Sometime between the beginning of the month and Saturday morning, I grew a conscience. The pesky thing kept me from over-sharing on the blog, and thus enacting a To The Death type campaign between eCrush and me. Plus, it saved my mom a heart attack and having to enact a parental-tag-team phone call to discuss “boundaries,” “maturity” and possibly “being out of the will.” Much to the disgust of assorted enablers friends, I drew a line in my ethical sandbox and stood firmly on the honorable side of it. At least, that was true until eCrush called me on Valentine’s Day.
Me (not really paying attention to who was calling, since I was much more interested in my gChat discussion of Joss “Please impregnate me in a deliciously naughty way” Whedon’s new television show): Hello?
eCrush (way too confident considering the genital maiming I threatened last time he called): Did you get my flowers?
Me (considering the pros of a new cell number): They went straight from the concierge desk into the garbage chute. When they hit bottom, they make a surprisingly loud thunking sound. Why are you calling? We’ve discussed this. What part of a Communication Cease And Deist do you not understand?
eCrush (mourning the demise of $150 in floral apology): It’s Valentine’s Day and I wanted to let you know I still love you and care about you; that I’m so sorry —
Me (wishing cells phones were conducive to doing the Hang Up Slam Thing): You told me you didn’t want to be with me, among other reasons, because I was too unattractive and fat. You are no longer worth coming up with creatively mean names for. Stop calling. *And I forcefully pushed the off button*
My phone rang again. I enacted the Screen. A few minutes later, there was a message chirp.
eCrush (all High and Mighty in the voicemail): That was rude. Why are you acting this way? God, are you PMSing? This kind of behavior is why I am now dating (The Other Woman) —
That’s when I decided the message delete option was almost as fulfilling as a sleeve of Thin Mints, that morals were overrated and the vengeful tendencies of my ovaries should not be denied. Bring on Scorched Earth…
(ONE LAST WARNING TO MY MOM, DAD, AND ANY OTHER BLOOD RELATIONS WHO MAY STILL BE READING: I am serious, close the browser. Really. Go away! Hugs, Kate)
Sometime after the Frenzied New Partner Sex downgrades into I Now Know All Your Tricks Sex, a couple generally reaches the Comfort Stage. It’s a sexual holding pattern that comes and goes throughout the course of a relationship, and can occasionally act a warning sign that the Predetermined Menu is lurking. The Comfort Stage is defined by familiarity. Basically, the couple is secure enough to trust each other with their mutual sexual fantasies, but is still motivated enough to act them out. This phase is why women hang onto their Circa 1997 plaid skirts. It also explains the popularity of fuzzy leopard print handcuffs. Or in my case, why I now have a sex toy I don’t know what to do with.
One Saturday evening, eCrush had long since reached the finish line but I was lagging behind, still attempting to complete the race. It had been a night of seemingly endless wine and cheese consumption. I was drunk, recovering from a nasty bout of lactose intolerance and just wanted to see orgasm stars, make eCrush get me a glass of water, and pass out. Hoping to move things along, I suggested he grab an adult accoutrement from my goody drawer. My advice took a moment for him to process, thanks to his Pinot haze, but when he did, eCrush stopped his over-enthusiastic boob grab/finger duet thing, and gave me a look of utter horror. When sleep surpasses orgasm as a personal priority, I’m pretty sure that’s the onset of the Comfort Stage. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing; it means the relationship is evolving, that the comfy granny nightgown will start making an appearance, and farting has become a competitive group activity instead of a stealth action. Yet, to eCrush, the onset of the Comfort Stage heralded A Big, Scary Manhood-Threatening Change. And introducing a vibrator into the mix was sort of like sending him a Hallmark card that read Ten Loving Suggestions On How To Better Utilize Your Boy Unit. Needless to say, I didn’t get much personal satisfaction that night.
Having an X-chromosome, and thus biologically predisposed to talk things out, I addressed the situation the next morning. My part of the conversation was very “I like to get my jollies, and I’m not opposed to mechanical assistance when needed.” eCrush’s was more of the silent, awkward blushing variety. The attempt to introduce my Republican boyfriend to PG-13 rated sex was not going well. I saw a rush Amazon delivery of The Joys Of Sex in my immediate future. Trying to ward off a lifetime of missionary, I asked eCrush if there was anything he’d ever been curious about, anything he’d ever wanted to try. I expected blind-folding or maybe a desire to break in the dining room table, but instead, I got a request for butt plugs.
Let’s be clear, Webbernets: my pooper is Exit Only. There was no way I was letting anybody astro up my glide. For all sexual purposes, I have no backdoor. So, while eCrush waited on one heck of a sexual limb, I mentally ran through eleventy seven different ways to express my reluctance, and rejected them all. There had to be some way to say, “Hell no! You aren’t shoving anything up my rear!” while still encouraging eCrush be more sexually adventurous. Except, I couldn’t find it. This was a quandary above even my analytic abilities; I needed outside help. So, I racked my brain, trying to devise some way to pause the conversation with eCrush until I could call an Emergency Girl Summit and get advice on proper butt plug denial etiquette.
Then, in a moment where I swear Heaven hand delivered me a Get Out Of Jail Free card, eCrush clarified. He wanted to be the butt plug recipient. In fact, over the years he had assembled a sort of Introduction To Anal Kit. eCrush had just never thought I’d be open to anything beyond vanilla sex, so he never mentioned it. Frankly, I was so relieved that my ass would remain a sacred zone, I probably would have agreed to anything short of hamsters or three-eyed midgets. If my boyfriend wanted me shove something up his tooshy, I would do it as long as there was a no-give-back guarantee. And that, boys and girls, was when I secretly realized the madras pants and pink Lilly shirts were the least of my problems.