TMI Thursday – The worst sex I didn’t know I was having
Welcome to TMI Thursday. As Lilu says ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
Pam, for the love of all that is holy, please don’t read this. Go along your business. K, thanks.
When I was in college, I dated a wonderful guy (well, he’s wonderful now) named Lee. We were in love and it was gross. And then we broke up. That was his choice, not mine. A choice that he regrets TO THIS DAY, so in the end, I win.
After Lee and I broke up, I started going out with this guy named Patrick. In all honesty, Patrick was lovely. He was cute and sweet and very nice. That was his problem though. He was too nice and I stomped all over him, partly because I was on the rebound and I was a terror, and partly just because I could. I never said that I was a nice girlfriend. I kind of used my power for evil. I convinced him to drive from Maine down to Connecticut to pick me up so we could return to college in upstate New York. Told you.
Anyway, Patrick was nice and I enjoyed having his company. That was only when I wasn’t crying about Lee. One night, Patrick and I were in my dorm room, in the tiny little college bed and we were going to be having the sexy times. Or something like that. He’s kissing me, I’m kissing him and it’s all fine. I hadn’t seen his boyparts yet, so really I had no idea what to expect.
Patrick then starts making noises. Sex noises. As far as I knew, we were not having sex. Then I looked down and guess what? WE WERE. His junk was so…tiny and small that I had no idea that I was having sex. Not even a little bit.
I don’t think that I’m so much of a whore that I don’t know what I’m doing with my parts. I am aware. I can feel things – just in case you wanted to know. But this I could not feel. AT ALL.
So I faked having sex with him. Which is something I had never had to do before then and never had to do since. I’ve faked enjoying sex, but never the entire act. It was weird and awkward and I was totally overdoing it because I have no idea how to fake something entirely. But he bought it and that was that.
That was the first and last time that I slept with him. I broke up with him a few days later, after drinking enough rum to kill someone. I then slipped and slid down a muddy hill on my ass after telling him that he should just stop talking to me. That’s karma.
I haven’t heard from Patrick since our sophomore year in college, when my friend/his roommate Matt commanded him to walk me home from a party once. It was an awkward walk and he kept on telling me what a bitch I was. Thank you Patrick, I am aware.
The last time I knew, he was engaged to someone? But really, that could have been a lie too.
I thought about this post because I recently had some sexy times with some guy…that said nothing during sex. Nothing. There were no noises or moans or heavy breathing and for a while I thought maybe he was dead. He didn’t seem to be into it, but every time I sort of…glared at him, he said he was having fun. REALLY? IS THAT SO? ACT LIKE IT. I CANNOT READ YOUR MIND. It really shook my confidence because you know, I’ve never had to deal with that either.
Thanks to his twatwaffle like behavior (not just during the sexy times, but in all the other times where he was like “oh yeah, I like you” but secretly did not or something THANKS TIM), he has now become the boy that I had the worst sex with ever. The worst sex that I knew that I was having.
TMI Thursday – It kind of looks like a foot
Honestly, I have nothing but time in my life, but I don’t update my blog anymore because…well, there is no reason. I should really start updating again. Not that anything good is happening (I did go on an interview though!) but mostly to keep myself amused.
Anyway.
Here’s my TMI Thursday story. Lilu encourages us to share some sort of icky thing…and this one is special. Pam, stop reading now. I mean it. You stop.
So when I first got into online dating, I started on a free website. That was probably my first mistake, but what did I know? I talked to several guys and not a one of them was decent. That’s neither here nor there. I did talk to a guy that lived in my hometown.
We ended up meeting up one night. He was nice and funny and kind of cute. He was in his mid-30s and owned his own business and he made me laugh. When it comes to boys, making me laugh is important.
We continued to talk and IM after that. One night, we were talking online about something. It might have been sex. It might have been something else entirely. My cell phone told me I had a text message. He told me that he had sent me something.
Here was where that little voice in your head that says “WHAT THE FUCK?!” should have been screaming. I guess it took the night off. What could he possibly send me via text message that he couldn’t just say on the interwebs?
Oh, that’s right. A picture of his manjunk. And somehow, in the picture of his manjunk, he’s included his face.
Why thank you, weird guy from the internet, just what I wanted.
I was kind of shocked by that. I didn’t ask for any pictures of anyone’s parts and there it was, staring me in the face. Also, exactly what can a picture of junk on my cell phone’s tiny little screen do for me? It’s not like it’s to scale or something.
After that, I went to bed. I couldn’t process what was going on and I just needed to recharge.
The next day, I was dying to tell someone what went down. I mean, how could I not share this? I was out to lunch with one of my friends and I told him the story. I had to. As we were sitting in the car eating lunch (classy!), he asked me to show him the picture. He told me he didn’t want to look at it, but because I had explained the funny angle, he needed to see it himself. Bless his heart.
His reaction? “Well, it kind of looks like a foot….”
And weird guy from the internet was dubbed Footweiner McLovin’.
It became a big joke to forward the penis picture to unsuspecting men that I knew. You know, the ones that get really uncomfortable when you suggest that they are gay. So I did that for a while before deleting the picture entirely. I probably should have kept it though. Footweiner did want to get into politics and really – it would have been a good scandal. You don’t send pictures of your boyparts to girls you don’t know.
Or you do because you’re an idiot. Whichever.
TMI Thursday: Excuse you?
Lilu encourages all to join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
I’ve been saving this story for a while. Pam, I suggest you stop reading now. Like really. Please go.
Okay, a long long time ago, I was sleeping with someone. I KNOW! Amazing. Those were the days. I think back on them fondly. We had just gotten home from dinner (which was super good and tasty and fabulous) and decided it was time for sexy times.
You know how that goes.
He’s getting sexy and I’m getting sexy and whooo, clothes are coming off. He starts kissing my..uhh..parts..and then he burps. In my parts. HE BURPED IN MY LADYPOCKET.
It took me a minute to process what the hell just happened there, but once I did, I could not stop laughing. Who does that? I asked him what the hell that was all about and he told me that dinner was good.
I figured that out, buddy. After that moment, sexytimes were ruined and I was more content to lie in bed and continue laughing. Also to file this story away in my brain for TMI Thursday. That’s how I operate now and that might be a problem.
Then again, maybe not.
Oh, so that’s a city in Germany?
Maybe you have heard of Lilu. She does this thing called TMI Thursday. My story isn’t as stellar as any of her stories are…but whatever.
(Also, if I was as cool as her, I would have 6 trillion readers. But I’m not.)
At least I’m playing the game.
I usually have nothing to contribute to TMI Thursday. I just don’t have that many gross things happening to me. And this story isn’t even about me, it’s about my family. And it’s pretty embarrassing and OMG, my family should probably be locked away somewhere.
In my family, my brothers and my dad like to fart. A lot. Like more than normal human beings. These aren’t just normal everyday farts, these are massive ones. Sometimes they blame on each other or on the dog. But if they are really feeling special, they blame it on a mouse. In their minds, there’s a mouse that runs around our house, farting. Just to confuse everyone. I don’t get it either. My mom has no sense of humor, so she thinks that there really is a mouse. I can’t tell you how many times that I’ve explained to her that it is NOT REAL and she shouldn’t expect the cat to find it. Because you know – imaginary.
When the massive fart isn’t being blamed on a nonexistant animal, something called a “fart walk” is taken. (Additional fun fact: after a large meal for Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter, everyone goes on something called a “wanderloo”. Basically you take your drink and you walk until you don’t feel like you’re going to puke.) It’s exactly what it sounds like – they announce to whoever can hear that they are going on a “fart walk” and off they go to take the toxic fumes in the other room. It’s disgusting, but at least it’s better than when we’re all in the car and my dad and W see who can make the smelliest fart. That’s followed by the phrase “take a big whiff”. NO THANK YOU.
As I’ve mentioned before, my brother J is autistic. This doesn’t stop him from playing the fart walk game. For some reason, one we can’t figure out, he can’t say fart walk. He can say those two words, but just not together. Instead, J calls them fartlicks.
Fart. Licks.
I was thinking about that last night and I couldn’t stop laughing. W came into the living room and asked me what I was thinking about and I told him. This prompted him to sing a song called “I’m going to Fartlick, Tennessee” and dance around the living room.
I told him Fartlick was a city in Germany.
He said “Really? It is?”
No, not really. This kid is going to college in the fall. I sort of think he’s doomed.
I don’t care how close we are…
I would hardly consider myself a prude. I like sex. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. I’m pretty open about sex – having it, not having it, people you would like to sleep with, people you wish you never slept with – whatever. I have some friends that like talking about it and then some interesting stuff comes out (that’s what she said).
However.
I got the evite to my cousin Heather’s bachelorette party and on the evite it said to “bring something for Heather to use on her wedding night or honeymoon”.
EW
This is my cousin. Yes, she’s 27 and I know she’s sleeping with her future husband and they have been living together for years – but – she still is my cousin. And my two other cousins, Jess, who is soon to be 21 and Lauren, who is soon to be 18, are going to be there. And really? Talking about sex with cousins is awkward times.
I would have less of a problem with it if it was one of my friends. I’m not entirely sure why. Possibly because they aren’t related? Regardless, I’m really grossed out by this idea and I just don’t want to play along. I really DON’T want to bring something for Heather to use after she gets married.
Besides, I’m sure that they have used lots of things already and WHY DO I SPEAK? STOP IT, SELF.
Maybe this is why I don’t like bachelorette parties? Maybe mine will be different? Of course, to have a bachelorette party, you need someone to want to marry you and I’m not there yet. And I probably won’t ever be. Anyway. Not the point.
I don’t get why we have to emphasize the sex at this party. We know that they are having sex. We’re on to it. The percentage of people that wait until they are married is so tiny that I don’t even understand why we act like everyone’s not having sex. People are having sex! Not me, but like I said – that’s neither here nor there.
I’m just totally grossed out by this entire concept. Also, I have no idea what to get her. Since I’m going, I should probably play into this nonsense – and what do you get a girl that has it all? (Or maybe has it all. I don’t know, I don’t talk sex with my cousins. I mean, that’s the problem)
And – this is the important part – if anyone ANYONE does this for me when I get married, I’m going to murder each and every one of you in a special way, okay? We’re not doing this for anything I’m getting involved in. DO YOU HEAR?
Uh, so…what do I get her? Anyone?
Training session 3 – the one where I get hurt
Okay training session 3. I was all ready to go. I was like…bouncy pants. I left work, I was excited and I made it almost on time (srsly rt 7).
So I did my warm up on the bike and Lisa the Trainer said “oh look, STAIRS”. We went to the stairs. First I was running up and down two sets of stairs. For a while. I don’t know how long. It made me nervous though because the stairs were short (meaning that my entire foot didn’t fit on the stair) and I was worried as I bounded down the stairs that I would fall on my face.
Lisa the Trainer told me that she would catch me and I called her a liar.
Then I was supposed to run up the stairs 2 at a time. So I did. I kept on thinking I was going to fall on my face and then I would break my teeth and then I would have to go to the dentist and I would cry and OMG how could I be that much of a fail? These are great things to think as you’re running up the stairs. I highly recommend it.
After we were done running up and down and NOT FALLING down the stairs, we went back into the gym to do some more squats. Which I totally love. Sort of. Maybe. Anyway, I started doing squats with the 10 pound medicine ball when all of the sudden I started to get a stabby pain in my butt. I ignored it at first because I thought maybe it was just a stabby pain and that was that.
HA. WRONG.
I did a few more squats. Pain got worse. I told Lisa the Trainer. She was like “okay, we’re done with this. Now we’re going to stretch”. That meant that I was lying on the ground and she was pushing my legs in all sorts of directions and massaging my butt. It was sexy for real.
Actually, her rubbing my butt was the most action I’ve gotten in a long time. Which is sad. And I wanted to tell her that but I figured that might be a little inappropriate.
(And since her trying to make the muscles in my butt stop seizing up was like…you know, the most anyone’s touched my butt in months, going to see the lady pocket doctor is going to be like…whoa. I’m going to need to lie down after that.)
(Ew)
Lisa the Trainer kept on stretching my legs, asking me what hurt and where and how bad. Then she cracked my back by accident…which was awesome. She told me to call or text her today and let her know how my butt feels and if it was still tight I could come back in and she would stretch it out again.
So far it feels pretty okay. I stretched more last night and again this morning and I’ll stretch again when I get home and let her know.
I walked out of the gym with my head held high…at least until Lisa the Trainer couldn’t see me anymore. And then I started crying. A lot. I felt so dumb and lame and just stupid and fat when that happened. I’m not totally a work out fiend, but I work out enough that I feel like that shouldn’t have happened. Granted, I don’t run up stairs 2 at a time, but still. It was just really discouraging. And I know. I know my body doesn’t want me to work as hard as I’m making it work. I know that those muscles aren’t being used all the time. But I felt like a real failure. I know Lisa the Trainer could sense it. She kept on telling me that it was okay and that stuff like this happens and she gave me a big hug when I left. I know it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but still. I just felt like although training hasn’t been easy, it hasn’t killed me either.
I called Lilo once I got into my car and I started crying to her. I was so overwhelmingly upset about something that is seemingly so dumb. Then I got upset about the fact that I was upset. So I kept on crying.
I finally pulled myself together and went on with my night. As I said before, I feel fine now, mostly. I know that there was nothing I could do to prevent what happens and I fear that it might happen again. I’m not giving up though. I’m just going to try harder and hope that my body wants to play along with me too.
Whoa…close call
Last night was a close one. I almost got back together…with hummus.
What’s wrong with hummus? Well, nothing really, I suppose. Before I started this job, I was sitting on the couch, eating hummus and carrots with Pam. Delightful! What a good way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
WRONG.
I then got the flu or something terrible and nasty. I don’t have to go into details. I think you all can figure it out. Regardless, humus wasn’t so tasty the second time. Ever since then, I have not had humus because I know that I will remember that fun fun time.
Last night I was at the grocery store, looking to things to put on my wrap and my defenses were down. I saw the hummus and I thought “HOW TASTY!” and right before I picked it up, I remember the utter hell I went through. I turned and walked away from the hummus. It will not ruin my night again.
I hope that one day I can be back on speaking terms with hummus one day, but I’m not sure. Considering my history with things that at one point I had too much of…like Captain Morgan, tequila, sugar cookies, cinnamon flavored liquors.…I really hope hummus doesn’t end up there. But if it does, please know it’s not because I don’t love you hummus.
It’s because I loved you too much and then I puked.
It’s time for a funny post
Lilo told me she likes it when I blog funny things that make her pee her pants. So Lilo…and pretty much everyone else that personally knows me…you know this story. At least the first part.
This is me. I can’t even tell you how old I am in that picture. But you get the idea. I was adorable and blonde and very cute. Imagine me as the same adorable blonde little girl, all dressed up for Easter. I had on a frilly pink dress and white tights and my hair was in pigtails and I was all looking like a dream. I was the first grandchild on my dad’s side, so I had 7 aunts and uncles that were totally in love with me, plus my grandparents. I was the star. They would do all sorts of things for me. This included an Easter egg hunt. My aunts and uncles hid over 100 plastic Easter eggs. My mission was to go and find them. They weren’t hidden in hard places, I’m guessing most of them were very visable. But whatever. I was 4.
The story goes that I ran full speed off my grandparents deck, got about 10 feet, decided that I couldn’t find any eggs…and threw a tantrum. I got dirt all over my dress, ripped my tights and generally was a little brat. And since this was the 80′s, it’s all captured on film. God, I’m so charming.
I have yet to see this video, but I know that it exists. I am afraid that one day someone will find it and then I’ll be ruined. Or something. I make it my point to tell people embarassing stories about me before anyone else in my family can. This is just one of many.
I bring this up because I was talking about Easter with my aunt Missy, my dad and my grandma today. I don’t remember how we got on the topic, but I asked if we were hiding eggs this year. My youngest cousin is 5, so we would only be hiding eggs for him. Missy suggested that the kids hide eggs for the adults because – I don’t know, why not? Missy said that if they did, I didn’t throw a fit and actually look for the eggs this time. My dad suggested that it would be as awesome as the year that they hid mugs of beer. I stared at him. “Mugs of beer? You hid mugs of beer…ON EASTER?”
“Oh yeah, that was fun.”
They had a keg. On Easter. A KEG. My grandma gets upset when I don’t go to church or I eat meat on Fridays during Lent and they had a keg on Easter and that was okay. What the hell guys? The thing about my family is that they drink. A lot. A lot a lot. Perhaps that’s where I get my mad drinking skillz from. Missy told me I could most likely drink her under the table and I believe she’s right. The fact that a 30 rack or two wouldn’t cut it for a religious holiday in my family is just amazing. We don’t have a keg on Thanksgiving or Christmas or any other holiday (except Georgestock, which isn’t a holiday but merely a weekend that makes us all alcoholics). Why on Easter? I don’t recall this Easter, so I just have been a young child. I don’t think that’s something I should have been exposed to. But I was.
This is why my family is insane. My dad’s brothers and sisters all just egg each other on. They all drink like it’s what they were put on this planet to do. My uncle David used to give me a dollar if I could run and get him a beer (the silver and white one!) in under 30 seconds. I had contests with my uncle Al to see who could keep their arm in the ice water surrounding the keg longer. I can tell you now this is not a fun game. This past year I had put 12 of the blue moon pumpkin ales in the container with the keg so that they could keep cold. Instead, they sunk under the keg. I had to stick my arm in there, like up to my shoulder, in order to get them out. That water is freaking cold. I don’t know how I managed to win against my uncle Al when I was younger, but man, I must have been tough.
I learned how to tap a keg and how to pour a beer with no head. I can make some mean mixed drinks. It took me a long time to figure out THIS IS NOT NORMAL. But of course, it was what I thought to be normal. It’s amazing that I’m as sane as I am. They are all crazy. Seriously.
So Easter is just around the corner and I’m sure something will be hidden. I don’t know if it’s going to be booze or eggs or candy or we’re just going to keep all the kids in a room for 45 minutes, tell them we’re planning something and actually not do anything. It’s a real toss up that could go any of those ways or a completely different way.
As much as I would really like to pretend that this is the last story of me being a little brat and ruining everything, it’s so not. According to my mom, I used to ruin the fun for my cousins because I used to wet my pants. So. There’s another overshare and now you all can think the best of me. Or the worst. Or just hope that one day I start telling more stories of me being my charming self.
Possibly an overshare. Be prepared
I don’t do a TMI Thursday or anything, but if I did, this would be my TMI Thursday entry. On a Wednesday. Don’t tell.
You may or may not know that I am addicted to google reader. Like a lot. So far as it might be my excuse to not do work during the day. I’m always finding new blogs and reading them. One of the blogs I just started following is about food. The post today was about Burger King and the fact that their new burgers, called “burger shots” may be inappropriately named. Why? This is what a burger shot is, according to urban dictionary.
And I’ve been burger shot. By A. And I still talked to him afterwards.
A was over at my house while we were still dating. We were playing mario kart on the wii and I was kicking his ass up and down every track because HE SUCKS AT THAT GAME. I also might have been shoving him off the couch. Maybe. So after I had beat him for the 6,793th time, I decided he had been beat enough for the day and we could continue on with our lives. I took his controller and my controller and went to put them on top of the TV. A was still sitting on the couch. I turn to walk back to him. He goes to headbutt me…right in my ladypocket. I’ve asked him why he thought headbutting me in the ladypocket was a good idea. He doesn’t know. Regardless, when he headbutts me…disaster strikes. You know how on your jeans, there’s that part where the bottom of your zipper means the seam in the middle of your pants and it’s like, a little hard nubbin part? That part? Right into my ladybutton. HARD. So hard that my legs drop out from under me and I hit the floor. A starts laughing so hard, he falls off the couch and he’s rolling around on the floor. Laughing. I’m rolling around on the floor in some massive amounts of pain. I think I threatened to kill him. I yelled “WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA??!” and tried to hit him, except my entire body had called it quits. And that, my friends, is a burger shot. It is not fun. I would not reccomend it.
A then went on to tell his friends that he punched his girlfriend right in the ladypocket and she was cool with it. His friends thought I had to be the most amazing person ever, not only because I dated A, but because he smacked me in my cooter and I didn’t care.
It then became a threat. It became “if you don’t do this thing, you’re going to get punched in the pocket”. I started telling other people that I would punch them in their pockets. It was one of the reasons that I listed on A’s Valentine’s Day card for why he was deserving of the card. So when I read about the burger shots today, I IM’d him right away. He was amazed. He told me to blog about my ladypocket punch and here I am, blogging away.
There was also another time when I introduced him to the term papaya stamp. I did not GIVE him a papaya stamp…but I let him know that such a thing existed. The magic of urban dictionary is apparently lost on A, if it wasn’t for me, being helpful and awesome, as usual.
