Feb 28, 2010

Yellow Corn, Blue Balls

In grade 10, I had got together with a very cute and innocent boy in grade 9. I worked after-school at the pool and he was on the swim team, so we had gotten to know each other that way. A lot of the staff at the pool were all involved one way or another (interfering) during our long courtship. It was all very adorable when we finally shared our first kiss during one of the high school dances. After that, it was pretty much just the two of us together, all the time. The “L” bomb was mutually dropped very early in our relationship and thrown around rather cavalierly:
Love you.
Love you too.
Love you more.
Love you so much.

After about a month, we had discussed the possibilities of taking it to the next level, physically. We behaved like naughty children that knew they were talking about something that they weren’t supposed to; he would blush easily. At that age, there really weren’t many private opportunities that you could have with your boyfriend, since you usually shared your house with suspicious parents and the car option was still another 2 years away. So, we had made an elaborate plan to take a picnic lunch and a blanket and go to the center of the corn field that was close to his house.

We had thrashed our way though quite a few rows of corn that towered over our heads. We found a patch where there were smaller stalks and flattened them to lay down the blanket. We didn’t kiss for very long, as we both wanted to get to our goal: Giving him a blow job.

I un-zipped his jeans and he helped take them off. I knelt down in front of him and after 1 last mutual glance of approval, I went for it. He wasn’t a very verbal guy, so when I heard some moans, I thought I must have been doing something right. I had very little idea what I was doing... only basic knowledge from school yard conversations and seeing a few minutes from a friend’s parents’ adult video collection. Even though I'd been waving my lady bits in boys' faces for a couple of years by this point, I never returned the favor; I wasn't interested until now.

I did it for as long as I thought was necessary. I didn't mind it, but got a little bored and my jaw was cramping up.

I have a short attention span.

I didn’t know that there was usually a ‘grand finish’ and was supposed to continue until then. I had had enough, so I stopped. He didn’t offer any advice or encouragement to continue, especially when he was very shy to begin with. We just continued with our picnic lunch and then when home.

It was quite a long time before I learned about the ‘end goal’ when giving a guy head (Thank you, Australia). I just thought it was about the journey, not understanding that there was a final destination. When I finally found out, I felt so terrible! The poor guy must have suffered from a nasty case of blue balls after our corn field adventure (and a few times after) and just suffered in silence. Now, that was love, right? Poor kid. ;)

Feb 24, 2010

Skater guys

I had a love-hate relationship with the ‘cool skater’ guys at my high school. Although I did not fit into the typical cookie cutter ideal of a sexy girl, I never let it hinder my true personality... except with these jerks. When I was with my girlfriends, I was an extrovert, the joker, the center of most conversations and life of the party. All of my girlfriends were beautiful and thin; I never resented them for it, even though I was twice their size. I loved them for who they were, and they just all happened to be gorgeous as well. In turn, they loved me for who I was and we had great times together. It was only this particular group of guys that ever made me feel like total shit– like I was beneath them and not worthy of their attention.

These skater guys were our male counterparts in the chain of high school cliques, which is why I was logically attracted to some of them... we all liked the same type of music, fashion and lifestyle. My friends had had flings or long-term relationships with practically all of them and they never understood why I detested them so much. Although I loved my friends, they really had tunnel vision when it came to how things worked in high school. They didn’t need to see it from any other way – they were pretty and all the guys were always so nice to them – so what else did they need to know, right?

The worst was when one of them had a party. I usually tried to use some excuse not to go, but a few times I was convinced to attend. If it was on a Saturday night, that entire day I would physically feel sick with anxiety. What is worse than hate? I will tell you... It is complete indifference and that is what I got from these guys. The last party I subjected myself to I ended up playing with the family’s pet rabbit the entire night, while my friends all had a fabulous time getting drunk and hooking up with their guys. I left and no one even noticed; I cried the entire way home. The worst part was that I was crying because I was furious with myself for allowing these assholes to reduce me to be a withering wall flower reject. That was NOT who I was on any other day or with any other people. It sickened me that I gave these guys so much power over me. And why? Because they were cool and good looking? Probably. (Insert dry retch here)

It was so hard to contain my nature ability for sarcasm when one of my friends would reveal her latest crush on one of them and ask me, “What do you think of So-and-so? Isn’t he hot? He’s soooo sweet!”

I would raise one eyebrow and reply, “Ya, real sweet... like a fucking peach.” This was met with a defence like, “Oh, com'on! I don’t get why you don’t like him. He really is super nice... you just have to get to know him.”

“Yes, of course he’s nice to YOU– he wants to get into your pants!” This answer was always met with disbelief, even though it was the obvious truth. They didn’t WANT to get to know me because they didn’t want to get into MY pants. It was that simple, and that shallow, and that sad. They missed out on knowing a really cool and fun chick in me. I spent 4 years with these guys and I don’t think any of them said more to me than, “Got a light?”

About 3 years later, I was in line at the bank and I heard, “Stephanie! Hey Steph!” I saw the source of the voice and it was one of the hottest guys from that group of skaters and he was smiling... at me! I stared for a second and looked around. Perhaps there was another Julie that was skinnier and hotter than me standing behind me... but there wasn’t. I looked back at him, slowly waved in shock and forced a little grin. He waved back in affirmation and smiled again.

Wow! I never even thought he knew my name, even though we essentially hung out together for 4 years. It made me realise that some of those jerks from high school actually do manage to grow up, eventually.

Feb 17, 2010

Bear Hugs

It’s safe to say that grade 12 is a fairly important year – more so now then when I was in school – there isn’t a grade 13 anymore to help fix any grade 12 mistakes one might have made. I was doing OK and then just after mid-terms I started feeling incredibly tired all the time. This wasn’t the normal tiredness that often afflicts teenagers – it was a super-natural force of anti-energy and I was powerless to fight it. My mother was on my case for a couple weeks and then even she couldn’t ignore that it wasn’t like me to be this way. She took me to the doctor and he concluded that I had a pretty bad case of Mono and that all I could really do is stay home from school and sleep. Hummm... I think that can be arranged!

It was usually called ‘the kissing disease’ and I got a lot of friends trying to make fun of me about it, but I hadn’t kissed anyone recently and no one else at school ever came down with it. I got to stay home for almost an entire month! I did get some of the important assignments sent home for me to do, but for the most part, it was just me, my pyjamas and Days of Our Lives.

I was exempt from 2 final exams as well and got an extra week to take them. When I did finally take those exams, they put me in an empty, un-supervised classroom... I couldn’t resist... I took out my text books to help me out. Here’s a shocker... I did awesome on those exams! Both were credits that qualified towards the 6 that were needed for university applications – Thank you Mono! Ya, ya. Cheaters never win... or some crap like that. Don’t judge me – it’s a battlefield out there.

Anyway, after the month was up, I went back to the doctor and apparently I was fine to go back to school, but my spleen was enlarged. This is a common symptom of Mono, but mine was really, really swollen. It was actually noticeable through my body – so gross! My instructions were simple – go to school, but that’s it! No sports.

No basketball.
No hockey.
No volleyball.
Noooo sports! 
He stressed it about 3 more times before I left his office. Thanks! I think I got it; no sports!

When I got back, it was nice seeing all my friends again. A month in high school time was a like an entire season of 90210 – I missed so much! I talked to a few on the phone, but it definitely wasn’t the same. At lunch break, I finally got to see Justin; he was 6’11” of pure hotness with crystal blue eyes and a smile that set my pants on fire. I would have gladly contracted my Mono from him, but sadly my sexual liaisons with Justin occurred only in my head. We were really close friends, however. We played pick-up basketball together at lunch – I was point guard and he was my center (in more ways than one, baby). He was not hard to miss since he towered over most people at school; I saw him near the gym doors at the end of the hall. I yelled for him before he entered the gym. “JUSTIN!”

He looked over and shot me one of his million dollar smiles. “Heeeey! Look who’s finally decided to come back to the land of the living!” He ran towards me and swept me off my feet, literally. He gave me a bear hug and then threw me over his shoulder, into the fireman’s hold. A few of the other basketball guys were there and they all thought it was entertaining. Of course, I loved every second of this hands-on attention. He opened the doors that led outside and tossed me into a tall snow bank. We both had a good laugh and then we went inside together. I sat on the bench and watched them – since I was forbidden to play.

I started to feel uncomfortable later that afternoon and by the time I got home, I was hunched over it absolute agony; I could hardly walk. My mother arrived home to find me curled up in the foetal position and screaming in pain. She took me back to the hospital – she called ahead and my doctor was waiting there when I arrived. I was still crying and wincing when they put me on to the gurney.

He pursed his lips in disappointment, “You were playing sports, weren’t you! I knew it. I knnnnnew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“No! I promise! I haven’t... Owwww! I didn’t... Ahhhhh!”


I really couldn’t concentrate long enough to think about what I did... and then it finally hit me... Justin’s bear hug. I told the doctor and he rolled his eyes profusely. My spleen was like an over-inflated water balloon and when Justin hugged me, it popped.

Well... in reality, it was more like a tear. I had to be admitted into the hospital and the only space they had was in the I.C.U. That part was a bit depressing, but at least they didn’t need to operate – luckily. The just had to keep me comfortable and wait it out to see if my spleen would stop internally bleeding on its own and scab over the tear. I stayed doped up on pain medication (maybe a bit more than I actually needed) and there I was... for yet another week off school... although this time I got daily phone calls from Justin (fuelled by guilt no doubt, but his concern for me was heaven) and I was back watching Days of Our Lives, which I must say, was marvellously more entertaining whilst high on Demerol.
This is what Justin wrote on the back of his school photo for me.

Feb 16, 2010

Scene of the Crime

The first time I had sex, yep, I remember, although it is something I would like to forget. So there I was, 14 years old and in a “real relationship” with my boyfriend (When you’re 14 and in a relationship for 6 months, that’s “forever”). So we decided that it was time to do the deed. We were responsible about it; we talked about it and we waited for a bit. My friend and her older sister (who was friends with my boyfriend) were having a party. Perfect… I could tell my parents that I was sleeping over at Diana’s house. It wasn’t exactly lying; it just wasn’t telling the whole truth.

So there we were – young, drunk and in love; it was time. We picked a dark room upstairs, found the bed and starting making out. I have to admit, he was a nice guy; he asked if this was going to be it and I answered ‘yes’. He had a condom and we were ready! He even made sure I was ok at the beginning and during; like I said… nice guy.

What I remember about the feeling of the first time was: OUCH! It wasn’t pleasant. I just kept thinking “this can’t be it; this isn’t what I heard and read about... we must not be doing it right. It must get better, just wait!” It didn’t get better – it got worse. When it was over, which was quickly, I wondered if I bled. I heard that the first time when your “cheery gets popped” you bleed. I didn’t feel anything “pop” so I put my hands down there to feel around. It was wet everywhere and slimy. Yuck! He didn’t seem to notice. He wanted to get up and get a drink, so I said that was ok and I’d get cleaned up and meet him downstairs. I had to stay and see what happened without him being there. When I heard him walk down the stairs, I jumped up, shut the door and began searching for the light switch. I found it, turned it on and saw what looked like a horrific murder scene! Brownish-red blood was everywhere; all over the sheets, all over me and worse, all over the mattress. I looked around and quickly realized that we were in my friend’s sister’s room. I totally just stained her sister’s bed with my ‘first time’ blood and fluids. Oh, shit! I was mortified.

My first instinct was to hide the evidence. I used the already disgusting sheets to clean myself up, got dressed and went into the hall in search of the linen closet. The whole time I was worrying that if anyone was to come upstairs, what would I say? I was scared and my heart was pounding. So I began to strip the bed; it was saturated. I thought if I were to flip the mattress that maybe no one would notice! I couldn’t flip it - that didn’t work. I decided to soak up as much as I could with the old sheets and some towels and then I remade the bed. It looked like nothing happened on the surface; it was a perfectly clean and tidy room, except for the heap of bloody towels and sheets in the corner. I couldn’t find the damn laundry hamper.

I had to leave; I couldn’t take the guilt any longer. My boyfriend was also probably wondering where the hell I was, so off I went. I was expecting to walk into a room with everyone looking at me and whispering. Thank god that wasn’t the case! The party was going on as normal; everyone doing their own thing. My boyfriend and his friends were in the pool, so I knew that they probably knew by now. I told my close friends, but left out the bloody details, literally. I never told anyone about the gory aftermath. I went home early the next morning, as to avoid the sister at all cost. I don’t think I could have hidden my guilt if she asked anyone what happened. I hoped she found somewhere else to sleep that night.

To this day, I am SO sorry for the mess I left. Come on! I was only 14, but even still, I’m profoundly sorry for tainting your sister’s childhood room.

A Near Miss

The morning after a party I had been at, I was feeling rough. I wasn’t a big drinker, but that night I went all out, mainly due to some issues that I was having with my boyfriend; we had been arguing a lot recently but I still really loved him. Even though I had drunk a lot that night, I still was surprised when I suddenly needed to throw up after I attempted an English muffin for breakfast. About an hour later, I took another visit to the toilet, but it was just an awful dry heave. After that, I felt OK for the rest of the day – just a little tired.

The next day, I had another not-so-pleasant afternoon with my boyfriend. He had been overly moody and distant the last few weeks and it was complete torture. My mind would race all the time with possible scenarios; usually during classes. Needles to say, my school work was taking a beating over this situation as well. I went out drinking the next Saturday night as well, even though I made a promise to myself that I wasn’t going to make a habit of drowning my sorrows. I wasn’t sick that next morning, just a stifling headache that time.

Just after lunch I started getting the worst cramps of my life. I never really kept track of my period, so I wasn’t sure if I was due, but I assumed that was it – but I had NEVER experienced pain like that. I curled up on my bed and although it didn’t help much, I stayed there for a while... until I really had to go to the bathroom. I was still cramping and I stayed on the toilet for an eternity. It was disgusting – like the worst period of my life. There was so much blood, but it was a little chunky and really dark. I didn’t feel like I was dying or anything, so I just let it all come out. Luckily, there wasn’t anyone else home all afternoon, so I just stayed in the bathroom for a couple hours. It seemed pointless trying to contain this flow with a pad or tampon. It got under control later in the afternoon and I was OK by the time dinner time came around, but I was still concerned as to what the hell happened.

The next day, I told my friend what happened. She said it sounded like I had a miscarriage. WHAT? I was pregnant? OH MY GOD! She took the afternoon off school with me and went to a free clinic that she knew about in the city. They took me fairly quickly; we barely had enough time to joke about all the flavoured condoms that were in a giant bowl in the tiny waiting room. She took a urine sample from me and asked me a few questions about what I experienced. When she came back, she confirmed that my HCG levels were slightly elevated. She then took an ultrasound and it sealed the deal. I had been pregnant, but wasn’t anymore. There wasn’t really anything that I needed to do – just to keep a close eye on the heavy bleeding and if it continued for much longer that I should come back or go to the hospital. I was totally fine after a couple days. The bleeding had lightened to a normal period flow and then by the weekend, it was done.

I didn’t really mourn the loss of my baby much – mainly because I didn’t even know I was pregnant until it was too late. It was like nature had made the decision for me; a decision that would not have been too difficult to make, but still much easier this way. I was only 17 and not ready to have a baby, no way! The only heart string that pulled a little was the fact that it was my boyfriend’s child. Although we weren’t on the best of terms, I really did love him deeply and I took comfort in that. I don’t think he could have handled it if I had to ask him to contribute to a decision about a pregnancy to which he was 50% responsible for. He probably would have blown a circuit or two. Men can be so damn fragile, seriously! I never did end up telling him what happened; I didn’t see any point. I sure as hell was A LOT more diligent with my birth control habits after that experience– that is for sure!

Feb 13, 2010

Counting Fruit Loops

I have O.C.D; I’m a ‘counter’. It’s not a major case, and it doesn’t affect how I live my life, but I’ve had it since I was a little kid. Basically, when I eat things with a high number of pieces (cereal, vegetables, fries, candy, etc.), I make sure I have 4 bunches of 4 at the end, and then will eat those 1 bunch at a time. Then, when I get to the last sacred group of 4 (usually the best, or longest) I eat those 4-3-2-1. Perfection! In some cases colour is also an important variable during my sorting, especially M&M’s and Fruit Loops.

I preferred to perform this ritual whenever possible, but if I was at a public place where it would be strategically illogical to do so, like in a car, I didn’t bother. Like I said – it didn’t rule my life. Not very many people ever noticed (not even my parents), until I was 19.

There were a bunch of us hanging out in the common area of our residence. We were stoned and had the munchies, the usual mid-week scenario. The easiest cure for this side effect was cereal, with or without milk, depending on availability. We went through it like water, but it was still cheaper than ordering a pizza every time we got high. I also seemed to find my ritual even more gratifying when I was on drugs. One of the guys in our circle of dysfunctional friends was freakishly intelligent and apparently abnormally observant as well, for a male, anyway. Usually, men hardly ever notice life’s little details. During this particular instance, I had whittled my collection down to my ‘special final 4’ Fruit Loops and this guy reached over into my bowl and TOOK THREE!

“Um, what are you doing? Put those back, please.”

He was grinning from ear to ear, “Why? You NEED them for something?” He then proceeded to let out an evil laugh, as he knew he had discovered something about me that no one else knew. He seemed pretty damn proud of himself. He then shoved those 3 in his mouth and concluded with, “Mmmmmmm!” I was tremendously annoyed with him, and inexplicably turned on at the same time.

He continued to torture me about this over the next couple years. If he had fries, he would purposely offer me only 3, and withheld the 4th from me, just so he could watch me squirm. He also enjoyed pointing out my O.C.D. to others, to his immense amusement. It really got under my skin. What can I say? I fell in love with that smartass as well.

Feb 12, 2010

Scarred for Life

Here is a reminder that sometimes your friends are incorrect and you shouldn’t listen to them. I have the scar to prove it.

I’m in high school at a bush party. We came from a small town and that’s what we did every weekend in “the valley”. We drank, we listened to guitars, and we smoked pot, along with everything else illegal. Every once in a while the local police had to show their faces in the valley and when that happened you would hear the dreaded screech “5-0”. The place would scatter; kids running here and there and all over the place. Since we were regulars and knew the forest like the back of our hand, we were always able to outsmart “the pigs”. We knew the back trails and the best hiding spots. We would wait them out and continue the party once they had left.

One night I may have had a just a little too much to drink. When the “5-0” showed up and we all ran; I ran the wrong direction. It was dark, I was drunk and then suddenly I fell... then I was wet. Shit… I found the creek. I fell in the water and my leg sort of stung. I didn’t dare move– I could see the scanning flashlights above my head. I figured I was safe in the crevasse of the creek; except being wet and getting cold. I wondered how long it would take for the cops to bust a few kids and be gone. How long could I sit in the creek? Did I mention my leg hurt a bit? I decided to feel it out; I felt something slimly. From past experiences I realized that the slime was blood mixing with water. I could then feel that there was a huge rip in my jeans. Damn it! My favourite jeans; I looked hot in those jeans.

Eventually all was quiet and it was time for everyone to come out of the forest. Some people were wondering around and trying to find their friends. I knew our crew usually met at the top of the hill, so off I went. I had a beer here and there with people I passed. Did I mention my leg hurt? I figured it couldn’t be that bad, I was walking after all. So I finally get to the top of the hill. My friends were loyally waiting and we decided to walk into town for a slice of pizza. I thought: Great! There were lights in town so I could check out my leg.

We got to the plaza and there were other “valley kids” there as well. I located the cut that was on the back of my leg, but I couldn’t see it so I asked my friends, “Hey guys, check out my leg!” They didn’t seem shocked; they said there was blood but it was “just a scratch”. I was happy with that. The second group of “valley kids” thought otherwise. I heard someone say, “Oh my God! You should go the hospital!” Someone else piped in, “That’s pretty deep – put some pressure on it.” My response to that was, “Na, it’s just a scratch – it’ll be fine!” I probably had enough booze in me to successfully mask the pain, so to me, it was “just a scratch”. I eventually went home to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, my leg was stuck to my PJ’s and my PJ’s were stuck to my bed. Feeling the effects of a hangover and not really remembering too much from the night before, I ignored this odd situation and got up – ripping the cut open again. Blood everywhere... again. Oh well! I got some peroxide and some bandages from the cupboard and dressed my wound. It took forever to heal and I should have gotten at least 10 stitches.

Moving ahead quite a few years later, I now have a disgustingly large purple scar 3 inches in length and about 2cm wide on the back of my leg, which, according to my drunken ass friends, was “just a scratch”. Cheers!

Feb 2, 2010

Tale of the Turd

I had a relationship with a guy when I was 17 that was more comfortable rather than passionate... more like 2 best mates that also had sex, a lot. We would try different things and often discuss it after. He had exceptionally boney hips, and it got to the point where my inner thighs were so bruised from sex that it hurt to walk. The suggestion of having more missionary sex at that point made me cringe at the sheer thought of pounding against those aching wounds. We switched to doggie-style for the next few days and then the inevitable question was proposed.

“Wanna try...you know...up the arse?”

“Well, OK, but we’re going to have to use lots of lube, and go REALLY slow and be gentle!”

I should also add that his older brother’s nickname was ‘Horse’ and that similar genetic features were strong in his family, which didn’t appease my fears about what was about to happen. We got the lubricant out and even though he was very gentle, after about 3 thrusts in about 5 seconds, THAT WAS ENOUGH! GET IT OUT! OWWWW-EEEEE!

So, take the sensation of the most painful shit you’ve ever had, and then double it. I guess a lot of people enjoy that feeling, but it wasn’t for me. Apparently, there is a G-spot somewhere up there too– I will gladly be leaving mine up there, alone and undiscovered.

My boyfriend was uncircumcised, and as he was cleaning the lubricant off himself, he discovered a tiny chunk of turd under his foreskin. He jumped up like he was on fire and proceeded to squeal like a terrified little girl. I was embarrassed, since it was my turd, but I dealt with it by laughing hysterically at the spectacle that he was making of himself. I don’t see why he was so shocked, considering where his dick had just been. If you go digging in holes, you’re bound to find some dirt.