Adult Toys

I joined S&P on a recent business trip to Korea.  While in the hotel room, I saw odd shaped pieces of metal laying on the dresser. I thought to myself, "These kind of look like…Oh my God. Did he bring handcuffs?!"  I went over to get a closer look...and/or hide them and blame it on the maid.

As I picked up the heavy pieces of metal, he came out of the bathroom and said with a raised tone, “Hey, watch out! Those are magnets. We strip computers at the office with those."

He showed me how powerful they were by demonstrating that they even stayed magnetized even through my palm and the back of my hand.

“You need to be careful with these,” he cautioned me again.

"Oh yeah?" I asked. "What will happen if I put them around my head?"

I then held them up to my temples.

“Whoa! It’s like totally squeezing my brain,” I teased.

He was being a complete worry wart. “Seriously, I wish you wouldn’t play with..”

Just as I started moving them down off my face, the force field pulled them together, clamping the tip of my nose in-between. Thank god for natural oils in the skin. Those bitches pinched like crazy, but slid off pretty quickly. I hit the floor quickly, too. I dropped like someone had kicked me in the stomach. The shock of what had just happened and the piercing pain in my nose had made my knees buckle and there I was crying on the floor because I was playing with stupid magnets. I don’t think I have felt any less sexy than in that very moment, a red nose and a bruised ego. Not cute. Not cute at all.

The Bath House

During a recent trip to Korea, I was lucky enough to experience the delight of a day at a bath house. My guide book said it was an absolute must-do. It also warned that you were going to be naked all day and that nobody was going to speak English - i.e., be prepared to stand there in all your glory as the attendants point and gesture to get any point across to you.

When I got to the spa in the morning, I did a real quick courtesy rinse before jumping into the first hot soak of the day.   The showers were all out in the open with no stalls, curtains, or dividers. Just you and all the ladies already soaking…and watching, because you are very much in their field of vision.

As soon as I sat down in the hot tub, I watched in fascination as these Korean women came in and basically surgically scrubbed in for their day of public bathing.  First they brushed their teeth. They opened up their throats and gargled crazy deep and then bent over and spit out the esophageal lining they had just conjured up.  Then they threw a foot up on the ledge and got all up in their woo ha’s - soaped her up and rinsed her out, turned around and did the same with their rear. You do not see this happening at your local YMCA, people. I have never seen another woman clean like this before. And certainly nobody has seen me scrubbing away at my junk. That I'll do when I'm home behind my closed bathroom door, thank you very much. Then they took out a mitt and loofahed for 15 minutes easy. Every square inch.

I soon realized that these women were probably horrified at the lack of actual cleansing that took place during my so-called shower.  A lady came over in a black bra and panties and gestured for me to follow her. It was time for my scrub - something else my guide book said that you simply had to experience.  When that was done she pointed me to the shower again to rinse off the oil she had coated me with. This time I would not let the ladies down. I awkwardly sang a song to myself to try to keep myself calm: “I'm now reaching down and soaping up my genitals for you people...see how clean I can be?  I can’t believe I’m spreading my legs like this in public.  And my butt, oh God! Now... I'm cleaning my butt.”

They glanced over, unimpressed and unknowing of the angst I was going through.  It was an eye opening experience, getting Korean-clean, for sure.

Keep it clean

I was thinking back the other day to an achieved childhood memory. One night my grandmother was babysitting me, my sister and my cousin. She let all three of us help her mix up a batch of brownies, which would have been fun in and of itself. This brownie mix, however, came with a packet of peanut butter that you squeeze on top and run a knife through to make pretty swirls. After she had put most of it on top of the batter, she squeezed the rest out into her hands and said, “You had better run.”

We all screamed and ran through the house as she threatened to smear us with peanut butter. Of course we were all thrilled by these out-of-character shenanigans put on at grandma’s. Each of us ran a little slower than normal to make sure she would, in fact, catch us and then happily took a palm of peanut butter to the face or neck.

The thought of me doing this to children I might be babysitting horrifies me. It really got me thinking about how rigid I have become. Thinking about possibly getting any peanut butter on my walls or couch, seriously gets me anxious. I can’t get even get a little spunk on my belly these days without requiring a full wipe down with a moist towel.

Another memory I think back to with fondness is when my mom used to pile up couch cushions in front of our door and then sprinkle the linoleum floor with baby powder. We would run from the next room in our socks, slide and crash in to the padding for hours. It was free, and kept us kids happy.

Whew... I can feel those heart palpitations again. I just can’t imagine voluntarily making these messes just for the kids. Somewhere along the way I have lost my ability to let loose and let things get a little messy. Crotchety-old-lady-hood, here I come.

My poor mother...

When I don’t feel good, I always want my mother. I'm a big girl now, and its not a skinned knee I'm usually seeking her comfort for. Sometimes I'll call her late on a Sunday afternoon, after I have been hugging the toilet all day: “Mom, I'm hungover…” and just hearing her voice makes me feel a little better.

Well, I called her the other night and I kind of feel bad for the bomb I dropped on her.

“Hi, sweetie” she cheerily greeted me.

I unloaded in one long breath,“Mom, I got laser hair removal today and I feel like my vagina is sunburned, I am very uncomfortable right now, had to take off my panties and free-ball it the rest of the day, each individual hair follicle feels like there is a freakin' tree growing out of it for some reason, probably because they were essentially set on fire, they were getting caught in the fabric of my under wear that has never happened before, I shaved just yesterday, but seriously Mom, I had to peel the cloth clinging for dear life from each pube!”

“You what?!” she said after a considerable pause. "Honey, why would you do that?”

And I threw him right under the bus: “S&P wanted me to do it.”

Oh god. What child talks to their mother about A) the maintaining of their pubic hair and B) their boyfriend being the grand master in requesting the whole thing?

I guess I just felt better by saying it wasn’t my idea.

The Brazilian

I wish I was talking about a dreamy, dark-haired, mocha-skinned fellow from close to the equator. Instead, I’m talking about the life altering experience that took place in a room yesterday, as I lay with my legs in the good old butterfly position.

I had called my girlfriend the night before for some last minute guidance on what exactly happens when you are getting a Brazilian. She has had a few over the years, and I was really nervous about someone spending that much time with my vagina, who hasn’t been to medical school, nor is giving me pleasure.

I am quite sure the technician told the receptionist as soon as I left that she dreads my next appointment. I was a willing participant, I walked in happily with my print-out for 6 sessions of laser hair removal that I’m finally redeeming. And yet I acted like I was in a torture chamber once she started electrocuting my privates. It would be like going to get a tattoo and then kick and scream the whole time. Hello?!? You know that shit is going to hurt! And by the way, that is exactly what it felt like, getting a tattoo right on your bushwah.

I was doing the Lamaze breathing and every few breathes would yell fuck. My back went into spasm from tensing so incredibly much. Then the part I was exceptionally panicky about…. “Turn over and pull your butt cheeks apart.”

This was plain awkward, and I made it even more so by saying, “You must see a lot of butt holes, huh?” To which she replied, "You have no idea".

I wondered if she was in fact calling me one. But then the pain brought me back to my breathing.

Thank God it was quick. The entire thing took about 4 minutes. I can only imagine the power one must feel when they are holding a tube that is shooting a hot laser at someone else's crotch as the recipient wriggles in pain. I mean really, that takes a special person.

Go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!

Last weekend I took a ride with S&P to Pep Boys. He needed something or other for his bike. I parted ways with him immediately to peruse all things Hello Kitty: key chains, floor mats, steering wheel covers, Hello Kitty-shaped strawberry scented air fresheners, etc. My search was exhausted in roughly five minutes and I soon became bored. I went outside and sat on the curb by the bike. Soon thereafter he came out saying the part was not in stock. As I stood up from the curb, I felt a tiny little something crawling just below the waistline of my jeans. I looked back to the curb and saw a trail of red ants. I started smacking my butt, hips, and thighs to try to kill any unwanted invaders.

S&P told me I should take off my pants...

It wasn't being in a parking lot in broad daylight that was my main concern with doing that. It was more the thought of peeling off my skinny jeans, after taking off my knee high boots, coupled with feeling quite moist, as it was a very warm day. There was just no way undressing in that moment was going to be graceful.

"I think I got them all," I told him, as we sat idling at a light. And then one squirmed into the depths of my crack. I bounced vigorously on the bike trying to squish it. Soon, we were at his friend’s home. I felt like everything was under control. I began to think maybe I had tricked myself, like when you scratch your head when you hear of a friend’s child coming down with lice. Just then I felt something move.

I grabbed my crotch and yelled, "oh God they are moving around again! Can I please use your bathroom?" As I ran down the hall, I realized these people surely think I have crabs.

I dropped my pants and saw a handful of very angry red welts. Sure enough, the next day I woke up to the typical puss-filled bite marks I'm accustomed to getting on my feet. The bite about a pencil eraser distance from my butt hole was the worst to deal with. I never realized the friction that takes place daily as you walk, but I was surely aware of it last week. Those bitches covered some serious ground. One got me on the back of my mid-thigh, while another got me right where your vajay and leg meet. Finding subtle ways to rub myself to relieve the itch over the next few days was humiliating, to say the least.

pfffft

I have moved in with S&P. It’s lovely to come home every night and sit down to dinner, to unwind on the couch before bed, and to wake up to a snuggle and kiss every morning.

The only downside is, I am living in a fart cloud. He let his guard down early on in the relationship, as most men do, but with the increased amount of time I am in his presence, I rarely feel like the air I am breathing hasn’t been tainted.

Right before his last business trip I told him I would really appreciate it if, upon his return, he were to bring a new habit home, which is either, a) suffer through the gas in silence, or; b) take a walk down the hallway, step in the spare room for a moment, and then let loose. This never happened. In fact, the situation had only exacerbated itself over the next few weeks.

He basically stopped acknowledging I was even in the same room. My eyes got wide and filled with fury when I realized the couch cushion vibrating under me was due to wind breaking in the next seat over. I asked him to please excuse himself after he rips the highly audible explosions. It’s just common courtesy. It says you are 3 feet away, and farted, and are sorry.

Well, I got what I asked for. Now, more times a day than I would care to count, I hear various mini apologizes for the flatulence. I have created a monster. I hear him in the next room where there is no way I am subject to any fart cloud fall out, excusing the unheard disruption. Half the time I am laying right next to him, didn’t hear a thing, but I do hear, “ I'm sorry baby.” Only then am I alerted to the fact I am laying in his fart dust.

Now I think I'd rather not know.