On the right (urinary) tract to equality.

I drink a lot of water. Seriously, a lot. I have a water bottle I got from a race that advertises a triathlon I didn’t run, but I still carry it with me like some stupid badge of pride or security blanket. I’m fearful of dehydration but according to the almighty Internet, if you drink more, you avoid snacking. It hasn’t really worked, but was has worked is my urgent need to urinate almost every hour.

While this happens mostly at work, I’m lucky with a home-based office that I share a bathroom with my boss’s son, and there are always good books to read on the scintillating subject matters of shapes, opposites, and ducks.  More seriously, I’m lucky that my bathroom isn’t designated by gender.

I don’t know if I’ll become enough of a crazy liberal to argue for those Ally McBeal unisex bathrooms, but I will argue that urinals are a waste of resources. And it’s not just me, the Navy also agrees. Recently, the Navy decided that all of their new carriers (you might recognize this class of ship by sinking it on Battleship) would not have urinals in order to accommodate for changing staff on the ship.

The change heralded by the Gerald R. Ford class of carriers – starting with the namesake carrier due in late 2015 – is one of a number of new features meant to improve sailors' quality of life and reduce maintenance costs, Capt. Chris Meyer said yesterday, 7/11/12 (CNN Blog) Plus, look how fucking sweet this new carrier is:

First of all, as a huge supporter of our military, I’m excited that the Navy is making the right measures to help improve the morale of the troops and spend the defense budget on something more apt, say, actually defending our country. Without urinals, bathrooms can be designated as male or female on a whim, and account for the changing population of the Navy (girl power!).

Second, urinals are not as inclusive as they sound (your-inals is deceptive). While I’ve never successfully peed in one, I know how gross they can get. Captain Meyer agrees too. “Urinals clog more than toilets and therefore can be smellier and costlier to maintain”. Obviously, because guys are fucking slobs.

One of my first blog posts ever was about sharing a bathroom with my previous roommate Alex, and his attempt to train me to leave the toilet seat lid down. While Alex was remarkable about not leaving the seat up (you were too Brock!!), I still wonder to this day why guys have to lift the seat up to pee, but can piss with seemingly (but never perfect) accuracy into the much smaller urinal. Men, you must weigh in on this inconsistency to me. The fact that you can’t aim when you’re sober is appalling to me.

I am going to share a ridiculous story with you. One time, when I was roughly 7 or 8, I accidentally opened the door on my Dad taking a leak. I didn’t see anything except the subtle difference that he gets to pee standing up and I had to pee sitting down. Plus, at that age I was neurotically wasting toilet paper to cover the seat every time I went, even when it was at home. I was bowled over. What a time saver! Why didn’t I think to pee standing up?! I realize my blissful ignorance came at the time that I also didn’t know guys had different parts than women, so it obviously made more sense at the time.

So, I tried a few hours later. I stood straight up and got as close to the toilet as possible without crouching, and peed. Shocker, I ended up pissing on my rolled down tights and underwear. That’s when I engineered a better idea, I would stand OVER the toilet, on top of the seat, and gravity would take care of the rest. Without taking off my urine tights or my shoes, I stood on top of the seat, one leg on each side of the lid, and finished my stream. It actually worked, until I slipped coming down due to how much pee I had on the floor. The injury wasn’t worth it.  Later, I’d chalk it up to being a hard way to learn that guys have a penis and girls have a vagina (Thanks Kindergarten Cop).

This embarrassing anecdote over, I return to my rant about urinals. Yes, in an ideal world, everyone could pee the same way and if we just had lines of uniform, walled-in stalls, would anyone be the wiser? No, but since anyone who stands up to pee ends up making a mess, we have to have separate bathrooms and it’s not fair that guys are genetically inferior and can’t learn how to pee cleanly and safely. Until they do, I fundamentally believe urinals should be outlawed.

And I’m not alone. Men in the Navy are optimistic about this change. Many sailors like to sleep in little clothing, Captain Brian Luther reports. On Ford, they won’t have to bother with putting on more appropriate clothing before hitting the head. A corpsman said he has seen sailors relieving themselves into bottles in their rack rather than having to get dressed in the middle of the night. (Navy Times Article) Now, everyone can experience the same agony of lumbering up in the middle of the night to take a leak in the toilet. God bless equality.

I applaud the Navy and its progressive attitutde with its flexible accommodations. I don’t think the switch over will lead to a caliber of less manly servicemen (some fuckwits online believe this can actually happen), but I think we should embrace the role of women in our service and hope that men who protect our great country can someday keep a clean bathroom and improve their accuracy. If they can’t aim the stream of pee coming out of their penis, do we really want them firing missiles at terrorists, anyways?

Hot Rod Lincoln: My Love Affair with Nebraska

After the tumultuous weather experienced in DC on Friday, I knew I had to get out of here. Nobody had power, residents were driving like lunatics, and the tree people were threatening to take over our major roads. Fortunately, I had an outlet: a planned brief but intense work jaunt to Lincoln, Nebraska.

It wasn’t meant to be glamorous trip, or that’s what I assumed. I had to cancel on a couple of Sunday plans with the excuse “I’m going to Nebraska…no seriously”, but ultimately I was excited. I love everything about travel and visiting new places. I’d get to see my colleague Travis and escape the third world country that the Washington, DC area had become. Little did I know that in under 48 hours, I’d fall in love.

Upon eventually arriving in the Cornhusker State, I didn’t feel any different. The weather was comparable and the airport still smelled like fast food. I met up with my shuttle driver, Dennis, and that’s when I immediately noticed the difference: people in Nebraska are nice. Like really fucking, Mister Rodger’s,  nice. They have manners here. I look fondly back on that quote in Fight Club where Marla says that when you’re dying, people actually listen to what you have to say, instead of waiting for their turn to speak. Or something like that. Except no one is dying in Nebraska (besides normal mortality rates), they just actually give a shit about you.

After I checked into my hotel, I already had my disheveled airline hair complimented, my faith praised as being one of the ‘Chosen Ones’, and was told to just be happy and party hard. As someone who just never shuts the fuck up, I occasionally feel like a diseased stranger in DC. My verbal diarrhea is looked upon like a mental illness, and that outright outspokenness is a detriment, unless you’re a political pundit. In Nebraska, discourse is not only welcome, but it’s the norm.

I went to a bar, and was greeted with just really nice people. It was a local bar (Patty’s Pub, no relation to the one in Philly on FX), and full of locals. I plopped down next to Frank and Connie, two married retirees who hoped they’d hit it big on Keno. Keno’s a big fucking deal in Lincoln, it’s like the national pastime. I thought it was like bingo, but as Frank explained, it’s “Chinese or Japanese or Asian for ‘one more number’”, which makes sense, since everyone just wants one more number to be called for them to get the jackpot. Frank’s biggest payout was $6000, and he’s been playing the same lucky numbers for 25 years: the birthdates of his grandkids. 

Frank took off to take a whiz and to say hi to some of the other bar regulars: (“nice butch Lesbian girls, but aren’t we all here to party hard on Earth, so who cares who they love?”), I got to talking to Connie, who was fretting about smoking a big turkey the next day. This seemed stressful, so I pressed her for more information. She’s already smoked pork butts and ribs before, but this was a whole turkey. I wish I could have given her real advice, but my unfortunate background in the Northeast just told her that I knew how to buy another turkey at the grocery store if she messed up. “Oh no,” she explained, “I killed this one, I don’t have anymore”.

The personal independence of people in Nebraska is huge. I’m so used to be around whiners in the DC area that it was refreshing to be around people who just had their shit together. Instead of worrying about traffic on the Beltway, Lincoln is set up like “a checkerboard, you know, up and down lines. Got all your pieces in a row”, my other new bar friend Leonard exclaimed. He was so proud of his longstanding insurance business and apartment rentals that I was almost ready to ditch Silver Spring to lease a two bedroom apartment with utilities included for $900.

Besides the upstanding caliber of people in Nebraska (unemployment is super low in Lincoln and there’s very little crime), the food is amazing. After a whirlwind work day on Monday with Travis, I told him I wanted distinctly Lincoln, Nebraskan  food. I was already stuffed from a hot turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes the night before at Patty’s.

I knew I couldn’t eat another meal submerged in enough gravy to stop one of Hanibal’s elephants dead in its tracks, so we went out for what’s called a runza. I posted it on Facebook, but it’s too delicious for a picture to do it justice. It’s like an oven baked pierogi meat mouth spectacular. Served with fries or onion rings (a combo of both is called Frings), the pairing is terrific. Served quickly, efficiently and with a smile, I didn’t want to leave the restaurant. Gone was my previous personal shame about admitting I had McDonald’s for lunch—runzas are a confidence booster and a badge of pride of the fast food industry.

I was comfortably satiated until dinner, when I got to experience another Lincoln culinary delight: Valentino’s pizza.  This was the most famous pizza the city had to offer, and I was just ready for something with crust. No—it was SO. MUCH. MORE. We splurged and got garlic bread, which ended up being cheesy hamburger bun tops soaked in delicious garlic and butter. Travis said he could have eaten at least 6 servings, and after I finished my portion, I truly felt I could do the same. The pizza was just as delightful. I sprung for the spinach and artichoke dip pizza, which is even better than the name. Back home in the East, we just use spinach and artichoke dip as an appetizer. In Nebraska, it’s a pizza topping. I’ll never be able to go back to a Chili’s again.

And so, I leave Nebraska with a full stomach and a fuller heart. I’m not looking forward to clambering on the Metro, dealing with rush hour traffic, and rudeness. Time might move a little slower in Nebraska for some, but every minute is enjoyable. I can’t wait for my next visit, and I’ve already gotten down the lingo of corn futures, grain production, and lucky Keno numbers. And who knows, maybe I’ll take up Leonard’s offer. He did give me his business card. I’m sure Connie will have some leftovers waiting for me also.

If Obamacare isn't legalized, then the cows win.

I’m in the process of making my breakfast. It’s pretty standard. Something with eggs, add some cheese, and add something fun. Could be an English muffin, could be a banana, could be some of Dani’s Oreos. Who knows. In between toast cycles, I Facebook. I simultaneously remember two things that help me define my outlook for the day, and today’s post.

First: The Supreme Court dishes out its ruling on the Affordable Care Act at some point today.

Second: KFC is dishing out this new, cheese-topped sandwich, pictured below:

And that’s when I realize: cows are behind rising healthcare costs.

Think about it.  Or just go to a Westfield Mall or amusement park. There is obesity EVERYWHERE. I MEAN EVERYWHERE. Roughly 1 in 3 Americans is obese. Not chubby—but dangerously heavy. This is a staggering statistic. I can blame the Republicans for cutting funding to schools, thereby cutting gym and health classes. I can blame parents (most likely Republicans also) for not teaching their children proper eating habits. I can even blame the technology industry for making the Sims 2 more fun to play in the summer of my 8^th grade than going outside. But I’m not—the blame is on you, cows.

First off, this isn’t a hate speak on cows, like my similar diatribes on whales. I will not implore you or especially me to become a vegan after this. In fact, I’m already planning a lunch from Taco Bell consisting of roughly 88% cheesy beef and original seasonings. The prevalence of dairy is everywhere, and it cannot be stopped.

The other week, I was at the Piratz Tavern (I’m still a little ashamed), and I ordered a jerk chicken sandwich. The bawdy waitress/wench with the epic cleavage asked if I wanted to add cheese to it, and I instantly responded in the affirmative. After she sauntered back to the kitchen, I mentally chastised myself. “Cheese? Why the fuck do I need cheese in a jerk chicken sandwich. What is wrong with you?!” And that’s when I realized it: we’re being brainwashed by cows and their products into their monopolizing deliciousness. It makes us fat. It’s expensive (they charged me 85 cents to add cheese!). But we can’t stop.

First, dairy is fatty. Even if you do it right, cheese isn’t always the best thing for us, unless you buy the skim varieties with no taste and extra curd. But when most of us consume dairy products, it’s in the form of milkshakes, ice cream cake, grilled cheese, cheese fries, nachos, and mozzarella sticks. And that’s just my post-road race meal.

But then—you add the rest of the cow! There’s always debate on how much red meat is good for us, but the simple science is—who gives a fuck about the numbers, we’re still eating too much of the wrong meat! A few days ago, I read a hipster article in NPR about one brave soul, John Durant, who is on the Paleo diet. For those of you who aren’t into trendy dieting, the Paleo diet is essentially eating foods that our ancestors in the Paleolithic period of existence ate, such as deer, marrow, and tubers. It sounds miserable until, like all NPR articles, they back it with some solid science:

"For millions of years, we didn't have an obesity problem because we ate foods that our metabolism was adapted to…Now, everyone from the American Cancer Society to the American Heart Association and popular food writers such as Mark Bittman tells us to eat less red meat. But Durant says it's a meat-based diet that was fundamental to early human development.”

Here’s how it breaks down. Meat, in the Paleo view, is good for us. The fact that most cavemen didn’t live past the age of 30 is irrelevant. Sort of. The fact that we live longer is the reason why humans develop heart disease, high cholesterol, and colon cancer in greater numbers. Maybe we’re not essentially unhealthier (although I believe that’s a lie: have you seen the value menu at McDonalds?), but we live longer to see the horrible results unfold. And we're eating beyond our means. We're simply not evolved enough to eat the sheer amount and quality of food we're eating now than we were 100 years ago. 

Think about it this way: Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, had such a solid ending. Then, we had to suffer to through 45 minutes of bogus endings and plot twists that we didn’t need. All we wanted to do was see the ring burn in Mordor, and be done with it. Instead, we all have bladder spasms from holding our urine in too long. Modern existence is Lord of the Rings—we’re living too long, dying too slowly, and it’s painful.

Which brings me back to my initial argument. If we’re going to live long and it’s going to be shitty, we should be at least taken care of. Today, maybe even after you’ve already read this blog post, the Supreme Court will be deciding on the constitutionality of mandatory health care for Americans. Whether you agree with this ruling or not, you’re not getting any healthier or any younger. How can affordable health care be a bad thing when we stuff our faces with loaded waffle fries and a grilled cheese burger from Friendly’s. I’m just trying to make life easier for the average person. Eliminating affordable health care will only make our epic, Lord of the Rings-esque, suffering that much worse. I’m not going to stop eating crap, and unless we become a truly Bible-thumping country, I don’t think we can ever ban mixing meat and milk either. (Exodus 23:19).

So, it’s a conundrum. This country is full of mindless fucks who want to deny themselves the very rights they can’t afford to lose in the first place. Cows are making us fat, but it’s the people who are unwilling to do anything about it. The problem isn't disappearing, even if our one chance to fight it is. Talk about lactose intolerance!

Getting cocky with my writing: NSFW.

One of the problems with being an English major is a false sense of superiority. Part of it is self-inflicted, but a larger factor is how the public perceives “us”. As the possessor of a BA in English, it’s assumed that I will be amazing at Words with Friends, a thoughtful thank you note writer, an infallible proofreader, an ace Bananagrams player, able to win any Double Jeopardy question dealing with English Language and Literature, and be witty blog writer. I’m not anywhere close to proficient with any of these, especially witty blog writer. However, my usually demure sense of self has mutated to an unsafe level of high self esteem for two reasons: most people around me have significantly worse grammar and language skill than me, and these same people encourage me to write a book.

Now, one would naturally make the assumption that writing a book is difficult, and it is. Since I’m currently in the process, I can safely say that you literally bang your head against the wall, suffer true writer’s cramp (it’s called carpal tunnel syndrome in the real world), wrack your brain for memories, and then wonder how much shit you can get away with still maintaining maximum number of readers paired with your own credibility. For instance, I would love nothing more than to write about how I went on a date with Ryan Gosling, but obviously that’s not believable. It’s a delicate dance that must be perfected. My only comfort, like my previous point, is that seriously worse people have been published than me, and their trashy novels became bestsellers. If Stephanie Meyer can have all four of her Twilight books turn into movies, then there’s a shot in hell that “100 Beers to Freedom” will be published.

I realized my personal writing hubris rose to a dangerous level the other night when I was trying to find an excellent erotic read. I love steamy stories, and nothing gets me off harder than a good piece of well-written fiction with adult, over-18, characters from the Harry Potter series (not Harry, or Ron, I promise. Gross). Anyways, my search was proving fruitless. I was getting upset not only because the writing terrible, but that it focused on the wrong parts of coitus. Women write the majority of fan fiction and erotic fiction, so I didn’t get why it was so “male-centric”.

I became so irate that I had to complain to my good friend, Mike Erbele, commonly referred to as Erbs. The conversation went something like this on Facebook chat:

Sharon: you know what grinds my gears?

Erbs: I do not know

Sharon: I don’t understand why every time I want to read some lusty literature, they have to talk about big boobs, bc let’s face it, most guys watch porn. I’m not reading this shit because I’m into boobs.

Erbs: well, I can’t say that I’ve ever read lusty literature, and I do like porn, and boobs do help things, but I really don’t know why they would write about big boobs.

Sharon: right? Bc it’s chick lit, I love seeing boobs, but I’m not into wordy descriptions.

Erbs: boobs are fantastic

Sharon: that’s not the point. I’m not saying they aren’t [fantastic], because they are. But I don’t feel like I need to read a ton of detail about them.

Erbs: I can agree with that. They’re just kind of…there

Sharon: Like enough with the wordplay, just do it already.

Erbs: shouldn’t they talk about big dicks or something?

Sharon: yeah, that’s what I’m into.

Erbs: well, you’ll just have to write your own exotic literature.

SEE! Here’s what I was saying. So many people have told me to just shut the fuck up with my complaining, and just write an alternative. And that, dear blog readers, is what I intend to do.

The only similarity I have with this picture is that we both type on Macbooks. A/S/L? TITS OR GTFO!

One more tangent. Erbs later asked me if I was reading “50 Shades of Grey”, and I knew I had to get some research from E L James herself before I decided to even try this exercise. (apparently, Fifty Shades of Grey started as Twilight fan fiction. FYI) I borrowed the book from a friend and set to skimming. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this work is a Good Reads Choice Awards Finalist for Best Romance. Watch out Romeo and Juliet, we got a badass romance tale on our hands! I flipped through some of the sex scenes, and picked up on this winning dialogue during erotic encounters, many of them in the ‘Red Room of Pain’: 

“’You. Are. So. Sweet,’ he murmurs, each word a staccato.”

“I am quaking like a leaf”

“Oh my, he’s hot in leather”

“You have such a sexy, captivating ass”

“My inner goddess is panting”

“He is heart-stoppingly beautiful”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but have any of you said any of these things, or felt any of these things during an intimate moment? Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but I never have said anything remotely close to this nonsense. That’s another huge problem. Similar to pornography, people write erotic novels that are too good, too unrealistic. There’s no way that real sex is ever going to be as good as what you read online or download on YouPorn. If sex was always as good as it was in the movies or in that one library scene in the opening chapters of Ian McEwan’s “Atonement”, then none of us would have jobs because we’d just spend all day fucking.  “Girls”, that HBO show I mentioned a while back, is probably the best example of what a real sex life is like, at least from my mid 20s perspective.

And so, without any further ado, I present to you my first stab at erotic fiction.  So, don’t read this at work or with your parents (God, I hope my Mom isn’t reading this), because it’s about to get sexy up in here. In the next few paragraphs, you will read a little bit of lusty lit that features true anecdotes I’ve collected from a variety of sex stories I’ve heard firsthand over the years. My apologies if you recognize yourself.  Here’s how the characters of “50 Shades of Grey”, Ana and Christian, would act if they met in the real world.

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“Wow, dinner was great,” Anastasia said, “I’m so stuffed”. Christian looked at her a little skeptically. “You mean you don’t have room for dessert?” Anastasia threw her hands up in mock defeat. “Nope, not another bite!”

“Well,” said Christian a little mischievously, “maybe we can go back to my place an grab another drink”. Ana giggled and hiccupped because she ate her food and drank her wine too fast. She sounded like a manatee. “I guess one drink can’t hurt, shall we?” The waiter arrived with the check, and Christian swiftly pulled his wallet and handed his credit card over with practiced precision.

“Are you sure I can’t grab my half?” Ana pleaded.

“No, it’s on me” Christian Grey said sincerely, trying to look down her shirt and noticing that she had spilled pasta sauce on her blouse. Now he couldn’t stop staring at that.

“Please, I insist”

“It’s fine, you’ll grab the next one” Christian reassured her.

Ana inwardly smiled. “NEXT ONE!!! OH MY GOD, HE WANTS TO SEE ME AGAIN. I CAN’T WAIT TO PICK OUT NAMES FOR OUR KIDS. Oh, but I better put out tonight so he’s still interested. Shit, I hope I remembered to not wear underwear with period stains on it”.

Christina grabbed his coat and tried to gauge whether or not she’d be the type of girl who’d be on the Pill or not.

As Ana stood up, a cascade of food crumbs fell from her. “Oops!” she giggled, “I guess you really can’t take it with you”. She was a little drunk.

Ana stumbled to her car, but Christian offered to drive her in his much nicer, non-Ford Taurus. She graciously accepted, because a DUI would pretty much ruin everything. The inside of his car smelled clean, but she noticed that he had berry-flavored chapstick. She grimaced. Why couldn’t he hide his lady products?

Christian didn’t live too far from the restaurant. Which was lucky, because Ana really had to pee. He opened the door to his significantly nicer apartment than her, and Ana wasn’t sure if she should take her shoes off. That’s when she realized her socks didn’t match. Fuck. Should she take those off too? What if her feet were sweating?

“You can leave your shoes on, if you’re more comfortable,” Christian said, noticing her anguish.  “The bathroom is just down the hall”

Ana headed down the plush carpet and couldn’t help but notice that he had some cliché photographs of New York City framed on his wall. He wasn’t even from New York, he was from Indiana. Whatever. His bathroom was very clean, but there were those incense reed diffusers and candles. Jesus. She was lucky if she could find her nail polish remover in her bathroom, let alone adorn it. She peed quickly, and came back to find Christian in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of white wine.

“God,” her drunken mind thought, “What if he didn’t put on his chapstick and his lips are terrible, like kissing sandpaper?” Shit, what if he has a tiny penis? If I drink more, it will look bigger”.

Christian offered Ana some wine and hoped she didn’t take a dump in his bathroom.

They drank their wine and had meaningless conversation that neither of them could remember, and it’s not worth typing here. Nobody cares that they both read Thomas Hardy in college. Stop trying to make it all a literary allusion.

At some point. Christian mentioned that his favorite TV show was the West Wing. “Oh!” Ana shouted, “I need to watch that!! I’ve never seen that and everyone says it’s sooooo good!”

“Well, I have a television over here, and I think I have Season 1 on DVD. Want to watch the pilot?”

Ana eagerly agreed. She couldn’t remember if the West Wing was the show with the same guy who played the athlete from the Breakfast Club or not.

Christian put the DVD in, and sat down on the couch. He put his arm around Ana, and she nestled closer to him. She smelled his nice man smell, and now couldn’t remember if she put on deodorant. The show started playing, but she couldn’t really focus. She was so into Christian that she didn’t care that Martin Sheen hadn’t even made it on the screen yet. She looked up at Christian and noticed that his face looked a lot fatter at this angle than it did across the dinner table. She didn’t care. He looked down at her face and then down her shirt. The sauce stain was still there. He didn’t want to look at that anymore, so he bent his face closer to hers, and they started making out. They both tasted like mediocre Italian food.

The kiss was cautious at first, but since it was fueled by vodka, wine, and marinara, it ended up getting more involved. He gently pushed her down on his couch, and Ana wasn’t sure what to do with her glass of wine. Her arms were too short to reach the coffee table. Christian had no idea what was going on with her awkward struggle, and they never broke the kiss.

“Oh God, oh God, he has such nice things” Ana frantically thought, “What if I spill wine on his couch? What if I spill wine on his carpet? Maybe I can nudge the coffee table over with my foot and sneak it over, so he won’t notice…”

With her shoes still on, Ana tried to curl her foot around one of the table legs, but accidently kneed Christian. The kiss broke, and Ana was embarrassed that she got caught.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know what to do with my wine. Your glass magically disappeared and I don’t want to ruin your nice things…” she said sheepishly. He looked at her like she was brain-dead, and put her wine on the table. “Now, where were he…” he said confidently.

They got back to making out, and Christian began to unbutton her blouse. She had just washed it, so the buttonholes shrunk. He was having difficulty and just decided to take her shirt off without unbuttoning it. He tugged it up, and tried to lift it over her head, only to have it get caught on her face.

“Shit, I think I’m stuck!” a muffled Ana said. Christian tried to pull the shirt back down, but then it ended up being a weird shoulder circle scarf. At least Ana could see, and she managed to unbutton all of her buttons that were amassed by her chin.  They started kissing again, and Ana began to run her hands up and down Christian’s back. Her hands shifted, and she tried to take off his shirt. She moved her hands down his side, only to find out he was ticklish by his ribs. He broke the kiss to start laughing. “Jesus, did I do something” Ana though. “Oh god, what if he realized that my right boob is bigger than my left?” She gave him a quizzical glance and he decided to take off his own shirt. Naturally, he did it in one smooth motion and didn’t get stuck. She was upset to realize that his undershirt didn’t have a hole in it, especially not in the armpit. Her bra was currently held together with a safety pin on one side because her roommate’s dog chewed up one of her straps.

Christian decided to speed things up, and took off her bra. He didn’t see her safety pin or her mismatched boobs, because, let’s face it, there were woman’s boobs in front of him. They looked like boobs. Normal boobs. Regular boobs.

Christian went to town on them. No motor boating, thank God. “Bite them harder” Ana begged, and he complied. “Ow! Too much!” she said, and she feared that he ended up wrenching it off her, like some weird game of bobbing for apples. She started fumbling with his pants zipper, but her arms were too short to reach his belt. She wanted to change things up, so she gestured that she wanted to flip him over.

“I like to be on top!” she crowed. With this new dynamic, they started making out again. Still kissing, Ana tried to snake her arm down and reach the forbidden under the belt territory. She heard something pop. “Oh god, what if I dislocated my arm…no, it was just my shoulder cracking”.

She stopped kissing him and moved down his not chiseled body. He was average looking, with a small beer belly and weird hair patterns on his chest. Finally, she reached a comfortable distance where she could take his belt of and unzip his pants. She slid them off and saw his absolutely normal sized erection poking through his boxers. He wasn’t turgid or pulsating. He was a little crooked but thankfully not miniscule. Still, she had definitely put bigger things in her mouth, and that item was something you could order off the Taco Bell Menu.

She was about to go down on him, when he puller her head up and said, “Don’t, I don’t want to come yet”.

“That’s good,” she said, “I’m not very good at this”. Shit. She didn’t mean to say that at all, even if it was true.

He flipped her over again, and then attempted to take her pants off. They went off fine until he hit her knees, and then they got stuck. Ana blushed.

“Oh, I have big calves because I run. It’s weird because I’m so small, so I wear little girl’s jeans, but then my calves are Olympian”

The last thing Christian wanted to hear was anything at all related to little girls. With a sharp tug, he got her pants off. Her calves looked normal. This girl was batshit.

After a bit more fumbling and kissing, he took her underwear off. He pressed against her, and Ana gasped. “Oh shit, I hope I remembered to shave my legs”. She didn’t. He didn’t notice, but she apologized anyways. Now he noticed.

She put her hands around the waistband of his boxers and pulled them clean down. His average penis greeted her. There’s nothing more to say about it because guys in real life have average penises. And average is always smaller than you thought it’d be.

“Do you have anything?” she asked. Christian stood up to get a condom, and she continued, “I used to be on the Pill, but then I had to stop because it totally fucked up my mood and I went totally crazy. Like, I cried all the time. Then I stopped, and my period was like way off schedule. I didn’t know what to do, and then I’m like, I’m my own woman, I can do this without hormones. Just be smart. Be prepared! Boy scout style!”

“Let’s not talk about this” Christian said. He got back on top of her, and slipped the absolutely normal sized condom on his normal erection. He was about to enter her, but he couldn’t figure it out. “Not there!” she shouted. He looked down to guide it properly, and then she brought her hand down to help him.

“It’s like me with earrings” she said, “I can totally do it by feel. Like I can stick anything in that hole and not have to look. I guess my vagina is the same way!”

“Let’s pretend it’s night, and you can’t talk anymore”, Christian sighed.

Eventually, after he jabbed her like a piñata at a birthday party, he finally got in.

“Wow, that feels really good!” said Ana, who felt as much stimulation as she did when she walked on a moving sidewalk.  Christian wished he wasn’t wearing a condom, but he knew he’d finish.

She folded her legs up and kneed him again. “Sorry!” she began to say, but then he put his hand down on her face, “shhh, stop talking, just enjoy”. Ana was worried she may have hit his spleen and he might be bleeding out, but they’d never know because can you even see that on an x-ray? She stopped pursuing the thought because miraculously, he hit her G-spot. She gasped with surprise. “Ahh, right there!”

Christian tried to capture lightening in a bottle, and recreate that winning maneuver. He couldn’t because his lower body hurt from being constantly kneed.

“Maybe we can change positions…what if you bend like this and move your arm like this?” he suggested.

Ana tried to base her new position based on his vague directions. She looked like an origami crane that got ran over by a car.

“Like this?” she asked.

“No, why is your face like that? Your legs should be here, and I have no idea why you’re on your side,” Christian said. “I thought you said you were flexible”.

“I run, I don’t do yoga” Ana explained. “I’d be so good if you were attached to the front of me, or if you were a hurdle or something. My calves are really strong. Whatever just move me. “

Christian just put her flat on her stomach, and they started again. “OH, that feels AMAZING” Ana said loudly. It did feel better, and she was excited she didn’t have to do anything. “I’m so close” she lied.

Christian wasn’t, so he hurried up to meet her timetable. He went quicker, and Ana felt like someone was hitting the lid of jar of pickles that wouldn’t open. It didn’t feel that bad. Some of his sweat fell on her back. She hoped it was his sweat.  Oh no, what if it was his spleen bleeding out…

She knew she had to rush him to the ER. “I’m almost there. Please, just keep doing that!” she shouted, fearing for his safety.

Christian jabbed her one more time, and now there’s a lot of semen in a condom. Boom goes the dynamite. He was so tired from his sprint performance that he fell down on top of her. Ana’s face was buried in the pillow. At first, the intimacy felt really nice. Then, she wondered if she wasn’t feeling this euphoria because she was hypoxic. She turned her face up so she could get in a small wisp of oxygen. It stopped feeling nice. She just wanted to crack her back.

“That was really incredible!” Anna mumbled into the pillow. Christian finally scooted off, and they both sat up on the couch. “Wow, just wow”

“Thanks, not too bad yourself there”. He just wanted to lie in his bed and watch 30 Rock. She just wanted to go home and stop at 711 to pick up a snack-sized box of Oreos, and then stream 30 Rock on her laptop. Both of them didn’t move because they didn’t want to appear rude.

“Well…that was nice. Maybe I should get going. I have work tomorrow”. She was already scouting out where her clothing had landed.

“I’ll grab you some water. Are you good to drive?” he asked.

“Yeah, totally perfect once I find my underwear”.

Christian retrieved her mismatched socks, and got some ice water along the way. A couple of minutes later, she was dressed. He walked her to the door.

“Thanks for coming over for that drink” he said, genuinely.

“Yeah, I’m glad I did!” she gushed.

Ana walked out, and Christian shut the door behind her. One year later, they were engaged because they realized that they were tired of mindless sex with other people, and just wanted consistency. Ana eventually learned how to have an orgasm with Christian, and he figured out that she always forgot to shave her knees.

THE END

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you write a sex story. Have a great weekend.

Excuse me, do these effectively hide my thunder? An Impassioned Debate for Denim Democracy

I’m a crusader for gender equality. While there are obvious issues that I won’t touch in this blog because of their contentious nature, I’m here to argue for the more ridiculous ones. For instance, the other day I was in the car with my good friends Emily and Kleidman in DC. I casually mentioned it being so hot I was going to take my pants off (standard conversation starter). Kleidman and Emily then proceeded to tell me that if a man takes his pants off in public it’s a crime that could land him a permanent label as a sex offender, even if he was just doing it to take a leak. Yet, if I were to take my pants off, I’d get a maximum penalty of public indecency. I don’t think it’s fair that my junk is less meritorious of a sex offender status than my male counterpart’s parts.

I’ve been angered by ‘women drinking free’ or ‘women pay less cover’ at bars for years, when men have not only had to pay full price for their drinks, but also buy those for the women, who could obviously afford to pay for a man’s drink. I thought I’d grow some acceptance into this inequality until a new cause was brought to my attention: summer attire.

It’s hot as shit outside. I didn’t want to take my pants off for any other reason in Dupont Circle but that it was blazing. My roommate Dani recently informed me that her office has Jeans Fridays. It’d be great, she proclaimed, if it wasn’t so goddamn hot outside. Who wants to wear jeans in a Maryland summer? I suggested that maybe she could bend the rules to include denim skirts or jean shorts. And then I got to thinking, why is it okay for women to wear jean shorts, but we ridicule the men who do?

Jorts. In the basic form.

I bombarded Clyde with my questions and he gave me some excellent background. Jorts were really popular and even socially acceptable in the 90s. Everyone wore them, even him (sorry for outing you). They were durable and you could go forever without washing them. But like most good trends, people abused them. Essentially, jorts were over worn and now laughable. Desperate for more feedback, I asked Cliff and Jeff later at band practice. Simultaneously, they both responded, YES! And NEVER!, respectively. From what I gather, jorts are a regional thing, as well as a generational garb. Michigan-bred guys like Cliff wear jorts, Marylanders like Jeff, don’t. However, I was pleased to find out that Cliff adorned his jorts with a red racing stripe on the side.

I laugh when I see men in jorts now. According to many of my friends, jorsts are pretty much reserved solely for hillbillies and rednecks. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dani and I started a points game for jorts in public spotting. Yet, I can’t help but feel guilty that I can wear shorts of the same material, and I get away without ridicule. It’s not fair.

I asked fashion-conscious Emily about her view on this. She said that in her mind, jorts are men’s jean shorts and daisy dukes are women’s. Since the nomenclature is different, it is acceptable for women to wear daisy dukes, but men cannot wear jorts. When I replied, ‘But a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, or denim-y, right?”, she wasn’t convinced. They were two separate things. I could see her point of view, but I wasn’t totally sold. When it comes down to it, aren’t they both just shorts made out of denim?

So, I consulted the Internet. Immediately, I found another blog focused on the same topic.  (http://dappered.com/2012/04/style-debate-jorts-on-women/). The premise was, if jorts are laughable on men, are they naturally as ridiculous on women? The comments varied, and here are a select few I find worth repeating here:

·      While guys that were denim shorts look like either dads or little kids it is hard to argue against denim shorts on women. When a woman has a figure and legs that need to be shown off I would say denim short are a close second to skirt/dresses. Third if you count bikinis.

·      womens jorts are great, unless their high waiters and then they look like hill billys 

·      If she's got an ass that wont quit it doesn't matter.

·      Jorts look fine on dudes but they have to be the right ones.

·      don't forget cutoffs for those never nudes out there. There are dozens of us!

Never nude: it's exactly what it sounds like. 

Blogger Joe seems to be in my camp. He says,“Guys get killed for wearing jean shorts.  But women don't.  Seems unfair.  Maybe I wanna wear me some jean shorts.” Who wouldn’t? I love my jean shorts. I wore them three times this week. I’ve had the same pair since middle school and they look fabulous. I’m reminded of the episode of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” where Frank gives Dee’s veteran boyfriend a pair of jean shorts to thank him for his service. I still get choked up when I think of the beautiful display of patriotism. Jorts are justice and they are American.

I’m giving all guys the green flag, but with the caveat that most online polls give women. In a very serious survey of 17 responses from SportsInferno.com, 10 out of 17 men say a woman in jorts is acceptable but it depends on if the woman looks hot or not. 1 wanted pics, and 2 deemed it tacky. The remaining 4 had no complaint. So, if you look like Ryan Gosling, yes, please wear jorts in front of us. But, as long as ugly women wear jorts (not daisy dukes, sorry Emily), I guess I see no problem with average men bringing them back.

Let’s take it a step further. Save the planet and turn your old jeans into shorts. After all, they’re not dorts (denim shorts), but jorts (jean shorts). As Dennis Reynolds says, “Well! Ha-ha! That, sir, is because you purchased blue jean shorts whereas I purchased blue jeans and cut ‘em. Thus, the fray. It’s a more authentic look. I think that’s what you’re feeling”.

I’m getting a high ride! But, the shorts aren’t preventing me from doing what I need to do!

Cut-offs, liberty, and justice for all! Happy summer!