Bathroom etiquette for men

I just returned from the bathroom. Now, right there I have reached into the TMI zone, but that information is critical to the rest of this blog entry.

When I was in there "doing my business", there was another gentleman two stalls to the right who was, shall we say, having a severe bout of intestinal distress. That is the only way I could describe it without being in violation of the Blogger terms of service.

It was nasty and sounded quite painful. Because he was two stalls over, I could not see his shoes, so I was unable to identify through the most common technique, the shoe ID As I was about to finish, another gentleman stepped in to the stall between us, and, based on the direction of his feet and the ensuing sound effects, he was just there to take a tinkle.

I quickly finished, flushed, and fled. I stepped to the sink on the right, extracted a single pump of the honeysuckle infused hand soap and began to wash, but damn, I heard the stall door opening. Wishing to avoid eye contact with my apparently dying associate, I moved one sink over, hoping that the change in angle would hide my prying eyes from his as he exited his stall of death.

Luckily it was the middle door, the tinkler, who stepped in to view. We gave each other the “Dude, I think he’s dying” head-nod toward the unknown offender, and finished at the sink, not knowing, and not wanting to know the name of the poor victim in stall #3.

So here’s my question: Why, in this day an age, can we not acknowledge a rippin’ nasty trip to the john?

If anyone in the office sneezes, cough, hacks up a phlegm sandwich, or hurls up lunch on the conference room table, we chuckle, nod our heads knowingly, and ask if they are OK. If they are quietly sitting at their desk, skin pale, cheeks flushed, eyes bloodshot, or their lungs rasping the a death rattle of avian flu, we flash the bullhorn hand sign, give them a high-five, and ask them where they partied last night.

But heaven forbid the crack a fart, drop a stinky dookie, or make an un-natural noise that could pass for sulfur-fueled geyser in the lower rings of Dante’s hell. Does that elicit sympathy, concern, or care.

No!

We run, we hide, we avert our noses, blame the baby, point at the dog, or just ask if the wind shifted from across the city dump. We run as if the accusing finger of shame were pointed at us, for in times past we have all been there, the one who secretly knows, that “He who smelt it, dealt it.” It was our finger that was pulled, our cheeks that squeaked the seat, our fiends that looked at us in disgust and said, “I have a hunch, you just lost your lunch.”

So yes, I ran. I finished, flushed and fled. I am ashamed.

But will I change? Will I have the courage to knock on that metal stall door and ask,

“Dude, that was nasty. Are you OK?”

Only time will tell.

I found this web-site a while ago, and, while she doesn't post as often as I'd like her to, she is talented and funny.

What love is....

TMI Tuesday #184

In my last post I said that I did not think that I was a very interesting person. One reason behind that is that I have always been an "good boy". I do not drink alcohol and I was a virgin when I got married. Well I had my share of girlfriends, I didn't get much past heavy petting, dry humping, and tentative fingering until I met my future wife.

I won't use this particular entry to discuss how I feel about that now, but I wanted to give some background to the answers below.

1. Have you ever had angry sex?

When my wife and I are angry at each other we did not have sex. I was thinking about this the other day and realized that we do not have "makeup" sex. I have, however, been very angry after sex, usually because she has said something about it that made me mad. She is constantly putting new rules around sex. Some of them are because certain positions are painful, and I can understand that. Having had three pregnancies, and some rather unpleasant things happen to her body "down there", she has to be careful. But, a lot of the rules are just because she has a lot of hangups about sex and wants to keep it controlled, contained, and regulated.

2. Pity sex?

I hate pity sex. I won't do it. There have been times where we were upset with each other, usually when she has been picking at me for something inconsequential, and she will offer sex in such a way that just makes me loathe the idea. I have told her time and again that I do not enjoy sex when she does not even try to enjoy it. I hated when she just acts as if she is my masturbation toy. It would be different if she offered herself up because she enjoyed getting fucked, but she does it in such a way that makes me feel dirty, like I am forcing her so that I don't do something awful later.

3. "Oh well, I might as well" sex?

This one happens a lot. Well, not a lot, because we don't have sex a lot, but we do have sex frequently on Monday night because it is Monday night, the night we are "supposed" to have sex. The mood is rarely right for it, however, if I did not have sex on Monday night I might never have it at all.

4. One-of-you-knew-it-was-goodbye-and-the-other-didn't sex?

I have had several make out sessions when I knew it was going to be our last time. I am sure that my girlfriends have had a lot more. One of my best sexual experiences was with a girlfriend from college. She got in touch with me months after we broke up and invited me out for a picnic. The outing however was just a ruse to get me alone in the woods. She told me as we are driving that she was engaged but admitted that she wanted to have me one more time. She put Phil Collins on the stereo, pulled me to the back seat, and told me to make her cum. It was one of the best orgasms of my life because she wanted me to have it, and she wanted me to give it to her. It was the last time we were to see each other until our 20-year high school reunion. I think this was the greatest compliment I have ever been given.

5. Don't-remember-having-it sex?

Because I don't drink, I haven't had many experiences right remember exactly what I did. This can be good, however, it can also is because you have no excuses.

6. Regret-it-afterward sex?

I have regretted very few of my kisses, and almost none of my orgasms. Even after admitting to some past indiscretions, I have a hard time regretting the decisions I made. I think this might make me a very bad person.

Okay, I just remembered one. My friends lined me up with a very young 19-year-old girl after I had just gotten out of a relationship. They knew that I needed a bounce back make out session, and I think this girl was a babysitter for one of my friends younger brothers. We went out to see fireworks on the Fourth of July, we made out like fiends, I felt her up, got her to take her bra off, and then I think we both climaxed. I don't think she was ready for it because she was very quiet on the way home, and we never went out again. There was too bad, because she was really cute. I guess I could list her under item #7, because I can't remember her name now, but I'm sure I knew it then.

7. Can't-remember-his/her-name sex?

There are a lot of women that I can remember right now, but if you go into my file cabinet at home, look in the top drawer, and look in the file marked “Journal”, you will see a complete list.

8. Never-knew-his/her-name sex?

New Year's Eve 1985. I went out dancing with my friends who were taller and better looking than me but neither one of them could dance so they always met the girls first, I met the girls last and for longer and ended up with more phone numbers. There was a super hot girl in a short black mini dress who seemed to take a liking to me. This was an alcohol free dance bar so I knew that she was sober as was I. We ended up going to a back room and making out as the ball dropped on 1886. The main thing I remember is that she had her orgasm, her first orgasm of 1986, with my finger inside her panties.

Bonus: What was the worst single sexual experience of your life?

There have been a few relationships that involved a lot of sensuality, kissing, intimacy, and then ended badly. I feel bad for women that regretted knowing me.

Not Very Interesting if you ask me.

If I was to start a club I would not invite myself to be in it.

Having said that, I think I stole the wine from Woody Allen, or Pat perhaps one of the Three Stooges, who said, "I would never join a country club that would have me as a member."

Once again I find myself at the end of the day, trying to fit a few minutes into thinking about a new post, a new topic, just something interesting to say. I have heard the phrase many times that, "if you want to meet interesting people, be an interesting person."

I have never been able to force myself to be interesting. When I was younger I did interesting things, I went skydiving, I got certified in scuba diving with my girlfriend, I have traveled internationally, I took road trips with my friends, and I read a lot of interesting books. I do not think any of this made me interesting, and as a result, I find that many people, most people, are not very interesting to me.

I know from my own experience that international travel means having to order a McDonald's big Mac in French, that it means letting cute foreign girls practice their English on you in a bar while you buy them overpriced drinks and they go home with their friends. I know that this means desperately searching for people who speak English so you don't feel utterly lost in a city full of foreigners who do not speak your language.

I realized early that books that were interesting to me were not interesting to my friends, or to people I associated with on a regular basis. I have worked in several different industries and I found early that most people want to talk shop, because they understand what they do for work and new things are intimidating, or just make them feel stupid. I tried not to be one of those "book nerds" that went around showing off what they had just checked off their reading list. I'm not sure if it worked.

It turned out that two of my best friends, two brothers in fact, were barely literate. One kept failing the coursework to be an EMT because he could not read fast enough to get through the material, the other brother, a talented landscaper, could not yet his contractor's license for the same reason. When I shared books with them, ideas from those books, or asked them to read them with me, they made excuses for years until the younger brother's wife finally admitted that neither one of them could read very well. I don't know if they have dyslexia or another problem, but they never admitted it so I missed a great opportunity with them. I think they would have enjoyed the books, but I never took time to find out why they did not read.

And road trips are only interesting to the people who work on them with you, and even then it is questionable. The biggest trip I took was a cross-country journey with three of my friends from college to New York City. It was a fantastic trip and I shot about 16 rolls of 36-exposure film along the way. This was back in the ancient days before digital. When I returned I got them developed and found some beautiful pictures all along the way. I gave them to Tony, including the negatives, so that he could make some copies for himself. They never returned. He lost them. I have one roll from that trip that shows us all asleep as we drove across Kansas. I was so pissed at him for losing the pictures that I have never spoken with him again. I find that interesting, but damn, I really wanted those pictures.

So the point of this long, uninteresting, and tedious rant is that I do not find myself, or the people around me, very interesting. There are people I need to work with, people I associate with through church, friends of friends of friends who are in the PTA, PTO, glee club, who work at the blood center, who fixed my bikes, sell me shoes, stock my groceries, it's and suck my dick, but none of them are very interesting.

I think that says a lot more about me than it is about them, which is a cliché, I know, that is that that does not stop it from being true.

future topics

I have a few minutes before I have pick up some friends at the train station so I thought I'd list, out loud, some topics I've been thinking about.

Public Farting: pro/con
Marriage and the State (too serious)
Is a hand job sex?
Urban myths and Sex

Some fantasies I've been fixated on:
Taking my admin on the table
Massage therapy for Shauna
Playing rough with Kay
The prettiest new mom on the block
Knot at my Camp!

OK, I'm out of time and getting woody, so I better walk out to get my friends. He is a college buddy, and she is the hottest girl at E&Y consulting. It will be fun, and hard, to have her around all week.

Have a great Sunday!!

And, since I'm writing this on my cell phone for the fist time, I have no idea how it will look

Ciao!!

Talking about butt sex

This is a bit longer than I expected....

Though I complain about my sex-life a lot I want to say that my wife is an excellent mother to our kids. She is active in our youth ministry at church, is in the middle of our PTC (named the Parent-Teacher Cooperative after a spat with the National PTA), and never tires of shuttling the kids back and forth to girl scouts.

But this week, she went above the all of duty and dealt with an issue that we have been preparing for, but mildly dreading, for quite some time. You see, our oldest daughter, is barely 13 and as innocent as a lamb. Except for teasing her little sister mercilessly at times and claiming to be “all done” with homework when she is clearly not, she has no vices. She still thinks boys are just larval stage bugs, she ridicules girls who won’t play at recess for fear of smearing their make-up, and except for one time when she sat on my wife’s “back massager” and said that it tickles, never things about sex.

My wife has done a great job giving the girls appropriate information about their bodies, where babies come from, and why they are getting hairy in places that used to be smooth. She’s talked about getting their periods and about not letting boy, or girls, touch them the wrong way, all of that stuff has been covered. The girls, as all pre-teens should be, think that sex is gross, boys are icky, and boobies are a bother. Perfect.

But, because we live in 2009, and not 1950, certain discussions are thrust upon us.

The school is showing, “The Movie.” You know what I’m talking about, THE MOVIE.

She already knows 90%, even 95% of the material that is being covered, but this movie includes a discussion about HIV and AIDS, and is deadly serious.

As her dad, I want my girl to be happy, to be healthy, to find and know love in all of its frustrating and liberating glory, but, at 13 years old, I don’t want her even thinking about it. At 13 I was running through the orchards and mountains of my home town. Girls were a distant threat as easily ignored as the French military. The future was just a hazy dark cloud on the far horizon. Growing meant kissing girls and going on dates, and maybe, maybe copping a feel in a darkened movie house.

Kissing a girl did not bring with it the Grim Reaper, the specter a long and miserable death, of rampaging cancers, incurable sores, of compromised immune systems and an inevitable march to the grave.

But, today, as my daughter moves through junior high, she needs to know.

On the funny side, however, was listening to my wife recount the conversation she had with our oldest, far out of ear shot of the other kids, as to not completely freak them out.

My wife had to talk about butt sex.

Now, anyone reading this blog probably came looking for stories about sex or came from a blog that talked about sex. I doubt you linked to this blog from your local church’s Sunday school page. But put yourself in my wife’s shoes. How do you prepare an innocent 13-year-old for a discussion about AIDS?

After attending a parent’s preview of the movie, my wife asked how much detail would be given about how HIV is spread. They listed drug paraphernalia and sexual contact. Pressing for more details, they admitted that they would list, but not discuss, penile/vaginal contact, oral/vaginal, oral/penile, oral/anal, and penile/anal contact as transmission pathways.

“WTF? These are 13 year old kids!” Was my wife’s, thankfully, unspoken outburst.

My wife started telling me this as we were getting ready for bed and I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. I laughed knowing that she was going to have to explain it to our daughter, a sweet little thing who still thinks that having sex, even to get a baby, is pretty gross.

I didn’t hear much through the laughter, but my wife sat down with her for “a talk” and gave her a verbal preview of the movie. Assuring her that most of the information was old hat, she added, “There are a few new things we need to talk about.”

As she described HIV, AIDS, and the impact of the disease, they finally got around to how it is spread. My daughter’s reaction?

Sometimes a girl will put her lips on a boy’s penis
“Oh how gross, why would you want to put your lips where somebody pees.”

To a boy doing the same to a girl, she said,
“Now that’s just disgusting.”

Then the final one, “Sometimes a boy will put his penis in another person’s butt hole”
Her surprise answer was, “That’s gross, but the other stuff is grosser.”

After discussing the mechanics of HIV transmission, my wife talked about the moral framework around sexual decisions. They talked about boys, and liking them, about not letting them try anything, and about resisting the peer pressure to do things we don’t believe are right.

I as proud of her for handling things in a very matter-of-fact way, of having an important, if difficult, conversation, and for putting sex and love and blowjobs in a moral context that will help guide her through the dangerous world of being a teenager.

Things that have never happened to me….

…but seem to happen to everyone else.

Spontaneous blow-job from a stranger in a night club bathroom

Wild make-out sessions with the hot new receptionist at the Christmas party

A hand job on the night bus coming home from work

Beautiful, young co-worked steps in to my office and lifts her skirt

Jogging partner pulls me off the running trail for a quickie in the trees

The stripper invites me back to her place, free of charge

I step out of the bathroom, she is already on the bed, naked, on her knees, waiting

The cute girl from the gym invites me to shower at her place

The hot brunette in the lane next to me in the swimming pool flashes me underwater

Sitting outside at my condo Jacuzzi, the girl from 304 asks if “Do we really need suits?”

My daughter’s Girl Scout leader invites me to a special training session on knots and ropes

My beautiful admin asks me to drive her home after work because her boyfriend is out of town

My daughter’s Sunday School teacher invites me over for a swim and introduces her twin sister.

My wife interrupts our kissing and begs me to fuck her, right her, right now, and very hard.

Either I'm doing something, or I've got to stop reading other people's blogs....

Her name is Kim.

I am a sucker for a beautiful waitress. They fuel my fantasy life quicker than any other profession. Naughty librarians are good, a cute nurse or doctor will do in a pinch, by my favorite is the friendly (not slutty) waitress that tells you “My shift ends at 10p” and then walks away. As unrealistic as my fantasy is, and considering that I have never taken advantage of it, I am an outrageously generous tipper when my waitress has the look. I am a good tipper in general, please don’t misunderstand, I dated a waitress (loved her really) and was well trained in tipping, even on their off days or when my food is poorly cooked. “Don’t blame her,” Kat would say, “It’s not her fault, and even if it was, do you want your pay docked every time you have a bad day?” So, a good waitress, who is also sexy, gets it good from me. For fun I have tipped $20 on a $6 lunch, $30 when I’m on my company’s dime. I like leaving a note when I’m feeling frisky, but it’s ultimately just a way to say thanks, because I’m rarely in the same place twice. I just want to imagine that I made a beautiful woman smile…

My flirty IMs to my friend at work had gotten me no where so I grabbed my latest book and began to walk the streets looking for somewhere new to eat. With 20+ restaurants within walking distance of my office I was surprised at how many had never been tried.

Eventually I settled on a Persian place with hookah’s for rent and went in. Their chicken schwarma sandwich was on the specials board and it sounded good. 12 people were already inside, filling about 1/3 of the tables. With no waitress in sight, the bellboy offered me any table I liked and I sat near the window, watching the people line up next door for cookies and milk.

I saw her first at the table about 15 feet from me. Her shoulder length bottle-blond hair caught the light from outside and shimmered and danced, even when she stood still. Her smile was quick and friendly and I heard her answering questions about herself from the 4 over-eager businessmen who were competing for her attention.

“Yes, I’m from around here, but my parents were from Sweden, thank you.” She was efficient in service and captivating in appearance.

Her outfit was all black. High heeled boots that had too many buckles, smooth tights that caught the sunlight that bounced off the mirrored ceiling and walls and glistened as the moved with every muscle of her long, sleek legs. An oversized black sweater covered too much of her curvaceous ass but revealed strong slim arms, and buttoned just before her bust. A Lycra top hugged large and well formed breasts into a beautiful cleavage that took the eyes upwards to an almost perfect fact. She reminded me of Marisa Miller, strong, curvy, tall, athletic, and incredibly sexy.

I smiled as I realized that she was the only waitress working the 6 occupied tables and waited patiently for her to come by. I looked up from my book and smiled as she approached, but her attention seemed elsewhere as she took my drink order and handed me a menu. My question about the lunch specials prompted a quick walk to the hostess station. I had missed her eyes while she was at my table, but I feasted on the gentle curves that peeked out from beneath the long thin sweater.

I let my mind drift to what I might find under the form fitting black tights, a small silk thong, a tiny cotton g-string, perhaps nothing at all, necessitating a shaved and smooth appearance to avoid drawing attention to the commando approach.

She returned with my root beer and took my order without looking at me. I tried to be a gentleman and avoided staring at the full curves of her beautiful breasts and looked upwards, trying to connect with her sparkly blue eyes.

Minutes pass and my lunch arrives, again I smile and look upward, not distracted by the slight hint of a camel-toe, or the spiked boots that lift her 4 inches above her natural height. I just want a smile, a connection, eye-to-eye contact, a reason to dream, an excuse to fantasize, a way to say hello.

The food is excellent, well spiced, succulent chicken wrapped in a toasted pita bread shell with the perfect blend of seasonings and dressing, a tangy combination of yogurt sauce and spice. The wedge fries are perfect, and though the root beer tastes like fruit, I am happy with my meal and await the check.

One last time she approaches. I sit tall with my book closed and credit card in hand. I’m not asking for a date, her favorite position, or even her social status. I’m not going to flirt or wine or dine her, I’m consciously avoiding any waitress cliché that comes in to my head and, truth be told, all I wanted to see was her eyes and feel that we have truly said hello.

She hands me the bill portfolio, standard issue fake leather and a torn plastic sleeve for maxed out credit cards, but her eyes are averted and focused on the older, but striking brunette that is unhappy with her salad. “I said no olives, please, no olives.”

My last chance evaporates as she drops off my card, bill, and a 39-cent pen and turns to greet the next group of diners. I take one last look at her sweet bottom curves, and sign the bill wondering what her eyes are really like. The tip is 15%. I wanted an excuse to leave more.

Has it really been two Weeks?

It's been almost two weeks since my last post. Last week I was on vacation with my family for Spring Break (formally known as Easter Break) but the ACLU took care of that for us.

I have been busy at work since my return and, as much as I missed reading everyone's blogs, it was a bit overwhelming to fire up my reader page and see 32+ unread posts. in just 5 days!!!

I've been slowly catching up.

I found a good use for cookies today. Good work from the Keebler elves.

I love the blogs I follow, Leesa is always entertaining, and the rest of them just keep me horny as hell and frustrated to the very end.

I love my HNT friends and those that make me think and laugh.

To all, a big thank you. It's nice to be reading you all again.

Out of touch...

I'm on vacation with my wife's family and my mother-in-law. The week will be fun, focused on the kids, but there will be, it was announced this morning...

"NO SEX!"

she clarified....

"Don't ask for it,
don' think about it,
don't hint about it,
don't tease, joke, or wink about it.

Just Don't."


I was tempted to ask how this would be different than any other day, but bit my tongue....