TMI Thursday: In Which We Discover Why Shower Sex is Not an Option

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!

I'm a tall man. I'm about 6 foot 4, plus some change. Not quite six five, but more than six four. I also have size fourteen feet.

*ahem* Ladies. *tips cap*

Anyway, most women are not in the six four range. This makes that whole sex-while-standing thing kind of tough. Unless I want to cut a hole in her lower back and go to town, I'm going to have to resort to the horizontal mamba. And, really, I can safely say I have no sacroiliac-inspired fetishes.

Now, the Ex was a taller woman. She was just under 5 foot 8. She also had long legs. But, not necessarily long enough, but still, we were close.

One day, I was over at her house after another exciting shift at the bookstore. I went over to drink myself into yet another alcohol-infused state of denial that I had just wasted the previous four years getting that coveted bachelor's of science degree. Nothing says despair like working in a bookstore with a degree in chemistry after being turned down for five different jobs. *sigh*

As luck would have it, when I arrived she had just finished her daily running-five-miles-so-that-you-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-her-ass exercise routine. As she let me into the house, she told me to relax and get her a drink and we'd watch a movie and drink ourselves stupid...right after she got out of the shower.

So, she goes into her room and I hear the water running and I think "Hmmmm...I've never showered with someone before..." I pour the drinks, I get up, I go into the bedroom, and I strip down. I sneak into the bathroom where I pull the shower curtains back all Norman Bates style. Because nothing says "foreplay" like inspiring heart-stopping terror in the one you love.

Lucky for me (and her, I guess), she was in the middle of shaving her legs and her vagoo, BUT she was rinsing the blade when I did the Psycho trick, so there was no sudden jerking of the blade, no deep gashes in her flesh, no blood. That's a relief.

But, seeing her there, with her hair stacked up on top of her head, the water running down her body, glistening on her skin, her breasts full and shimmering, her long legs stretched out...it did something to me. And that something was that it caused me to be rock hard. Instantly.

"Are you coming in?" she asked. I had been standing there for a minute, gawking at her, watching as she stood naked, the water from the shower head pouring down over her body.

"Oh, yeah," I said, snapping from my reverie. I slipped into the shower, and she turned around. The water was hitting me on the shoulders, running down over my body, and she had her back (and ass) turned toward me.

"Hey, this works a little better," she said, putting more soap on to shave herself. "You're like a meat shield. I can shave up a lot better. You should come over whenever I need to shave."

Watching her was hot. My blood slowly boiled as her ass was pressed back into me, her arms moving as she shaved herself. I decided that, hell, I was in the shower, and when in Rome...so I started to soap myself up. I always forget just how damned nice a shower at the end of the day is, especially when you're trying to wash away the lingering scent of failure that pretty much permeated my existence back then.

I was pretty clean, and she was wrapping up shaving, so I decided to get a little sexy. I soaped my hands up and I reached around her, sliding my hands under her arms and up over her breasts. "Just trying to help you get clean," I offered, whispering in her ear. I worked my hands over her breasts, up under them, all around them. I felt her nipples get hard. She pushed back into me, so that I was nestled against her ass. When she moaned softly, I knew things had progressed nicely. She cocked her head to one side, I kissed her neck, nibbling down the smooth curve of her shoulder. I let one of my hands slide down her tummy until I got to her freshly shaved parts. She moaned louder as my fingers explored.

She pulled my hand away and bent over, taking me in her other hand and guiding me to her. There was a period of awkward adjustment where we tried to line our bodies up right, but it was tough, since I'm tall and she was almost tall enough, but not quite. I kept stabbing her in the ass, and she finally was like "You know, I really don't want to do that. But, I guess if we can't find another way."

Finally, though, after a few more minutes of adjustment, she had one foot up on the side of the tub and was up on the ball of her foot with the leg still on the floor of the shower. I bent my knees and finally, blissfully, I was able to slide into her. She was bent forward at a harsh, angle, too, bracing herself against the shower wall with a forearm so that she didn't smash her face into the tile. I had hold of her hips, one hand on each side of her round, wet ass, while I thrusted into her. Her other hand was massaging herself while I pounded away.

The sex, it was good.

That could have been the understatement of the decade right there.

The sex, it was incredible, see into the Creator's mind so that the design of all things is revealed, toe-curling, screaming like a Viking warrior good. The sex was sweetness on a platter with a side of stellar and a reduction made with awesome. The sex was like...okay, you get the point.

And it was getting hotter and heavier and louder. I'm grunting loud with with every thrust, she's begging for more, more, more, and I'm getting closer, closer, closer when I feel her clench around me and shudder and her breathing comes in a staccato burst of gasps and moans.

I've done it! I've taken her to the promised land! I am a Shower Sex God! This is how we will do things forever and ever again! I am Indefatigable MJenks, hear me roar.

And then her foot slipped.

And she crashed forward.

And her face smashed into the tiles.

And her nose started bleeding.

Profusely.

I mean, like, oh my God, I might need to call 911.

Of course, she had slipped off me, and my mind was torn between "rub this last little bit out" and "help her, you heartless cocksucker, she's bleeding to death".

I chose option number two. I actually picked her up, hero-style and set her down on the bathroom floor on the bathmats so she wouldn't get cold. I turn the shower off. She's bleeding profusely from the nose, and she's crying. And she's laughing.

And I run through the house, naked and wet, to the kitchen to get her some ice to put on her nose and to grab a phone and her bathrobe in case I need to call for help. I get back, and she's still bleeding, still crying, and still laughing. I get her a fresh washcloth for her nose, and then I make another washcloth and wrap the ice inside it to hold on her nose. Finally, after a few minutes and enough bloody towels and washclothes to make it look like a murder scene, the blood is stanched.

Pitifully, she looks up at me, dark circles around her beautiful green eyes. "Is it crooked?" she asked, taking the ice rag from her nose.

"No," I responded, "but it's pretty badly bruised."

There was a silence for a moment, and she looks back at me. "That was some good sex," she offered.

"It was," I agreed, trying not to think about how close I had been before tragedy struck and how I was still unfulfilled, yet flaccid.

"The ending? Not so fabulous," she said. Again, I concurred.

"I think we should strike shower sex from our repertoire," I said.

"Agreed," she said.

And that, my friends, is why I have stricken shower sex from the playbook.

TMI Thursday: Payback's a Bitch

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!

You might remember that story I told a couple of weeks ago prior to the TMI hiatus about how I dated a girl named Margaret once. Oh, what a wonderful night she and I had together which culminated in me nearly puking on her while swooping in for a kiss. Oh, what gay and glorious days were those!

The universe, it seems, has a grand sense of humor. It seems that things like nearly puking on your date the first time you're together kind of evens out over time. Yes, that's right. I have another story of puking and dating.

For this one, we go back to that magical year before I started grad school, but after I had graduated from St. Joe. The Ex- was still living near me, and one night I went over to her house after work so I could eat something, get drunk, and fuck her lights out.

She met me at the door, hair disheveled, glasses on, bathrobe wrapped around her body, and, to top it off, the tip of her nose was pink and she was holding a wadded up tissue. I could tell right then that my plans after "eat something, get drunk" were not going to go quite as swimmingly as I had expected.

"I'm sick," she groaned, her voice dropped an octave by the combination of a sore throat and sinuses packed full of mucus. As if I wouldn't believe her, she sniffed. Hard and loud. I could hear snot moving inside her pretty little skull while she inhaled. *snuck*

"You sounded alright over the phone when I called during my break," I offered weakly, hoping that this was some kind of ruse but knowing that it wasn't.

"I had a sduvvy node earlier," she offered, stepping back and letting me into her den of pestilence. Fuzzy slippers missing the backs completed her ensemble. Her microwave beeped as I entered, signaling that the hot water for her tea was ready (Brits, please overlook the breach of protocol here). "Afder I god off de phone wid you, id god worse."

We moved into the house and went to the kitchen. "I have dum eggs-dra soop, if you wand id," she said as I began to prepare to eat. "Id's really gud."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked her, ignoring her offer of sickness soup, pulling my dinner out of the bag. I lifted down a plate and set out my food while she made herself some tea.

"Feel sorry for me," she said, shuffling from the kitchen into the den, which also served as a dining room. I sat down on the couch and she sat next to me, sipping her tea and leaning against me. I turned on some basketball. She sipped her tea.

"You cood give me some fries," she offered pitifully. I let her pick at my food, figuring I was as good as infected. Though I wanted to run screaming from the hazy cloud of disease emanating from her body, I knew that that would be considered a dating faux pas in most circles. So, she sipped her tea and leaned against me and picked through my food with her disease-ridden fingers. Inside, I cried.

I finished up and sat back and let her lean into me fully. I slipped an arm around her. Now, I'm a man what appreciates his personal space, and sitting like this was a nuisance, to say the least, but she was sick and, well, I did want to have sex at some point in the future, so I figured if I sat there, cuddling her and her viruses, it would pay off. Eventually.

As we both sat there, watching whatever game was on (I think I remember it being North Carolina versus some sacrificial lamb...*sigh*), the future began to get rosier. Without prompting, she moved her hand over my jeans and unzipped them. She then apologized for being sick, and I told her not to worry about it. She then insisted that she needed to worry about it because we had plans and blah blah blah, I forget the rest because she pulled my dick out.

And, well, at that age, when dick is in sexy girl's hand, you get an insta-chub. I told her--half-heartedly, admittedly--that she didn't need to do that. It was okay. I'd survive. She insisted.

Well, one thing led to another and, after a brief handjob, she went down on me. Disease and all. But, you know what, I didn't fucking care at this point. I was in blissful, blow job heaven.

Things were progressing nicely when she decided to slip off of the couch and, despite the fact that she was sick, she dropped the bathrobe. She was naked underneath it. Oh dear me! This really was a ruse, wasn't it? Some kind of sexual game! I'm hip! I want to play, too! So, I take off my pants and now I'm naked from the waist down. She kneels on the floor in front of me and we resume.

Then she stops and turns her head. A funny look comes over her face for a second.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. She still grasped me with one hand.

"I'll be fine," she said and resumed. A few seconds later, she did it again, but as I was in the throes of pre-orgasm, I tried to ask if she was okay, but I only managed some garbled, gurgled, groaning noise. She made a coughing sound, but then turned back to finish me off. Which she did. It was grand and glorious. I glowed radiantly.

She glowed, sickly and greenly.

But then...apparently, when I fired off into the back of her throat...it triggered a chain reaction. One that could not be stopped.

There was no real warning. There was a gagging cough, and then there was a torrent of partially-digested chicken noodle soup, tea, french fries, and semen. It landed on the couch. Unfortunately, I was on the couch.

Being that I loved her, I didn't immediately jack her in the throat and ask what the fuck was wrong with her. In fact, I had this strange sort of mixture of pity, hysterical laughter, and "oh my God, she threw up on my dick." I tried to let the pity shine through, which was a difficult task, to say the least.

She started crying. "I'm doe dorry!" she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't know wad happened!"

"I think...it was probably a bit much for you...is all," I offered, cleaning myself up as best I could with the napkins from my dinner. I grabbed her robe and put it back around her, and then I hurried off to the bathroom for some towels to clean up. I race, because, the whole time I'm away, I keep thinking her goddamned dogs are going to eat that if I don't get it cleaned up quick enough, because, you know, they're dogs. Fortunately, I returned before the dogs had their dibs, and I cleaned up. She's still crying and apologizing.

After getting her calmed down, I took her back to her room and tucked her in her bed. Then I put on some clothes to wash because, guess who's pants got puked on! Mine! Hooray!!!

While the pants and towels were washing, I brought her some medicine and some more tea. Because I'm a sinner like that, I had spent the night at her house a few times and I had some spare undergarments, so I was able to pull on some drawers. She fell asleep. I watched more basketball and tried to clean the stains up from the couch and carpet. Eventually, the smell chased me from the room, so I took a shower to wash off the last vestiges of disease and puke, then I curled up next to her in the bed and spent the night.

Three days later, I got sick.

TMI Thursday: The Late Night Catch

Someone--I think it might have been Fancy Schmancy--asked a few weeks ago "how many semen stories do you have?" Um...I'm a guy. I produce the stuff. Chances are, I have a ton of them.

To that end, here's another.

When I graduated from undergrad, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I knew that I wanted to go to grad school, but I didn't go right away. I thought I'd do the mature thing and find a job and pay off some debt and get myself settled in before I went back to school. Sounds good, right? Well, me and my fancy new degree in chemistry couldn't find anything right away--there's a definite paucity of chemistry-oriented jobs in the greater Fort Wayne, IN area. And, every time I found one, someone with a MASTER'S degree would swoop in and secure it. Curse you, post-graduate education!

Running low on funds, feeling the pressure of just having gone through four years of rather expensive Catholic Education, and with creditors sniffing around my bushes like Jehovah's Witnesses, I went the desperate route: I found the first damned thing that would hire me.

This happened to be the now-defunct Little Professor Book Company on the south side of Fort Wayne. "South Side" sounds so menacing, but it was in an area filled with would-be affluent people--you know the kind who think they're wealthy and important. This, of course, led to many, many entertaining moments dealing with the snobs, like the woman who scoffed once and said, "What would you know about chemistry?"

Anyway, I spent the interim between graduation in 1998 and the start of classes at Notre Dame in 1999 working at Little Professor Book Company. Sometime during that winter, after Christmas so that things were mostly dead, the Ex- had moved to DC for her job. Because we would inevitably fuck like dogs in heat when we were around one another, we had to find ways to rid ourselves of unwanted bodily fluids. This meant that we had a lot--and I do mean a lot--of phone and cyber sex.

Through attrition, I had worked my way up the corporate ladder from lowly bookseller to assistant manager, which gave me free reign (in my mind) to constantly proclaim that there were "a bunch of savages in this town." It also gave me the chance to pretty much pick my hours, and I chose the night shift. Being the trustworthy and honest Boy Scout that I am (not to mention clean, reverent and all those other fucking traits the Boy Scouts follow), the owners had no problem with me counting the money, locking up the store, and shutting it down at night. This meant that, many a night, I was there, all alone.

Another fortuitous turn was that the store had a 1-800 number, accessible from anywhere in these United States of America. Remember, this was before VOiP was popular, so long distance calling could rack up the charges. This provided me with the excellent opportunity to have some phone sex with the Ex-, and then I could recover afterwards through idle conversation and then we could go again. Or, I'd go home and--since the drive was just long enough--dial into the internet, and we could have ourselves some lovely netsex.

While I was at the book store, I befriended this weird kid named Shane. I say "kid" because, like me, he was about as mature as an eight-year-old. Shane and I did a lot of stuff together...usually involving alcohol. He was the other assistant manager at the store, and when I wasn't working at night, he was.

So, here we are, back in January or February or something like that. I closed up the store, counted the money, took the call from the owners, and bid the last of the closing personnel good night. I locked the door, turned off the front lights, and picked up on line 2 where the Ex- was already going at herself hot and heavy. Instantly, I was aroused, so I unzipped and joined in the sharing of autoerotic pleasures.

Finished, I leaned back in the chair, looking down at my messy pants. I hadn't had time to properly find some paper towels or something to release into prior to joining in the fun, so I messed myself. Badly. It was everywhere. It looked like a boiled milk factory had exploded. I was in the cool-down stage and my dick had limped its way back inside my still unzipped pants when the back door suddenly banged open.

"Aha!" Shane screamed! "I caught you!"

Now, it was 200 feet from the office to the back door. When the door banged open, I sat up in the chair and looked through the window of the office to see what was going on. As luck would have it, my shirt fell over the creamy mess on my pants, hiding the evidence.

"Still on the phone, I see!" Shane said, busting into the office.

"Yeah, she called here after the store closed. Since I'm done and clocked out, I don't give two fucks what [the owners] think," I replied, willing my shirt to stay in place and to not have any unfortunate drips occur.

"You're a dirty, dirty man. I love it," Shane responded. It was at this point that I realized he'd already had a couple of Popov and Cranberries. Shane was a connoisseur of cheap vodkas.

"I do what I can to please," I said. The Ex- laughed.

"Well, mother fucker, you'd better say good night, because you and I have to go visit Matt." Matt--this, uh, other Matt--was the bartender at the bar behind the bookstore, a very common stopover for us after work. Or during work, if things were going swimmingly. "I need to go sign something out, and then we're drinking, buddy!"

Shane disappeared, and the Ex-, having heard everything, said, "Um...did he see anything?"

"No, I'm covered up," I responded, hastily zipping my pants and looking for a mop or a towel or anything to clean up with. Finally, I got some napkins from someone's dinner and wiped everything up, wrapped it up inside some other napkins, and tucked them into my sleeve. Shane returned.

"You ready, bitch! Hi, Ex-!" he shouted.

"Hey, Shane!" she shouted back. This was not an uncommon conversation while I was at the Little Professor Book Company. "You better go, honey. I'll talk to you later."

So, we proclaimed our undying love for one another, and then I hung up.

"Ready?" Shane asked, impatient like a puppy.

"Let me hit the head," I said. I went in, flushed my towels, washed my hands, and dabbed at my pants some more (I was wearing black pants). Satisfied that I was clean enough to appear in a dark, smoke-filled bar, I emerged from the bathroom. Without further ado, we walked over to the bar, where we proceeded to drink and to chat away with people.

At one point, I was talking to this girl who worked in the same shopping plaza as the book store. She looked down at my pants, and said, "Oh, what happened here?" She pointed. Aghast, I looked down, looked back up and said, "Shit. I sneezed earlier. I must have...gotten some on me. I'm so embarrassed." She laughed.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I've had that happen, too. I'll just look down and find out I've got some strange liquid on me."

Yes. Yes, I'm sure you have.

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!