Happy Fourth Birthday, Benner. Without you, I would be nothing. Someday, maybe I will explain why today was such a pivotal, important, terrible awful day. But for now, let me just say that I love you more than anything and I’m sorry and I hope that the McDonald’s and the ice cream cake that I had The Daver run out to get make it special.
Happy Number Four, baby boy. I’m so proud to be your mom. You make me so, so proud.
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.