Painfully Beautiful
My attraction to Marilyn Monroe probably started out the same way as it did for millions of women of my generation. It was that one photograph that pulled me in beyond expression. It was the way her angelic, solemn eyes looked right into my heart and made it hurt some. It was the way her presence, while only two-dimensional, took my breath away.
I brought Marilyn home and perpetually surrounded myself with her face and her poses, the feathers and boas, shimmering gold wardrobes, crimson lips and platinum tresses. What began as an overwhelming infatuation is now developing into a sympathetic admiration to a beautifully sexy, American idol.
I wonder at what point and after how many men did Norma Jean commit to her brazen identity of Marilyn Monroe? Was it somewhere in between love and pain, or was it purely her conduit in becoming a movie star?
Recently I’ve experienced an identity shift as a result of falling stupidly for a boy who doesn’t rightly belong in the dating pool. A jerk beyond the acceptable parameters, this fool not only mistreated me but decided he wanted me back a month after he abruptly killed me out then tortured me slowly. What would be a painful and esteem-shattering death for some women has been an empowering ride back into the greatest life and times for me. It’s like I’ve become a complete animal of strength, confidence and independence, not to forget how much fun I’m having not caring about any dude’s feelings whatsoever.
My hair stylist last night told me that she knows so many women who get hurt by a man and then cower into single solitude. Any length beyond a couple weeks of this behavior is totally pathetic. Jumping right back into the world when the wounds are still fresh is the best way to fall back in love with yourself. And as the saying goes, you must love yourself before you can love another. Excuse my arrogance but I am planning an elegant wedding… where I will marry myself and only invite hot men in tuxedos who will pleasantly gawk at me… then get naked.
This awesome woman that I’ve become was I there before and didn’t realize it? Did I need some idiot jerk-retard trying to smoosh me into rejection hell, only to wake up and realize just how beautiful and sexy I am?
I get home from a long night and sometimes I’m sad, sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I’m completely pissed off. But I see Marilyn and I fall into her eyes, and I pay homage to that woman who was glamorous beyond society’s standards. I thank her for her brave indiscretion, for probably being hurt and used by hoards of men and becoming more beautiful from it. I know she knew despair like I do. And I know she used her resilience to her own benefit, like I do.
That’s the kind of woman I want people to see, that little bit of pain left over in my seductive eyes as I carry myself with sheer certainty. That’s the beauty I’ve earned.
Just Friends
I had this vision that, after the break up, we’d both have this huge relief lifted from our lives, with the pressure of a semi-dysfunctional relationship no longer burdening our days. I imagined we’d both feel like the ride was good and over and had been a great, exciting one for the most part. My mentality was to be strong, move on, peace out disappointment, good riddance loneliness and adios unmet expectations. I wanted to lay back with my feet up and know that he was much better off without me always at his feet, wanting more and getting less. I was hopeful that we’d be able to retain the core bond of why we ever dated in the first place: our phenomenal friendship.
The final break up had cleverly changed my ex into the type of boyfriend I had always encouraged him to be but, sadly enough, my time was done. My heart was free. Soon after it became clear how much of a cardinal sin dating your coworker really is. It was like the ride was over, but the shoulder harness wouldn’t release me from my seat. I was stuck heavy in break-up aftermath with no escape. We couldn’t be friends; we couldn’t be enemies. We were coworkers and it was hell. While he was an emotional circus, I was trying to enjoy the sunshine from Cloud 9. He wanted to be close and I needed space. There were his eyes every morning, reminding me what I was putting him through.
Monday through Friday my daydreams with my new Mr. Perfect were being interrupted by the guilt and sorrow I was feeling over the break up and the loss of my best friend. How could we ever be friends again when he vowed to never let go, to never move on, to never love another woman because it "wouldn’t be right"? He even refused to go out and find some rebound sex.
With no scheduled long vacations on my horizon, I needed a plan fast. There was no way my life would exist as something so chaotic. I couldn’t be sending mixed messages to this man who I didn’t want to be with anymore, just to help him through it. Pure and simple, I decided to do every thing right with my new boyfriend. Although it would be uncomfortable and even difficult sometimes, I would be honest, open and loyal. I would call my new guy when I wanted to, even if it meant my ex might overhear. I would think about him just to get through the workday and avoid the drama. He deserved everything I wanted to give him: me without baggage, me with big dreams, me with a wide-open future and a heart that was longing to love.
I knew someplace deep inside me that eventually we could be just friends. Pain is a human condition and it doesn’t lessen because of inconvenience or boundaries. It’s one of those sh–ty emotions that only diminishes over time. And usually you got to go through that time alone.
Lover Girl
Call me a big, fat love buff, because I fall in love with my girlfriends with the same emotional energy that I fall in love with my boyfriends. I would marry a couple of my girlfriends today if the sex was good, but I’m as straight as a flat line and only get naked with man kind.
True to this visa versa scenario, it is quite a big bitch breaking up with a girlfriend with whom you were once madly in love. But, it happens, just as wife and husband divorce, even with three young children to raise and splitting assets in a courtroom.
The bummer is that while you eventually get over an ex-boyfriend, somehow you never quite fully recover from losing a girlfriend who meant the world to you. This is because two women fighting against each other share the same genetic sensitivity and the hurt can devastate the friendship far beyond repair.
I’ve lost some of the best girls God’s ever created. Taking a look back, I wonder sometimes what exactly was the real reason for breaking up, or if there even was a legitimate one. Like romance and intimacy fizzling out in a lengthy, monotonous relationship, sometimes the blood bond between two lovely chicks does, too.
No. 1in my top five all-time greatest girlfriend loves then lost is Marisa. This girl was wild like a fire in the dry, August heat. She was the epitome of cool, leaving her mark on every single person she breathed on. Together we were toxic, a match that made others uncomfortable. I spent every day and night with this girl, drinking Coronas, cruising the lake, playing boys, dogging girls, and cracking up to the point where people would get irritated. A natural beauty, with her father’s Mexican skin and her mother’s Irish blue eyes, Marisa would smile and the whole world would light up. We shared the same witty, free-spirited attitudes, the same sleep schedule, and the same ambition to be at every party there ever was over six months straight in a 30-mile radius. My ex couldn’t stand her. He couldn’t compete with the obvious, intoxicating love we shared for each other, and I felt sorry for him.
She moved away and through those burning tears we promised to stay connected. I made one trip to Arizona a year later, and our love picked up right where we left it, our adventures including, for me, a one-night stand in a swimming pool at a remote hotel in Blythe (”where there’s no life”) California.
And that was it. Not one more phone call, kiss on the cheek, a shared Corona with the ass poured out for our homies. Not one more head-nod greeting with a Mexican accented “dude, whaaat’s up.” Marisa was gone.
Damn, sometimes I still get choked up thinking about that girl. I hope she honors us on occasion and knows how much my heart truly misses her.
That was years ago, nearly a decade, when I was a newborn with fragile, dragonfly wings, navigating against the strong winds of a crazy, free world, my skid marks left on the porch of my all-American, Catholic suburban family. Ask me whom I dated then and he was an idiot jerk mistake. But that girl was the One. The one best friend, soul mate, ’til death girlfriend you wished never got away.
Women are a crazy species. Sometimes it’s a personal catfight heard round the world, breaking two girlfriends apart like the aftermath of a pair of pit bulls with lock jaw, but not always. Sometimes it’s just a change in the wind.
The Rabbit
My girlfriend couldn’t stop raving about her new toy over a spicy Mexican dinner one Wednesday night. It was a usual long day and the Don Julio was going down like water. She admitted to having a rather excessive masturbation routine: every night, at least once, and to her that was completely normal. Feeling slightly insecure about my own, wimpy masturbation schedule, I dragged her with me to the sex shop to make an important new purchase.
My Rabbit was $60 and wasn’t even the best model available. It was gorgeous looking, with lustrous pinks and blues and white pearls inside. The “rabbit” was leaping from the base, with long, rubber ears, and for some reason I was totally drawn to the waterproof version.
As the clerk demonstrated its multiple functions, how to adjust the settings and replace the batteries, he made sure to also justify the universal reason that all people should enjoy sexual self-pleasure, mumbling a selection of truths like, “It never substitutes sex, but is more like meditation, and something you could do with someone else but is better done alone”. He said it in a way that seemed both way too intense and way too rehearsed. I really just wanted to get the hell out of there.
The next day I proudly blabbed away about my new rabbit. My girls showed exaggerated interest but the guy I was seeing could barely think about anything else the rest of the day. He was required to see it before our date that night, so I showed it off to him like it was my new puppy, so cute and smart and a great companion. My poor guy was feeling like chopped liver. Examining its every angle, curve, length and detail, his anticipated probing was making me over reluctant to turn the power on, but I went ahead and kicked him right in the groin while he was already down. Defeated and dumbfounded, he gently handed me the rabbit and I put him safely away in my top drawer.
Seeing him so bent out of shape, I wanted to tell him that I was over-emphasizing my excitement about my new toy, that I used it the night before and lasted about ten seconds, that it was a climax at lighting speed and barely enjoyable. I wanted him to think that I was so comfortable with masturbating that I didn’t even think to reassure him that I enjoy the real thing WAY, way, way better. Nothing better. I love it.
Next came his curiosity to watch me with my rabbit in action. This I put a quick stop to. Maybe I wasn’t ready for the pressure of an audience. I had no control over my timing and still needed a lot more practice. Besides that, I had a yucky feeling in my gut about getting myself off with my guy there studying me. What if I didn’t look sexy or made weird noises or my legs went stiff? Time passed and I wasn’t getting any closer to feeling comfortable breaking out the rabbit during an intimate night with him. Call me a prude. Call me a tease. Call me a lady who thinks that’s just gross. I don’t need to watch him masturbate. I know he does it and that’s all the information I need.
It’s a beautiful thing sometimes being a woman and having the upper hand over a man, especially when it comes to sex. A man who loves sex will try to have his cake and eat it, too. And for me it’s just better to eat my own cake in private.
Spoon Me
Nasty, cold, winter months can be an exceptional time for affectionate activities. Because who really likes to hold sweaty hands when it’s 100 degrees outside? There’s nothing sexy about being romantically embraced by a handsome man with reeking pit stains saturated through the clubbing shirt he’s been wearing for a mere two hours. Yes, summertime is the season of skin, sun and hot sex, but some things work way better with the frostbite nagging at your need to caress and be caressed.
Cuddling, coddling, snuggling, hugging and smooching, all great activities, but so much more beneficial when exercised January through March. Get me home and under a blanket with my man and I’ll be warm and happy for hours. The greatest wintertime activity, of course, is spooning. Forget the electric blanket, this stationary position is well-known for its bodyheat- retaining effect. Spooning occurs when the “big spoon” man curls his body around the backside contours of the “little spoon” woman. It’s the closest two people can be without having sex, although it can lead to sex, or be the final chapter in a night including sex.
The beauty of spooning is that it’s not your stereotypical foreplay. It’s not like making out, for instance, where the No. 1 objective is to eventually get naked and have intercourse. Making out and heavy petting causes extreme arousal and excitement, arresting all inhibition, as does taking a hot bath together or a late night dip in a hot tub after a few shots. But spooning, like intimately hugging, is sweet, comfortable, and usually pressure free. It’s mutually exclusive to sex. You can always have one without the other.
But spooning can be dangerous in these instances: When your platonic guy friend needs to crash for the night and you don’t usually welcome a sleeping buddy in your twin-sized bed, and the heater’s broken, and you haven’t been laid in two months; or the big spoon is anatomically fortunate and the physical sensation is exhausting your will power; or the big spoon is a sex freak and misunderstands your concept of spooning for intense stimulation thus creating an awkward night together. Spooning and…forking, two very distinct verbs.
I believe two people who love each other utilize spooning in the most incredible way. Sometimes you spend a long day together and you can’t wait to get wild in bed, but when you both actually get there you realize how exhausted you are, and spooning becomes this beautifully sensual twist, where you can feel and be touched but don’t really have to move all that much. I know the nights I fall asleep after my boyfriend situations me into this perfect puzzle piece against his body, his hand on my hip and his chin against my shoulder, I am a woman on cloud nine, about to have the greatest sleep of my life.
So please, spoon me. I won’t think that you just want to have sex with me, because, really, you need to try a lot harder than that. I will be the little spoon without any intention or imagination if you will be my big spoon ready to scoop me up.
Single Holidays
Mom said, “Oh honey just bring some dinner rolls, you know, the sweet ones, and maybe a bottle of wine or some beer. Grandma likes blush wine. That’s it. Come around 3 and plan to stay, okay?”
Dinner rolls, pre-made and pre-packaged, an $8 bottle of white zin, and my extra-generous contribution, a fresh bottle of Crown Royal, icy cold from my freezer and only two shots taken from the top the night before, my night cap on Thanksgiving eve.
Although the Crown was a welcomed gesture, especially from my excitable dad who eagerly removed the 750 ml. of Jack Daniels to the bottom shelf, I just couldn’t help feeling remotely selfish, partly lazy, and entirely single. The brown paper bag filled with pre-made dinner rolls and holiday liquor pretty much stigmatized me as the woman who remains the grown child invited to another marvelous holiday dinner hosted by my parents, the greatest team of cooks suburbia’s ever seen. The thought of ever trying to pull something off of the same magnitude gives anxiety a whole new meaning. How are all 10, traditional dishes served piping hot at the same time?!
I poured a stiff drink, kissed my relatives, shared some chitchat, and nestled in lonely comfort on the living room couch, watching the Dallas Cowboys kill the New York Jets. In that moment I promised myself (again) that for Christmas, I swear to God I will make Jell-O or bean dip or maybe even go wild and bake some cookies. But it was a short-lived complex assaulting my ego, as I forced myself to remember that holidays are for enjoying family, food, love, life and everything in between.
I just wonder when I will have the guts and the desire to host my own holiday dinner. I’d really like to own a house first to be able to accommodate a large group, so I still have three to five years there. Whew. Or are you supposed to be married and have kids, too, to make it really official? Gimme five-seven years on that one. Or are these the lamest excuses I can come up with?!
As I get older I’m starting to become very aware of my fellow single and fabulous friends preparing holiday meals for their families, regardless of having immediate families of their own. One girl friend of mine did all the shopping, then brought everything with her on a drive out of state to cook the entire meal for her grandparents and relatives. She offered! Amazing!
The truth is, the kitchen is a terrifying place for a woman like me. It’s the bus I always missed. Growing up, spending time learning how to cook with my mom was second to going to church, (nothing against my mom). I was the high-on-life little girl, holding the football for my dad as he punted a long one across the street into my neighbor’s yard on Thanksgiving morning. I’m a killer host for a cocktail party or really any party involving just alcohol and snacks. I’ll make sure to get you drunk and keep you laughing and we might even make out, but please…you don’t want me serving anything that came from the place known as the kitchen. I know I would burn the pre-made rolls.
It’s not the easiest place being single during the holidays. There’re unusual feelings of guilt and regret and an insane amount of thankfulness for the ones in my life that subliminally make me feel appreciated. Sometimes the bar is closed when it’s usually open and shopping for a hot, Guess purse gets set aside for shopping for Christmas presents for others. The nights are cold and sweaters aren’t sexy and having a man to snuggle seems that much more important.
But what the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t morph into Martha Stewart for two months of the year just to impress people and make me feel better about myself! I am who I am and I am as fabulous as they come. I can only adjust as my maturity allows and, until then…enjoy the Crown Royal.
Dr. Phil Knows His Cheesecake
We ate cheesecake in bed together the other night, with one fork cutting through silky, delicious New York cheesecake ribboned with raspberry swirls, whipped cream pleasantly dappled on top, and a crunchy, dark chocolate, cookie crust. With a single napkin, no clothing on, and by candlelight, flushed faced, and breathing deeply and relaxed, we shared a rich dessert after a sweet time.
I usually pass on dessert. However this very sensual meeting had nothing really to do with physically consuming carbs and calories, the devil’s sequel to dinner, but was more a chance for me to add some super saucy romance into our already wonderful relationship (trying not to brag, and please don’t gag).
Romance has got to be the most confusing and misconceived realm of all relationships, right? Is it sex? Really good sex? The happy, swooning, fleeting chase of pre-commitment? Is it a bubble bath and chocolate-dipped strawberries and a surprised date on a hot air balloon in the Napa Valley? Is it having an affair with someone you never imagined? Wearing a new, lacy bra with matching, edible panties?
I say, why qualify the possibilities? Romance can be all of those things. The tricky part is deciding what types of romantic gestures fit your personality and which ones are completely out of the question. Maybe a little bit of time can justify certain ridiculousness. I doubt I would’ve been bringing any kind of snack to bed post-sex during our first couple months together. What if he spilled on my 600 count sheets and then rolled over in it because the lights were too dim for him to notice his carelessness? It would’ve been over!
In fact, now we are eating dessert in bed because we have been together for a while and the sweet little kisses don’t get the butterflies stirred up in the belly like they used to. The romance doesn’t come quite as easily and naturally like it did in the fresh beginning. So becomes the true test: Can you as a woman step up to the plate and become a romantic entrepreneur? Or do you choose to join the many, many, sad women out there in the world, complaining and bitching and hinting and suggesting to their boy friends, husbands, lovers how much they need, want, crave some damn romance but never get any?!
I was greatly educated one evening during a usual Dr. Phil episode. If only I found the great doctor to be even remotely, sexually attractive, what a world this would be! While munching on a tray of ice packed into a glass, in my underwear on the couch, Dr. Phil taught me that you must teach others how you want to be treated. This I took as meaning that teaching someone involves a lot of showing, a little bit of telling, and little to no discouraging. What’s so hard about asking for what you need or what you so badly want. Especially if you want it so badly that its wrongly affecting your relationship? I’m boggled at the exhausted big fuss about a girl friend taking the initiative and planning something romantic for her and her boy friend to SHARE.
Do we as women feel that it’s strictly the man’s place to charter the seas of the exotic, adventurous excitement of keeping things hot and sweet, reminding us that we are so appreciated and loved just because we are more emotionally needy?
Come on, women… give me a big break over here. We are being lazy, fussy, old fashioned, princess broads with too much time on our pretty, dainty hands to put our hands to productive work. Get creative, messy, out of control! Show your boy friend what it means to bring romance into the every day good things you already share together. He may not get it in the first lesson but the important thing, YOU will get what you need out of it.
The Break Up, And The Way Back In
Recently surviving an anticipated and very emotional, yet very temporary break up from the one I’m truly in love with, I couldn’t help but to explore some new variety in the world of single and seeking young people.
Actually, let me rephrase that by admitting I bolted back into the safety zone of the free world, the tears on my face drying from the sheer velocity of the trip back in.
I learned that the single society I had previously been so devoted to was just the same way as I had left it those months ago when I decided to clip my wings and commit to monogamy. After returning with my pretty yellow tail in between my legs and a shiver of defeat in my cowering eyes, I quickly realized I was, in a great way, glad to be home. I was back to just me, and the me who loved to meet and date and dabble and dazzle, if only for a short week and a half.
The no-strings-attached men that I started hating back when I so craved emotional attention were thankfully still as simple, predictable and excitable as they had been before, only this time they seemed less desperate and even more attractive. Over my second Grey Goose Gibson Martini and surrounded by five young, energetic guys on a relaxed bar patio under twinkling lights, it was hard to pinpoint why I previously wanted them all to just casually drop off the face of the Earth and become extinct. Being single hadn’t really been that bad, right? Surely I was just being over-dramatic and needy, two characteristics that actively single women cannot posses.
This was the greatest group of humankind! I wanted to take them all home with me!
Of course I limited myself to just one, and I knew instantly he’d be my first fling on my rebound circuit. With boisterous energy, dreamy hazel eyes, and an exceptional tolerance to Captain and Cokes, we spent a Saturday night swooning each other in the modern way. This meaning he called me “sexy” while I saved his seat whenever he had to use the bathroom. Ahh, how romantic it was. And damnit, he made me laugh! His feeble spell was just what I needed to relax and forget about the horrible week I had cutting ties with the man I was so terribly addicted to.
I was soon to be reminded that irony is such an ugly bitch! While my cutie-pie fling and I had fun pre-flinging, flirting, touching, and smooching, the sex was almost as stimulating as a catnap in the early evening after a big dinner and a long day. I’ve been more turned on by a short bus ride across town! It was, in short, some of the most boring sex I’ve ever had. I didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or punch the idiot in the face! When my true love came gallivanting back into my life a week later I was completely ecstatic and couldn’t wait to get him in bed to relieve all of the sexual frustration that had built up in one lousy night. There’s nothing on Earth like having a best friend that you’re attracted to and is completely hot in bed. Yes, I say my prayers.
My rebound adventure was the worst of its kind and I couldn’t have felt even remotely guilty about it if I tried. Next time I’ll try rebounding with batteries, leaving those cutie-pie men on the patio at last call.
Can’t Buy Me Love
My single woman’s dream is to be pursued by a handsome, successful, adventurous man who is a hopeless romantic and ready to fall madly in love with me. He believes in day trips to the beach, dozens of roses, shots of the finest tequila, and sleeping in late. He is young at heart, but is intrigued by my thoughts, tells me twice a day I’m beautiful, kisses me every time with the same amount of passion as the very first kiss, and never….ever…insists that it’s my turn to please him in bed.
Yeah. Yeah. Shoot me now! This sugary crap is a fairytale, a castle in the sky with the odds of becoming a reality the same as getting struck by lighting in California or being eaten by a Great White shark! What kind of single women does this actually happen to, and when it does happen, is it real? Is it genuine? Does the wedding ceremony in Italy followed by the three week Hawaiian honeymoon extend into a lifetime of marital bliss and happily ever after, the whole sh-bang? The soul mate BFF, ’till death do we part yadda yadda?
And why does Hollywood relentlessly push us to have so much hope in this nearly impossible plan? Take the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, a classic love story of ugly duckling virgin being frantically chased by super sweet, super sexy, smart guy. She magically becomes attractive and ambitious and he becomes Greek enough to sweep her off her feet. The End.
In real life the ugly duckling matures into an even uglier duck and doesn’t get a fighting chance. She drinks tea, reads lengthy novels, is a great aunt, and raises a dozen cats.
But there is always a fine line between optimism and pessimism. A single woman MUST believe in her own, unique and very personal dream or else she might as well throw in the towel.
My fantasy, although still extremely vivid and usually played in my head five times a day, has been bruised somewhat over the last couple weeks by dorky, unattractive men trying to trick me into believing they are the ones destined to carry me into sudden paradise.
Dork #1 has been at my damn feet for seven months now. I kept him on the fence for a long time because he was a fun first date, had an interesting job that had him traveling every three months and was almost cute enough to be labeled ‘tall, dark, and handsome’, except that he awkwardly had braces, which made me feel like I was 16 again. I told myself that he would have a gorgeous smile once they were removed. How’s that for optimism?!
He called me last week from some far away place where it was hard to hear and asked me if he could fly me out to Florida for a luxurious, all-expensespaid vacation in mid-June. I have never been to Florida.
I immediately said, “yes,” then immediately asked if he was expecting me to sleep with him. After a couple days of heavy thinking, he told me that if he wanted hot arm candy to give him blue balls he’d just assume renting an escort and save some money on air fair.
I told him to never call me again. What do I look like, a damn prostitute with big dreams? Take your Florida adventure and shove it way up your flat ass! I heard Florida isn’t that cool anyway, too sticky, and way too sticky to spend with a desperate, dorky guy with big, flashy teeth.
Even dorkier guy #2, whom I fittingly met at a frequented bar, had a whirlwind vacation package coordinated after our first “date”. He was to take me around the country to every great theme park, again he promised, “all-expenses paid”.
I started thinking: I’d rather expense my own sunshiny vacation where I could pick some hot, fun guy to tag along with me. Sorry, Fantasy, I know we both got excited there for a minute, but I can’t be losing self-respect at such a vital time in my single life.
I hate to sound cliché, but perhaps a dream is just that. You create it out of a limitless imagination and fine-tune it until it’s just about perfect…and then the idea is that you meet Mr. Perfect and the dream is all wrapped up into one person who brings to your life dreams that you never even considered. Until that Mr. Perfect crosses my path, I can’t muddy up my dream with dorks and the hopelessly hopeless. I got bigger things to do.
Ring Of Fire
Man, I hate shopping for condoms. It has nothing to do with principle, as I am 100% the empowered single woman enforcing the condom rule: It’s the woman’s responsibility to have them and insist on using them because dude will never want to use them but will play it off like ‘of course I will wrap myself up’ if you hand him one. So I try to always have them. And there’s no central storage area for my army of Trojans and Durex’s either…the soldiers are very strategically placed in every corner of my hidden personal space, both in my home and mobile, too. Ever find a condom in your silverware drawer in your kitchen? Yeah, that’s me. Some nights I go to such extremes as tucking that sucker deep into my jeans back pocket because if I drink too much and meet Mr. Sex, and I happen to lose my purse and everything else during the night, at least I’ll still have that.
It’s actually shopping for the damn things that is so freaking uncomfortable! What is it about the American drug stores’ common merchandising policy of having their entire condom display: A. Directly in front of the store’s pharmacy, so not only can the entire pharmacy staff monitor the duration of your condom-box reading, but every customer picking up and waiting for their meds also get to examine which brand you prefer and then probably imagining what kind of sex life you have.
B. All mixed in with totally gross and socially “shameful” products such as: douche bags (is this even the p.c. term for them?), vaginal creams, yeast infection medication, birth control tests, and my very favorite, the incontinence pads, for those poor souls who struggle with every day bladder control issues. Now I know this sounds harsh, but people wearing these things can’t be getting laid!
For the love of God, put the damn condoms and lube in their own exclusive area, somewhere in a corner, like at the end of the beer and liquor aisle, across from the frozen bags of ice! I’m sick of feeling like a damn criminal shopping for my condoms, getting judged because I’m stocking up with five boxes so I must be a rampant whore, or that’s all I’m buying today so I must be preparing for a raging orgy party. It’s not my fault they make so many incredible varieties! The packaging looks like candy wrappers, in dazzling lime green, vibrant pink, and metallic blue; and the actual condoms come flavored (still trying to figure out why they invented these), colored, and in assortments like, ribbed, studded, for her pleasure, performax, ultimate feeling, intense sensation, and the French tickler!
But one day my rigorous need to examine every condom make and model paid off… I found something on the top shelf that I now refer to as, the Ring of Fire, the greatest sex accessory the woman will ever experience, and the greatest partner for any condom. The one and only, Vibrating Ring.
This magnificent little sex toy has a built-in, battery- powered, vibrating motor attached to a latex ring that dude wears either with or without a condom during sex. The initial sensation had me squealing with excitement, and men, don’t lie, its fun for you, too. My partner exclaimed quite profoundly, “It’s making my whole thing vibrate!!”
Yeah, well, it’s a vibrating mechanism and it does the trick that every woman imagines the penis being able to do if only God had added that one special feature in his final design. It’s quite possible for a woman to enjoy the two distant-cousin orgasms simultaneously, both via penetration and clitoral arousal, as long as he’s equipped with the raw power of the vibrating ring. It dies after twenty minutes, but seriously, she won’t need more than twenty minutes, trust me.
Better yet, Trojan has introduced its “Magnum” sized ring and the motor on this thing looks big enough to take off and fly. I have one waiting to be used, and I kiss it good night before I turn out my lights for sleep.
So screw all of the fickle judgment you sense as a woman buying these safety tools, and toys, at the drug store in the mid-afternoon! They want us to practice safe sex but they don’t want to know who’s practicing it! I can shrug off the shame for sake of self-protection and a new kind of orgasm. I’m just like the dude in line waiting to purchase a box of tampons and a bottle of Midol; his head hung low with humiliation. Once you leave the store, who really cares anyway?
