I haven’t been childless in over 6 years. I’ve been married for 2. But I have been informed over and over about how much harder it is to be single than to be married. Not knowing what it’s like to be single and over the age of 20, I can only guess.

Opinions being like assholes and all, here’s my list of why it must be harder to be single and childless than it is to be married + kids.

1. All of those nights that you go out to dinner and HAVE to actually spend your night discussing days events and feelings and other bullshit like that. God, compare that to the screaming baby WHO ONLY WANTS THE TIT and having to constantly have your conversations interrupted with stories about Dora the Explorer. Sheesh, wouldn’t THAT be MORE relaxing?

2. You have to CONSTANTLY remind other people JUST HOW SINGLE YOU ARE and HOW YOU ARE NEVER, EVER GETTING MARRIED so that they never, ever forget it. Even if they don’t care at all either way.

3. You can use every available opportunity to remind your married + kids friends that no matter how much sleep they are not getting or whatever other bullshit they might happen to complain about to remind them that NO MATTER WHAT your life will always be harder. Because you are single.

4. The aroma of baby poo will NEVER fill your bedroom. Add a sleeping baby into the mix, and you won’t EVER have an excuse not to hump! Nothing gets you in the mood for sex like baby poo.

5. You will never have an excuse why you can’t just go to sleep after work and take the night off. Because if you don’t make it to run your grocery store errands, you’ll just have to subsist on takeout food. And Lord KNOWS that it’s more expensive to get takeout for one person than it is for 3 or 4.

6. Overnight, no one wakes you up demanding something that only YOU can provide. And if, by chance, a lover/boyfriend is over and wakes you up, you can roll over knowing that he can get whatever he wants for himself. Unless it’s sex, which you can’t avoid without the gentle aroma of rotting baby poo wafting through the room. It sucks not to be so needed!

7. You can constantly lessen the amount of work that your friends that do not work do by degrading what they have chosen to do with their lives. If you don’t work, and are (gasp!!) supported by someone else (double gasp!!!), what right do you have to complain about ANYTHING!?! Working a stressful job and paying your own bills by yourself makes you a far, far better person, and you should remind anyone else who does not do what you do of that.

8. Any messes that are made in your place are obviously made by you, which sucks because you have no one else to blame it on! If only you had a couple of other people to clean up after so that you could blame them!

9. Getting paid well, getting occasional promotions as well as the occasional “good job!” from the bosses are nothing compared to having nipples bitten almost off or the ever popular “I am not going to live here ANYMORE!” statement when you dare refuse the child something. That sounds like payment enough to me!!! Who wouldn’t feel good about themselves when their 6 year old is having yet ANOTHER tantrum about having to drink his milk!?! Being barfed on, or better yet, having the kid barf on the floor so that you have to then clean the floor too is BETTER than a promotion!

10. Running errands by yourself SUCKS! It’s so much easier to do it with an overanxious 6 year old who cannot keep his hands off anything and a baby that insists on being held the whole time! The shopping cart practically pushes itself!

But daytime TV, (shudder) now THAT’S scary.

A couple of weeks ago I convinced Dave to go to see Buckethead with me and my metal-heads. Because he is a good sport, although he’d never heard of Buckethead he totally came along. So last night, among the young kids covered head to toe in black, we ventured out to the Metro. Although I was a bit overdressed in Calvin Klein and Polo Ralph Lauren, I enjoyed myself tremendously.

As I watched a true guitar master play in his Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket with mask and wig, I found myself strangely getting turned on. I thought back to the Sex in the City episode with Miranda digging on the guy dressed as a sandwich, and I realized that I, too, am so curious about someone who has rarely been seen without a mask, that I am sexually attracted to them. Do I REALLY want to have anonymous sex with a total stranger whom I cannot see? No. Well, maybe if he played guitar.

Because I quickly reminded myself that I’ve always had a thing for guitar/bass players. Why, you ask? You like rock stars? NO. I don’t. But I DO like what men with strong hands can do for my vagina.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometime after my eighteenth birthday, a couple of my friends and I were driving around looking for something– anything–to do. We had the staples: smokes, weed, gas; we’d had dinner and coffee and were now aimlessly driving around. As we passed a Mom and Pop type video store where I had recently gotten a membership, I had a brilliant idea.

“Hey guys,” I suggested foolishly, “I know! How about we pop in the video store to pick up a gross porno to watch?”

Renting nasty porno is practically a right-of-passage when you turn 18. It’s up there with buying a lotto ticket, a pack of smokes and a cigar. So off we went.

Back in the Restricted Section, where I was finally able to go, we went to town. Scrupulously, we scoured the shelves for something really rank like “Fatties Hump Old Men” or “Midgets Do Manhattan.” Porno after porno was rejected as none was quite up to snuff for comedic value. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, we found our diamond in the rough. Our shimmering needle in a haystack of bullshit.

The movie was called “Anal Clinic” and it was to be our entertainment for the evening.

We headed back to my ex-boyfriends house to watch our little gem along with a bottle of (stolen) red wine, giggling like schoolchildren. Someone would frequently say “Anal Clinic” at random intervals which would be met with peals of laughter throughout the car.

We schlepped downstairs, after rounding up some of the usual suspects and settled in to watch Anal Clinic. The movie was nothing like we’d thought it would be (as an aside, as this is many years ago, I don’t quite remember WHAT we thought it would be). It was a European porn, full of men having butt sex with various people (again, not sure what we’d expected from a movie with such a title)

AND IT WAS SUBTITLED. WHO WATCHES SUBTITLED PORN?

What are you going to miss, exciting plot twists? It’s PORN. It HAS NO PLOT.

After about 15 minutes, we decided that the porno was too lame to even be watched, so we formulated a new plan. We decided to go naked hot-tubbing, throwing ourselves down in the snow and running back to plop into the hot-tub to warm up.

Oh, like you weren’t an idiot at 18.

(weren’t you?)

As I was getting ready to leave for the evening, I popped back downstairs to the basement to collect my disappointing porno so that I could drop it off on my way home.

I checked the VCR, but it was totally empty. Figuring that someone else had decided to watch something less boring, I checked the area immediately around the entertainment center.

No go. Thinking that it may have been shoved into the couch, I checked between the cushions. Nothing, save for a gold brick (seriously. My ex-boyfriend was very, VERY rich) and a couple of dollars in change. Pocketing the change, but leaving the brick, I summoned the rest of the kids to help me look for the porno.

Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I waited furiously for the next couple of days to see if anything would turn up. Nothing did.

Figuring that the movie was already late, I wanted to circumvent any phone calls to my house, as I could just IMAGINE my parents reaction, “Uh, Rebecca? The video store called and they need you to return Anal Clinic,” I slunk back to the video store so that I could pay for my lost porno.

Walking the ultimate walk of shame, I headed into the store. I approached the pimply-faced 16 year old kid working behind the counter and said in the most clear and least shamed voice I could muster given the circumstances: “I need to buy Anal Clinic.”

I resisted the urge to explain what had happened when I realized just how much dumber it would sound if I tried to justify it. Better for the teenager to imagine why I needed it then for me to spew excuses.

Turning such a deep red that he looked iridescent purple, the pimples a stark white contrast to his face, he sputtered that I would have to come back when his manager was there. Trying not look ashamed, like I’d been turned down many times before when trying to buy a lost European gay porno, I walked out, head as high as I could make it go.

Several days later, I headed back to see the manager. By this time I was an old pro at this. I marched right up to him and said the exact same thing, “I need to buy Anal Clinic.” Once again I didn’t bother to explain WHY I needed the movie, or what had happened, as I was pretty sure he’d heard it all before. I paid the $36-ish dollars and upon waiting for my receipt, the manager mysteriously disappeared to the back room.

He returned several minutes later with a movie box in hand, the title obscured by his hands. He handed me the box along with my receipt, and I was on my way. After hopping back into my car, I allowed myself to look down at the box in my hands. The manager had given me the original box for Anal Clinic, complete with cover art and bold blaring title.

What the hell was I going to do with that box?

I settled upon placing it in my ex-boyfriend’s pantry, hoping some unsuspecting victim–perhaps the same shit head who had stolen the tape in the first place–would stumble upon it while looking for crackers.

Little fuckers.

When I was 16 years old, because I was a moron, I decided that I wanted a job. I didn’t really NEED a job or anything, but I figured that I should have one because I was 16 and stuff and that’s what people do at 16, right?

So I got myself a job at a fairly upscale restaurant as a hostess, where my brother had once been the head chef, proving, once again, that I am a mutant because I couldn’t cook my way out of a paper bag. I worked as a hostess until I turned 18, when I strapped on an apron and became a waitress.

While working in the outdoor restaurant, The Gazebo, I met some interesting fuckheads: the biker who pulled out one of my hairs from my head because “It was bugging him;” the yuppie lady who screamed “can’t you DO something about these bugs?” (we were outside); and various drunk ass-wads who would try and dine-and-dash until I chased their sorry asses down.

But my all time, most favoritist customer had to be Old Balls.

He came in and sat in my section one evening and was about as unremarkable as they come. He wasn’t overly kind or rude and he didn’t chat me up or anything. If he had been a color, he’d have been beige.

Until they left. On a $12 check, I had been left a whopping $2, no big deal. A big fat “eh” of a tip. Along with the credit card slip, however, I had a nasty shock.

HE HAD LEFT ME A NOTE.

Now, it happens now and again, especially with young waitstaff. Some overzealous customer mistakes your attention as a server for sexual attention, and thus I have gotten my fair share of phone numbers. Nothing too striking there. Anyone who has ever served knows to just ignore it, unless, of course you’re in the mood for a booty call. Other than the booty calls, people who leave you their phone numbers are not good for much.

I turned over the 3 X 5 card to read what he had written. Imagine my shock and horror when I realized that it was a pre-printed note, ala Penthouse stats, you know the kind on the centerfold. Now I don’t have the exact card anymore (but I wish like hell that I did; I’d have framed it and put it over our bed), but I’m going to try to reconstruct it from memory:

Hi, you’re an attractive woman who has caught my attention. My name is Richard, and I’m 56 years old. I’m 6 feet, 220 pounds, with grey hair and hazel eyes. I like to take long romantic walks on the beach, I love to play chess, and I like to read the Classics. I also like Mom’s Five Alarm Chili and spending quality time with the person I care about. If any of this appeals to you, call me anytime at (630)232-6578.

Hope to hear from you soon!

Wow. How special am I! I’ve gotten a generic pick-up note! From a dude with a dangly ball bag! AWESOME.

Well Richard, that poor dick, he never knew what hit him. Or maybe he did and he was used to it because no one ever reached anything but his voice mail all of the 237,128,373 times that we’d call him. Over and over, day and night we’d call the guy. Some days we’d pretend to be his scorned lover, others we’d croon into the phone and beg for a call back.

I’m sure that Richard and his old balls were glad when I finally lost his number.

For as long as I can remember, I have made jokes about being t-bagged because it’s just such a ridiculous thing. My male friends in high school–The Metal Heads–were always going back and forth with me, joking that they were going to put their balls on my face. It wasn’t a serious thing and I don’t think anyone actually wanted to do it.

Well, maybe they did, but probably just to get me to shutthefuckup. I mean, wouldn’t you?

But no one took me up on that. Well, until the smokin’-hott stripper for my bachelorette party showed up.

Now he was a surprise to me, one that I had a mere 2 hours to psych myself up for. I had expected a stripper that is hired totally last minute would be nasty; a filthy 50 year old man with chest and back hair, and a belly like Danny Devito. Or someone akin to Cletus the slack-jawed yokel, red mullet and dangly ball bag. I dunno.

But dude. NO. He was actually hot.

Without rocking any sort of buzz, I was reduced to a gooey giggly mess of bride-to-be, for all of my friends to see. Because what else can you do when a naked hot dude starts rubbing his junk all up on you but laugh your ass off?

And then, in the midst of the humping, and the mock muff-diving, he climbed up on me and put his balls on my face. Rubbed his balls on my face. For what seemed like hours. I was suffocating in the fumes and enormity of it all.

His balls, my face, all in front of my friends. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I think I did both. I wept into his ball bag until he finally pulled his sac off of me and I could breathe again. Never has air tasted so good.

Next time I get married, I am SO eloping.

I would like to make a list of the various things I would do if I ever acquired a penis of my own.

1. Mushroom Printing. I would love, Love, LOVE to dick-smack some chick with my penis. Over and over, and over again, until the imprint of my mushroom tip is imprinted onto her face. Don’t ask me why this appeals to me because I’m not all anti-woman, but it does.

2. Write my name in pee in the snow. Now I have heard from many a man that this is much, much harder than it seems, something about bladder control and the whatnot, but I think that a yellow cursive “Becky” would make my heart sing.

3. Have sex with a woman. Having only ever been a “catcher” in the bedroom (or any other room, really), I have never been able to conjure up in my mind what having sex with a gaping hole is really like. Don’t offer up a dildo to me, I want the real thing, mister.

4. Pee standing up. Now for someone like me, who has gone camping any number of times AND was born with a squirrel sized bladder, I have pissed on myself and my clothes more often than I’d like to admit to. I would enjoy tremendously nothing more than being able to whip it out and piss where I damn want to.

5. Jump up and down naked with an erection. Because, really, I want to see if it feels as funny as it looks.

6. Teach my penis to dance to a Madonna song. I have never, ever been able to convince someone ELSE with a penis to do this, and I imagine it would be the funniest thing. Ever.

7. Exit a restaurant bathroom with my penis hanging out, but the top of my pants buttoned. Now, I don’t mean that I’d actually ZIP my pants up ala Something About Mary, but moreover “forget” to tuck my willie back into my shorts. Hilarious.

8. Scratch my balls- because, OBVIOUSLY.

9. Wake up with Morning Wood. I want to know what it’s like to wake up with a drippy wet penis.

10. Have my balls licked. I need to have someone lick the chicken-skin of my balls and report back what it feels like.

There it is, folks, the reason that each of you have patronized our joint blogging venture for a year. Because we are not afraid in the least bit to go where no one EVER wants to go. But I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.

I’m not a virgin.

No, hold back the gasps of amazement, I know it’s unbelievable. I am 24 years old and I have had sex.

To me, this statement means marvelous little. The lovin’ sessions I have had has always been nice, never earth-shattering, but nice. But to talk about my sexual status is something I’ve always done in the same tone as saying “I like Crest toothpaste, the kind with the sparkles.” It has never meant much of anything to me. It’s not some kind of feat, nor is it some kind of curse on my house. It just sort of is.

Through the years, I have come into contact with people who have not actually had sex. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe in sex before marriage due to their religious beliefs. Or due to a childhood trauma. Maybe the opportunity never presented itself. Or just because. I dunno. Never really mattered much to me either.

I consider it much in the same vein as my statements about having had sex, to be something like, “I like cheese omelets for breakfast” or “purple should be a flavor, dammit!” It’s another nothing statement. I’m full of them.

So what? Big deal. Who cares?

Pashmina informed me that there was this blogging site for virgins over 25 so OF COURSE I had to check it out.

Holy balls, these people are OBSESSED by their virginal status. Totally obsessed. Freakishly obsessed. Like they cannot stop thinking about it ever.

I dunno. If you want to Not Have The Sex, that’s cool, I don’t see The Sex as all that Earth Shattering an event. I’ve never done heroin and I don’t think about how much I wish I could do it all day every day. There are plenty of other things besides The Sex that you can do.

Then again, this is coming from a woman practicing “asstinence.”

Yup.

I’m saving my ass for marriage