The Day of Deflowering is Upon Me

There are days when I feel closer to my virtual friends than my RL besties. Today is one of those days...because, frankly, my RL friends would laugh their asses off at me and I'm too emotionally fragile to deal well with that kind of ridicule. In the immortal words of my RL sister Natalie, "everybody has their shit". Today, bloggy friends, you are downriver and you know which way the shit flows, correct? Okay then. Saddle up.

I lost my virigity at age 17.

BAM!

(I'll give you a moment to recover.)

Are we all good? Mmk. I will proceed.

This may be shocking.

IT WAS TOTALLY PLANNED.

I am the product of super liberal parents who begged me from age 14 or so to "come to them first" when I felt that my hymen was in danger of imminent breech. So, when I starting seeing a guy on a pretty regular basis, got the moisties and knew that his "itch" was also beggin' to be scratched, my mom hauled my ass to the gyno faster than RPatz grows facial hair. I came home with the little pink "wheel o' freedom" and showed the new boyf that we had exactly eight days of me ingesting these little magic baby-blocking pills until blast off. He literally marked the fucking calendar in red ink.

The day came (no pun intended) and his horny ass was on my doorstep with a shit eatin' grin on his face. My mom, after giving me the "this-is-gonna-suck-for-you-but-it-gets-better-I-promise" talk, had arranged to be "out to dinner and a movie" with my little sister and my dad was at work. I'm seriously surprised there wasn't some sort of checklist on my nightstand or some shit.

#1...Wash your girl bits

#2...Remind Sparky that you've never ridden the lightning rod before

#3...Foreplay is your friend

#4...Take a Tylenol

#5...Change your sheets

You get the idea. I mean...this wasn't your "backseat of a Pacer with steamed up windows/use an ancient glovebox condom" type of encounter. I pre-gamed with some softcore porn on HBO Late Night. I did a full leg shave. I gargled with Minty Fresh Scope. It was highly structured. Planned to the last detail. I was SO prepared for this life-altering event.

And yet, it still sucked.

So you see? No amount of planning made it better. This is why I am spending my day today, ingesting copious amounts of paxil/coffee and trying REALLY hard not to think too much about the impending event, and yet it is the prevailing thought weaving through my twisted, tangled grey matter.

My "Little Ashes" cherry is being popped today.

And I am seriously more nervous than that day back in November 1982 when the bumping of the uglies lasted all of 45 seconds and I ended up wondering if I'd ever get a chance to experience an orgasm before Sparky went all spastic on/over me.

For those of you wondering why on earth I haven't succumbed to temptation before now, the answer is simple. I simply could NOT bear to watch The Pretty One do man-on-man unless it was displayed on my vivid high-def 57" Sony Bravia. It just seems dirty...seedy....WRONG to watch it all condensed and grainy on my cheap Toshiba laptop. The infamous "tuck" is something that should only be allowed to exist in brilliant 1080p, kwim?

So, I remained "Little Ashes" chaste until today, when it became available for purchase on DvD in the 50 contiguous.

Still, I am as nervous as Jim Duggar hopping into bed on ovulation day.

Why?

It's not the gay secks. Hell, I watched the Tudors all weekend and it turns out that King Henry the 8th's court did more fudge-packing than the folks at Cadbury. I wasn't the slightest bit squeamish about that part. I found it...interesting. Sweet, even. Except when it got animalistic. Which was almost every time. And then I found it...strangely, ummm...hot?

All I know is that tonight, at about 7 p.m. CST, I will be huddled in front of the flat-screen with nothing between me and SalvadoRob Dali except my contact lenses.

And I'm scared shitless.

Somebody, anybody....please hold me.

And be prepared to help me change my sheets when it's over.

The Robert Pattinson / Pat Robertson Dichotomy

This may surprise some of you, but I am not an overtly "religious" person. I am honestly not even sure what the term "religious" means...except that like most words, it means different things to different people. So for the sake of clarity, let's assume "religious" means regular attendance as well as financial and personal participation in some denomination of worship.

I was raised a Mormon. (This may explain my adoration for Steph Meyer up until I felt Breaking Dawn was a bit too preachy re: virtue/premarital sex/approach to unplanned pregnancy/etc.) Still, even at the tender age of ten or so, I knew in my heart that there was something in the doctrine of this "religion" that I couldn't quite embrace fully. I never attended again after I left for college. Plus, they expect you to tithe 10% of your income and I was a poor, starving college student who worked at McDonald's for my beer money, so it seemed somehow hypocritical to stand/sit/kneel/sing/pretend when I wasn't about to fork over my Happy Hour coinage to the suit with a unibrow carrying the silver collection plate.

"And so the Lion fell in Love with the Lamb." Steph - you totally stole that from the book of Mormon.

I converted to Episcopalian 25 years ago because it seemed harmless enough to follow in my husband's denominational footsteps, plus it turns out that it's a very well-kept secret that the Episcopalians know how to party. I was pleasantly surprised that during one of our first church functions, beer in many varieties was made available right alongside bottled holy water and Diet Coke. The dude with the collar even drank a few and became shamelessly red-cheeked. The gal that played the pipe organ got downright WRECKED and started to play the Peanuts theme in the sanctuary and everybody thought it was hilarious. THIS, I thought, was a "religion" I could dig. Plus, you didn't get the stink-eye for getting a divorce. Always a plus.

Alas, after two decades or so of blissful regular church attendance, during which I ACTUALLY taught Sunday School to little lamb-faced preschoolers, something bad happened. Something that sucked the "religion" right out of me.

The dude with the collar announced he was a gay man.

This declaration shattered the very foundation of the church and cracked the throngs of the faithful in half. For the most part, the younger half thought it was no big deal, and accepted the admission for what it was; a gay man choosing to come out of the closet. I mean, it wasn't like he started skipping around the altar or wearing Village People costumes under his vestments. He was the same collar-wearing, beer drinking dude he'd always been. Commited to the church. Faithful to God. Compassionate and kind. He just made it known that he preferred Nathan Lane to say....Christine Baranski. No big deal, right?

WRONG.

The grey-haired people were appalled. This smiling, quiet man who had gently laid hands on them and served weekly wafers & wine, whispering "The body of Christ, the bread of heaven" was suddenly an abomination against God and a disgrace to the red-doored church. And let's be real. The grey-haired people have the majority of the money. Whole bunches of it. And they aren't beyond using that fact to manipulate people to carry out their agenda. This unholy, twisted, charade of a collar-wearer had to go.

And so did I.

I simply can't live in a world where tolerance and acceptance don't exist.

And so I decided four walls and a pipe organ just aren't my cup of tea.

Do I believe in God?

Of course. I mean, COME ON. There HAS to be a God if THIS:

is a REAL person, right?

This level of beauty is simply not possible without divine intervention of some kind. In fact, I would contend that God was the architect of this flawless face that was meticulously sculpted by angel-artists that were hand-picked by The Almighty One himself.

So when I say my nightly prayers, I give thanks for the gift of this:

to all of womankind (and perhaps certain collar-wearers with a penchant for argyle socks and vacays on Rosie O'Donnell's Cruise Line).

So today, when another grey-haired man-bully who equates money with power & status in the eyes of God, started spouting hate around the globe, I flipped shit. Why? Because his name could confuse dyslexic Twilight fans everywhere. And we just can't have that. I'm here to clear this shit up once and for all.

THIS is Pat Robertson. Today, he told the world that Haiti brought on it's own destruction by making a pact with Satan back in the 1800's.

And he's a crazy, deluded hate-monger.

And THIS, is Robert Pattison.

God's reminder that he exists in this crazy, fucked up world we live in.

Please, don't EVER confuse the two.

The Conception of The Immaculate

We're well into the great Twi-drought of 2010 and the desperation amongst Twihards is palpable. The bitter, lonely longing is the prevailing emotional climate. The absence of him is everywhere you look. Facebook is desolate. Blogs are full of angst...unrequited yearning. The Twitterverse is a sucking black hole of unquenchable, burning desire. This, as Aro would say, is a sadness.

And just as we're all about to drop to our knees in anguished despondence, our salvation is miraculously delivered to us via email in the form of a simple JPEG file...

...and all is right with the world again. At least for a little while.

When photos like this innocently find their way onto my desktop, they are invariably accompanied by profanity muttered under my breath and then lightheadedness, chest heaving and copious salivation. It's a simple Pavlovian response these days. The Pretty One = Intense Eyegasmic Pleasure. I've learned to accept it.

Go ahead, I dare you to look at THIS, and have no physical reaction whatsoever.

You couldn't do it right?

It's okay. Don't chastise yourself. I basically set you up to fail.

Turns out, this level of lusciousness is impossible for a mere mortal to witness without setting off some sort of autonomic physical response, usually originating in the nether regions.

It's not your fault, it's just a base reflex, like blinking or breathing.

This one...

...buckled my knees, and all but incapacitated me for nearly three days. The smirk, the finger porn, the suit....hell the very notion of red wine on his breath was enough to cause my coworkers to break out the damn defibrilator. Shit got real.

Now, shocking my chest is routine for them. They do it while nonchalantly chatting and drinking their morning coffee. They've grown so accustomed to watching me fall unconcious in front of my monitor, that it's a routine part of their work day to revive me and isn't given any more stock than making copies or answering the phone.

It goes something like this:

I mutter "Holy HELL" followed by a loud thud as my body goes limp to the floor beneath my desk. Coworker in the nextdoor office shouts down the hall, "Denise....it's YOUR turn. I got her yesterday, twice." Denise rolls her eyes but knows that if she doesn't save me, the next time she crashes her hard drive there will be no onsite computer geek to save her sorry non-technical ass, so she does her thang and minimizes the photo (to save me from a quick relapse) and shocks me back to life, shaking her head and propping me back up in my $500 leather, urine stained office chair.

At least THEY think it's urine.

This whole cluster of fuckery started me thinking...exactly WHAT is it about this boy? I mean, let's be serious for a moment. He's a skinny, 23-year-old, self depricating British smoker with a slightly squishy nose, a crooked bicuspid, chronically messy hair, overgrown eyebrows and super lazy grooming habits.

And FMUDIACC* if every single damn one of those things about him doesn't make him infinitely more sexy and desirable. Exponentially hotter. It's just NOT natural. He's a freak of nature.

I can only conclude that something magical...ethereal...otherworldly is at work here. Something at the root of humanity. Something that occurred, like most genetic anomalies, at the very moment of his conception.

Something....like this:

It's simple statistical science. Sooner or later, the ultra rare sparkle sperm was going to find it's way to the once-in-a-lifetime shimmering ovum. The occurence of their meeting is so infinitesmally rare, that humans are lucky to witness its glorious outcome even once in their lifetime on this earth.

So, thank you Dick and Claire Pattinson.

Thank you for this.

THUD.

Beeeeeeeep.......Charge to 300......CLEAR!

*Fuck me Upside Down in a Clown Car