Jun 12 2014

“I’m Laid Back”

New term I’ll be incorporating into my vocabulary after a weekend with extended Texas relatives: “I’M LAID BACK”

It’s most commonly used as a non aggressive synonym for “I don’t give a shit.”

My cousin Brandon hits on a girl at a bar. She tells him she has a boyfriend. He tells her “I’m laid back.”

Aug 2 2011

Fancy Wine Talk

Hey Kids.

I like wine tastings. Makes me feel classy while I binge drink. It’s also a great place to pick up some fancy wine talk. Fancy wine talk is super useful, don’t roll your eyes at it. If you like to get a little toasty at swanky events, fancy wine talk is an excellent way to detour people you want to impress from your advanced state of drunkenness. I’ve often unexpectedly run into someone of great importance at a party half shit-canned and been able to distract them from my slurred state with an insightful quip about tannins.  A quip I probably picked up from some connoisseur pouring me a splash of Petite Syrah at a tasting.  Classic.

Unfortunately all this ingestion of fancy talk has lead me, on occasion, to believe I actually know what I’m talking about. Like when you tell a lie long enough you begin to believe it? That’s me with wine knowledge.

So, at a recent wine tasting, I stumbled upon an old favorite vino of mine that to my “knowledge” had recently gone to shit. I approached their booth well sauced and decided I should tell them this. They needed to know and would appreciate my candor…especially since I knew so many fancy things about wine.

“OH MY GOD! Y’ALL! I used to LOVE your Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Thank you! That’s great to hear!”
“USED to. It USED to be my favorite, but I don’t know what happened in the past couple of years it’s kind of gone down hill. What’s up?”
“We have a new winemaker and–”
“Yipes! Well no bueno, new guy. Am I right?!”
“–and this is him. He might be able to answer some of your questions.”

The guy on the right signaled to the guy on the left. His smile stayed intact, but his eyes went from kind to killer.

“Hi, I’m Stephen: The Winemaker.”
“I am so sorry. Seriously. I have a terrible pallet. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“No no. It’s fine. I’m sure you have a great pallet.”
“I don’t. I was probably smoking or something last time I tried it. I used to smoke. Disgusting habit. Who does that? ME! I’m disgusting.”
“Honestly, you’re making it worse. Don’t worry about it.”

About that time Meatballs rolled up.

“MEATBALLS! This is my boyfriend, Meatballs. He has an amazing pallet. Give him a taste.”

They poured him a taste and I scream whispered to him to tell them how amazing it was even if it tasted like shit. He didn’t skip a beat.

“It’s really nice, guys. Honestly, crisp. Good finish.”
“See!” I screamed. “It’s just ME!”
“We know you told him to say that. We could hear you whispering.”
“Y’all are funny. This is funny.”

Meatballs grabbed my hand and politely lead me away.

“Now what did you do?” He asked. Usually I get defensive when people assume things are my fault, but this time I couldn’t even feign shock.  It was all me.
“I insulted the wine to the winemaker’s face BEFORE I knew he was the winemaker, obviously.”
“Obviously. Well don’t worry about it, you’ll probably never see him again.”

It was then I noticed Meatballs was palming a very nice bottle of red.

“Did you just buy that?” I asked.
“No! Actually the guy who makes it recognized me from college. We had a good chat so he gave me a bottle.”
“Man alive, you’re sexy when you score free booze.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“I just feel lacking now, like I need to score free booze too. Bring something to the table.”
“Go for it. Bring home the bacon for daddy!”
“I just like talking white trash to you about money.”
“Oh. Cool. I’ll git-r-done…then. But, I’m not as charming as you. This could be hard.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re very knowledgeable.”
“That’s true.”

About an hour later, sans free bottle, I had tasted myself into a good functional coma and was ready to break the seal. I made my way to the restrooms. The line was small, save for one person.

“Phew. Thought the line was going to be uncomfortable,” I chuckled to the loner in front of me.

Then he turned around and revealed himself…it was the Stephen, the winemaker I so joyfully insulted earlier.

“Phew is right.” He said.
“Wow. It’s the guy I insulted. This is…wow…………I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You know it was probably the grapes. Or the weather! I heard that region got an unusual amount of rain for the last couple of seasons and sometimes it can effect–”
“It’s the technique.”
“It’s the technique.”
“You’re a trip, you know that?”
“I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Well you sure act like you do.”

The toilet flushed and the commode opened up. He signaled for me to go ahead of him.

“Oh no, you were here first.”
“I insist.” He said.

I peed faster than lightning while ranting “it was probably just like one barrel that was off and I got two bottles from that barrel. I just need to try a different bottle from a different barrel, see.” When I emerged, he stopped me in the doorway.

“Come by the booth before you leave and I’ll give you a bottle.”
“Seriously. Just stop talking about it.”

I collected my booty from his booth and galloped over to Meatballs, waving the wine like a trophy.

“I got a free bottle of wine!”
“Good for you, hot mamma.”
“What did you call me?”
“It’s the white trash money thing, forget it. Did you extract it from them with your fancy wine talk?”
“Errrrrrrm yes. Sure did.”



Jul 14 2011

A Different Proposal

Hey Kids,

The other night, I had dinner with a lovely couple who had recently gotten engaged.  As expected, conversation eventually turned to the proposal.  How did he do it?  Was she surprised?

They were both professional writers so, naturally, they had an affinity for the game Scrabble. During one afternoon game he proposed by spelling out the words “WILL YOU MARRY ME” on the board.  Very clever.  Very romantic.  At least for them.*

“I didn’t even finish spelling out the phrase! I only got through ‘WILL YOU’ and she screamed ‘Yes!’,” he said

“Well, he was so nervous.  I knew something was up,” she coyly added.

“What if he wasn’t asking you to marry him?!  That would have been embarrassing!” I laughed at this notion to myself while stuffing some shrimp down my face.  “That would suck if he was really spelling out ‘WILL YOU FORGIVE ME, I SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER.’”

There was an uncomfortable chuckle throughout the group followed by long drags of wine.  Maybe not as amusing to them.  Duly noted.

But, it did get me thinking about something: What if people broke up with each other the same way they proposed to them?

You look up on a jumbotron at a baseball game and it says “Jessica, I don’t love you anymore.” A prop plane flies by with a banner waving behind it that reads “It’s not you, it’s me.”  Maybe you’re at dinner and a waiter dramatically removes the silver dome from your plate to reveal the words “MOVE OUT” spelled in chocolate.  Or, my personal horror fest, you come home to a trail of rose petals and candles that lead to a note with the scribbled phrase “You’re not the one.  Lets have sex one more time, friend.”

It’s kind of funny to think about it in terms of a break up, but can you imagine terminating a marriage that way?  Instead of proposing to start a life together with a ring…they’re proposing to end it with divorce papers.  “Meet me atop the Empire State Building at sunset.  I’ll be carrying a single rose…and manilla envelope. P.S. Bring my grandmother’s ring.”


I recently got an invitation to a post proposal party…at least I think it is.  The invite read “I’ll be attempting ‘the plunge’ this Friday.  Assuming everything goes well, please join us afterwards for a celebratory cocktail.”

After thinking about this breakup/proposal notion, a small part of me is hoping she’ll come home and flick on the lights to find him on one knee screaming “Surprise!  I’m a homosexual!” then present her with jazz hands instead of a velvet box.

Probably not the case, but it would still be a good party.  If your significant other is going to break your heart…it seems only fair that he would supply you with booze, cake, and half naked men to platonically disco dance with.

Just a thought.


*I was am very dyslexic.  Back in grade school, bad smelling tutors used to make me play Scrabble with them as a form of “therapy” in lieu of after school activities.  Now, where some see an exciting game of creativity and wit, I see a stolen childhood.

Jun 7 2011

Name Blame Game

Hey Kids!

I have a habit of naming parts of myself that I take issue with or just plain don’t like: pimples, a bad hair cut, extra weight. This way I can hate an aspect of myself without actually hating myself. I’m much better at blaming someone else for my problems, anyway. Just ask my shrink….or my mother.

For example, I call my extra weight “Janet.” When I eat too much ice cream and my thighs rub together I just say “DAMN IT JANET” or “MISS JACKSON” if it’s nasty. I went through a period of time when I thought I would look sexy as a red head. And if your definition of sexy is a dirty Russian whore, then yes I did. Until I got it back to a semblance of normal color I called my hair “Olga.” When my dating life slowed and my love of vodka got excessive, I blamed Olga (she was such a drunk whore).

This strange habit started in college when, one sunny Sunday, I made my first and last attempt at becoming bulimic. I quickly learned that self-start vomiting was harder than those skinny bitches in my sorority made it look. With them it was so adorably natural, like a little baby burping. Alas, when I tried to pull the proverbial trigger, I looked like Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” Not as cute.

All that straining caused a blood vessel to pop in my eye and those things don’t just disappear. They get bigger and bigger until your entire eye is blood red. If I was auditioning as the host of a zombie virus a la “28 Days Later,” I would have been set. But, I wasn’t. I was going to college parties and trying to pull tail. So, instead of telling the truth about my botched bulimia, I just told everyone that this shit in my eye was a bitch named “Poppy” who’d crashed my brain and made me do crazy things like wear mid-drift bearing lace dresses and take beer bongs…often at the same time.

It became an ongoing joke I could bask in rather than hide from. It worked so well that a mildly attractive frat guy actually tried to get with me. He said he’d never had a “threesome.” I think he wanted to cum in my eye, so I respectfully declined.

Still, it had opened up a whole new world to me. Why should I be self-conscious about my blemishes when I could make them someone else and mock them out right? I’m really good at judging other people. So now I use my weakness to play to my strength.

Recently a pimple named “George” decided to visit my face unannounced. When I went out, he’d come too and I’d introduce myself as “Burrito and this is my pimple, George.” People would greet him with aplomb and my boyfriend even kissed him goodnight. Eventually he got the memo and moved on. We parted ways on good terms, although I have been meaning to talk to my boyfriend about etiquette and face guests.

Earlier today Pork Sausage texted me. She was a bit testy, claiming that I gave her my pimple. “Oh no, no that’s not me,” I said. “That’s George.”


Sep 4 2010

C cup

Hey Kids.

This is NOT a test.

I have always prided myself on my modest chest size, and when I say “modest chest” I mean my flat as a board A cups perched on my front side.

Pros:  No sagging, can wear flapper outfits properly, running is comfortable.

Cons: It’s hard to get a bartender’s attention, men look at me in the face when I speak, finding sexy underwear is a demoralizing task.

The ladder of the cons is why I rarely go shopping for lingerie.  Despite my small boob sureness, finding a proper bra is an embarrassing chore.  But after a recent harsh machine wash of my unmentionables (seriously, who really has the patience to hand wash them every time?) and a quickly approaching 3rd date…figured it was time to bite the bullet.

Shopping for these things never happens organically.  On this particular day I was at Nordstroms checking out the latest fall imports when I forced myself to detour to the Cosabella display. I could see the commission hopefuls circling me, but I was determined to grab a few promising lacy things and jet before any of them got into my kill zone.  I was home free until…

“When was the last time you were measured?”

I jumped a couple feet and turned towards the smarmy sound to find the shortest little gray haired woman I’d ever seen in my life. SNEAKY OLD LADY!

“Erm.  2 years ago,” I fibbed.  That sounded like a good amount of time.  Long enough ago to not be held accountable, but close enough to look responsible.
“Oh well your bra size can change every 6 months.  You should check it more frequently”  I check for breast cancer less frequently thank you.
“I’m good. Been a 34A my whole life. No need to further humiliate myself by having you confirm it once more.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like to fit you. I’m trying to get my bra sizing certificate.”

What the frack? You can get certified for that shit? I have a dozen frat guys who’d be certified PHDs in the subject if this were true. She looked sweet and pathetic, though…like this job was her only respite from being confined to the couch and daytime television.  I realized I hadn’t tipped my barista the last 3 times I got a latte and was due a good deed, so I said…

She looked like a little girl on Christmas morning. “Oh Super!”

She then got very still, squinted her eyes, and calmly stared at my chest for a good 30 seconds. It was weird. Jolting out of her trance she announced the diagnosis….

“32C!” Poor thing, she was retarded.
“Oh, ha! You’re, seriously. Thank you, but absolutely not.”
“You may not believe me,” she was right, I didn’t “but I really think you are. In fact, I’m almost positive of it. Let me take you back for a fitting…”

She lead me to the dressing rooms, picking up some hideous looking nude things on the way back.

When we got to the dressing room I de-robed…a little concerned to be in close quarters with this handicapped woman, but my good deed wouldn’t count if I bolted. She handed me the ugliest bra I’d ever seen to try on. Great, she was retarded AND had bad taste.

“Yeeeeaaah….this isn’t really my style.”
“Oh, no honey. This is a sizing bra. It’s a 32 C. Just try it. I think you’ll be surprised. I’m Fee by the way!”
“Oooooooookay Fee!”

I was getting kinda pissed at her and her “trust me” persona. I angrily put on the hideous flesh toned number, determined to get this over with. As soon as the clasp clicked around my chest Fee began adjusting the bra straps…like that was gonna help. I was getting more and more mortified and then suddenly she announced…

“THERE! See, I told you. Perfect 32C.”
I looked up in the mirror prepared to be horrified and…holy handbag. There were my former mosquito bites resting plumply in the ugly bra.

“Fuck me!…sorry for the language, but. Is this a special bra are something? I can barely fill a B, let alone a C.”
“I assure you.  It’s a C. I think you’ve been compensating for your cup size with your chest size. You’re a 32 not a 34. Your breast have a wider surface spread which may make them appear less concentrated, but they’re actually quite full.”

She was Rain Man, but instead of cards it was boobs!

“Can I get my manager to double check the fit?” She asked
“By all means!” Could use a second opinion.

The manager came in and confirmed the fit. CRAZY. Either these Nordstrom peeps were conspiring against me, or I was actually a C. I still needed further proof.

“Lets try on some regular bras now. Something a little racier than this, perhaps?”
“Of course dear!”

Fee brought in bra after bra: satin, demi, sheer, opaque, they all fit. I was in shock. I picked out two Calvins and some matching undies then headed to the cash register.

“I think you picked out some lovely lingerie,” Fee said.
“I’m still astounded that I can wear lingerie…maybe I’m fatter?”
“Weight gain CAN have an effect on cup size. So can stress or a new medication.”
“Whelp, I’m not on the pill….”

Then suddenly, things started coming together. I have bad stomach problems and recently started taking a compound medicine for it. I remember reading that one of it’s side effects was increasing milk production and the FDA had banned it in the US because of it. Dude…my boobs were acting like I’d just had a baby! I’d actually found a pill to make my boobs bigger. Granted I may start leaking at any moment, but small price to pay. I’d finally entered womanhood with the help of science. No wonder the FDA had banned this medication, if word got out it could cause a revolution.

I gave Fee a knowing smile, threw in a few more thongs, and swiped my credit card.  I had to get home and order more of those wonder pills from Canada.

“Come visit again!” Fee chirped at me.

With these new puppies.  I felt confident I would.


Sep 4 2010

I need a stiff bagel

Hey Kids.

Some people need a drink after an intense experience.  I need a bagel.

The crazy thing is, the calories are about the same…at least with the way I pour a cocktail.

Sober and full of carbs,

Jun 13 2010

Self Improvement

Hey Kids.

So I’m not one of those ladies who like wants her man to lie to her. I prefer ‘em to tell it like it is. For reals. I recently took one of those Myer Briggs test and it was like “you are the type that likes criticism.” ‘Cause I see it as a chance for self-improvement. Unfortunately others don’t so much. But I continue to criticize them anyway. Like all my ex-boyfriends. Which, now that I think about it, could have contributed to the fall out.

Por ejemplo, I recently ran into an Ex at a party and I was like 10 pounds skinnier and 4 shades blonder than when I was with him. He was all “Burrito, you look great. Have you lost weight? I love your hair. God, I’m so attracted to you right now. Mrr mrr mrr” And I’m thinking, “See! Now there ya go! If you’d maybe mentioned that you would have found me more attractive had I been skinnier and blonder, we could have avoided this whole break up unpleasantry.” I mean, I told him when I thought his hair looked gay and that he needed to whiten his teeth. So, I think we know who’s to blame with that one.

Relationships aside, I began to think about critiques I’d received lately and how I could use them for self-improvement. Most of the ones I could recall were boxing related, like to fully rotate my wrist when throwing a right cross or remembering to hit with the shins on a roundhouse kick. This reminded me that I should avoid fighting publicly since I hadn’t learned defensive moves yet. But, as they say, the best defense IS a good offense (Try telling THAT to a horny teenager, am I right?).

Other critiques included two drunk 40 year olds at a bar telling me that I should be a model and to take more shots, as well as a transient advising me to “Bless Off.” When I said I didn’t have any spare change to give her.

Being me, I respectfully decided to NOT take any of their advise, ALTHOUGH I did appreciate it…especially the model comment. I wasn’t feeling very self-improved but I was certainly glad those men didn’t lie to me. I do need to take more shots.


Jun 9 2010

Losing It: Becoming a Vegetarian

Hey Kids!

I recently got my heart broken. And, although the sad reality of facing spinsterhood amidst a boom of friend’s nuptials was exceedingly depressing, it was the best diet I ever went on. I’m currently a mere 5 pounds away from reaching the weight listed on my resume. And believe me, I never thought I’d make that lie a truth. Even in this town.

For a while I felt nauseous every time I looked at food or wine (I know, BAD). Surprisingly, or not, the only thing that appealed to me was vodka. So don’t worry, I was sufficely satiated.

I decided not to question this lack of appetite and instead hoped that I’d finally stumbled into that elusive state only anorexics and coke fueled runway models were capable of accessing. This excited me and I immediately set my new wealth of attention on discovering a way to capitalize on it.

Years of therapy haven’t been lost on yours truly. I’ve gotten fairly good at self-analyzation. So, I quickly realized this new disdain for food was “severe emotional distress” rather than me finding my long lost inner model. From past experience, I knew I’d have to locate an alternate issue to replace the “distress” with as soon as the sting of loss and disappointment dissipated.

So, I carefully considered my options (i.e. took a shot of vodka) and concluded that the issue I should replace “severe emotional distress” with would be “control.” I’m a very controlling person. Sexy quality, right? BUT when harnessed in the right way, (i.e. obsessing over exercise and eating habits) it can achieve great things.

I immersed myself in spinning, yoga, and boxing classes, hoping to get a head start before that dern appetite returned, I hate her. As any lady who’s ever gone toe to toe with vanity pounds knows, it’s good to have a plan of attack. Since I’d recently given up red meat I decided my angle would be VEGETARIAN.

Almost every skinny bitch I know, or hope to hate on a first name basis, claims to be a vegetarian. I figured this angle would be golden. AND maybe I’d meet a hot health nut. After all, Christian Bale (my all time celebrity crush) is a vegetarian. And although I swore to lay down my sword on that particular conquest when him and his wife had a child (I hate to break up families), this could help dramatically when I finally do get the chance to make him my soul mate. It’s important to have practical dreams you see.

Doing anything selfless and spiritually enlightening doesn’t mean a THING until you tell everyone about it. So after making this life, and waist line, altering decision, I immediately called Ceviche to announce the news.

I always assumed that, since I come from a family that considers shooting squirrels off power lines a legitimate way to unwind after work, cutting out any meat of any kind would be damn near impossible. Not just in a genetic way, but also in a fear of backlash way.

Unfortunately I was deliriously caught up in visions of me arriving at a red carpet event looking as svelte as Carrie Underwood when I rang home, so I momentarily forgot why I’d never considered vegetarianism before. After a dramatic processing pause, my mother began screaming into the phone.

“What!?” Ceviche roared.
“I’m going vegetarian,” I repeated.
“Ermmm. Health reasons?”

I couldn’t sound so naive as to say my real reason, which was to ride the current wave of anorexia I’d been blessed with, so I tried to sound all righteous and Peta-y instead.

“Do you know how they farm meat?” I posed this question with the zeal of an asshole actor doing a political PSA. “They pump those animals with antibiotics and hormones and force feed them other dead animals covered in poo!” I think I’d heard that somewhere. “That’s why 8 year olds are menstruating!”

“You’ve been in that liberal California too long. Those people are getting to you,” she sighed with genuine despair. I actually felt like a disappointment.

“No, I’m just finally opening my eyes to clean living.”

At that statement I stamped out the Marlboro Light I was puffing and made a mental note to pick up some All Natural American Spirits next time I stopped at an ARCO to fill up my SUV.

“Well, I guess that’s fine, Burrito. But YOU’RE gonna have to tell your father. As long as you still eat his smoked duck and the occasional venison sausage I’m sure he’ll be okay with it.”
“Mom, do you know what a vegetarian is?” I point blank asked her.
“That’s not the extreme one right? Where you don’t eat cheese?”
“God no.”
“Well then I don’t see why you can’t have a little duck every now and then when you’re home.”

She was starting to make sense so I quickly made up an excuse to go. Also, I was getting hungry.

I opened up the fridge and stared inside. It was full of deli meat. Hmmm. So I opened up the freezer to inspect the frozen meals. Tofu Enchiladas, Brown Rice and Vegetable Bowls, Garden Burger, BINGO Slow Churned Ice Cream. I whipped out the carton and composed the most beautiful sundae I’d ever seen, truly a personal masterpiece. Sundae for dinner. TOTALLY vegetarian. This was gonna be easier than I thought.
I plopped down on the couch to watch some Glee and dig into dinner. I scooped a big spoonful of Home-style Vanilla with melted peanut butter and strawberries into my mouth and let it melt there to the sweet sound of Neal Patrick Harris singing Dream On. As I relished in sundae goodness, I couldn’t help but visualize my Carrie Underwood arms. This was totally happening. I would be a twig in NO time. Good plan.


May 28 2010

If two is a party…

Hey Kids!

Recently I was out with one of my favorite home girls. I shall call her Pez. Pez is one of those people who could get along with a Priest or a Persian. I swear to God I can take her anywhere cause she’s got super street smarts, which I find wildly unfair considering she triple majored from a major university. This plus her taste for almost anything, except meat, makes her one of the best people to go out with when you wanna have a good time. 

And that is what we were doing on this particular night, having a good time.

For the record, I find the cocktail/dance floor combo an excellent way to party down…so Pez and I were getting busy getting down in this particular fashion when I was approached by an aggressive boogier.  I deferred to Pez for thoughts on said boogier and noticed she was being chatted up by a lovely lady with a swing hair cut.  Pez usually doesn’t go for women, but like I said…she can get along with almost anyone.  So, I didn’t judge and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

As a newly minted free agent, some serious attention on the dance floor can go a long way. So, when this decent looking guy started busting MJ moves my way to the sweet sway of PYT, my ego soured.  After the disco beat began to morph into some Black Eyed Peas tune, the two of us shifted to the sidelines for classic club convo.

“Hey,” he said

“Hi there. (beat) Nice moves.”

“Thanks.  You too”

“Thanks (Wink).”

“What’s your name?”




“Oh. It’s loud.”

“My name is Burrito.  What’s your name?”


“Nice to meet you (awkward sip of drink).”

“Hey, Burrito?”


“Can I get your number?”


Drumsticks pulled out his phone and just as I was about to shout my digits over “Imma Be,” Pez interrupted…


“One sec, Pez”

“No, NOW.  I need to tell you something.”

Pez looked serious, even if she was drinking Rum and Coke.

“One sec, Drumsticks.  I’ll be right back (sexy over the shoulder look as I walk away).”

“Do NOT give him your number.”

“Why not?  I need to venture out more.  Date new people.”

“Because his friend and that girl that’s been flirting with me just asked if I’d have a four-some with them tonight.”

The bottom dropped out of my excitement.

“A-WHAT?! Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I swear.  What should I do?”

And this is where it gets messed up because a wave of jealousy made the first thing I thought, “why didn’t they ask me to be in a foursome?!” rather than “I just dodged a bullet with THAT guy.”

After I got over my initial shock and awe, I pulled it together to advise Pez, who was apparently actually considering this.

“Well….do you want to?” I asked her with as straight of face as possible.

“I don’t know.  I gave them my number and told them to call me later.”

“Maybe tonight isn’t the best idea — not that any good orgy came with foresight.”

“It’s not an orgy, it’s a foursome”

“Let’s be clear about something…if 2 is a party and 3 is a crowd, then 4 is definitely an orgy.”

“Good point.”

Pez and I saw this as a apropos time to bounce, so we did.  And after a 24 hour hangover, we revisited the proposition with new questions.  I figured after the glow of the evening dulled, the foursome would be off the table.  Turns out the topic was just beginning to be explored.  Pez started convo by asking the pink elephant question:

“So logistically how would you go about having an orgy.  I mean there should be a book or something.”

What to expect when you’re expecting to have an orgy,” I suggested.


Since this book doesn’t exist, we thought we’d compile a list of concerns that, decidedly should be addressed before entering into an orgy.

#1 Safety First

The whole condom situation sounds complicated.  The sheer amount you’d go through in one romp is concerning, not to mention the hitch in flow switching them every time you entered a new orifice.   It would seem rational to just all get tested, but how would you go about that?  Make it a group event and all go to the clinic together?  Grab beers after and get to know one another?  OR present papers prior to the event, like passports or a doctors clearance before you set sail.

#2 Where?

Who hosts?  Is it better to have it in the comfort of your own home or at a strangers place where its easy to walk away if things get dicey?  What about hidden cameras?  Can you scan the place first?  Do you hide valuables in case there are humpers with sticky fingers?  Allergic to goose down?  Infinite questions, no?

#3 Stamina

If you’ve gone through the trouble to have an orgy, lets assume you’re gonna wanna spend some time exploring and enjoying.  It’s not really a wham bam situation, but how long is long enough?  Until everyone orgasms?  Until everyone has paired off?  Until someone has to go to work?  Falls asleep?  Comes down off of whatever they’re on, realizes they’re having an orgy, and bails?  Are there rounds?  If so, maybe there should be snacks. But who brings snacks?  Is anyone a vegetarian?

#4 Crossing Swords

This can get tricky.  In any multiple partner session it is usually safe to assume there will be some girl on girl, but guy on guy is very situation based.  Most males don’t mind sharing the lady steak, but get a bit squeamish with the man salad.  In fact, unlike the ladies, a casual brush with the same sex  can kill a party.  I’d assume guys, like when you’re driving, would keep one “car length”  between their “car” and the “car” in front of them.  But whose “car length?”  Try bringing THAT one up before hand without killing the mood.

#5 Post coital

So lets assume all the above went smoothly, you did the deed, and found an appropriate stop point. Now what?  Do you all engage in a group cuddle?  A group spoon?  A group how was it for you?  A group cigarette?  Do you stay for the night and go to breakfast in the morning or jet out the door with a dismissive “I’ll call y’all?”


Where do you go from here?  Therapy?  I assume after after one partner you maybe switch sexes, then try a three-some, then an orgy. But after that, what is the next frontier?

These are the questions Pez and I culled through careful Socratic discussion and hungover munchies.  I personally demolished an entire box of dry cereal while we explored stamina alone.  So now I turn the questions to you, little tacos.  I encourage an exploration of orgy etiquette and all I request is that you share your findings here.  Do it for Pez.  Do it for America.  Cause Europeans are just born with this skill set, like smoking and socialism…but I digress.


Apr 27 2010

Shaking Things Up

Hey Kids!

I know I’ve been a little MIA lately, but I have a very valid explanation.  I’ve been bored out of my mind.  And it’s my fault too.  I don’t know when drinking copious amounts of alcohol, staying out past midnight, and in general acting like a shady drunken whore stopped being a mainstay in my life.  Sadly, it has.

I most recently realized this when I blew half my spring wardrobe budget on a new stacked washer/dryer.  When a good friend casually asked me what I was up to the following Saturday night I announced with genuine glee and excitement “Doing laundry!” She raised an eyebrow so I thought I’d thwart any of her doubts by adding “Oh, you don’t understand.  It has steam clean technology. And the drum is huge!  I can fit an entire queen size duvet in there.”  She still didn’t look convinced, so I said the saddest thing in my spinster burrito career.  “The dryer has a halogen light and if I turn up a DVR recording of Glee’s Madonna episode and stick my head in the door, it kinda feels like a 90s Vegas night club.”

After I said that I realized what was meant to be a joke that would deflect her worry about the bleak turn my life had been taking, was actually the truth.  I had been centering my evenings around American Idol and house chores for far too long. It was time to shake things up a bit.

While I live solo in a  Santa Monica condo decorated in designer fabric and maintained with fastidious care, my boy toy Spam lives in a what can only be likened to an artistic commune in Little Armenia.  It’s decor is anchored by three suspiciously stained couches that are flanked by a hodge podge of instruments and topped with randomly placed psychedelic artwork.  It stands as a symbol of how not boring the people who occupy it are (given the state of the bathroom and color of the couches it also stands as a symbol of the sustainability of college life and bachelorhood).  I figured if I wanted to shake things up, I should spend more time there.

So one night after acting class, I decided to drop by and see what’s shaking.  It was about 9:30pm and, although I was wiped, I figure I could muster a little “get my drink on.”  I arrived to Spam and his housemate/best friend, lets call him Crispy Chicken, chilling on the couches drinking vino.  Jackpot!  My kind of party.  I’m thinking “Lets toss back a bottle and hit the hay!”  Unfortunately I didn’t get that lucky.  They met my presence with “Hey Burrito.  We’re going out in a bit.  Wanna join?”

Go out?  It’s almost 10 o’clock on a week night?!  This isn’t Europe!  But I came to shake things up so I say.  “Hells yeah.  Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll see how we feel later.”

Later?  This must be a joke.  I’ll be asleep later.  But sure enough 11:30pm rolls around and a group of us head out to a trendy speakeasy in West Hollywood.  I didn’t actually plan on going anywhere cool or trendy therefore neglected to bring cool or trendy clothes to change into.  So, I make a weak attempt to spiff up what I’m wearing then head out with the rest of the clan.  When we get there the place is packed.  I had no idea this many people my age stayed up so late.

After getting 20 questions from the bouncer (I thought he was trying to make sure my ID wasn’t fake because I looked so young, Spam said it was because he needed a distraction while hot girls were let in ahead of the line. Tomatoes Tomatoes).  I saddled up to the very crowded bar and ordered a non-wine beverage (’cause only homebody’s drink wine at a super cool speakeasy).  We slid into a booth and watched the scene.  It was dark, the music was loud, the people were beautiful, and the drinks were strong.  I felt so cool.

Then about an hour later, that was enough.  I’d had my fill of cool and just wanted to go home and sleep.  Since we’d taken my car (it was the only mode of transportation I felt confident wouldn’t break down and didn’t reek of cannabis), I informed Spam to round up the troops so I could drive them home.  When I got back from the bathroom, ready to head out….everyone had disappeared.  Oh no.  This couldn’t be good.  I finally found Spam and asked him what the deal was. He had no clue where everyone was either.  Then suddenly, my phone rang.  It was Crispy Chicken.

“Burrito!” He yelled over loud music.

“Hey, where are you guys? I’m ready to go.”

“We’re across the street.  Tell Spam to meet us at the club across the street.”

“Okay, am I not invited?”

“I guess you can come if you want.”

“Alright, we’ll meet you guys there.”

We made our way out front and looked across the street.  The sign read  LIVE NUDE GIRLS.

Seriously!!!!??  Are you kidding me!!!????

I wasn’t about to leave my boy toy at a strip club with a bunch of his determined friends, so I headed in.  It was quintessentially shady and a bit slow.  I was immediately ushered to a booth with the rest of the boys and hassled to get a drink, which was a good thing.  If I was going to hang at a strip club I was gonna need some more booze.

“What will  you have to drink?” A busty waitress begged of me.

“I’ll take a whiskey.”

“No alcohol.”

“Oh, beer and wine only?  Then I’ll just have a light beer.”

“NO ALCOHOL!” She yelled at me like I was some dumb stripper.  Which was funny. Then it hit me.  Holy crap.  No alcohol.  This must be a butt-naked.

I made this realization and noticed a stripper on the stage bent over with no undies on at the same time.  Awesome.

“Water, I’ll have water.” I said reluctantly.

No sooner had I ordered water did the strippers descend on me.  Apparently they like-a-the ladies.  One in particular was very aggressive and kept suggesting I get a lap dance with her.  She also kept asking if I was into girls and although I was at a female strip club I was a little insulted that she’d assume I was a lesbian.  Then I re-examined my ensemble.  Those boots really gave off the wrong signal.

Eventually Crispy Chicken couldn’t take it anymore and bought me a lap dance with my aggressor.  I was furious but also intimidated. It’s hard to act huffy in a but naked when you’re dressed like Melissa Etheridge.  So, I went with her to the back room to get a lap dance, determined to sit there rigid and uninviting until the whole mess was over.

Oddly enough this wasn’t my first lap dance.  I got my first lap dance at the Spearmint Rhino in Vegas when a group of Bachelors thought it would be funny/hot to see a lady grind another lady.  I was flattered at the time and, with profuse encouragement from my friends, took the plunge.  It wasn’t so bad.  But then again she had a bikini on and I was wasted.  The only thing I really do remember is assuring her that she was very pretty and not knowing what to do with my hands.  I got all Ricky Bobby.

This was not the same kind of lap dance.

After leading me to a dimly lit back room complete with sticky leather arm chairs and copious flat screens showing gonzo porn, “Carmen” introduced herself properly then offered to wait until the next song began so I got a “full session.”  Very thoughtful of her, no?

When the song began I glued my legs together and clinched my fists while she began to shimmy.  Eventually Carmen kindly asked me to part my legs because it was making it really hard for her to dance.  I reluctantly did and immediately regretted it  because she dropped her drawers and started rubbing her but in my face.

“I haven’t danced for a girl in so long.  I really like it.”

“Oh, well I’m glad I could oblige you.”  What the hell did I just say?

“You can touch.” She assured me.

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“No really, it’s okay.  I don’t mind it when girls touch.”

She took my hand and started slapping her ass with it.  I just kinda went limp and let her have at it.  When she let go I could tell she wanted me to keep going so I gave her a few independent whacks to assure her that she was doing a good job.  I felt like Carmen probably had low self-esteem, being a stripper and all, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad.

Apparently my modest self esteem booster was a full on green light for Carmen because with lighting fast skills she stealthily flipped around and started motor-boating my face in her boobs. On a positive note her breast seemed to be real, I contemplated if this would be more or less suffocating with fake boobs as I waited for her to release the death grip she had on the back of my head.

“Do you like that?”  She said in a dirty voice.

“Okay.” I said.  Well, what was I suppose to say?!

The song started to fade and I started to get excited about finally escaping the back room.   Carmen began gathering up her fallen bikini then turned to me and said.

“That was fun.  I can give you another song for free if you want.  A two for one?”

“Oh, no,” I jumped out of the chair and started heading for the door. “No no, I mean you were great, but I’m fine with one. One song is good.”

“Wow, nobody has ever turned down a two for one before.”

“Well, I was so satisfied with the one you see.  I’m gonna get back to my friends. You were great.  Thanks.”  I speed walked back to the booth where Spam was shoeing off a blond sitting in my spot.

“How was it?!” He asked with anticipation.

“I slapped her ass,” was all I could get out.

A few minutes later my ass slapping stripper came back by the table to let me know she would be dancing in a few songs and that we should stick around to see her.  I had seen enough, but wanted to be polite.  I don’t know why I cared so much about being polite?  I was in a strip club!!!!  Then the music came on, the lights changed, and Carmen, my stripper, hit the stage.

Up until now the lights in the club had been very dim, bright enough to get the picture, but not bright enough to see the details.  Well I was finally getting all of Carmen’s details and here’s the fine print y’all.  She’s a midget.  HOW I missed this ’til that moment is still unknown, but I did.  We all dropped our jaws in realization.

“THAT’S your stripper?!”  Crispy Chicken blurted out.

“She has velociraptor arms,” Spam said.

“She totally does. I just got a dance from a little person,” I said with a shaky voice.

A few seconds later Carmen started skipping around the stage, looking more and more like a circus performer, and not in the good way.

“We can go now.” Spam finally offers, realizing I’d gone through enough.

Crispy Chicken and the rest of the gang easily agreed and we all headed for the car while I generously purelled my hands and face.

That night, as I was lying in bed recounting the evening’s events, I realized two things:

1. I had successfully shaken things up, both figuratively and literally. Mission Accomplished.

2. I’m at peace with being a little bit boring.

Maybe laundry and singing shows aren’t the ideal, but speakeasies and strip clubs aren’t either.  Something in between. So tonight I will joyfully steam clean my pashminas and sip vino while I decide weather I like Sioban Magnus’s rendition of  Shina Twain’s Any Man of Mine, and tomorrow….

I will strap on some platforms and take my first pole dancing class.

Wish me luck!