Wordless Wednesday: Penis Finger

(Source: news.bme.com/2008/02/20/phallic-amputated-finger-tattoo)

Wordless Wednesday is supposed to be wordless.

......................

(These dots indicate I'm holding my breath.)

......................

I'm trying really hard ......................

......................

...................... sigh

Epic fucking fail. I can't do it. I have to say something. But just to show I have some class discipline, I'll stop at three, tiny bulleted points. Just three. For me, that's almost wordless.

• I would never have seen this photo of a penis head tattooed onto an amputated finger if my son Drake hadn't insisted we all -- his SO Montana, his friend J, and I -- look at it on his phone screen while we were eating brunch a couple of weeks ago. Anybody who knows me knows I have an amputation phobia. For reasons. I have stories. But that's not even the point. The point is that you don't show a poorly executed 1/2 penis-finger next to a mouth that looks like it has fleas to your mother while she's eating. You shouldn't even have your phone out while you're brunching with your mom, am I right?

But since I did see it, I really must say ....

• Why would he tattoo a penis head on his finger anyway? Is this one more sexual imbecile who thinks the way to a woman's orgasm is through her vagina? Because I could understand if he had a tongue tattooed on his finger. Or even a finger tattooed on his finger. But this just makes me think he's another loser who couldn't wait to fingerbang his first girlfriend when he was 15 and never realized she spent the next 3 years thinking something was wrong with her because she was pretty sure she didn't have an orgasm in spite of his energetic youthful probing. This penisfinger, I suspect, is one of those guys who goes at the lady bits like a blind man feeling an elephant and never does figure out the bigger picture. Too bad he's got so much company in fumble-finger land. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are.

And

• What? One micro-penis wasn't enough for this guy?

Bonus 4th bullet!

• This is all Obama's fault. ALL OBAMA!

OK, I have so much more I could say, but I've already totally ruined Wordless Wednesday. That doesn't mean you can't leave comments right down there .... scroll down ..... there! (I'll even make an exception and turn on anonymous comments for a few days.)

What do you think of when you see the amputated penis finger? Does this young man make his mama proud?

A karaoke snippet: Something smells a little fishy....

Fishmonger*:  You know that's what the gay men say, don't you? Vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Vaginas do not smell like fish. My vagina does not smell like a fish.

Fishmonger: I'm just repeating what they say. And it's not all vaginas. It's just some vaginas.

Me: I'm telling you the gay men lie. What would they know about vaginas anyway? They don't get close enough to a vagina to smell one.

Fishmonger: But I'm not saying all vaginas, and maybe not under all circumstances.

Me: OK, maybe if she ate tuna or salmon and the fish smell came out in her .... you know.

Fishmonger: Well, as someone who has a lot of experience on both sides, I can vouch that some vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Mine doesn't. And I don't think vaginas smell like fish in general.

Maria*: (Who has just finished a production of The Vagina Monologues, quotes in a singsong voice.) "My vagina smells like .... rain!"

Me: That's it. Me too. My vagina smells like rain.

Maria: Not really though....

Me: Yes, it does. It smells like rain. It really does. (To Fishmonger) It does not smell like fish. My vagina smells like rain.

Fishmonger: It's not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a good thing. Sometimes vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout.

Me: Nice, fresh trout!!! You call that a compliment? OK, I'm calling in an expert. (I turn to Martini, who has for some reason not been listening to this vagina conversation.)  Martini, give us your honest opinion. Do vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout?

Martini: (long, thoughtful pause) I have not actually encountered that much trout.

Wait a damn minute! Are you saying I smell like a vagina? I smell like fish. Everybody knows vaginas smell like rain.     (Credit: US Department of Agriculture)

A vagina is like the weather....

Photograph: Daniel Berehulak / Getty

"A vagina is like the weather. Once it's wet, it's time to go inside."

Some guy named Ted tweeted that. Unfortunately for Ted and for his followers, it's the only funny thing he's said on Twitter. In fact, I only followed him for about 5 minutes. But it's still the best vagina quote of the year. (This is not a direct quote. I fixed a typo. Sometimes people pay me for that, but Ted gets a freebie because I'm not linking to his Twitter ..... because he's not really funny.)

Speaking of vaginas, I found a yummy treat that is bound to come in handy at some point during my 10 Dates, 10 Men™ project. It's called a Pussy Lolly. That's right, a Pussy Lolly. A coochie candy. A sugar taco. A labia lollypop.

Doesn't that sucker look delicious? Who wouldn't want to eat one? OK, it's not chocolate, but it's still  unnaturally pink and pretty and shiny.

And yet I was thinking these lollipops might serve a higher purpose, as either a way of sorting the men who don't know when to come in out of the rain or as a training device for those who brought an impressive umbrella and just need to know when to put on a slicker.

So my plan is that I'll buy a 6-pack -- just to be optimistic. And when or if I meet someone who makes the storm clouds gather, I'll give him a vagina-on-a-stick and invite him to indulge himself.


That's not too obvious, is it?

Seriously, I think I could tell a lot about a person's technique by how he ate one of these. If he licks away the right spot, he's a contender to hook up with Queen Frostine and move on to the Candy Castle. In fact, he might even earn himself a 23-karat gold-washed Pussy Lolly (but only if he pays for it himself).

For the guy who shows real promise, but doesn't quite lick the spot ... Hmmmm. I guess we could always use it as a lolly-lingual trainer. That could be fun.

A guy who licks the edges but never gets to the center ... nope. A guy who slurps all over it like a fucking Labrador retriever .... ick. A guy who licks the back .... uh, no. A guy who bites off a piece and chews it .... fuck no, pussy cruncher. A guy who won't .... Ha! Ha! Next!

Feeling sorry for the loser licker? I'm not. He got a sweet pink consolation prize to take home with him. Maybe he could continue to practice and try again another time.

Probably not though. I'm thinking it's a one Lolly Pussy per customer kind of deal. But we can still be friends.

Stood up ... again

Spoiler alert!

I know. I haven't even written about 1 of 10 yet and I'm writing about being stood up by someone else. (1 of 10 is on the roster. I sat him on the bench for a few days. Patience!)

Stood up. Ever notice how the word "stood" starts looking like the word "stooge" the longer you look at it?

I guess I should be glad I got the experience out of the way. When I committed to writing about 10 Dates, 10 Men, I knew there would be some negative experiences. How much fun would it be for you if every date was perfect? Not much, right? Even real life has to be seasoned by tension. So, yeah, last Thursday night I got stood up. It was only the second time in my life, which means it's disappointing .... embarrassing as hell ..... but it's certainly not a pattern.

The first time, I was 14 or 15. I was at the one-screen movie theater in our small town on a Friday night. My best friend and I had just finished sharing a Virginia Slim in the bathroom, and when we came out somebody told me a guy was looking for me. He was, she said, from Colorado!

You know how the heroine's heart leaps up in her chest in romance novels? Mine did that. It fucking leaped. I only knew one guy who was from Colorado, Duane K., and I'd had an enormous, obsessive crush on him for several years. His dad was my dad's best friend since high school, and on rare occasions his family came home to visit his uncle in a nearby small town.

Duane K. was really cute -- tall, dark, and broad-shouldered even as a kid -- but more than that, he was the first boy who had ever kissed me, several years before when I was 10 and he was 11. He was the first boy who made me feel horny desirable when he kissed me long and hard, our eyes closed, my arms around his neck, one of his around my waist, and his hand running through my hair like he couldn't get enough of me. It was just like in the movies .... until he asked me if I wanted to French kiss .... and then had to explain what that meant. 

Stick your slimy tongue in my mouth, Duane K? I don't think so. Your tongue has spit on it. There will be no tongues in my virgin mouth. It took me a few more years to wrap my head around that concept, which meant he was far more sophisticated than I was. A man of the world.

Not Iowa.

And he was from Colorado! Which is not Iowa. 

I found him in the back row of the theater with his cousin, George. We sat back there and whispered through the rest of the movie, catching up. I was cool as could be -- happy I'd worn my favorite tight yellow sweater -- but inside I felt like that 10-year-old girl being kissed for the first time. I had been fantasizing about Duane K. for 4 years and here he was, right beside me. And just as gorgeous as he was when he was 11.

When the movie was over, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him the next night. He said he had some pot and he'd get us some beer. I said yes without even asking my parents. No way my dad would say no to my going out with his best friend's son -- who was from Colorado!

The next night my parents were going to his uncle's house to play cards with his parents. Dad had talked to Duane K.'s dad, so everybody had approved of us going out together. Mom said Duane K. told his parents I had really filled out my sweater since last time he saw me. Somehow that wouldn't be something that would make me say, "Aww. You kids go out and have fun now. Buy that girl an ice cream cone!" But my parents thought it was funny.

They had to get a babysitter. Only a date with Duane K. would have gotten me out of babysitting that night, but they hired a girl from my class who didn't have any plans, and I was free to show Duane K. how much more I knew about kissing since last time I'd made out with him. Even French kissing. Especially French kissing. I imagined he had more to teach me too. I was giddy.

I waited at the living room window and chatted with the girl who was babysitting. I felt a little superior to be going on a date with a boy man from Colorado while she was stuck at my house with my little brothers and sisters. OK, I felt way superior. I felt at least 4 years older than her. She couldn't possibly  have been as impressed with me as I was with myself.

I waited. We chatted. I watched for him to pull up on the street, and I watched the hands crawl around the clock face. We hadn't really set a time when we talked at the theater ..... The babysitter and I ran out of things to chat about, and I desperately wanted to run upstairs and smoke a cigarette out the bathroom window. But I couldn't leave the window in case Duane K. finally pulled up to the curb. I tried not to show how anxious I was. I said, "It probably took him a while to find somebody to buy some beer."

"Sure. That's it," the babysitter said. Although I had no reason to, I suspected she was gloating inside. I hope so. I sure as hell didn't want her pity.

Finally about 9:30 I accepted that he wasn't coming. "I'm leaving," I said. "If he shows up, tell him he'll have to find me."

No way I was staying home and hanging out with somebody who didn't even have a date on a Saturday night.

I put on my coat and walked uptown where I knew I would find my friends circling the square. My best friend was riding around with her boyfriend and some other kids. Typical Saturday night. I hopped into the car. Somebody handed me a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I lit a cigarette and started chugging. Fuck Duane K.

Later I went home and cried into my pillow the rest of the night as quietly as I could, so I wouldn't wake up my little sister sleeping next to me. As far as anybody else knew, I didn't give a shit about that asshole, Duane K. Not one shit.

I never did find out why Duane K. stood me up that night. My parents were surprised when they found out and disgusted with him. I saw him again maybe 6 years later at a picnic. We were both married, and I barely talked to him.

A couple of years after that his parents moved back to Iowa, and on one of my visits home his dad told me I was lucky Duane K. had stood me up that night. He said Duane K. got arrested for beating his wife, and they were getting a divorce. He said he didn't like his own kid any more. I said I hadn't really wanted to marry his son anyway. I just wanted to French kiss him.

I still feel kind of cheated that I never got to French kiss Duane K.

That was the first time. And last Thursday night was the second, when the guy I thought might become 2 of 10 stood me up.

I'd been flirting with Possible 2 of 10 for a while, and recently we'd moved on to texting a little. He asked if I wanted to join him for a glass of wine some time. I said I would like that.

A week or so later he texted and asked if I'd meet him that night for happy hour. I was sick so I couldn't go, but I told him I hoped he would ask again.

A couple of weeks later, he did ask again. This time I had a Shakespeare performance art gig in another town, and I was already on my way there. I said I really hoped we could do it soon though. He said he wished he'd known about the performance. I wished he would ask in advance and get on my calendar.

A week went by. I texted Alex for advice.

Me: How many times would you ask a woman out if she was busy when you asked? 2? 3? More?
Alex: I'd probably stop trying after 2 and let her call me after that. Is there more to the above question?
Me: The question was because [Possible 2 of 10] has asked me to go out twice and I couldn't go. The second time I said I really hoped we could do it soon, so I made it obvious I wanted to. And he really should not wait until the last minute .... but I don't know if the next move is mine. I guess I'll give it a few days.

Alex didn't give me the answer I wanted. Hard as it is to admit, I'm still trying to throw off the chastity belt some of the strict rules for romantic engagement I had shamed into me when I was growing up. I wasn't ever allowed to call a boy. Not even when I was in high school. Not even if I was already dating him. Girls just didn't call boys .... unless their parents weren't home and they were doing it with a girlfriend. Then it was OK to break the rule as long as nobody's parents found out.

Asking a boy to go on a date was out of the question. Social suicide. There were ways to let a boy know you liked him, and then he was supposed to ask you out if he wanted to.

I'd like to say reason has kicked those old-fashioned mores to the curb, but I'd be lying. I was reluctant to ask Possible 2 of 10 out even for a simple glass of wine. I hoped he would try a third time.

I waited almost a week longer. Then on Wednesday night Alex and I were at a pub, sitting at the bar.

Me: Would you even call that a date? If someone texts kind of last minute and asks you to join him for a glass of wine? That's not really even a date, is it? Is that a pre-date?
Alex: Hard to tell. It could be a date. I'd say it's at least a pre-date. Unless you don't want to date him.
Me: I would go on a date with him, but I'm not sure he wants to go on a date with me. So .... yes, it's a pre-date. It's probably not even a date.

I'm telling you, the times they have changed. I didn't even know what a pre-date was until Alex explained it to me last fall. I'm still not sure I grasp all the nuances yet. But I'll try to explain it in another post.

Later we were sitting at karaoke listening to somebody butcher the Eagles. I was on my second salty dog.

Me: It looks I'm going to have to make the next move with Possible 2 of 10. He hasn't texted me again. Should I text him and ask if he wants to go out tomorrow night?
Alex: Only if you want to.
Me: Oh, I definitely want to. I just want him to do the asking.
Alex: That's not really reasonable. If you want to go out with him, it's your turn to ask.
Me: I don't want to ask.
Alex: Then don't go out with him.
Me: He might have changed his mind.
Alex: You'll never know until you ask him.
Me: Fine. I'll text him.
Alex: Only if you want to.

I took my time composing a text. When I was done, I showed Alex the two sentences I'd come up with.

"Do you still want to go out for that glass of wine? Tomorrow night maybe?"

Me: Here's what I'm going to send. Oh, wait. It's probably too late to send this. It's 10:15. I shouldn't send this tonight.
Alex: (rolling his eyes) It's not too late. He's not in kindergarten. Let me see ..... Take out the "maybe." It's weak. "Maybe" is weak writing. I'm surprised at you.
Me: I  know it's weak. I'm a writer. I did it on purpose so he wouldn't think ....
Alex: That you were asking him out? Delete the "maybe." Do it now.
Me: OK. He's probably changed his mind anyway.

I deleted the "maybe," and then I sat with my finger hovering over the send button for at least 2 minutes. Finally I touched the screen and sent my little request out into the night, just inviting rejection.

Less than a minute later I got a reply:

"Sure. Where?"

Me: OMG! Alex, look! He said yes. What should I say? I didn't even think of a place to go.
Alex: Of course he did. Just tell him where you want to go.

I drafted a reply.

"Do you mind coming [downtown]? In that case, [generic wine bar] is nice."

I hit send. It was only 5 minutes after his response.

I waited. I picked up my phone and checked it several times. I ordered another drink.

Me: Looks like he changed his mind.
Alex: How long has it been?
Me: Ten minutes. (And then 20. And then 30.)
Alex: He won't change his mind. He said he wants to go. The hard part is over.
Me: Yeah, maybe he went to bed. You're right. He'll text or call tomorrow.

The next day every time I heard the little guitar riff that announces a text I expected it to be from Possible 2 of 10. It wasn't. By late afternoon, I was starting to feel discouraged, but I thought maybe he thought he'd made a commitment and intended to text me after he got off work to see what time I wanted to meet. That made sense. Sure, that must be it.

I got ready to go. I didn't do much more than I would normally do for a night out with friends. After all, I wasn't really sure if this was a date. Or even a pre-date.

You already know the rest of the story. I gave it away at the beginning. Let me paint you a picture.

He didn't call. He didn't text. It's been 6 days, and he still hasn't. He fucking stood me up.

That night the Hot Italian sent me an email: Did you go out? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Hot Italian: What??? Did you call him and ask him what the fuck? Did you yell at him?
Me: No, I'm not going to call him. Obviously he changed his mind. Or .... who knows. Maybe he doesn't even remember saying he'd go. I don't know.

 On her way home from school Elvira called: Did you go out with Possible 2 of 10? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Elvira: What the fuck? What an asshole!
Me: He probably just changed his mind. Or forgot.
Elvira: Fuck him!
Me: Probably won't happen. Opportunity lost.

I messaged Alex.

Me: [Possible 2 of 10] still hasn't gotten back to me after I suggested [generic wine bar] ... I think he stood me up.
Alex: Yeah, that's a bad sign. I'd find out for sure ....
Me: The ball is in his court. I suggested a venue...

There's no way I was going to contact a man who had stood me up -- not to yell at him or to find out what happened. It took enough courage for me to ask him to go in the first place. How pathetic would it be to call or text him and ask why he'd stood me up? Wouldn't that just put both of us in an awkward position? Nope. Not happening.

I was just glad I was still at home and not waiting for him at some wine bar alone.

And I was grateful for the impersonal distance of email and Facebook messaging when I confessed I'd been stood up. It was just a casual date after all .... or pre-date ... for a glass of wine. No big deal. But I was still disappointed. And embarrassed. Being stood up has to be one of the top 3 ego deflaters. I will admit, I might have gotten a bit teary for a while.

And then I got this message from Alex: I think the important lesson from this, regardless of outcome, is that you sent the message. Proud of ya!

That message still makes my eyes fill up. I should print it and hang it on my refrigerator with a magnet. Or write it on a Post-It note and stick it to my bathroom mirror. A tattoo would be going too far, I suppose.

I may be a dating disaster, but when it comes to friends, I'm the richest woman I know.

All I can say about being stood up is this: the second time wasn't as bad as the first. At least this time I didn't drink a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Somewhere along the line I graduated to Chardonnay.

I don't know why Possible 2 of 10 didn't follow through, but it can't be anything I did so my self-esteem is intact. Bruised maybe, but hey, I'm not the one who stood somebody up. Am I still disappointed? Hell, yes. I would never have gathered the courage to send that text if it wasn't important. I wanted to go out with him; I wanted to get to know him better. But if he didn't feel the same way ..... 

I'll live to date another day.

As for Possible 2 of 10, his name, for the purposes of this blog, has changed. From now on he will simply be called -1 of 10.

Hi, honey! I'm home!

A significant number of readers, along with several people I didn't even know were readers, have called something to my attention: they say I haven't been writing here much. Not since the end of November when I did my last NaBloPoMo.

It's true. I fear I may be suffering from a disease I don't even believe exists: lazy ass writer's block. The reason I don't believe it exists is because the cure is so simple. You just put your ass in a chair and you write. I can't count the number of students I've said that to. I can't count the number of fellow writers. You just put your butt in the chair and you write. It's really that simple. You may not write what you want to write, but you can write. I can write.

The problem is that I do put my butt in the chair ...... I put my butt in a chair more than enough, but I don't write. Or to be more precise, I write a lot, but I don't write here on my blog. I write a lot on Facebook. On Facebook I indulge in long, thoughtful, clever conversations that could inspire me if I didn't also scroll through hundreds of photos of puppies and kittehs, greeting cards and videos. I also write lots of texts. I write reams of to-do lists. But I haven't been writing here.

I have reasons, but they aren't really good ones. It's not that I don't have time. I do all  kinds of other things when I could be writing a blog post. Things like changing a light bulb; reading novels; baking cookies; checking my email; playing Words with Friends; watching Californication ... then Shameless ... then  Project Runway (hate the groups this season) .... then The Taste ... then ....; singing karaoke; texting with 3 people while I'm messaging on Facebook with 2 more; watering my 4 plants; hanging out with friends; going to plays; stealing chocolate chips from the freezer; vacuuming; playing pool; making a cup of tea; finding the tea forgotten on my desk and reheating it; watching the police at the neighbor's house; getting my yoga mat out of the closet; meeting a friend for coffee; checking my blog stats; telling Melvin, "no, I won't go buy you some gin and juice"; playing my guitar; taking a nap; checking Foursquare; putting my yoga mat away without using it; pinning cool shit on Pinterest; writing notes for topics I want to write about ..... and in between each of those, checking Facebook. And texting.

Sometimes I think about making an appointment with my doctor for a Ritalin prescription.

greasergoth.blogspot.com

It's also not that I don't have anything to write about. My personal Facebook friends will vouch that I write plenty on Facebook. It's easier there, because the rewards are immediate. People respond. We have conversations, and I never know who will show up. Sometimes the comments -- 20, 30, 50 or more -- continue for hours. Writing blog posts, much as I love it, is lonely work. Facebook gives immediate gratification, especially for a big old extrovert like me.

This is how addictions are created. I need a 12-step program for Facebook.

I also live with my tormentor dominatrix jailer muse, Dolores. Dolores is an intolerant, anti-social, hate-driven bitch, but she's also so fucking productive I can't keep up with her.

All those things I listed above that I do instead of writing? Most of the time as I'm doing those things, Dolores is on my shoulder, hissing in my ear, "Are you on Facebook again? When are we going to write on our blog? Surely you're not going to let yet another day go by! I've kept you awake every night this week .... Is that another text? Don't answer it. I said, Don't answer that fucking text! .... You had to answer it. I'm done with you."

Only she never is done with me. She sits in the corner pouting, drinking dirty martinis from a coffee cup, and painting her toenails. In between coats of polish, she writes ideas on ping pong balls and throws them at my head. My internal landscape is littered with drifts and drifts of ping pong balls.

Here are a fraction of the ideas she's tossed at me in the past week or so: conversations with Melvin; vaginas; meeting new neighbors; revelations that change personal history; possum feet and glitter crayons; 10 Men, 10 Dates; the best gifts; vaginas; chivalry; nice guy syndrome; cheerleaders; Valentine's Day; bourbon; poetry; finding out I was married to a bigamist; vaginas; performance art; poopy diapers; getting stood up; funny things people post on my Facebook wall; do gynecologists get tired of looking at breasts and vaginas?; also, are gynecologists better lovers?; karaoke; rudeness; girdles; chameleons; 1 of 10; cookies; buying a car; dating younger men; moving on; vaginas ....

I have a short list of 35 blog posts I could write today.

Even as I write this one, Dolores, who can't ever be satisfied, is declaring her disgust. She's here beside me .... see her? .... blowing smoke from her clove cigarette in my face and taunting me, "Do you never stop whining? I give you hundreds of ideas to write about. I keep you -- and myself -- awake until the small hours of the morning feeding stories into your head ... I work my fucking ass off  for you and now you're using this time to complain about writer's block? I should walk right out that door. Now pick up one of those fucking ping pong balls and write a real blog post instead of making excuses for why you don't write. Or do I need to call you a whaaammmmbuuuulaaaannnnce?"

No more watching Modern Family with Dolores.

She's right though. I have no good excuse. So tomorrow I'm going to a writer's bootcamp with some other writers. My phone will be stripped away, and I'll  be handcuffed to my laptop for several hours of enforced writing time. I will be held accountable.

Tuesday's post

I've chosen a random ping pong ball, and this is what I'll commit to writing about next. Of course it couldn't be something fun, like vaginas.

Oh, well. Might as well get the humiliation over with. Vaginas are next though, or I'm going on strike.

Damn you, Dolores.