Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.
Today's topic: Breaking (New Moon) Mom
WARNING: Potential spoilers below. Read at your own risk!
I looked across the low ripples in the water, black in the darkness, looking for him.
He wasn't hard to find. He stood, his back to me, waist deep in the midnight water. The pallid light of the moon turned his skin a perfect white, like the sand, like the moon itself, and made his wet hair as black as the ocean. I stared at the smooth lines of his back, his shoulders, his arms, his neck, the flawless shape of him...
"Holy shit! I'm in the ocean with Edward!" I said, surprised, even though I was writing it.
"AAAH! YOU Again!" Edward used his perfectly sculpted hands to try and cover himself. "How do you keep getting in this story?!? Where is Bella?"
"She's sitting on the bathroom floor, freaking out, and I think she's going to shave her legs again. You know, Edward, I'm an old pro at this. Do you want to do a test run? Just to be sure you don't kill Bella, of course..." I winked at him.
"You are actually rather frightening, and I don't scare easily," Edward said, as he backed away. "And your body is...different...from Bella's. Not as appealing. But there is a confidence there that is intriguing. Perhaps I SHOULD be sure I can control myself with her..." Edward stopped, contemplating.
HA! He was more of a man than he gave himself credit for. Now was my chance. I had to act quickly, before the Cougar venom I slipped in his post-wedding deer kill faded away.
"Ooops!" I gave myself a small cut opening the condom wrapper. (Hey, I don't care how cute Renesmee is, I am DONE carrying ANYONE's spawn, even if he is a superhot sensitive Cullen.) Edward looked suddenly ravenous. He moved toward me, and his breath came rougher now. I dropped my towel to tend to my cut, exposing myself to him. His Michelangelo-like body came to a screeching halt. The clouds re-formed and the angels stopped singing.
"No. Absolutely not. No I don't think so." Edward averted his eyes, started whistling a tune from WWI and looked up at the moon, glowing silver across the rippling water from his abrupt stop. He looked a little sick, actually. Was he okay?
"Edward? Edward are you out there?" Bella called from the house. "Who is out there with you?"
"It's a Cougar, love, nothing to be alarmed about," Edward called. "Less dangerous than werewolves, really." He then whispered to me, "Listen, I think you should go. Do you need the boat?"
"Did you say a Cougar?" Bella called. "Because the whole house is full of them. They're making margaritas and just put The Notebook in the DVD player. Something about being a part of your Team? What should I do with them?"
"Er, let them enjoy their drinks, love, I'll be in in a minute!" He turned to look at me, winced, and then immediately looked at the moon again. "How exactly did all of you get here from Rio?"
"We're peri-menopausal, Edward. The erratic hot flashes make the water a refreshing necessity, and the irrational rages make us capable of things we couldn't do as stable, rational 30-year-olds. The pack is here, Edward. I'm sorry, but I am a part of your world now. I can't live with you, because you are a fictitious character, and I am technically still stalking The Edge, but I can't live without you. But I can't admit to my friends that I love you, because you are, after all, in a YA novel and 17 years younger than me in human form. Thank goodness we have that 'Oh I was actually born in 1901' loophole or I'd be picking out my prison bitch with Mary Kay Letourneau!" I laughed.
Edward sighed a glorious sigh that sounded like my kids leaving for Grandma's and "here's your Cold Stone Gotta Have It" and the bean grinder at Starbucks all wrapped up in one. Oh, if only he could play "Where The Streets Have No Name" on guitar!
"How do I rid myself of you?" he asked, still naked and waist deep in water. I found myself thinking about how his skin would never pucker. And he wouldn't have that George Costanza problem in the water, either.
"Let's do one of your famous compromises - kiss me and I'll leave, I promise."
"And you'll take the Cougar Pack with you?"
"Done. Now get over here, you undead bastard, and kiss me!"
Edward moved toward me, miraculous in his erudite, sensitive vampire glory. He was a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, lettuce wraps at P.F. Changs, cupcakes from Maggie Moos. His sweet breath washed cool and delicious over my face, like a Mega Mocha MooLatte from DQ. This was it...come to Momma....
"JULIE! Are you coming to bed or not!?!" Grr. This was not Edward.
"Damn it, CH, I told you never to bother me when I'm blogging! You ruined the moment anyway. Go stick your head in the freezer for a few minutes and you might get lucky."
Foiled again. But I'll always have Eclipse...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
New Moon Cougar
"BELLA?"
Edward's soft voice came from behind me. I turned to see him spring lightly up the porch steps, his hair windblown from running. He pulled me into his arms at once, and then immediately stepped back in alarm.
"Oh no, honey, it's Julie." I set down my coffee mug and van keys.
"Julie? I thought you were Bella. But now I see that you are older and fill out those mom jeans a bit. And your smell is all wrong. You smell...bitter."
"That's what forty years and three kids will do to you, Edward. You should probably cave and change Bella now, before her varicose veins and incontinence kick in. It happens earlier than you think."
"What ARE you?" Edward stood in all of his sparkly glory, hair perfectly disheveled, British accent adequately hidden, and he seemed confused, yet intrigued.
"I don't have those submissive, self-confidence issues your young girlfriend has. I'm a Cougar, and my pack has moved in. There is WAY too much testosterone in Forks, and my coffee group of experienced, hot, perimenopausal mothers has been created to meet the needs of the man beasts in this region. Now give Mommy a kiss, you bloodsucking fool, or I'll spank that perfectly sculpted butt!"
If it's news to you that New Moon opens in theaters this Friday, you might as well stop reading now. It's true, I am one of those crazy people who are obsessed with the Twilight Saga. I've read the entire series, including the Midnight Sun post on Stephenie Meyer's site, multiple times, and Oldest Daughter and I have watched the Twilight movie a number of times, which I hated at first (it's not like the book!) and then grew to love.
I'm going to take issue for a moment with the Twilight Haters. I sent out an e-mail to a bunch of moms I know about doing a group outing to see Twilight, and I got a couple of replies making fun of me for liking a young adult book. Another acquaintance on Facebook commented that she was quitting Breaking Dawn because she couldn't take any more, and a couple of people (including me) commented that she shouldn't quit now, she needed closure, and another woman jumped on and said, "I didn't read the books and I'm glad I didn't, because from what my students tell me, they are really bad and young girls shouldn't be reading them. What a horrible thing for people to follow."
To these people, I say SUCK IT.
First, why anyone would make fun of someone for reading a book, any book, is beyond me. Oh, by all means, go back to your Dancing With the Stars and Nutty Bars (Nutty Bars...yum) while I READ something. But the people who are ribbing me don't bother me, because I am never above giving someone a hard time about something. It's the chick who gives a book review and opinion on a BOOK SHE NEVER READ! I bet she's great in bed. "I am not trying that because I heard it's dumb. And I heard orgasms are overrated. And I won't kiss you because I heard bacteria causes H1N1. Why don't we just not have sex and I'll tell everyone you're inadequate?"
Second, over 20 million readers just might be on to something. And the Twilight movie alone grossed over $380 million so far. So I'll take solace in the fact that I am not alone in thinking there is something to this that isn't just screaming teeny-boppers.
Third, Edward is perfect. Women love him because he is educated, artistic, hot, protective, and has the appropriate amount of self-loathing most men are missing. Am I a New Moon Cougar? Jacob/Taylor seems a little young and green for my conscience, but my friend Liz and I had the Edward/Rob discussion a couple of weeks ago.
ME: "So I would say the Edge is top on my list, and probably Seth Meyers, and Bradley Cooper is pretty hot, Vince Vaughn is sort of off the list now..."
LIZ: "What about Robert Pattinson?"
ME: "Well, he's cute, but he's only 23, so it would be weird."
LIZ: "But he's cute."
SILENCE. WE SIP OUR WINE.
LIZ: "I wouldn't kick him out of bed."
ME: "Okay, if he asked, I would help him out. Because it would be like community service. And he IS British. And legal."
LIZ: "Barely. But I'd do him."
ME: "CH isn't going to like this."
So go enjoy New Moon. Because it's ENTERTAINMENT. It's Fun with a side of popcorn. Cougars unite, and get down with your teeny bopper self. (But if you scream while I'm trying to hear the dialogue, I will shove Milk Duds up your nose.)
A friend turned me on to Jen Lancaster's books a few months ago, and I've never turned back. She is absolutely hysterical, and she too is obsessed with Twilight. Her post yesterday about New Moon made my day: www.jennsylvania.com
The song playing is my fave from the New Moon soundtrack (yes, I have it, but I don't have the action figures, so I still have my pride.) Happy New Moon!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Happy Spot
All of you mandatory reporters and Department of Human Services folks can sharpen your pencils and get out a new manila folder, my family might be back on your radar in the next week.
I blame it all on Current Husband (CH) and his plan for cable domination.
CH had one of his "There HAS To Be A Better Way" moments and cancelled our cable, thinking we could figure out how to watch everything we like on the Internet. To his credit, the kids are watching much less TV and reading more books. To his great dismay, I've been missing Project Runway and Mad Men. This is to his dismay, because during the scheduled times of my shows, I walk around the house with a glass of wine and a cleaver and mutter under my breath about missing the things in life that bring me joy. Because of him. But at least he isn't pretending to send one of the kids up in a "science balloon" or pimping me out to Wife Swap, so there's that.
But I digress.
Since we no longer have the Toxic Twins that are Disney and Nickelodeon in our home, the only TV the kids are really interested in is PBS. My youngest has been enjoying catching up with Clifford the Big Red Dog. The other day, in between giving children a ride on his Big Red Back and accidentally ripping up Mr. Bleakman's garden, Clifford wanted Emily Elizabeth to scratch his Happy Spot, which would make Clifford's leg move. This entertained my youngest daughter to no end. She couldn't get enough of watching Clifford move his leg when scratched.
A few days later, I'm in my bedroom folding clothes. CH is laying on the bed, enjoying football and watching me be his domestic slave, when our daughter runs into the room, jumps on the bed, and starts scratching CH's back. Suddenly, I stop folding CH's boxers and look up in horror. What did she just say?
YD: "Where is it, Daddy?"
CH: "Lower, it's lower..."
YD: "Is THIS your Happy Spot?"
CH: "No, lower...that's it...you got it!"
And then CH starts shaking his leg and Youngest Daughter shrieks in glee. She jumps off the bed and runs from the room to find someone else's Happy Spot. She is happy. CH is happy. I am alarmed. I decide to kill CH's buzz.
ME: "Um, honey, what is that all about?"
CH: "She liked that Clifford show, so she finds the Happy Spot and I'm Clifford."
ME: "You DO know how this is going to sound at school, right?"
CH: "Uh, NO."
ME: 'I spent the weekend in bed with Daddy rubbing his Happy Spot!"
CH: "Oh no."
ME: "Oh yes."
Every Monday morning, the first graders do a chart that shows what they did over the weekend. It is like a flower, with the main activity in the middle and the activities associated with the main activity branched off. Here is how I pictured Youngest Daughter's Weekend Chart: Rubbed the Happy Spot - with Daddy - in his bed - his leg moved - he's a dog - our special game.
I had to take action. The only way to get Rubbing the Happy Spot off of the school chart was to come up with a better activity. And this is why you could find my family at the IMAX theater this afternoon watching the last Harry Potter movie, with my youngest daughter in a formal dress and her favorite fake Uggs, an owl hat someone knit for her, three boxes of candy on her lap, and a Sprite in her hand. Because money might not Buy Me Love, but sugar will buy her silence, and if diversionary tactics keep the DHS off my doorstep, my work here is done.
Clifford The Big Red Dog using some kid's head to rub his Happy Spot.
I blame it all on Current Husband (CH) and his plan for cable domination.
CH had one of his "There HAS To Be A Better Way" moments and cancelled our cable, thinking we could figure out how to watch everything we like on the Internet. To his credit, the kids are watching much less TV and reading more books. To his great dismay, I've been missing Project Runway and Mad Men. This is to his dismay, because during the scheduled times of my shows, I walk around the house with a glass of wine and a cleaver and mutter under my breath about missing the things in life that bring me joy. Because of him. But at least he isn't pretending to send one of the kids up in a "science balloon" or pimping me out to Wife Swap, so there's that.
But I digress.
Since we no longer have the Toxic Twins that are Disney and Nickelodeon in our home, the only TV the kids are really interested in is PBS. My youngest has been enjoying catching up with Clifford the Big Red Dog. The other day, in between giving children a ride on his Big Red Back and accidentally ripping up Mr. Bleakman's garden, Clifford wanted Emily Elizabeth to scratch his Happy Spot, which would make Clifford's leg move. This entertained my youngest daughter to no end. She couldn't get enough of watching Clifford move his leg when scratched.
A few days later, I'm in my bedroom folding clothes. CH is laying on the bed, enjoying football and watching me be his domestic slave, when our daughter runs into the room, jumps on the bed, and starts scratching CH's back. Suddenly, I stop folding CH's boxers and look up in horror. What did she just say?
YD: "Where is it, Daddy?"
CH: "Lower, it's lower..."
YD: "Is THIS your Happy Spot?"
CH: "No, lower...that's it...you got it!"
And then CH starts shaking his leg and Youngest Daughter shrieks in glee. She jumps off the bed and runs from the room to find someone else's Happy Spot. She is happy. CH is happy. I am alarmed. I decide to kill CH's buzz.
ME: "Um, honey, what is that all about?"
CH: "She liked that Clifford show, so she finds the Happy Spot and I'm Clifford."
ME: "You DO know how this is going to sound at school, right?"
CH: "Uh, NO."
ME: 'I spent the weekend in bed with Daddy rubbing his Happy Spot!"
CH: "Oh no."
ME: "Oh yes."
Every Monday morning, the first graders do a chart that shows what they did over the weekend. It is like a flower, with the main activity in the middle and the activities associated with the main activity branched off. Here is how I pictured Youngest Daughter's Weekend Chart: Rubbed the Happy Spot - with Daddy - in his bed - his leg moved - he's a dog - our special game.
I had to take action. The only way to get Rubbing the Happy Spot off of the school chart was to come up with a better activity. And this is why you could find my family at the IMAX theater this afternoon watching the last Harry Potter movie, with my youngest daughter in a formal dress and her favorite fake Uggs, an owl hat someone knit for her, three boxes of candy on her lap, and a Sprite in her hand. Because money might not Buy Me Love, but sugar will buy her silence, and if diversionary tactics keep the DHS off my doorstep, my work here is done.
Clifford The Big Red Dog using some kid's head to rub his Happy Spot.
Friday, November 13, 2009
It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 5
Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygeine mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.
Today's topic: Happy Endings
The Urban Dictionary definition of a Happy Ending is:
When a masseuse feels inclined to finish your session w/ oral sex or manual release (usually for an extra twenty dollars). "I was in China Town getting a rubdown and the girl gave me a happy ending; is that cheating on my wife?"
Again with the trip to Arizona. Bear with me, I'll get it all out of my system soon.
So four of the seven women decided to got to a spa (the other three chose to make margaritas and sit next to the house pool in sunny-and-88 weather) and let trained professionals rub lotion all over our mostly-naked bodies for money. I love massages, but I've found over time that there are things one should know before getting naked and crawling under the towel:
So the four of us are sitting in The Quiet Room, purportedly set up to get us in the mood for all of this bodily manipulation. We are brought water and neck warmers. The neck warmers are little C-shaped pillows full of eucalyptus or lavender, and are slightly hot. You wrap them around your neck, hence the name. Friend D was the last one to get into The Quiet Room because she was having a body wrap. When she arrived, the spa owner asked D if she wanted a neck warmer, and D, seeing that we all had them, said yes. The owner came back shortly and sheepishly handed her what looked to be a beanbag kittycat, and it was not fresh out of the wrapper.
OB: "Is that...a CAT?" (laughter)
Friend A: "It looks like it belongs to a baby - did it come out of someone's car?" (more laughter)
ME: "Or did she just imply that you are a pussy?" (gales of laughter, because I am the writer of this story, so I get the biggest laughs)
Friend D: "Um, guys? It smells like bacon."
Baconcat poses two problems. First, we are not relaxing, we are laughing so hard some of us could be slightly wetting ourselves, and therefore maybe their Quiet Room furniture. Second, D is a vegetarian, so the smell of Baconcat is not bringing her to her Happy Place so much as her Vomit Place. However, she cannot remove Baconcat because D is so polite that she wouldn't want to upset the owner by banishing Baconcat to the floor. So she endures the smell of old meat around her neck. In the form of a pussy. With an OB-GYN in the room. It's sort of metaphorically funny and upsetting at the same time.
The door to The Not-So-Quiet Room opens, and there stand the men giving the Swedish Massage to Friend A and me. One man is well muscled, dark, and mysterious. He says, "Who likes it rough?" with a swashbuckling, winking demeanor and a Russian accent. Friend A shoots out of her seat, throwing her neck warmer on the floor. "ME!" and she trots off down the hall. The other man negotiates his way around the corner in his walker and adult diaper and says, "Why am I here? Cindy?" Clearly this man was mine.
(Okay, so he wasn't really using a walker or wearing an adult diaper, and he actually seemed like a very nice guy. And he gave a great massage. But is that funny? No. And I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)
So my guy takes me to the room, and the massage commences. One problem I have during massages, other than the fear of having gas, is where to put my arms. If I am laying on my stomach, it feels like they should go off of the table and lay on some little armrest, but these things do not exist. I ended up resting my arms on the headrest, sort of up over my head. So we are about halfway into the massage, and Grandpa Jim walks behind my head and starts massaging my shoulders, but the problem is that it makes him lean over me a bit. Since my arms are over my head, my hands seem to be inadvertently rubbing him in the crotchal region. As I contemplate what to do, my eyes snap open, and I am looking directly at his black stockinged feet, which is a little weird. He doesn't wear shoes? And then I realize I am more concerned about the fact that he is shoeless, rather than the very real possibility that I am rubbing his nether parts. I move my arms by my sides, and Father Christmas and I have no more problems.
However, when Friend A comes out of her massage, she is full of information. We go to a gelato place next door to (figuratively) debrief her.
We learn that the Russian has massaged Roger Moore, as in Bond, James Bond. We also find out he is a go-to guy for a number of porn stars and the gay community. My friend breaks the no-talk rule and asks the Russian if he's ever given a Happy Ending. He says that he did have a client once who mid-massage grabbed his hand and put it on the genital region, but the Russian said he politely but firmly pulled his hand away, and said "This massage is over." He said he couldn't be rude, because when he sees the client's face, all he sees is a $100 bill, so he has to be discreet. But that's as close to a Happy Ending as he was willing to admit. But they're out there.
On a random side note that will only fit under the umbrella of Whoreticulture Friday, I have to say that somehow over the weekend the phrase "strap-on penis" came up (No pun intended! And after 25 years of conversation, your topics tend to expand by Day 3 together) and one gal said she wants to wear one. Not sexually, mind you. She just wants to wear a penis around all day and see if it makes her act like an ass. And kick her dog. It's something to consider.
And thus concludes stories about the Arizona trip, because the rest of what we talked about is secret and private. (See girls, I kept most of it in the vault!) Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!
Today's topic: Happy Endings
The Urban Dictionary definition of a Happy Ending is:
When a masseuse feels inclined to finish your session w/ oral sex or manual release (usually for an extra twenty dollars). "I was in China Town getting a rubdown and the girl gave me a happy ending; is that cheating on my wife?"
Again with the trip to Arizona. Bear with me, I'll get it all out of my system soon.
So four of the seven women decided to got to a spa (the other three chose to make margaritas and sit next to the house pool in sunny-and-88 weather) and let trained professionals rub lotion all over our mostly-naked bodies for money. I love massages, but I've found over time that there are things one should know before getting naked and crawling under the towel:
- Leave your underwear on. I'm just saying that because I don't want to be the person after you if you are all buck naked on the table, and who really knows if they wash those linens between massages.
- Don't eat spicy food, beans or eggs shortly before your massage, because I will guarantee you will end up gassy. And nothing ruins a massage faster than some misplaced flatulence. And if you are trying to hold it back, guess what? They are massaging the muscles you are clenching in desperation to hold back the methane. You're busted.
- Shave. Really, this isn't Europe. You either need to be freshly shaved or haven't shaved in three months, but don't be bringing your prickly stubble up in there.
- Don't be shy about specifying what level of pressure you want, because otherwise you may get Kevin Kick Your Ass or Lenny The Light Toucher. And you might be a Mikey Medium Massage, and leave disappointed.
- Don't start a conversation unless you want to spend your entire massage talking. If you need to talk, see a real therapist, not a massage therapist. But it's your dime.
- Know about a Happy Ending, in case you get asked. (I did not, thank God. More on that later.)
So the four of us are sitting in The Quiet Room, purportedly set up to get us in the mood for all of this bodily manipulation. We are brought water and neck warmers. The neck warmers are little C-shaped pillows full of eucalyptus or lavender, and are slightly hot. You wrap them around your neck, hence the name. Friend D was the last one to get into The Quiet Room because she was having a body wrap. When she arrived, the spa owner asked D if she wanted a neck warmer, and D, seeing that we all had them, said yes. The owner came back shortly and sheepishly handed her what looked to be a beanbag kittycat, and it was not fresh out of the wrapper.
OB: "Is that...a CAT?" (laughter)
Friend A: "It looks like it belongs to a baby - did it come out of someone's car?" (more laughter)
ME: "Or did she just imply that you are a pussy?" (gales of laughter, because I am the writer of this story, so I get the biggest laughs)
Friend D: "Um, guys? It smells like bacon."
Baconcat poses two problems. First, we are not relaxing, we are laughing so hard some of us could be slightly wetting ourselves, and therefore maybe their Quiet Room furniture. Second, D is a vegetarian, so the smell of Baconcat is not bringing her to her Happy Place so much as her Vomit Place. However, she cannot remove Baconcat because D is so polite that she wouldn't want to upset the owner by banishing Baconcat to the floor. So she endures the smell of old meat around her neck. In the form of a pussy. With an OB-GYN in the room. It's sort of metaphorically funny and upsetting at the same time.
The door to The Not-So-Quiet Room opens, and there stand the men giving the Swedish Massage to Friend A and me. One man is well muscled, dark, and mysterious. He says, "Who likes it rough?" with a swashbuckling, winking demeanor and a Russian accent. Friend A shoots out of her seat, throwing her neck warmer on the floor. "ME!" and she trots off down the hall. The other man negotiates his way around the corner in his walker and adult diaper and says, "Why am I here? Cindy?" Clearly this man was mine.
(Okay, so he wasn't really using a walker or wearing an adult diaper, and he actually seemed like a very nice guy. And he gave a great massage. But is that funny? No. And I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)
So my guy takes me to the room, and the massage commences. One problem I have during massages, other than the fear of having gas, is where to put my arms. If I am laying on my stomach, it feels like they should go off of the table and lay on some little armrest, but these things do not exist. I ended up resting my arms on the headrest, sort of up over my head. So we are about halfway into the massage, and Grandpa Jim walks behind my head and starts massaging my shoulders, but the problem is that it makes him lean over me a bit. Since my arms are over my head, my hands seem to be inadvertently rubbing him in the crotchal region. As I contemplate what to do, my eyes snap open, and I am looking directly at his black stockinged feet, which is a little weird. He doesn't wear shoes? And then I realize I am more concerned about the fact that he is shoeless, rather than the very real possibility that I am rubbing his nether parts. I move my arms by my sides, and Father Christmas and I have no more problems.
However, when Friend A comes out of her massage, she is full of information. We go to a gelato place next door to (figuratively) debrief her.
We learn that the Russian has massaged Roger Moore, as in Bond, James Bond. We also find out he is a go-to guy for a number of porn stars and the gay community. My friend breaks the no-talk rule and asks the Russian if he's ever given a Happy Ending. He says that he did have a client once who mid-massage grabbed his hand and put it on the genital region, but the Russian said he politely but firmly pulled his hand away, and said "This massage is over." He said he couldn't be rude, because when he sees the client's face, all he sees is a $100 bill, so he has to be discreet. But that's as close to a Happy Ending as he was willing to admit. But they're out there.
On a random side note that will only fit under the umbrella of Whoreticulture Friday, I have to say that somehow over the weekend the phrase "strap-on penis" came up (No pun intended! And after 25 years of conversation, your topics tend to expand by Day 3 together) and one gal said she wants to wear one. Not sexually, mind you. She just wants to wear a penis around all day and see if it makes her act like an ass. And kick her dog. It's something to consider.
And thus concludes stories about the Arizona trip, because the rest of what we talked about is secret and private. (See girls, I kept most of it in the vault!) Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Skin Tag - You're It!
Thought I was done talking about this trip to Arizona? Au contraire, my friend. In the words of the late Karen Carpenter, We've Only Just Begun. White lace and promises. A kiss for luck and we're on our way.
So let's get a little up gross and personal. Let's talk about skin tags.
It is Saturday afternoon, and I've just left the spa with three other women. We're relaxed. We're happy. We're loosey goosey, baby. My friend A, who just got worked over by a Russian guy, is hungry, so we go into the gelato store next door. What do you know, it's actually run by a tall, dark, and handsome Italian guy, so A is very interested in chatting him up. She's always been a sucker for the International Market for dating, and was married to a New Zealander. He turned out to be such an ass that after her divorce we all boycotted kiwi in support of her. So you'd think she'd stick to the domestic market, but no, she is fresh off of flirting with her Russian masseuse and is flirting with the Italian guy and talking about Tuscany and fresh mozzarella.
This gives my friend the OB-GYN a moment to look at my neck.
OB: "Jude, you have a skin tag on your neck."
ME: "I know."
OB: "I can take that off, you know."
ME: (noncommittal) "Oh, great."
OB: (reaching toward my neck) "Here..."
ME: (jumping back in alarm) "What the hell? Do you mean right now?"
OB: (hand twitching like Clint Eastwood's in Fistful of Dollars) "Yes!"
ME: "Uh, NO, it will hurt, and this is a deli. Aren't there health laws in place?"
A: (Done flirting, turns around while waiting for sandwich) "What are you doing?"
OB: "Pulling off Jude's skin tag. See it?"
A: "Let me see." She leans forward, reaches her hand up to look at it, and tears it from my body with her fingernails. "OOH!!! OOH!! I GOT IT!" Raises her fingers in victory, holding a small piece of my DNA.
OB: (To A, with great respect) "You look like a kid on Christmas morning!"
ME: "AAAHHHH!"
(Red, alarming blotch where my cute little skin tag used to be. Photo taken while still in deli, because the photo album is the priority. I suspect there is a similar photo of Ted Kennedy with fresh skin tag removal.)
So you might think that's the end of it, but no. We go back to the house and tell the others about the massages and the small cosmetic surgery I had in the Italian deli. And then I make the major mistake, which I frequently do, of giving away too much information.
ME: "I have a skin tag that is MUCH bigger than that one."
OB: (Gets crazy glint in her eye) "Where?"
ME: (Lifting my shirt to show my hip) "Right here."
GROUP: "GASP!!"
Because this is no mere skin tag. It has actually progressed to the point where it looks like an Oompah Loompah, or a small toe that never developed fully. I have feelings toward it. It is a part of me now. OB's fingers start twitching again, and she starts looking through drawers in our rental.
OB: "I'll need some scissors or dental floss and a topical anaesthetic, stat." People start moving with purpose.
ME: "No, that won't be necessary, because my little bud isn't coming off today."
OB: "It will only take a second, and it won't hurt."
ME: "Yes, it will. I have to have a few drinks before this goes down."
OB: "Okay, but it's coming off."
I've held off Dr. Mengele for a little longer. Now I need to feed her margaritas until she's forgotten about my skin tag. This does not happen. I'm in my swimsuit...okay, no, I'm actually in my bra and bikini bottom because the top of my suit is cut too high and will ruin my tan line if I were to get any sun. But it exposes my skin tag, and Dr. Crazypants has snuck up behind me and is tying my skin tag off with dental floss. I am frozen and whimpering, terrified, and she stands up, brushes off her hands, and says in a deeply satisfied voice, "There. It will be dead soon. And then I am going to cut it off at the base."
I stand, and look down at my hip, and there is the most ridiculous looking dental floss bow, tied around my incredibly revolting skin tag. And yes, there was enough that one could harness it with floss. It is so funny that I start to laugh. And then I promptly start to pee my pants, and so I have to flee to the bathroom. So there I am, semi-wetting my pants in my ill-fitting brown bra and navy striped swimsuit bottom with a huge dental floss bow around my skin tag. It is too much. I resolve that if the skin tag must go, I must be the one to cut it. It's mine. And Dr. Margarita Scissorhands isn't getting near it.
I pull the nail clippers out of my makeup bag, and tell my Oompah Loompah goodbye. I position the clippers, turn my head, and clip it off. MOTHER F!! It hurts! And is bleeding! And what do I do with it? Should it have a proper burial? I wrap it in tissue and throw it in the garbage, and walk back outside, proudly showing off my Do-It-Yourself surgery. All applaud my bravery.
ME: "I did it! I took it off!"
OB: "I'm very proud of you. But I would've gotten it at the base."
FRIEND B, who is quite attractive: "I have a skin tag!"
OB: "Let me see. No, yours are cute on you."
Uh, what? Skin tags on me are so revolting that they must be torn mercilessly from my body in a deli, strapped down with floss, and clipped immediately, but on size 0 jeans and perky titties they are attractive?!?!
I decide there is no justice in this world. And I resolve to take my clipped skin tag out of the garbage and Gorilla Glue it to Perky Titties hip in the night.
So let's get a little up gross and personal. Let's talk about skin tags.
It is Saturday afternoon, and I've just left the spa with three other women. We're relaxed. We're happy. We're loosey goosey, baby. My friend A, who just got worked over by a Russian guy, is hungry, so we go into the gelato store next door. What do you know, it's actually run by a tall, dark, and handsome Italian guy, so A is very interested in chatting him up. She's always been a sucker for the International Market for dating, and was married to a New Zealander. He turned out to be such an ass that after her divorce we all boycotted kiwi in support of her. So you'd think she'd stick to the domestic market, but no, she is fresh off of flirting with her Russian masseuse and is flirting with the Italian guy and talking about Tuscany and fresh mozzarella.
This gives my friend the OB-GYN a moment to look at my neck.
OB: "Jude, you have a skin tag on your neck."
ME: "I know."
OB: "I can take that off, you know."
ME: (noncommittal) "Oh, great."
OB: (reaching toward my neck) "Here..."
ME: (jumping back in alarm) "What the hell? Do you mean right now?"
OB: (hand twitching like Clint Eastwood's in Fistful of Dollars) "Yes!"
ME: "Uh, NO, it will hurt, and this is a deli. Aren't there health laws in place?"
A: (Done flirting, turns around while waiting for sandwich) "What are you doing?"
OB: "Pulling off Jude's skin tag. See it?"
A: "Let me see." She leans forward, reaches her hand up to look at it, and tears it from my body with her fingernails. "OOH!!! OOH!! I GOT IT!" Raises her fingers in victory, holding a small piece of my DNA.
OB: (To A, with great respect) "You look like a kid on Christmas morning!"
ME: "AAAHHHH!"
(Red, alarming blotch where my cute little skin tag used to be. Photo taken while still in deli, because the photo album is the priority. I suspect there is a similar photo of Ted Kennedy with fresh skin tag removal.)
So you might think that's the end of it, but no. We go back to the house and tell the others about the massages and the small cosmetic surgery I had in the Italian deli. And then I make the major mistake, which I frequently do, of giving away too much information.
ME: "I have a skin tag that is MUCH bigger than that one."
OB: (Gets crazy glint in her eye) "Where?"
ME: (Lifting my shirt to show my hip) "Right here."
GROUP: "GASP!!"
Because this is no mere skin tag. It has actually progressed to the point where it looks like an Oompah Loompah, or a small toe that never developed fully. I have feelings toward it. It is a part of me now. OB's fingers start twitching again, and she starts looking through drawers in our rental.
OB: "I'll need some scissors or dental floss and a topical anaesthetic, stat." People start moving with purpose.
ME: "No, that won't be necessary, because my little bud isn't coming off today."
OB: "It will only take a second, and it won't hurt."
ME: "Yes, it will. I have to have a few drinks before this goes down."
OB: "Okay, but it's coming off."
I've held off Dr. Mengele for a little longer. Now I need to feed her margaritas until she's forgotten about my skin tag. This does not happen. I'm in my swimsuit...okay, no, I'm actually in my bra and bikini bottom because the top of my suit is cut too high and will ruin my tan line if I were to get any sun. But it exposes my skin tag, and Dr. Crazypants has snuck up behind me and is tying my skin tag off with dental floss. I am frozen and whimpering, terrified, and she stands up, brushes off her hands, and says in a deeply satisfied voice, "There. It will be dead soon. And then I am going to cut it off at the base."
I stand, and look down at my hip, and there is the most ridiculous looking dental floss bow, tied around my incredibly revolting skin tag. And yes, there was enough that one could harness it with floss. It is so funny that I start to laugh. And then I promptly start to pee my pants, and so I have to flee to the bathroom. So there I am, semi-wetting my pants in my ill-fitting brown bra and navy striped swimsuit bottom with a huge dental floss bow around my skin tag. It is too much. I resolve that if the skin tag must go, I must be the one to cut it. It's mine. And Dr. Margarita Scissorhands isn't getting near it.
I pull the nail clippers out of my makeup bag, and tell my Oompah Loompah goodbye. I position the clippers, turn my head, and clip it off. MOTHER F!! It hurts! And is bleeding! And what do I do with it? Should it have a proper burial? I wrap it in tissue and throw it in the garbage, and walk back outside, proudly showing off my Do-It-Yourself surgery. All applaud my bravery.
ME: "I did it! I took it off!"
OB: "I'm very proud of you. But I would've gotten it at the base."
FRIEND B, who is quite attractive: "I have a skin tag!"
OB: "Let me see. No, yours are cute on you."
Uh, what? Skin tags on me are so revolting that they must be torn mercilessly from my body in a deli, strapped down with floss, and clipped immediately, but on size 0 jeans and perky titties they are attractive?!?!
I decide there is no justice in this world. And I resolve to take my clipped skin tag out of the garbage and Gorilla Glue it to Perky Titties hip in the night.
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