Em-bare-ass-ing Moments

Sex is not glamorous and it is often disgusting. I have had many sexual experiences and many of them were with degenerate slugs whose rat breath was their most charming aspect. Still, I keep plugging onward.

I have also survived more than my share of embarrassing moments on the sex front. And I mean beyond just embarrassing--I mean humiliating nightmares beyond even what you might read in Seventeen magazine about a girl getting her period while driving on a first date to TGI Fridays and staining the dude’s Pontiac Firebird seats with menses blood.

Boy, can I top that. Three times.

Shit Volcano.

My faithful readers know of my ambivalence toward anal sex. I’ve tried it three to five times and it always felt like I was taking a big shit, only not in an enjoyable way. But I left one detail out previously.

While I was fucking my second long-term boyfriend, he brought up wanting to pound me in the poo-hole. I didn’t want to and, more than that, I wanted him to be sickened by the thought. And, believe me, he was.

He stuck his dick up my ass and it was in there for about six minutes and I didn’t like it, but I thought that the longer we went at it, the less I might mind it. So I said nothing and we had ass-sex for about 10 minutes, until I could not possibly stand another second. I squealed and he pulled out.

Sure enough, his dork was covered with liquid shit. And, in addition, his quick removal prompted some sort of spasm out of me and I sprayed a hot blast of diarrhea on the wall behind us. There wasn’t a ton of it, maybe just a quarter cup or so. But that did the trick.

Let me just note here that this was, and remains, the only time that liquid shit has shot out of my asshole.

We both had a good laugh about it, once the doot was scrubbed up.

I had wanted this experience to make both of us either love or hate anal sex, and we both ended up hating it. So my job was done.

Dirty Doc.

This flea-infested garbage dump of a Pakistani scumbag who was twice my age and claimed to be a doctor once approached me in a bar. I was trying to leave when this rodent made his pass.

He wanted to give me a ride, but I got a sick vibe from him, so I said that I was walking the mile or so to my apartment. He wanted to come along. I told him that he could walk with me for one block, just because he was so insistent.

Naturally this waste-case followed me all the way to my front door. And then, just as naturally, he tried to wedge himself in the front door with me. I told him that I had three huge male roommates who would stomp his ass. He was undeterred and attempted some forced making-out on me.

I banged on the walls and kept pushing him away. My roommate finally opened the door and saw this mouth-pig trying to slobber his decay-stink all over me. In a flash, the malignant medic bolted out the door and down the street. I wasn’t scared as much as I was nauseated. Nothing happened, but it was a close call.

Since then, I have had nothing to do with dirty docs. In fact, it rattled my whole perception of flesh-pressing encounters. Many times, I don’t know if I am meant to be having sex with a person or a toilet. Often enough, they seem to be the same thing.

Home Movie.

Back in high school, it was a very big deal for this boy I liked to be coming to my house. He and I were going to watch movies. I was hoping that that was just a pretense for making out, which it did turn out to be.

I threw a tape in the VCR. I think it was the movie River’s Edge. It was on some old cassette that I just recorded over. About an hour into the action, he and I started getting into action of our own on the couch.

We went at it pretty feverishly, not noticing or caring that the movie ended and that the tape just kept playing.

Suddenly, I heard: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

It was my parents. Both of them.

Their voices were coming out of the television. They were on the tape that was running.

Frantically, I tried to find the remote control, but it was too late. The guy I was with looked up and saw the video image of seven-year-old me in a ballerina costume trying to ride a bicycle for the first time.

Again, we both heard my parents cry out: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

I hated watching home videos of myself under ideal circumstances, but this was another dimension of mortification. I felt as though Mom and Dad were right in the room with me, egging on my juvenile sexual experimentation.

How much easier it would have been to bleed period mess all over his car and/or ruin my prom dress than to deal with this. I had to stop what we were doing right there, in the cathode glow of myself as a second grader.

It was too bad, too. I hardly got any action at all in high school.