Don Quixote

A couple weeks ago, my friend Cecilia had a housewarming party. It was a good opportunity for us, her school friends, to meet her other friends she randomly has around London. One of them was Don Quixote, a Spaniard, who, she told us, had told her to tell her friends about how awesome he is. Followed by, "No. Don't tell them how awesome I am. Just tell them I'm average. Just average." That way we would be blown away and impressed by him when we actually met him. He sounded adorable, I thought.

When I met Don Quixote, he was just as adorable as he sounded. Plus, he sounded just like Antonio Banderes. Sadly, I couldn't stay at the party too late, as I had to catch the last tube of the evening and hadn't brought my glasses along. My blindness prevents me from staying out all night, because I am seriously so blind, that if I don't have my glasses and something were to happen to my contacts (like having them pop out after being in all night), I would pretty much need a guide dog to get me home. Before I left, however, I told Cecilia that I thought Don Quixote was adorable. She said, "That's great! I'll tell him!" At that point, I had had a few glasses of wine and didn't really care what she told him. 

The next day when I met up with Cecilia, she told me that she had indeed told Don Quixote what I had said. Apparently he thought I was adorable too, and asked why I had left. I resolved to get laser surgery someday soon. 

I saw Don Quixote a couple times over the next two weeks, including Thursday. I had spent 3 hours of my afternoon diagramming sentences with classmates, and after that we needed a drink. As happens in an English pub, one drink turned into 5. When we finally left the pub, I dragged my drunken ass to another pub to meet up with Cecilia and Don Quixote. I was chatting with Donny Q when he stopped mid-sentence and grabbed my thumbs. Damn, I thought. He's noticed my mutant thumbs. Seriously, not only do I have faulty vision, but I also got the short end of the stick when it came to my thumbs. And I do mean short. My thumbs are what many refer to as clubbed thumbs, or a host of other completely unflattering names, and they are the bane of my existence. They can never be sexy. Now that he's noticed them, I thought, this can never happen. 

But then he insisted they were cute. Huh. I'm pretty sure the only people who have told me that are people who wanted to sleep with me. But then the 5 drinks and the sentence diagramming caught up with me and I needed to go home and crawl into bed. So I did.

Saturday night, I met up with Cecelia and her obnoxious 21-year-old flatmate, and we met up with Fen for some fireworks. Afterward, we went out, while I reminded myself that the 21-year-old cannot help being obnoxious, and the fact that she was saying that people who wear rain boots look stupid (while I was wearing them) was not because she's a bad person, but because she was born in 1990.

We ended up meeting up with several other friends, including Don Quixote. At one point, Don and I decided instead of paying 5 pounds a beer, we would go down to the nearest convenience store and pay 1 pound a beer and drink it on the street. So we did, and the whole time I kept feeling like I was breaking open container laws, but the cops passed us and didn't so much as bat an eye. Before we got back to the bar, we each received text messages that everyone was leaving us and going home. The night was still young, though, so we powered on.

By the time 2:30 came around, I was starting to get tired, but I had long since missed the last tube. I was really only left with one option: to go home with Don Quixote. (And yes, I had brought my glasses with me, figuring I would crash at Cecilia's or something, but she was already gone, so Don would have to do.)

It started out innocently enough. He even put clothes on, but explained that normally he would sleep naked but didn't want me to feel uncomfortable (awwww). But then we started kissing, and the clothes came off anyway, and things happened. Thank goodness I decided to shave my legs with the rationalization that the power of positive thinking might lead to some positive action. It's like feng shui for your body.

In the morning, when I dragged my ass to the bathroom, I noticed the hickeys on my neck. I have never in my life had a hickey, not because I've never had the opportunity to have one, but because it takes quite a bit to make me bruise, and now I sit here wearing a turtleneck sweater and my hair down because I have two of them. I feel about 15-years-old. I know exactly when I got them too, because I remember thinking in the moment "wow, that could leave a mark".

He was nice enough this morning to bring me orange juice and walk me to the door- stark naked. And no, he doesn't live alone. Oh, those Europeans.

While I was taking the tube ride of shame home this morning, I was extremely grateful that I was wearing supposedly stupid-looking rain boots. It was a lot less conspicuous than had I been wearing heels and a short dress. These are things you learn by the time you're 29. Take that, 1990.

The Code

It's been awhile, thankfully a very long while. However, it's time to discuss Posh Work Guy again. Sorry.

The two of us have remained friends since our WTF? night many months ago. He was off work sick for a few months, I think that helped. Since he's been back I noticed that he stopped talking to me for a bit. Then he appeared to be flirting with me so I told him about me and The White Horse so then we went back to not talking. This suited me fine as I live in fear of the day when someone finds out about us, I get crowned the Office Slut and TWH severely questions my sanity. I took it upon myself to quash the latter point by telling TWH and me and PWG. I explained that this doesn't mean that we have to disclose all our past relationships / hook ups / serious mistakes, but, as he knows PWG and works for the same organisation as me I would rather him hear it from me then hear it from someone else. He took it well so I felt better.

Fast forward to last Friday night and PWG and I were at some one's leaving drinks - my manager's to be precise. I'd recently discovered that he is also leaving in a couple weeks and silently rejoiced about this. The two of us used this opportunity to clear the air as to why he hasn't really been speaking to me. (Someone asked him about us. He thought I had told. Which of course I had, I can't help it, I'm a talker. As soon as he said who had asked him about us I knew who had blabbed. I feel I gave a Golden Globe winning performance covering up the fact that I had told and convinced him that someone had seen us flirting at drinks many moons ago. Meryl Streep eat your heart out). Anyway, the night was going well.

Then, my recently departed (drunken) manager announced that we should go to a bar near Notting Hill. I drunkenly agreed, so me, my manager (Kate), her friend and PWG got in a cab and away we went. I thought it was weird that PWG was being so sociable until I thought back to earlier that afternoon when he was flirting so much with Kate that you could practically see the drool coming out his mouth. Once we arrived at our destination I quickly sobered up and realised that a.) I don't live anywhere near Notting Hill and b.) the tubes were probably just about to stop running.

I need to interject here and explain a little bit about London transport. It's expensive. If you want a night out in London you need to either:
a.) go out close enough to home that you won't have to shell out a fortune for a taxi
b.) go out and not get that drunk so that you can remember what time the tubes stop running (about 20 minutes after midnight) and leave on time
c.) have a friend's couch to crash on
d.) be rich enough to afford a taxi
e.) brave the night bus (a dreaded invention which runs all night but takes absolutely forever and is scary and full of drunk people. I know someone who was on a night bus and saw someone get stabbed).

The options that were open to me at this point were C and E. E wasn't going to happen. And C involved crashing on PWG's couch. Dilemma. I text TWH and explained my situation. I said that I would understand if he didn't want me staying there but I wanted to let him know. He replied that he wanted me to be safe but that ideally he didn't want me to stay there. Fair enough. If you're wondering why I asked TWH, I talk. He'd find out, he may not be happy.

Anyway...to cut a long story short Kate and I ended up back at PWG so he could call us a cab as we live in similar areas of London. This was at about 3am. I wanted to go home, she didn't. She kept saying that we would call a cab but that never happened. They started drinking again and I dozed on the couch. Then the flirting began. Can anyone say awkward? She told ridiculous stories to try and impress him, I inwardly cringed. I contemplated getting a taxi except my phone battery was very close to dying (it was at that taunting stage where it was still working but if I sent one text message it would die) and I was nervous about getting a cab home alone.

She was getting more and more flirty, I was getting more and more uncomfortable. It got to 5.20am and I ordered a cab. She walked me downstairs where I was in a serious dilemma. Isn't there a code? A code that says that girls should tell their friends that they have slept with a guy their friend is contemplating sleeping with? And most importantly, that the sex will be crap? Surely that's a friend's duty? I decided against it as PWG would've killed me, and I've told enough people as it is. I survived my solo cab ride home, slept for 2 hours and then caught a train to my parents'. I made it just in time for my eye appointment where I discovered that having your eyes poked and prodded after 2 hours sleep is not an enjoyable experience.

As for what did happen between Kate and PWG, I'm in the dark on that one. Thankfully.

Sexual Frustrations

Dating Myth #1: When one has an ACTUAL BOYFRIEND, life is simply shag, shag, shag all the time. Sex is available on demand, whenever, wherever.

Ha! Maybe in the early days. Then real life kicks in. Or worse, allergy season. I was pretty sure when I started being extra neighborly with the cute neighbor, that my days of sexual frustration were over. Unfortunately, there were a few things I forgot to factor in.

Sexual roadblock 1: Allergies. The cute neighbor has bad fall allergies. Seriously, the man will sneeze every 30 seconds for 5-10 minutes, (it actually gets pretty annoying) until he takes a meth pill. The meth pill (you know, what they make meth out of) makes him super jittery, thirsty, and not at all hungry. No wonder meth addicts are so skinny. At night, he needs to take a night-time pill, which knocks him right out. Not ideal for getting down to business. In the morning, just as I'm about to put the moves on, he'll beat me to the punch by saying, "I have to get up and take a pill. The snot is pooling in the back of my throat."

Mmmm. Sexy.

Sexual roadblock 2: An actual job. I don't have an actual job. I do not have deadlines. Nor do I have any stress. (Well, except the kind that comes from a nearly empty bank account.) The cute neighbor does. Right now, he's really, really busy. There are an awful lot of scientific codes that I don't understand that need to be cracked. He actually needs to get out of bed and get to work if he wants to have a career. I wonder what having a career as motivation is actually like and very much look forward to the day when I have one.

The good news is, it rained early this week, bringing in a change of weather. Ragweed count is waaaaay down. There is hope for the weekend. Fingers crossed!

Grown-ups

We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?
-Meredith Grey

Yup. We're grown-ups. I know this because today I took my car in to get an emission inspection and then wrote a check to the county commissioner to renew the tag on my car. (Special thanks to the state of Georgia for requiring all car tags to be renewed on your birthday. What a great birthday gift!) All the while thinking, this is such a grown-up thing to do. It is solely my responsibility to do this. If I don't do it, I will get a ticket. College is not grown-up. In college, my dad would have taken care of that for me.

Don't get me wrong. There are some awesome things about being an adult. Most of them, really. As a kid, I never would have been able to eat half a pint of Ben & Jerry's in the middle of the afternoon, straight out of the carton. I couldn't stay out as late as I wanted or drink tequila or watch any movie I wanted to. And of course there's the sex. We can't forget about that.

But before we get caught up in our Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, orgasmic reverie, a letter arrives in the mail from the county tax commissioner demanding a check so that you can drive to work legally. Or your car insurance. Or the student loans. (And to prove that I have been a grown-up for awhile now, I have officially paid off the entirety of my student loans. All of it! Am officially debt-free. Go ahead. Congratulate me.) And all the decisions that have to be made. Where to live? What to do with your life? It's all so very difficult. And stressful. Very stressful. But that's why we have ice cream. And the sex.

How normal is your sex life?

I'm not being personal. Honest.

I'm not a great magazine connoisseur. When I do read magazines they tend to be "celebrity" ones and I only read these when I'm going on a long plane/bus/train journey, or when my housemate gives me hers. I try to steer well clear of fashion and lifestyle magazines. This is for a variety of reasons but mainly because I know that I'll never be able to follow or afford the fashion, my hair is never going to look like that and no matter how hard I try to copy their make-up tips my face will inevitably look like I've let a child loose with a paintbrush and/or marker pen.

However, a few days ago whilst perusing the magazine covers I spotted Cosmopolitan (both fashion and lifestyle no?) for the reduced price of £2 (normal price £3.40) and it came with a trashy chick-lit book. One of my guilty pleasures. I decided to splurge.

It was whilst I was flipping through the pages that I realised why I never buy magazines such as Cosmopolitan. They scare me. They're always full of stories and sex tips that I never would have thought of and would have to be practically incoherent with alcohol to even contemplate and advice on how to 'snare' men that I would never have the confidence to try. This particular issue is even worse: it's the "sexy" issue. So the question is ladies:

How normal is your sex life?

According to women in the UK:
*More than half of the survey participants consider themselves good in bed. (Oh to have that confidence.)
*70% worry about what they look like when they have sex. (Turn the lights off?)
*Women are more likely to moan about how much sex they're (not) getting if they live in London. (Agreed.)

This is obviously just a sample. However, there was one statistic that intrigued me:

* A quarter of single girls have sex once to three times a week.

Yes, you read that right. Single girls. Once to three times. A week. Which really does beg the question, where are they finding these men?! Or they're just lying. I hope they're lying because if not, I am clearly missing out.

This has been an education. And it only cost me £2. And I got a book.

Oh and they also listed the top 5 sex positions. If anyone is interested.

Abstinence Works! (But who cares?)

Last week, I got an absolutely fabulous gift in the mail from Fenella: an album of our fabulous 10 days together. The album included both pictures (like the one above, seen on our roadtrip) as well as quotes. We thought we would share some of these quotes with you, completely out of context, for your enjoyment. We enjoyed making them.

"I'll make you a meal that will make you wet." -The Cute Neighbor

"I'll get all gooey and want to reproduce." -Violet

"Don't you know how to spread your legs?" -Fenella

"Aching uterus... ah!" -Vi again, can't shake the baby ache!

"Seven years of bad sex? I'm heading towards seven years of no sex..." -Fen, taking the billboard to heart ;)

"Pulsating vibrator" -generated by Mad Libs

"This is random, but... you totally have my permission to make out with McNerdy." -Vi

"Who needs a boyfriend when I have you?" I think Vi to Fen, but it could have been the other way around. There were lots of margaritas involved.

"I really hope he doesn't do something weird, like howl like a werewolf when he comes."

Pistachio Ice Cream... a crime?

I was recently flipping through an issue of The Economist (which is something I do all the time, I swear) when I came across an article about America's unjust sex laws. Naturally, I was intrigued and started to read. Especially because most of the article was about sex laws in my state. It was about a woman who is forced to register as a sex offender because of oral sex she performed in high school. Turns out, in this state, oral sex was included in the state's sodomy laws. That included oral sex between consensual married couples. So in other words, pistachio ice cream of any variety was outlawed until 1998 (!), when it was finally repealed. Can you imagine? Pistachio ice cream illegal? This brings to mind a few questions:

1. How on earth did they police this law?
2. How many people broke the law? My guess is not as many people who wanted the law to be broken on them.
3. What kind of person came up with this law?

I don't think that's what most people have in mind when they think of being handcuffed while engaging in such an act...

I shaved my legs for THIS

Oh, action. Why did you ever leave me?

Last night, the Dark Horse said he would stop by to drop off a book that he had borrowed from me. Now, this was the first time I had heard from him since the "I shaved my legs for this" incident, which it will heretofore be known, and I had absolutely. no. idea. what to expect from this encounter. My expectations seriously ran the gamut from "Here's your book, thanks for letting me borrow it" to waking up next to each other sans clothing. I figured it would be somewhere in the middle. Instead, I got an extreme.

When he arrived, I honestly didn't think we would be waking up next to each other. Things weren't awkward, because I can't imagine them ever being awkward between us, but they were... polite? We set off to grab a slice of pizza around the corner. I should probably explain that I live right off a rather, shall we say, colorful? street. There are all sorts of interesting characters and plenty of homeless people always looking for money "for gas." I generally ignore them, but the Dark Horse is nothing if not friendly, and he likes to listen to their stories and engage in conversation. Which is exactly what he did with a flamingly gay man who approached us to ask for money, swearing that he wasn't a bum, and believing the Dark Horse when DH told him he was a doctor. The non-bum hadn't really noticed me, but when he did, he asked "is this your wife?" Then he looked me up and down, and even peered around me to check out my ass, and said in a way that only the truly flaming can pull off, "Girl, you have got it going ON! You are bootylicious!" Then somehow the conversation went from his living with AIDS for 15 years to my bootyliciousness.

Eventually, we shook the guy, but on our way from the pizza place to the bar, passed him again, where he yelled "BOOTYLICIOUS!" after me. Oh, city life. I wouldn't trade you for anything.

When we got to the bar, we ran into my (more than a little drunk) roommate and BFF and joined them. It was after they left that I knew I wouldn't be sleeping alone. I think it was when DH told me that I was indeed bootylicious and asked if I had shaved my legs that I knew. (I told him that I was going to keep that information to myself this time.) We went back to my place. He had said he was crashing on my couch (he was in no state to be driving), but who was he kidding? Technically, he made the first move, but I guess you could argue that I made the first move several weeks ago with my drunken speech, which he obviously took to heart and remembered, because he definitely came prepared, and several helpings of pistachio ice cream with cherries on top later, we were two happy campers.

But it was afterward that I impressed myself with my ice queeniness. First of all, I did not initiate any cuddling. Second, in the morning, when he asked what that was (seriously, does he need a definition?) my official stance on the situation was "It happens." I told him if it happens again, great, if not, ok. And that's how I actually feel about it, too. I mean, obviously I want it to happen again, and I definitely think it will, but there are other fish in the sea. Third, he sent the obligatory "I had fun last night" text message. And I haven't even responded yet. Fenella says this is ice queen nirvana. Now what do I strive for?

Slut Boot Camp

Over the weekend, Fenella and I were discussing one thing we would both like to change about ourselves: We wish we could be sluttier.

I won't speak entirely for Fen, but my frustration is not in my singleton status, so much as knowing that had I been willing, I could have had quite a bit of sex last year. But no, I have standards. Damn you, mom and dad and my moral upbringing!

These standards came back to bite me in the ass during my "I shaved my legs for this" declaration to the Dark Horse, (who by the way I have clearly scared off, as I haven't heard from him in a few weeks) insisting I was down for a hook-up even though we weren't together, and he responded with a confused look and a "but that's not who you are." Ok, so maybe that's not who I am, but it is certainly who I want to be. Help me out here. Throw me a bone.

You're probably wondering why on earth anyone would want to be sluttier when there are some people out there who turn to self-sabotage (not shaving their legs, for example) to stop from sleeping with random people. It's really quite simple. Being a prude will not get you laid. And sometimes, that is all you need.

Unfortunately, when the Dark Horse had asked me about sex, I told him I preferred to wait until an actual commitment. That's because I was actually interested in being in an actual commitment with him, and any dating expert (including the Millionaire Matchmaker) will tell you to wait for that. But now? I'm only human, for crying out loud!

So the question is, how do I channel my inner slut? I was fortunate enough to meet an incredibly hot Spanish doctor last weekend. Yes, that's right. Incredibly hot. Spanish. Doctor. It sounds like one of the romance novels I used to shelve at the library. He's only in town for two months. This is the perfect opportunity to work on my sluttiness! I have absolutely nothing to lose! "The Rules" don't apply as he is a. European and b. temporary. So please send me your sluttish vibes so that I may get the action I deserve.

Must have been the tramp stamp

I went to a party of a former coworker the other night. Now we believe every good party has to be a theme party and this was no exception. The theme was evil/clown (Hosted by kind of a weird satanic couple, really into clowns) so with that theme in mind, I came dressed as a sorority girl. I'm talking poofed hair, heavy makeup, slutty clothes, heart-shaped jewelry, and yes, even complete with a giant butterfly tramp stamp tattoo (I would have gone with a fake tan but that costs money and this isn't Halloween!). Not exactly what they were expecting but everyone got the metaphor.

Somehow when we have these parties, it usually ends up with me and the clown couple drunk as can be while everyone else takes off. This party was no exception and I had already planned on staying the night. She kept handing me drinks, because she "wanted to make it a dance party." I didn't know how me getting drunk was going to make it a dance party, but I obliged. Hey, the girl is good with tequila. Apparently a dance party was not what she was after, she was trying to lower my inhibitions! As the last person was leaving she sits down next to me on the couch and looks at me sweetly. She suggests a threesome.

Now I can't give you the specifics of how I was solicited for joining the clown couple for a threesome but it started with "Ya know my boyfriend thinks you're cute" and ended with "And you and I can do whatever we want to each other too!" Somewhere in the middle, she mentioned he had a big penis, apparently to tempt me further. Cue: furious texting to Conrad, begging him to come pick me up (Damn him for hating people, avoiding social situations and falling asleep at midnight!).

I don't know what it was, perhaps my big hair? My raccoon eyes? The butterfly hovering playfully inches above my buttcrack? Either way, they both wanted it. I can't say I'm terribly surprised. They have both clearly come on to me in the past and we pegged them as swingers way back after our Halloween party. The boyfriend had already told me I could just sleep in their bed with them (I thought he was joking at the time). Don't worry ladies, I slept on the couch in solitude. I may have looked like sorority girl/easy, but sorry clown couple, I wasn't that drunk.

Pistachio ice cream isn't for everyone...

While out to lunch with an old friend we were chatting away when the conversation moved to funny quotes. "Ah ha." Thinks me. What a great opportunity to bring up my (soon to be) infamous quote: "What do you do with your arms?"

I think I should mention though that my friend is, well, a little innocent and has very little experience with guys. But I figured she would least know about, well, stuff. Um...no. I started to explain about pistachio ice cream, obviously being far more blunt with my wording. Yes ladies, I used the exact words: oral sex. My friend looked confused (and I hadn't even got to the 'what do you do with your arms bit.')

Here's the thing. My friend didn't know what oral sex is. She thought, wait for it...oral sex is "sex, with talking afterwards."

Cue a very awkward moment.

When I managed to explain it, her reaction? Priceless.

What do you do with your arms?

A few weeks ago Vi and I were having one of our monthly / twice weekly / whenever we suggest it, 2 hour skype conversations. During these conversations we cover a wide range of topics but, inevitably, the conversation turns to the opposite sex. And sex. And most recently, the pros and cons of pistachio ice cream.

We have come to the conclusion that it all depends on the brand of ice cream, or the ice cream vendor. But I'm digressing a little. During the conversation I suddenly ask, in my innocent way, "But during the um, pistachio ice cream, what do you do with your arms?" After laughing it out, we realised that although a strange question, it is actually a very valid question.

Think about it, what do you do with your arms? This is now a standard joke with me and Vi but it did get us thinking. What other questions are there that women should ask but have never thought to? Or have thought to but have been apprehensive about asking and don't have a close knit blog group to ask them to? Or have never thought to ask because the question is just that strange?

So here is the start of what I hope will be a continuing blog post, which will then be published into a book and then into a hit film, much like He's Just Not That Into You (A girl can dream.) Presenting...

What do you do with your arms? (And other questions women really should ask.)

Q. What do you do with your arms?
A. If the pistachio ice cream is really that good then the thought shouldn't cross your mind. If it's really that bad then use your arms to hold the book you'll be reading.

Q. Brazilians? Yay or nay? (Not the nationality obviously)
A. Let's hope nay because I really don't want to get one.

Q. Lights on or off?
A. Off. Always, always off.

We need more questions. It's just not enough for the book.

Good Vibrations

Porn store. Sex shop. Adult gift store. Novelty gift shop. Whatever you want to call them, I've been to two in the last two days, as well as trolled several of their websites.

Have I decided to replace the Dark Horse with a battery-operated version? Maybe. But that wasn't my initial reason for frequenting stores of the over-18 variety.

Grayer's and my mother is a breast cancer survivor, and Christmas is the 5-year anniversary of her last chemo treatment. (Can I get a w0000000t! ?) We thought it would be awfully sweet of us to bake her a cake. A booby cake. And where can you find a booby cake pan? Adult gift stores.

I started my quest in a part of the city notorious for strip clubs and novelty shops. In fact, my first stop was only a few doors down from the strip club where a B-list celebrity recently met and started an affair with a local stripper. That's what she said, anyway. I walked in, took a look at the entire wall of vibrators and dildos, and went to the counter to ask for some help. The clerk took me to where the booby cake pans usually are. That's right, they were SOLD OUT. "We do have plenty of booties or penis's," she told me helpfully. Somehow, I don't think my mom would appreciate that as much...

I figured since I was there, I may as well take a look around. I needed a gag gift for a white elephant gift exchange anyway. I'm willing to say that at least 70% of the store was made up of vibrators and dildos. (That is not including the back of the store, which appeared to be made up entirely of DVDs.) Apparently there is a lot of money in the pursuit of the female orgasm. A lot of those vibrators were rabbit shaped. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I've heard of the Rabbit Pearl, featured on an episode of Sex and the City, and said to be the Rolls Royce of vibrators. But the other rabbit vibrators just kind of looked like rodents. I can't really imagine wanting to put something rodent-shaped into my vag.

Other things learned:
1. Water-proof is a very important feature.
2. Vibrators run the price range from $10-$120. Kind of made me curious to know what a $120 vibrator can do for you.
3. They also come in all shapes and sizes, from finger vibrators, to vibrators so large I'm sure only the Samantha Jones's of the world can use them.

All in all, my first trip to the sex shop was really not so bad. I wasn't constantly looking over my shoulder nervously, and the store was pretty much as non-sketch as it gets. Especially compared to the ones around it, which I declined to go into, since I was pretty sure I would be raped if I did. (They're the definition of seedy.)

This afternoon, I went to another location to find my booby cake pan. I found it immediately. The sales clerk told me to "come again." Maybe I will.

The default setting

I don't know what brought it up but while out this weekend, my friend Brad says to Hanging Out Guy and I, "You've heard of the missionary position, right?

"Uh, yeah. It's only the easiest, most trusted, go-to position known to man."

"Ok, because Clare (His girlfriend) didn't know what it was."

In unison, we look to Clare and say, "WHAT?" And oh, how we laughed.

Brad and Clare have been together for about 6 years, and have quickly become one of the best couples I've ever known. They amaze me on how incredibly cool, comfortable and fun they are with each other and with friends. (He told me his secret plan to take her into the city to a Chocolate Bar for her birthday, and they hung out with a bunch of us on SAD. Need I say more).

Apparently she didn't know missionary had a name. She just thought it was default.

Proud graduates of the Abstinence Academy for Slutty Girls

The following message does not reflect the views of WWBD? and is solely the opinion of the author.


I recently rediscovered a great video blog, The Midwest Teen Sex Show. As the name implies, it may be directed at teens, but you don't have to be a teen to enjoy it. It is downright hilarious (although I have to admit the last episode, #20, is the weirdest one I've seen yet, and definitely not my favorite, so be sure to check out the others) and I really admire them for getting information out there for teens. MTSS doesn't play the abstinence only education game- just ask Sarah Palin how well that works- they educate, and I applaud them for it. I mean, seriously. If you leave someone alone, and tell them that absolutely under no circumstances are they to push the button, what is the only thing they are going to want to do as soon as your back is turned? Push the button! If they're going to do it, they're going to do it, so you may as well give them some condoms. Which is exactly what MTSS does!