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: The Shaking of the Bed

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!

Today is a friend of mine's birthday. Therefore, I shall tell you the most inappropriate story I think I can get away with. You see, when I was a sophomore in college, I roomed with said individual for a semester. We got along fairly well. We were friends, we kept to ourselves, we didn't annoy one another, and we had vastly different schedules.

Now, I'll preface this by telling reminding you, I jerked off a lot before I landed that sweet piece of redheaded Notre Dame undergraduate ass that I now call a wife. So, it's not like I'm casting the first stone here. I just jerked off when my room mates weren't in the room with me.

Anyway, in the room I shared with my friend, I had the bottom bunk, mostly because I had the room first and I'm somewhere around six four. With size fourteen shoes.

*ahem* Ladies. *tips cap*

Not to get off on too long and girthy of a tangent, I woke up one morning and something didn't seem right. Mostly because it seemed like the world was trembling. Not living in a fault zone, I wondered just what the fuck was happening when suddenly I realized that only the bed was shaking, and not the entire world.

And the mattress above me was the source of the shake.

My eyes grew wide as realization set in as to what was going on above me. I closed my eyes and willed myself to fall back asleep. However, try as I might, there was no return to dreamy happy land in the cards for me. So, I lay there during the entire event. At one point, someone next door opened a door, and my friend sat bolt upright in bed, because it sounded as if someone had opened our door. It was at that point that it was confirmed in my mind as to what was happening in the bed above.

Finally, he finished up, and only then did my mind allow me to fall back asleep. So, I slept fretfully for another hour until my alarm went off and away I went on my morning routine. My room mate was still in bed, now asleep.

The day passes and finally, it's the evening. I decide that I cannot keep this secret to myself anymore, so I head over to Scooter's room, where he and Young Bob are watching a movie.

"Guess what happened in my room this morning?" I said, only after hastily shutting the door behind me.

"What?" they both asked.

"I woke up, and the bed was shaking." I put a meaningful look into the last word. For a second, comprehension was lost on both of them. It was kind of cool because I could almost see the lightbulb turn on above their heads at the same time.

"Ooooooooooooooohhhhh!" they said in unison.

"Are you going to call him on it?" Young Bob asked me.

I shook my head. "I jerk off plenty. Just usually when he's not there."

Scooter thought that this was the mature thing to do. So, I dropped it, kind of put it out of my mind.

That is, until the next morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.

For a solid week, I woke up earlier than normal only to find the bed shaking. Toward the end of the week, it just became amusing. I tried not to giggle. I did think about kicking the mattress once and yelling out "hurry it up". I didn't, though. I'm classy like that.

And then, I never woke up to that again. It was all very odd.

Fast forward about a year. Young Bob is hanging out in Scooter's room again (it was a common place to convene in the evenings) and my friend slips into the room. And, for some reason, he's in full-on confession mode. So, he starts telling them about all of his masturbatory habits. How often, whom he thinks about, which hand he uses...pretty much everything. But then, here's the clincher: my friend then tells Young Bob and Scooter about how he's amazed that he's never been caught.

Young Bob and Scooter lose it. They just start laughing right there. I think they covered it by telling him "Good job, good job. That's a lot of work to not get caught."

But they knew. And, as soon as I came by after working in the computer labs, they needed to divulge this little tidbit of information to me, as well. We all had a hearty laugh over that. None of us admitted to my friend, however, that I woke up several mornings with the bed shaking and just never said anything to him.

The one thing that we still wonder about, though: where did he keep it after he was done and presumably messy?

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: 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!

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!

TMI Thursday: The Wearing of the White

Wow, Thursday already? Or again? Or whatever adverb you wanna slap in there? If it's Thursday, it must mean it's time for me to embarrass myself and those nearest and dearest to me. If I can get a few of you to mutter "My God, man, have you no shame?" along the way, then I'll consider that a successful foray into the soft underbelly and dark shadows of my memories.

In college, I seemed to have a propensity toward hanging out with two other friends at the same time. I've told you of some of the shit that my friends Will and Giles and I did together. Today, let's meet another couple of friends, Scooter and Young Bob. Scooter was a short little chap, and quite the dirty birdy, I might add. In those days, it was still difficult to download clips of *ahem* certain types of movies...off the internet. Scooter was my go-to guy. He had a stash of them. Sorority Pink 3 was my favorite.

Young Bob was a local kid (Will actually gave him the moniker 'Young Bob') with a true gift toward using the word fuck and girls with really, really huge cans. He is the one who likes all our pretty songs who introduced me to Clerks and the Askew-niverse that I used to hold near and dear to my heart before Kevin Smith's movies veered toward the unwatchable. He's also the coiner of the oft-uttered "Mother of fuck!".

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Renssalaer, IN is not the booming metropolis that you might imagine. Oh, sure, it has traffic lights--something noticeably absent in neighboring Newton county--and my beloved alma mater Saint Joseph's College and the Little Cousin Jasper Festival, but aside from the Wagon Wheel bar or Wal-Mart or late-night walks into the town past Dave Chesak's house, there isn't much to do.

Fortunately, a mere 45 minutes in either direction is Lafayette (to the south) or Merrillville/Schererville/Dyer (to the north), where wondrous things known as "book stores" and "malls" and "commerce" exist. Extra fortunately, Scooter owned a car. This meant that we could sally forth on the weekends for a few hours and spend our hard-earned coin look at things we wanted to buy but couldn't. A lot of times, we ended up to the south, in Lafayette and West Lafayette. Being that Purdue is in West Lafayette, there were all sorts of great little shops and stuff sitting next to the campus. We found some excellent used CD shops and a place where I was able to buy a Periodic Table of the Elements t-shirt (the radioactive ones glow in the dark!). Yes, I still own the shirt.

There was also a mall in Lafayette and, next to the mall, was a Barnes & Noble where a friend of mine (whom I had an overactive interest in, we'll say) worked, so we would venture out there from time to time, as well. Behind the mall, however, was a Toys R Us. And behind the Toys R Us was a sex shop.

As far as sex shops go, this was a particularly good one. The guy who worked there recognized us...which is probably where this story should end, but I'll forge ahead. This is the place where I learned that blow-up dolls come in various sizes according to how much weight they can support. I learned about double-headed dildos, browsed through movies wherein every particular fetish one could ever imagine was sated, and I learned a valuable lesson about anal beads: don't yank them like you're starting a lawn mower. Not a first hand experience, mind, but a bit of wisdom that I'll pass along to you all.

The best part about this particular sex shop was the movie booths. Pay a single crisp, green one dollar bill and get access to a booth with a tv running countless channels worth of porn. Much like the movies in the main part of the store, every size, shape, taste, whim, fetish and desire could be found glowing from the small square in the wall. Being pervs, all three, we fed our dollars into the machines and went our separate ways.

I should interject here that, at the time of this story, I had a serious crush on a lovely girl from the South Side of Chicago named Jenny. She had beautiful brown eyes, short, silky brown hair and awesome legs. We had done a few shows together, she liked the same sorts of music and I did, and we just meshed really well. I think there was a time when she liked me, as well, but I was too much of a chickenshit pussy to pull the trigger, and so my love for Jenny went forever unrequited. *insert dramatic sigh here*

Okay, back to the porn.

Beneath the box of glowing sex on the wall were two buttons. You could use these buttons to either scroll forward or back to find the movie that you so desired to watch for however long the dollar bought you. I cruised through the channels, unimpressed by what I saw, until the station lit upon a beautiful, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl. What she was doing (blow job) and what she was wearing (nothing) mattered very little. The thing that mattered most was that here was my Jenny.

"Holy shit!" I bellowed.

"What?" "What?" answered Scooter and Young Bob.

"Come see. Come see this right the fuck now."

Both of my friends burst into the porn booth. Simultaneously, they both uttered, "Holy shit! It's Jenny!"

"You're in love with a porn star!" Young Bob said.

All three of us stood there, awestruck, by this girl. Maybe it wasn't my Jenny, but this girl was more than a mere facsimile. If this wasn't Jenny, then it was her doppelganger. Enraptured, I pulled up the chair provided in the booth and sat down...

...and immediately felt something wet.

"What the fuck?" I said absently, looking down.

"It's called a boner. You get those when you see the girl you're madly in love with being impaled on some guy's dick." Young Bob had a way with words.

"No, what the fuck did I just sit in?" I queried.

"Holy fuck! You just sat in some guy's spooge!" Scooter cried.

It was true. There, across my left ass cheek and down the back of my left leg was a streak of man juice. It was undeniable. I was scarred. It was like I was wearing my own scarlet letter, except it was white. And it wasn't a letter. So, really it was just like I was wearing a giant jizz stain.

Fortunately, my dollar ran out. I never got to see what happened to my Jenny (or her lookalike), but I'm pretty sure I can guess (money shot). Instead, I stood, horrified, as the masculine jelly cooled and congealed upon my shorts.

"Fuck! Now what?" I asked.

"You're not getting back into my car with those on. I have upholstery!" Scooter announced.

"Let's get the fuck out of here and I can figure it out from there," I said, and so we left in short order. On the way out, the guy behind the counter said, "Now, you boys know it's only one to a booth." Then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like, and uttered just above a whisper, "But since we're buds, I'll let it slide this time." Great. Thanks, chief; you have a heart of pure gold.

We get outside and my only recourse is to remove the soiled pants before I get back in the car. Normally, we always saved the sex shop for last, so we didn't have to rearrange our plans due to my sudden wardrobe malfunction nor did I have to traipse around anywhere with a giant jizz stain on my shorts.

In the car, we're underway, and we hop on the interstate to cruise on back home. It's night, so it's not like anyone can see me hanging out in the back of some other dude's car in just my boxers. However, as we're cruising along, the musky odor of whomever's spuzz I'm carrying on my pants is filling up the interior of the car. I had hoped I could go home and wash the shorts and everything would be cool, since they were my favorite shorts and all. As the odor grew stronger and stronger, I knew there was only one course of action.

"Scoot, roll down the window."

"What? Why?"

"These shorts stink like cum, and I don't want them anymore."

"Fuck. You're going to get me arrested."

"It's night. No one will see."

"He's right," Young Bob added, "That shit's beginning to stink. We have to get rid of it."

So, Young Bob rolled down his window. And I waited for my opportunity. As we crossed the bridge over the mighty Wabash river, I bid my shorts one final good-bye, and chucked them. Softly humming taps, I watched as they disappeared into the darkness, a single flash of green being the only sign that they had ever been there. A second later, and the ordeal was over.

"Now, roll that fucking window back up. It's cold back here and my sack's shrinking."

And that was when I learned yet another valuable life lesson, courtesy of the sex shop: never, ever, NEVER, sit down on one of the chairs in the porn booth. Ever.



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: Blinded by the White

As a little follow up to the Colin Firth story from last week. Apparently, not only do I boast Horstian distance with my meat howitzer, but I also have impeccable aim. My wife had been borrowing a bunch of books from her friend, and as she read them, she put them on the floor on her side of the bed...right next to and all around the now-defiled Colin Firth mag. While I might have splattered spuzz all over Mr. Darcy, I managed to not hit any of her friend's books. Too bad she wasn't borrowing some Robert Jordan books, because then I could have fired one off into the Eye of the World.

That was a little nerd humor...heavy on the nerd and light on the humor.

Speaking of firing one off into the eye(s), my new favorite commenter, Snowelf, last week gave a warning that, whilst desperately avoiding pregnancy doing my Catholic duty, I needed to be careful not to get any in my wife's eyes. Cause it burns. She's just sayin'.

Which brings us to this week's TMI Thursday story.

I had a love/hate relationship with my penis in Junior High and on into High School. I loved that it gave me the freedom to call the world my urinal. I loved that it could be used to sign my autograph on the snow. However, I hated that it would sometimes decide to stand at attention during films in science class while I idly thought about Jane Smith sitting in front of me and how nice she smelled.

I also hated that it made me think naughty, impure thoughts about various female classmates of mine, and that I would inevitably do what any thirteen-year-old boy does when confronted with a bucket full of lust and a raging hard erection. Back in those days, I was much more fearful of God's wrath than I am now. I used to keep a journal between the mattresses (you know, where most red-blood American kids kept their pilfered Playboys from dad's stock) wherein I would make mention of the fact that I had given in to the sin of lust. Not only would I do that, but I would name the young lady I had fantasized about and then I wrote long passages begging this girl's forgiveness over wanting to bed her. I would apologize profusely about the acts I had done while alone in my room and thinking about the land of milk and honey between her thighs.

Yeah, I was borderline zealot. It's kind of creepy to recall, actually.

This whole hatred of my own personal lustful nature meant that I would hold out for as long as I possibly could before I finally gave in to my desires and cooled the raging fires the hormones had stoked in my loins. This would, of course, lead me to write out another blubbery epistle wherein I begged forgiveness for all the sins of the flesh I had just committed.

Naturally, I never showed these to anyone. My first summer home from college, I collected the five or so notebooks I had filled with my own self-loathing apologies and burned them. Ah, catharsis, you smell of summer, kerosene and ashes.

Now, since I was about the age of four, I had a friend who lived up the street from me who happened to be blonde-haired, blue-eyed and pretty much effing gorgeous. In the eighth grade, all the guys at Salamonie Junior High wanted her. Badly. Now, being that I was friends with her, I tried not to lust after her 24/7 like my friends all did (11/5 was good enough for me). I'm just that kind of guy: if we're friends, I'm not going to want to bang you all the time, just some of the time. Classy, that's me.

Let's call her Jamie, because that was her name.

Did I also mention that Jamie had a perfect body? And was on the track team? Oh, and tanned like Italian leather?

One day, Jamie wore a skirt to school. She had the most perfect legs--you know, because she was a runner--that day, and as I watched her walking across the street to get on the bus, something stirred deep within me. When she sat in the seat next to me, the something turned from a stirring and formed into a smoldering ember of lust and desire. As the day wore on and I stared at her legs in my mind's eyes throughout all my classes, the ember turned into a full-fledged inferno. When I got home, I was burning, and there was only one release.

I went upstairs, closed my door, eased down my pants and took matters into my own hands, the whole time thinking of Jamie's gorgeous legs and body. It had been weeks since I had done this before, and finally, blissfully, I exploded.

When I say exploded, I mean detonated.

Now, some men point straight out. Some curl up like a bratwurst. Me, I stand at an angle. I prefer to think of it like a guard holding a spear, but it's probably more like a Nazi salute. What this does is point my penis straight at my face while sitting in certain positions.

And thusly, when I erupted, I hit myself in the forehead.

In the first few seconds after finishing, I sat there with my ears ringing, my breath quickened, and my heart racing, and my mind saying "Holy fuckshit, you just fired one off and smacked yourself in the forehead with it!" Essentially, I was dazed. I didn't act quick enough, and the massive glob of goo ran down my forehead and into my eyes.

And that shit burnt like a motherfucker.

So, when Snowelf warns that you don't want to get it in your eyes, she might just be sayin', but I'm telling you, should you find yourself in this situation, either duck or have a towel at the ready. And close your eyes while you wipe.

Experience is a powerful teacher.


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: One Firth the Money

About three months ago, there was a crew here in merry olde Durham town filming a movie. It's a movie called Main Street. I frankly don't know a damned thing about Main Street, other than the movie stars or will star Orlando Bloom, Amber Tamblyn and Colin Firth. You probably know them better as Legolas, Joan of Arcadia and the dude who inexplicably had a thing for Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones Diary.

Colin Firth got that part due in large part to his portrayal of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the BBC version of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. My wife is a big fan of the book and of the BBC version. As my wife put it in our dating days, "He's just so...dreamy." She's since tried to make it appear like she's cooled toward him, but I've always known that there was still that lingering dreaminess in his demeanor that caught her eye.

So, it was of no great surprise the other night when my wife brought home a copy of the Durham magazine. See, we have a magazine here that is supposed highlight the culture and class of Durham so that we're known for a little more than just Annie Savoy and Cameron Crazies. The thing about this particular Durham magazine is that Colin Firth is on the cover. Oh, dreamy.

Now, before my wife had gone to Indiana for a week to visit her parents, she had been sick for a week, I had been sick for a week, we had her family visiting us for my daughter's First Communion, we had been preparing for said First Communion, and our work schedules had pretty much prevented any intimacy from happening.

The night before she was due to depart for the wilds of north central Indiana, we were spooning and, well, one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, there we were, in the midst of a passionate embrace. Being that it had been about six weeks since I had last sallied forth, I had the stamina of a thirteen-year-old. After a handful of pumps, it was time. Since I'm too fucking lazy to go to the doctor and get vasectomized a good little Catholic boy, I withdrew and fired off like a howitzer shelling the German lines.

Do you know who Horst Schultz is? Don't ask me why I know this, but he holds the world record for the "Greatest Distance Achieved for a Jet of Semen" at 18 feet, 9 inches. Now, I'm not saying that I came close to Herr Schultz's record, however I apparently did explode rather impressively. It might not have been Horstian in achievement, but it was at least a good 6 or 7 feet away that my seed landed. After cleanup, my lovely wife and I then continued on with our bedroom gymnastics, cuddled up and fell asleep.

The next morning, my wife was rolling out of bed when she looked down at her side of the bed and groaned downheartedly. "What?" I asked.

"You got...stuff...on my Colin Firth magazine!"

Yep, that's right. I gave Mr. Darcy a money shot.


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!