So, my possums, this is actually a post I wrote for Andy, a totally rad (queer? did I make that up ’cause I wish it so hard?) lady who (as far as I can tell) resides somewhere wicked on the west coast and enjoys very (well done) artsy photographs and making rings out of buttons. I stumbled upon her blog, crazywithasideofawesomesauce, after she left a very flattering comment on my article about a tragic fisting accident. Really, I’m re-posting this because I wanted an excuse to put this really cool button that she made up here, but also an excuse to tell you all that I want the dirt on injuries obtained doing the dirty. So do it up. And then tell the twitterverse about it. And if you don’t have a twitter, pretend and leave a comment instead. Commiseration welcome.
Oh, here’s that button:
You should go ahead and read her every day. Because she doesn’t just have a side of awesome sauce. She is the awesome sauce.
This is an invitation to begin hash-tagging all tweets having to do with sex resulting in bodily harm or discomfort in some fashion. This is an invitation to band together and say that it’s okay to be entirely accident prone in bed. To let others know that not everything operates like a pornographic film and not every one is as smooth as James Bond. We are normal. And we fuck up (ha) in bed. Since I wrote a post for Toy With Me about landing in the hospital after fisting my girlfriend, I’ve been getting a lot of surprise slash shock (sometimes delight) from those who saw me in the brace. “How often does shit like that happen to you?” They ask, a wry smile spreading across their face. They run through every injury, every call out sick, every vague excuse I’ve given from Sophomore year of high school to present. Which of these were the result of a hot night of strap on awesome? Of a mis-chosen lube? And which was truly, “No seriously, guys, that bruise that runs from my ass cheek to my knee was really obtained in a martial arts battle with a petite Peruvian man a head-and-shoulders shorter than I.”
To end the strange looks flung my way, perhaps this is the time to begin the confession (I almost accidentally typed “confusion,” a Freudian slip that is not far off.) And I want everyone (and I mean everyone) to confess in solidarity. Let’s trend this shit, baby!
Here’s something recent from my twitter:
In fact, my vagina has had all sorts of mishaps with substance abuse. It is a very sensitive, innocent (ha) vagina with exacting tastes. Did you know glycerin is a common ingredient in most lubricants, not mention most soaps? It took me years to figure out that the reason I always felt like my vagina was going to fall out of my body was combo shower gel/unfriendly sexy-time products, and even so I don’t always do so hot with reading the labels. Like the warming lube that we thought was totally cool, or even flashing back to last Fall when I used my roommate’s shaving cream ‘cause it felt silky smooth (just like the commercials said it would) and gave me a burn so bad that it looked like I had a cross between herpes, crabs, and a cunt-punt (you know–when someone kicks you really hard in the hoo-ha–there were actually bruises.) As if this weren’t enough to send the poor pussy on strike, I then had to go and buy “all-natural” and “organic” sliquid. Because there couldn’t possibly be anything in there that would cause some ouchies, right? Organic and natural clearly mean hypoallergenic and magic–that lube should be able to print money and solve world hunger. Grant me three wishes. And of course feel really, really good.
Turns out that lube had citric acid in it.
Would you slice up a lemon and carry it around with you in your vagina? Much less have the juices pounded into you by this bad boy?
We had some real winners patenting inventions that day.
But at least the pink lady smelled faintly like lemon pine-sol as she was sobbing into my removable shower head.
Possible tweeted confessions:
Vagina on strike after stupid boss puts lemon in box. Pucker up. #sexualmisadventures
Have a herp-tacular, crab-tastic, cunt-punty week! Love your angry va-jay-jay. #sexualmisadventures
And then there was that unfortunate incident with the candle wax. If you go take a look on Babeland, they sell candles that melt into massage oil. They are pretty much the best thing ever. Except if you don’t have money to buy the big ones. Which means you take the cheapo route and get the luminary sizes. Instead of nice big glass or ceramic surrounding that sweet sweet wax, they give you a ghetto metal tin.
Again, with the geniuses.
And we were even bigger geniuses when we left that candle lit on our bed while Jae was pouring Bailey’s all over me and licking it off. I then proceeded to grab that candle to drip hot wax all over the tattoo on her back. Except I didn’t get that far. Because my fingers melted and puffed up like an angry red cat. Jae ran to the kitchen (not the bathroom, because our bathroom never actually had cold water in it) to get me a glass of ice-cold H2O. I spent the rest of the evening with my hand in the glass, though that did not do much to dissuade us in our activities. In fact…that night I wound up fisting Jae, which landed me in the hospital with a sprain. Not to mention the scorch marks on the sheets in a mocking little circle. Fuck you, aluminum sex candle!
Possible tweeted confessions:
Metal luminaries weed out the poor and the stupid–less chance of us reproducing if we cauterize fingers while fuckin’ #sexualmisadventures
4 am hospital patients include: Gun shot wound. Pneumonia. Horrible fisting accident. #sexualmisadventures
Have I mentioned explosive “dire rear” resulting from a vibrating butt plug? Until very recently, I exclusively called my ass “Wisconsin” because I couldn’t admit I had something as unsightly as a pooper. Turns out, though, that this irrational fear of admitting a butt hole region exists on my body might be a societal pressure upon women to be polite and pretty all the time, to which I say fuck that. So we did. We fucked that until dawn. In fact, I got fucked in the back door so hard that I had to leave early from work the next day. The reason? The runs.
Possible tweeted confession:
One way traffic on the back roads for a while…there’s been an accident. #sexualmisadventures