My Adventures at the Sperm Bank – Part 1

After grad school I masturbated into a cup. It wasn’t on a dare. I didn’t have a fetish for plastic containers. I was broke and there was an ad for a sperm bank. I’d found the ad on Craigslist, so there was a little concern I might end up murdered, but it was fifty bucks. Plus, I was curious, and I was planning on doing that that afternoon anyway. Figured why not get paid?

So I drove to the sperm bank’s office, which was next to UCLA’s campus. It seemed like a legitimate medical building, so I walked up to the second floor. A group of college guys sat in school desks filling out forms.

There was a nurse behind a glass partition. She was pretty, which sort of creeped me out. I wanted this to seem more scientific, not just dudes whacking off for cash. I remembered what happened to Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights.

At the end of the hallway there were two doors. A guy walked out of one. He looked sweaty. He had a plastic cup and a DVD. He gave both to the nurse. She slipped the DVD into a thick binder. There must have been at least a hundred videos, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the plastic cup. It looked like watery mayonnaise.

The nurse slapped a label on it and stuck it in a mini-fridge. There were dozens of containers and a brown paper sack. I wondered if it was her lunch?

She handed me the forms, told me to bring them back when I was done. I squeezed into one of the school desks and started writing. The questions were fairly basic, stuff like height, weight, hair color, education, history of disease…

I couldn’t decide whether I needed to list my allergy to pollen when a guy passing by bumped me. He apologized.

I was about to say, “No worries,” when I saw his little cup of sauce. He’d almost spilled it on me!

I should have walked out right then. Instead, I wrote faster, turned in my forms.

The nurse asked if I had any preference.

“Huh?”

“For the video?”

She pointed to the binder. She wanted me to tell her what I liked. I felt the eyes of every guy in the room.

What was I going to say? “Well, I do have a thing for thigh high stockings.” I simply stammered, “I-I-I don’t care. Whatever.”

Carefully, she flipped through the collection and handed me a disc, along with a cup. “Now, it’s very important not to use any spit or lube. It’ll contaminate the sample, okay?”

I nodded, hurried down the hall and entered a tiny room. There was a TV and DVD player in the corner. The walls were covered with pages ripped out of Playboys and other nudie magazine. I imagined it’s what a serial killer’s bedroom must look like.

I set the plastic cup on a table. There was a folding chair. I thought about all the hairy butts that had touched it.

I’d have to do this standing up.

That’s when I noticed the DVD, Ass Blasters 3. The nurse must of thought I was into anal. I wondered what tipped her off? Do I have a tell?

Worse, she’d given me Part 3, assuming I’d seen 1 and 2.

I used my knuckle to press eject. I popped in the disc and looked around for the remote. It was on the table. I started to pick it up, when I thought about how many thumbs had been used to fast forward and pause. There were paper towels. I tore off a sheet and wrapped the remote, like you might do to a pickle.

Problem was, the paper towel covered the buttons, so I couldn’t see what I was pushing. I ejected the disc, brought up the menu and turned off the player before I finally got things going.

Ass Blasters 3 wasted no time living up to the premise.

This monster dude was pounding away at this tiny lady. They cut to a nasty close-up shot that looked more like torture. I wanted to fast forward, but I didn’t want to risk pushing the power button again so I let it play out. I needed to get this over with. I heard someone enter the next room. I focused on the tiny lady. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

So was the guy next door.

He started grunting. He said, “Yeah…”

This must be what prison is like.

I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t finish. I tried looking at the wallpaper porn. I tried closing my eyes and just listening to the DVD, but all I heard was the dude next door moan. A minute later he turned off his video and left the room.

How long have I been in here?!

I pictured the nurse checking her watch, pissed that I was taking so long. It was embarrassing. Did the other guys think I couldn’t get it up, or worse, that I was trying to make it last?

I closed my eyes and thought of Angelina Jolie, of the Sears catalogue from my youth. If only I had some lube. I was beginning to chafe. But I couldn’t give up now. I couldn’t walk out with nothing.

Finally, I felt a stirring, but just before the one gun salute, I remembered:

The cup!

It was behind me on the table. I had to spin, reach, bend over, line up the target.

Success, well, mostly.

I zipped, cleaned up, and brought my sample to the nurse. I couldn’t make eye contact. She told me I’d get a call if my sperm count passed the first test.

I’d only done this for the money, but now I was suddenly overwhelmed with a fear I might fail.

For two days I fretted, even though I had no interest in going back to that perverse place.  Then my cell phone rang. I was almost too scared to answer.

“Mr. Szpak?”

“Yes?”

“We’re pleased to inform you that you’ve passed the first round. We’d like to schedule you for a follow-up. Are you interested?”

“Uh…”

“You will receive a hundred dollars.”

“I’m in.”

To be continued…

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Brad Pitt Nude

A few years ago, my wife found “Brad Pitt Nude” on my browser history. She refuses to let it go. She’s relentless. She’ll just blurt, “B.P.N!” out of nowhere and fall over laughing.

She’s whispered it during sex.

Before we go to dinner parties, she threatens to tell our friends. She never would, but she mouths, “B.P.N,” every time I get up to grab a beer.

I break out in sweats. My heartbeat gets all wonky.

My wife thinks it’s hysterical.

She taped this in our bathroom.

She likes seeing how flustered I get. She owns me and she knows it.

I can’t take it anymore. That’s why I’m typing this, why I’m telling the world, “I LOOKED UP ‘BRAD PITT NUDE!’”

And it wasn’t just once. It was TWICE. Go ahead and judge. I don’t care. I’m taking back the power. My wife can’t hold this over me anymore.

Thing is, it has nothing to do with me looking at a naked man. If my wife came home and I was beating off to two dudes on my computer, she’d say, “Oh, sorry, I’ll let you finish.”

It’s the fact that it’s so specific, that it’s Brad Pitt Nude.

She knows I’m a fan. We see all his movies. I own most of them.

And not that it matters, but I wasn’t jacking off to BPN when I Googled him.

I just wanted to see the picture.

Here’s why:

In high school, Brad Pitt was arguably the coolest man on the planet, at least for me. Fight Club changed my life, and after seeing Se7en I actually outran a cop.

In the same way boys idolized Steve McQueen and James Dean, that’s how I felt about Brad Pitt. I didn’t want to kidnap or rape him; I wanted to meet him. I was a fan.

And in 1997 there was an issue of Playgirl. There were pictures of him naked. People were talking about it. It made the news. I was curious. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But it was 1997, and the Internet wasn’t like today. You couldn’t just Google “B.P.N.” and scroll through a million images.

You had to get a hard copy.

I was too scared to buy it, so I got my girlfriend, H., to do it. She was grossed out at first. She thought I was gay. I told her that wasn’t it. There was a lawsuit. They were going to pull the magazine off the shelves. This thing would be worth money. I convinced her it was a business investment. She wasn’t very bright.

The next day she brought it over. I tried not to look too enthusiastic as she pulled it from her backpack. And there it was, B.P.N. Problem was, it was sealed in plastic. I couldn’t see the pictures.

The front door unlocked. It was my dad. I hid the magazine under the couch. Later, I hid it in my closet. It stayed there for months. I couldn’t open it. It was one thing to “accidentally” flip to an image, but to break the seal somehow made it perverse.

And to be honest, I was afraid of what would happen if I saw the pictures. What if I really liked them? What if they turned me on?

So B.P.N remained in plastic. It protected us both.

Over the years, I moved a lot, even across the country. BPN stayed in boxes, until eventually, he was lost.

I’d actually forgotten about it until a few years ago. My wife had bought us tickets to a double-feature of Se7en and Fight Club. Se7en actually held up better than I remembered. But Fight Club really jogged my memory.

And so later that night, after my wife fell asleep, I typed twelve letters into Google and finally saw what I’d denied myself all those years ago. I wasn’t giddy or aroused.

I was sad.

I thought about that kid in high school who just wanted to see a picture. He was curious, but he was scared. He was ashamed. He worried people would think he was gay, or that he really was, and he’d lose his girlfriend and maybe even his father.

But he had nothing to be ashamed about.

He was just curious.

And gay or straight, who doesn’t want to see a little B.P.N?

Have you ever been busted for something in your browser history?

Inappropriate Boners

I took a Viagra in Mexico. I didn’t need it. I just wanted it. My wife and I were on our honeymoon. I felt a little pressure – not from her; I’d just heard too many tales of twenty-four hour fuck-a-thons from buddies. Plus, we were staying at an all-inclusive, i.e., “all-you-can-drink” resort. I didn’t need to knock out my favorite appendage. I wanted this to be epic, meaning I needed to be able to do it in anywhere, at any time.

See, usually, I have sex in bedrooms, sometimes the living room. I don’t have sex under waterfalls or on dirty sand or in public restrooms. I’m a germaphobe. I get grossed out and nervous, and when I’m nervous, my brain keeps all the blood.

But for this trip I didn’t want to be Regular Anthony. I wanted to be Super Anthony.

It wasn’t my wife’s idea. She didn’t need me to get hard while we went snorkeling, but I wanted the option. I wanted to give her an adventure, something she could fantasize about, even after I got old and fat.

I’m already on the downslope. I’m bipolar. My hair’s receding. I’ve gained weight. I get back pimples. Jess has put up with everything – the depression, mood swings, thoughts of suicide, and my sleepwalking. She’s cleaned up my pee.

I wanted to give her romance and a constantly erect penis.

Yes, I thought that was a good idea.

It was not.

There are sooooo many places where it’s inappropriate to have a boner, like the buffet or on a city bus or at the hotel swimming pool. There were children. There were grandparents doing water aerobics. I tried not to make eye contact. I just sipped my drink and faced the wall, elbows propped on the hot cement.

“Anthony, please go get us drinks.”

“Sorry. Can’t really move right now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrested.”

“What are you talking about?”

I had to come clean. I told her about the little blue pill, how I’d snuck into one of the Mexican pharmacies early that morning. They have absolutely no regulations.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are youuh…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!”

“I just wanted this to be memorable.”

“Well, I’m definitely going to remember you having a boner with children in the pool.”

“Shut up, Jessica.”

“Wellcan youget it down?”

“I’m trying.” I was actually mashing it against the side of the pool, trying to push it back in like a wayward mattress spring. It hurt, not just the mashing, the erection. I’d never been this hard in my life. I’m not even sure how I had enough blood to speak. I was thankful the water was only four feet. Any deeper and I would’ve sunk. Some lifeguard would’ve had to give me mouth-to-mouth while the other guests stared at the tent in my trunks.

“So…are we just going to stay here all day in the pool?”

“No, just…” I decided to go under. I figured the lack of oxygen might send a little blood northward. I sat on the bottom of the pool with my boner. It was like a perverted version of The Graduate. Thankfully, it started to work. I could feel myself deflating. I also saw a little boy in goggles.

Gooo awwwwaaay!” I screamed, waving one arm, while covering myself with the other.

Finally, he spun and swam to his father. The man’s legs were as big as my body, hairy too. I pictured the kid telling him what he’d seen. I pictured getting choked, those giant hands cutting off the blood to my brain and returning it down below, which would make the father snap my neck.

That image did the trick.

Boner gone.

But I didn’t know how long it would last. I hopped out. We ran for the room. My wife stripped off her bathing suit. The boner was back. We decided to use it. It was fantastic. I was an animal. I was a porn star.

We did it on the bed, against the wall. My wife made noises I’d never heard. It was glorious. For about an hour.

Then it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I need a break, Anthony.”

“Just…a…little longer.”

Harder, fastermustfinish…

“Please, I can’t. You’re like an angry jackhammer.”

I stopped. I apologized.

“It’s okay, Anthony, I just need a littletime.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

I locked the door and flogged myself for another ten minutes. Still, nothing. It was like a champagne bottle with a stuck cork.

I gave up. After awhile it went down. We went to the buffet. I had lobster, then dessert. I felt a stirring.

What the fuck? Am I turned on by cake?

I had to flee. Jess met me later in the room. We tried again, and after another exhausting session…finally…

I was afraid a lung was going to shoot out, too.

Sadly and painfully, the next day wasn’t any better. We went snorkeling. I saw a group of jellyfish. I prayed one would sting me.

Finally, by the third day, I was back to Regular Anthony.

My wife couldn’t have been happier.

 

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Come On, Just Lick It

I’m seven years old and this kid from the neighborhood is telling me to blow him.  He’s older than me.  He’s saying all the girls in his seventh grade class love to suck his ding dong.  He says one girl claims it’s the most super awesome penis she’s ever seen.  He says the girl’s gobbled everyone, so she knows what she’s talking about. 

We’re in the woods behind my house.  There’s no one around for about a mile.  The boy brought me here to show me where he camps.  He’s got a little metal pot and a can of beans.  Now he’s unzipping himself and fishing out his wiener.   I haven’t seen many, but I’m pretty sure no one calls this “super awesome.”  It’s purple and veiny, like when you wrap dental floss around your finger and it cuts off the circulation.  It looks like it’s going to fall off. 

“Just lick it,” he says.

“No,” I say.

“Come on, just tell me what you think.  Just–”

“Get away from me!”

“Stop being a baby and just lick it.”

“I’m not licking anything!”

I back up and he’s shuffling towards me.  He’s still choking his wiener with his fist.  His pants are falling down.  They’re around his knees.  I turn, take off running.  I hear him screaming.  Then I hear a thud.  I’m pretty sure he tripped, but I don’t look back.  I just keeping running and crunching over the dead leaves until I make it to my house.  My dad is out front cutting the grass.  He sees me crying and asks what happened.  I tell him about the boy, how he wanted me to put his ding dong in his mouth.

The boy is now across the street.  He’s out of breath.  His pants are back on.  My father charges over and grabs him by the throat.  I think he’s going to kill the kid, and I realize it’s my fault.  My father’s going to murder a child and he’s going to go to jail and I’m going to be an orphan.

I run over, beg him to stop.

My father pulls the boy up to his face.  My father says, “You don’t ever come around here again.  I mean ever.  You hear me?”

The boy nods.  His face is almost as purple as his pecker was.  My father lets him go.  The boy tears off down the street. 

I see him a few more times that summer, but he always heads in the other direction.

PRESENT

When friends find out my wife and I have threesomes with girls, a lot of them ask if that means I have to do stuff with guys.  It doesn’t.  My wife is the one into girls.  It’s not the other way around.  If we brought a dude into the bed, I’d just be sitting there hanging out.

My friend asked, “Would you ever do anything, you know, if that’s what your wife really wanted?  Like that’s what she needed to see?”

“I don’t know…”

“You would.”

I said I guess, but I’d need to be positive that’s what she really wanted.  It couldn’t be a prank.  Like “Ha ha, you blew a dude!”

But if that’s what she really wanted, sure.  I wouldn’t be excited, but I wouldn’t be freaked out either.  I’d probably suck a dick the way I’d eat a Subway sandwich.  Meaning I’d do it, but I’m not gonna brag about it to everyone.  Like “Holy shit, people!  I just ate a motherfucking Cold Cut Combo!”

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The Unholy Bet

This post is going to be about putting things in people’s butts.  If that offends you or if you’ve just eaten pancakes, you might want to skip this.  Or bookmark it for later.

Okay, now that it’s just us sophisticated adults, let’s talk about the place farts come out.

I’ve heard some people receive quite a bit of pleasure from this orifice, but I’ve always considered the brown-eyed monster to be far too hilarious, inappropriate, and gross to even imagine reaching euphoria by shoving things up there.  My tolerance for pain is embarrassingly low, and I’m prone to giggle fits when I’m nervous.

Just the thought of a finger creeping towards that area causes me to tremble.  It’s why I’m so nervous about this Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday, to be precise.

My wife and I, you see, well, we have this bet.  Every Super Bowl we each pick a team, and the winner gets to poke the other in the tushy.  Yes, it’s juvenile and disgusting, but it does make the game more exciting.

The bet originated seven years ago.  Jess and I were living in New York.  We’d only been dating for a month.  For the Super Bowl, we went to a bar with one of her friends.  The place was loud and we weren’t really near the TV.  Somehow we got onto the subject of anal sex.  Jess told the story about her ex-boyfriend and how he asked her to use a strap-on on him.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  It was fun.”

“Thatsounds like the opposite of fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one getting fucked in the ass.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Jess’s friend interjected.  “This is really gross.”

I turned towards the TV and saw the first quarter had already ended.  We’d hardly seen a play.

“I feel like we should be paying more attention,” Jess said.

“I know,” I said.  “But I don’t really care about the Steelers or Seattle.”

“Ooh, we should make a bet!” Jess said.

“Okay.  Like what?”

“I don’t know.  Not money.”  We were both in grad school and broke.

“It should be something interesting then,” I said.

“Okay… Hmmm…” Jess was clearly coming up with something devious.  Not wanting to be outdone, I blurted:

“Anal.”

“God damn it, fucking stop,” her friend said.

I kept my eyes locked with Jess.

“Alright,” she said.  “Winner gets anal.”

“Okay, it’s a betWait!  Winner gets to GIVE anal, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“NOT cool,” her friend said.  “I’m seriously going to leave.”

That night, Pittsburg and I celebrated victory.  It was glorious.  The next year, Peyton Manning brought me my second championship.  I was unstoppable.  I got cocky.

Then came the New York fucking Giants.

I won the coin toss, but I let Jess pick first.  I knew she couldn’t resist her beloved hometown heroes.  The years of cheering on the Giants with her dad made this a lock.  She loved talking about the victory lap they took around the living room when Bill Parcells raised his fists into the air.  But those were the old Giants.  Eli and his buddies were facing the mighty Patriots.  Undefeated.  Bill Belichick.  Tom Brady.  The return of Randy Moss.  The puny Giants didn’t stand a chance.  The game was just a formality.  In a few hours the Patriots would finally rip out the hearts of New York, New Jersey, and the ’72 Dolphins.

I almost felt sorry for Jess as I sat on the couch smugly eating nachos.  I asked her if she wanted to get this over with during halftime.  I told her she looked nervous.  With two minutes left, I started strutting around the room.

Next, it was third down, barely a minute to go.   Four Patriots broke through the Giants’ line like jackals.  Eli scrambled.  He looked terrified.  I started to howl.  But then Eli contorted his body and escaped.  He chucked the ball to a leaping David Tyree.  Who the hell is David Tyree?  He caught the ball, pinning it against his helmet.  The most ridiculous catch the world had ever seen.  Jess jumped to her feet.  She danced.  She pointed at my face.  “Oh, yeah!  How you like me now?!”

I took a deep breath, told myself the Patriots were fine.  Belichick was a defensive mastermind.  There were still thirteen yards to go.  But after a bullet to Plaxico Burress, a man who would become famous for shooting himself in the leg at a nightclub, the Giants and Jess roared in celebration.

“Get in the room, pretty boy.”

Haha.”

“I’m serious, go.”

“Jess…”

“What, honey?  You lost.”

“Youyoudon’t even have a strap-on.”

“I have a vibrator.”

“Oh, God damn it.  Come on.”

“You made the bet.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”  The walk to our room felt like the green mile.  To be honest, electrocution actually sounded more humane.

Jess opened the dresser, pulled out her little friend.  Its tip was curved.  I started to well up.

“Anthony, hey, I’m just joking around.  We don’t have to do this.”

“No, we made the bet.”  Jess had never backed out of the wager.  I couldn’t either.  I unzipped and crawled onto the bed.  “How should II mean, uh…?”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s easier for you when…?”

“I guesson my back.”

I positioned myself, propped up a pillow, grabbed the backs of my knees.

I’d never felt more vulnerable.  I realized this is what women must feel at the gynecologist.

Jess twisted the knob.  Buzzing filled my ears.  It sounded cruel.

“Do you have to turn it on?”

“No…  I just thought it might be easier.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, just do it.”

I closed my eyes, felt the vibrating wand tickle the hairs on my butt.  I started giggling.

“Anthony, come on.”

“I can’t help it.  I’m nervous.”

“Well, it’s making itclose up.”

“Alright, alright.  Just give me a second.”  I took a few deep breaths, tried not to picture what was about to happen.  I thought of the beers in the fridge.  I should’ve drank more.  I shouldn’t have been so confident.  I should’ve been preparing myself.  How the fuck did David Tyree catch that?!

“Okay, Anthony, I’m going to count to three.”

“Fine, whatever.”  I counted along.  “One…”

Why did I come up with this bet?

Two…”

The tip entered my private space, but she hadn’t said three.  Why hadn’t she said three?  How rude!

I’m sure my scream could be heard from space. 

“Stopmoving!” I said.

“Oh, okay, sorry.  Do you, uh, want me to pull it out?”

“UhnoyeahI don’t know…”

“Do youlike it?”

“No!  But I’m afraid of what might happen if you pull it out.”

“Oh…”

“Just stay still.”

And we sat there, neither of us moving.  Finally, I opened my eyes.  Jess clearly felt bad.  I told her it was okay.  “We’ll get through this.”

“I think I should pull it out.”

“Yeahokay…”

It was over.  I curled into a ball.  Jess held me.

“You still want to marry me?” she asked.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

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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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Mom Didn’t Throw Away My Best Porno Mag

When I was fifteen, my mom found my Playboys.  Most mothers would’ve tossed them in the trash or left them hidden under the fake Christmas tree where I’d hidden them in the attic, but my mom lined them up and down the stairs, like a prosecutor might lay out 8x10s of a serial killer’s victims in court.  All those pretty faces smiling up at me, each one taunting me with her breasts.  Up until that moment, if you’d suggested there’d come a time when I’d want to burn my Playboys, I’d have punched you in the face.  These weren’t just magazines, you see; they’d seen me masturbate.  I don’t care if it’s crass.  Ask any adult male, and he’ll tell you the first three years of self-gratification aren’t pretty.  I’m not saying it gets better, but those first years of discovery are too violent and ferocious for human consumption.  That’s why my Playboys were so special.  They didn’t judge.  They didn’t look away.

But my mom ruined that.  She told me that touching my pecker was nothing to be ashamed of, even though she’d effectively loaded me with enough shame to fill every confession booth in Kansas City. 

My mom said, “If you want to keep them, you can.  But just know, that’s not what real women look like.”

I told her to throw them away, but a year later, when my mom asked me to go into her room to get her checkbook, I opened her dresser drawer.  And there, buried beneath her socks and pantyhose, were my Playboys.  She’d kept them.

People always ask if I knew my mom was gay, and the truth is, I didn’t, even after the Playboy incident.  I’d just assumed she was planning on giving them back, but was too embarrassed to fork them over.  Also, my mom didn’t…look gay.  She wore lipstick and worked the cosmetics counter at Macy’s.  She was always dyeing her long hair.  She belonged to the P.T.A. and wore skirts.  She baked cookies.

I’m not saying gay people don’t do those things; I’m just saying my mom wasn’t rebuilding a motorcycle engine in our driveway or sanding the deck or sitting an inch from the TV during a WNBA game.  She was feminine.  She drank wine coolers.

Sure, she’d been to every Mellissa Etheridge concert in Kansas City and bought a t-shirt from every show.  She also lifted free weights for a while and went on trips to Bennet Springs, Missouri with a group of women for “art fairs.”  And yes, whenever I brought home a girlfriend, my mom would gush about how pretty she was and sometimes casually massage the girl’s shoulders.  But none of this made me think my mom was a lesbian.  Not just because she was feminine and she was my mom and she’d been married to my dad for twenty-five years, but because we lived in a house with paper-thin walls, meaning I heard my parents having a lot of sex.