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Time to dust off your vagina!

7 Nov

It’s a typical hump day for me. One that involves zero humping. There is a little something special on the books today. Peeing in a cup followed by a finger in the ass.

I know what you’re thinking, “Catherinette finally found a boyfriend.” Not quite. Not even close. No, my friends, it’s that time of year again: The time where I’m molested by a doctor while she judges me for having no sex life.

Sure, sure, at least Vangelina Jolie will get some attention. But it’s not quite the type of attention she’s interested. Trust me when I tell you that whenever you hear, “you’re going to feel some pressure,” that you’re going to feel like you’re about to be ripped on two. Not a good feeling when the doc had half her hand shoved up inside you while pressing down on your stomach with the other hand and asking you about the weather.  Just wait until you have someone’s freaking fist wedged up inside you while they talk about current events.  Go ahead and try to keep a straight face and let me know how that goes for you.

I did something new this time, I made the doctor laugh – and it wasn’t when she saw what gravity had done to my breasts.  No, no.  It goes a little something like this.

  • Dr.: Are you sexually active.
  • Me: No.  Not currently. [insert sad trombone music]

She doubled over laughing.  Further proving I am awesome and dispelling my personality is what keeping the men away.  Clearly it’s my body.  And those boobs that have decided they want to be closer to the floor.

Other than that whole fisting thing when they check your ovaries, going to the OB/GYN is relatively painless – and totally not hot.  Back when I was dating Mr. Big X, he would get really excited when it was time for my annual.  He had it in his mind that it was essentially a lesbian encounter and the doctor would end up propositioning me while my legs were up in the stirrups.  He was disappointed every time I came home and informed him that it didn’t happen.  Then he’d have me give him the blow by blow details of what happened.

Perhaps I should have taken home some examples of the shit they put inside you to test you for diseases.  Like these little numbers:

You’re looking at the cervical brush and broom. Or what Jersey Belle describes as the “Vaginal Swiffer”.  Guessing that bringing those suckers home probably would have killed the mood.

Then again, maybe he would have wanted to play “doctor”.

Freak.

Protected: Making Friends Wherever I Go

4 Sep

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Spotted

6 May

At the Gallery Starbucks this morning…chatting with what appeared to be a co-worker.  Mr. Big X drinking coffee and looking like he had really aged.

 xoxo

Gossip Girl

That was the email that a girlfriend of mine (Mr. Big X’s ex-roommate) sent to me this morning.  Man do I love hearing about ex-boyfriends aging, especially when the information is delivered Gossip Girl style.

There’s only one problem with the message: I need more details and a photograph.  Was there a double chin?  A receding hairline?  A gut?

Protected: I Think You’re Addicted to Porn

25 Mar

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Protected: Fill in the Blank

6 Mar

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Protected: I Knew This Would Happen One Day

13 Feb

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Meme’s And Tags Are For Suckers, I Guess I Can Suck It

5 Jan

The tagging and meme’s are to blogs as chain letters are to email.  Take that analogy, SAT professor.

Usually when someone decides that I’m worthy of a tag and/or meme, I pretend like I didn’t notice it or that I’m too busy and important to bother carrying on the tradition.  Recently, however, Acorn King tagged me and the concept is a good one.  The tag has evolved as each blogger has decided to give it their own spin.  When Father Muskrat had it, he changed it to 7 random acts by 7 random whores.  Acorn King decided that he’d change it to 3 embarrassing sex stories involving his friends.  Oh, and I decided to change the tag all over again.  Now it’s 3 stories that involve my exes making jack asses of themselves.

I’ve dragged my feet at getting the post up, but mainly because I was trying to come up with good stories to share.  You’re in luck, kids, I finally have the stories!!

Sleeping In The Wet Spot

My college boyfriend, Smalltown Boy, is now a professor at our alma mater.  I’m sure he would be more than delighted to know that I am sharing this story with you and the rest of the free world.  One night in the fall semester of our Senior year, Smalltown Boy and his roommates decided to throw a huge party-which they pretty much did every single weekend.  On this particular night, Smalltown Boy got butt wasted.  So wasted that I had to take him up to bed early.  After some unsuccessful attempts at groping me, Smalltown Boy passed out with his hand down my pants.  I quietly cursed him, removed his hands from Vageena Davis, and rolled over to my side of the bed and fell asleep.

A few hours later, Smalltown Boy woke me from a dead sleep by crawling on top of me.  I thought that he was trying to start things up again, and promptly told him to get off of me and let me sleep.  “I want to sleep on your side of the bed.  I need the window,” he told me.  “Bastard is going to get sick,” I thought, so I let him roll over me to get to the window.  As I made my way to his side, I suddenly felt it: a giant wet spot.  “Did we secretly have sex in the middle of the night and I just don’t remember?” I asked myself.  Nope, the wet spot was way too big for that.

I think you know where this is going.  That’s right, he peed in the bed and he wanted me to sleep in it.  Look, I’ve heard about sleeping in the wet spot before, but there’s no f’ing way that I was going to sleep in someone’s pee.  I got up, got dressed, andwalked home (thankfully, we lived on the same street about 3 houses apart).  The next day when he came to find me he looked awfully sheepish.  He pretended not to remember anything that had happened the night before.  Nice play, but I didn’t believe it for a second.

How to Make a Peen Turn Blue

In the two-some years that Un-boyfriend and I dated, we only went away on vacation one time.  One miserable time.  We took a week long trip to the beach.  I was so excited!!  In preparation for our trip, I went out and bought all sorts of accessories: gold circle coin condoms, flavored ones (not that I was going to stick them in my mouth), ribbed ones, and green ones.  As far as I was concerned, we were going to be spending the bulk of our time knocking boots.  Unfortunately, he seemed to have other plans…

The second we got to the hotel room, I started getting undressed, and he turned on the TV.  He completely ignored me for 2 hours because the NBA playoffs were on and he’s totally gay for the NBA.  No, really.   After 15 minutes of trying to “talk him” into turning off the TV, I ended up throwing a fit and then reading my book.

Blah, blah, boring details, it was finally time to hit it.  I chose the green condom for our first romp of the trip.  About 18 seconds into it (literally), he started saying, “Ouch, this hurts!”  Puzzled, I told him to shut up and keep going.  “NO!!  This really hurts!!  It feels like it’s ripping off my skin!!”  He climbed off the bed and went running into the bathroom with the green (glow in the dark) condom on his upstanding citizen.  We both cried: him like a baby and me from the hysterics I was in.

“It won’t come off!  I can’t get it off!  What did you give to me??”  I fell off the bed laughing.  “I’m losing sensation!  I think I might have to go to the hospital!”  More weeping from me as I got off the floor to try to help him.  He was buck naked in the bathroom, hunched over his Oscar Mayer weiner, trying to pull the condom from the tip.   The second I saw him standing in the bathroom trying to take the thing off, I lost it all over again.    “It’s not funny!  It’s turning blue!”  I swear I have never wept like that before.

Remember the Time We…

Mr. Big X and I loved going to New Orleans together.  The first time we went was about 6 months into the relationship: it was our Valentine’s gift to one another.  Bliss.  It was bliss.   Months later we broke up.  A year later, we got back together.  We were living in different cities at the time, and decided it would be romantic to meet up in New Orleans to rekindle the romance.  We booked the same hotel, and met at the airport.

The 2nd trip was just as great as the 1st one.  The hotel was beautiful, the food was delicious-as was the sex.  We spent the days walking around the French Quarter, and the evenings locked in our hotel room.  On our 4th night there, after a toss in the hay, we were laying in bed.    I was sure that I was laying in the arms that I would one day marry, and remember thinking that life couldn’t get any better than this.  “This reminds me so much of the last time we were here,” he said to me.  I asked him to expand.

Mr. Big X: Don’t you remember?  It was that night that we went to [insert restaurant night here].
Me: What restaurant?  I don’t remember that.
Mr. Big X: How can you not remember!!  We had that bottle of wine and that really funny waiter!
Me: Nope, no recollection.
Mr. Big X: The day we went to the aquarium?
Me: Um…no.
Mr. Big X: Come on!  You loved that place.  You had that martini with the candy in it.
Me: I’ve never had a martini with a candy in it.
Mr. Big X: Of course you have!
Me: No.  I have not.  I would remember if I had had one of those.  I think you’re confusing me with someone else.
Mr. Big X: NO!!  It was you!
Me: No, it was not.  Oh, and I hate to tell you, but I’ve never been to the aquarium here.
Mr. Big X: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah, I think I’d remember spending the day with a bunch of fish and then having some candy martini.
Mr. Big X:  I thought it was you…

For about an hour he tried to convince me that I was totally wrong.  Until it all came spilling out.  Such a gentlemen.  Mr. Big X had confused me with his last girlfriend.  Who he had just happened to also take to New Orleans.  And stayed with in the very same room.  Man, was it fun trying to see him dig himself out of that hole.  Such a wonder that it didn’t turn out…

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I’m not one for tagging, but I’m dying to know what Pistols would have to share with the world.  Do with this as you will.  Write about 7 whores a whoring, 3 embarrassing sex stories involving your friends, or 3 stories in which you illustrate how your exes were jack asses.  Or do something different.  Get all Nike up on it (ie: just do it).

Pistols, don’t say I never gave you anything.