The Curse of Eve

When it comes to religion, I got the shit end of the stick. The product of the 70's flower child era, I was never baptized or christened. I think my parents may have dunked me in a basin of bong water and thought it was good enough to save my poor soul from eternal damnation. My experiences with church have been positive, although every time I walk through the front door I fear I might burst into flames. I've even taken Communion. At the time, I didn't know it was wrong. I just followed the crowd. Everyone else was going up to the front for a snack. Why shouldn't I? I didn't know it symbolized flesh. If I known, I would have stayed in my seat sickened by the thought of cannibalism. If you really think about it, it's really kinda icky. I don't know how you Catholic people do it every week.

When The Husband (TH) and I decided to get married, I knew it would take place in the Catholic church. Even though he is a lapsed Catholic, he wanted to get married in a church (READ: he's a Mommas boy and she made him). I was afraid I'd have to become Catholic before they would let me through the doors. I dreaded the three months of schooling, prepping and forced attendance every Sunday at Mass. What if I had to go to confession? I'd need at least 2-3 hours per week just to confess everything I'd done the week before. Were these guys prepared for me? Thankfully, this all took place in the height of the Catholic church scandal and they were psyched for anyone who wanted to be married in the church. We just took a 2 day "Marriage Preparation Course" and it was all good. We didn't even have a Mass. Just a quickie service with a very gay priest from Poland. I wore the white dress, I walked down the aisle and there was nary a flame in sight. Not even a puff of smoke.

I feel the true criminal in religion is Eve. That bitch didn't listen. She ate the apple, tempted Adam and ruined everything. If a snake started talking to you, would you listen? Because of her, women feel pain in childbirth (I don't have any kids, but those of you who are mothers are having second thoughts about Eve, aren't ya?) and we have to bloat, bleed and be emotional unstable once a month for the rest of our lives until we hit menopause and it becomes hot flashes, insanity and all the rest. A friend once told me you shouldn't trust something that can bleed for 4 days and not die. Of course, this friend is a man and couldn't possibly understand the trauma of trying to squeeze into a pair of pants that fit like a glove 12 hours ago and now, they won't even button.

Because of Eve, I can't have sex for four days at month. 4 days!! I know there are those of you who have sex during this time and all I can say is Eww!!! Ickiness Personified! It's not the whole blood thing or the smell thing or the fact I have to say "Hang on a minute, honey, while I remove this tampon". It's that I feel my most disgusting during those 4 days. Add on the 3 days prior where my mood mirrors that of a charging cranky rhino and you've got one week of pure awfulness. I don't call it "Going Medusa" for nuthin'

Because of Eve, I have to keep my man happy for 4 days without the use of my amazing Wooha. This means loads of blowjobs. Something I love to do, but not without gettin' a little sumthin' sumthin' for myself. I know I can whip out my buzz toys. But when you're feeling like a ball of hair caught in a drain, do you really want to try for an orgasm? It's just too much effort. It's easier to just eat a cream cheese brownie. After the second night of the time I like to call "He Gets Everything and I Feel Like a Bloated Heifer", I need to call in reinforcements. Porn. Wonderful, beautiful, sweet helpful porn. Big K, if you're reading this, I have a confession to make: I pull out the porn to make it go faster. I know you think I do it for you - to make it hotter and more naughty. Ummmmm....that's sorta true. But, if I can cut the job time down 15 minutes or so because you're gotten so hot from watching Jenna do her thing you can't hold it any longer, that's good for me. They don't call it a "job" for nuthin'. 3 days = lockjaw, baby! I love ya, but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Eve, you whore, you're not my favorite person this week. Maybe if we'd gone the Darwinian route you would have been eaten by dinosaurs and I wouldn't be picking up a new Jenna movie on my way home tonight.

Hey lovers! Don't forget to find me on Facebook. Just search for "Utterly Sinful" Be a fan. Make me feel loved!

Waxing Derriere

I think that overall body maintenance is important. That's the main reason I torture myself at the gym, slather on creams and lotions and hide under a hat when I go outside in the sun. I'm trying to preserve myself for years to come. I watch all of those silly 20-something girls who lay like oiled sardines, baking in the sun and think, "Just wait until you're 40. You're gonna look like a alligator handbag." If I do feel the need to add some color to my pale Irish skin, I sit out for 1 hour. That's a 1/2 hour on each side. Naked. If you're gonna get some color, you might as well tan the whole caboodle. But, you'd heard all that before. You've also heard about my visits to keep my lady bits tidy. First there was the Brazilian Mistress of Pain. Now, I see the Wax Nazi whose brutal methods strip me of every single hair in my nether regions. She is dynamite, lovers. Ruthless, cold and mercy-free. Every three weeks, I meekly step into her Den of Pain and an hour later, I walk out a smooth woman.

So, I'm in there this past Saturday and she's doing her normal routine. Slap on the wax, lay down the strip and yank. All the while she's gabbing away.

"Men ez like kidz, you know" she said. "Dey need to be treat like kidz and you get you way."

I just nodded. I had just run a 5K road race, I was tired and trying not to cry as she attacked the crease of my leg with a pair of tweezers. We had done this conversation before and I was praying she wasn't going to start on the sex advice. I was aware that "women have to be both lover and whore to man". Didn't she know she was talking to an expert?

We had just finished the legs over the head routine as she tidied up the back end when she told me to flip over on my stomach. This was a new position that she'd been using lately. Apparently it was easier for her to hit a few spots with my ass in the air. She had also been using powder as a follow up instead of the diaper creme stuff. It didn't make it any less humiliating, but it smelled alot better. I was still having flashbacks of being changed as a child.

So, I'm lying on my stomach and she's chatting away while powering my bum. I'm struggling to stay awake and daydreaming about napping on my chaise lounge when I felt her swipe a big coat of wax on my butt cheek. My napping fantasy was brutally interrupted. Was she really gonna....RIIIIIIIPPPP! You guessed it, she'd just waxed my butt cheek.

Now, just hold on a minute. Do not start to think that I have hair on my ass. No way, No how, NADA. You know how everyone has a tiny bit of peach fuzz all over their body. It's left over from our caveman days when we were totally in need of waxing services. Well, the Wax Nazi HATES hair. If she sees it, she goes after it. It doesn't matter where it is. It doesn't matter if it is not visible to the naked eye. She's got these special goggles that enable her to see microscopic hair and she was wearing them at that moment.

Well, now that she's waxed one cheek, she's on to the other one. Chirping away like a bird.

"Theze ez good if yous wear short shorts" she said as she encased my other cheek in wax.

How short does she think my shorts are? I don't parade around in booty shorts with my ass hanging out. Okay....I DO hang out in booty shorts at home. But there was nothing there to wax. It didn't feel any different when she finished.

I am utterly humiliated, but, silky smooth as satin. I fear for the next time.

That's Just Wrong! Period.

On Sunday, I was cruising around my second favorite store. By cruising, I mean browsing. Not walking around looking for additional sex partners. By second favorite store, I mean the bookstore. Not the "toy" store, which is my first favorite. Not the shoe store which is my first favorite once removed.

So, I'm in the bookstore and checking out the new releases. I know none of my favorite authors have a new book out, but I'm forever hopeful that they may decide to take pity and surprise me. Seriously disappointed that there is nothing new on the shelves, I start checking out other offerings. I wade through the twenty or so books on the new president (how do they get them out so fast), the latest diet books, and all the new books telling us that even though the economy is in the shitter, you can still make millions. (Whatever!) At the end of one of the shelves I spot this book:

Just the cover got me excited. It's red, there are no photos and there is a picture of underwear on it. YEAH! New erotic reading! Oh Boy, Oh Boy, Oh Boy! This is my lucky day! My pulse quickens and panties dampen as I nab it up in my hot little hands and eagerly crack the spin, my hopeful eyes scan the pages. Hope was soon dashed. Panties froze over. Pulse thudded to a halt. This was a book about periods?

WTF? A book about the joy of having your period? What kinda crack was this chick smokin' and where can I get me some? Apparently she had the mindnumbingly bad idea to have bunch of women each write down the joys and experiences of their first periods.

Let's break this horrible idea down:

First, why make the book red? That's just gross. Additionally, there are horny women like me running around looking for erotic reading. The cover just leads us on. It's like giving a blow job with no happy ending. Why would you do that?

Second, there is no joy in having your period. It sucks. Save for the first ten minutes of the initial experience when you realize you're a women, blah, blah blah.....the rest of the deal blows big hairy, goat teats. Every 28 days you bleed like a stuck pig and have to wear a big ole maxi pad that feels like a diaper (obviously you use tampons when you're older). You get cramps, you feel just a tad short of homicidal but you cry for no reason, you bloat up like a wood tick and you eat everything in sight. No one wants to be around you and the guys at your office all start to wonder if your morphing into some sort of SheWolf. (Oh wait, that's just me)

Third, I do not want to read about other women having their periods. I get to deal with my own psychotic behavior every 28 days, thankyouverymuch. I don't want to read about how your monthly gift from Mother Nature is all hearts and flowers. How the birds arrive at your window each morning to deliver your days supply of tampons as you struggle to wedge your fat ass into yet another outfit that doesn't fit during these days of splendor. Life is not a fucking Disney film.

Fourth, because you are now a women that means you can get pregnant! Welcome to the wonderful world of birth control. Not only will you have to try 6-7 different kinds of birth control pills to find the one that doesn't cause break thru bleeding or extreme weight gain, you now have to worry about taking them. Add on the additional pleasure of freaking out when you forget to take them. Nothing is sweeter than sitting with the pack in your hands wondering if taking the 3 pills your forgot at the same time will cause your uterus to explode.

Where is the person asking for stories about a guys first hard on or first wet dream? Now, that shit is funny. Any of you men game? I smell a New York Times best seller!

Bad Gyno

All you men complain that you have to deal with "the finger" once a year. Ohhhhhh....a prostate exam....that's just so invasive. It lasts all of 5 seconds. Try donning a paper gown and lying with you feet in stirrups as a someone hangs out down by your Woo Haa for 10-15 minutes. Then we'll talk.

Nothing is worse than the Box Doctor. I would rather spend the entire day under Partner #3's thumb than spend 2 seconds with my doctor who must dip his hands in ice water before he gives me a breast exam. But the events of my last visit are so hilarious that I felt I must share them with you.

Like all women, (normal women) I hate the annual visit to Dr. Box. I hate the waiting rooms that only have parenting magazines. I hate the other patients, most of whom are 18 or younger and look like they live under a rock. You gotta love community health care. My doctor switched to a different office a few years ago and now I have to hang out with the dregs of society. I know that it makes me sound like a snob. But, it burns me to know that I'm paying for these little tramps health care. If I didn't like my doctor so much, I would switch to another who has a private practice.

But, I digress....

I'm sitting there waiting for my turn and reading about the latest strides in breast pumps. Stimulating stuff. FINALLY, the door opens and a women calls my name. She didn't look like one of the regular nurses, but I figured that maybe things were busy and one of the office girls was doing the check ins. We exchanges pleasantries and walked towards the scale for the weigh in. I took off my shoes and stepped on the scale backwards. I never look at the weigh in and I make sure they never tell me my weight. The visit is painful enough.

So I'm standing there as she's knocking the weights back and forth, frowning at herself. She glances at my chart, then glances back up at the scale. She looks at me, looks at my chart and says, "Well, I see you've gained a bit of weight".

Bitch! She's acting like I've gained 50 lbs. Maybe I put on a few pounds, but it was winter weight gain from the holidays. She was looking at me like I had morphed into Oprah after a late night cookie binge.

I gave her a tight smile as I step off the scale and back into my heels to follow her down to the exam room. I was already scripting my complaint to my doctor about this bitch's attitude. How did some office wench have the balls to make a comment about my weight. She was no supermodel. In fact, she probably outweighed me by 20 lbs.

We go into the exam room and turned to her for my gown. Instead, she closed the door and sat down on the doctors stool with my chart and invited me to have a seat in the guest chair. At this point, I am totally confused. Why is this woman in here with me and where was the doctors nurse?

"How have you been feeling" she asked me.

"Fine" I sighed while staring up at the ceiling wishing for cold hands on boobies instead of this bitch's company.

"You not in any discomfort. No spotting or breast soreness?"

"No," I said with obvious irritation. Why was this woman asking me all these questions? Where was the fucking doctor?

"How long has it been since your last appointment"

I looked at her with a raised eyebrow "A year" I said with a bit of attitude. "This is my annual exam" Who was this chick? Wasn't she reading my chart?

She looked even more confused than when she had practically called me a heifer as she weighed me in. "So, how's the baby doing?"

Baby? What baby?

"Um, I don't have a baby" I said.

She looked up from my chart and said, "You didn't just have a baby a month ago"

I smiled and said, "I think I would remember if I did"

Her eyes grew wide and she frantically flipped through my chart. "What's your date of birth" she panted.

"April 18, 1977"

Her mouth dropped open as she found the right page. "Oh my God. You're the wrong person"

She was mortified and I just started laughing. "Well, it's a good thing you didn't confuse me for someone who needed an STD shot."

She continued to look horrified, grabbed the chart and walked out of the room mumbling "I'll get the nurse."

Apparently, there were two Serena's in the waiting room. Due to privacy laws, they can only call out your first name. When my name was called, I was the first one to jump up. The woman who called my name was the nurse practitioner and not an office administrator. I still wonder how she kept going even after the weigh-in. Once all this was sorted out, I got a peek at the other girl. She was barely 5 ft tall and couldn't have weighed more than 90lbs. (I'm 5'6" and built like a brick house.)

I'm thinking I might switch doctors now.