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.

 

photo credit: <a href=” Gregory Perry</a> via <a href=”;photopin</a> <a href=”;

photo credit: <a href=”; via <a href=”;photopin</a> <a href=”;

 

My Wife’s Little Arms

My wife has short arms.  She’s not a T-Rex.  She doesn’t belong in a side show.  But they’re comical.  Her friend Marci loves to compare her long arms to Jess’s tiny ones whenever they go out.  

None of us can precisely pinpoint where exactly her arms are diminished.  At first glance, they seem normal, proportional to her small body, but upon closer inspection her wrists and forearms, bearing the faint scars from a childhood accident with a sliding glass door, seem almost kid-like, as if the injury somehow froze them in time.

I adore these arms.  There’s nothing more comforting than feeling them hold me in the night, and despite their size, they are remarkably strong.  They’ve thrown a punch in my honor and picked me up off the floor.  She loves to swing them around when she dances, which is fine because we don’t fear they’ll knock something over, which is a rarity in our home.

My wife, you see, is admittedly clumsy. 

I can’t count to five after she walks into the kitchen before I hear, “Ow!”  Her fingers are small, and she’s not very tall, so she has trouble reaching things on the top shelf.  Not all of the Ows means she’s injured.  Some Ows are pre-emptive, an anticipatory whelp fearing a jar might tumble onto her head. 

In full disclosure, I can’t always tell the difference between a pre-emptive Ow and real Ow.  I used to run in expecting to find her gushing blood.  I’ve now learned it’s okay to sit, wait, and listen for the follow-up Owwwww! before calling 911.  

My wife has a good sense of humor about it all.  She laughs when I call her “ballerina,” or when I stretch my hand into the sky and ask her to give me a high five.  She knows I find her stunning and gorgeous, so my ribbing is usually met with a smile or at least a “Ha ha, jerkface.”

She, in turn, makes fun of my dancing.  For good cause.  You see, in my twenties, when I first met Jess, I actually thought my moves were sexy.  Jess kindly pointed out that I looked like a derelict shaking a saltshaker.

She also takes pleasure anthropomorphizing my moles.  She creates voices and acts out little plays when I’m shirtless.  At parties, she tells people how I pee in strange places when I’m sleepwalking, about the times I’ve shit my pants, and my inability to grow a proper beard. 

Like it or not, I have to laugh, because long before we were married, we established a rule: FUNNY TRUMPS FEELINGS. 

It’s served us well, reminding us not to take ourselves too seriously. 

We’ve crossed the line at times, but when we do, we quickly apologize.  

We accept that the human body is both beautiful and gross, and no matter how much blended kale we drink or miles we run, there’s no stopping its decay. 

So for Valentine’s Day we’re sitting in bed having root beer floats. 

I told Jess not to get up for anything, even to pee.  I think I owe her at least that much. 

photo credit: <a href=” Beyond</a> via <a href=”; <ahref=”;

photo credit: <a href=”; via <a href=”; <a href=”;

 

Spartacus or Gay Porn?

My wife knows I purchased the last season of Spartacus on Amazon Prime. I had to ask her for the password. Yet every night I have to explain I’m not watching gay porn. I am watching Spartacus. But when she leaves the room I do sort of feel like I’m watching gay porn.