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Early into my sexual experience, when a friend-with-benefits type lovingly christened me "Swimming Pool," I realized I wasn't like the other girls. "You mean that doesn't happen to everyone?" I asked incredulously. "Not even close." Over the years partners have given me various other mortifying noms de guerre: Puddles, Betsy Wetsy, The Nile. I'll admit, I'm a little enthusiastic. I leave a parting gift, a souvenir if you will: a telltale stain that reads, "I Slept with Jenn and All I Got Was This Crappy Wet Spot." Yes, it's a little embarrassing, but is it really that big of a deal? I've never ceased to be amazed by how many men answer that question "Yes!" Each new response gave me a little more insight into the man's psyche. Something as minor as a little female ejaculate always had to turn into a whole song and dance, complete with props and choreography of Broadway caliber. A few of the responses: Mr. Blue Cross Goo-Shield As soon as my jeans were around my ankles, like clockwork, Goo-Shield would spring into action, as if setting up for a picnic. Just as things got good, the lights were flipped on and out came the oversized beach towels, carefully laid over any surface on which I might wind up spread-eagle. I had two main issues with Goo's towel-shield approach: aside from making me feel like my come was liquid leprosy, there's something fundamentally wrong with having sex on terrycloth depicting Garfield the cat eating a pan of lasagna.
Mr. Innocent By-Stander Mr. By-Stander was obviously not destined to be a physics major. His brilliant plan was to do everything, everything, standing up. I tried to argue the whole concept of gravity, but he, in the sophisticated language of high-school guys, countered that I would feel "it" dripping down my leg so I could take care of "it" before "it" got onto the carpet. Right. It had been years since I'd quit gymnastics, but necessity dictated that my flexibility return relatively quickly. Within a week I was able to balance on one leg while resting the other on his shoulder and supporting myself against the wall... all so he could put his finger in me. Can you tell how much I enjoyed this? Every time I let out so much as a whimper of satisfaction, he got all paranoid, stammering: "Are you coming? Is it dripping? Don't let it get on my floor! My mom cleans my room!" We had sex only once — standing up, of course — and I'm fairly confident that I lost all circulation in my left leg. The relationship did not last long. I could manually manipulate myself without morphing into a contortionist. And more importantly, if a guy's mom was still cleaning his room, I didn't want to be in it. FJAT commented on 09/17 SD commented on 09/17 mw commented on 09/17 AM commented on 09/17 EE commented on 09/17 Sl commented on 09/17 pj commented on 09/17 ml commented on 09/17 AER commented on 09/17 cw commented on 09/17 RLC commented on 09/17 sca commented on 09/17 hmp commented on 09/17 lr commented on 09/17 EE commented on 09/17 pga commented on 09/17 DB commented on 09/17 CLG commented on 09/17 AD commented on 09/18 AD commented on 09/18 LMD commented on 09/18 jp commented on 09/18 mda commented on 09/18 JM commented on 09/18 HFC commented on 09/18 JD commented on 09/18 dwp commented on 09/18 rpb commented on 09/18 ers commented on 09/18 SJ commented on 09/18 SM commented on 09/18 cas commented on 09/19 mcg commented on 09/19 mrc commented on 09/20 jdb commented on 09/20 gp commented on 09/20 jt commented on 09/20 c commented on 09/20 pw commented on 09/20 PHM commented on 09/22 mjk commented on 09/22 bjm commented on 09/23 rr commented on 09/25 ACS commented on 09/25 mts commented on 10/22 SS commented on 11/06 SD commented on 11/20 CM commented on 11/21 Leave a Comment
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Greenberg by Scott Von Doviak Noah Baumbach's latest stars Ben Stiller in his most abrasive role ever. /entertainment/ |
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