Here is another SAMPLE chapter from my collection of humor essays.
**This is a rough draft and subject to change**
There have been many times in my life I was convinced I was a boy trapped in a girl’s body. I’m physically female but my personality and behavior resembles that of a teenage boy.
Growing up, I preferred sports over dolls, t-shirts over dresses, and sitting spread eagle in a chair instead of crossing my legs like a woman with any dignity would. Beer will always be better than wine; chicken wings will always taste better than a chicken Caesar salad. Truth is, being ladylike is not one of my strong suits.
I would never go as far as Chastity Bono who got a sex change and legally changed her name because she felt so trapped in her own body. I think I can speak for everyone when I say I honestly thought she was a man before she announced to the world that she is now, physically and legally a man. Clearly, her sex change didn't change that much.
I would also never go to an insane extreme like that woman who became a man, a “pregnant man” no less, and was featured on TLC, having babies because his wife couldn’t. Listen pal, you’re not fooling anyone. You may look and sound like a man, but you still have a baby maker behind that vagina of yours. You’re not a medical miracle; you’re a mangina.
In fact, I love being a woman. I love everything about it. But I also take pride in my frat boy-like attitude hidden underneath my female exterior. Women are beautiful creatures (I am obviously exempt from this) and I would never trade my body for a man’s body.
The only exception to this is if a magic genie appeared and offered to exchange my vagina and give me a dick-for-a-day and granted me three wishes to accompany the exchange. That I would certainly accept.
If I had a penis for a whole day, there is so much I would do with it! It would be hard parting with my muffin, but some things need to be sacrificed when a magic genie appears outside of the movie Aladdin.
My first request—no balls. Balls are gross. Just the twig; not the berries. If I can still come without testicles, why would I need them? Having balls is like hanging things from my rearview mirror; it doesn't serve a purpose and are just decorative.
The first thing on my agenda would be naming my penis. Every dick needs a name, and no I would not name it Dick. How cliché. I would name it Fitzgerald (Fitz for short; he would be a cool, yet classy penis), introduce myself with a firm, yet welcoming handshake and let him hang loose, commando style in my pants. There’s no way I would constrict Fitzgerald with underwear. He deserves wide-open spaces where he could stretch out without being constricted.
Next I would measure Fitz. With a yard stick; not a ruler. My second request—I would have to be hung, similar to a Johnsonville summer sausage log. No cocktail wiener for me. Both Fitz and I deserve better than that.
After I am satisfied with the length and girth, I would masturbate for hours on end. My third and final request—unlimited orgasms. If Fitz and I were going to be pals for the same length of time it takes the Earth to make a full rotation, (or approximately the same time amount of time Britney Spears was married to that Jason guy), we were going to party like it was Y2K all over again. Except without the panic of people waiting for the world to end.
The point of masturbating for hours on end is to get accustomed to Fitz and figure out what we both enjoy. I know how it feels to rub my bean and pleasure myself as a woman, but I would have to teach Fitz tricks, shortcuts, and critical technique before I could take him out and introduce him to people.
After Fitz and I participate in a penile crash course, we would be ready to tackle the world and finally introduce him to a woman besides myself. Since I already sleep with a woman, I would have no problem sleeping with as many women as I possibly could.
Sleeping with a woman is something everyone should experience, male or female. With Fitz attached to my body, I would have to disguise myself as a man so straight girls would take me seriously (I would consider sleeping with a lesbian, but being one myself, I have discovered most gay women prefer the papaya over the banana at this particular time in their lives. I once enjoyed a bunch of bananas but now, I’m strictly a papaya gal).
In order to share Fitz with as many women as possible, I would have to find a place where a gaggle of women would be centrally located. Where would I look first?
The obvious option would be a bar. It might be a good place to start lady hunting, although I would only have a one in five chance that a woman would actually sleep with me within minutes of meeting me. Even at a college bar. I only had twenty-four hours; I couldn’t take the chance of being rejected. Fitz was eager for a beaver.
What about a sorority house? From my experience with sorority girls, they liked to play fast and loose and weren't afraid to spread their school spirit (legs). But they were also unpredictable and cesspools for STD’s. I wasn’t ready for Fitz to be afflicted with a disease besides sex addiction.
A Curves gym? It was possible, although I wouldn’t enjoy fucking a post-aerobic sweaty mess, and I’m pretty sure Fitz would not appreciate being forced down that slippery slope.
A Bed, Bath, & Beyond store? It seemed like a logical place. The store offers several different beds, college aged clerks and candles for mood lighting, but it was still a bad idea. A soaps, suds, & sheets store is not the place to experiment different body contortions and sexual positions with the customers and employees.
Where could I find women who would sleep with me willingly, as many times as I wanted?
The answer was in front of me this whole time—literally because as I write this, I’m watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Heidi Fleiss. I would have to visit a brothel. It seems like a perfect plan. I would have to find a moderately priced whorehouse, where the girls were easy, the prices were reasonable, and I wouldn’t get arrested. If I only had Fitz for one day, I wasn’t willing to get arrested and spend time in jail, although I’m sure I could find someone who would love to meet Fitz in jail.
Since I don’t live in Nevada, I would just have to risk being caught with Fitz in a prostitute’s mouth. If politicians could get away with it, surely I could as well. It was a small price to pay to share my dick-for-a-day with as many women as I could.
I would then drive to an ATM and empty my savings account, which wouldn’t amount to much (I’m a writer for Fitz’s sake). It wouldn’t matter; I was willing to spend the new bed or the down payment on a house to share my penis with hookers.
Fitz wouldn’t need the women to be beautiful either. Sure it’d be like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn in months, or scoring an extra soda from the vending machine when you only paid for one, but it wasn’t a necessity. Just an added bonus. A papaya was a papaya no matter how you cut it. The only thing he required was an audience with willing (and legal) participants.
After surrendering my life’s savings, I would then pick the woman with whom I would share Fitz with for the first time. She would have to be compliant with the missionary position. If I’m test driving Fitz for the first time, I want to make sure he performs correctly in the parking lot before I take him to the race track.
Of course Fitz would pass the test; he was attached to my body and as an amazing lover myself, Fitz wouldn’t let us down.
After I had my first woman, I would be ready for anything. Threesomes. Blow jobs. Anal (with women and/or men. Don’t judge me). Hand jobs (although I would prefer to skip that since I could do it myself). Sex toys. Role playing. S&M bondage. Foursomes. Group orgy. I would even consider shooting a porno flick with Fitz as the star. I would do it all.
Of course I wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t take a break from sex; I only had one day. My goal was to drop the big “O” at least 100 times in the span of a day (and yes, that includes self-love). I wouldn’t give up until I met my goal. If Lance Armstrong can win the Tour de France 400 times with only one testicle while wearing a LiveStrong bracelet, surely I could come at least 100 times with just a penis and perhaps a cock ring.
When my twenty-four hours were up, I would be a changed woman. No longer would I wonder what it would be like to have a penis. I would know what it was like to pee while standing up (and not have it running down my leg). It would give new meaning to the phrase “blowing my load”. I would finally know how a hot dog felt in a bun; how a pig felt in a blanket. How a chocolate covered banana felt in a banana split. I would understand why a nut-cup was important to male athletes and fully grasp the concept of pitching a tent (something I struggle with when I go camping).
After returning my dick-for-a-day to the genie, he would return my papaya and I would greet her with two fingers, or even give her a vibrating toy as a welcome home present. I would appreciate the beauty of having a vagina and treasure her for the rest of my life.
Friends would ask “how does it feel hanging from your body?” And I would reply “similar to the set of twins hanging from your chest”.
“What does it feel like to get a blow job?” To that I would reply “Licking is always better than sucking”. Women have more erectile tissue than men; therefore, blow jobs don’t even compare to what women experience during oral sex.
“What does it feel like to be inside a woman?” That one was easy. “Ever been on a water slide?” I would respond.
“Don’t you want to have a penis for more than a day?” No brainer. I would say, “How much time can you realistically spend with your boyfriend/husband before you reach your boiling point?” They would look at me as if they had just had an epiphany. Yea, that’s what I thought.
Having a penis for a day would be phenomenal and it would answer many questions. The only reason I would ever want a penis for a day is strictly for sex, nothing else. But once it was gone, I would remember how proud I was of my muffin. I would realize the lawn isn’t always mowed on the other side, so why leave the yard at all?
Of course men and women experience different things with the gear they’re equipped with, but the feeling is basically the same. An orgasm is an orgasm. Sure, some are better than others (some are out of this world), but it doesn’t matter if you have a banana or a papaya. It doesn’t matter if you’re the branch or the stump; we’re all connected to the same tree.
I cherish the woman’s body I was born with. I’m glad I’m a woman. I am comfortable being a tomboy—drinking beer, wearing t-shirts, and playing video games—and anyone who doesn’t like it can meet Greta, my angry beaver, and take it up with her. I’ll even let you take her home for the day.
14 June 2010
Bearded clam. Papaya. Muffin. Cooter. Beaver. Punani. Pork sword. Schlong. Weiner. One-eyed Monster. Bologna Pony.
Don't deny it; you just laughed. Out loud. Don't worry--these slang terms make me giggle too. You may have even blushed a little bit. I know I did.
But I can almost guarantee with as much accuracy as a pregnancy test that you did not bust out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter like I did in sex education in grade school. Or like I just did while writing these slang terms.
When I first found out we would be having sex education in fifth grade, my first thought was, aren't we too young? And then I looked around the classroom and I saw a couple boys grabbing themselves and a few female classmates of mine had already sprouted decent sized tits.
Then I looked down at my own chest and realized it was still as flat as my back and to make matters worse, I had no hair "down there". Everyone else was starting to go through puberty and I was in last place. Apparently I was too young for sex ed, but several of my classmates were not. I'm twenty-nine years old now and I don't even think I've made it all the way through puberty yet. I'm about 75% of the way there...still waiting on the tatas to stop training already and grow!
After the afternoon recess one day, we were herded like baby calves downstairs to the gym where we sat cross-legged on the gym floor, waiting for our teacher to teach us about puberty and intercourse, two of my all-time favorite topics.
The girls were put on one side of the gym while the boys were put on the other. Apparently they did this so the boys and girls could learn about themselves separately and then they would join the two sexes to incorporate what we've all learned.
Before the class even started, I was stifling my laughter. I couldn't help it! There were visual aids—posters of male and female anatomy, plus for us young lasses, boxes of pads and tampons on a table. There was even a bowl of water on the table, most likely to be used to demonstrate how pads and tampons absorb just like the commercials, except this water wasn't blue.
I was clearly not mature enough to handle sex ed at the age of nine, but I was going to give it a whirl anyway. If I was going to sprout pubes and grow tits overnight, I at least wanted to be prepared.
"This might make some of you uncomfortable at first, but I would appreciate it if you would all listen and wait until after I'm done to ask questions or make comments," the teacher instructed us. As if I could adhere to these rules! I was already armed at least thirty jokes that involved penises and vaginas that I was ready to fire away to my friends sitting nearby.
"I will tolerate no jokes or laughing. I expect all of you to take this seriously. No teasing your classmates either," the teacher added. Man, I thought to myself, this bitch was really ruining my fun for the day. The teacher discussed how our bodies would change in the next coming years—but all I heard was "menstruation, boobs, tampons". It was difficult for me to listen because it was like learning a foreign language. I hadn't experienced any of these things like some of the other girls did.
When it was finally time to merge the boys and girls together after our segregation in the gym, I was already starting to sweat and I'm pretty sure the dorkiest kid in class had a huge boner as the teacher started using the visual aids of a woman's anatomy. Somehow I managed to keep my cool as she continuously used the words "penis" and "vagina". Even as an adult, these words still make me laugh so looking back, I was impressed I had made it more than five minutes into the lecture.
That all changed when the topic shifted from puberty to intercourse and she was explaining sex—or for a child like me, I interpreted intercourse as "boy meets girl. Boy gets boner. Girl laughs at boy for getting boner"—at least that's what I would do. But really all I heard the teacher say was the word "erection", and as part of my selective listening disorder (that I still have by the way) I chose to hear the word "boner" instead. I swear Helen Keller was better at listening than I have ever been.
Boner, I whispered quietly. Once the word was past my lips, I lost it. I completely missed the teacher's explanation about erections because my childlike cackling cut through the air like a knife. My face turned bright red and try as I might, I couldn't hold it in. I knew I looked like a complete idiot, but I couldn’t stop laughing.
My shoulders were bouncing up and down and my abs were starting to ache. I was laughing so hard I was starting to grow a 6-pack. The teacher warned me that if I couldn't stop laughing, I would have to wait out in the hall until I could stop laughing.
Since I didn't want to be the idiot who got kicked out of sex ed, I thought of things that were not funny. Poor kids in Africa with flies on their faces. Soap operas. Homelessness. My brother.
It worked. I managed to calm down and my face was restored from a deep crimson to its original color. I looked around the room and saw a couple boys snickering every time the teacher said the word "erection" or "intercourse", so I knew I wasn't alone.
Then came question and answer time. The teacher asked all of us if we had any questions. At first, everyone was as silent and still as if we were in a Catholic church, but one boy finally raised his hand.
"What is an erec...um, an erection?" the boy asked, obviously confused. He must have been listening as much as I was. Oddly enough, he was the same kid who I suspected had a boner when the teacher was showing us the parts of a vagina. So here he is with an erection without knowing he had one? What...a loser.
Turns out he wasn't the loser; I was, and I made sure everyone knew how much of an ass I really was. As soon as he asked the question, I could feel the slow and steady rise of hysterics boiling inside me, ready to explode and I held my mouth as closed as I could before I lost it. This time, my laughter was really uncontrollable. I put both my hands across my mouth, hoping I could push it back in but the laughter escaped out the sides. I even laughed so hard I heard a fart squeak out, which only made me guffaw louder.
To an onlooker, it looked as if I was choking while having a grand mal seizure on the floor of the gymnasium. My body was writhing across the floor like a boa constrictor and my laughter wasn't even audible anymore. My mouth was just wide open and my entire body was gyrating from guffawing. The only sound that could be heard coming from my throat was a series of clicking noises that sounded eerily similar to the mating calls of dolphins.
I was immediately kicked out. I had been warned once, but I wouldn't be warned twice. I was finally sent out to the hallway where I had to sit for the remainder of the class.
I was the only person who got kicked out of sex education in the fifth grade in my school. After school, some of my friends were envious of me not having to sit through an uncomfortable lecture about puberty and sex in front of their peers.
But I was pissed. Not at myself for not being able to control my laughter, but at my teacher for not letting me have another chance. And the fact that I would now be misinformed if I suddenly sprouted boobs and pubes and got a visit from the rusty beaver overnight! I wanted to learn what everyone else was in case I became a woman the very next day! I would be so unprepared.
The only thing I could do was to go home and ask my mother for the information, but then that meant I would have to tell her I got kicked out of sex ed, and I wasn't ready for that.
I had no choice but to rely on my friends for information. As it turns out, my friends were complete morons, but I didn't know it at the time. I believed everything they told me; why wouldn't I? I couldn't disprove them since I wasn't in the class, so I took them seriously.
According to my friends, this is what I missed:
1. The wiener goes in a girl's pee hole (she didn't know the difference between the urethra and the vaginal opening)
2. When a boy gets a boner, he puts it in the vagina (pee hole according to her) and pees inside her and then she gets pregnant
3. Pads are diapers (I have to admit; this one is basically true)
4. Tampons will make you lose your virginity
5. Every 28 days, women PMS (when I asked them to elaborate on what the acronym meant, they stared blankly at me)
6. The bumps on my nipples are Braille for "Lick Me"
7. Every woman has an Aunt Flo (how could I not know her?)
Imagine my surprise the first time I got my period. Or the first time I had sex.
Joking. I'm not that retarded. Luckily for me, I learned everything I needed to know in junior high...both inside and outside of the health education classroom. I just hope my idiotic friends eventually caught on and realized how wrong they actually were, otherwise they were all wearing diapers, getting peed on, and having blind people molest their nipples.
Needless to say, I never got kicked out of another class in my entire educational history. I, in fact, found out I do not have an Aunt Flo, after hours of yelling at my parents for keeping a family member from me. My nipples are not like elevator button pads; they do not have Braille written on them. This girl never wears diapers, only 'pons and oddly enough, I never get PMS. To this day, I find the word "wiener" to be one of the top 5 funniest words...EVER. The other words are queef, toot, butthole, and poop.