Every couple who has sex without using condoms is familiar with a nasty phenomenon that occurs post-boning. It’s so commonplace that most people can make jokes about it without many quizzical looks or questions unless, of course, you shout it out in a kids museum, in which case it probably takes on a whole new perverted meaning. But THAT is neither here nor there.
That’s right, The Internet, I’m talking about The Dreaded Wet Spot.
This occurs so frequently to me that I have tried to position myself while having sex on The Daver’s side of the bed. This way, when I make my frantic run of shame to the bathroom immediately post-ejaculation, the residual is left for my loving fiance to sleep atop of.
Because I am a very, very nice person.
I’m not really sure what it is that makes the Wet Spot so damn gross to sleep on. I mean, semen itself isn’t exactly awesome, but it’s also not that sick either. It reminds me a lot of pennies and dishwasher detergent, neither of which are all that grody, and plus, if I’m covered in The Spooge, it means I just got laid, which is always full of The Awesome.
But there is something so fundamentally disgusting about the wet spot that kind of astounds me, who is grossed out by so very little. I’m training to be a nurse, for God’s sake, and it’s not poo or anything. I guess it’s cold, and slimy, and sticky and if you fall asleep on it, you’re kinda stuck to that particular stretch of sheet/mattress, trapped on the sheets until your bedmate chooses to pull you off of it.
IF your bed mate is kind enough to pull you off of that, I suppose I should say.
Well, the moral of the story is that last night, I lost the battle with the Wet Spot to totally destroy all Wet Spots. It was truly a sight to behold. And un-luckily, and the reason I’m writing this post, is because it was centered directly on my side of the bed. My back has the strangest crick in it because I spent most of the night arranging myself into positions that didn’t allow too much of my skin contact with the disgusting puddle I nicknamed Lake Spoogekins.
Normally, when I nickname things, even gross things, like Stinky The Skunk, it’s because I love it so very much and I want to keep it forever and ever in a jar under my bed because I am so full of The Love for it.
Not this time, tho. I would punch that Wet Spot in the fucking face if I could.
I met Caroline in junior high when she was assigned to sit next to me in Art Class, my least favorite class of the day because I was about as artsy as a tree-frog on meth. I thought this was fantastic as she was far artsier than I, and I thought the skill might pass through the air via osmosis, and if not, maybe I could copy off her or something. Cheating was wrong and stuff, but so was making me try and pretend to be an artist when I clearly only made paintings that resembled cat pee on plasterboard.
She and I hit it off pretty well and I remember when we were assigned to make and record a commercial for a product we designed (El Famous Hott Burrito) she was the person who helped me get cleaned off when a bucket of water was dumped on me for the commercial. The burrito was hot, you see. Hence the WATER to cool me down. We were obviously budding marketing geniuses.
I ran into her again in high school when we had study hall together and we used to sit in the back row and gossip while everyone else actually studied. A couple of months later, we started riding to school together and we’d hold contests like: Who can smoke the most cigarettes on the way to school? And how can we avoid getting detention for being late AGAIN?
Of course I was thrilled when we had our first period government class together our senior year in high school. I remember that I had a particularly rough morning and Caroline gave me the advice to get up earlier, eat some grapefruit and relax while listening to my Grateful Dead albums. Always the hippie, Caroline was.
She decided that I needed some more Vitamin C in the morning. And it helped: not being much of a morning person, I found they were more tolerable this way. This became my new tradition.
After graduation, we lost touch, as usually happens when people go opposite directions. She was staying around to work and I was headed to Loyola in Chicago.
In the winter of 1999, I got a frantic phone call from my friend Stef. She was in complete hysterics, sobbing to the point of being incoherent. Once she calmed down, she told me the news:
Caroline had been killed earlier in the week.
She’d been in the shower at her mom’s place when her stepfather tried to force the door open, presumably to force himself on her. When she put up a fight, he went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. He came back and broke the door down.
The coroner stopped counting the stab wounds at 100.
She was 19 years old.
My friend Caroline was laid to rest in a closed casket ceremony.
She’s gone now, and I still can’t believe it.
Every time I hear “China Cat Sunflower” or “Ramble On Rose” or smell the fresh scent of citrus, though, I can feel her around me and I smile. Because she would have wanted me to.
A couple of months ago after a particularly awesome boning session, The Daver and I were laying in bed talking. For the life of me I can’t remember how the comment got brought up because you’d think it would really be kind of important, but it the implications were that Dave disclosed that there were actually ugly vaginas. And that he’d seen them before. I’d never thought of a vagina as ugly before and was immediately on edge.
Scared now, I retorted with, “You mean like the porn roast beef puss?” which was genuinely what I’d thought he meant.
“Nope,” said The Daver. “I hate to break it to you Becky, but some vaginas are just kind of ugly.”
A phobia was born.
Let’s be clear here, Internet. I am not the type of person that likes to get up close and personal with a hand mirror and my crotch. I figured that vaginas, like penises, were all a little different looking, and all a little FUNNY looking, but ugly? Hm, well, if Daver was saying so, it was probably true because even to save his own lily white ass, the man cannot lie.
Well, of course my next thought was if SOME vaginas were funny looking, did that mean that MINE was? I started gnawing on my thumb nail nervously as I remembered how large my newborn son’s head was and how small a vagina is. I quietly processed this in the dark, my eyes as wide as saucers until I quietly piped up with,
“Is having sex with me like throwing a hot dog down a hallway?”
I may have to call in an impartial third party because The Daver couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer me.
The next time he brings it up, I’ll tell him that I think penises look like the Alien from Aliens.