Please Don’t Make Me Poop in There

I’ve never taken a normal poop in a .

I probably never will.

I’m terrified of germs.

I don’t care if God says all I have to do is take a regular doodie at Denny’s to save my seat in heaven, I’ll be standing outside the pearly gates with shit in my pants.

I’m not saying I’ll never, ever  in a communal commode; I’m saying if I do, it won’t be “normal.” It’ll be rushed, sweaty, panicked, and traumatic.

I know I’m not alone.

No one strolls into a and kicks back for leisurely plop.

You’re in that back room because you’ve run out of options. It was either soil yourself or sit in a stall while poop particles float around your head like some septic snow globe.

Yes, I realize there are worse places to make. You could pinch one off in poison ivy or get the squirts in Calcutta.

I mean, in all likelihood, at this very moment, thousands of people dying of diarrhea.

In this golden age of prosperity and medical breakthroughs, half the world is one fish taco away from shitting out a soul.

So yes, I know that complaining/whining about my fear of public restrooms is, as my father-in-law would say, “A high-class problem.”

Still, if you counted up the time I’ve spent worrying about toilets and stalls, creating excuses to stay in because my tummy’s feeling wonky or just sweating in some restaurant booth afraid to get up, I’ve lost years.

My friends think it’s hysterical. Once at a concert, they locked me in a Port-o-Potty and tied it shut with a rope. I still have nightmares.

But I don’t blame them. It was really funny. I got so flustered I started stutter-swearing. “F-f-f-ucking l-let me out, d-d-dickheads.”

But until two nights ago, I’d never really examined the genesis of my phobia. I hadn’t a clue where it all began. Then Emery Emery (host of ) helped me pinpoint the moment.

I was in first grade.

My mom had taken my sister and me to the park for a picnic. We’d invited our neighbor Loretta and her daughter, Tabby, to come along. I had a crush on Tabby. She was two years older and she always wore these bright blue overalls. She could blow bubbles the size of my head with her , and she rode a bike better than anyone on the block. She could pop wheelies.

Anyway, that afternoon, mom set us up under a tree, and we ate PB&Js. I scarfed down three to show off for Tabby. She didn’t care. She just wanted to hit the slide behind the baseball diamond. I asked if I could go, and my mom said yes. “But be careful. That thing’s not sturdy.”

“I will,” I said. I’d never been to this particular park, but I wasn’t worried. It was a slide. How dangerous could it be?

Tabby tore off over the hill. I tried to keep up, but my abnormally large, unwieldy feet made it seem like I was running in .

Tabby was halfway up the ladder when I saw the slide. Thirty feet tall. Almost straight down. The sun bounced off the tin and blinded me good. I scurried into the shade.

Tabby got to the top and told me to watch. She looked like one of those daredevils that  jump into baby pools with only an inch of water.

“Here goes!” Tabby kicked her legs forward and flew down like a comet. Her feet hit the ground and she kept going, running across the field, finally turning back. “Alright, your turn.”

“Yeah…” I stared up the ladder, gulped and grabbed the metal bars. They were hot and sticky. I felt Tabby’s eyes and started climbing. I focused on the rungs, tried not to look down. My stomach was tumbling like tennis shoes in a dryer.

A breeze hit my face, and I realized I’d reached the top. My palms were sweating like crazy. I almost lost my grip.

“Don’t let your legs touch the metal!” Tabby yelled through her cupped hands. “It’s hot as hell.”

I looked down. Everything tunneled. Right to Tabby. She was so tiny, so far away. But all I had to do was sit and let gravity take me to her.

I just had to get my feet under me.

Metal creaked. Everything swayed. My mom was right, this wasn’t sturdy at all. The slide was dented, warped, and less than two feet wide. One lean and I’d topple over, snap my spine like a carrot.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, plopped on the tin and sizzled. I wondered if that’s what my skin would sound like on the way down.

“Come on, chicken shit!” Tabby yelled.

I had no concept of time. It felt like I’d been up here for days. I needed to get this over with. I needed to look cool. I took a breath, then lowered myself when—

My stomach burbled.

I knew that feeling. I shot up quick, stood tall. My mouth watered as the metal frame creaked. Another little sway.

Another burble.

Why did I eat all those sandwiches?

And why did I think Tabby would be impressed?

My bony knees clacked into each other.

My butthole pulsed. Clench…release…clench…

Please, no, no, no…

I squeezed my cheeks, squeezed so hard my whole body shook, but I couldn’t hold it.

It started gushing. I clenched more, saw the bathrooms past the treeline. Only a hundred yards, maybe less.

Tabby blocked the sun from her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

I breathed through my nose, tried to will it all away, but the .

My anus tried, but he couldn’t hold.

A wet, hot clump squished into my underwear.

I’d been breached.

Shit cascaded down legs, shorts, and socks.

I watched it flow over my laces and stream down the slide like microwaved ice cream.

Tabby’s face squinched up with disgust.

“Sorry…” I said as my foulness rolled down like a sad, stinky avalanche.

I couldn’t look anymore. I started back down the ladder, but I slipped. The mess had spilled backwards. It was dripping down the rungs, slicking them so there was no way to get footing.

That’s when I realized…there was only one direction to go.

“D-don’t l-look,” I stammered.

Tabby shook her head and turned. I crouched, stretched my legs. My shoes sloshed through the filth.

And I saw Tabby peek. I started to tell her to stop, but it didn’t matter. She’d already seen too much.

I just hoped it’d be over quickly, that I’d be off this stupid thing so we could go home.

I shoved off but hardly moved. The shit was congealing in the heat. I had to grab the sides and scooch. Shit splattered in these little arcs like when a car hits a puddle.

Finally, I got to the end and stood up, dripping and stained. I was crying. Tabby just stood there in horror.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I said.

“Yeah…sure.”

Tabby and I didn’t go to the same school, so I have no idea if she broke her promise, but I don’t see how a person could keep a story like that in.

I just hope she has forgotten.

I know I never will. My only prayer is Alzheimer’s. Maybe then I’ll be able to poop at Applebee’s.

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Five-Year Anniversary

Five years ago, and I did this:

I said this:

“I dropped to one knee. You asked if something was wrong with my leg. I said, No, nothing is wrong with my leg. I asked you to marry me. You cried and said yes. That night I was so confused as to why you loved me. I watched you sleep and thought about all the things we’ll do, like buy a house and a car with air conditioning and open up a theater and take trips to Brazil and laugh at Americans trying to order Churrascaria and we’ll kiss in the Parthenon and ride camels and go to the premier of our first movie and take the stage to accept our Oscar and get so drunk at the after party that you pee on Steven Spielberg’s lap and I break up with you and tell you to lie down in the grass and you cry and say you will and I feel awful and pick you up and we give up drinking for two months and get into the best shape of our lives and you say we’ll never drink again and we get drunk that night and make love on our new deck and we’re so loud the neighbors put up their house for sale and we buy that house too so we can build a wiffle ball stadium in the backyard and you tell me you’re pregnant and I kiss you because we’re ready and we raise the kid to be an atheist even though I read God is Gay to him when he’s sleeping and you tell me I’m a good father and I tell you that you’ve never looked more beautiful and you say it’s because of the fake boobs and I shrug and a month later I finally finish writing Why Can’t I just Die because for the first time I don’t want to kill myself and we take jobs at a college and teach and write plays and screenplays and you say we should go to the Himalayas and so we go to the Himalayas and meet a boy who recognizes you and says he loves Charlie Moose and Hatch Lemon like brothers and we laugh because the kid has never even heard of Kraft Cheese and you start to worry that we’re not doing enough with our lives so we go to New Orleans because for some reason things never got fixed and we help an old saxophone player build a new house screw by screw, and I notice that my finger skin starts to dent in like my grandmother’s and you take my hand when the doctor tells me I have lung cancer and we laugh and say, Thank God I quit smoking fifty years ago, and I go through chemo and get better and help you with your physical therapy for your new feet and I say it’s about time you got that hearing aid and you finally say okay and we hold our grandchild and sit in the living room as he watches Nick the Saint for the first time and he says it was the bestest best movie ever and I walk out into our tomato garden and see your legs lying lifeless and I hold your hand and tell you I love you and I find myself laughing because your socks never did match and we bury you behind an oak tree and I kick myself for not buying side-by-side plots and I have to wait until no one is around so I can dig up the guy next to you and put him somewhere else and then hire an immigrant from that new country of New California and have him shoot me in the gut and dump piles of dirt me and I start crying and I whisper through the earth and tell you I’m scared and that’s when I hear your voice for the first time in months and you say, It’s going to be okay, Anthony. I’m going to take care of you. Nothing bad is going to happen, and I say, How do you know? and you tell me it’s because we were wrong, Heaven does exist.
Two months ago you saved my life, and I promise I will do everything to make sure you never regret it. I love you and I will never, ever quit us.”

Then we did this:

Then this:

This:

And this:

Somehow we made it.

World War Pee

I sometimes pee when I’m sleepwalking, but I’m not the only inappropriate pisser in my house. I’m not talking about my dog either. My wife uses urine as a weapon, not just on me, on strangers. One time we were drinking at The Woods. The bar takes its name seriously. The seats are stumps, there’s a mural of a forest behind the bar, and all of the paneling is – yeah, you fucking guessed it:

The only redeeming quality is their happy hour. Hardly anyone goes to it, so you pretty much have the place to yourself. You just have to leave before the hipsters descend. The hipsters are assholes, and not ironically. They shove and sneer in their skinny jeans and skinny suspenders.

This particular night, we failed to vacate early. Some friends had come to meet us, and we were sitting on this long, communal booth against the wall. The hipsters kept squeezing in, and my wife kept getting nudged further and further away from our table. Twice Jess asked the girls to please stop pushing. She got dirty looks and eye rolls.

I suggested we leave, but our friends had just ordered new drinks, so I went to the bar and stood next to people who smelled like cigarettes and candy.

After about ten minutes, My wife ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me in. She whispered, “We have to go now.”

“Why?”

“I just… We need to.”

“What happened?”

“Ipeed.”

“You what?!”

Her eyes were wild and giddy. “I peed on their purses.”

I looked down. Her skirt seemed dry. “Idon’t… You…?”

“Yes, and we have to go. Now.”

We walked out, turned the corner. I asked her to tell me what happened.

“They kept pushing. Kept pushing. Then they started tossing their purses in a big pile. Right next to me. Kept pushing. I said, ‘Please don’t. Please stop.’ And one of them looked me right in the eye and she pushed again. So I waited a couple of minuteslifted my skirt, angled andI PEED! ALL OVER THEIR STUPID FUCKING PURSES!”

History told me she was telling the truth.

Two years ago, we’d gone to a wedding in Palm Springs. We were just out of grad school and broke, so we couldn’t afford a hotel. We were planning on not drinking and driving back to L.A. after the ceremony, but are friends offered to put us up in their room and we were having fun. Then we had more fun, like eight glasses of fun. We caught up to the other drinkers and raced past them to buffoonery. Jess dropped her wine glass on the dance floor. I dropped mine next. Parents had to grab their kids so they wouldn’t cut themselves.

Luckily, the reception was winding down. We were told there was an after party a house someone had rented. One of my friends handed me directions on a piece of paper.

I shouldn’t have been driving, but I was told the house was only minutes away. Within a few blocks, we were lost. I was so drunk I couldn’t read the words on the piece of paper. Neither could my wife. I found a McDonald’s parking lot, drove in, and tried to pull it together.

After few minutes, I said, “Okay, give me the directions. I can do this.”

“No.”

“Jess, it’s fucking late. Just give them to me. I shouldn’t even be driving.”

“No, we don’t need them.”

“What are you talking about? We don’t know Palm Springs. We don’t live here. We don’t know where this house is, and I don’t want to get pulled over by the cops.”

“We don’t have the directions.”

“Yes, I just gave them to you. Now give them to me.”

“Fine!” She pulled out some soaking wet paper, the ink smeared and unreadable.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I peed on it.” She sounded proud.

“What? Why – why would you pee on the directions?”

“I don’t know!”

“I-I-I don’t even know how to try and comprehend what’s happening here. Why did you pee on the directions?!”

“I put them under my leg so I wouldn’t lose them, and I must have forgotten when I peed.”

Whyyyyyyy were you peeing in the car?!”

“I don’t know! Stop yelling! I’m sorry. I just started going and I couldn’t stop.”

Jess was crying. I felt bad.

She said, “What do we do now? I ruined everything.”

“No, it’s okay. We’re okay.” I had my cell phone. I could’ve called up my friends, but I no longer wanted to go. Jess was covered in pee. I was done driving. We simply crawled in the backseat. I covered her with my jacket and held her tight. I kissed the back of her head.

“You better not pee on me.”

What about you? Ever tinkled in public?

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My Wife Raced a Little Person

I’ve been reading comments praising my wife. It’s completely deserved. She’s put up with my Viagra boner. She’s handled my depression. She’s also cleaned up my pee. Two people asked for “Team Jess” T-shirts. I’m seriously thinking about making them, but I’m lazy so I doubt I will.

She is awesome though.

One night she raced a little person.

We’d been drinking at the Power House. It’s the kind of bar that only has PBR on tap. It’s located in the nasty neon heart of Hollywood and Highland, L.A.’s Times Square. There are souvenir stands, celebrity footprints, the Chinese Theater, Madame Tussauds, and The Gap. You’ll see people dressed up as characters from your favorite movies.

Tourists can have their picture taken with Spider Man, Captain Jack, or the Incredible Hulk.

The people behind the masks are typically out-of-work actors trying to make a buck. They earn cash through tips.

Kids seem to love it.

Personally, I get annoyed. I have nothing against people trying to make a living, but these photo ops clog the already crowed sidewalks. I’ve seen people nudged into the street. I’m sure some have been hit by cars.

But it’s not all bad.

Jess and I live in the area. Sometimes we’ll see actors getting dressed on our street. They park near us because it’s free and it allows them to put on their garb without destroying the illusion. I’ve seen Wonder Woman stuffing her bra and Edward Scissorhands smoking a cigarette. It’s surreal seeing these iconic characters half-dressed. You’re visually deconstructing your heroes, stripping them down to sad humans beings.

The Power House offers this experience, as well, because after a shift, some of the actors stop by for a pint. I’ve thrown back drinks with Darth Vader and the Flash.

Chucky from Child’s Play is a regular.

The actor is an African-American dwarf (I’m told by the Internet “dwarf” is acceptable. My apologies if it’s not.)

He’s almost always drunk.

My wife and I have bought Chucky a few drinks over the years. I’ve never learned his real name. I’m not sure want to. I like calling him Chucky. You see, he’s quite horrifying – not because of his diminished size or the rubber knife he wields, but because he’s an asshole. Not all the time, not when he’s sober. But after a few drinks, he starts talking shit. He’ll plunk down at your table and tell you to order him a beer. He knocks over glasses. He’s asked to fuck my wife more than once. I think it’s hilarious. Others don’t. Some want to punch him. They never would, because, well, he’s a little person. You can’t strike a dwarf without looking like a monster. And Chucky knows it. You should see his devilish grin when he backs a person into the wall. He gets off knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.

One night Chucky was going on and on about how fast he is on his Razor scooter.

“I’m like a fucking bullet.”

Jess said, “I think you’re full of shit.” She’d had a few too many. I should’ve taken us home, but frankly, I wanted to see where this was going. No one had ever challenged Chucky like this. He was getting pissed.

After a few more beers, we were suddenly on Hollywood Blvd.

Jess and Chucky were going to race.

I said, “On your markGet setGO!”

They tore off through the throngs of tourists. Chucky took the lead. Jess’s high heels were slowing her down, but she found an empty pocket and cruised through. Chucky and Jess were neck and neck, and then, out of nowhere, Chucky toppled. Jess was at least three feet away, so there was no way she touched him, because she herself has little person arms.

But to everyone else, it looked like she’d just shoved a little black person, which, I’m fairly certain, is committing multiple hate crimes.

Someone said something about getting the cops.

Thinking quickly, I said, “RUN!”

We took off, turned down an alley. We didn’t stop until we were home, both of us out of breath.

“Did thatjust happen?” I asked.

“YeahI totally won.”

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Sex Party – Part 1

A few years ago my wife and I had to go to Texas for a wedding.  My wife really wanted to wear the dress she’d worn on our honeymoon, and she challenged me to squeeze into my old suit.  We had two weeks to lose ten pounds.  My wife suggested the lemonade diet, which means drinking lemon juice and maple syrup, then shitting your brains out.  It’s disgusting, but we achieved our goal.

After the wedding, we figured we’d strut around a little before we went back to stuffing our faces.  Jess thought we should have a threesome.  She didn’t have anyone in mind and I was too hungry and lightheaded to start some extensive search, so I went online and saw an ad for a “swingers meet and greet” at a hotel in L.A.  We’d never done anything like this and we figured at the very least we’d get a good story, so we put on our fancy duds and headed downtown.

The hotel had a Moroccan theme with purple pillows on the floor and silk drapes hanging from the ceiling.  We were instructed to the ballroom, where we found a group of middle-aged weirdos gyrating on the dance floor.  Everyone seemed shiny and bleached.  There were guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts, and a lot of the women had visibly pierced nipples.

A small Asian man handed me a gift bag.  There were condoms, a dildo, and flyers for more events.  Off to the side, I spotted a buffet table of mini tacos.  The DJ was playing AC/DC.

Jess and I tried not to laugh as we took in the dry humping.

Within a few minutes I’d seen enough and said we should leave.

“Let’s at least get a drink,” she said.  “We drove all the way down here.”

I asked her to come with me to the bar, but she said she was fine watching the weirdos.  Reluctantly, I walked off feeling like an asshole for leaving my wife.  A woman standing by herself in this place was like chum in the water.  I quickened my pace and ordered two vodka sodas.  I noticed a shy couple standing against the wall.  They looked normal and out of place.

I brought the drinks over to Jess and she subtly pointed to a guy who had his balls out.

The shy couple began walking towards us.  There was nowhere for us to go.  We shared an awkward hello and I asked if they’d seen the guy and his testicles.  They said yes and asked if we’d seen the pregnant woman.  Thankfully, we had not.

The couple was in their 30’s.  The guy said they were from Pasadena, and like us, they’d never been to one of these things.  The woman talked about her two kids.  My wife asked to see a picture.  The woman pulled out her phone and show us one their family at Disneyland.

“They’re adorable,” Jess said.

The DJ got on the mic.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the upstairs is now available.  Feel free to take your drinks, but check your inhibitions on the first floor.”

“Upstairs?” Jess asked.

“Yeah, there’s a whole other party up there,” the guy said.

This did seem a little tame compared to what I’d imagined, even with the dude and his balls.  It reminded me of a bar in Kansas called Touché.  My parents used to go there when they were married.

The couple asked Jess and I if we wanted to go upstairs.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.  “We really should get back home.  We have a dog.”

“No, we don’t,” Jess said.  This was technically true.  We did not have a dog at the time, but I didn’t understand why she was throwing me under the bus.  She said, “Let’s go up.  I want to see.”

“Yeah, alright.”  I followed them to the elevator and gave my wife a dirty look.

On the drive here Jess and I had talked about what we were willing to do, about boundaries.  We’d had threesomes with girls, but we’d never done anything with a guy or a couple.  I suddenly felt sick.  It wasn’t just the thought of Jess being with another guy; it was the fact they’d just shown us pictures of their kids at Disneyland.  I imagined the little tykes at home with a babysitter thinking their mom and dad were at a movie.

Jess and I squeeze into the elevator with two more couples, who had to be their 60’s.  The women were wearing plastic beads.  I prayed they weren’t going to show us their boobs.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened.  A fat, naked guy was standing in the hallway eating a piece of cake.

I pulled Jess to the side.  “I really don’t feel comfortable.”

“Okay, we can go.  I just wanted to see what was up here.”

“I want to see, too.  I just…I don’t want to do anything, okay?”

“I don’t either.  We’ll go after these drinks, okay?”

“Yeah…alright.” It was, after all, my idea to come here, and honestly, I was curious to see what oddities lurked beyond the naked man and his cake.

We passed an open door on the left.  A woman in pleather was on the balcony blowing an old, hairy guy.  He kept waving to people down on the sidewalk.

The couple from Pasadena asked if we were hungry.

“No, I’m, uh, okay,” I said.

The guy offered his hand.  “I’m sorry, I’m Brian.”

“Hi…Brian.  I’m Anthony.  This is Jess.”

“I’m Claire,” Brian’s wife said.

We all shook hands and entered another room.  People were standing around a sad woman lying on a table.  Her body was covered with sushi and fruit.  Two men were bent over eating things off her boobs and shaved va-jang.

I quickly walked out and wandered into a room with two dominatrixes spanking an Asian man.  He looked over and I realized it was the guy who’d given us the gift bag.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just gave him a thumbs up.  He seemed happy.

At the end of the hall there was a suite with a big empty bed.  Jess had worn her most painful boots and couldn’t wait to sit down.

“Oh, that feels nice,” she said.

Brian looked around the room.  He suddenly seemed really nervous. “You, uh, uh, don’t want to sit there.”

“No?” Jess said.

“No, that’s the ‘all-play’ bed.”

“Oh…the what?” Jess asked.

“It means people can do anything they want to you,” Claire said.  “If you sit there, you’re basically telling everyone you’re up for like…everything.”

Oh God!” Jess said, quickly popping up.

I noticed a sweaty man and a woman with a neck tattoo on the other side of the room.  They were sitting back down on some folding chairs, both clearly disappointed Jess had gotten up from the bed.

“Thank you,” I said to Brian.

“Yeah, I figured that wasn’t what she was looking for.”

“No, no, no,” Jess said.  ”I was wondering why no one was sitting there.”

“Yeah, that’s why,” Claire smiled.

“How’d you know about the bed?” I said.  “I thought you two had never been to one of these things?”

“Oh, we haven’t,” Claire said.  “We got a room, and when we checked in, they gave us a little rundown.”

“Oh…” I said.  “Well, I’m glad you were here.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” Claire said, then leaned in.  “We expected it to be just a bunch of creepy people.”

“Oh my God, we did too,” Jess said.

For the next ten minutes, we just kept chatting.  Brian told us about the shipping company he worked for.  Claire mentioned they’d just booked their vacation to Alaska.  Jess said we’ve always wanted to go there.  Brian joked that his feet were hurting and pretended to sit on the “all-play” bed.  We laughed and drank our cocktails, and except for the old guy getting a handjob in the corner, it was like a normal-ish party.  People were sharing email addresses and eating snacks and talking about the Lakers.

Before I knew it, our drinks were finished.

“Is there a bar up here?” I said.

“No, it’s downstairs,” Brian said.

Claire whispered, “We actually brought a bottle of vodka.  It’s in our room.  We figured the drinks were going to be really expensive.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“Do you two want a…drink?” Brian said.

“Oh…I don’t know.  Jess?”

“I’d like one more,” my wife said.

And suddenly we were following the couple from Pasadena to their room.  Things were about to get really weird.

To be continued…

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We Kissed a Girl – #1

Before my wife and I got married we decided to have a threesome.  We weren’t looking to enter the “lifestyle” or for me to grow a mustache.  We just thought it’d be fun.

In college, Jess had a stint where she only dated girls.  She even hooked up with a female cop, who was really into dental dams, which makes me giggle every time I see a commercial for Saran Wrap.

Six months before the wedding Jess admitted she sort of missed being with a female, and being a supportive fiancé, how could I deprive her of this wish?

Yes, my mom’s gay, and yes, marrying a lady who’s into women was not only psychologically fucked but also dangerous.  What if she left me for the other woman?  Still, it was a threesome, and I was willing to take the risk.

So we started looking, which was awkward, because a couple hitting on a girl at a bar is just creepy.  And personal ads on the Internet are, in all likelihood, either a prostitute or a dude.  This left us with friends, but neither of us felt comfortable asking anyone.

So we packed the threesome fantasy away, told ourselves it was for the best.

A few weeks later, Michelle called.  She was Jess’s friend from college.  They chatted for an hour.  Jess walked out of the bedroom and said:

“I, uh, think we found our threesome.”

“Really?”

“Michelle’s coming to L.A.  She wants to stay with us.”

“Okay, but how do you know she… I mean, did you two ever…?”

“Not really, but she’s working.”

“Oh…”

“As a massage therapist.”

Oh…”

“Giving happy endings.”

OH!”

Over the next few days, Jess and I discussed the ground rules:

Jess said, “What about kissing?”

I said, “You two should definitely kiss.  Repeatedly.”  Then–  “Are we really doing this?”

“Yes.  But if I can kiss her then you should kiss her.”

“I don’t know…”

“Anthony, I’m not going to get jealous.  And if for some reason I do, I’ll tell you.  We have to be open with each other.  We have to communicate.”

So we covered everything, well, everything except how to bring it up to Michelle.  Neither of us wanted to do it, and when Michelle arrived, we still didn’t have a plan.  We sat in our living room and made small talk.  Michelle seemed tired.  She bitched about the airline and the flight.  I talked about road construction.  Finally, Jess suggested we go out for drinks.  After a pitcher of beer, Michelle talked about the guy she was dating.  It was becoming obvious this wasn’t going to happen.  I decided to step out for a cigarette.  Michelle wanted to join.  She talked more about the guy, about her new apartment, about the shitty weather in New York.  I asked questions and smiled and realized how awful it was that Jess and I just assumed we were going to have a threesome with this girl, who clearly thought she was just visiting a friend.

We walked back inside and slid into the booth.

“So,” Michelle said, “I have an idea.”

“Okay,” Jess said and poured herself a beer.

“I want to show Anthony what I do for a living.”

And here we go.

Check paid. Car started. We’re back at the apartment. Michelle tells us both to strip.  She says she’ll be right back.

Jess takes off her sweater and whispers, “What do you think she’s doing?”

I whisper, “I have no idea.”

I hear a ding.  The door opens.  Michelle’s topless.  She’s holding a bottle of oil.  She tells me to lie down and relax.  The oil is hot.  The ding must have been the microwave.  She’s rubbing my shoulders.  I feel the oil dripping down my side.  I know it’s going to stain the sheets.  I hear kissing.  Michelle’s on my back, so I can’t really turn, but I keep twisting and angling.  Finally, I catch a glimpse, and it’s wonderful, but something pops in my back.  It hurts but I don’t want to scream.  I just bite the pillow.  I no longer care about a happy ending.  I just want the massage, but the girls are really making out.  Michelle tells me to flip over.  I try not to grimace or make a weird noise.  There are hands all over me.  I forget about my back.  Jess kisses me and gives me a look.  She’s trying to see if I’m okay with this.  I realize we have a safe word to stop things, but we have nothing to say, “Proceed!”  So I just kiss her.  Everything is a blur.  Everyone is adjusting and moving and it goes on for a really long time, like we’re-getting-cramps-type-of-long.  But Michelle hasn’t finished.  It doesn’t matter what we try.  I’m thinking we should take a nap, try again later, but Jess is determined.  I’ve seen this look before, like when we couldn’t figure out how to hook up our computer to our TV.  Jess scoured the Internet, ordered things on Amazon.  She didn’t sleep until we had Netflix on the big screen.

Now, she’s pulling out a vibrator.  She has a feather and a little whip.

The next morning I wake up to Michelle snapping pictures of us with her phone.  Jess and I drive her to the airport.  We hug each other and wave goodbye.  Jess turns to me.

“I forgot being with a woman is so exhausting.”

“Yeah…”

“But I, uh, kind of want to do it again.”

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We Found the Hole!

Mom and sis are here in L.A., and oh, how I wish I could recall every sexual innuendo we came up with as we tried to find the hole in the air mattress, but I fear I’m far too drunk, tired, and giddy that my sister actually solved the mystery. Plus, I don’t want to spend any more time blogging. Their trip ends Saturday, and the awful emptiness is already starting to creep in knowing they’ll soon be gone. 

My dog is happy the mattress is back.

My Gay Mom is in L.A.!

My mom just arrived in L.A. for a visit, so I apologize for keeping this brief. But in the few hours since her arrival, I have learned:

1) When she first started frequenting the lone gay bar in Kansas City, the women refused to speak to her. She thought they didn’t find her appealing. It broke her heart. Later she learned the regulars were suspicious of new fems. They figured her “undercover,” which she explained meant they thought she was a swinger, posing as a lesbian to reel in an unsuspecting woman to bring home to her nasty boyfriend or husband.

2) My mom pointed out a mistake in my last post. She said they did have a parade in Kansas City when she first came out. I asked how many people were involved in this celebration. She said, “Like four or five.” So I stand corrected. Ten years ago, Kansas City did have a gay pride parade, though you might have confused it for a few people jaywalking.

3) Yes, my mom sure can take a picture.

Until next time. Cheers!