I've got a good one for you.

So remember that guy I was dating last year about this time? You 'member, the one that made me hate all men for about a week? Today I was searching for something in my email and it brought up an old message from him referring to a really embarrassing thing that had happened the night before. It took me a moment to realize what the message referred to...and then I started laughing so hard that my office-mate asked what was so funny. I told her it's really not work-appropriate. And it so isn't. This is another one of those entries not for the faint of heart, or loin. If you're related to me it's probably WAY more than you want to know, if you've dated me it will be unsettling, and if you don't know me you will be appalled that I'm crass enough to publish something like this on the world wide web. But, for me, it's liberating. I didn't write this story down before because I felt like it would be a disservice to him, but you know...eff that guy. Disservice drops out of the equation when he's banging his ex-girlfriend.

Here we go. As a final warning, make sure you've already eaten your lunch because you may not be hungry afterwards. This one's rated rated NW (No Wussies) for sexual content, bodily fluids, and general grossness.

D liked to be in control. He enjoyed talking dirty, taking charge, and making me squirm. It wasn't always a bad thing, but occasionally he wanted to perform in ways that I found a little distasteful. Still, knowing that he genuinely cared for me made those things feel less scary, less dirty. And I wanted to make him happy, so I tried to be game for anything.

One night after a party, we are barely able to make it through the door of the apartment with our clothes on. D backs me into the bedroom, where he tosses me down onto the bed. It is everything you see in a movie; tearing away clothing, threatening all the things you're about to do, nibbling and biting and...well, you get the idea.

D gets a gleam in his eye and I know it means something deviant is about to happen. He asks if he could maybe just...finish using his hand and...maybe...on my stomach? Though I am initially repulsed (as are you, dear reader, I'm sure), I agree. I try to keep a straight face as he works, though I'm really just terrified he'll overshoot. I had a bad experience once, and he knows that. "Don't get me in the eye, that's all I ask, don't get me in the eye!" I can't help laughing a little when I make this request, but D's not amused. He's pretty serious. In fact, he's got a different look on his face than I've ever seen. It's almost unsettling. His face suddenly contorts as he releases, I barely have time to cover my eyes with my hands just in case.

Amazingly, I am not blinded. In fact, I am relatively unscathed. D, now relaxed, smiles. He points at my belly and goes, "Eww!" Asshole. As he carefully attempts to dismount and head to the bathroom, avoiding all contact with the mess that HE just made, his foot comes to rest on the silky comforter that spills from the bed to the floor. Suddenly he slips, it's bizarre, he slips like a stooge slipping on a banana peel, in a way that is so slapstick it seems unreal, and lands face first on my stomach.

It only registers when he looks up at me, his glasses covered in his own mess, his face a mixture of mortification and sheer horror (and splooge), what has happened. This is a man who won't eat about two dozen foods because of "texture" issues. This is a man who gets off on the idea of degrading someone else, and this is his face. My hysterical laughter begins. And it doesn't end until long after he has gone to the bathroom, cleaned up, come back to bed, and pouted for a good five minutes. All he can say is, "I should have taken off my glasses."

The next day we were already laughing about it. Well, I was (still) laughing about it, while D was sort of...sneering at me while I laughed. Since then, my personal rule has been, If I have to do it, so do you. It works fairly well, as surprisingly few men are interested in taking the same shit they dish out. Then again, I wouldn't spend forty minutes getting a guy ready to have an orgasm, so maybe I should rethink the policy...

With sincere apologies for the gross feeling you've got right now,

Helena