unfair. (Besides, I’ll last longer in the zombie apocalypse, while those skinny bitches drop like walker bait.)

And as I think more about it, I realize I’m taking offense too narrowly! I become, in fact, a little reverential that in this one sentence, Fella has managed to insult not just me (whom he clearly would be doing a favor by deigning to be seen in public with as my date, and just MAYBE might throw a pity-fuck, ’cause he’s that kind of charitable guy), but men in general (including both men who wouldn’t be seen anywhere NEAR a girl with a BMI over 20, and also men who happen to like us chubbies), and also women in general, because obviously although a personality is an unexpected asset, the initial requirement to getting any date at all really is that we be quite thin!

Oh, hell, he’s still talking! And we are still driving, now winding up into the West Hills — as his house is clearly “around the corner from my house” in the same manner that Poughkeepsie is just a short stumble from the Kingdom of Bhutan.

He won’t get out of the car until I give him my phone number. It dawns on me that he thinks he has successfully pitched his product — Billy Mays has got nothing on this guy (except the blessed quiet of death, which I am weighing as an option the longer he prattles on). I am inconceivably grateful when the door slams behind him, and sure enough, the next morning I get a long text, asking me on a “resl adult date,” with drinks, “dinner at a nice restsurant,” where I can “dazzle [him] with [my] wit and grace.” For rissle.

Fella:  I don’t have wit. I have sarcasm. And I used up every damn bit of my grace not pushing you out the door of my car at a stoplight. Besides, porkers like me really don’t need to be going out for drinks and dinner, or we’ll just never find anyone to dance badly with at the next party.

Bring on Bachelor Number Two! I can’t wait to hear about more of my flaws.