I didn't Escape. I Have a Day pass!

I used to have this really cool boyfriend. When I say cool, I mean, willing to experiment. Not only willing to experiment, but willing to do pretty much what I asked for or needed.

I'm not quite sure what made my our hearts desire this special book I'm about to tell you about, but we ended up with it, anyway. The first page of the book warns that if you're absolutely satisfied in your love life, than then this book wasn't for you. I wish I had known that a little earlier, but since the book was sealed when I bought it, there was no going back.



The book came with a series of sealed envelopes. Half of the envelopes "For Her Eyes Only" and the other half "For His Eyes Only." You're supposed to sit together and pick an envelope every week to later be opened in private. This was you knew at some point during the week, you'd be surprised with some random, romantic, sex act.

My first envelope was called "Fantasies of the Orient" and involved honey and tea. Strictly following the instructions, I made a pot of green tea with a hint of ginseng (supposed to be an aphrodisiac?), draped a black blanket over our futon, and made my boyfriend take off all of his clothes. Acting like I wasn't allowed to utter a word, I pushed him back on to the blanket, poured honey on the inside of his leg, and the proceeded to lick it off. Then I was supposed to put the tea into my mouth and let it hit his skin through my lips as I kissed him. Yes, it's as hard and complicated as it sounds. First I scalded his neck and then I burned the inside of his elbow. Soon my tongue was aching terribly from the near boiling liquid, but since I wasn't allowed to speak, I just quietly sobbed on his stomach as I got sick from too much honey, and I couldn't eat anything for the next two days or so.

We decided it was just a bunk envelope and admittedly, as well as embarrassingly, tried again. The next envelope was called "Treasure Trail" (shut up) and it instructed me to cut out paper outlines of my feet to make a trail from the door to my chosen "hiding place," where I was supposed to "pounce" on my "mate."

Just a quick note: the only time you ever hear hear a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife, described as a "mate" is when you're reading some kind of sex-help book, or listening to Doctor Ruth on the radio. Mate has to be one of the most un-fucking-sexy words. Besides tuna. Well, tuna, and uvula. Those are the three unsexiest words. But the last two are hardly found tucked away neatly in the pages of Cosmo or Playboy, now are they?

While making the little cutouts, the little voice inside of me muttered, What the hell are you doing here? How old are you? I used my special glitter crayons to make the feet sparkle and say funny things. It really does take a long time to trace, cut, and color little cutesy feet to tape all the way from your front door to your hiding spot. Plus the card said I should make them go in and out of several rooms in the house...We had a two bedroom apartment, so I had the feet go into the bathroom, out of the bathroom, into one of the bedrooms (a storage room/office), out of that room, up the wall and around the corner on the ceiling, down into the closet. Just a little Lionel Ritchie in there to get him motivated.


So I'm sitting in the closet, waiting for my dumb, damn darling, boyfriend to get home from work, and I'm thinking, Fuck, I hope he doesn't go out for a drink after work or something. He better just come home on time. I wonder what kind of idiot I look like in here. Ow. Shit. I'm sitting on a high heel. (Maybe I should be wearing these.) I'm thirsty. Maybe I'll just run and grab something to drink. No, no. I can't go out there, because what if he comes home and sees that I'm standing in a trail of my own damn glittery toes? This just isn't sexy. This. Isn't. Even. Cute. This, my friends, was solitary confinement.


He did come home. Late. Of course. And apparently he didn't even notice the new sparkly trail of feet installed on our almost white carpeting. I heard him call out,"Hello? Baby? Where are you?" I didn't know if I was supposed to answer or not. The book didn't leave me instructions for when if he missed the giant clues that were as bright as those flashing arrows that led to strip joints. Shouldn't these special circumstances for stupid special couples such as us, be covered? I heard the refrigerator door open and close. The TV snapped on and the sounds of a basketball game filled the apartment. Unbelievable. He wasn't even going to notice. What if in three or four hours he finally decided to do something about it? What would I do if he called the police to file a missing person report or something, and they came in, followed the purple paper trail, and found me asleep in the closet cradling a tin of Altoids, and an empty bottle of water, wearing nothing but my panties?

I panicked a little, making noises that were a combination of whimpers and shrieks until I heard him get off of the couch. When he finally found me, seven minutes and 37 seconds later, he looked at me with a face that read,"Hello. Did you get lost or something? Do I need to call a psychiatric ward ambulance? Do you still understand English?" Then he smirked and laughed through his nose, before bursting into full-on laughter, and then it hit me that this book was making a complete and utter moron out of me.

His assignment that week focused on kissing. That was fun.

I pulled out my third assignment. I was supposed to make a sex game creating two sets of cards. One with body parts listed on them and the other with verbs. I tried all week, but I just kept wondering what would happen if he pulled the two cards that said "Thrust!" and "Ear!"

I absolutely refused to do my next assignment as well, where I had to "innocently" take him to a miniature golf course (because we put-put all the time?). I was supposed to go to the bathroom, take off my panties, wrap them around the golf ball, and hand them to him. Can you imagine that?!? I'm sure he'd say,"Uh...S, what the hell...?"(in a nice loud tone) And everyone would look up to see my panties on hole nine. Besides, there are fucking kids on these mini golf courses, mostly due to the fact that miniature golf is supposed to be for eight and nine year olds.

The only thing I liked about this book was while planning the fucking ridiculous things, I thought about my boyfriend. I liked thinking that week that there was going to be some kind of special surprise for me. But in general, the two of us could be a hell of a lot more creative than that book, which still sits in my bedroom by the way. Mocking me. Feeling like a dork is a really, really bad way to spice up your sex life. And come on, do you really want me showing my naked ass to innocent children, golfing? Put, put, put.

Happy Valentines Day, kiddies!

Infinite X's and O's,

Simply Curious Girl

I'm 13 again. God help me.

I was tagged by Ted (isn't he just the funniest fuckin' guy around?) to do the letter to my 13 year old self, thing. I honestly avoid tags like the plague, but something about this tag just kept calling to me, over and over again. It's a little hard not to sound like others that have done this tag before me, but I'm going to give it a shot, anyway. Over the past few days that I haven't posted and I've lurked on other blogs, I couldn't help but flash over my life just a little and think that it might feel good to jot some of it down.

OK. Rules are, to link back to the person that tagged you, write a letter to your 13 year old self, and then tag 5 people to do the same. (I think)

In turn I tag:

Sara Sue
Ann
Sweet Ass
Dyna Girl
Jen
Winnipeg Princess



Dear S,

This letter is reaching your hands from the distant, or, not-so-distant, future. There are a few things I wanted to tell you, while I have this once in a lifetime opportunity, and I hope you listen to me. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up a little less fucked up, if you do.

Right now, you're probably late for volleyball practice and wondering if anyone will notice. They won't. So you're better off going home, because you'll spend years of your life trying to impress those little blond bitches just to be spit on, over and over again...

Next year you're going to have one of those huge fights with your Mom, and you'll say "I hate you and I want to go live with my Dad" in her face for the last time. It'll hurt her to the point that she'll walk to your room in tears and start packing your shit. Let me tell you now, that you don't want to go there. All those stories your Mom told you about him are true. He'll drink and verbally abuse you. You'll leave home all the time and stay gone for weeks at a time and he won't even notice. Stop hurting your mother. She's the only one that will always stand by you.

Before your 15th birthday, a boy named Jayme is going to steal your heart. In an attempt to keep him, you're going to lose your virginity to him in his tree house and he's never going to speak to you again. Your dad is going to find out you had sex because he hears you one night giggling on the phone and he drags you to Planned Parenthood where they're going to tell you that you're pregnant. 2 weeks later you'll be drinking with your friend Sandra and have a miscarriage. Jayme's an asshole. Sandra's a bitch. Keep away from them and keep your legs closed. Later you'll find out that he got HIV from a girl named Kia and died before he turned 23. Be glad that wasn't you and thank God.

When you finally come back to your senses, your Dad puts you on a bus and sends you home.

You'll meet a girl named Tia, and she'll convince you to steal a car and drive it to LA. You two will decide to go dine and ditch at Denny's. Since you know you have a good heart, I don't have to tell you that you get caught because you felt so bad that you left the waitress your Mom's phone number so she wouldn't get in trouble with her boss. You'll spend a minute in Juvenile Hall and then your Mom will come and get you. I told you. She's always there for you.

Remember that asshole that touched you when you were little? This year he's going to get into an accident and lose a leg. That's right. It's true. What comes around goes around. You'll see him gain over 200 pounds over the years and become one of those old, fat, limping men, that you secretly hope won't sit next to you when they get on the bus.

After your stupid escapades as a teen, you'll slowly start to grow up. Of course you dabbled in drugs. Drugs were the least of your problems after a point. Never EVER stick your finger down your throat. You're not fat. Don't let anyone tell you that you're anything but beautiful. You only have big calves because you dance, and trust me, being limber will come in handy down the line.

You'll fall in love again. He'll break your heart and open your mind at the same time. I'm not going to tell you to avoid him, because it was a good life experience and makes you a very strong woman.

You'll go to Columbia University and decide it's not for you. You'll blow off a full academic scholarship so you can take pictures. I'm not going to tell you not to do it. Good for you. Do what makes you happy. You never wanted to be a lawyer, anyway.

On that note, I'm going to close this letter, and chin up little girl. It's a long bumpy road, but I promise you, one day you won't be so awkward. One day you'll be completely comfortable in your skin. And one day, you'll see, all those bitches that you thought were so hot in school, and they'll have fat, saggy asses and tits and they'll gnash their teeth when 'they see how amazing you've turned out.

Oh, and stop trying to act stupid to get in the retard class. They'll never let you in.

-SCG