Curses upon curses.

I don't normally find menstruation unpleasant. It is, at its worst for me, vaguely annoying but never the trauma that some other women experience. My cramps are minimal and my flow is reasonable. I've never leaked since my first experience in junior high. So long as I don't sleep or swim with a tampon in, my uterus and I get along fine.

Now, however, my uterus is the princess of timing. What is unpleasant is menstruating during a yeast infection and UTI going on at the same time.

J. is having fun blaming my vibrator.

I, on the other hand, am blaming my good luck so far. I knew I couldn't get through my 20s without at least one good period story to tell in the nursing home.

The condition my condition is in.

Genitalia get strange illnesses. Men get jock itch. Women get yeast infections. Both genders get urinary tract infections. Sometimes we get both at once. Welcome to my past four days.

UTIs can come from odd conditions. My sister gets them when she doesn't drink enough water. A friend of mine gets them right after a pelvic exam. I have the grand luck of getting them from J's saliva when he's been eating too much pizza. This is a true thing.

Yeast infections can also come from odd conditions. Sis gets it from tampons. Friend gets them from excessive sex. I get them when I take antibiotics. Antibiotics like you take for UTIs.

For the past 3 days, I have been a gross mess. I have a discharge that looks like melted creamy Jif. I don't like having something that looks like peanut butter in my underwear. It is uncomfortable to sit down. J has been coming over to give me foot rubs while I lie on the couch and watch old episodes of 24. I try to make my life as distracting as I can. It's too bad that the best distraction is always fucking someone else's brains out. With my condition, it would only make the discomfort worse.

I hate that word, too. Discomfort. It makes me think of old 50s pamphlets for adolescents about to hit puberty.

Now I go eat my yogurt.

I find it more twisted when I'm not getting my perv on.

Doctors' visits are fun for me. At least, they usually are. Today was an exception. I felt kind of sick and despite the fun buzzie toy, my wrists were bothering me. R has promised a weekend of massages. I'm going to take him at his word. In the meanwhile, I visited the doctor for a checkup and found that I couldn't even summon a good double entendre about the tongue depressor or the thumping on my back. For what it's worth, the doctor thinks I'm fighting a flu. I didn't even make a "chick with the flu" bird flu joke. It must mean I'm terribly sick. There's no other possibility.

Aside from the massages, I think I'm going to sleep all weekend. I feel pathetic with my perv burnt down like this. How does one recharge the filth factor?

Assumptions of a bisexual nature.

This is one of those rankling things. The burden of the term 'bisexual' is huge in this country. The term never should have come into being.

One of my friends likes to call me a closet bisexual. She says this because I have a filthy mind, and she, like many others, can't imagine a world where sex play doesn't equal romantic inclinations. Because she knows I've played with girls, she ignores my protests. She doesn't care about the context. The truth is, however, that the word 'bisexual' is the middle-road analog to 'homosexual,' and so any person who is called 'bisexual' should be interested not only in sex, but also in romantic relationships with both sides of the gender coin. Not me. Each time I played with a girl was due to a multiple partner game. That's self-indulgence, not sexuality. I've never looked at a girl and thought "Wow, I'd do her 3 ways from next Sunday. I wonder if she'll give me her number?"

I suppose, since I'm also not interested in romantic relationships with men right now, I could be considered un-straight. I don't see it that way. The operative words are 'right now.' I have had, and will in the future have, a romance with a man. I've never had a romance with a woman. I doubt I ever will. That disqualifies me from the ranks of the bisexual. I'm happy to be firmly placed in the ranks of perv, instead.

I honestly believe that anyone with a shred of healthy libido can and will fuck anything available if, there's a lack of other options, and given enough time. If I was stranded on a desert island with only a horse for company, you can bet that I'd be praising the mad rumor about Catherine the Great inside of a year.* I think some people are aware of this side of themselves, and are willing to indulge with consensual partners. The term bisexual has been either appropriated by them or slapped onto them to make for easy definitions. This dishonors people who really are bisexual.

Self-definition is a weird endeavor. Using a term like 'bisexual' for self-definition is misleading. Coming up with other terms is deemed pretentious. It's probably time to accept it all and say "I fuck what I want, so screw you. Yeah, you. C'mere."


*I'm not serious. It'd take me longer than that.

The minor things that change a lot.

After hearing of last week's struggle with wrist pain, J. decided to come over and cook for me last night. I'm never one to complain about that sort of attention. J enjoys the finer things in life. He chose some recipes out of Bon Appetit and went to town. Muenster cheese souffle, asparagus with bacon, tomato salad, and lemon ginger cake. He even brought pretty candles and set them around the room. We had a wonderful relaxing dinner, and after dessert he gave me a backrub.

It was all going so well. He'd gotten me to the bed. We were going to experiment with integrating carpal tunnel exercises into sexual positions. I was turning an arm stretch into a yoga-like doggy style thing. He had started to lick me when he stopped to look around my ass.

J: Are you okay? You taste completely different.
Me: I do?
J: Yeah. It's a really strange flavor. But it's kind of familiar. I'm not sure where I've tasted it before.

I dipped a finger in and took a taste. (I'm not shy.) It was strange, and not nice. It only took a few seconds to figure out. I started laughing.

Me: It's the asparagus!
J: It can't be.
Me: Taste it again.

He did. He made a face.

J: It is the asparagus! I thought that only happened to our piss!
Me: Maybe it crosses through my pussy before I pass it along?
J: I'm not sure if that's gross, funny, or just stupid.
Me: Probably stupid. Doesn't matter. Just skip the munching part, okay?

It was a good evening anyway, but now I'm wondering about it. I don't know anyone who tastes so different right after eating asparagus. He didn't taste of asparagus, but semen is generated a bit in advance. I know I didn't pee between eating and playing. I know I don't leak. Was this a one-time thing? Or does it always happen, but no one notices because people usually aren't finishing off their asparagus meal with a cup of warm pussy? Then again, I don't know enough people who would be interested in experimenting in order to find out.

I am curious, though.

Beware of Small Children.

I took last week off from the computer due to a bad case of carpal tunnel in my wrist, which had been aggravated by excessive masturbation. All the unsatisfied dirty heretic fantasies left me overcharged. I was so sore Tuesday morning I vowed to go buy a vibrator. I've said before that I think using a vibrator is cheating, but wrist pain is no joke.

Since R. promised to make up for his absence over Easter weekend, I told him to meet me for some unspecified business. We hopped on the bus and headed out. I was rubbing and twisting my wrist as we were talking. He kept watching me do it until he put his hand on my arm to stop me.

R: Cut it out. You're turning me on.
Me: RSI turns you on?
R: What's RSI?
Me: Repetetive Stress Injury.
R: What?
Me: Like carpal tunnel.
R: Oh, that. What from? (joking) You been masturbating too much?
Me: That's part of it.
R: Serious?
Me: Deadly. Your mission is to help me pick out a good vibrator so I don't have to move my hands so much.
R: You? A vibrator?
Me: Wonders never cease.
R: Neither did your hand, I presume.

It was then that we heard the woman behind us clearing her throat loudly. R and I both turned to see an older woman sitting with two children. The older one couldn't have been more than 6 or 7. "Please," was all she said. She said it nicely, too. I just nodded and turned back around. R. couldn't stop giggling, even after we got off the bus. The people in the sex shop kept looking at him strangely. Neither one of us could stop thinking about those kids finally getting up the courage to ask "Mommy, what's a vibrator?"

In celebration, I got a toy that's more like an antenna for remote control airplanes than like the usual personal massager. I like the toy, but the best part of it is the glow-in-the-dark controls. R. likes that it's bendy. We've been having fun so far.

I haven't changed my mind yet. I still think it's cheating. It doesn't matter, though, because my wrists are thanking me.

Everything means more with a soundtrack.

This weekend went pretty well. I felt a bit like a wolf in sheep's clothing, which was kinda sexy. I was thinking and feeling things they couldn't imagine, and it felt sacrilegious enough to satisfy me.

I had an Easter dinner with friends, and I followed along with everything including grace. My friends know how I feel about Christianity, so they excused me from the 'Amen,' but they demanded I hold hands around the table while the prayer was recited. It's almost amusing. They'd feel uncomfortable if I demanded that they follow me in a rousing round of 'Om mane padme hum' but they think that holding hands doesn't mean as much. It's quite cute, in a certain way. They're lucky I'm Buddhist.

Another fun fact? They sang. They actually sang a hymn. I'm not sure which one. Something Easter-y, I'd assume. The reason why this is a fun fact is because J. likes to have music when we play, and recently he's been playing something that sounds similar. I wasn't expected to follow along with the song, so I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the memories. It makes me think of all the songs I know that have great sexual associations now, and then made me think of the role of music in seduction.

I had an anonymous conversation last night about the monarch of musical seduction. He insisted it had to be Barry White, but honestly he's never floated my boat. I was a Luther Vandross girl from way back. Then I told him that neither of them will ever get to me the way Nina Simone does. I barely know her music because of what her voice does to me. I have a mp3 copy of Strange Fruit just for lonely nights, and J. makes sex soundtracks for me that always have a song of hers on them. He's the source of the title of this post. He loves making soundtracks for our playtime, depending on what we're going to do. He has so many now that I'm suprised he wasn't an extra in High Fidelity. "Everything means more with a soundtrack, baby," he says. "Then you'll hear that song later and remember what I did to you. Or I'll remember what you did to me."

Sure enough, I was at this dinner in the least sexual mood possible. The host starts the hymn and suddenly I'm thinking about double-dildo dual entry, and remembering pegging my favorite puckerboy with a pink pearl. (What can I say? We had a few weeks of alliterative play.) I suppose there's a transcendent component to that association, but I'd probably insult my friends if I mentioned it.