Things I would do if I had a time machine

1. Have sex with a caveman

I’m a huge fan of the movie Quest for Fire. I can relate to the prehistoric dudes’ struggles, especially as I am currently without a lease for a parking spot in Boston, and am forced to squeeze my car into absurdly tight spaces, or very far away spots, then having to walk a good five minutes to my building every morning and evening. It’s tough, but I will persevere until a condominium lot spot opens up, just as the cavemen did, until they learned how to make fire to keep warm, cook, intimidate rival tribes, etc.

In any case, the movie features strong, dark, not-too-tall, hairy types often fighting one another, hunting, hiking through mountains, and scratching  and adjusting themselves. Eventually they meet a chick from a different tribe; her people aren’t nomadic, and they make sophisticated weapons, pottery, etc – they’re much smarter. Well, the main hairy dumb caveman of the movie saves her life and then decides he’d like sexy time in return. At first she’s not so keen on the idea, but he’s strong, so she eventually stops resisting. They travel together for a few days, because she’s lost her tribe, and they kind of fall for one another. One of my favorite scenes in the whole movie is of them having sex. The caveman’s brother watches as the couple gets it on. It’s pretty raw and rough and doggie style (think monkey sex) until this one moment when she stops him, turns around, lays on her back, and invites him back in. At first he’s like, WTF, but he learns to like it. And that’s how the missionary position came about.  Minus the part about being raped, I guess you could say it’s a tiny fantasy of mine to have sex with a beefy caveman.

2. Tell my 15 year old self to only dye the hair blue ONCE

I went through an anarchist punk rock phase while in high school. I had piercings and blue hair, and the reviews were mixed: my mom thought it was awesome, my friends thought it was crazy, and teachers either loved me or really disliked me. The ones who loved me knew I was polite, smart, funny, and helpful. The ones who didn’t sent me to the principal’s office for barely a reason. There, I would argue my innocence and point out the ridiculousness of making me, a good, peaceful student miss valuable class learning time because the teacher disliked my opinions and my blue hair.

I liked having blue hair. It confused Christians and annoyed Brazilians, which I loved, because the Brazilian sub-culture of my Metrowest Boston high school was incredibly stifling. It also made me feel pretty badass; until my hair fell out, that is.

Four times, within a couple of months, I bathed my hair in peroxide to immediately after coat it with blue dye. On the fourth go, my hair started falling out. What didn’t fall out was so horribly damaged that I decided to chop it all off. I was left with a very short grey cut (a washed out blue), that turned into a mullet as it grew out. At first I was like, “Yeaaaah, fuck it!” and wore my hair in spikes, held up by glue. But as time wore on and hormones took over my brain, I suffered with that incredibly unattractive hair cut, having to flirt extra hard to kiss the boys I wanted to kiss. I had to get them to talk to me first; my smile and sense of humor had to fight off the damaging impression left by the hair.

They were a tough few months. There’s got to be a dozen more boys out there I would’ve kissed, if I’d only kept the hair melting peroxide to a minimum.

3. Make my online diary private

There is a website hosting a diary that I kept many years ago, while in college. I found it today, and to my dismay, it’s completely accessible to the public. I don’t know the password for it and no longer have the email account I used to create it, so I can’t take it down. After reading the entries, I pretty much feel as though there’s a written word type sex tape of mine floating on the interwebs. I was madly in love with a boy, had quite the sexual appetite, and thought it might be a good idea to share with the world many details of our sexcapades. The diary also chronicles my undiagnosed insanity with intricate descriptions of my homicidal fantasies, and my attempts at hacking my boss’ computer, sprinkled with positively unintelligible advice to human kind as to how we can make world peace a reality. And then of course there are the day-to-day tidbits such as:

mmm i just picked my scab and a lot of blood came out. i didn’t know what to do so i did what i used to do when i was little. i licked it! it stopped bleeding.

i’m at work and i think i might explode. i ate 3/4 of a gigantic freaking italian sub with a pound of salami, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions and MAYO that i made sure to smear all over the thing. i’m gonna die. i feel my arteries clogging up and the blood pumping so slowly i feel i can’t breathe and oh! my heart stopped. oh my god, i’m gonna puke. and the sub’s looking at me saying “eat me, eat me” but i say, STOP, PLEASE STOP, I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!!! i finally just wrapped it back up and put it out of my sight. i am so thirsty but i can’t even drink my fresca, ’cause i’m so full. i wanna lay down on the floor and sleep.

Mostly I wish I could take it down because I think I’m just as strange now as I was then, except I filter my thoughts slightly more effectively.

This concludes the shittiest post I’ve ever written. Thanks for reading, you are really nice.

My bitch doesn’t like being touched by strangers

Hello, sunny Saturday afternoon.  We meet at the park, as I read, sitting on a long bench, facing the water. There are sounds of bickering birds and squirrels that screech from the top of trees – they warn one another of my bitch’s presence. She sits by my feet, facing the walkway. Looks calm and adorable, but have a try at petting her… vicious. Spends her minutes grooming and waiting, like a cat, until the squirrels’ve forgotten all about her and return to ground.  The furry toothy creatures venture into the open grassy field, dangerously far from the vertical safety of trees, in search of summer treats. My bitch sits and watches, her ears perfectly erect triangles, as if she could hear their munching from such a distance.

“Get it. Get the squirrel. Get it, Tori. Go!” I taunt her in a whisper, lest the squirrel hear me and dismantle my plans of watching my dog run – run as fast as her stubby legs can take her, on a mission to chase something she’ll never catch. She sets off (could give a puppy a run for its money, in all her mature glory) and seconds later, halts at the bottom of the tree – the rodent is halfway up, having started the screeching as soon as its sticky little paws got a hold of the trunk. Bitch walks around the tree, lifts a leg to pee, as though she were male, and digs nails into dirt, sweeping it backward to imprint her scent.

“My tree. My squirrel. My park. And that’s my mistress,” I think she thinks, as she struts back to the bench. Yep – I’m the mistress, and I’ve taken notice  of the dirty blond to my right. He lifts eyes off his book every time Tori dashes after some woodsy creature. Guys tend to like my bitch; she’s small, but has personality and a “real dog” bark. From a distance I like his looks. But what am I going to do; walk over and say ‘hi?’ Nope, nope.  My eyes are now on the Park Animal Undercover Protector. It’s pro-bono work, you see. Just like the guy who brings mineral water for the weeds growing by the river, the Park Animal Undercover Protector is dressed in civilian clothes, but her panoramic sight is fixed on geese, birds, ducks, and squirrels.

“No, no,” she screams.
“No, what?” I ask. Maybe I’m looking for an argument – not my fault, I haven’t spoken to anyone all day, and it’s nearly 5pm. That’s a lie. I exchanged words with the sub shop guy.
“No chasing the geese.”
“What’s that, my dog can’t chase the geese?” Oh jeez, I’m arguing with the crazy lady who feeds ducks.
“No, it’s not fair to the geese,” she says. The birds are huddled by a tree near the water, and she stands in front of them, arms out.
“I think the geese are fine. I don’t hear them complaining. I don’t think they really want you speaking on their behalf.”
“Your dog needs to be on a leash. It’s the law.”
“May be, but I don’t think it’s fair to her.”
“I’m calling the police.”

She really does take out a cell phone from her pocket, so I imagine how the call would play out:
“911, what‘s your emergency?”
“Yes, I’m at the Charles River Reservation Park and there’s a girl here with a dog off leash.”
“OK, ma’am, has the dog attacked anyone?”
“No, but it’s scaring the geese!”

No cops show up. Bummer.

Dirty blond boy is now returning from a walk he’d set on before the Park Animal Undercover Protector and I had our talk. Once I spot him, I fix my gaze back on the pages in my hands – and forget about Tori. I lift my head as I hear her growl, and grab her by the harness before her teeth connect with the boy’s ankle.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“No, it’s OK,” he says. His eyes are wide, and I think his voice is shaky. “It’s my fault, I tried to pet her.”
“Well, it’s not right. But yeah, she doesn’t do well with strangers, especially men. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s OK, don’t worry. I had a puppy once and he…”

I’m shushing Tori; she’s still growling at the poor boy. He won’t take his eyes off her as he starts walking away, sort of sideways-backwards.

“Anyway,” he says. “Have a good one!”
“You too.”

Suddenly she’s docile again, wagging her tail and licking my shins. Bitch.

I like life

This is what happens when you’re me.

You’re sitting at a café, reading funny blogs, when a girl walks in and says to your waiter/bartender:

Hi, I was here earlier and left $20 to pay my bill that was only $6.95, but I didn’t have time to get change so I left, and now I’m back. I’m really hoping someone left my money aside.

OK, well I don’t have a cash register back here, but you may speak with the manager right over there by the cash register.

She walks just a few feet away and waits to talk to the tall guy in black.

At the same time, the waiter and I exchange a glance that says, dude was that chick serious?

A girl sitting two seats down from me says, very loudly, I don’t believe her. I mean, I used to work at [insert retail here] and people would do that all the time. Honestly, she’s lying.

I say in a low voice, to him, I mean, I’m not going to say that she’s lying, but, dude, that’s not a very smart move. We chuckle.

The loud girl says, seriously, that is the dumbest thing I ever heard. That’s how people are. They were burned once so they turn around and screw someone else over, like, you know what, I got screwed so I can do this. ‘Cause people are entitled… [there was more, I forget] Guilty till they can prove they’re not! I should know, I just finished law school.

You just finished law school and you’re saying your motto is guilty till proven innocent? I ask.

Yeah, she says with a smile.

And you’re gonna be a lawyer? Good lord, I hope I never need one.

It was a JOKE.

Really? It didn’t sound like a joke.

It was a joke. I was kidding. She’s really glaring at me now.

OK, well. You’re saying all that about a person who is standing right there.

She stares at me, looks back to her computer screen and says, Oh get off your high horse.

I’m not on one, I’m just… you know, trying to show you what just happened. I apologize if I was rude.

You decide you must blog about this, so you do. Then a guy sitting next to you (between you and loud girl) – the one who was standing outside the café smoking a cigarette with his laptop bag in tow as you walked up to the café entrance with your own laptop bag in tow while also smoking a cigarette; the one you end up sitting next to because there were no other empty seats at the bar, and you both pull out 10″ tiny laptops – says:

I’m sorry, I noticed earlier you were reading something about the FCC net neutrality regulations, what was that on?

Oh, I think it was CNet. Yea, here it is, It’s CNet. We go over the article together.

Somehow he’s a blogger, I’m a blogger, we start talking about blogging and hosting options, readership, getting published, Twitter, the Grub Street writing classes, NPR, The New Yorker, Goldman Sachs, British elections and the lack of a real Green Party in the US…….. Jesus Christ.

See, for every unpleasant interaction you have with a person, if you keep an open mind and open heart, you can just sit there, and good people bump into you. And then you get a little blog post out of it. Then you order a chocolate chip cookie with your coffee. You should really stop drinking four cups of coffee at 11pm. Hi, Tristan. Your blog‘s awesome.

Oh, and upon delivering the bill, the waiter says, the cookie’s on me. Seriously.

(You give him an awesome tip, obviously. OK, I’m done)

We’re all perverts

Growing up, I shared a bedroom with my sister while my brother - the only boy and the eldest kid – had his own room. Especially during his tween-teen years, the entire family was happy for the fact that he had a private dungeon to hide in and contain his death metal, body odor, and attitude. Except for me. I thought my brother was the coolest ever and wanted to be a girl version of him. I’m sure the fact I had a huge crush on his best friend added  fuel to the fire of my fraternal infatuation.

My brother was protective of me, which was good when I was in trouble with bigger kids, but not so great when I hung out with boys at school dances.  There, he and his friends would follow me around, crossed arms rested on puffed out chests, making sure I wouldn’t get too cozy with any boys. I was around 10 years old,  and though I had already kissed my cousin a few times, I was positive no one knew about it – I would’ve kicked his ass if he ever told a soul. While I kind of wished my brother would leave me and my friends alone, I was happy that he cared enough to pay attention to me.

In his teenage years, my brother hid a stash of porn magazines in his closet. I’d snoop around his bedroom, looking for what he was reading, listening to, drawing… I wanted to know what I had to like in order to be cool too. I guess it didn’t suffice that I was already a fan of Guns N’ Roses and Metallica, and had a yellow belt in TaeKwonDo from the same school where he trained.

The porn ‘zines were hidden in the bottom of a box filled with boy crap, all buried under clothes. Yes, I dug deep. Obviously I was good at it because he still doesn’t know.  The black and white photos told stories of lingerie-clad babes somehow lost in the woods, and found by one or a few hunter-types. There also were school girls coming of age together while the parents weren’t home, housewives who offered more than lemonade to their hard-working pool boys… all sorts of original, compelling and realistic scenarios. Brazilian television programming had pretty racy content but I’d never before seen explicit sexual imagery. I liked it.

My mother rarely ever censored films at home. I remember picking out Christiane F. at Zebra, our local video rental store (aptly decorated in zebra stripes), as my brother protested our mom’s leniency with this particular title. One glance at the back cover and I was sold: “sex,” “prostitution,” “heroin,” “death,” “David Bowie.”  It turned out to be an excellent film with imagery that remained ingrained in my brain for years to come, warning me of the dangers of drug abuse. It also got me into David Bowie and enamored with European nightclubs.  I watched Disclosure at age 11 with my mother sitting five feet away from me; I used to talk a lot during movies, but was speechless as Demi Moore sort of raped Michael Douglas… with the power of boobs, or something.

I wasn’t a shy kid and I indulged my curiosity.  I’m still like that.  So it’s undoubtedly with a bit of a proud grin that I present to you a selection of internet search terms used by individuals ’round the world who ended up on my blog. The content may not have been exactly what they were looking for, but the mere fact they landed here makes me happy.

russian pornhub
dirahea sex video [sp]
huge titted moms
verbal sex tape
www.porn in the douche.com
daft sex ass ebony
twizzlers +side effects on male libido
toilet sex girls good [sp]
beeg friends hot mom deep throats her so [sp]
boy eating man diarrhea
slash penis
genital tatoos [sp]
seeeeeeeeeeeeeex
sex pictures&pictures
inspirational words for menstruation
picking out groupies

I embrace my audience and will feel thoroughly accomplished when someone searching for “japanese octopus sex” skims through my silly words and leaves a comment.

Butt Baby observations

I’m sitting at the same café, same friggin spot as always, and have just chatted with the cutest, friendliest waiter I’ve ever seen – he seems to remember everything I ever tell him and loves updating me on the status of his apartment hunt on the west coast. He’s not my waiter tonight, unfortunately. It’s instead a girl I’ve never seen, who doesn’t smile, and likes to pretend I’m not here. Oh, but I’ve reminded her… about five times now. She must love me.

What has grabbed my attention for the last few minutes is the adorable cutie sitting directly across from me. Don’t get too excited – he looks about 19.  He’s built like a wrestler, with half-sleeve tattoos peeking out of his beat up Gold’s Gym t-shirt, and another on his chest – I got a glimpse thanks to his awful posture. He brought a book to read at the bar of a busy café. No iPod.

Thing is, he hasn’t been paying much attention to that book; he gets distracted often and his eyes wander – but before settling back on the open pages, they drift to the first guy I noticed when I walked in.

I know who this guy is, of course, because he’s a waiter here too. He was sitting in the corner booth when I arrived tonight, inhaling his sandwich in the last few minutes of his break. Facial scruffiness, dark eyes and hair, and a lean build, he is a major hottie with ADHD. His eyes don’t stop moving. Ever. Slightly disconcerting.

He returned to work from break and a few minutes later, 19 year old cutie arrived. He sat on ADHD waiter’s corner of the bar and is still pretending to read a book and check his smartphone. But I swear to god, he’s checking out the waiter.

Has he ever had sex with a man? Is this waiter the first guy he might put the moves on? He looks uncomfortable and eager at the same time, it’s a pleasure to watch – in a cute way.

The waiter doesn’t seem to notice. He’s a fidgety fast mover, efficient and friendly, but disengaged. I try hard to avert my eyes at crucial times, because I don’t want to be a creep, but it’s hard. The young’n looks like such a jock; like he’s missing three clones, with whom he’d laugh loudly and rough-house while walking down Newbury Street – certainly not inside a bookstore/café at 10pm on the warmest Wednesday of the year. Instead, he’s indeed here, multi-tasking between cell phone, book, and secretly admiring. I wish he’d say something.

I also wish that my luck were different tonight and boob-infatuated self-proclaimed Bostonian with a thick Irish accent AS WELL AS Berklee School of Music undergrad with horrid pick up lines weren’t both here. I need a new hang out spot ASAP. It’s too damn bad, because this place has excellent coffee.