Monthly Archives: June 2015

Turning Me Off

My belly button hurts.

Also fairly tender are the severed, cauterized ends of my now-purely-decorative fallopian tubes, swimming freely in my abdominal cavity, relieved of their duty to hunt down sperm-hungry little eggs. But those are rather more of a deeper, fiery ache, like someone fed me bad curry.

I’ve never wanted babies, and I’ve been a lifelong diligent fighter against my body’s natural inclination to want to replicate. With a Republican-led administration seemingly imminent, and since I have a complete unwillingness to give up sex, what with my shiny new health insurance it seemed like a great time to fix this up once and for all. Despite all the talk about how “casual sex” should have consequences, I don’t really like to think of mini-humans as “consequences”… “consequences” are having to re-screw and bolster yet another broken bedframe, mollify neighbors with ever-more-impressive baked goods (I think we’re probably at the Cronut stage), and creatively figure out the name of that fifth gentleman who joined up later (the one that made the killer manhattans and had amazing cunnilingual skills, both of which earn him an invite to the next friendly function).

So there I was at a horrific pre-dawn hour, tying myself into a glamorous paper assless gown (of course memorialized in the obligatory over-the-shoulder ass-shot), trying not to pass out while getting jabbed with IVs, clipped to electrodes, and re-questioned about all manner of familial mental illnesses (too many to even start counting). Two hours later, I said goodbye to my babymakers and was wheeled off into unconsciousness for an hour of prodding around my netherbelly. (My friend says the doctor showed her photos of my lifted-and-tucked tubes, along with my gloriously healthy and intact appendix, while she was waiting. We’ve reached a new level of intimacy! All they used to have was Highlights for Children to pass the time.)

Honestly, the most terrifying part was waking up. Some histrionic woman was screaming her ovaries off, which made me feel like I was in a combat zone (maybe I’ve been watching too many M*A*S*H reruns lately). Myself, I just comatosed-ly repeated “ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch” and curled into the fetal position until someone pumped Fentanyl into my IV drip. Unfortunately, just as the pain receded my doctor dropped in to tell me that they had called my mother, and she was waiting for me outside, which nearly induced heart failure.

(My sociopathic mother informed me this past Christmas that she’d like a “trial separation” from my sister and me, “just for a year” because she felt “unappreciated” and “taken advantage of.” From a woman whose highlight reel includes asking me to help her push my sister down the stairs in hopes of inducing a miscarriage, this was the best holiday present I’ve ever received (even eclipsing the do-it-yourself penis casting kit, not a gift from mom). Since that blessed morning chat six months ago, I’ve moved house without leaving a forwarding address and I work from that new mystery home – basically doing everything I can do to be as Kaiser Soze as possible – so the thought of her waiting for me in recovery almost sent me into hysterics.)

Fortunately, the doctor had apparently only glanced at my good friend/surgical caregiver from the back of a galloping horse on her fly-by before scrubbing in – the postop nurse assured me that it was the same woman who brought me in, who is definitely NOT my mother. (In theory, if Friend had been a very precocious 12-year-old, this situation could have been possible, but likely neither one of us would have successfully reached our current ages if we were thusly related – god knows we get in enough trouble as it is.)

Returning to the recovery room, Friend and I discovered that we were everyone’s favorite Punch-and-Judy team – despite being severely undercaffeinated and doing our very best to restrain our typical patter to “PG-13” rather than “Unrateable.” Our first morning CNA had cracked a joke about my friend being “an easy stick,” paling to a sickly shade when she realized how far from appropriate this was, but immediately signing on as our sidekick as soon as we lustily embraced this appellation. I was frankly impressed that neither of us had adorned anything with flying cock stickers or drawings, despite there being a perfectly good white-board and assortment of markers within easy reach. Mostly, however, I was just enthused by the sensor attached to my finger that glowed like ET’s finger, so I made incoherently obscene alien-appendage jokes until I was sucked back into unconsciousness.

I slept the easy sleep of the recently-deactivated into the early afternoon.

Having no modesty whatsoever, I was an unusually easy patient; I’m sure that helping someone pee who cares who sees her naughty bits is exponentially more difficult. Once I had done so successfully, my kick-ass afternoon nurse – a hulking bald fellow with a penchant for musical theatre jokes – agreed to start the discharge process. When I asked him how long I should wait before taking the garage for a test-drive, he advised two weeks of “vaginal rest.” My raised eyebrow signaling my disagreement, he softened his advice to “nothing too vigorous.” Wouldn’t want to rip the abdominal incisions, mostly…seeping is never sexy.

Twenty-four hours later, I’ve eaten a lot of toast, warded off two very aggressive kittens looking to cuddle with their claws out (which shall be a euphemism for “Tuesday” going forward – warding off aggressive pussy), mostly eked out a day’s work with the help of the Vicodin fairy, and am enthusiastically back to watching M*A*S*H reruns. I should be up to at least half-speed ahead by the weekend, damn the torpedoes, no “consequences” in sight that aren’t treatable with a good course of antibiotics and a tetanus shot or three. Certainly nothing the god of biomechanics won’t let me into heaven for.

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You say three-way, I say “Thursday…”

I’m such a spoiled sexpot.

In this bubble of Portland-privilege that I live in, I forget that for much of the rest of the world, having a threesome is an actual bucket-list item rather than, say, after-dinner entertainment on an ordinary Thursday. From the occasional ads that pop into my Facebook feed from mainstream lad mags (think “Maxim”), I’ve learned it’s apparently the “number one male fantasy.”

I don’t understand why the #1 male fantasy isn’t a perpetually horny partner whose idea of a perfect date is cooking you a steak dinner and watching Die Hard marathons with you while sucking the chrome off your tailpipe, but I’ve gotten used to the fact that most men aim low. (My personal #1 fantasy is someone who would like to drop by, landscape my yard, scrub my stove and plow my lady garden without wanting an actual “relationship” – I’m not holding my breath, though.)

Imbued with such heady significance, it’s hardly surprising that for your average non-Cascadian muggle, the actual experience of a ménage-a-trois hardly lives up to the fancy French name (contrary to the experience of escargot, which is much more explosively delicious than even its exotic name implies). I hear tales of girlfriends caterwauling so loudly during such a girls-gone-wrong episode that they’ve been kicked out of hotels, of relationships ending over just the serious conversations about such an encounter, and of simmering resentment that subsequently seasoned every miserable interaction between previously “content” couples. I’ve never been a part of any truly disastrous first dip into the poly pool, but this is largely because there’s only one acceptable answer to my screening question:

“Why do you want to have a threesome with me?”

Now, I hear quite a few variations on essentially the same wrong answer to this inquiry, including “it’s my boyfriend’s birthday/bar mitzvah/graduation/retirement/13-year-sobriety celebration,” particularly if wheedling girlfriend has thus far demonstrated her minimal capacity for self-assurance by pouting through cocktails with one old college girlfriend with Jessica-Rabbit-worthy midlife-crisis “enhancements.” It’s a virtual certainty that upping the ante on this will end with ladyfriend locked in the powder room, sobbing and vaguebooking, while birthday boy apologizes profusely and sucks up 8x surge pricing to assure the arrival of a Uber removal vehicle as quickly as possible.

If you yourself are not enthusiastic to get naked with my bad ass, I am never climbing into your bed. Period. Not with you, not with your boyfriend, not in a box, not even for some of that spectacularly lovely lox from the deli around the corner with the pickled beets…. I digress.

Many well-executed novice threesomes – that is, experiences that are magically delicious for all the exotic creatures involved – involve an established couple and a unicorn. Ideally, the established partnership has excellent communication skills with each other — and both partners desire and respect the solo player. A threesome, like a baby, is an incredibly shitty way to save your floundering relationship; one partner’s passive-aggressive assent is truly only going to result in sleepless nights full of resentful tears and trips to the marriage counselor while at least one of you fantasizes about running away to join the Peace Corps.

Many poorly-executed novice M-F-F threesomes involve arbitrary, completely unenforceable “rules” of the Pretty Woman “no kissing” variety, essentially designed to ensure that the takeaway experience is as non-intimate as possible with the extra woman. This won’t make man-player less aroused. It will definitely not accomplish your nefarious plan to prove that the experience is “not all it’s cracked up to be” and that you are definitely the best girlfriend ever just for giving it the ol’ half-assed college try. Regardless of how much you dehumanize that lady, the moment your mouths are both around his pork sword he will elevate that moment to first-track playback in his spank bank for perpetuity. Rest assured that you will have to endure aural, enthusiastic recollection about its majesty ever time he has three whiskey sodas for the rest of your relationship…fortunately, that likely won’t be too long.

I’m not for a second implying it’s not fine to have rules and boundaries. But there’s a chasm of distance between “use condoms” or “if anyone’s uncomfortable, we can all stop anytime and go right back to eating shortbread and watching Robin Williams” and “No kissing!” “No hugging!” “No hitting above the neck!” (OK, maybe the last is a fair limitation, unless you met at amateur bondage night or a Three Stooges fan-con.) But for chrissake, use your grown-up words and try actually articulating your concerns (from “what if I fart on you, would that be weird or cool?” to “I would prefer not to perform cunnilingus on you – I’ve never done it and vaginas kind of scare me“ to “what’s your disease status, and your reproductive prevention plan?”). If you can’t manage to have those conversations, even after a fortifying/lubricating cocktail or two, you have no goddamned business screwing around with someone else’s genitals – or feelings.

On the other hand, if you can correctly answer the gatekeeper question with “because we both really, really want to have steam-the-paint-off screaming sex/make sweet Barry White love/explore our mutual interest in making furry porn with you,” or some reasonable variation of that sentiment, I would just love to join you for a cocktail. I mean, it IS Thursday.