Anonymous asked: What is your favorite form of foreplay?
Ok, well, if you didn’t think the answer to this was gonna be roleplay I don’t even know what to tell you but… here is the only form of roleplay that even remotely interests me:
So, we’re both in bed… nothing sexual going on, just laying there. Suddenly, A NOISE! Since, in this roleplay I will be playing someone brave, I go to investigate. After being gone for a few minutes she hears the sounds of struggle and then silence followed by me stumbling back to the room holding my stomach as blood pours through my fingers and out of the corners of my mouth (red corn syrup, guys, don’t worry!).
As I fall to the floor she screams and collapses to her knees beside me, crying. Through the blood in my mouth I manage to gasp out a request for her to run before my eyes drift towards the ceiling in defeat.
She yells and says that my death isn’t in vain, she runs from the room to find no one in the apartment as I, still in the bedroom, am silently changing into black robes and mask. She grabs a knife from the kitchen and continues to search the apartment.
She comes back into the room and I grab her, a fake knife to her neck, “ARE YOU READY TO DIE, BITCH?!” I growl just seconds before I feel the blade that she is now holding slide in between my ribs on my left side. Two more quick stabs follow it before I am able to wrap my head around the situation, “Baby, baby… it was a joke!” I say as I release her from my grasp and pull the mask off of my face. The blood is flowing freely, now, as I again fall to the floor.
“No, no, no! What have I done?!” She yells to herself. In her anguish she turns her blade on herself and plunges it into her stomach.
She falls on the floor beside me and grabs my hand, blood now saturating the carpet.
With our last remaining breaths we stare into each other’s eyes.
Then, and ONLY then, can I climax.
Anonymous asked: What is your idea of the perfect marriage proposal?
[The scene: Nighttime. PNC Park’s parking lot. There is still smoke in the air from the fireworks that went off following the Pirates thrilling 9th inning win over the Phillies in game 4 of the NLCS. Sweep, natch. It smells like beer and smoke and a little bit of vomit. It smells like victory.]
I hear an engine roaring as I’m walking from the stadium. I turn around in time to see a motorcycle zooming towards me, the rider leaps off the cycle as it passes me, landing in a crouch as the cycle goes further off into the distance and for some reason explodes. It looks badass.
The rider takes off their helmet to reveal that it is, in fact, Eva Mendes. She says “hello,” to me and sort of looks down as she smiles.
For some reason she has an Australian accent.
“Josh… There’s something I need to ask you…”
“Eva, listen, if this is about what you saw in my room…”
“NO! Not that! In fact, it turns me on that you have a ton of comic books. I just..” she reaches behind her back and I hear a noise, a strange blue light comes from behind her. “I- Well, I know you jacked up your ring finger playing flag football… and that is a TOTALLY tough injury… but I just thought that, in lieu of ring, I would ask you if you would take this as a symbol of our love and be my husband.” She pulls a fully functional light saber from behind her back and hands it to me.
“Eva… I don’t know what to say”
A voice comes from behind my back, “Say yes.” I turn around and see that it’s none other than Mario Lemieux, he whispers softly again, “say yes.”
“Yes, yes! A thousand times, yes!” I say as I thrust my light saber into the sky.
“Oh and Josh? I think you dropped this,” Mario says as he hands me a chest filled with million dollar bills (THEY EXIST!). He gives a wink and a slight nod and then disappears into a puff of smoke.
“And Josh,” his voice echoing from the ether. “You have superpowers now!”
I close my eyes and whisper “yes” while ever so slightly pumping my fist.
As I pick up Eva into my arms and start to fly off into the night sky the theme song to Jurassic Park starts playing.
This is the story of the first time I remember seeing a bare pair of human female breasts!
(Spoiler alert: It was not in person.)
Ok, so I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell this story and I guess the best way is to start by saying this… this is not a sexy story.
I don’t really tell many stories about boobs so I’m not terribly sure about proper etiquette in doing so, but I suppose I’ll just follow my heart and start by telling you a little bit about my parents.
My father and I connect about sports, we talk about sports all the time when I see him, it’s basically our only common ground when it comes to interests. When he does watch movies they are basically limited to Spaghetti Westerns and WWII flicks.
I prefer robots and aliens *Kanye shrug*
My mom and I connect about nerdy shit like the X-files and conspiracy movies. My mom also is a huge nerd when it comes to sciency/nature stuff like the Discovery Channel and the like and since my dad is a big fan of “improving your mind” and using your brain their interests crossed over in a borderline unlimited supply of National Geographic Magazines in the house while I was growing up.
It just clicked with you guys, didn’t it?
Right. So, the first pair of human boobs I remember seeing was a picture of a topless African lady in the pages of National Geographic.
I was 9 years old and didn’t really “get” boobs.
But I was interested. I knew what they were. I knew what they were called. I also knew I probably shouldn’t be looking at them, so with great care and the skillful hands of a surgeon I tore that picture out of that months national geographic, folded it neatly into 1/4ths and tucked it in my back pocket.
Every morning I would put the picture in my back pocket and every night I would hide it in my room.
I didn’t even really look at it, just carried it around with me. For days, maybe even a week or two.
And so, like any story about boobs, this one reaches its climax where you expect… the Pine Wood Derby of Cub Scout Troop 1273.
The picture was burning a hole in my pocket (and my heart) and I had to show someone. I had to. So, I pulled a fellow cub scout, Brien, into the bathroom with me and showed him. ”Cool” he said, “yeah” I agreed, happily nodding. He stared at it for a second or two and then said he had to go race his car soon.
… Brien apparently didn’t “get” boobs, either. Whatever.
Anyways, after Brien left I quickly became paranoid that I let the cat out of the bag to the wrong person. He would tell someone. I was sure of it. In my panic I took the picture and wrapped it up with toilet paper. Tons of toilet paper. TONS of toilet paper. I then flushed it down the toilet, but it didn’t really go down all the way, just enough that you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t pay attention. I quickly left the scene of the crime and soon after another member of our troop, Michael, used the restroom and came running out a few minutes later because the toilet was overflowing.
Everyone thought Michael clogged the toilet. Parents. Scouts. Friends. Everyone.
But he didn’t.
My African lady’s boobs did.
So, every year our school would have a fundraiser that required us to bring in box tops and Campbell soup labels (this somehow raised money, I guess). And going through elementary school my class would always win thanks in large part to a couple of weird super involved mothers that ran the PTA like a Perry Township mafia.
In third grade our class was especially dominant and won the soup label contest in a landslide prompting our teacher, Mrs. Cox, to bump up the prize from a pizza party at school to a pizza party…AT THE POOL AT HER HOUSE!
Wrong. Because it was at this pizza/pool bonanza that I learned that 3rd grade Josh wasn’t the swimmer that he thought he was. Sure, he could doggy paddle in a straight line, and bob up and down as long as he could push off of the ground, and he was pretty good at hanging onto the side of pools, but that’s not exactly swimming. Now, I went to the pool all the time when I was younger, with cousins and at friends’ houses, but pure swimming wasn’t something that ever occurred, more like water lounging. However, the amount of times I went to the pool gave my parents the impression that I could swim so they had no qualms about me going to a pool party at my teacher’s.
So here is something that you probably knew about kids in pools: they like to dunk each other. And there we were, a bunch of 8 year olds in a pool dunking each other and splashing each other when suddenly someone dunked me when I wasn’t close enough to the side of the pool to grab on to and then I can only assume that I reacted as if I was being pulled under by a shark because it triggered one of the mom’s that was there to JUMP IN THE POOL…IN MOM JEANS to grab me and pull me out.
this was embarrassing.
I remember, upon my return to poolside, mumbling something about “had water up my nose,” and “just joking” before enveloping myself in a towel and snagging a slice of pizza. Thankfully, the party was nearly over and I only had to wait around a few more minutes before my parents arrived and I could retreat to the comfort of their car and the Anamorphs book that awaited me in the back seat.
This story has no moral.
*Hip Hop, in this case is my old friend Mike’s mom.
So, a while ago my roommate and I were discussing buying a VCR so that we could start watching the wealth of VHS tapes that have come into our possession. We started talking about how hilarious it would be if we started taping shows off the television again, with people setting their DVRs and Tivos to record shows and we would just have piles and piles of tapes in our living room. Then we got into talking about recording songs off of the radio on to cassettes and we laughed and laughed at how lame we were.
And then I realized that I was much lamer than I truly understood at the time.
You see, sometimes there were songs that I wanted to hear, as a little kid, that were not on the radio. Brian Mo and the High 5 at 9 didn’t play Crossroads by Bone Thugs or Can’t Hold Me Down by Puff Daddy (my two favorite songs as a child, no regrets).
Well, anyways I used to have this cassette player that had two microphones attached to it. So, I would go into my living room and sit down on the floor in front of the television and record the songs right off of MTV.
This includes all interludes.
This includes everytime Puff Daddy tried to act.
This includes people talking in the background.
And I would be furious, FURIOUS, whenever MTV would cut off the video early.
I had a bright yellow walkman that I absolutely loved, and on a vacation one year my family and I went to Washington DC and parked in a parking lot to get on a train and for reasons unknown to me now I decided when we were almost on the train to put my walkman back in our car. So, I ran back only to realize that the doors were locked so, ever quick on my feet, I decided to put my walkman under the car.
Well, obviously the bright yellow walkman got stolen.
I kinda wish that I could see the face of the guy who stole it when he realized the songs on the tape were the audio versions of the videos for those that were already mentioned along with No Diggity, Semi Charmed Life, Iris, and Barbie Girl (WHATEVER, I WAS JUST A KID!) while my mother yelled at my siblings in the background.
Anyways, No moral to this story.
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, jamming out to the Tron soundtrack, when I saw an old man across the street smiling and waving both his arms in the air like he was trying to get someone’s attention.
I looked for who he might be trying to get the attention of and saw another old man walking ahead of me on the street with his head down. It became clear to me that he was trying to get a hold of this man because… I’m not sure, all old men know each other? Anyways, at the time it seemed obvious.
So, I half jog up to this man and tap him on the shoulder. The second my hand touched his coat it was as if a jolt of lightning surged through my body, informing me of a key fact that I had over looked in my odd attempt to be helpful.
We didn’t speak the same language. I then tried to convey my meaning with an awful combination of half English, broken Polish, and unfortunately…hand gestures.
“Your friend (I then followed that by saying ‘your male friend’ in Polish) across the street (I throw in the word for street, mainly because I know it)… he wants you.”
Here is where I point across the street, as me and the old man both look at where I am pointing and see, yup, no one there.
By the time he turns back to face me I was already in the process of making the bad decision of miming out what the man across the street was doing. So, he turns from me pointing at no one only to find me waving my arms wildly above my head smiling “he was doing this!” I say, to no avail. ”You friend (your male friend).”
As the frown began to grow on the elderly man’s face I made the executive decision to put my ear phones back in, tell him “I’m sorry”, and speed walk away.
There is no moral to this story.
in the first floor bathroom while I was growing up. It was located about 3 feet away from the door, about six inches up from the floor. It wasn’t the shaft or anything that was the problem, just the vent door. So, with sights set on fixing it, my father removed the cover of the vent and left a 12x6 inch whole in the wall. With working, handling five kids, and trying to fix the thousands of other things that we broke around the house, the vent project got side tracked and remained uncovered for a very, very long time.
I used to love the x-files (still do, but I used to love them). They were essentially required programming for my mother and me. There was an episode in the first season called Squeeze (which for some reason during a school book fair, I also bought the novelization of) that was about a man that could murder people and get away with it by being able to stretch and squeeze his body through ventilation shafts. He would get long and thin (even stretching his fingers out) and just slither into your home.
Anyways, so the thought of this man from the X-files never left my mind when I was in the bathroom at my parents house. I would brush my teeth looking at the vent, I would look at the vent while I used the restroom, and I would look at the vent while taking baths.
I know the exact moment when I stopped taking baths and started taking showers. I was in sixth grade, my first year in middle school, and I finally started making friends with the kids that went to different elementary schools than I did. Is that too old to have never taken a shower? Whatever, my sisters/mother preferred baths and so our shower was in the bathroom in the basement - AND THAT SHIT WAS SCARY. Anyways, one of these kids was a boy named Ryan and we hit it off pretty well and one day he called my house (house phones? ugh, I know) while I was taking a bath and when I finished my mother told me that my friend called.
I asked my mother what she said and she replied that she told him I was taking a bath and would have to call him back. Now I’m not sure why but something happened to me when she told me that. I’m sure I was making a face that looked as if I smelled something and couldn’t tell yet if it was gross, because that’s the face I made when I was thinking hard. Something was off. For some reason, my 6th grade mind determined that baths were lame and showers were where it was at, and that was that. I remember awkwardly bringing it up the next day at school just so I could clarify that my mother was clearly mistaken and that I was most certainly taking a shower. /digression
Anyways, you guys. The point of all this is that when I was around 7 or 8 sometimes when I was peeing, I would remember about the vent and turn to make sure that no one was coming out of the vents to kill me and accidentally pee on the floor. (Don’t Tell My Mom!)
It was a valid point, I guess. All things considered, if you were to peruse my history you would find that I am many things but a nice guy isn’t really near the top of the list. Not that I am a horrible person or anything, I guess I’m just… lazy when it comes to recognizing the feelings of others? That sounds bad, I think.
Anyways, it was a valid point - one made while walking in downtown Warsaw, as I relented to the request of an apparently homeless elderly woman - one of seemingly thousands in the city - and gave her the money I had in my coat: Why would someone who is for all intents and purposes both cheap and not “nice” constantly agree to give elderly women money when they ask for it on the street?
It wasn’t that I thought it would help them out (I mean, it’s not like I’m giving thousands of bucks away) or because I felt bad for them. So why do it? Once I asked myself the question I knew the answer but it took me awhile to admit it, even in my own mind.
It’s because I’m worried about the off chance that one of them will be able to put a curse on me if I don’t.
A friend of mine was gonna be hanging out in the computer lab on the 12th floor of the Palace of Culture today and I got out of class and was gonna stop in and say hey.
He has a super tiny laptop, which I mean whatever it’s really light I guess but anyways it’s super noticeable. Very distinctive.
So I pop into the library, and it’s just a tiny room so I go in and see his computer and figure he’s going to the bathroom or something, so I sit down and open up a tab on his browser to check espn.com while I’m waiting. After a few minutes I decide to check my facebook page and see that he’s still logged in.
But… that’s not his facebook page?
I don’t understa-
I quickly realize that sitting by the computer is a blue duffel bag (not his), a hat (not his), and a purse (gulp).
As fast as I can I shut the tabs and stand up at the exact same time that a young lady who must’ve just walked into the room was staring at me with a mix of shock, outrage and what I can only assume was an understandable amount of fear.
Was pulling my hood over my head and making a bee line for the stairs the wrong move? Could I have handled the situation with a little more composure and grace? Did I just cause this girl to now think her computer has been given a virus?
Guys, the answer to all these questions is… it doesn’t matter, because I’m no longer there.
A 13 Year Old Bone To Pick - This Will Be Interesting To No One But Me
Obviously I used to love Animorphs. Why Wouldn’t I? It was awesome. I have it right behind Goosebumps and right above Ghosts of Fear Street on my all important “Shit I used to buy from Troll Book Orders” rankings.
That said, there was a particular incident in the books that has bothered me for over a decade, stuck in the back of my mind, gnawing away like a brain termite made of annoyance.
Ok, so, for some reason the gang (team? I dunno, the group of kids that turned into animals) was talking about how popular this one guy was and how he could make girls do whatever he wanted. They explained it by saying he was like Yasmine Bleeth for guys.
I was 10 years old when this book came out and I have to assume that on the Venn Diagram of all the possible audiences this book could be targeting 10-year-old-Josh was right in the fucking center. And I remember exactly where I was when I read this (because, seriously guys? I am impossibly petty and never forget when something annoys me). I remember sitting on the top bunk of my bunk bed (whatever) and reading this, stopping, rereading it, literally pulling the book back like I’m an old man in a cartoon with bad eyesight and then thinking to myself “Why, why oh why would K.A. Applegate think that Yasmine Bleeth was the best way to explain to a 10 year old how cool someone was?” It was 1997, Baywatch was on it’s last legs, Yasmine Bleeth was on her last season, and I was 10 so the majority of my Baywatch knowledge came from the fact that Chandler and Joey loved the slow-mo run.
In the end I decided that K.A. Applegate thought that Yasmine Bleeth was a cool name, even if she wasn’t a cool person. She was wrong though. Yasmine Bleeth sounds more like a medical ointment for STDs than anything that 10-year-old-me would find cool. Next time K.A., when trying to connect with 10-year-old-me, try some of these: Capri Suns, Lunchables, The Red Ranger, Puff Daddy, or just boobs in general. I hope this was helpful.