Friday, June 19, 2015

Baby's First Gang Bang

After he left in a huff, I was relieved. The pool outside was heated but too crowded and the night air was too crisp. I was already sensitive and decided to get into the hot tub. Across from me a raven-haired amazon in a tiny spangled bikini was enjoying the company of several men. She was a scientific marvel, a genetically perfect female surgically modified to bend time and space around her. He teeth were blindingly white, her body deeply tanned, her thick hair inky black, her eyes intensified with blue contacts, her limbs long with soft skin and enormous breasts that perfectly matched the curve of her hips.

I was surprised when she spoke to me. She said: 
Do we have the same toe nail polish?, without moving her body and staring straight into my eyes. 
Hot pink I replied. Let me see yours… I stupidly tried to peer into the bubbling water. She was already distracted and made to stand up, one of her companions was performing his "dance of passion" with a beach towel. When he finished I declared myself sufficiently passionate. She turned to me again "You look like a girl I went to high school with… again distracted… I knew this was a line, a sly excuse to talk to me, but why? "Where did you go to high school? I ventured, just to show I was an active listener. She glanced at me and frowned "Lake Simcoe..?" For a split second it sounded like the truth. "That is beautiful country I murmured.
"Do you want to hang out for a bit?" she said very fast. It came out douwantohangoutforabit 
Sure! I said. I had no idea what she meant. She got out of the hot tub slowly drying herself with a fresh towel that a man had just gotten for himself. She literally just took it from him. I sat paralyzed. What was I doing?
"She needs a towel too" she pouted at the naked man and he jumped to get me a towel too. I thanked him and she led me upstairs.
Where are we going? I asked.
I just want to hang out for a bit she repeated impatiently.
She tried to find a private room but none were available. We sat on a bench in an empty corner and she asked if it was okay to snuggle. She entwined her legs through mine and linked arms. Her body was unbelievably warm, like a furnace, and soft.
Have you always been this beautiful I asked.
This question both pleased her ego and took her by surprise, she actually gave it some thought.
"Perhaps…" she said slowly. "I have always loved really small boobs", she gushed.
I stared down at my natural chest and marveled at the boldness of this backhanded compliment. 

I feel for you, fellas, I really do.

In a picture-based dating system, we are all designed to fail. You want a sweet girl but you also want a pretty one, believing that sexual attraction is built in the moment and not – as science confirms – built over time in emotionally-stable attachments. So you pick the girl you want to have sex with, slog through "dates" where you never ask the right questions and then finally get her undressed only to discover that in addition to wild sex, she just scratched your car in a jealous rage and then called the cops claiming domestic assault. Even though you were arrested - but not convicted! - it will cost you that promotion at work, if not your whole job. And she maxed out your cards, so in addition to the legal fees, you are now in debt. You poor thing! You are the same guy who pleads "please be sane!" on his dating profile in the arrogant belief that "sanity" is the opposite of "sociopathy".

Or maybe you are already married. And you are looking for "more sex" outside of your "passionless marriage", ironically, a situation you "don't want to change". Again, I feel for you. I am devastated that the woman you married no longer wants to bang you. I am truly interested in why you think that is the case. If you want to tell me, I will listen without judgment, mostly because I am terrified that if I don’t, the same thing will eventually happen to me.

If I have any advice, it is this: Read the profile, meet the person once, remove physical attraction from the equation and give yourself permission to ask all the right questions. And don't choose the young gal with the really hot picture. She's too fast for you.

While I remain flattered when you add me as a Favorite, please know that it will never prompt me to send you a message. You are going to have express interest the old-fashioned way: by complimenting my tits and shouting at me to "SMILE" from across the street.

It took over a month of planning. She wanted it, then she didn't want it, then she was sure she wanted it. Through it all he was patient and kind, funny and accommodating. She was paralyzed with fright right up until the moment she met them. Downstairs; a descent into hell, or an old time movie theatre. It was dark. The hot summer sun was blinding and the darkness was seedy.  It was a world of caustic extremes.

It was difficult to pin down where they were from. They spoke one language but claimed to be from somewhere else and held passports in different scripts. They were clever and quick, unbelievably heavy drinkers. They had expensive bridge work on bad teeth and when they smiled the eyes went dark and a chill rolled through your heart and you knew what it was like to be eaten by a shark. They were sociopaths but, man, they were fun!

As soon as they were alone, one of them began talking about how his friend would consider her a whore for what she was doing, but that she shouldn't worry, because she would never meet him. It takes some serious balls to call a girl a whore before you fuck her. This was the type of guys they were.

The corporate world is a new invention. So new, in fact, that we haven’t worked out all the kinks. Let me back up a step and frame this for you. Never before in 100,000 years of the human history have males and females of different family groups worked in confined spaces for all of their waking hours. It’s completely unnatural for all involved. Being subjected to fluorescent light is also completely unnatural. It’s a science experiment that has gotten out of hand. I never forget this as I am working and it helps me understand the behavior of my fellow lab rats.

The worst part of the corporate world is the dreaded “work function”. This is will be an event (usually in December) where the year’s numbers are calculated and prizes are awarded. Drinks will be served and people will do the unmentionable: they will talk about a subject outside of work. Now, if you are meeting a stranger, you keep the conversation fairly clean and benign. If you are talking to friend, you let loose. If you are talking to a work colleague during the day, you are wise to keep you comments referential to work. But being in a social gathering with people you work with is a very strange heterotopia that has its own set of etiquette and protocols that are rarely discussed and often overstepped.

Take for example, last night’s event. As I was congratulating the largest producer I looked over to see an elegantly dressed woman stuffing a scarf down her top to make her breasts appear larger. Certainly she had every man’s attention in the room. This was probably the goal. Not to be outdone, the woman who had breast implants was prompted to tell her truth in exquisite detail. 
Were they worth it? a man asked, meaning money. 
You tell me, she shot back with a flirtatious smile, meaning sex. 

My grandmother was the first person to speak to me about money. She gave me a small allowance and encouraged me to save. I remember the moment clearly even now. We were standing at the bus stop and she handed me a single dollar coin. She said, "If you save a small amount from every dollar you get," her voice trailed off and she shook her head in wonder, …" you will be very rich, indeed."

Banks are modern cathedrals, cast in glass and steel. When I was a child I enjoyed the marble counters of our local bank branch, I wanted to be the one to fill out deposit slips and clip coupons. I wanted to be a teller but my mother encouraged me to aim a little higher. She noted that all the tellers were women and all the managers were men. I couldn't fault her logic.

Something strange was happening. The room was becoming filled with silent men, standing perfectly still and staring straight at us. 
First one, then three, then a dozen. 
They stared relentlessly and one sat down and began to discreetly masturbate while watching us talk. I stared back. Their desire for her was magnified 1000x and terrifying.
This must be what it’s like to be a celebrity, I commented. 
As a solid unspeaking mass, they moved still closer.
Is it really bothering you she asked. Wait here and I will see if a private room is available.
I was now alone. The silence and the large eyes were deafening.
"There is really nothing to see here, you guys" I stammered. Some of them wanted to believe me.
She bounced back into the room stark naked. it wasn't any different then when she had been wearing the bikini.
We have a private room! She whooped, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me away, the men in my wake. We entered a curtained area and she drew them closed behind us. She dimmed the light and began to wipe down the soft surfaces with a hand towel.
Why did you bring me here? I asked.
With liquid grace, she curled up in a ball and gently bit one of her fingernails looking at me with big eyes, a practiced pose that no doubt drove her men wild but left me unmoved. 
"I want to please you… I will be really careful with my fingernails" by way of explanation splaying her tanned fingers to show hot-pink press-on nails, awkwardly applied. It took me a minute to grasp her meaning. 
"Ok" I said. But I've never done this before…
oooohhhhhh she purred and performed the cat maneuver again. It was beginning to look silly.

All of that must have been the foreplay, because it wasn't any different than if a guy did it.

Buffy did not mind having sex with her brother. Well, not her brother, really. He was technically just her half-brother, she rationalized, as if that made it any better. No, she didn’t mind doing it, what she really minded was that everyone knew.
She thought back and could not remember how many times they had to move, how many different homes she had gotten just right only to have to pack all of her belongings (and a considerable amount of junk, if she was honest) and move again. She and her brother-husband leaned toward the “hoarding” side of accumulation if she was being totally honest. Whole rooms with microwaves on rickety chairs and large screen TVs pinned to walls with no furniture. She was lucky no one had called the fire department. 
But that’s because she had a secret weapon; to look at her modest little home, you would think she was living the American Dream. The outside was neat a as pin, if a little chintzy. Her fences was perfectly straight with just the right amount of plastic lawn furniture. Bright little annuals poked their heads out in spring. There was a barbeque cover (Go Leafs Go!) in winter twinkled under fairy lights. Requisite Halloween and Easter decorations on the in-between. You could mark your calendar by her door wreath, so regular was she; but it all belied a rather sickening interior. Inside there was silence and mess.
She couldn’t help it, things just accumulated after Labour Day.

There was always so much stuff in the back seat of her car, always so much to carry back and forth and it all made her feel so busy and important. It was almost worthwhile. She never really gave any thought to her appearance these days. She would have her hair cut in a straight line, wash and leave the house with it wet. She had no where to go so she wore sweat pants all the time. This made her invisible to the opposite sex, almost. She was tall and thin to begin with, quite a figure if she did say so herself, but it had only attracted the most vile of men, and her mother had been so jealous, so angry all the time with any attention that Buffy received. So she had retreated behind a wall of shapeless jersey and a curtain of mousy not-quite-any-colour hair, remaining silent, not rocking the boat. But Buffy secretly wanted to be in charge. She was also finding new projects for herself. She wanted to plant flowers and cut down tress. She didn’t like trees, they way they loomed in the sky. How, in winter, they lost all their leaves, what a nuisance! She would prefer to cut down all the trees ...

Growing up, the family next door espoused to be evangelical Christians. Well, one of them was; the mother. She was so passionate about her religion that she talked about it to everyone she could. It was odd because she was the least virtuous woman I ever met. She helped people to satisfy her own vanity and never missed an opportunity to take revenge. She changed allegiances as quickly as a politician and preached hellfire and brimstone at every turn. She was so narrow-minded that she was constantly enraged. I think when people lock themselves into isolating views, they block the flow of universal energy that is supposed to move through them. Given her castrating nature, it must have been difficult to fuck her. So no one was surprised when the husband had a brief flirtation with a woman at work. He said to his wife, 
It doesn’t matter where you get your appetite, as long as you eat at home”. 

It was clear pretty quick that they didn't know what they were doing. They bragged that they had done this many times before – they had a picture to prove it - but they were inhibited in small but important ways by the presence of the other. They didn't touch her or speak to her. They called it sex but mostly they just wanted their dicks sucked. There is so much desperation surrounding an unsucked dick, it provokes the maximum amount of pity and compassion. After a period of time she had to ask them to have sex with her. They complied silently, like being asked to solve a skill-testing question.

It wasn't that it was bad, it was just so beige. The logistics were confusing, different than what she had anticipated. Neither one stayed in a position long enough for her to feel anything. It was a blur. One had a thick accent and his instructions were almost comical. He shouted "Stand up!" when he merely meant "kneel". He indicated a switch with furtive hand gestures and small whistles. He was trying to be polite while clearly not giving a shit. It was like something out of Kafka. But he cared about his friend and that was endearing. The other was eager to please and fully engaged. She wished she was alone with him. There was a thick current of the unspoken, in a place where thinking should have been obliterated. It was a drag. She was disappointed.

You see, he whispered hoarsely, good things happen when you’re good. I gasped with pleasure. He was stretching and opening a place that had not been touched in a long time. He saw what he had done and it was good, he felt how wet I was and he was pleased. And I was pleased. It was a self-organizing feedback loop.

He was in a rush. He ordered a drink, made a couple of toasts (It's all about respect, he declared with a knowing look) made a couple of faces when anyone else spoke and then cut off their conversation with an order. He marched them down the hall and when it was over he raced out of there, practically dragging them behind him. He was talking about possible routes home before the door had shut.

Are you finish? He asked in broken English. 
Yes, she said.
He wasn't a fool, he knew better
Finish, finish, he asked again, looking at her with meaning
Yes, she said
He eyed her carefully, an unbeliever.
Do your legs hurt? He asked, unsure. His ego hoping she was honest.
But it begs the question, if he knew what to look for, why did he not make sure it happened?

The next day they tried to hack into my Twitter account.
It's all about respect

The married man keeps emailing me. I keep putting him off with lies that I have a boyfriend, that I don't want to be disloyal. None of this works. I have him book a hotel room only to cancel at the last minute to infuriate him. It only makes him try harder. I ask for money. He refuses but still keeps trying. 
I tell him I am pregnant.
I never hear from him again.

When I see him, I literally run away.
This only makes him angry.
He brings me to a sad post-third-divorce apartment. 
He ties me to the king-sized bed and fills all my wet holes.
I have my first full body orgasm, screaming.
I am 35 years old.

Tyrone is agitated, laughing, talking, moving, in his expensive exquisitely tailored suits, his ever increasing collection of matching Hermes ties and brightly patterned socks. Today it is a paper-white shirt with a fushcia rose tie and retina-burning socks, a gift to himself for his birthday yesterday, just visible below the hem of his knife-creased pants and above his black leather shoes, shined to a rich Chinese lacquer. Most of his conversations begin with “Did you see gold today?” Tyrone has the hairless, flawless body of a Ken doll and tailors his suits within an inch of their capacity. He often works past quitting time, technically this is frowned upon by management, and uses upwards of four expensive coffees to serve his mania. In addition to his double work load, he is trading in his own account and following his ever enlarging universe of risky penny stocks in the corner of his computer, eliciting shouts and sighs as his fortunes rise and fall. He uses the frat house sex approach to investing: in, out, in, out, in, out. When his energy finally wanes, say around 7pm, he will hit the local bar and spend his money on whisky and ..., well, you get the idea. He has been known to vomit in his own wastebasket in the morning.

On the weekends Tyrone dons a pair of faded overalls and works on his large garden, growing vegetables of admirable size. This was so out of character that his co-workers initially did not believe him and demanded pictures. He explained away their astonishment by advising that he was a Gemini and as such he had two distinct lives, but only one personality, fortunately. At the tender age of 25, Tyrone owns his own house in a respectable neighbourhood. When I ask him if women at the bar treat him differently when they learn about his house, he blushes behind his rimless glasses to his perfect collar and stammers … yes.


Out of all them, he was the only one to contact her the following day. It was so sweet and uncommon – so full of basic human decency that her heart burst. She took her own photo if it, a record. If they had met under different circumstances, she surely would have responded.

Friday, June 12, 2015

White Girl Wasted: My First Attempt at a Juice Cleanse

Let the Skinny Begin!


I read a bunch of websites, spoke to my most lunatic diet friends and decided that they only way to lose weight is to stop eating. I don't believe that exercise makes you skinny, the same way I don’t believe in global warming, and so to help me interrupt my eating habits – if only for two days – I decided I wanted to try a juice cleanse. I think I'm going to try a couple this summer but my first choice based on cost and location was TOTAL CLEANSE

What is it?
6 bottles of cold-pressed fresh juice blends to be consumed over the course of the day. Each bottle has a number on its lid so you know what order to drink it. Not sure the "science" behind this, but I like to be organized and follow the rules. You can choose the pre-sorted series or invent your own juice order. No one is going to know what order you drank your juice. Go crazy.

How much?
$57 (including tax) per day

The theory behind it?
None. No physician licensed in the province of Ontario will tell you to do this. But it will reduce your calories and shrink your stomach if you stick to it. For longer periods of time, improved skin and hair is reported. But it can also cause you to feel faint and in extreme cases (I'm looking at you Gwyneth Paltrow) it can cause one to hallucinate. Proceed with caution.

I called ahead on a Thursday to confirm a pick-up for Sunday morning. The woman sounded far away, busy, like she couldn't hear me and could not be bothered. I put in my order for 2 days of juice and confirmed that I would be there for 11am on Sunday morning when the they opened to pick it up. She was practically hanging up the phone on me.


Not the greatest customer service, but then again, how smart do you have to be to bottle juice and sell it at a massive premium to high-strung white women with too much money? Criminal genius, is the correct answer.

Sunday dawned without out a cloud in the sky. I drove over to the location and I was 30 minutes late. I requested my order. The sales girl went into the back and asked for it, advising me that it would be 5 – 7 minutes.
This was news!
I was double-parked and late for a Jays game. Could they swap out a different juice? Yes, they could swap cashew milk (which takes 7 minutes to… something… squeeze the cashews?... no one was kind enough to tell me what the wait was for) for citrus juice. Okay, I said. 
The little girl in the front said, as a means of explanation, "It's usually all ready by noon".


"Gosh, I wish I had known!" was what I said out loud.

Because I am a money witch, let me take a moment to review the tenants of capitalism: I give you money and you immediately give me the required product. I've noticed that lately, things like Apple iPhones, expensive purses and now fucking juice cleanses have wait times.
Welcome to Communist Russia, comrade, we've been expecting you.
I imagine it creates a certain mystique to "wait" for something. But then again I was born in the West and I've never had to wait for a goddamn thing a single day in my life. The experience is foreign and uncomfortable and I am certainly not going to start waiting for some fucking pressed juice in the post-gentrified Junction. Please remember that if you are making people wait for something, it better be fucking unique, OR THEY WILL GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

There was a lot of noise in the back and despite the decision to swap for whatever was available, I was still waiting for … something … the numbers to be put on the bottles? Dunno, because again, no one told me. The little girl in the front just frantically clicked around on her computer trying to pretend I wasn't there.
You took my money, kid, so I'm here for the duration.
Finally a woman comes out with two paper bags each filled with six bottles – a very heavy load – and says "Are you sure you didn't want to wait for 5 more minutes?"

Well, no. I didn't want to wait for ANY minutes, you pair of buffoons. How can that not be clear to you? The website does not indicate that the juice is pressed while-U-wait like a dry cleaners, although I admit it makes sense, but if I call ahead two days prior to request an order to be ready, you should have it ready. No issue.

Day One: Revitalize Cleanse

Monday morning is a terrible time to try anything new for breakfast and this was no exception. However, after the first couple of swallows of 'Green Energy' it was actually pretty good. It's fresh and light and very very green. So green that it needs to be shaken. M said that it smelled like a freshly cut lawn. The day progressed in much the same way. You really have to concentrate on drinking because time flies and before you know it you are already a couple of bottles behind…
The other flavours I try are the 'Citrus' (great), and the pre-mixed diet lemonade made with cayenne pepper and maple syrup (excellent) but mostly it's the damn green one.
I did not once feel hungry but I peed a lot, which is to be expected. Eating clean is encouraged and so I ate two pieces of Ryvita (dry flat bread made with rye, not wheat and no yeast) at lunch (total calories: 150).
I noticed two things within 8 hours of doing it: First, a juice cleanse is incredibly calming. I felt a relief of anxiety and all things that bothered me.
Two, I began to perspire the worst smell I have ever smelled in my life. I thought I had forgotten to put on deodorant, except I had a clear memory of doing it that morning. (Don't ask)
By 5 o'clock I was a mess and grateful to be at home and change, but only a few short (food-free!) hours later was a smelly again. Is this detoxing? Unknown because the Internet is not specific. I ate some light broth and a few almonds that night and slept very calmly, waking seven hours later – well before my alarm – fully rested and ready for my day.

Day Two: Purify Cleanse

When I awoke on Tuesday, my tongue was coated and I felt like I had a sore throat. For safety, I wanted to drink a protein shake with half a banana just to get some fibre and protein. So I did.
Wicked. No ill effect.
I had read on the Internet that it is recommended to take a laxative in the evenings. I did not do this. No ill effects… but I think it would be a good idea. Even though was I never hungry, my body certainly figured out pretty quick that I had reduced my calories and was holding onto every last thing. My stomach felt by turns rumbly and sloshy or bloated and hard. During the morning of the second day, my only real complaint is how acidic my urine was. It was very acidic and caused chaffing, but then it goes away, or I get used to it. Again, I am not hungry. I do not eat my Ryvita, but I do eat a green apple.

The the most noticeable change was my gym work-out. Remember how I said I was calm? My heart rate on the elliptical dropped to 134, from the normal 174. Furthermore, I ran 5min30s – and enjoyed it! – at 4m/hour without a break; which for me, who is only learning to run farther than the subway platform, is a breakthrough.

Dinner was a light broth and a house salad but it was clear that my stomach was smaller because I was not interested in either. I slept the sleep of the dead for 7.5 hours and had trouble waking up at my alarm.

The Results

*drum roll*

Weight loss: None, but a significant reduction in general inflation and waist is smaller in clothes.

Energy: Somewhat improved, reduced general anxiety, fantastic clarity from calmness

Hair and Skin: the cleanse was too short to affect these

Hunger Level: Zero. I never once felt hungry, nor do I have cravings afterwards. It completely interrupted my eating/craving pattern which was the goal.

Here's the real punchline: While I was at the gym I received a voice mail from someone named Daniel of Total Cleanse. He indicated that he had 'just received a message from a colleague that [I] wanted to pick up some cleanse on Sunday' and that he "would love to make that happen for [me]". So, this means that messages take 5 days to reach their intended person within this organization. I have to advise Total Cleanse that they are behaving like Total Trainwrecks:
You are functionally unprepared/unwilling/unable to execute even the most basic orders. It's embarrassing.

I would recommend this cleanse, but I couldn't trust the customer service. I would write them an email or return their call but I know how these places work. They will be entitled and privileged  which makes them structurally unable to admit a mistake, apologize for rudeness or change their behavior.  I would be 'wasting' my time. (lol get it?)