Friday, October 05, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Nicoderm CQ
DOB:N/A
Occupation: maintaining my tenuous grasp of sanity
Douchebaggery: It goes without saying that after fifteen years of hardcore smoking (thirteen of smoking a pack a day), I need to quit. I've quit so many times that people roll their eyes when I say I'm quitting because everyone thinks I'll just fail again as always. Some of my friends understand how important this is to me (also probably because they don't want me to get sick or die), but generally people have this attitude that quitting smoking is a fucking joke. Because it's hilarious that I'm woefully addicted to something that will fucking kill me to the point where I'll likely relapse. It's fucking side-splitting that I sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night barely able to breathe, but that I have this burning, intrinsic, insatiable desire to light up almost constantly anyway. And nothing takes the edge off like hearing assholes guffaw about how I'll be back on the P-funks by the end of the week.
Well, this shit is not remotely funny to me, and if I weren't on nicotine replacement therapy while I go through the painful process of weaning myself off, some bitches would be sorely regretting making light of what I consider to be a very grave situation. I'd be either crying or screaming at them, two behaviors of mine that are usually very occasional but nonetheless terrible to behold. In order to not have people think I'm insane as well as humorously prone to relapse, I have to use something to stabilize my mood while I become accustomed to the daily habits of a non-smoker.
Unfortunately, while it keeps me sane and able to juggle the many tasks I am charged with, nicotine patches have a lot of unpleasant side effects. For one thing, they irritate the shit out of my skin. I only wear them on my legs so they won't be visible. Those clear nicotine patches are worthless, because they only provide a window to see how red and inflamed the skin underneath is getting. I guess it's not unforeseeable that nicotine, which is otherwise used as an insecticide and rat poison, would cause some dermatological issues when delivered transdermally, but they don't mention this on the commercials. I get up everyday and apply a thick layer of cortisone cream to my legs, but that doesn't stop the maddening, torturous itching, and I sometimes scratch without thinking about it. As a result, my legs look like I just finished jogging through a blackberry patch.
The other bad thing about the nicotine patch is that it causes me to have extremely vivid dreams. Most of the times these dreams are just weird and not scary, but they are so realistic no matter how farfetched the premise that I wake in a state of distress because I think the dream has actually happened. For example, the other night I dreamed that I hiked cross-country (see...completely absurd) and left Caesar alone on the West Coast. Right before I woke, I was calling and searching frantically for him. I awoke in tears, thinking I had foolishly and irresponsibly lost my beloved Caese Doggy Dogg and hoping against all hope that he'd make like Homeward Bound and somehow find me in New York without getting hit by a car or distracted by a squirrel on the way. I calmed down when Caesar in real life, who was sleeping on my bed with his giant head on one of my feet, woke up, gave a gigantic, loud doggy yawn (dog owners know what kind of noisy yawn I'm talking about), stretched luxuriantly, thumped his massive tail, and went back to sleep.
Last night was a particularly bad night. First I dreamed that my parents were getting a divorce and decided to settle their differences with a game of chicken on tractors a la Footloose, and then were both killed in a fiery head-on John Deere collision with subsequent explosion. I woke up from that one sobbing. When I finally got back to sleep, I then dreamed that I was kicked out of graduate school by a tribunal of my entire department. My PI (advisor/boss/mentor) told me that I was the worst scientist he'd ever been so unlucky as to train, my program director said he was going to go back and retroactively change my all my course grades to Fs and that he wanted to come to my house so he could rip up my master's degrees, and then my department head said it was time to have a "group laugh" at my misfortune. I was then advised that I could keep one master's degree if I agreed to a gangbang with all the faculty members, because being a dirty slut is the only thing I'm good at. When I woke up from that one, I was much more stressed than one should be while catching up on their beauty sleep. After reminding myself that this was just a patch dream dredging up my deeply rooted fear of intellectual failure, and that I should be glad I have such insight into my own psychology, I tried to go back to sleep. My next dream started off with me having hot sex with my old flame the R-uh. So far, so good...until we were attacked by an army of Transformers. The R-uh and I were hiding under the bed from the invading Decepticons, but the R-uh wasn't very good at hiding, apparently, because he kept trying to call his son. Since his son isn't even two, this was probably pretty pointless, but it gave away our position and we were just about to be incinerated when my alarm went off.
I woke up from that one pissed, both because I was annoyed that the R-uh was so lax about taking proper anti-vaporization by invading robots in diguise security measures in my dream and because I felt like I hadn't slept a fucking wink. One more reason not to start smoking, apart from all the diseases, side effects, and financial problems cigarettes cause, is to never have to quit, because as bad as it is, nicotine patches are the best of a bunch of bad options. Zyban keeps you up all night, Nicorette gum makes your mouth burn, and the Commit lozenge tastes like chalk and makes me want to vomit every time I start sucking on one. My best option involves mutilated legs and disturbed, not-restful sleep. Tell me that doesn't blow like a Tijuana hooker.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, smoking, the R-uh
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Stuntin' WITH your daddy
In case you are unfamiliar with Dwayne "Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy" Michael Carter, he is a slender, petite rapper from New Orleans, and is one of the few 'Nolia project natives not beefing with Cash Money Records. In fact, he is the sort-of adopted son of Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, who owns the record label and has made a living rapping about the cocaine trade and selling Lugz boots. Their new duet, "Stuntin' Like My Daddy", is an emotional reflection on the dynamics of their father-son relationship. However, I wonder whether their happy little family isn't just a little screwed up.
On my last visit to the P-N-Dub, I was hanging with the R-uh and we were talking about the best Southern rappers, and after a brief detour in which the R-uh rhapsodized about Juvenile's song "Huh", we got on the topic of the remaining Cash Money Records loyalists. The R-uh opined that Birdman was a stand-up guy, but Lil' Wayne was a scrawny little bitch. I concurred with his assessment of Lil' Wayne, but mentioned that I felt Birdman was less of a "stand-up" guy than a down-low guy.
"Haven't you ever seen that picture of Lil' Wayne and Baby making out?" I asked.
"What picture of them making out?" he responded.
THIS picture of them making out:
Okay, so they're not really making out as much as giving each other a friendly peck...ON THE LIPS. You can see how this is going over with the dudes witnessing this public display of affection, and, judging by the look on the faces of the three onlookers behind them and to their right, it isn't being interpreted as a touching father-son moment. I particularly love the expression of incredulity and disgust the fat man in the white shirt and white headband is sporting; you can almost hear him saying, "Aw, HELL no!" Meanwhile, the guy on the right who looks like a thugged-out cross between Lorenzo Lamas and Rick Fox looks somewhat titillated by the proceedings, swirling his champagne flute and thinking, "Oooo, damn, that's hot."
Although some blog pundits have raised questions about the veracity of this image, G-Unit South rapper Young Buck decried accusations that this picture was Photoshopped, as he eloquently attested in an interview several months ago. Although I don't see Young Buck anywhere in the above photo, he claims he was present and offers his eyewitness account: "I seen that shit go down. I ain't gonna sit here and fuckin' lie...That is just some gay ass shit!"
Correction, Buck. That is some gay ass INCESTOUS shit! It makes me really rethink what the hell these two are actually talking about when they use the word "stuntin'". I used to think it meant to flamboyantly show off one's wealth and station in society by drawing others' attention to one's designer clothes, furs, luxury automobiles, jewelry, and harem of zaftig whores hoping to get promoted to video vixen. Apparently, it might also have something to do with hooking up with your de facto family members. Gross.
On my last visit to the P-N-Dub, I was hanging with the R-uh and we were talking about the best Southern rappers, and after a brief detour in which the R-uh rhapsodized about Juvenile's song "Huh", we got on the topic of the remaining Cash Money Records loyalists. The R-uh opined that Birdman was a stand-up guy, but Lil' Wayne was a scrawny little bitch. I concurred with his assessment of Lil' Wayne, but mentioned that I felt Birdman was less of a "stand-up" guy than a down-low guy.
"Haven't you ever seen that picture of Lil' Wayne and Baby making out?" I asked.
"What picture of them making out?" he responded.
THIS picture of them making out:
Although some blog pundits have raised questions about the veracity of this image, G-Unit South rapper Young Buck decried accusations that this picture was Photoshopped, as he eloquently attested in an interview several months ago. Although I don't see Young Buck anywhere in the above photo, he claims he was present and offers his eyewitness account: "I seen that shit go down. I ain't gonna sit here and fuckin' lie...That is just some gay ass shit!"
Correction, Buck. That is some gay ass INCESTOUS shit! It makes me really rethink what the hell these two are actually talking about when they use the word "stuntin'". I used to think it meant to flamboyantly show off one's wealth and station in society by drawing others' attention to one's designer clothes, furs, luxury automobiles, jewelry, and harem of zaftig whores hoping to get promoted to video vixen. Apparently, it might also have something to do with hooking up with your de facto family members. Gross.
Labels: Birdman, Cash Money, gross, Lil' Wayne, perversion, rap, the R-uh, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, October 23, 2006
Aleksey Vaynar: Douchebag of the year
Today a lot of my beloved Razzyphiles have been sending me quality blog material. Right after Morrissey'sHair emailed me about Lil' Wayne's recent legal troubles, I received another gem in my inbox:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: The R-uh (r-uh@bigbiotechcompany.com)
Subject: One name...
"Aleksey Vaynar."
This Dud(e) had a personal video made and included a link to it on his CV to UBS Warburg. And you can trust me Raz, EVERY fucking investment banker on the planet is JUST LIKE THIS ASSHOLE!
I dare you to see if you can stomach all six minutes of the smug and most loathsome Mr. Vaynar preaching about his foolproof plan for success interspersed with shots of him lifting weights, ski jumping, playing tennis, ballroom dancing, and karate chopping a stack of bricks:
The one thing Aleksey doesn't talk about is his undoubtedly freakishly tiny penis. His overcompensatory bench pressing and his willingness to audaciously lecture people about success from the standpoint of an unemployed failed "professional" athlete translate to one thing: SMALL WEINER. This guy gives the women unfortunate enough to sleep with him migraines more often than he gives them orgasms. I've got him pegged as one of those guys whose dick looks like a bee-stung thumb: swollen and lumpy-looking, and neither practically nor aesthetically pleasing. I'd wager he has some erectile dysfunction issues, as well. If he ever gets a job, I predict that his first purchase will be a bright red sportscar.
It appears that the staff in the UBS Warburg human resources office thought Aleksey was a obnoxious, self-satisfied asshole even by investment banker standards, because not only did they not hire him to work there, but they leaked the video to YouTube. Once this shit went viral, Aleksey threatened to sue UBS Warburg over the "stress" that it has caused to his family, as reported by the always hilarious folks at Fox News:
I've got news for you, Aleksey: when you make a video portraying yourself as the most pompous fucktard on the planet, you have NOBODY TO BLAME BUT ALEKSEY VAYNAR! Don't blame UBS Warburg because they and the rest of the world took your advice to "cross (losers) out of your life" and did just that to you. Man up and take responsibility for being a stupid asshole, you penis-challenged tool.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: The R-uh (r-uh@bigbiotechcompany.com)
Subject: One name...
"Aleksey Vaynar."
This Dud(e) had a personal video made and included a link to it on his CV to UBS Warburg. And you can trust me Raz, EVERY fucking investment banker on the planet is JUST LIKE THIS ASSHOLE!
I dare you to see if you can stomach all six minutes of the smug and most loathsome Mr. Vaynar preaching about his foolproof plan for success interspersed with shots of him lifting weights, ski jumping, playing tennis, ballroom dancing, and karate chopping a stack of bricks:
The one thing Aleksey doesn't talk about is his undoubtedly freakishly tiny penis. His overcompensatory bench pressing and his willingness to audaciously lecture people about success from the standpoint of an unemployed failed "professional" athlete translate to one thing: SMALL WEINER. This guy gives the women unfortunate enough to sleep with him migraines more often than he gives them orgasms. I've got him pegged as one of those guys whose dick looks like a bee-stung thumb: swollen and lumpy-looking, and neither practically nor aesthetically pleasing. I'd wager he has some erectile dysfunction issues, as well. If he ever gets a job, I predict that his first purchase will be a bright red sportscar.
It appears that the staff in the UBS Warburg human resources office thought Aleksey was a obnoxious, self-satisfied asshole even by investment banker standards, because not only did they not hire him to work there, but they leaked the video to YouTube. Once this shit went viral, Aleksey threatened to sue UBS Warburg over the "stress" that it has caused to his family, as reported by the always hilarious folks at Fox News:
I've got news for you, Aleksey: when you make a video portraying yourself as the most pompous fucktard on the planet, you have NOBODY TO BLAME BUT ALEKSEY VAYNAR! Don't blame UBS Warburg because they and the rest of the world took your advice to "cross (losers) out of your life" and did just that to you. Man up and take responsibility for being a stupid asshole, you penis-challenged tool.
Labels: assholes, Morrissey'sHair, retard rage, the R-uh
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Razzy and Razzy's ass attempt to be mature, then fail miserably
Last night I went out for drinks with my old friend and former lover the R-uh. I met him back when I worked in Seattle. He worked for another biotech company in the same building as ours, and he was impossible for me to ignore. He is a 6'5" tall and smoking hot, and for a year I referred to him as "that hot black guy who works upstairs." Finally, he hit on one of my co-workers at the Starbucks down the street from our office, and she invited him to drinks one night when I would be there so she could bail easily if he turned out to be weird. He did not turn out to be weird, but he didn't turn out to be her type either. However, he and I immediately hit it off. First we started talking about football. Then, we exchanged a flurry of e-mails that started off about Raiders owner Al Davis and covered every topic imaginable, from Hunter S. Thompson to Catholic school to his penis size to how I had the hottest ass in our office building. Then we went on a couple of casual coffee and lunch dates. Then, one night, we decided to meet for drinks in Tacoma, so he drove down, we had a couple, and totally went back to my crib and stayed up all night doing it and doing it and doing it WELL.
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
Labels: gross, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex, the R-uh
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