TMI Thursday: A Touching Story

One day, sometime around my freshman year in high school, while digging around through a box of books that my dad had stored in what we called the "back room", I found this non-descript story about baseball. I thumbed through it, and, not having anything better to read, I decided to read it. The story itself wasn't terribly intriguing; the book was not very well-written. It had a definite Bad News Bears vibe to it: some middle-aged guy, going through a mid-life crisis, decides to coach his son's baseball team or some bullshit like that. The guy who sponsors the team doesn't come through with the money, mostly because he's an old cocksucker, until they reach the (insert shocked face gasp here) championship game, which they, predictably, win.

Like I said, nothing too interesting. Except, the dad, who is having some trouble at home, meets one of the other kid's moms, who is, apparently, quite the milf. He tries to play it off all cool, but he's totally staring at her tits the whole time he's talking to her. Inevitably, he has to take something over to the other kids house, and the mom, who happens to be a smoking hot divorcee, invites him in and then they fuck.

If the book wasn't particularly memorable and terribly well-written, why do I remember it so well? For one, the Milf reminded me of a girl I had a crush on at the time (you know, minus the whole "middle aged single mother" thing). She had blonde hair and blue eyes and--shocker--so did the girl I was crushing on. So, Milfy Divorcee Mom who kept getting naked in the book and doing all sorts of sexual things to the Coach held my attention between her mysteriously still-pert breasts.

The second reason that I remember the book so well is because it was the first time I had ever encountered sex in the written form. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. In fact, I remember dog-earing the first time when they bone because it was sexual in great detail, including Milfy Blonde taking her clothes off and desperately pulling at Coach's zipper until she got his cock out and started sucking it.

I'm 99% sure that the author of the book was a guy.

I'm also 99% sure that this dude never coached a youth team in his life. At least, not one in North Carolina. *glower* Not that I'm bitter or anything...

I dog-eared the page because, sometimes, when I was feeling randy (and, apparently, like writing out my guilt in my Guilt Journal), I would open that page and read the passage and, inevitably, I'd get rock hard. I'd set the book aside, and go to town on myself.

Now, despite the fact that I have my hands down the front of my pants nearly 24/7, I've only ever been caught beating off twice, and one of those didn't really count. I remember, it was a particularly hot summer, and the air conditioning in my hundred year old house didn't work too well upstairs. Neither my brother or I (we shared a room) could sleep. My brother went downstairs to enjoy the cooler air; I turned the fan on myself and suffered. Eventually, I decided that I should rub one out, hoping that the rush of endorphins and such would make me sleepy. So, I turned on my light, read through the passage where the Coach banged his Milf friend, turned the light off and began the deed.

A couple of seconds later, I hear something moving in the room. I look over, and there's my brother. Thankfully, it was dark; I could only see the outline of his form looming near the doorway. He comes over to the bed; I have a sheet pulled up over my rigidity.


"Dude, the Reds got into a huge fight with the Pirates tonight," he reported. "It was massive, all over the field. You want to come see the highlights?"

Well, I do want to cum... I thought. "Nah, I'll catch them in the morning."

"Okay," he whispered back. He then turned and left.

Relieved, I returned to the task at hand (heh) and finished. I fell asleep and rose refreshed in the morning. And, he was right: that brawl was massive.

The second time, or the true time, I once again turned to my faithful tome and read through my favorite passages. I wish I had some idea as to the title of the book, or the author, or the names of any of the characters. Anyway, fully aroused, I pulled down my pants and began going at it, hoping like hell that I would finish ere one of my family members came up the stairs. Besides, I thought, I could hear them on the steps. It was an old house and most of the steps creaked.

"Having fun?" my brother asked, and, mortified, I looked over at him standing in the doorway. Stammering for something to say, I pulled my pants up and panicked. It had been just a few months earlier that this dude, Danny LaFollette, had been caught jacking off in the bathrooms at school. It had ruined what little social life he had. And this other guy, Donny Rousch, had done the same thing a week later. And his social life had fallen further. Oh dear God, what if my brother told everyone at school?

I'll never know. My brother told no one. It never got out that I had been pounding putz that fateful Saturday evening. He could have told any number of people, and yet he didn't.

And that's when I knew that blood was truly thicker than semen water.

TMI Thursday: Phone Sex Phail

I'm not sure how much of an honor it will be, but I would like to dedicate today's post to Bev, because it's her birthday. Can you go wish her many happy returns on the day? I'll be busy taking my clothes off and baking myself in a cake and then mailing it all to New Hampshire. Thanks.

Even though Lilu has taken the constraining leashes off which day TMIs should be told, I've decided to follow through with my somewhat traditionalist predilections and keep it up on Thursdays. I mean, Jesus, I went to Notre Dame--clinging tenaciously to tradition is what we do!

Anyway, we're going to have another story today about the Ex-. You might remember that we were doing some long-distance shit for a while, so we would be forced to have a lot of phone sex and net sex while we were apart.

And if you haven't read those previous entries I've highlighted and linked, then perhaps I would do well to tell you that a lot of our phone sex adventures took place at the bookstore where I worked between college and grad school. The book store had a toll free number that you could call from anywhere in the country, and so she would dial me up after the store closed and we would chat while I was counting down the drawers. If all the other employees had gone and if neither the owner nor his wife were in the store, the conversations would get spicy. Fast.

Here's a slight sampling of a seamless segue between normal, how-was-your-day conversation to phone-sex lead in.

Me: Ah, excellent. All the money's accounted for and only a dime off. Well done, I says. Well done, indeed.

The Ex-: Good, because I've had my fingers in my cunt for the past five minutes.

We were just that awesome. And, yes, that was her favored euphemism for vagina.

[As an aside, I've used the word 'vagina' in a blogpost again; I wonder how many followers I'll lose today!]

This particular night was much the same; work was done, drawers were counted, genitalia were being rubbed.

We were going through our normal routine: me telling her how badly I wanted to be inside her whilst furiously pounding away at myself, she fingering herself and moaning into the phone that she wanted more, more, more. It was the midnight hour, after all.

Finally, I heard her gasping and moaning and a few strokes later I was exploding all over my hand and pants. Phone sex was most excellently accomplished once more. And, as with most sexual encounters late at night, we felt good and relaxed. Yawning soon commenced.

But that night, once was not enough for me. And so we chatted some more for about fifteen minutes when I started in with her again. And she was playing along, too. So, there I am, sitting at my desk, furiously massaging myself while telling her that I wanted to bend her over the side of the bed and come at her from behind. She's moaning and sighing and everything else, as well, telling me how badly she wants it, but she's a lot more quiet than the first time.

I don't care. I'm polishing my wood at my seat until, finally, with a raw, triumphant, carnal roar I ejaculate once more. Panting, breathless, I fall back into the seat, my eyes closed, a warm glow washing over me. I decide to tell her how great that was, how much I loved her, how badly I wished it had been her rather than my hand.

Me: Oh, wow, honey. That was...that was...phenomenal. *heavy breathing*

Ex-: *silence*

Me: Yeah...*panting*...I'm breathless, too.

Ex-: *more silence*

Me: Oh, God, I wish I could go for a third, but my cock feels pretty empty.

Ex-: *not a fucking word*

Me: *suspicious* Ex-? Honey? Darling?

Ex-: *gives me the Bob treatment*

Me: Ex-? Are you there? Hello? EX-!

But my words, like silent raindrops, fell and echoed in the wells of silence.

Confused, a bit hurt, I hung up the phone. I went over to the safe, spun the knob randomly (I did this every night as a "safety precaution"), cleaned myself up and turned out the lights. I made sure everything was locked and out the door I went. I sped home. At that point, I was more awake than asleep and so I ended up staying up playing around on the computer. As I was the youngest manager on the totem pole, I got stuck working every weekend, so I had the next day off. I think it was a Thursday.

I stayed up late with AIM on, hoping that my wonderful and sexalicious fiancee would be on the other end of the chat program. Unfortunately, she wasn't. So, I dicked around, and finally crumbled into bed. I woke up the next morning, ate my lunch, and hopped on the computer.

She was on.

So I sent her a message.

Me: Hey, what happened last night?

Ex-: I'm so embarrassed. I was so tired after the first couple of orgasms that I just sort of...fell asleep.

*sigh*

Nothing kicks you in the ego like your girlfriend admitting that she fell asleep during sex with you...even if it was just the phone sex.

TMI Thursday: Car Jacking

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Yesterday, I told you of the girl I dated briefly my senior year of college, Carrie Nation. I call her that because she was a violent teetotaler. Which is understandable. She had a friend in high school die in a drunk driving accident. Well, actually, there was a drunk driving accident, and her friend drove by it. He was rubber necking and the road was icy and then her friend, while not paying attention to the road, ended up in a ditch and was killed from the accident. So, it's not really understandable at all.

This was at a point in my life (my senior year in college) where I would make trips to Illinois with a $20 bill in my pocket and swoop down into Scotchman's East and Scotchman's West liquor stores. Therein, I would promptly buy up all of their 32 ounce Old Milwaukee beers. 32 ounces of beer for $1.09? I'm sold. I would come home with cases of the shit. Will dubbed me "Beer Tsar".

So, here I am, freshly broken up with the Ex- (again), when Carrie Nation "befriends" me. And by that, I mean that she invited me to see one of the on campus movies with her. See, we were sort of friends before. The previous semester, I had met Carrie Nation because some friends of mine had invited me to come and watch a movie with them. The movie was in Carrie Nation's room. When I knocked on her door, I saw a little picture of Sports Voldemort hanging on the door. Someone yelled "come in" from the interior of the room and I swung the door open, struck a dramatic pose, and asked "are you a Packers fan?" Carrie Nation said she was. Jokingly, I said, "Oh, I think I'm in love."

Apparently, this was enough to convey to her that I was proper dating material. So, the fall semester of my senior year, she invited me to come and watch a movie with her and the rest of her friends. I ended up sitting next to her and we watched...Scream, I think? You can see how memorable our time was together. Anyway, during the movie, I sort of held her hand a little. A couple of nights later, she shows up at my room and asks me if I liked her. The only thing it was missing what a "circle yes or no" on a note. It was so junior high. I circled yes, and we started dating that night.

The great thing about that night? I was watching some nature documentary on bugs, because there wasn't shit else on and because I have a strange fascination with Praying Mantises. So, Carrie Nation shows up and we talk until after visitation hours are over (visitation hours were until 11 pm on week nights...remember, Catholic college). She was all worried about getting caught after visitation hours were over, despite the fact that I was friends with all of my RAs. I mean, hell, the RA on my floor was Sweet Mic Mancuso, the most melodic voiced RA in history--there was no way she was getting in trouble.

Anyway, we ended up talking until midnight and I finally was like, "Well, I'm going to bed. You can stay if you want--I don't want to throw you out or anything. You can even have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch." It ended up, she slept on the couch, I in my bed, and at 6:00 am, when I had to get up and get ready for class, I escorted her out of the building. Fortunately, she lived in Halas hall, which was next door (and named for former Chicago Bears owner, George Halas) to Gallagher, so her Walk of Shame wasn't so terrible.

This went on for about six weeks. She'd come over, we'd chat or watch a movie, she'd invariably end up staying the night, and then walk home in the morning. Ah, the luxuriant life of a senior with a single room. The plus side of all this was that I kept my room clean and smelling good. I mean, I made my bed nearly every day--and I was in college!. Shit, you'd only make your bed if you were getting a visit from your parents.

I digress. So, there we are, Carry Nation and the Beer Tsar. And, you know, something had to give at some point. Now, at this point in my life, I watched NASCAR. I was quite the fan. Carry Nation? Not so much. She detested NASCAR, and for all the right reasons--there were cars who were sponsored by beer companies. I do not lie when I tell you this.

And so...on that fateful night when Sam was stinking up my joint, Carrie Nation came over to watch the football game for our normal Monday night affair. Except, there was a replay of the NASCAR race being shown on ESPN2, so I would flip over during the time outs on the football game to see what I could of the race (despite already knowing who had won). This infuriated Carrie Nation. She stole the remote from me and shoved it down her shirt. So, I did what came natural--I went after it. This infuriated her more. She made a reference to how nice Sports Voldemort's butt looked in his tight football pants (as luck would have it, the Packers were playing that night). I made a reference to wanting to bang one of her friends. Something else happened, and I sat on the bed, and then sat in the hallway (the door was open). This really cheesed her.

Needless to say, she didn't stay the night that night.

The next night, she had to work until 10:00 pm at Wal-Mart across the street, so I didn't see her. The night after that, she got off work early, so I told her to come by the computer lab and we could hang out. I worked in the computer lab as a lab monitor. It was awesome. I always signed up for the less popular lab, so all I would have to do is sit there, do my homework, and occasionally restock the printer with paper or--on particularly tough nights--I'd have to put a new toner cartridge in. And all of this for a sweet $6.00 an hour, which really helped fuel the Beer Tsar trips--literally and figuratively.

Anyway, Carrie Nation comes shuffling in, says high in a clipped, curt fashion, and sits down two rows away to check her email. I'm quiet while I'm sitting there, reading about the nervous system in vertebrates (I was working on filling out my biology minor and was taking Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy...which was one of my favorite classes of all time). She gets up, and I thought she was coming over to see me, and I look up and say "Did you know that you shrink an inch during the day because the disks between your vertebrae compress while you're walking upright?"

I've always had a knack for knowing what to say to a woman to turn her on...

She kind of gives me a look and says, "That's fascinating." She then throws a folded up piece of paper at me. "That's for you." I stare at it for a second, without opening it, and I look back up at her.

"You're kidding, right?" I asked. "You're breaking up with me? And worse, you're breaking up with me in a note? What the fuck, is this Junior High school?"

She didn't respond and, instead, shuffled out of the lab and, out of my life. In response to the note (which was, indeed, a break up note), I wrote a very long, and very carefully constructed email in which I told her that I wanted to talk to with her and we could sort this out and that I really didn't want to break it off with her and blahblahblahblahblah. She didn't respond. Two days later, I had moved on. On the third day, after I had said something about dating someone else to one of my friends during dinner, she must have overheard me. She stood outside of the cafeteria and lit into me when I was finished (she usually sat at the next table over from ours during meals) about how I didn't want to work things out after all and some other such shit. I countered that I had written a long letter to her, extolling her virtues and the greatness of our relationship, but when she hadn't written back, I got over it. Fast. I suggested she should, too.

And, that was pretty much the end of the story of Carrie Nation...or is it?

I graduated the following spring. The following fall, for Homecoming, I arrived with a cooler full of beer that I was planning on drinking with my buds still at St. Joe, Will and Giles. At this point, I'm well over Carrie Nation. I'm back with the Ex-, and we finally decided we loved each other more than cheese, and that we should get married. I had asked her over the summer, and oh we were happy together. Spinning around in a circle holding hands with flowers falling from the sky and cheesy montage music playing in the background happy. Is that a flugelhorn I hear?

So, for Homecoming, I'm celebrating the fact that I've got a job, a fiancee, and a future. I had already been accepted to two different graduate programs, and I was waiting for word from two others, so this book store bullshit job wasn't going to last forever. It's time to drink.

When Homecoming hit that year, it was time for the baseball playoffs. The Cubs, by all manner of miracles, had actually won the wild card in the central and were playing the Braves. And badly. This led to a series of events that are cloudy in my mind, but involved me and some Freshman girl sitting on the couch in my friend Derek's room watching one of the final games of the Cubs series. Since I had a shit ton of beer at my disposal, I was pretty well toastified. I kept giving her beers, too, because, hell, I could. Plus, she was cute. Ish.

Sadly, I don't remember her name, but I do remember that she wore an orange shirt. Briefly.

As things progressed, we got more and more toastified. Apparently, this was a girl who "got hot" when she got drunk, and as we were sitting there, she took her shirt off. And then her pants. And then she put her hand on my knee. And suddenly, I found myself at a moral crossroads.

I had been engaged for a couple of months by this point, to a woman I truly and genuinely loved. Here was a cute...ish...drunk college chick taking her clothes off and making amorous advances toward me. Did I want to? Fuck yeah. Did I want to NOT cheat on my fiancee? Fuck yeah. So, I carefully explained the situation to this young lady and kindly excused myself and ended up back in Will's room. Or Giles'. Or someones. Fuck, I don't remember. I just know it wasn't her room.

Anyway, I spent the whole weekend pretty much in a drunken stupor. But, after having a young woman essentially give me a private strip dance, I was on a slow burn. Come Monday morning, I gathered up whatever soldiers had not fallen over the weekend, packed them into my car, and prepared to drive back across the lonely expanse of North Centeral Indiana so that I could get to work by 2:00 that afternoon. When I describe it as lonely, I do truly mean that. It was corn and soy bean fields as far as the eye could see, dotted occasionally with tiny towns that no one's ever really heard of--Royal Center, Lucerne, Twelve Mile (which was fourteen miles from Logansport), just to name three.

As I was pulling out of campus, I saw the girl who had stripped for me a couple of nights earlier. I waved, because I'm chivalrous like that. I then pull out onto US-231 south and head down to turn onto Indiana-16 east and head for home. The stretch between US-231 and Monon, IN on 16 was one of the most desolately boring and lonely places on the face of the earth. And I was horny after having had a private show and then seeing her again on my way out.

So, I pulled it out. While I was driving. The glorious things about roads in North Central Indiana is that they are fucking arrow straight, and the alignment in my car had recently been fixed, so I could get away with not really paying attention to the road. All I had to do was make sure I didn't hit any deer. So, there I was, in the throes of autoerotic ecstasy, thinking about this young lady who had shown me the Holy of Holies just two nights before. Finally, I finish myself off as I pull up to a stop light. There's another car at the stoplight, which turns and heads west on Indiana-16.

It's Carrie Nation, coming back to campus after finishing her student teaching assignment that morning.

So, I honked my horn and waved at her with my cum-streaked hand, a big smile on my face. She looked over as she was turning, saw me, screwed her face up into a scowl (moreso than normal) and sped off into the west.

I cleaned myself up with a handkerchief, laughed triumphantly, and continued on down the lonely road, wondering where I could find a good cup of coffee.

TMI Thursday: Me and Mr. Wodka Don't Hang around Where We're Not Wanted

Let's head back in time to that magical era I called my sophomore year of college. It was early spring of 1996, and for some reason, I had not been involved in the theatre production that had just wrapped up. I think it had something to do with my work schedule.

Despite having missed the show, I was invited to one of the cast parties because I was a regular. Being that I felt like throwing caution to the wind and actually having a little fun, I decided to head on down to the party. Accompanying me was the other two legs of my Unholy Triangle, Scooter and Young Bob. You might remember them from the infamous "White Chair Incident". And Young Bob was the camera operator for Sparkle Belly. Rub my nipples.

We finally roll into the shindig there on second Justin West, and immediately I grab a beer and start drinking. What fun is college with alcohol-fueled shenanigans? Alright, alright, it can be fun without the booze, I know. But, seriously, I'm not one to pass up free booze. This could be downfall, as we'll soon see.

Foreshadowing aside, I down the first beer rather quickly. Not feeling anything, I get a second. Again, it's gone painfully fast. Time for a third. What the hell is this I'm drinking? Water? Oh, Miller Lite. Same fucking thing. But, it's college. I give myself a pass. Plus, hello, free beer = good beer. Not always true, but in college, it's a 90% win rate.

When it comes time for my kids to go to college, I'm going to teach them a few rules. The first one will be "Liquor before beer, in the clear; beer before liquor, sicker quicker." This is a talk I wish my father had had with me, but since my mother threatened me with bodily harm if I even so much as touched alcohol in college, I left for Rensselaer, IN with a wide, innocent-eyed view of my future. You have to remember that in high school, I was a much different person than I am now. Alcohol? Me? Never!

Back to the party. Not only did I head off to this party with my good friends Scooter and Young Bob, I also arrived with a healthy lust for a Croatian honey that we'll call Amy. We'll call her Amy because she's in the army now and I'm pretty sure she could kill me with a look if I used her real name. So, Amy it is!

Anyway, Amy was this beautiful first-generation Croatian girl that I had been sprouting wood for since we both arrived at St. Joe in fall of 1994. As I was in one of the "off again" periods with the Ex-, I felt that anything and everything was fair game. Did I ever mention that I have a thing for Slavic people? They are a beautiful race of individuals, in my opinion. Amy had dark hair, gorgeous, big, round brown eyes, and a singing voice that would make the gods themselves weep. Plus, she had big tits.

Amy showed up at the party, but didn't stay long. She came in, got a drink, and mingled for a moment or two and then left. I had waded about four or five beers deep into the Sea of Debauchery when I saw Amy show up. I sauntered over to the bar, struck up a feeble attempt at conversation, and then asked what she was drinking. It was a college party, so it wasn't like I was going to go all captain smooth here and try to buy her a drink. She was having a screwdriver, medium vodka.

'Fuck,' I thought--though hazy my mind may have been--'if she can handle a medium vodka screwdriver, I can handle a heavy vodka screwdriver.'

"Can I get one, too?" I asked the lovely Mandy, who was manning the bar and hosting the party. "Heavy on the vodka."

I'm pretty sure that the lovely Mandy upended the bottle of vodka into my cup and whispered the words "orange juice" over the top of it. When this young woman made a drink heavy on the vodka, the stock price of Smirnoff shot through the roof. Like an idiot, I drank it.

Up to this point, I was largely a vodka virgin. I knew what it was, that it made an excellent drink, and that it largely had no flavor. I also knew that it was a bit tricksy when it came to you feeling drunk. You drink it, and then you don't feel all that drunk. However, suddenly--WHAM-O!--you're fucking blotto and quoting lines from Crime and Punishment. What? I love me some Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov.

So, here I am, stumbling mingling about the party with my half-consumed bucket of vodka and I'm not feeling drunk. In hindsight, I'm acting drunk, but not feeling it. Case in point. Remember, I came to the party with Scooter and Young Bob. Now, Young Bob was not one to drink. He didn't like the flavor of alcohol and he was one of those who enjoyed staying sober and laughing at the stupid antics of us drunk motherfuckers. Scooter was a bit more of a casual drinker. He got a drink, nursed it through most of the night, and usually left a party feeling buzzed but not drunk.

Me? I'm Barney Gumble.

Early on, we had met this cat named Robert. He was a friend of the lovely Mandy's (host of the party), and Scooter was chatting him up all night long. Robert was pretty cool. I came over and asked them, "Hey, how you guys doing?" and Scooter responds with "We're good. We're talking about comics." I think he was trying to lure me into the conversation, maybe to play wingman. I dunno. Things have gotten a little hazy at this point.

I stare at Scooter and Robert with a very serious look on my face. "Awesome," I say, "Comics RULE!" *insert requisite fist pump to accentuate the word 'RULE'*

Having finished the screwdriver, I decided I wasn't nearly drunk enough. So, I head back up to the bar. Now my friend Kurt is manning the bar.

"What can I do you for, my good man?" Kurt asked.

"I think I need something to drink. I'm not nearly drunk enough," I respond.

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"I think we're getting there." I say. I put my arm around a talking zebra that I befriended somewhere between the second and third shot and we stagger away from the bar.

(In case you couldn't tell, there was no zebra.)

I find Young Bob.

"You're drunk," Young Bob says. He has a mastery of the obvious.

"Yesh," I slur. At this moment, It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) by R.E.M. is queued into the stereo.

"Oh my God," I say, wide-eyed. "Thish ish the besht shong! I know all the wordsh." I try to sing along, muttering and mumbling everything except for Leonard Bernstein (naturally).

Young Bob shakes his head. "Bitch, you couldn't do that sober. You're just embarrassing yourself, drunky."

"I got 'em all," I insist. "I jusht shang too fasht for you to hear."

What happened after this, I'm unsure. However, I know that Amy the Croatian Honey had left the party. At this point, I'm drunk AND horny. I start hitting on something close by. Now, when I say I'm drunk, I mean really fucking drunk. People, I started hitting on one of the Stankus girls. Swear to anything and everything I know that's holy, Stankus was their last name. I'm pretty sure Stankus is Latin for "disease-ridden sulfurous pit". Yes, I'm referring to that particular pit.

Finally, I end up out in the hallway. It's well past midnight, but it's before quiet hours (which started at 2 am), and I'm beginning to feel the copious amounts of vodka that are now coursing through my veins. As the Bolshevik Revolution was playing out in my liver, I felt the need to escape the pounding music and the close quarters. The hallway was a great place to do this.

Young Bob accompanied me. We were standing there, talking. Well, he was talking, I was slurring shit together into incohesive incoherency. There was a lull in the conversation, and as the Russian army continued pounding through my vasculature, my stomach suddenly turned into the Romanovs. They needed to get out of the country, and they needed to get out NOW!

Being that I'm a polite drunk, I simply walk away from Young Bob. He turns to tell me something, and I'm gone. I'm down the hall. A trashcan is in my sites. I walk over to it, stare at it, and then I fountain into it. And by fountain, I mean a raging torrent of alcohol-tinged vomit comes rushing out of my piehole, splattering noisily against the back of the trashcan, and landing in the bottom. I can identify dinner. I think I can identify lunch. It was brown. It was chunky. I remember it tasted like pasta sauce and vodka. The flavor clings to my palate to this day.

Not all of it went into the trash can. When I puke this violently, it comes out my nose, too, and so there was some left-overs on my upper lip. I needed help. I looked up. The only person around me was my nemesis: Vanzetti. Yes, he was related to that Vanzetti. For some reason, we strongly disliked each other.

But, I was desperate.

"Oh my God, Vanzetti, could you get me some paper towels?" I asked in my most pathetic voice. Vanzetti's girlfriend at the time lived on the same floor as the party, and he had walked down the hall to use the bathroom. I saw him as he was headed into the toilets. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, carrying some paper towels. I thanked him, wiped up, and proceeded to puke some more.

I heard Young Bob at the end of the hallway ask Vanzetti, "Is he throwing up." Later, Young Bob related to me that Vanzetti paused and then said with a look of horror on his face: "Oh. God. Yes."

Having emptied my stomach of everything, I was feeling better, but still drunk. I return to standing in the hall with Young Bob. The world is spinning. It's almost 2 am.

"We should get going," Young Bob says. I think he's more worried about the fact that I just puked up my internal organs than it being late.

"Just a sec," I said. I stopped the Stankus girl in the hallway. "315 Gallagher. It's almost 2 am. Come by before they lock the doors."

Young Bob and I wander back across the quad. Together, we mount the stairs to the third floor. All is silent. I pour myself into my room and strip because, hey, there's a Stankus on her way, right? I'm still powerfully drunk. I lay down in just a pair of red Indiana shorts. Sleep claims me immediately.

If there was a knock at the door, I'll never know. However, I do know that the fucking fire alarm went off at 3:15 am. And there I was, wearing only a pair of Indiana shorts that are indecently too short. I pull myself from the alcohol-fueled reveries and fall down the three flights of stairs to the safety of the outside. It is fucking freezing outside. I am wearing just a short pair of shorts. I am still drunk.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, we are allowed back in. I am cold. I am drunk. I am so cold and drunk, I cannot sleep. Finally, after an hour, I fall asleep. The next morning, I woke up sick. And hungover. And with a healthy distaste for vodka.


If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

TMI Thursday: Sparkle Belly

NOTE: I thought I set this up to post at 9:15 am this morning, but apparently I didn't change the time, so it was set to post at 9:15 PM. Since I typed the whole thing out AND since I still wanted to wish Will a happy birthday, I went ahead and let it post, but it's too late to tie into Lilu's TMI Thursday. As such, I'll be pushing the Latin lesson back a few hours. Enjoy.

I will give you a little bit of a warning here: this isn't my usual brand of TMI Thursday fare. You see, yesterday, while I was beseeching you all for your pity (and entertaining myself with pictures of nurses)...I mean...beseeching you all for your pity for my sick children *shifty-eyed*, I failed to remind everyone that it was Big Willy's 32nd birthday. You might remember Big Willy from such birthday shout outs as this one.

So, I'm going to tell you a story that took place featuring Will. While it has a definite lack of bodily fluids, I does feature me naked and on film.

That caught your attention, didn't it?

While a senior roaming the hallowed halls of Saint Joseph's College, I lived in a single room on the first floor of Gallagher Hall. It was the "healthy living floor", which is hilarious considering I lived there. Some of the other perks of living on Gallagher first were Kody Hooker puking on your window nightly, a lovely view of the coal-fueled power plant, and all the watermelons you could smash. The other perk was that next door lived my good friend, Will.

As my days of being a Puma were winding down, my friend, Young Bob, faced a dilemma. You met Young Bob briefly here. Anyway, Young Bob was a Communications major, and in one of his classes, he was given a song and told to comprise a video to go along with it. Unfortunately, Young Bob is a bit like me: morbid and sarcastic with an eye toward the symbolic. The song was in-your-face-chip-chip-chipper-sugar-rush-sweet-and-happy. This was not going to be an easy task for him. The most footage he had was of a puppy chasing itself around a yard and a Wal-Mart greeter waving to him from the front of the store.

This is where I came in.

Young Bob knocked on my door with camera in hand. "I need help with this. I need you to...do...something...anything. It just has to be...fun."

"Like, bottle of chloroform and a black van fun?" I asked.

"Uh, no. More like something I can use for my video fun."

"Oh, right. Video evidence of the other would be dangerous." I thought for a second. "It is getting kind of late, though."

"I'll buy you Steak 'n' Shake."

"Deal. But, I can't do this alone."

So, I pounded on Will's door. Half-drunk on Russian history, I ripped him from his room, threw him into my car, tucked away thousands of dollars worth of expensive camera equipment, and we were off. Where? We didn't have a fucking clue, but we were off.

Forty-five minutes later, we were in Lafayette, IN. Our first stop was a sprawling Meijer store wherein resided a purple dinosaur kiddy ride that, I knew from a previous late-night trip, would support my frame. Digging through my pockets, I found a handful of pennies that I fed into the machine (it was one $0.01 per ride! Can you believe it?) and began lurching up and down, back and forth upon the back of this prehistoric mechanical bull.

And then I started to sing.

(to the tune of "Help me, Rhonda" by the Beach Boys):

Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!
Yeah! *clap*
Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!

It was at this point that a surly old woman, freshly escaped from some retirement home, shambled up to us and growled "What are you doing?"

"Humpin' the dino. What does it look like?" I responded, the ride still bucking feebly under me, the camera still rolling. "Mind you, I paid good money for this ride, and I intend to enjoy it."

"Not you," she uttered, a fog of smoke and halitosis belching from her maw. She pointed a gnarled finger toward Young Bob and his camera. Her nails had the sheen, texture and color of unpolished granite. "Him. What are you doing?"

"This is for a school project," Young Bob returned.

"You can't film in here," she shot back. A moth flew from her disheveled and misshapen coif.

"Seems like a good waste of perfectly free advertising," I stated. "Not to mention, all the money you're making off this sweet ride."

"Get out," she hacked, spittle flying over her lips. A froth formed at the edges of her mouth, and suddenly I wondered if she had had all her shots prior to escape.

Because Jesus hates a conflict, the dinosaur ground to a feeble halt, and I swear I heard it sigh audibly as I clambered down from the saddle. I patted it on the snout. "That'll do, Pig," I projected just loud enough. "You, too, dinosaur." A look of unbridled fury was shot to me by her sickly yellow eyes; I doubt she picked up on the literary reference.

Undaunted, we pushed forth toward the summit of Caradhras. Because civic planners drip with genius, a Wal-Mart hove into view as we left the doors of Meijer. A few quick moments later, and we were there. A quick tour of the facility showed there were no dinosaurs to hump ride, but there were unattended lawn tractors. Digging around in my trunk, I found a wide-brimmed straw hat that I stole from the costume shop after filming a western-themed TV show earlier in the semester. Plopping it on my head--and Will with his John Deere hat (or maybe it was Caterpillar...I don't recall)--Will and I sat on two lawn tractors and pantomimed driving and riding. We did this for a good fifteen minutes while Young Bob went about getting different angles and such for the shot.

As it was late, not much was open. We soon found ourselves in downtown Lafayette (such as it is), where the Tippecanoe County courthouse stands. Also, there is a cannon on the lawn of the Tippecanoe County courthouse. For some reason, Will and I thought it would be fun to spend ten minutes chasing each other around the cannon, giggling like school boys...all while being filmed. Finally, since Young Bob was not saying "Okay, that's enough!", I ran around to the fuse end of the cannon and straddled it. Sure enough, seconds later, Young Bob told us he had enough footage, and we could continue on.

Back in the car, we drove around for a while, unable to locate anywhere else to wreak havoc. I decided that, since we were in Lafayette anyway, I should do a psycho drive-by of an old girlfriend. Will, in a moment of inspiration, stripped off his shirt, and folded it around his head into an Instant Ninja Mask. I say inspired because my old girlfriend happened to live on the same street as a bunch of the Purdue frats...who were, of course, busy doing frat stuff. So, Will, bedecked in his Instant Ninja Mask, hung out of the car window and screamed "Behold, Infidels, the Gleaming Sword of Islam!" We were greeted with the typical drunken "Woo! Islam!" from the frats. Awesome.

After having soiled some memorial cannon and successfully stalking girlfriends of day gone by, we returned to St. Joe, but Young Bob still had half a tape of film that needed to be recorded. Trying to come up with some inspiration, Will and I both sat on my two-seater couch, arms folded, seeking something that would spark a creative bit of genius in us. What happened then was a good fifteen minutes of me cocking my head one way, and Will doing in the same, so that the two of us looked like our heads were connected by the same string.

Finally, unamused by that span of my life I'll never retrieve, I said, "We could do something with the grill."

This is where things went...weird.

Young Bob said, "Whatever you want." So, for some reason, I took off my clothes. And then I put on the same straw hat that I wore earlier for the lawnmower scenes. Decency got the better of me, and I wrapped a towel around my waist. Not to be undone, Will also stripped and wrapped a towel around his waist. Instead of a dopey straw hat, he put Instant Ninja Mask back on. Having nothing else at our disposal, Will grabbed a Wisconsin hat and we plopped that on the grill.

Some of the alumni of Gallagher Hall had put together some donations and made a really nice patio area for all of us right outside the west entrance to the hall. There was a deck and a nice brick patio which had a gas grill set up on it. This was the scene of our little display as Will and I stood there, acting for all the world like we were grilling the aforementioned hat, both still wearing only towels.

That's when this guy named Eric Schneider showed up. Schneider was a good guy, lived above me somewhere, but was originally from Chicago. And on this particular night, he showed up drunk. After a quick explanation of what was going on, Schneider started giving us directions like he was the director. Only thing was, he acted like he was directing porn.

"Will! Will, I need to see both nipples," he started. "Okay, good. Good good good. Now, I need a look of despair! LOOK OF DESPAIR! That's the money. Now, give me Sparkle Belly! Yes, yes, that's right. Sparkle Belly." And then Schneider started to sing.

"Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly."
Of course, being the professionals and veterans of the stage that we were, we followed our directions perfectly. This went on for a few minutes. And then, the coup de grace: Schneider yelled, "And now, run off into the night!"

So, Will and I turned (still wearing only towels) and took off running into the night. We went about fifty yards, and then we heard "Now dive, DIVE!" So we did. In only towels. That didn't stay on so well.

Picking ourselves up, laughing until our sides hurt, and reaffixing the towels, we returned and Schneider and Young Bob gave us slow claps. "Excellent job! Well done." Schneider praised us. And then Young Bob: "The perfect thing was that, as you guys took off running and then dove, the tape ran out."

"Then, I guess this means we're done, right?" I asked.

"Yes," Young Bob confirmed.

"Alright. I'm going to go put some underwear on," I said.

"Jesus, dude, I didn't know you were naked under there," Schneider said. "I wouldn't have had you dive like that."

"It's alright. It was my choice," I offered.

"Whatever. I would have had you rip the towels off first and then go tearing off into the night."

So, there you go. There's the tale of my time spent on the camera naked. Like I said, it's not the usual sort of bodily-function-saturated Thursday post that you've come to love, but it did feature nipple rubbing. Young Bob offered to digitize the video and send it to me (he still has a copy, naturally dubbed "Sparkle Belly", which he watches from time to time for nostalgia and comedy's sake), but since I didn't ask Will, and I didn't feel comfortable slapping his nipples on the internet without his permission, you got the verbal story.

TMI Thursday: It Tastes Like...Victory!

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

When I was in grad school, my chemist buddies and I tended to hang out with the physics guys a lot. It made some sort of sense, really, since the physics department was in the building adjacent to the chemistry building. In fact, our library was in their building, so we'd see them a lot in the halls.

It was this passing in the hallways that got us invited to their parties. And you know what? This is going to be counter-intuitive, but the physics guys threw some good parties. I guess they had to. If there's one department in the graduate school that has a worse male:female ratio than chemistry, it's physics. I know, shocking, huh? Anyway, in order to lower that male:female ratio, the physics guys would invite pretty much every warm-blooded, breathing female they could find to their parties. And then they'd ply everyone with alcohol. So, yes, physics is exactly like a douchebag frat. And they would have parties all the fucking time! I guess when your life revolves around numbers and Greek letters, all you have to look forward to is the sweet relief that booze offers.

This particular story takes place at a physics party.

There was this cat named Doran who was a physics grad student at the same time I was there for chemistry. Doran was older, with a real stocky, husky build and salt-and-pepper hair that trended more toward salt than pepper. Rumor had it that he had once been a physics teacher for a high school, but he got fired or retired or something. The details were a little fuzzy, but he was at ND to get a higher degree so that he could teach college or something.

More than anything in the world, I think Doran just wanted a friend. Well, and he wanted to get laid. Doran had this dating policy that we called "Flood the Market." He would ask out every female he met. And his pick up lines, while not extraordinarily lame, were pretty white bread: "Hi, my name is Doran. Would you like to go out Friday night." I guess it worked because he eventually got someone to say yes. How that panned out, I'll never know.

Anyway, Doran would also wander around the student center, asking everyone at a table if they'd like some company for lunch. And finally some poor sap would agree and Doran would sit down and chat this guy up like they were the oldest buddies. It was odd, and slightly creepy, and somewhat desperate, but he seemed happy. Except for that whole not getting laid part, which is pretty much how I knew him throughout most of my ND experience.

So, anyway, we're at a physics party, and there's Doran over in the corner, looking as shady as ever. The apartment wasn't exceedingly large, and there was one bathroom near the kitchen/laundry room that pretty much everyone used. So, I was standing there chatting with the ringleader of the physics parties, this guy named Hoop. We were discussing something male-oriented--Tia Carrere admitting in an interview to Maxim that she was hairless from the neckline down--when Doran passed by to use the bathroom.

I know you're having your doubts, but the events of that five minutes are pretty much indelibly chiseled across my memory for eternity. Plus, at the time, I thought Tia Carrere was pretty hot.

Anyway, Doran finishes up in the restroom, comes out, nods to us, picks up his half-finished beer and heads back to whatever corner he had crawled from in order to Flood the Market some more. That's when this other guy, whose name was Mark, walked into the restroom.

"Ah, Jesus!" Mark yelled. "Who pissed all over the floor?"

Hoop and I knew exactly who had been in there. Hoop (the owner of the apartment and the host of the party) called Doran on it immediately.

"Doran, you asshole, you pissed all over the floor!" Hoop yells.

"No, I didn't!" Doran exclaims.

"Look, there's piss all over the floor. It wasn't there a minute ago, and you're the only one who has been in there! You pissed all over my floor!"

"That's not piss. It's probably from where I washed my hands!" Doran saunters back across the apartment, steps into the bathroom, and looks down at the puddle on the floor beside the toilet.

That's when he set his beer on the vanity and knelt down on one knee as if he was about to propose to the toilet. He dipped a finger in the puddle...and then he tasted it.

...

Still with me?

"Yep! That's piss, alright!" Doran exclaimed. He got back up, picked up his beer, went and got a handful of paper towels, and cleaned it up. He flushed and was back in the corner.

The whole time, I stood there with a look of Oh my fucking God, he just tasted pissed off the floor written on my face, as did Hoop and Mark. And pretty much everyone else in the apartment.

And then it dawned on me.

I turned to Hoop and said, "In order for him to know that that was piss--"

"He would have to have tasted piss before!" Hoop finished my thought.

Then we shared an audible shudder.

"Jesus," I said, "Let's hope his next trick isn't to drop a turd on the ground."

"Regardless," Hoop offered, "I think this is the last party I invite Doran to."

As far as I know, it was.

TMI Thursday: I Can Feel It, Coming in the Air at Night. Oh No.

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Did you see how long that shit yesterday was? Heh. I say that to my wife nearly every day. She still hasn't cracked a smile.

Anyway, that was a long post that took me several days to compose. Sorry that there were a few typos. By the time I was finished, my frontal lobe felt like grape jelly and my eyes were threatening to turn themselves inside out. But, hey, a few of you felt nice, and that was the idea.

Since yesterday's post was so long, I decided I'll give you a short one today. Sorry. I suck, I know. But it's still plenty juicy.

Despite my girthy girthiness, I do eat, from time to time, something other than cake and bacon. In fact, one of my favorite treats of all time is those dried apricot things. Jesus, I love them. I think most of the charm is that they have the size and consistency akin to a small child's ear. They're chewy and sweet and--dammit, if the kids weren't in bed while I'm writing this, I'd head on down to the store and get a box.

Here's another gory secret from my life: sometimes, there actually is trouble in paradise around the old Jenks Household. Sometimes, I get mad at my wife and we do things like raise our voices and stare daggers at one another and talk sarcastically in a tone mockingly imitative of the other. It's true. The ugly side of paradise.

Being as how I'm not one of the wife-beatin' types (despite living in North Carolina, you know, the Fun Carolina), I have to exact my revenge in certain different ways.

This is where the apricots come in.

Have you ever read the package? Do you see what they are preserved with? Sulfur dioxide. It's a nice little preservative; it keeps the apricots good and stale and elasticy, kind of like eating peach rubber bands. However, the true glory of the preservative is that it turns to hydrogen sulfide in your stomach. This gives a beautiful rotten eggs smell.

So, sometimes, when I'm mad at my wife, I'll go to the store and buy a package of the apricots, especially if I know she's going to be working that night. I'll come home and pound a few of them. Unfortunately, the effects usually don't happen the same night that I eat the apricots, so a couple of days after the fight, I'll finally settle in and be good and ripe. Those are the nights when I go to bed before she comes home, and I'll pull the covers up real tight around my body and keep still. I'll read a book or watch tv or something. All the while, I'm turning the atmosphere green beneath the covers. Not only that, but the foulness just sits down there and ferments. After a couple of hours, it's positively toxic.

Coincidentally, that's about the time she'll come home with a big smile on her face because she's so happy to see me and happy that we're no longer fighting. She'll bounce into the room, strip down, get her pajamas on, and then throw back the covers on the bed...only to be punched in the face with the smell of some infernal alchemical brew that will cause her eyes to water and her throat to seal shut so that it doesn't have to take that besmirched air into her body.

Click on the cartoon to make it bigger.
As she's standing there, retching and gagging, trying desperately to draw clean, fresh air into her lungs before she passes out, I'll look over, innocent as a child, and say, "How was your night, honey?"

Oh sure, I've delayed the make-up sex by a couple of days...but don't they always say revenge is a dish best served cold? Or two days later amidst a foul-smelling miasma of death and destruction? I thought so.

TMI Thursday: My First Time

In the seventh grade, I had two really good friends: Josh and Shannon. Shannon was Josh's cousin, and one night, Josh had both of us over for a sleepover. It was awesome. We played Nintendo. How fucking cool was that?

Josh's dad had an impressive collection of Playboys. Fortunately for Shannon and myself, they were stashed in Josh's closet. Brilliant move, Mr. Josh's Father. This meant that, while Josh was playing Nintendo, Shannon and I perused the glossy pages of airbrushed sex presented before us.

Eventually, we got around to the topic of masturbation, which was odd, considering we were in seventh grade and, well, talking about shit like that meant you were gay. And, as we were currently perusing Playboys, that meant we certainly weren't gay, right? Anyway, a couple of guys had been caught jerking off in the bathrooms at school (one guy was a repeat offender!), and we talked on this while idly flipping through the good parts of the magazines (the articles, of course). Suddenly, Shannon leaned over to me and, in a conspiratorial tone, said, "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I swear," I said, in the same tone. I think I suspected what was to come next.

"I've done it," Shannon said. "A lot."

Gasp and swoon! Well, I held onto the secret for...what...twenty years now? I learned a lot about Shannon that weekend that I probably didn't want to know (you know, kind of like you guys and Thursdays around here!), like how he had phone sex with my cousin Jamie, and how he would get boners when leaning back in his seat in Social Studies. One of the most uncomfortable moments of my life happened when he leaned back one day during class. A few minutes later he looked over at me and gave me a nod. I offered a half-nod back, and suddenly became very interested in South American geography.

As luck would have it, my father also had quite a collection of Playboys. I had smuggled a few into the house and horded them as my own. Despite several people I knew getting caught doing the act, and the secret confessions of a friend during a sleep over, I had yet to venture down that particular avenue, though I kept the magazines and would look at them somewhat often. Despite the fact that I would get raging hard looking at these pictures, I wouldn't seal the deal.

However, learning that Shannon did it softened my resolve (but not my raging hormonal staff) and, late one night when I was certain my brother was asleep, I tried it. Unsure of what to expect, it went something like this:

*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
Wait.
*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
Wait.
Give up.

A few weeks passed after this initial foray into autoerotic enjoyment. My parents went out for a dinner date with my dad's work, leaving me and my two siblings in the able care of my grandfather. This was the same grandfather who taught me that little boys like to pee outside. He was a lovable chap and I certainly enjoyed spending time with him, so I felt a little guilty when I decided that tonight was tonight.

We had a storage room upstairs that was well-away from everywhere else. My parents stored canned fruits and vegetables and various jams and jellies up there. Also, ceramic decorations for various holidays were stowed in that room. Lots of other crap had accumulated, and it was here that my brother and I kind of had a hidden fort. It was also about the only place in the house one could go for some alone time. Sometimes I would go there and read. Tonight, I slipped in there with my illicit booty pilfered from my father's collection.

I remember the Playmate, too--Charlotte Kemp. She was Miss December, 1982. I opened up to her pages and flipped through, finally opening up her centerfold and staring, enraptured, at her naked body. She was a curvy, luscious woman whose hair was tinged with red and she had immensely large breasts and a patch of untamed bush stretching from the middle of her torso to her knees, it seemed. She wore a corset that was temptingly unlaced, some white stockings that reached the middle of her thighs, and heels. I remember the heels keenly because her leg was cocked in such a way that it was not difficult to imagine one of the heels...entering her, for lack of a better term.

And, it drove me wild.

Anyway, as I stared, I started to rub. And rub. And rub. And then, suddenly, oh, hey, wow! I was done. There it sat, in the palm of my hand, the liquid fruits of my labor. It had felt...different...sort of good. Other than that, I don't remember feeling much else. But, I remembered thinking "What do I do with this now?"

Remember how I said the room wasn't used much? Right. I figured no one would notice if I wiped my hand off on the wall. So I did. Right there behind the door where someone would really have to look if they wanted to find it.

Finished, I pulled my pants up, waited a couple of minutes, and went down stairs and spent the rest of the evening with my grandfather. The guilt and anger and hatred didn't hit me until the next morning. That's when I started my Guilt Journal, as I've come to call it.

The stain, as far as I know, still remains. Since the room was little used except for storage, it was never repainted. And, with some of the mason jars being mishandled and breaking, there were lots of other stains on other parts of the wall. Whoever buys my parents house, however, will be getting quite a surprise if they decide to look behind the door. Heh heh heh.

As for Ms. Kemp...I kept the magazine for a few months, using her lovely images to complete my lustful yearnings until one day I was so overcome with guilt and grief that I threw her away along with a couple of the others I had kept. A few years later, I bought a copy of the December 1982 issue of Playboy for nostalgia's sake, but then gave it to my friend Alex when I got married. Still, Charlotte Kemp is one of my all-time favorite Playmates, even though she's looking a little weather-worn these days.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

TMI Thursday: Honest Scrap

So, last week, OtherWorldlyOne saddled awarded me with the Honest Scrap Award. She got the award from the lovely Rita. I'm not sure how it was passed down, but in my mind it was some hot girl-on-girl action and then at the end, Rita was like, "Here you go."

I don't care if that's not how it happened. That's how it happened in here. *taps temple*

I was thrilled for about five seconds and figured, hell, why not actually do one of these meme things. Cuts down on the creativity, right? Then I looked into what I needed to do, and holy fuck, it's a lot of work. First, I have to jump up and down without pants on, but I do that every night when I get home, so check. Then I have to list ten things that no one else knows about me, which is really kind of impossible, since at least someone knows this other shit, most likely because I brag about my many accomplishments and just how effing perfect I am. And there's the other things like saddle award this thing to ten other people blahblahblah take your top off.


And then I thought, oh, hells yeah, I can morph this into a TMI Thursday because I have a lot of little vignettes that wouldn't really make a great TMI post by themselves, but combined together, their power will be unstoppable! Kind of like Captain Planet, but a whole lot dirtier.

So, here is my contribution to both the world of the Honest Scrap Award and TMI Thursday. Holy shit, I'm a multitasker.

1.) In high school, I had a girlfriend who worked at Target. One night, I went through her line and bought a single jar of vaseline. She gives me a look, cocks one eyebrow, and asks in a real knowing fashion, "What is this for?" And I said, "Well, I figure I'm going to need a lot of this since I think things are over between us." We weren't having sex, but I couldn't pass up the chance to be a total dick, especially since I still chuckle at that memory when it floats to the surface. It's one of the bigger dick moves I've ever pulled in all my life...and one of the funniest.

That night I made good on my announcement. Twice.

2.) Speaking of Vaseline, that used to be my autoerotic lubricant of choice. Until one day I was laying in the bathtub and I looked down and saw some horrible carbunkle on the shaft of my penis. Immediately, I thought it was genital warts. I looked at my hand and said, "Who else have you been having sex with?" My hand was curiously quiet on the matter, which automatically means guilt. Whore. Then I figured out that it wasn't genital warts, but just a big nasty zit. On my dick! Fortunately, I was in the tub, so I could soak it until it was soft (the zit, not my dick...you'd be amazed at how unhard a dick can get when you realize it's afflicted with acne). I burst the zit, and then I found a second one, and burst it to.

The next day I switched to KY.


3.) On the suggestion of a friend, I once smoked a cigar while taking a shit. It was the most relaxing thing I've ever done. If I could get a blow job at the same time, I think I'd be in heaven. Curiously, I haven't found a woman willing to fulfill this ultimate fantasy.

4.) I once won a pissing contest. Not the kind the where you mark your territory. No, I was going for distance. And I had two witnesses. And it was in the bathroom at the bookstore where I worked.

5.) When I was a Freshman in college, I got shitfaced drunk. Okay, I did that a lot. The first time I got faced, I went running down to the bathroom to piss. I decided it was a long walk back to the urinals (all of five feet), so I whipped it out and pissed in one of the sinks. Two girls were standing in the bathroom, checking their make-up. I saw them watching me in the mirror, so I looked over and nodded at them. They smiled that sort of scared-yet-friendly smile you'd offer a homeless guy who is changing your flat tire for you. As I was finished and shaking the dew from my lily, I looked over and said: "So, you two getting laid tonight?" I left without getting a response.

To this day, I have no fucking clue who they were.

6.) Sometimes, when I crank out a particularly monstrous shit, I feel the need to share it with my fellow man. So, I won't flush. If it's one of those where one of the turdlogs is sticking up above the waterline, I will go to another stall to finish the clean up. I do not want my artwork sullied by the paper. When this happens, I refer to it as "The Nessie."

7.) I know what semen tastes like. Yes, I got snowballed. No, I don't think I was number 37. I must say, I have a rather piquant flavor with an earthy aftertaste.

8.) Once, in high school, the insides of my right thigh hurt, so I thought I'd smear some Ben-Gay on it. At the time, I was a big fan of the Ben-Gay. In order to access the groin, I dropped trou. I applied the salve and thought, "Hey, my pants are down, I might as well piss." So, I grabbed my dick in the same hand that I used to apply the balm. It wasn't so bad until I decided it was time to wipe off and some of the medicine entered my urethra through my pee port.

Agony.

My first thought after that was, "Hey, if I rub one out, maybe when I cum, I'll force the burning medicine out." However, before I started, I rethought that decision and just let the medicine run its course. It's perhaps the wisest thing--aside from marrying my wife--that I've ever done.

And, yes, Scope told a very similar story to this. I've been sitting on it, though, because I didn't want to look like a copycat.

I've also foregone the use of Icy Hot/Ben-Gay/Whatever other Salicylic acid product there is on the market since that day forth.

9.) I have pissed on Notre Dame Stadium. And while this might seem antithetical to my fandom, I must say I had a lot of beer at senior bar that night. I also pissed on Galvin Hall of Biology and on the bus stop out in front of Hesbergh Library--which you know better as Touchdown Jesus. How I managed to hold it all the way through D Parking Lot, I'll never know.

10.) After my daughter was born, we were going through that "no sex because your wife has just passed a newborn infant through her vagoo and it's tender and sore and trying to recover" stage. One morning, while I was getting ready to go into the lab, I turned on CNN Headline News while I ate my breakfast. Robin Meade and her gigantic breasts were there to greet me. Being that I had a lot of pent up sexual rage and my wife was asleep, I decided that it would be a good time to start Flogging Molly. Things slowed down a little bit when Dr. Sanjay Gupta popped up on the screen, but fortunately Robin was back quickly so I could seal the deal. A little bit might have gotten in my cream of wheat. Being that I've already been through #7 above, I ate it anyway.

So, there you go. Whichever ten of you haven't won this award yet and managed to make it down here, congratulations. You get your very own Honest Scrap Award to disdain love.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!