Monthly Archives: February 2016

Sleeping Booty

His arm shot out like a chest-burster, hand landing squarely on my head, fingers beginning to knead my cranium like he was testing a cantaloupe for ripeness. I let him practice amateur phrenology for about 45 seconds before I flipped over and butt-snuggled him until another limb’s interest took precedence over his zombie arm.

This isn’t unusual as Man-Friend falls asleep: he’s a twitcher, and his snap-reflexes are sharp and violent enough that I’ve learned the hard way not to doze off with my face anywhere near his fists or elbows.

Yesterday, he fell asleep on the couch, head propped up on his own hand. I thought I woke him by snorting and then choking on my vodka tonic, laughing, after he twitch-punched himself in the temple (which also did not wake him). As it was, with him slumbering peacefully atop the remote control, I remained trapped watching a marathon of “The 72 most deadly Australian animals,” which is 1. an actual show, and 2. surprisingly light on the arachnids and heavy on the marsupials.

Now, I’m lousy to sleep with, so I am frankly thrilled to have anything to balance the scales. I snore, I blanket-steal, and I vacillate from scorching radiator to heat-sucking ice pop. Oh, and I sleep like the dead. In college, I slept through numerous fire alarms, despite the siren being mounted on the dorm wall 10 feet from my unconscious ears. I slept peacefully through the marching band that high-stepped past my first-floor window at 8 a.m. Saturday mornings, as I was just falling asleep from my job as a night-shift waitress. More than once, I fell asleep in the shower – the communal showers, separated by curtains – leaning up against the wall. Only once did I remain asleep for a number of hours, until I awoke to conversation; others from the dorm had entered the shower stalls and were, ironically, speculating on my probably-revolting personal hygiene habits, since they had never seen me take a shower (normal college students aren’t awake at 5 a.m., my customary scheduled window for scrubbing fry stench off my skin and anticipating three glorious hours of shuteye before class).

I finally quit the all-night diner gig, despite its lucrative income stream, when I realized that I had mastered the art of sleepwalking…through my “waking” hours. In addition to making plans I didn’t remember (or keep), one of my proudest episodes included coercing some fellow acting students to rifle through the student center lockers with me in search of a bag of potatoes (so I could make the french fries, of course). I said goodbye for good when I realized I had actually started dating someone while sleeping: one afternoon after Voice and Movement class (during which I had neither spoken nor moved, having fallen asleep during warm-up meditation), a classmate asked me if I was coming back to his place. Confused, I inquired if that was a really half-assed pickup line, or if we had made some sort of plans (which by now I was used to not remembering). Somewhat woundedly, he replied that I had come home with him on the last three Thursdays – had he done something wrong? The 10-block walk was appreciably awkward, as was the realization that I knew that when I opened the fridge there would be only Mountain Dew and ketchup (lucky guess?) and the freezer would contain mint chocolate chip ice cream. When the sex felt distinctly familiar, however, I grudgingly admitted that third-shift work was not within my purview.

Super-somnambulism also allowed me to stay in a years-too-long relationship, a decade later, with the Jackrabbit. This prize package, who coincidentally also worked nights, was chronically cranked up on Monster energy drink and coming up with new ways to be a better twelve-year-old boy. We had two different sizes of homemade giant Jenga (to test which was best for play, of course), enough camping gear that we were never going to lose any of our players to exposure on the Oregon Trail, and sufficient Guitar Hero paraphernalia to replicate any of Arcade Fire’s greatest hits in our basement. All of these pursuits were fair game at 3:30 a.m., as were amorous overtures. Despite my affection for sexual congress, it is roundly defeated by my addiction to sleep, and Jackrabbit was rarely successful in (a)rousing me – resulting in a very pouty partner who hadn’t dipped his lick stick in weeks. Eventually we settled on a compromise position: he was free to have sex with me at any hour – if he didn’t wake me up.

This arrangement proved surprisingly successful. Jackrabbit had earned his moniker not only for his over-caffeination but also for his monotonous, hour-plus concrete-breaking sexual endurance. As someone who needs approximately 94 good seconds of penetration to climax, I was not a great match; generally I started bitching (and smoking from friction) at around 20 minutes – tops. Permission to slumber straight through 68+ minutes of that was like a papal pardoning for me, and allowed him to hammer away until he slipped a disk or finally found the focus to work up an orgasm. Sleep-coma sex worked out pretty well until I finally got around to riding that blind, cancer-riddled relationship out to the farm to live with the other sick horses.

So Man-Friend’s grabby twitches, despite the occasional accidental Heimlich performance, both amuse me and make me feel he’s ever-so-slightly competitively fucked-up in the sleep habit department. Besides, I hardly ever fall asleep during sex these days.

After getting the impromptu scalp massage, I giggled myself to sleep when the old Jewish couple from the end of When Harry Met Sally popped into my head, explaining the beginning of their 40-year-successful marriage in thick Brooklyn accents: “I knew the way you know about a good melon.”




Last Chance for Ass

Today’s blog is from a special guest contributor who truly understands the Relax Your Face ethos. Enjoy!


My story begins in El Paso, Texas, a few weeks before I embarked on an all-expenses-paid trip to Afghanistan for the better part of a year. Since it was July 4th weekend, I had a four-day pass (read: last opportunity to drink, fuck, and do anything else soldiers love). I spent most of my 96 hours of freedom bouncing between alcohol-fueled shenanigans and alcohol-induced dementia. Most of the roughly 200 deploying soldiers were staying at the same hotel and it remains an unexplained mystery how no one was kicked out; a sampling of the weekend’s offerings included skinny dipping in the fountain, crashing a wedding reception, vandalizing the elevator camera (in order to have sex in the elevator), and 5 a.m. pool parties, for starters.

It was Saturday night: our last evening for debauchery. Everyone was in rough shape from the previous three days, but my buddy Mike and I decided to rally and take a cab downtown. We had only one goal: find someone to pleasure our soon-to-be-very-lonely genitals.

11:00 pm: Bar #1. We arrive and start downing vodka+Red Bulls in an attempt to remain both tipsy and awake.

11:30 pm: We determine there are no promising “prospects” at Bar #1. Change course, move down the street. Embark on new flight path.

11:45 pm: Bar #2. This place appears to be more promising. Consume more vodka+Red Bulls, acquire shots, commence conversations with pretty girls.

12:30 am: We are both drunk and tired. Despite dancing and socializing with few prospects, no one seems inclined to head back to the hotel with either of us. Examine our options.

1:00 am: There is only one solution: more alcohol and lower standards. New course set…engage.

1:30 am: Two girls we started talking to at about midnight are starting to look attractive and they seem interested. Perfect. Maintain course.

2:00 am: They offer us a ride back to the hotel. Cram into the backseat, maneuvering soldier-size arms and legs into every tiny inch of real estate not occupied by a car seat.

2:15 am: Make a quick stop for sustenance (the only time Taco Bell is ever an appropriate choice of nutrition). Steady course.

2:45 am: We arrive at the hotel. Despite the hour, there are still a couple of our most strong-livered friends on the pool deck. They’re draped around a table, which boasts a mountain of empty bottles and cans teetering on the brink of a cascade. They have reached a historic level of inebriation. We socialize as briefly as politeness allows – approach maneuvers complete.

3:30 am: Mike and his date head to the relative seclusion of the outdoor hot tub.

3:45 am: Pants down, head up: Mike’s date is blowing him on the pool deck. I suggest to my own date that we “go get some sleep” and we head to my room. Landing zone in sight.

4:00 am: My date is being a little shy. I gather my last bit of energy to persevere. I give thanks to the god of Red Bull and flight.

4:15 am: Coming in for the approach. I hear the sound of water dripping and briefly consider that this is unusual for a balcony room during a very dry July. Fuck it, maintenance issues aren’t going to stop me now.

4:20 am: The dripping now sounds like a small waterfall. Whatever, clothes are coming off. Beginning final descent, coming in hard, balls to the wall.

4:25 am: Her hand is on my cock when she asks, “what is that sound?” I tell her it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t accept this answer. I snap on the bedside lamp to investigate and find Niagara Fucking Falls cascading into the foyer through what used to be the hall light fixture. The water is already about two inches deep in the entryway and bathroom, and is starting to gush into the hallway towards the main room. I have brought no snorkeling gear on this mission and am not prepared for a water landing.

4:35 am: There are no other available rooms. The concierge is “very sorry.” Wave off, wave off, wave off.

4:45 am: I am sex-less, sleep-less, room-less, and knocking on Mike’s door asking to share his bed. Hooah.

The End.


It should be noted that the fine gentleman protagonist who spawned the Relax Your Face blog itself is today’s guest author and the protagonist of this story.

Imagine my surprise when I ran into him after a number of years and sheepishly admitted to running a blog dedicated to godawful dating stories inspired by his antics – and my delight when he volunteered his own fantastic contribution. Thank you, my good-spirited friend!