{ 10 15 2007 }

More Than A Blowjob Queen

Some days I’m feeling sexy and so I write about blowjobs or threesomes. Other days I’m feeling funny so I write about dating or the skeeze-bags who want to buy my underwear. On a really good day I hit the snark just right and out comes pure bitch-gold. Then there are the times like tonight when I find myself ankle-deep in shit water in my bathroom.

As if standing in shit weren’t bad enough, it was my own shit. MY SHIT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO TURN ON ME.

It was poo time. I got my magazine, dropped my jeans, and was having a lovely time. Flush, pull up jeans, wash hands, walk out with a smile on my face.

Then I heard that dreadful sound of rushing water that can only mean one thing: aw fuck. I ran to the bathroom. The toilet was overflowing with brown water. POOP IS EVERYWHERE! EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

What’s my first impulse? Save the Cosmopolitan! [I know I KNOW okay?! Shit water is covering my fancy white tile and I save the fucking Cosmo magazine with “Hair That Gets You What You Want” printed on the cover. There is no need to point and laugh. I mean, fuck, I spent twenty minutes standing in shit-water, is that not embarrassment enough?]

Water hits my toes, then the bottom of my jeans. My eyes dart from toilet to feet to floor. Why won’t the fucking thing stop?! It’s never done this before! THE TOILET PASSED THE POO TEST MONTHS AGO OTHERWISE I WOULDN’T HAVE RENTED AN INFERIOR BATHROOM! WHY IS IT DOING THIS TO ME NOW??? WHY AT MIDNIGHT ON A FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT?! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO ANGER THE TOILET?! IT’S NOT MY FAULT! I ATE A SALAD, YOU DIPSHIT!!

Frantically I pulled up the legs of my jeans to my knees, flung the bath towel off the shower rod onto the floor, and pulled off the top to the back of the toilet.

It’s times like this I really wish I had a boyfriend. Boys like icky things and potty jokes. They are one with poo. Where oh where is my imaginary boyfriend? Hey sweetie, why don’t you fix this and I’ll go make us some flan? BJ later love ya okay kisses!!

The water wouldn’t stop overflowing. OH MY FUCKING GOD THIS IS ICKY ICKY ICKY! GOOD LORD ALMIGHTY MAKE IT STOP!!!!

I ran into the living room where I had left yesterday’s pool towel [it’s Texas. It’s mid-October and it’s still ninety degrees. This is normal.] The water had nearly made it to the carpet in the hallway. With a triumphant flourish I threw down the huge towel as a barricade to keep the water inside the bathroom. It worked! The water was backing up in the bathroom! And now I’m standing I AM STANDING IN SHIT WATER. I perched one foot on the bathtub and raised up on the tip-toes of the other. WHY HASN’T THE WATER STOPPED YET?! I pulled up the floaty ball thing because it is the only thing I know to do to fix a toilet other than duct taping the whole fucking thing closed and praying the water pressure doesn’t create a geyser of shit-water in my neighbor’s bathroom.

I waited a few seconds. All is quiet except for the slow drip of water from the toilet to the pool on the floor. I let go of the ball floaty thing. The miniature Niagara Falls of shit-water starts again.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

I pull it up again. I am standing on one foot in shit-water with the floaty thing in my hand. I have no idea what to do. The phone is too far away for me to use my free toes to dial my father. I am fucked.

NO. I AM A SMART INDEPENDENT WOMAN! I DO NOT NEED A MAN!! At least not for this. I AM A FEMINIST! I OWN POWER TOOLS! I CAN FIX SHIT! I WILL FIX THE SHIT SITUATION ON MY OWN!! GRRR, MOTHAFUCKAS, GRR!

I run out the bathroom and grab a couple more towels from the dirty laundry. Two go directly in front of the toilet to hold back the worst of the water. The third one goes directly in front of the one protecting the carpet.

The big scrubby brush I use for cleaning the tub is lying on the floor. In shit water. It has a handle. A handle covered in shit water. I grab it and maneuver the handle to tuck under the metal arm while the larger part rests on the porcelain. After a couple tries I get it to hold so that the floaty thing is still and water stops flowing.

Silence.

By this time I am ankle-deep in shit water. I wish I were exaggerating. I would love to be exaggerating about this, but it was so bad that four of my ten little piggies are still crying in horror of the memory.

Once the water stopped, there was a damn of towels holding back three inches of shit-water.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. THIS IS NOT HOW MY RELAXING SUNDAY NIGHT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO.

I spent the next hour cleaning the bathroom and unclogging the toilet. To top off the fun, the cleaning products I use are kept by the toilet. That meant they were victims of Shitfest ‘07 and required extensive cleaning before they themselves could be used. It took a total of seven towels, an entire roll of paper towels (the good ones! this is why you don’t buy the generic crap, mother), two loads of laundry, innumerable and frightfully creative expletives, a 25-minute shower, and a chug from the bottle of wine in the fridge.

So that story was nice and cute (in a totally disgusting let’s-never-speak-of-this-again sort of way) but there’s more to this post than the simple shit-water situation.

Every once in a while I feel the need to remind readers that there is more to me than sex. When I see that nearly 75% of my daily readers find me from Google searches for “how to give a blowjob” or “nympho,” it gets depressing. I may write about sex and I may love writing about sex, but I cannot always write about sex. I’m fucking human. I go four and a half months without getting laid. I get caught up in work I have to do for my “real” job. I cry. I have shitty days, and on those shitty days I don’t give a fuck about sex. All I want to do is get in the shower and scrub the scent of shit-water off my skin.

Many days I am damn proud to be Google’s #2 blowjob queen, but sometimes I want to scream there is is more to me than sex. Not that I have a right to be angry–what is to be expected when I call myself the Over-Educated Nympho and write detailed posts about blowjobs, sex, and threesomes? It’s fun and I enjoy it, but I’m not like that all the time.

Do I ever think about ending OEN? Not at all. I can’t. I’m not all sex, but I’m not all serious either. Sometimes I look at my blog and wonder how so many different voices come out of one person (sweet merciful crap, I had an aunt with schizophrenia). Sometimes I wonder if I should quit OEN and call myself something else that wouldn’t be such a let-down to those who come in search of nothing but dirty whore sex and find themselves face to face with this side of me.

Then I remind myself that this is how I am. Moody as hell, horny as fuck, and everything in between. I don’t know any other way to be.

I am not about sex. I am about life. Life is wandering, love, anger, epiphanies, frustration, and rivers of unexpected shit-water. Of course sex is a large part of life (especially when you’re not getting it), but there is so much more to life–to me–than sex. I’m still figuring out just how much more.

Posted by Over Educated Nympho on Monday, October 15th, 2007, at 3:34 am, and filed under life, writing, I just threw up in my mouth a little, chortles.

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