Haven’t They Heard of Butt Plugs?

"Oh, this happens all the time. A lot of people don’t seem to realize that once an object moves past the sphincter, it’s almost impossible to remove without a visit to the ER."
-- TRIAGE NURSE


As you may or may not know (and I reckon you don’t) I volunteer in the emergency room of a hospital.

Just previous to my thrilling incarnation as a part-time volunteer, I had been warned that I would see some mega-weird shit traipsing its way into the ER. Ergo, I am pretty much unfazed by what I am confronted with.

But *ahem* I just have to ask…

… I mean, maybe someone out there can… um, educate me as to why…

:::gazes off into the distance:::

Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I? What was I talking about again?

Hmmm? Oh. Well. Of course. The ER. How clumsy of me to lose my train of thought.

Really, I just have a question. A tiny little pinprick of a question.

Why would a man want his girlfriend to shove a beer bottle up his ass during sexual hi jinks?

What moves a man to say — oh, I don’t know — something along the lines of “Gee, ‘Sally’, this sexual experience I’m sharing with you is simply the mostest. Say, know what would make it even peachier? Why don’t you shove that beer bottle up my ass.”

Is this part of the general public’s sexual repertoire, or an aberration? Forgive my ignorance, but my sporadic joke of a sex life is pretty much of the white-bread variety, if you catch my drift. Nothing supremely exotic, erotic, or particularly invasive ever happens to your’s truly.

Why would a straight man want a beer bottle up his ass?

Let’s presume for a second that the man did not specifically request an assault on his anus. Let’s imagine that, driven to the heights of passion, ‘Sally’ decides on her own that a beer bottle invading the rectum of her beloved would catapult the proceedings into a new realm of ecstasy and wonderment.

I’m not so sexually stupid that I don’t realize that alcohol has a hand in this… practice, for want of a better word.

But(t) how drunk do you have to be? I mean, I’ve been so drunk that I’ve barked at a neighbor’s dog and managed to convince my drunk friends that I was ‘communicating’ with the confused animal. I’ve been so drunk that I erroneously informed my former fiancé ‘Dan’ that I would marry him.

I’ve been close to black-out drunk, and got all sloppy and sentimental (according to my friends) and started sobbing when ELO’s Telephone Line came on the radio and it reminded me (I guess) of my childhood and all of the happy times I had torturing my baby sister. This was the party in which I locked myself into the bathroom for two hours, causing the other partygoers to pee in the bushes. And I don’t really remember it, because I was shit-faced.

However, I have never been so drunk that I’ve slammed a beer bottle into someone’s ass, or even thought about it for that matter.

Nor have I entertained that request. Ever. And people, as I’ve pointed out, most of the men who are around me are homosexual! You would think after all this time that at least one homosexual man would have asked me to put something in his ass, but(t) alas! It has not happened.

I’m beginning to think my gay friends aren’t attracted to me.

‘My First Boyfriend’ – The Preamble

When I was twenty years old, I went off to college.

I was painfully shy, and mortified at the prospect of meeting new people and trying to fit in. The first day of class, I slipped into a seat and concentrated on becoming invisible, something I excelled at.

It didn’t escape my notice that I had, in my haphazard way, picked a seat right in front of a gorgeous male classmate. I desperately hoped that he didn’t think I had chosen the seat because I wanted him to pay attention to me; that I was being flirtatious and in-his-face. I had simply plunked down at the first desk I came to, eager to hurry up and sit before I did something embarrassing.

God, I hope he doesn’t think I picked this seat because of him. I hope he doesn’t think I like him or anything. I only really saw him as I was sitting down. I’ll drop out of school if he doesn’t realize that.

Yeah, I was so self conscious that this is the way I thought.

Now, this was the 1980’s, and fashion was pretty much taking an atrocious turn. Think Olde-Tyme Madonna and Cyndi Lauper.

For reasons which now escape me, I didn’t dress like a shy girl. I guess the influence of the era’s fashionistas was so pervasive that not even a bashful chick who hated to be looked at could escape it.

I actually wore little hand-crocheted ankle socks paired with pumps… and jeans! And I apparently did this without feeling like a reject from the movie set of Valley Girls. I pulled my long hair in a ponytail on top of my head. Smack-dab on top of my head.

I did this on a regular basis back then.

I want to throw up just thinking about it.

The morning ritual preceding my inaugural appearance at college had moved me to include an additional flourish to my hairstyle. I had wrapped a multi-colored leg warmer around the base of my ponytail.

I dunno, I think I had seen Cyndi Lauper wear her hair like that in a video.

Before class, I had ducked into a rest room to pee, and was complimented on my ensemble by a nice fellow student. Looking back, I think she was sincere. All of my female classmates appeared to get their outfit cues from MTV, and in the time between high school and college I had strived to perfect the art of dressing for the status quo.

As I sat there in my seat and thought about the compliment, I began to feel more comfortable. I’m cool! I thought. I should wear my sunglasses at night.

And then I heard the incredulous whisper behind me.

“Oh. My. God. Are you wearing a sock in your hair?”

I could feel the blush creep up from underneath the thick rolled collar of my acrylic sweater and crawl up my neck. It rushed over my cheeks in a hot swarm, infusing the dead end of my scalp and tickling the roots of my tightly coiffed tresses.

I tried to concentrate on what the instructor was saying. Something about the book store, and what books were and weren’t needed for class. Something about tests.

“You’re wearing a sock in your hair.” There was a touch of awe in his whisper.

With elaborate care I opened one of my notebooks and focused my attention on the instructor’s half-assed chicken scratches written on the blackboard. I surreptitiously cast my eyes over the room to gauge the mood of my classmates. Were they aware of the drama unfolding in their midst? Blessedly, it appeared they did not.

Finally, the class ended.

With the clatter of books being flung into knapsacks and book bags, the sudden chatter of students temporarily released from the bonds of academia, and the rustle of people heading for the exit, I surmised that it was now safe to face my tormentor.

I turned to him and hissed “It’s a leg warmer!”

I slammed my things into my bag, adjusted my crocheted anklets, and scurried from the room. It’s hard to scurry in pumps but I managed just fine.

He caught up with me in the hall.

“I’m Jeff,” he said. “Are you mad at me? I was hoping we could be friends.”

And that was the beginning.

We had lunch together, and discovered that we had the same major and would be sharing the same classes.

Despite our inauspicious beginning, it was shaping up to be a beautiful friendship.

Our next class, he hastened to sit behind me. During the lecture, I felt a little nudge on my shoulder. It was a note from Jeff.

This was to be a pattern for the next few years, these in-class notes of Jeff's. Sometimes he was not sitting directly behind me, and would get classmates to pass the notes to me.

I would look down at the desk, and a little folded piece of paper would be lying there. I would stealthily open it, smiling, shielding it from the disinterested gaze of my fellow classmates. Now and then it would be penned in brightly colored ink, on other occasions rendered in the muted charcoal and light grays of pencil lead. It always contained the same thing.

A little drawing of a sock.

Momisms- part 1

I hear loud, exasperated sighs coming from the vicinity of my Mom’s computer, so I go to investigate.

ME: What’s wrong?

MOM [frantically clicking on the “send” button on her email account]: I’m trying to send an email! [clickclick!]… But the computer… I can’t…*sigh*[clickclick!] I just want to send an email!

ME: Well, let’s calm down here. Maybe the computer’s just slow—

MOM [verging on hysterics]: I’ve been trying for a while! [clickclick!] *sigh* I just want to send an email. WHY won’t it let me send an email?!?!

ME [looking at the screen]: Okay, where is the email you’re trying to send?

MOM: It’s not up there yet! I want to send one!

ME: Have you written it yet?

MOM [giving me an annoyed look]: That’s what I’m trying to do! I just want to send an email! It won’t let me! [clickclick!]

ME: Okay, first you have to compose an email. See the compose button? You click on that, you write an email, and then you send it.

MOM: Oh, okay!

ME: You can’t send an email that doesn’t exist.

Kula is an Exhibitionist!

If you have not visited StuffOnMyCat yet, you haven't lived.

Book Review

I have reviewed the latest soon-to-be-released offering by the startlingly prolific Nicholas Sparks.

Oh, you're welcome.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An Enduring and Undying Perpetual Love
by Nicholas Sparks

review by Jillian Staci
*note* spoiler alert!

The novel begins with Tacie Bradshaw sitting on a porch swing outside of a five-and-dime in Winston-Salem North Carolina, circa 2005. She is breathlessly anticipating the arrival of the “love of her life,” a man named Trey whom she has never seen in the flesh, but with whom she has shared a voluminous email and message board communication.

Through flashbacks, we learn that these two cyber-lovers “met on the net; an example of virtual-love at first keystroke” while visiting an off-color but amusing website, a place whose inception was inspired by a shared appreciation of the female breast, given the website’s largely male constituents.

Unbeknownst to her unseen suitor, Tacie has recently undergone a bungled double mastectomy by an alcoholic surgeon who (we glean from further flashbacks) fancied himself in love with Tacie when she was a teen, but who was cruelly rejected in favor of a brief fling with a young man from the wrong side of the tracks with “wonderfully shaped, muscular arms” and an “understanding of Nirvana, particularly Kurt Cobain, that left Tacie dizzy and weak with wonder.”

In their internet correspondence, Trey rhapsodizes about his fascination and attraction to the bounteous female chest, and how much he would relish “nuzzling and fondling the ripe, firm richness of the breasts lurking beneath the thin silk in Tacie’s [now outdated] profile photo.”

In her turn, Tacie sends him emails detailing her admiration of the male arm, “provocative curving biceps, your masculine forearms, evoking delights such as impromptu lifts into the stratosphere of our combined aura. Your strong limbs thrusting my limpid body heavenward, sturdy hands on my thighs and waist, fingers imprinting my flesh.”

All of this playful banter is interspersed with extensive declarations of love, meticulously discussed and analyzed, as the two plunge deeper and deeper under an amorous, albeit celibate spell.

As the story leisurely winds down, we are brought back to the present (and an apprehensive Tacie) nervously awaiting Trey’s arrival from the quaintly restored lighthouse he lives in on Hilton Head. Certain of horrified rejection, Tacie closes her eyes as a taxi stops at the five-and-dime, revealing a figure wearing a red and green golf hat (“I will wear a red and green golf hat. My darling! You will not fail to recognize me. Wear the silk shirt and no bra.”) sitting in the back seat.

As footsteps crunch towards her, Tacie’s eyes fly open, “unveiling the dusky violet of her beloved irises to Trey’s hungry gaze; everything about her and on her was beloved,” and she gives a cry of shock and pain as she spies Trey standing in front of her… armless and crestfallen.

Trey falls on his knees in front of Tacie and, taking her trembling hand between his chin and shoulder, tearfully recounts how he lost both arms in Desert Storm. He bleakly admits his fear of her (imagined) rejection and derision of him as an “armless freak” and goes on to confess that he painstakingly pecked out his messages on the computer via a pencil held between his teeth, “its base scarred with a profusion of bite marks, each one a small but valid testament to his love.”

Tacie joyfully reaffirms her everlasting love for Trey, triumphantly divulging her own secret by dramatically popping the two prosthetic breasts out of her sweater. She then embraces Trey, “who could only mutely hug her with his heart”. They sob together “in a moist synchronized ballet of weeping; crying tears both wet and healing, like a summer rain on the blithe upright daffodils rising limblessly from fertile loam surrounding Trey’s lighthouse, itself armless and unaware” and proceed to live happily ever after.

‘Oink’ If You Have Parasites

“STELLA!” screamed the worm dolefully. “STELLL LAAA!”


I once had a romantic relationship with a man that lasted for years. We even became engaged one night after I had downed two Long Island iced teas in a row at Red Lobster.

No sooner had I slammed the empty tumbler onto the table and daintily dabbed at my lips with my sleeve than I found myself vaguely listening to the unlikely words:
“I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Yeah, right! Okey dokey, big fella!” I answered in what he naively took as genuine acquiescence.

Astoundingly, the guy bought me an engagement ring the very next day. I felt honor bound to accept the diamond bedecked token seeing that it cost “a pretty penny” as he put it.

Much to my surprise, his parents considered me a good influence on their son since I exercise, don’t do (illegal) drugs, lack a police record, and pride myself on being self-supporting. I also manage to impart a duplicitous but completely unintentional façade of patrician good breeding and cool Nordic dignity, no doubt adding to my appeal.

In what I considered a minor albeit unnerving breach of confidentiality, I later discovered that their son had assured them that I “didn’t get around” “didn’t have a lot of experience with men” and had “never been pregnant or had a disease.” All factual statements, but really none of his mater’s or pater’s business.

According to “Dan’s” (doubtless) biased reminiscence, his previous girlfriend was a perpetually depressed and woefully humorless goth chick with multiple genital piercings, a propensity to cut herself when anxious, and a history of abortions. The latter paid for by the magnanimous Dan.

“I don’t even know if all of those fetuses were mine,” Dan lamented to me late in our relationship, an admission I thought tacky of him.

Given Dan’s tasteless penchant for enlightening familial tête-à-têtes, his parents had despised the sporadically pregnant and clitorally enhanced goth babe almost from the beginning of her ill-fated dalliance with their little darling.

I was her exact opposite, hence my allure.

“God, I loved her so much,” Dan confessed over flickering candlelight on our second date, squeezing my hand for emphasis. “The sex was fantastic. Otherworldly. She could send me into another dimension.” He then shook himself out of his reverie and opined that two people could not base a healthy relationship strictly on sex.

“We tried, though,” he added wistfully.

His parents hoped that my good habits would rub off on Dan, a recovering marijuana addict who was often loathe to flee the easy chair strategically plunked in front of his large-screen TV.

I briefly considered actually going through with the wedding because I liked his family so much. Both of his parents were gourmet cooks, and they simply adored whipping up large tasty meals and watching me consume them with my customary gusto.

And then I found out that my future mother-in-law thought I was a pig.

“How much does she weigh?” she stage whispered to Dan as I gnawed on my fourth pork chop at the dinner table.

“I dunno. 105 pounds? Something like that,” Dan answered.

“How tall is she?” continued my soon to be ex-future mother-in-law.

“5’ 4”,’ muttered her son.

“And a half,” I mumbled around a mouthful of meat, “5’ 4” and a half.”

“Holy Toledo! She eats like a…”

uncomfortable silence.

“Pig?” suggested Dan.

The sentence rounded out by the wünderkind she had whelped, Dan’s mother momentarily relaxed. With renewed vigor, she leapt to her feet and resumed her mid-meal domestic duties, which primarily consisted of fetching milk, condiments, and napkins for the slovenly Dan. Tasks I rarely undertook.

Per Dan, I found out that she had several theories as to how I managed to reconcile my gargantuan appetite with my girlishly slender figure.

I had to be one of the following:

1. Bulimic
2. Diabetic
3. The victim of an overactive thyroid or other metabolic disorder
4. Crawling with worms

“WORMS?!” I later screeched at Dan. “She thinks I have worms?!”

“She thought it might be a possibility. She just can’t get over how much you eat.”

“So she thinks I may be hosting a gaggle of gluttonous WORMS in my intestines? Or maybe just one huge Marlon Brando-type worm sitting there in my digestive track, scarfing down my food and wallowing in obese self-importance?”

“I think Marlon Brando is dead,” mused Dan. He was inclined to hear only two or three words of whatever I said, latching onto those to form assorted retorts and thereby presenting an unconvincing charade of truly paying attention to me.

“And she thinks you drink like a sailor, but she admires the way you can handle it without getting drunk,” Dan thoughtfully continued in his delightfully offhand way.
“She couldn’t get over the way you drank three double bourbons the other night, and yet managed to be so soft-spoken, articulate, and polite. My people tend to get loud and obnoxious when they drink.”

“SOFT-SPOKEN and POLITE?!” I thundered in my patented roar. “ I certainly don’t remember that. You lyin’ SOB!”

“No, really, she said that.”

“Holy shit, I must have been drunk!”

Mating 102

My (mis)Education Continues!...

…. So then I got older, and saw my first porn tape when I was 15.

It starred Marilyn Chambers, and she was a bad, bad girl in it.

People don’t believe me when I tell them this, but until I saw this tape, I did not know that there was any movement in sex.

I had never had sex, and mainstream movies at this time only showed sex-bound people in bed together, sometimes on top of one another, occasionally making out. But no thrusting, or none that I recall. If there was any thrusting, it must have gone right over my head, because I wasn’t expecting it.

I don’t recall How You Were Made mentioning any thrusting. The book simply left me with the impression that the erect penis was placed in the self-lubricated vagina, and the participants patiently waited for the semen to make its wacky journey, grinning inanely at one another all the while. The book also claimed that people didn’t always have sex to make babies, but also did it because it was pleasurable. I didn’t understand how it could be, but then I knew that grown-ups could be very weird and unfathomable.

I had seen my slutty cat Snowflake have sex with some sleazy looking tom cat who I know for a fact she didn’t really like, but there was no movement there, either. The tom simply climbed onto Snowflake and appeared to meditate while Snowflake flattened her ears and gazed off into the distance with the same pissed-off look she always wore on her mug. And then the tom withdrew, and Snowflake spit at him and swatted his rump as he loped off, no doubt to go tell his friends about what a skanky whore Snowflake was.

Neither one of them appeared to be enjoying themselves during the entirety of the raunchy proceedings.

I didn’t have a date until I was 19, and that was a disaster.

My co-worker fixed me up with someone who was friends with someone she wanted to go out with, and the four of us were supposed to go on a double date.

Unfortunately, my co-worker was sick on the night of the date, so my date, his friend, and I ended up cruising the main drag in Salisbury, NC to find my date’s friend a substitute date.

I’ve never understood the appeal of cruising. I was bored out of my gourd.

Finally, some girl ended up chatting with my date’s friend, entered the van at a red light, and proceeded to have sex with the dude in the back of the van while I rode up front with my putrid waste of a date, who commenced to throwing sly little glances at the back of the van (from which moans and thrusting could be divined) alternated with knowing looks at me.

I can’t believe that this is my life, I remember thinking. I’m going to kill my co-worker. I want to go home.

When I wouldn’t put out, my incredulous date took me home.

How You Were Made needs an updated edition of the book, showcasing teenagers having sex in the back of a van, complete with thrusting and moaning and all of the stupid shit a lot of people say during sex, *oh damn-damn-yeah-um-yeah-ah-uh*. I would like to see the illustrations accompanying that. Maybe they could title that edition How Trashy People Are Made and subtitle it Thrusting: Yes, There is Movement in Sexual Intercourse!.

“Oh, yeeah, he is just awful, he has a terrible reputation, just a complete horn-dawg,” my co-worker drawled at me later, referencing the guy she had set me up with and his sterling attributes.

“Why did you fix me up with him?” I inquired, even more astounded than my date was when I refused to dish out my virginity to a low-life piece of shit in the back of a stinky van that was driving up and down the main drag of a hick town in North Caro-fucking-lina.

“Waal, Ah just figured he needed a nahce girl so he could straighten out.”

“No,” I countered, “he needs a girl who is as bad as he is, so that he can keep himself occupied and the nice girls can go find nice guys to hang out with.” Sheesh.

Shortly thereafter, I started to attract only gay men, and my life embarked on a thrilling rollercoaster ride of humorous ups and downs revolving around my stubborn virginity, and how it continued to cling to me like a perpetually drunk unemployed loser who constantly tries to borrow money from you and insists on regaling you with long weepy stories of their sorry lot in life, all the while staying uninvited by your side in a cloying simulation of friendship.

Yeah, that was what my virginity was to me.

It was embarrassing having it for some reason I couldn’t fathom, but I was too bashful to try to establish a romantic relationship and have my boyfriend eventually discover - (in what I was sure would be a mortifying blood-soaked event – hell, I couldn’t even use tampons and I was sure that my first time would be painful) - that I was pathetically untouched and pure as the driven.

And I wasn’t about to have a casual encounter with someone whose opinion of me I didn’t give a fig about. Just your classic catch-22, really.

A Skit

A companion piece to I Would Gladly Eat Any Of You

Alive and Kickin’: The Rescue of Jill
Airdate: undetermined

Setting: A desolate, snow-swept expanse of ground, apparently on the side of a huge, isolated mountain. The wreckage of a plane is half submerged in the snow, and twisted metal and mangled airplane seats are strewn about in a forlorn tapestry of doom.

Human body parts litter the area, most of them shorn of flesh. Broken femurs and humerus bones, emptied of marrow, nestle on numerous patches of bloody snow.

A small figure, wrapped in a torn coat and clutching a box of Hostess snack cakes, huddles on a makeshift bench.

In the distance, several men in thick parkas, their lower faces swathed in woolen scarves, approach the plane. They are carrying walkie-talkies in their gloved hands and various implements of rescue are partly visible from large satchels slung over their shoulders.

RESCUER #1:
[into the walkie-talkie]
We are approaching what appears to be the wreckage of the plane. No sign of life yet, but – wait! I think I see movement!

The rescuers notice the small woman as she reaches into the carton of snack cakes and voraciously wolfs one down in three quick bites.

RESCUER#2:
Carlos, I see a survivor!

RESCUER #1:
My God, it’s a miracle! Let’s hurry!

They both sprint awkwardly towards the figure, hampered by the equipment and their concern. They stop yards away from the woman, who has now struggled to her feet. One of them steps forward and grasps her arm as she appears to stumble.

JILLIAN:
Geez, I’m glad to see you guys. I thought I would die out here.

The rescuers gaze around at the body parts, horrified. One rescuer notices a hand attached to a stump of forearm, skewered on a bent coat hanger and smoldering on top of a nearby fire. Twinkie wrappers speckle the snow underneath the bench.

RESCUER #2:
What happened here?

JILLIAN:
Oh, I’ve just been hanging out. ‘Hanging out and hanging loose’ as they say in the vernacular. I thought I would never get rescued.

RESCUER #1:
Are you the only survivor?

JILLIAN:
Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty much just me.

She notices the rescuers scanning the carnage, pity and disbelief reflected in their faces. Intestines and other offal glisten in the brassy noon day sun.

RESCUER #1:
Everybody else died in the crash?

JILLIAN:
...Yeah, uh, that’s what happened all right. They, um, pretty much croa.., I mean, died right away. I knew I had to survive so I .. I ate them. It seemed like the right thing to do.

They all pause. A sudden harsh wind sweeps a banner of snow across the crash site.

RESCUER #2:
But the plane only went down five hours ago.

JILLIAN:
[proffering the box to the rescuers]:
Twinkie?