Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 2

23 08 2012

So, if you were here yesterday and you read Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1, you should have a pretty good idea that we will be covering some delicate territory today, and by delicate territory I mean where your poop comes out. I would like to warn my readers that today we’re going to be moving into an NC-17 rated or maybe even X-rated topic just because I think what happened on my date with Man #33 needs some discussion…

…and I need a cocktail.

I don’t care what you say. Part of the reason I have a blog is so I don’t have to deal with this shit alone. You should go mix yourself a cocktail too.

I’ll take a break here while people get their drinks and anyone who hasn’t read Man #33, Part 1 goes and gets up to speed. After reading Part 1, you have a choice. You can either continue reading at your own risk, or you can opt out until tomorrow when I will be posting pictures of kittens.

Not!

So, where were we?

Oh, yes. Man #33 and I were conversing at Starbuck’s when he suddenly asked me if I would be willing to stick a finger in his ass.

Then I promptly shot chai out of my nose. You might say I was unprepared for the question.

And this, THIS, male readers, THIS is why I hate being asked on a coffee date. It’s not because I’m some prissy bitch who thinks a man needs to spend a bunch of money on dinner. It’s because this is the kind of shit that happens on coffee dates. Coffee dates are for freaky, little men who put as little effort as possible into trying to get laid. They’re for men who are not interested in a relationship and who can’t be bothered trying to impress a woman with dinner, because these men really just want to get fucked in some odd fashion.

I have had several girlfriends tell me they were propositioned for sex in the most inappropriate, why-don’t-you-just-go-pay-a -prostitute way, after merely having coffee with a guy. Even from my own dating chronicles I’ve had two coffee dates now that have turned almost immediately inappropriate, Man #26, The “Masseur” and Man #33, Sphincter Probing Guy. I can understand that dating can be rough on men’s wallets, but the coffee date just reeks of a cheap creep who has some freaky thing he wants to ask for or do and just doesn’t give a shit.

And guys, don’t get all pissy with me for despising the coffee date. Get pissed at your stupid brethren with no game who have fucked up the coffee date for the rest of you. It’s their fault, not mine.

Whew! Ok. Now that I have that off my chest, you might be wondering how I responded to Man #33.

Well, first, I wiped chai from my nose, and since shooting hot chai into the upper regions of my nasal cavity made my eyes water a little, I had to dry my eyes too. Then, with my usual sarcasm sort of stunned out of me, but still inappropriately laughing on the inside, I dryly said, “No, I can’t do that for you,” while trying not to laugh because that would have forced more chai up my nose.

“Ok,” he said, “I had to ask.”

It was strange. He looked so normal. I scrunched up my brow, looked at him quizzically for a second, and asked, “Does this usually work for you?”

“Not usually, but sometimes,” he said.

And there you have it. The fact that occasionally Man #33 will find a woman who is willing to stick a finger in his ass has given him the “confidence” (I’m not sure that’s the right word) to go out on coffee dates and ask women to probe him.

My friend, Sam, asked if he was German.

“He seems very efficient,” she said, “if it’s something he has to have, it’s probably better to ask right away than get 6 dates in and find out the woman won’t do it.”

True enough.

After my date with Man #33, I got to thinking about this ass probing thing. Obviously, this is something that is so important to Man #33 that he has dropped any sense of social decorum, and while, publicly, most heterosexual men act all bravado and jittery about having things stuck up their asses, privately, I am hearing about men wanting this more and more.

I also have enough gay friends to know that the male g-spot can best be accessed via the anus, and stimulating it when a man is about to cum can give him one powerful orgasm.

If I actually chose to wield that kind of power, I might scare myself. (Sorry. That was my inside voice.)

At this point, I’m not saying I’m pro or con to sticking a finger in a man’s ass. I have to think this through. Come along with me on my thought process, please, and bring your cocktail. You’re going to need it.

So, going back to what I know from my gay friends, I know enough to know that a prostate or male g-spot orgasm is supposed to be the best. It’s supposed to make a man’s orgasm stronger and more intense. However, what I have also heard is that in the midst of male-on-male lovemaking things can start to smell…well…a little shitty.

Now, again, from conversations with my gay friends, I know there are some preparatory things that can be done to make everything a little more presentable and pleasant, maybe a shower, maybe some waxing or a shave, maybe some anal bleaching, maybe an enema…maybe you don’t eat the frijoles at the Mexican restaurant. You see what I mean, right?

And here’s my problem. Half the time heterosexual men can’t even be trusted to shower their sweaty ball sack before asking for a blow job. How the hell can we expect that they will wipe their ass, let alone have an enema, before asking you to stick a finger up their butt?

And, I realize that not all homosexual men take these steps either, but I do know that they tend to pay a lot more attention to making the ass presentable than their hetero counterparts.

It’s all about hygiene, people…and orgasms…, which brings me to another thought. What is the best way to stick a finger in a man’s ass when having sex without sacrificing your own orgasm? Like, let’s say you’re in missionary position…do you reach over the back or under the balls to access the man’s ass? I don’t think my arms are that long. Or, what if you’re on top of him and you try to reach back to stick your finger in his ass? That not only seems somewhat acrobatic, but it would also cause you to lean back, taking friction off of you clit, and again, you might be sacrificing your own orgasm to give him his.

I consulted the Kama Sutra on this and none of the positions are shown with a finger in the man’s ass. I think a sideways, kind of scissor position might work, and make it easy to digitize the sphincter, but then what about my clit? Is it going to get what it needs?

You see, I may not be a prissy bitch, but when it comes to my orgasm, I am a selfish bitch.

And I did a little internet research…if you are reading this at work, I don’t recommend searching for “male g-spot orgasm” or “male prostate massage” and opening any links right now. You could get in big trouble.

But I searched the internet, for how a woman could give a man a g-spot orgasm, and as I suspected, most of what I found were images and videos of men on all fours, hairy ass in the air, junk hanging down, with a woman standing behind them with a huge butt plug and some lube.

See what I mean? Where would my clit be in all of this? Standing behind a man dressed as a dominatrix perhaps.

Hmm.

Not really my thing. That’s not going to be sexy or romantic for me. In fact, standing there, looking at my man (when I finally find one) in such a vulnerable position is probably going to be a huge turn off for me.

Ok, but there are supposedly health reasons for “milking” the prostate.” This is something else you should not Google while at work. Apparently, regular milking of the prostate has benefits that keep the prostate healthy and prevent prostate disease by regularly emptying the contents of the prostate gland. As it turns out, your standard lovemaking ejaculation doesn’t get everything emptied out, but a prostate milking does.

Huh. Well, you want your man to be healthy, right? So is this something you want him to do on his own or do you want to be involved?

So, then I had to give this some thought. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that you are in a relationship where your man is a very giving lover. He goes down on you regularly, and is just as interested in your orgasm as you are. What if you want to return the favor by helping him get a male g-spot orgasm?

So, that question led me to a website called Mangasm. This company sells a wide variety of male sex toys, including prostate stimulators. Now, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I watched a couple of the videos, but, I think, a man could insert one of these gadgets before having sex, do all the things needed to get his girl off, and still get his g-spot orgasm too.

A fucking win-win.

So here’s the bottom line. Asking someone to stick a finger up your ass on a first date is WRONG. However, what two consenting adults choose to do to bring each other pleasure in the privacy of their bedroom is not for me to judge, and obviously there are tools out there to make it happen and still preserve your manicure.

Finally, I feel I need to apologize to my more squeamish readers. Did you know that you can kill a tree using copper nails?

It’s true. Given that copper can kill a whole tree, it’s quite possible that the two weeks that copper penny sat in close proximity to my brain as a toddler has caused some irreparable damage. This may account for the twisted way in which my brain works.

However, a couple of years ago, I took the Myers Briggs Personality Assessment. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before. It turns out I am an INTJ. This is what the description of my personality type says:

INTJ Have original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance – for themselves and others.”

I guess this explains why dual orgasms are so important to me, but it also helps explain why my mind ran through all of these different mangasm possibilities. Wikipedia also has a nice article on the INTJ personality. I’ll just apologize again for how my mind works.

Basically, if we were all sitting around a conference room, trying to decide whether or not to put a finger in a man’s ass, I would be the person, at the last minute, just as everyone else decides to go for it, who will slowly raise a hand and say, “We should get some latex gloves…

…I…have

…a hangnail.”





Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1

22 08 2012

Anyone who has been a parent, and especially the parent of a pre-schooler, knows that at a young age humans start to explore the various orifices of the body.

I, for example, at the young age of 3, decided to put a penny up my nose.

Then, I went to my mom.

“I have a penny in my nose,” I said.

“A what? Where? You put a penny in your nose?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

She tipped my head back, peering into my nostrils. “No you didn’t,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “You put a penny in your nose?”

“I know I have a penny in my nose cuz I put it there,” I said.

“Did you REALLY put a penny in your nose?”

“Nope,” I said definitively.

See that? Changed my story. I figured I would get in trouble, so instead of coming clean and telling my mother I had stuffed a penny up my nose, I lied and let it stay there.

It stayed there for a couple of weeks during which time I had a…”cold.” My mother was concerned because I had the sniffles. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe until one day I let out a big sneeze and the penny flew out of my nose and across the room. Honest to God.

My mother looked at me in shock and disbelief and said, “You DID put a penny up your nose!”

To which I responded, “I told you I did!”

My mother loves telling that story, especially when she’s trying to embarass me. It’s one of her favorites.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and I heard my eldest son, about 5 years old at the time, crying in his room. It wasn’t an “I’m dying. Come save me” cry. It was more like a “I’m so fucked. I’m going to get in trouble” kind of wimper. I opened the door to his bedroom and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I have a rock in my no-o-o-se,” he said in this pathetic, crying sound.

“How did you get a rock in your nose?”

“It was on my be-e-e-e-eddddd,” he said, sobbing.

This is the kind of fucked up shit kids will say when they realize they have done something really stupid, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it. It was the rock’s fault.

“A rock can’t jump from your bed to your nose. Did YOU put a rock in your nose?”

“Uh huuuuuh.”

Let me just say that any park designer who specifies pea gravel as a playground surfacing material needs to be strung up and pelted with said surfacing material until bloodied. You get pea gravel in shoes and then in the house. Kids are constantly throwing pea gravel at each other, and then they go and stick the shit up their noses.

I started muttering obscenities under my breath. Let’s be honest. I’ve never been good at the nurturing mom role. My boys love me; I know they do. Thank God I had boys. They know I love them, but they also know I’m better launching into action in a crisis than I am in minor kissing boo boo scenarios. We have all just come to terms that someday they will need therapy, and it will be all my fault.

“Ok, come on. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I said.

My son got up and followed me, wimpering, into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, I tried to assess the situation. By feeling the outside of his nose, I could tell he had pushed the rock all the way up to the nasal bone. There was no way for me to apply downward pressure to get the thing out. I was silently freaking out, and the last thing I wanted to do was take him to the emergency room. It wasn’t that I was worried about the expense. It was because he did this about a week after his little brother was born. This was one of those regressive kinds of things older siblings do to get attention when the younger, new baby sibling comes home. The last thing I wanted to do was bundle the baby up and haul all of us over to the emergency room.

Luckily, I have a creative mind, I’ve always been a tinkerer, and I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I also grew up in Eastern Montana, out where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. I remembered how the men on the ranch would blow their noses without a handkerchief.

For any of you squeamish folks, I apologize for what is about to follow.

You see, out on the prairie, you just hold one side of your nose, bend over a little at the waist, and blow. The big glob of snot that results is easily flicked off into the wind. So, you see, I brought this prairie wisdom to my situation in the bathroom with my son that day.

“Ok, hold still. I’m going to plug this side of your nose, and I want you to blow as hard as you can. Understand?”

My son nodded at me, still crying, but more calm because Mom had a plan.

“Ok, here we go. BLOW!”

Pfft!

The snotty rock shot out of his nose and pinged around the bathroom. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Success! Fucking amazing!

Now, believe it or not, ALL of my boys have put things in their noses, every single one of them. I don’t know if we all have a gene that predisposes us to stuffing shit up our noses, but every single one of us has done it and ever since this first incident, I have handled the situation the same every time. I have become an expert in the projectile blowing of things from the nose.

I think it’s fair to say that we have established that I’m good in a foreign object in an orifice situation, right?

OK. Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

My date with Man #33 started with the usual email volley on OkCupid, and after a few emails we decided we would meet for coffee. I was again putting my Starbuck’s gold card to good use, and while I know some of my male readers are offended by the fact that I think a coffee date is cheap, I have my reasons for despising the coffee date.

I met my date at one of the many Starbuck’s locations at the University Village Mall. We placed our separate orders, and found a comfortable place to sit outside. We made light conversation. He asked me about my job. I asked him about his. We were in the middle of this conversation, everything was going along normally when suddenly my date said, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

No. I shit you not. That’s what he said. Seriously. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat the subject like The “Masseur” by telling me that he liked massages…

…massages of his lower intestine that is.

And, for all you squeamish people, I apologize for not warning you like I did above about the snot rocket, but I wanted you to receive the information just like I did, suddenly, caught totally off-guard, kind of like a drive by shooting, an assault on the brain.

It’s called a shocker for a reason, people.

He was just out with it with, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

And, I…well, I coughed and tried to hold it together as chai started to shoot from my nose…

To be continued…

Photo from here.





Considering The Possibilities

20 08 2012

Time seemed to move slowly while I was waiting for the lawyer to read my blog and deliver his verdict. We kept up our email communication, but we did not see each other while he was digesting the information here on My Dating Prescription.

In the meantime, I had a distraction as my communication with My Stalker/Super Fan increased. Although I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was, he didn’t frighten me, so the stalker label didn’t exactly seem fair. However, unlike my other readers, to my knowledge, he never commented directly on the blog, and opted instead for sending me emails. They were slightly dirty-minded emails just funny enough or well written enough to skate the edge between sexy and creepy, but this alone seemed reason enough to let him retain the stalker label for the time being.

Regarding his identity, all I had to go on was a name, a zip code, and a bunch of emails that made me laugh out load, and not LOL, but REALLY laugh out load. My Stalker/Super Fan is hilarious. That’s one thing I do know about him for sure.

As I mentioned in Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan and Therapy Thursday, as our emails increased I found myself more and more intrigued by him. I wanted to find out more, but because he seemed to like playing this mystery game with me, I found it difficult to ask the questions I wanted answered. And yet, there were times when he provided tangential personal information while still remaining anonymous.

For example, there was the time I questioned whether or not he was using his real name, and he scolded me for questioning him.

“I can’t believe you have the cojones to call me out on my name. I accept your nom de plume and your anonymity. My Mom’s name is …, [and he included her phone number] if you have any questions about her Dear Son…”

I’m sure he was bluffing. He knew there was no way I was going to call his mother. What would I say?

“Yes, hello Mother Stalker. My name is Wilma, and I’m calling because your son, My Stalker/Super Fan, gave me your number so I could call and ask you questions about him. You don’t know me yet, but you will, because in a couple of years when I finally finish dating 100 men on this prescription that my crazy therapist gave me, your son has hatched an elaborate plan to make me fall in madly in love with him.

Yes, uh huh. That’s what he said,…madly in love yes. I wouldn’t make that up. No. I see. He’s always had an active imagination? Ok.

Well, he gave me your phone number, and I was wondering if you could please confirm some information for me. No,…no, ma’am, I’m not a telemarketer. No, I can’t actually take your number off of the Do Not Call List, because I don’t have the list…No ma’am. I would never ask for his social security number. I was thinking more along the lines of how old he is and what he does for a living. Is he a good son? Does he call you regularly? …What’s that?

He has other people call you?

Strange women named things like Wilma…I see. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good day. Yeah, you too. Ok. Ba bye now.”

Yeah,…no.

He knew I wouldn’t call her. I did, however, do a reverse look up of the number on 411.com and confirmed that the person living at that number had the same last name as My Stalker/Super Fan.

See. Tangential. I think he totally expected me to do a little research. Apparently, if I want to know who he is I will have to work for it.

I started to consider all of the possible scenarios. You can get an email address for any name you want these days, and identity theft runs rampant. Once he had the email address, he could just look up a phone number for people with the same last name on the internet.

As the information we shared via email became more personal, however, I started to worry more about the fact that My Stalker/Super Fan could be anyone. What if he was someone I had already dated who was trying to mess with me? What if he was one of my classmates from my MBA program? Or worse. What if he was one of my professors? He could even be a husband of one of my married friends, and I might never know. The point is, I don’t know who he is, but I started running through all of the possibilities.

Over a year ago, I had tried to inquire about his age, and the only information I got was,

“I am older than you, and can teach you much if you are willing to listen Grasshopper. I’m number 100. Boys first, men last.”

See, funny, but the mystery is frustrating to say the least.

Recently, I asked him his age again, and he finally told me he is 63 and old enough to be my father. However, he added that I didn’t need to call him Daddy.

Great. Thanks.

He is actually several months older than my mom. To be fair, my mother was pretty young when she had me. I am 44.

I’m less concerned about chronological age and more interested to know about his health and joie de vivre. As some of my recent dates have proven, while one man can be my age and seem like a grumpy old man another could be active and a lot of fun. I tried to ask My Stalker/Super Fan for more information on this, but he seemed annoyed by it, and replied,

“Have I given you reason to question my cognition? I do 45 minutes of cardio daily at a heart rate of 85% of max for 30 year old. Perhaps if your questions were more specific. Like…CAN YOU STILL GET IT UP?”

I explained that, yes, besides the fact that I had dated some men younger than him who were fuddie duddies lately, I was also very interested to know, when date #100 finally came, if I would be able to ride him like a pony without giving him a heart attack.

I mean, just because I haven’t had any sex lately doesn’t mean I don’t like sex. I’m just picky about who I have sex with. In fact, at this point, I have a lot of pent up energy, A LOT of pent up energy. I could seriously hurt someone, especially an old man with a shoddy ticker.

His response,

“Fuddy duddy? I’m strong, fit, and tan. You can do chin ups on my hard on. I don’t need Viagra. Besides, do you have any idea what that shit’s made of? It’s half Miracle Grow and half Fix-A-Flat.”

See. Funny, but it also put an end to my inquiry.

One of my friends was mortified when I told her his age, and said, “He should be dating women my mom’s age, but my mom says all the guys her age want women our age. The 80 year old men are the ones interested her, and she says all they want is a purse or a nurse.”

My mom and stepdad were less concerned and cited successful relationships they knew where a similar age difference existed.

Sam and Really Really Nice Guy had opinions too.

“Tell her about your stepmom,” Sam said.

“She’s 57 and my dad is 75. They’ve been together for about ten years,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “but now my dad has Alzheimer’s.”

“So she’s taking care of him,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, My Stalker/Super Fan told me he’s really fit,” I said, and I told them what he said about his exercise routine.

“Well, my dad was really fit too,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “he ran every day, and every morning he ate oatmeal. He’d make his bowl of oatmeal, line up thirty different vitamins on the counter, and put lecithin on his cereal. Now, look at him. He doesn’t even know who his wife is.”

“Wow,” I said, “So, what are you saying? That even if My Stalker/Super Fan has the endurance to stick around to be Man #100, I’ve only got 10 to 15 good years with him tops?”

“Yep, probably,” Sam said.

I had to think about that.

I want to know what you think.





Jai Ganesh

2 09 2011

During the years that I lived with my husband, I had a saying written in Sharpie on my bedroom mirror.  (For those of you concerned about Sharpie removal from said mirror, let me ease your mind by saying that fingernail polish remover makes permanent marker much less permanent.)

But I digress.

Anyway, while I lived with my husband, I had this saying written on my mirror.  It read,

“Most of life’s problems will disappear on their own if you don’t get too attached to them.”

Now, this is not to say that someone should bury her head in the sand and hope her problems just go away.  No. What it means is that we often make our problems bigger by giving them more space in our lives than they really deserve.  Back then, this saying served as an important reminder to keep my husband’s drama in proper perspective and to not let myself get caught up in petty arguments.

A few months ago, I erased the above saying from my mirror, feeling I no longer needed it.  It was no longer a significant part of me or the tools I needed for my daily life.  I replaced it with a list of goals I plan to accomplish within the next five to eight years.  I would rather focus on new positive steps in my life than focus on guarding myself from negativity.

I was reminded of this old saying about problems today, however, because I was still trying to decide what to do about the Spicy Italian Sausage.  I knew I didn’t want a long-term relationship with him, but I thought I might entertain the idea of having sex with him.  He has a hot body, it has been a while, and well,…

…it’s sex.

This blog has been basically sans sex since it’s inception in February.  Instead of My Dating Prescription, I could call it Sexless in Seattle, but that might have a completely different connotation. But as you know if you’ve been reading from the beginning, my occasional use of the F-word is the closest thing I’ve had to sex, and I’m starting to look for loopholes in what my therapist means by “serious.”

So anyway, I was contemplating simply using the Spicy Italian for sex.

He said he wanted a long-term relationship, however, so I didn’t want to lead him on.  So, rather than dwell on the issue any longer, and making the problem bigger than it needed to be, I decided I would call him and have a frank conversation.  We’re both adults after all, and I believe honesty is the best policy.

So, yesterday as I was getting ready for work, I sent him a text asking if he was awake and if he could talk on the phone.  He responded,

“not able to now why r u horny?”

Ok, this is not the time for me to get distracted by how much I hate texting, bad grammar, and the like. The important thing to note here is that I had made no mention of the fact that I had been contemplating having sex with him at this point.  His “horny” comment came completely unsolicited.

I responded, “No, I want to talk to you when you’re available.”

To which I received, “stroking that big c$%k.” (Except he spelled it out.)

Wow. Now, at this point in our journey, you know I’m not afraid of the occasional dirty word, and despite the lack of it in my life at the moment, I happen to like sex.  What I don’t like is being spoken to (or texted) like a cheap whore. I did not respond. I finished getting ready for work, and while I was driving to work I realized my problem had just been solved for me.  This man was obviously not house broken, and there was no reason why I should ever speak to him again.

So, you see, “most of life’s problems will disappear on their own if you don’t get too attached to them,” and I feel so much better.  I can move on to date #21 without any complications.

Coincidently, yesterday was also the beginning of an annual celebration in India celebrating the Hindu deity, Ganesh, the Lord of Beginnings and the Remover of Obstacles, and when I found the following passage regarding Ganesh, I felt it was very apropos for the events of my day.

“…Ganesh has similarities to the gods Mercury or Thoth. He brings writing and knowledge. But he is most often known as the “Breaker of Obstacles”. This does not mean that if something blocks your way to success that appealing to Ganesh will result in your thundering through your opposition like some great juggernaut (a word derived from the name of a Hindu deity Jaganath). Rather, Ganesh breaks obstacles by working around them. He may not help you fix a relationship, but He might help you find a new one. He might not get you a raise at work, but you might get a job offer from another company for more money. Ganesh is a warrior, but is not into fighting for fighting’s sake. Indeed, that is why he lost his head and it had to be replaced with the head of an elephant. Rather, He helps you find other ways of overcoming obstacles. The real obstacles He breaks are those which prevent you from recognizing alternative solutions.”
Om gam ganapataye namaha!
 
 
Don’t forget to VOTE for My Dating Prescription in the CBS Seattle’s Most Valuable Blogger Award 2011!




Manscaping…and Other Party Conversations

5 07 2011

Fireworks from Gasworks Park

Happy Belated 4th of July everyone! I hope everyone had a great weekend.

Today, I am being featured in the Simply Solo Spotlight. After you read this post, go check out my guest post over there. Thank you to everyone who participated in the Guest Blogging Poll.  “SeniorPeopleMeet.com: My Mom Posts a Profile for Me” had won when I checked the results on Saturday.

My more conservative readers should be forewarned. Today I will be covering some topics a little more risqué than my usual banter. Cover your eyes, wait for a couple of days when I will be providing a recap of my date with Man #19, or proceed with caution.  Your choice. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So this is what my life has come to:

For many years, Fourth of July meant driving down to the reservation to buy some fireworks, hosting barbeques in the backyard,  shooting previously mentioned fireworks off with the kids, and hoping nothing caught on fire.  When we moved to Seattle in 2003, we started heading down to Gasworks Park with a picnic and watching Seattle’s annual fireworks display.  This year, with one son on a trip with his grandparents, one in college, and another teenager son too cool to hang out with me, I thought I may end up watching the fireworks on television while eating lentil soup.  Pathetic.

I scored a last-minute save, however, by attending the birthday party for my friend, Dora, on Sunday, and meeting a fabulous gay couple who invited me to their annual 4th of July party.  (Actually, Dora invited me, by saying that I should go with her, and the gay couple agreed.)  That was that.

Now, I’ve been hearing about this party for the past five years, but I was never able to go because of the family obligations mentioned above.  I jumped at this chance.  Not only have I attended far too few parties this year, but this party is rumored to be FABULOUS on top of boasting great views of the fireworks on Lake Union.

Dora swung by my house to pick me up last night around 7:30 p.m. and we headed over to the party.  She said, “You’re going to fit right in. There are so many different people there.  It’s like the whole gay community is there. They have people in their house they don’t even know.”

I usually don’t worry about not knowing people. If I know at least one person, I’m fine.  I’m not particularly shy, and gay boys tend to love me.  Maybe it’s my eye makeup. Maybe it’s my shoes. Maybe it’s the fact that I have a slight potty mouth. Maybe it’s that with my low, alto voice and the fact that I stand 6′-2″ in heels I remind them of a drag queen. I don’t know, but I tend to quickly make friends with the gay boys.  I wasn’t worried at all about not knowing anybody.

When we arrived, the house was packed. Dora and I made our way out to the terrace where we found a couple of other friends of Dora’s.  We sat together, ate, drank, and visited until it was time to go outside to watch the fireworks. 

The fireworks were good. I heard some people commenting that they weren’t as good as years past, but I’m never one to enter into such debates. I enjoy public displays of fireworks, and to tell you the honest truth, I usually can’t tell the difference from one year to the next. Personally, I’m just glad I no longer have to worry about grabbing the garden hose or ducking for cover should a home-launched explosive go astray.

A few of us talked about which fireworks we liked best, and expressed the usual sound effects, “Oooo, Aaaagh,” and “Pretty!”

When the fireworks finished we headed back inside and Dora and her friends headed back to the terrace.  Having surpassed my one drink a week limit, (I had two) I was looking for something non-alcoholic to drink, and rumor had it that I would find something in a cooler that was situated at the north end of the terrace.  As I approached the cooler, I heard a young guy talking to an older guy and I quickly realized that I might have just stumbled upon two of a small minority of straight men at the party.  The young guy was saying to the older guy, “You gotta shave that shit, man.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman, I don’t like to go down on anyone who’s not shaved.” (Ok, maybe bisexual men.)

At this point, I couldn’t help actually looking at them, and I realized it might be the most interesting conversation I would have all night.

“Are you talking about manscaping?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said the young guy, “What do you think?”

“You need to shave that shit, man, or at least keep it tidy,” I exclaimed, looking at the older man who was about my age, and adding my two cents.

“See, I told you,” said the young one, obviously drunk and obviously relishing the fact that he was right.

“Like shave all of it?” the older guy asked.

“Well, you don’t have to make yourself look pre-pubescent, but you should keep it tidy,” I said.

It was at this point that the young guy divulged that he was shaved from his torso all the way down to his balls.

“Here, check it out,” he said, pulling his shirt out at the bottom, inviting my to feel his chest.

I reached up  underneath his shirt, felt his abs, and both pecs, checking for any piercings and any trace of hair. None.

“Oh, geez!” grumbled the older one.

“Is that stubble, or do you need to exfoliate?” I asked.

“No!”

I removed my hand from the boy’s chest, and turned to the older one, “It’s just more pleasant if there isn’t a bunch of hair down there to deal with. Plus a guy can make his dick look longer if he simply gets rid of the half-inch of nappy pile at the base of it.”

“Well, I don’t need to make my dick look bigger,” exclaimed the young one, “I just don’t want to put a girl through that, going down there with a bunch of hair. It gets in your mouth.”

“Well, not only that, but hair traps smells.  If a guy has hair and he’s wondering why he’s not getting blow jobs, maybe he needs to question how it smells down there.,” I said.

“I think things were different in the 80s,” said the older guy, “I always thought the perception was that if you shaved you weren’t as manly.”

“Well, I think you’re right, that hair wasn’t as big a deal back then, but it is now. I like a little chest hair, but you have to keep it under control,” I said.

Sensing that I might be closer to the older guy’s age than his own, the younger one suddenly asked me how old I was. (This younger generation and their manners! I tell ya!)

“Well, I have a 23-year-old son in college,” I said.

“Get the fuck out of here! You look like you’re about thirty-four!”

“Thank you.”

This launched the younger one to reveal that he was 24, his mom was 47, and he had been with two women older than his mother, one 48, the other 49.

“I struggle with the age thing,” I said, “I’m recently separated and I just can’t see going out with anyone younger than about 35.”

“Well, if you’re recently separated, you SHOULD go out with someone under 35,” exclaimed the older one.

“I just don’t know that a young guy would know what he was doing.”

This was the WRONG thing to say. The younger one suddenly went on a diatribe about how he had been with these older women. It was all about foreplay, and he knew how to do that and other things. There were some finger movements to illustrate his technique and he was REALLY selling it.

“You’re right about foreplay,” I said.  He started talking about going down on a woman, and although I’m not ready to turn my blog x-rated, I will say that he almost had me convinced that he might know what he was talking about.

“Have you ever seen Nina Hartley’s How to Eat Pussy Like a Champ,” I asked.

He had not.

“Well if there is one take away from that instructional video, it’s this: Licking sucks. Sucking rocks.”

“Really?” said the older one. He was quickly making himself look like a completely bumbling, uninformed idiot.

“Yes,” I said, and I started to describe some of the mistakes men commonly make when travelling downtown.  (I won’t bore you with the details.)

After a little while longer, I separated myself from the conversation, and went and found Dora. She and her friends were just about ready to walk back to the cars, so I ditched my glass of ice having never found my non-alcoholic drink and headed out with them.

I said goodbye to the hosts. They said that they thought I was FABULOUS and that we needed to hang out again sometime. I got home well after midnight, briefly took Thor out, and then Thor and I went to bed.

As intriguing as sexual experimentation with a 24-year-old may be, I’m not ready to go there.

For now, I’ll stick with the fireworks I know. Thank you very much.








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