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Girl on girl, beads, and keeping my boobs in check.

1 Dec

My best friend P.J. and I spent an entire weekend making out for charity.

By charity I mean a foundation we created on Bourbon Street.

In the middle of Mardi Gras.

An organization dedicated to the promotion of more beads, if you will.

Specifically, more beads for she and I to merrily don around our necks as we swam along with rest of the crowd.

If her husband is reading this, I’m sure he’s intrigued.

Approximately twenty minutes after landing at the airport, she and I were whisked away to the apartment of our French friend.  He was living in New Orleans, decided we had to give the festival a try, and invited us down to the booze-infested mess.

It was awesome.

Except that I didn’t want to flash anyone.

I know, I’m lame.

So when the first group of guys on the crowded street came up asking to reveal our racks for the beads around their necks, I turned to P.J. and loudly proclaimed:

“I’ll kiss her for your beads”

Just for a frame of reference, P.J. and I were not in the habit of kissing each other.  At all.  She had no idea I was about to suggest we lock tongues for beads.  In fact, I had no idea this was my plan.  It just seemed like a good move at the time.

So, quite rationally, this statement threw her off guard.  Staring at me with huge eyes she blurted out:

“What?! You want to kiss me?  Here?! I don’t think I can…. Isn’t that weird?”

I bet you can’t guess what kind of audience we were collecting at this point.

Forever egged on by a crowd, I grabbed her hand, gave her a coy smile and said:

“Come on, it’s no big deal.  I swear I’m good.  It’ll be soft.  And gentle.”

Her expression now completly confused she nervously looked at the growing crowd of testosterone surrounding us and said:

“With tongue?  Like French kissing?…”

At this point a burst of chanting broke out around us.  Frat boys, men, and other creatures began pulling beads off their necks while hollering:

“kiss her! kiss her! kiss her!”

So, doing what any menace in my situation would do, I grabbed her face and kissed her.  With tongue.

It was really good actually, as far as kissing goes.  Far better than some of the other smooches I’ve experienced in my time.  It was soft and nice, and there was no tongue sword-fighting, just gentle twisting and turning.  Our rythm was incredible.

When it was over, we had many, many beads.

So it became the game of the weekend.

One of us would shyly announce to men who requested flashing, that instead we’d make out for beads. The other would instantly become offended and appalled at such a suggestion.  We’d discuss it as the crowd formed.  Eventually, we’d give in.

At some point someone said the kissing had to last at least a solid minute, but considering we both know what we’re doing in the lip department, that didn’t bother either of us.

At the end of the weekend, I had more beads than my little neck could bear.

What can I say, P.J. is the greatest best friend a girl could ask for.

Long. Live. Her. Smooches.

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Sex, aliens, and courage

29 Nov

When I was ten, my parents rented a sex-ed tape from the library and made me watch it with them on the couch.

With candy.

It’s no wonder I only eat popcorn at the movies these days.

By the end of the film, my eyes had turned to the size of dinner plates.  Convinced they were from another planet, I stared at my parents in sheer horror.  Exactly 63 minutes prior to sitting on that couch, they were the loving providers of shelter, food, and buckets of presents.  By the time my father turned off the television, they had morphed into creatures from another planet who were concerned with topics I wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

Ever.

The two of them stared at me after it ended, curiously watching my response as if I were a case study.  Nervously tapping her fingers, my mother asked if I had any questions.  My father tilted his head.

By this point I was convinced that these so-called humans in front of me were alien sleeper pods.  I had questions-but you can hardly ask aliens what they’ve done with your real parents.  My knees shaking, I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

The voice of the narrator branded in my head as I tried desperately to forget the phrase: ‘the sperm now travels through the penis shaft’.

Taking a sip of water, I feigned calm in front of the aliens.  My hands trembled as I mumbled the sudden need for a bike ride, and meandered towards the garage in what I desperately hoped would be a convincing act of cool and collected.

Once my feet hit the pedals, my imagination exploded.

A combination of scenes from the video and all alien movie plots I had ever seen infiltrated my brain as I pushed my bike further from the house o-extra-terrestrial parents.

Vowing to erase the images from my mind, I pedaled out to the treehouse to re-evaluate my family situation.  One thing was clear, my parents had lost their minds.  Whether or not that had something to do with spacecraft was unclear.  Further investigation was necessary.

I vowed to shelter my brother from a similar fate.  Whispering to him after dinner that night, I told him never to watch anything Mom and Dad brought home from the video store.  Staring at me from behind the red curls framing his chubby face, kid-Ginger obediently nodded.

Figuring that he was safe for the time being, I then lined up my stuffed animals to hold an open forum.  Not one of them provided much insight except Snoopy.  Being the oldest of the bunch, he just stared at me with those innocent eyes, willing me to take charge of the situation.

I had to save the human race from the aliens who were forcing children to watch this video.  Purpose of said video was unclear to me, but I was sure it could lead to nothing but tears, destruction, and the complete annihilation of mankind.

Tucking Snoopy under my arm, I fell asleep determined to warn the students of my class in the morning.  This situation was serious.

The next day, my teacher showed the video to my classmates.

As they watched in frozen horror, our loving teacher turned it off at the end and asked if any of us had already seen the tape.

Bravely, facing alien destruction, I defiantly raised my hand.  This creature was not going to shock me, no sir.   I had already seen the horror, now was the time for confrontation.

All my classmates turned in my direction.  It was clear, my hand indicated authority.  I was now the leader of these innocent sheep being sent to slaughter.

“I already saw it.  I already know what you’re going to say”.

That ladies and gentlemen, is how I became the playground expert on sex education and alien invasion.  The rest of the day, I was a celebrity on the swings, hollering out instructions on how we must unite against the adults.  My classmates eagerly hopped on board with this plan.  I was the shephard, and by God-I would not let harm come to my flock.

This lasted one day.

The next morning Joey Hunter brought in a copy of his father’s Playboy.

Turns out, the aliens knew how to get the boys attention.

A giant, too many vaginas, and an Iphone

18 May

A giant initiated conversation with me in a bar a few months ago by inquiring as to whether or not I had ever done any nude modeling.

For the record, when I say giant, I mean this creature:

I was somewhere between sizing him up and answering his question, when he busted out his Iphone, scrolled through a group of black and white photos and said:

“seriously, I ask because I am an artist”

Usually when a man in a bar approaches me claiming to be an artist I brace myself for a long-winded monologue laced with philosophy references.  This time however, I was too preoccupied with sizing up his monstrous features to prepare for the inevitable speech and nearly choked on my wine when he proclaimed:

“It’s all about vagina placement.  See, I mean the placement of the vagina in the shot-do you understand what I’m saying?”

At this point I responded with the first thought that popped into my head:

“I mean, I know where mine is, but that’s pretty much as far as my interest in such things takes me”

Which of course, was my downfall.  Evidently, this was the oversized man’s cue to scroll through nude picture after nude picture, and explain to me in detail why the various vaginas were placed in each location within the frame.

At one point he began discussing the importance of labia shape.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens to me when I attend a function designed to unite english speaking ex-pats.

Individuals seek me out and unroll their portfolios to discuss vagina placement, labia size, and the various problems that may or may not occur when shooting such subjects in a desert.

Last I checked, I do not own a t-shirt reading: ‘talk to me about genitalia!!’

Yet somehow, for whatever reason: my face inspires aforementioned artistic discussion.

Next time I’m staying in, ordering take-out, and watching a National Geographic Special.  At least that way, if labia enters the frame, I won’t have to listen to an oversized idiot mutter to me through excessive mouth-breathing and sweaty gasps why vagina placement is important.