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5 posts tagged men
Why Are Men Always Wanting To Pee On Me?
Actual Chat Session Between Nick & Sara LeeAnn, April 30, 2012.
I like how men comment on your Facebook status updates like they’re marking their territory.
Shut up.
You shut up.
Ugh. Remember when *JC used to have to comment on allllllllllll my posts, no matter how insignificant, insisting on calling me “my love” and “darling,” and otherwise making a spectacle of himself? Why are men always wanting to pee on me?
Yeah… Bwahaha! I remember. And, actually, I have always wanted to try that once.
Peeing on me? I swear to god, if you ever try to do that, I will brand your face with a waffle iron.
Not you, specifically. But I’ve heard about it and always been curious. That’s not weird right?
Oh. Then, carry on. Yes, it’s fucking weird. But, men are weird.
Word.
I want to blog about this. Or maybe I’ll just post our chat session. Unless you mind people knowing you want to pee on women.
Go for it. It could be a fun test to see if women will still sleep with me knowing that I may or may not pee on them while they are or are not asleep
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!
I’m really creepy sometimes.
If by, “creepy,” you actually mean, “deranged,” then yeah, okay. But, don’t fret. There are women (like myself) who enjoy “deranged.”
So…you’re saying I can pee on you?
Fuck right off. It’s a control thing, right? Why men want to pee on me – figuratively and literally?
Yep. Sure is.
My girlfriend, *Rebekah, had this creep ass boyfriend who pretended to want to have shower sex with her JUST so he could pee on her. I mean, it would be one thing if he then fucked her properly, but… Nope. Just peed and then was like, “nevermind.”
Bwaaha. Your friend *Rebekah is still alive, right?
Um. Yes.Why?
I’m just saying, boys that only want to pee on girls are boys who usually cut up said girls and put them in the freezer.
Yeah. Well, she dumped him after a few hundred times of being peed on. (Peed upon? Hmmm.) I guess she located her self-respect - and her daddy’s credit card, if I remember correctly. She peed on his toothbrush before she left, though.
The problem is, he probably peed on his own before that.
I just threw up in my mouth a little.
People do weird shit, Sara. This is America
This is ‘Merica goddamn it! We pee on our women and then jerk off to Japanese cartoons! You have to say that with a redneck accent or it’s not funny. Also, you have to be drinking Keystone. Which, coincidentally, tastes like pee.
The only time I ever shotgunned a beer, it was keystone. I immediately hated every college frat party I had ever been to. Which was zero. But the message is the same.
F*ck frat boys. And not in the good way.
They probably pee on each other during beta-ki-alpha pledge week.
Guaranteed. So, is that about the point you noticed your initial stirrings of wanting to pee on women, then?
It may be. Henceforth, we can now trace the origins of men wanting to pee on women to college, whenst they were all shotgunning keystones and peeing on each other. We just solved one of life’s mysteries. We’re the tits.
Yeah we are. I’m mentally high-fiving you whilst simultaneously peeing on you. It’s very manly.
Ewwwwwwww. Girls CANNOT pee on boys. What a fucking weirdo.
Well, that’s hardly fair.
Disgusting
Mmmn hmmm. That’s exactly my point. Or would be, had I a point. There is a real double standard here.
Welcome to ‘Merica!
You guys mark your territory by cumming on our faces and peeing on us, and all we get to do is buy you ugly ties and “accidentally” use the wrong guard on the hair clippers. No fair. That’s it. I’m moving to Delhi, India.
Who the fuck gives their boyfriends bad haircuts? First of all, most guys don’t care about their hair. You’re the ones who have to be seen with us.
I know some women personally who have done that just so other women know their guy is taken. No joke.
And we’re the weird ones?
No, you’re the gross ones.
Touche.
If you see a guy with an uneven haircut and a butt ugly shirt, 9 times out of 10 he’s married - wedding ring or not.
If you see a girl with her hair sticking up, she’s taken as well
Right.
I have to pee.
You always have to pee. Because you have the prostate cancer.
Only when I drink!!!
I’m pretty sure you have the prostate cancer when you’re not drinking, too. Wait. Are you drinking right now? It’s 12:49 in the afternoon, dude. And I’m not judging, I’m jealous.
It’s been a long day.
Sorry, baby. I wish you had a laptop so we could sit and drink and work together. Then, you wouldn’t be an actual alcoholic.
The best artists are alcoholics. Hemmingway, Poe, etc…
Bukowski. Yeah. They’re dead. Just… you know, sayin.
Duh. They lived a hundred years ago.
Did any of them die of the prostate cancer? You should Google that.
Motherfucker!
What?????
People pee, Sara!!!
This is ‘Merica.
To You, From Us, With Love- A Love Letter To Women
So I’m sitting there eating my dry eggs, tasteless biscuits, and floppy bacon listening to her tell me the latest updates on her ‘relationship’ with this guy, we’ll call him ‘Tattool.’ I’m focusing on my shitty food and trying to maintain eye contact (she was wearing a tight tank top and her nipples are pierced. It was hard to focus on her eyes).
Everything she’s telling me, I’ve heard before. She had this really, really great setup with Tattool, whereby they weren’t dating but were sleeping together. It was just like, really, really perfect. They’re friends with benefits. They call each other when they’re bored/lonely/horny and don’t really see each other otherwise. She comes over at night, when he’s done at the bar (and, presumably, couldn’t find anyone better. Which makes sense, cause there IS no one better than her), they have sex, and then fall asleep together. There was no drama, no expectations, no jealousy, nothing. Until there was.
You see, Friends with Benefits doesn’t work. Ever. Somebody always falls for the other one, and then gets hurt in the process. This is what happened to the girl. She started to like him. Of course, it didn’t help that they agreed to be “exclusive.” Which, I guess, means that they would only sleep with each other. Basically, this guy is a genius. He talked her into only sleeping with him, but still didn’t have to buy her dinner, take her out, actually make her feel like, ya know, an actual person with actual feelings. He actually told her, and I quote, “it wouldn’t be good to be seen in public with you.” Tattool is a lot smarter than I originally thought.
So she starts to like him. Because she’s a girl. And girls are dumb. We were sitting there talking about this, I was giving her my hollow, cliché-addled advice that she won’t take, she was pretending to listen, and I came to some very helpful conclusions for you, hypothetical female reader. So, here it is. A love letter from me, a man, to you, a woman.
Dear Princess,
You are not special. Don’t ever think that. You’re not different than the other girls that we, the men, have been seeing. You’re not going to be the one that “changes us.” You don’t “get us.” We’re not Gerard Butler(unfortunately) and you’re not Katherine Heigl. You can’t “see into us.” You, princess, are, for lack of better term, a piece of ass. You’re someone we call when we’re bored/lonely/horny. This is not a relationship, you are not our girlfriend, and you are not special.
But, we’ll tell you that you are, because we know that’s what you want to hear. And we’re good at telling you what you want to hear. And you’ll continue to fall for it because for some strange reason, you still think that you’re somebody who deserves somebody else who will make you feel like the most important person in the world- who will tell you that you’re beautiful, and actually mean it- who wants nothing more than to love you with everything inside of them. Why do you still think this? Haven’t we, collectively, worked for years trying to make you feel like the opposite?
Also, don’t kid yourself, kid. You’re not going to be the one that we end up with. Get the visions of the wedding, the honeymoon, the kids, and the happily-ever-after out of your head. They are visions of grandeur and you’re either naïve or stupid if you think we’re even close to that kind of story. You’re lucky if we take you to Applebees for half-priced boneless wings. We’ll have been drinking before.
You see, something happened to us that embittered us on the idea of an actual “relationship.” Whether it was because of our parents, our friends, or even our own previous relationships, we don’t like them, don’t trust them, don’t want them. Yes, it’s stupid. Yes, it’s a defense mechanism. Yes it’s a way to justify sleeping with you without actually having to date you. Because we “don’t trust relationships,” we’re a tortured soul, instead of just an asshole. But whatever, you’re dumb enough to buy into it because, for some reason, you like being around us. And, as previously mentioned, you think you can change us. You can’t.
If we ever do end up with someone, it’s not going to be you. You see, we already had you. The moment you have sex with us is the moment we lose at least half our interest in you. That’s the risk you take when you sleep with us. Yes, we’ll still keep you around. But don’t kid yourself. It’s not because we actually care about you or even really value you. It’s because you’re good at sex, and it’s easier to text you at 2:00 in the morning than to try to pick up someone else. It’s cheaper too.
Don’t get us wrong, we don’t want you to stop having sex with us. You may be thinking to yourself that maybe it would be a good idea to not sleep with us on the first second third date. You may even be ideally wondering what it would be like to be in a relationship that ISN’T based on sex. You may, and God we hope not, be thinking that maybe the best kind of sex you could ever have is sex with the one person who you know you love and who you know loves you. This is the kind of sex that actually means something, that isn’t ‘fucking’ but, gasp, is actually making love. This is the kind of sex that you could have on your wedding night with your onetruelove. This is the kind of sex that you hear about in love songs and see in the movies and at one point, maybe when you were younger, thought actually existed. It doesn’t.
Count how many times we said love in that last paragraph. That’s what you want, and we know that. It’s what you think you deserve, and we know that too. This is why we will continue to exploit that dream, that vision, that childhood fairytale, to get exactly what we want from you. We want sex, we want an ego-boost, we want to make sure that we’re the ones who are in control of this ‘relationship,’ or lackthereof. You see, we’re just as insecure as you are, if not more. So it helps when we have someone like you to manipulate and control, because then it means that we don’t have to face the fact that we’re lonely, and scared, and want so much to believe in love, too. You do serve many purposes baby, be proud!
In closing, we will continue to make you false promises, tell you pretty things, look you in your eyes, and caress your thigh at just the right moment. You’ll continue to wait for our call, our text, our invitation. And you’ll continue to enjoy it because instead of actually realizing the value of yourself and finding someone who’s sole purpose is to love you with every fiber of his being, you’ll get to continue to be our booty call. Instead of having that perfect first kiss, with hands sweating and hearts beating, that kiss that you could only dream about when you were a little girl because you didn’t think kisses like that actually happened, that kiss that reminds you that there is a God and He wants you to feel a love so strong and so powerful that it radiates off of you and moves through you from your head to your toes- instead of having that first kiss, you’ll get to continue to fuck us. Instead of falling asleep with him, you’ll get to wake up to us.
You’re welcome.
With Love,
The Men Who Don’t Deserve You
My Secrets, Not My Shame
I don’t tell the following stories. Ever. I have never written them but in private letters or my childhood diary. One was splashed all over the newspapers once, long ago - but only the facts, “just the facts, Miss.” I don’t breathe life into these by recounting mainly because they’re painful enough in the transient, surreal images of reliving, that the retelling about sends me over the edge.
Sometimes though, in the sharing of secrets and shame, there is sweet release and revelation, maybe forgiveness, even acceptance. Of course, other times, there is only humiliation and the feeling of wanting to be swallowed up into the center of the earth and… just dead. I’m betting when I hit “PUBLISH POST,” I’ll feel a little of both. And I’ll be better for it.
I was 5 years old. My step-father grabbed my hand and said he was going to read my palm. I was hesitant, wide-eyed, still as a mouse. He dug his fingernail into a crease in my hand and said, “This is your life line. Oh… I’m sorry, but you’re not going to live very long.” His laugh was manic, the way it was very late at night when all was dark and quiet. I tried to wiggle my hand away but he held tight. He traced along another crease in my hand and said, “But this is your sex line. You’re going to have great sex.” I didn’t know that word, but I hated the way he looked at me when he said it.
I was 7 years old. A tall, black boy from the big grades shoved me up against the concrete wall outside the playground. With one hand, he held my neck, and with the other, my crotch. His breath was rank as he whispered right into my face, “I want to fuck you, white girl.” I went home to my mother and asked her what “fuck” meant. She brought me into her bedroom, and told me about the birds and the bees. I sobbed, hysterically, while she stroked my hair.
I was 11 years old. I wasn’t allowed to shave yet because my step-mom said so, but I had the lightest blonde hair showing up on my chicken legs and under my arms, and the boys in intramural P.E. made fun of me about it. I hid from them in the girls bathroom by pretending to my teacher that I had an asthma attack. Funny thing was I never had asthma. Funnier still, I was pretty certain she knew that.
I hated the Indian kids from the reservation because they all hated me. The boys especially were so scary. They spat at me, tossed my book bag on the floor of the bus, groped me when my back was turned; but, one spring during our field trip to Kettleman Hills Waste Management Plant, I let Jake - a 7th grade Tachi boy - hold my hand. The following Friday during our school dance though, he was said to have fingered my best friend Lacey. I didn’t know exactly what that meant but it sounded bad, and Lacey never spoke to me again, so I was sure it was true.
I was 13 years old. I was in the back bedroom playing truth or dare with my best friend Diana (pronounced Deeahna because she was very Hispanic and proud of it, or maybe she was Hispanic and very proud of it) and her big brother Juanito. Of course, being me, I wanted a dare. Juanito thought a moment, turned to his little sister and commanded her to leave the room. She argued. A string of angry Spanish words and a flying book sent her out, presumably to tell her grandmother.
Then we were alone.
He said, “lick it.” I had absolutely no idea what he was referring to. When he unzipped his pants, I was froze, looked away, instantly began to cry. He laughed at me, and told me to get out of his room. He became my boyfriend a few months later. I couldn’t get out of touching it, but I refused to lick it.
I was 14 years old. I was seated outside on the grass at my science teacher’s house while Mr. H readied the lawn mower. He had driven me home after softball practice that evening because my mom, sisters and I were having a crawfish dinner at his place that night. He and my mom were dating. Maybe. I didn’t know. I went inside to use the restroom, and he shouted to use his because the other toilet was broken. I walked through his bedroom and suddenly he was behind me. He took my wrists in his hands, spun me to face him, and asked, “Have you ever been kissed?”
I stuck my chin out and said, “I have a boyfriend.”
He laughed thinly, definitely at me, and I was angry but also embarrassed. He said, “You haven’t been kissed by a man.” He was holding either side of my face then, and without warning, he stuck his tongue deep in my mouth. My whole body shook with shock and fear and disgust and something maybe like desire, but I could feel his mustache and then his hands were kneading the flesh of my barely-there breasts and I was wishing I could die so I didn’t have to know what all of this meant. He shoved me roughly away, and growled, “Get out of here now before I do more than kiss you.”
I ran halfway down the block. I think part of me never came back.
I was 16 years old. I wouldn’t have sex with my boyfriend no matter how much he pleaded with me, because it was a sin. I was waiting until I was married. Jesus had forgiven me for letting Mr. H defile my body and I was born again, washed clean by his blood, a virgin where it counted. Turned out my boyfriend was gay and he knew I wouldn’t even have sex with him, which is why he chose me and pretended to want me and love me and have intentions of marrying me one day. It was a good cover.
I was 19 years old. It was my wedding night. We were in a quaint, little bed and breakfast right down the street from our house. We were both nervous, so we drank beer and played Scrabble. For three hours. As I lay there afterward, I felt disappointed, and proud. Because I had waited. I had voluntarily lost my virginity to my husband. On my wedding night. Then I wept, because I wanted it right back.
I was 20 years old. Nate was a recovering crack addict from my mother’s Narcotics Anonymous group. I wanted to divorce my husband, kill my mother, and run far away from everyone I knew - but mostly myself. So I let him. A few months later, I packed my car, moved to Hollywood, and slept on his friend’s couch for another few months, all the while letting him… I pretended this was my choice, it was freedom, it was me finally breaking free. But I was lying. So was Nate. He was not recovering at all. He stole my wallet. He stole my car. And even then I knew that was the least of what I had lost to him.
I was 23 years old. My mother was dead because I abandoned her. I was hiding from my family, my memories and my guilt down in San Diego - living with my boyfriend of nearly 2 years, playing at a fairytale. I tried to cry it out in the shower, and when he was at work, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He was disgusted by my grief and depression. Toward the end, he wouldn’t touch me anymore. I tried to give him a blow job one night and he stopped me, asked me turn and face away from him. He said he wasn’t attracted to me because he had seen me cry too many times. And I died inside.
I was 26 years old. I was pregnant. The tissue that once tried to murder me from the inside out with its toxicity… the body that was once so broken and emaciated from chemo and whiskey and guilt… the skinny ankles and freckled nose and long toes and smallish breasts I loathed all my life were all rendered irrelevant… because I was a goddess. I adored my soft, supple skin and the roundness of my tummy and the sway in my buttocks. My husband didn’t delight in me anymore, ever, but I delighted in myself enough that I didn’t much care.
I was 28 years old. I wore a tiny black nightie and a shy smile. I sauntered into the living room and stood adjacent to the television where his eyes were focused on some CNN news program that was giving me a headache. I said, “Hey baby. You want to come to bed?”
He looked up. Saw me. But didn’t. He said, “I’m kind of hungry. I think I’d like a bacon sandwich. Will you make me one?”
I stood rooted to the hardwood floor, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, my chest tight with… hurt so deep and fear so vast… but I said nothing. I walked into our kitchen, rejected and humiliated, crying silent tears as I made my husband his sandwich.
I’m 32 years old.
I’m 5’2 and 127 lbs. My hair is wavy, but not curly enough to be pretty, and I’ve noticed some grays - which are really more silver, and I’m glad for that. My eye teeth are crooked. Someone said it gives my smile character, but I always feel self-conscious about it. I have an ass that won’t quit, but my breasts are mediocre at best. I have a garish scar on my right hip, a cigarette burn mark on the inside of my left wrist, and a dark mole that looks like a chocolate chip near my belly button.
This body is mine. It’s mine to photograph, mine to write about, mine to learn and loathe, live and love in.
Yes, I want to be touched. I’ve always wanted to be touched so very much; but, I’ll decide by whom, and I’ll damn sure be more discerning… because a body this strong, this wildly fierce, honest, and wide open as mine deserves to be touched by only the most worthy. Or not at all.
xo. Sara LeeAnn
Cockblocking For Dummies
(Actual Text Conversation)
Him: “Want to know a secret?”
Me: “Absoutely.”
Him: “You sure?”
Me: (thinking it’s a picture of his 11-inch penis) “I’m sure. Particularly if it involves a unicorn or vodka or cake or me winning an obscene sum of money from a dead relative I don’t like.”
Him: “Haha. Well. I have a hairy back. It’s out of control!”
Me: “I… can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”
Him: “Does it matter?”
Me: “Are you f*cking kidding me?”
Him: “What?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Hello??”
“Wtf?????”
Dearest Gentleman:
If you have not yet seen a certain lady naked, but would like to, please adhere strictly to the following guidelines so as not to cockblock yourselves:
Early Omission = Good. Early Emission = Bad
1. Never, ever, f*cking ever, under any circumstances tell us about your excessive back hair, butt pimples, athlete’s foot or body odor. Leave this to our own discovery. If you actually have the good fortune to make it to the bedroom with one of us, we’re willing to undress you, and have brought along a condom, you have a 50% chance we like you enough to ignore the above deformities - at least long enough to have sex with you… just this once. If you can hold out for more than 10 minutes we may even propose to you and you’ll never have to tell another girl about that unsightly rash.
We’re Just Not That Into Her
2. Please cease talking about your ex-girlfriend. “Jessa likes tuna sandwiches,” and “Jessa used to paint her toenails black, too,” and “Jessa didn’t like giving blow jobs as much as you do.” Shut. Up. We don’t care about getting to know Jessa. We are trying to get to know you. If you continually manage to finagle her name into polite conversation we think you’re still hung up on her to the point of being a stalker, or are trying to make us jealous. Desperation and immaturity are not attractive. So, once and for all, the only time it is acceptable for you to bring up your ex-girlfriend is to say, “My ex-girlfriend just escaped from prison and has vowed to mame and murder any new girl I go out with.”
I ♥ Gay Men. But I Don’t Want To Sleep With Them. (Anymore.)
3. Stop posing shirtless on your Facebook profile. Unless you have the pecs of Brad Pitt circa 1994 in Legends of The Fall, it does not impress us. We think you are gay. Or we at least hope you are. And we begin mentally setting you up with our best gay guy-pal, and daydreaming about how helpful you will be when we reupholster our antique wing back chair or wallpaper our walk-in-closet. However, we do not invite you to bed. Epic fail for you.
Jeffrey Dahmer Is Not Sexy.
4. Omit phrases like, “I look into your eyes and see my unborn children” from your vocabulary. Permanently. That was adorable on Days of Our Lives. And in that Danielle Steel paperback novel we read when we were 14 years old. When you say it over mozzarella sticks and your fourth Blue Moon at The Wonderbar, you sound insincere at best. At worst, you sound like a total creep ass who very well might steal our panties, peer through the bushes and into our window with binoculars while we sleep, and maybe filet us up and stuff us in your van.
“Halvsies” Is Not A Word.
5. Also, quit asking us, “Wanna go halvsies?” Firstly, no. Hell no. The answer is always no. If you asked us to dinner and we agreed to gift you with the pleasure of our company, we do, in fact, want you to pay for it. Woman’s lib is rad, feminism is sexy and yes, we have a job and can feed ourselves, but that’s not the damned point already. The tab sitting on the table for 15 minutes while you wait to see if we’ll pick it up is just embarrassing. Get out your wallet and be a gentleman. Secondly, “halvsies” is not even a word. Unless you’re a 10-year-old girl.
Save The Braggadociousness For Your Buddies
6. Discontinue your incessant bragging about your expensive apartment, your truck, your jetski, your travel benefits, your 401k, ad infinitum. We instantly envision your shriveled, shrunken penis. Just so you know.
Aw…. So Cute.
7. Research synonyms for the adjective, “cute.” As much as we appreciate a sincere compliment, we think you can do better than that. Your little sister is cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Mini-Coopers are cute. Old people on the front porch drinking lemonade going senile together are cute. Show us you have exceeded a third-grade reading level and we may show you our waterproof vibrator.
Mama’s Boys Need Not Apply
8. Do not - under any circumstances - admit that your mother still cooks your meals, buys your clothes, does your laundry, pays your car insurance or files your taxes for you. Chances are, if she tends to the basic functions of your every day life, you are not ready to function on your own in ours. We want to be sure you know where to stick the fabric softener before we let you dirty our sheets.
Chivalry Is Dead Over My Dead Body
9. Ask us out in person or on the telephone. No, we will not meet you at the Chili’s. Clean the interior of your car and come pick us up. Do not honk from the driveway, but rather come to the door, preferably holding fresh flowers or a bottle top-shelf vodka. Tell us we look -insert synonym for “cute” here- and help with our coat. Bonus points if we notice you can’t help but inhale deeply when you catch the scent of our perfume. Lose a turn if you grope a breast or pinch an ass-cheek.
Broncos: 27, You: Big, Fat Zero!
10. Pay attention to us, even if it’s only to look at our decolletage (that means the area above our boobs) or watch our lips move. If you are so fascinated by sports scores scrolling on the television above our heads, or can’t stop glancing at your phone for text messages, to appreciate our company we will assume you aren’t interested, and will attribute this to your very obvious lack of taste and not to anything we are inherently lacking. Oh. And, we will probably sneak our phone number to the bartender - because he’s been staring at us all night.
Finally, gentleman, please realize all we woman want is someone who makes us laugh, makes us dinner every once in awhile, makes us weak in the knees, and makes us orgasm in 9 minutes. Your back hair, receding hairline, ex-girlfriend, mama, bank account, jacuzzi tub, yearly trip to Antigua and lack of vocabulary are all just details we can take or leave.
No need to cockblock yourselves.
xo. Sara LeeAnn
