The Day I Shit Myself.

A while ago something really traumatizing happened to me. It was a Friday that started off like most of my Fridays do. There were no signs to suggest that my day would have a horrifying start. No sign that this particular morning would be the start of a particularly bad day; such a bad day that it henceforth will be known as “Black Friday”. It has taken me months to muster up the courage to write about it here because I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I just hope you, my readers and Facebook fans, do not think any less of me after reading this blog post. But, before my courage wanes let me tell you about that shitty “Black Friday”.

Fridays are my favorite day of the week. Mostly because I only have to endure 8 more hours of work before it’s officially weekend. Fridays are also the only day of the week that I can honestly say I am almost a morning person, with the emphasis on “almost”. On this particular Friday I followed my usual routine, woke up at 6:15am and proceeded to get my early morning caffeine and nicotine fix. I then sat down in front of my computer to update my social media and scan the interwebs for gay news worthy of sharing with my Facebook fans. It was a normal Friday morning by any means and there was nothing out of the ordinary, but that would soon change.

You see my bowel movements are predictable and they are regular and that is just the way I like them. I usually have them in between the time I spend updating my social media and the time I get dressed for work. On this fateful morning it was not to be any different. As I was finishing updating my social media presence I could feel a slight rumbling in my stomach. This is normal for that time of the morning and it usually is my body’s way of notifying me in advance of having to make an imminent deposit in the loo. Not concerned that the rumbling heeded a sense of urgency, I decided to hold off going to the loo and instead went to the studio to select my outfit for the day. That would prove to be a dreadful mistake.

As I unlocked the studio door the rumbling in my stomach went from a mild loo notification to a more prominent warning groan. But, I know my body (or so I thought), and believed that I still had a good 6 minutes before my loo call. As I was taking my outfit off the clothing rail, the groan in my stomach took on a more ominous tone. It wasn’t long before I realized that the 6 minutes I thought I had would expire earlier than what I had anticipated. So, I took the clothes and, this time with a sense of urgency, I attempted to lock the studio door. Then it happened, suddenly and catching me totally off guard I found myself at the wrong side of the loo count down.

My bowels were about to move and I wasn’t ready for it. All I could do was to clench my ass as tight as I possibly could and pray. It was crunch time! Out of absolute desperation I abandoned the key in the door all the while clenching my ass so tightly I could have made a diamond in there. Rather frantic I rushed into the house and as I entered I realized that only clenching my ass muscles was insufficient. I needed a backup defense system in case my rectum fails me so I proceed to also clench my rectum muscles as tight as humanly possible.

 “Holy Mary, Jesus & Joseph” I thought “this CANNOT be happening to ME!” In my final desperate moments I dropped my clothes on the floor and were about to leap into a sprint. But one thing no one ever told me is that if you are clenching every muscle in your ass and rectum to prevent yourself from soiling your pants, sprinting will nullify all those efforts. So I guess what happened next should not come as a surprise.

To my horror in mid sprint halfway to the loo the unthinkable happened. -I began to shit myself. At first only a little and then the flood gate opened only 9 feet away from the toilet. "I was so close! So damn close!!" I thought. Then a strange sensation overcame me, the sensation you only get when you shit yourself. Apart from your pants becoming heavy, I also experience an euphoria of guilt, disgust and shame combined with relief.  My self-esteem was also as soiled as your pants and I felt ashamed. Very ashamed! The kind of shame you cannot put into words. The kind of shame nobody who haven't soiled their pants would understand.

As the sensation of my own excrement was weighing me down, I went to the only place in my mind that would make my situation remotely acceptable. I went to my favorite place - denial. “Nooo, I didn’t just shit myself. No... not me.” “This didn’t just happen, it must be a bad dream, come on now, on the count of 3 wake up!” But it wasn’t a bad dream. I did shit myself! I shit myself right in our dining room. I shit myself and the proof was in my pants and whether I liked it or not I now had to accept it and I had to do something about it.

So I held my head high, breathed in deeply a couple of times and with my chest out and shoulders back I uneasily walked the remaining nine steps to the toilet, took off my pants and pretended to finish my business in a dignified manner. The last time I shit my pants was during the time my parents potty trained me and I really was not expecting to do it again until much later on in my life, like let’s say in my mid to late 90’s. But, at least when I am 98 I will be wearing an adult nappy so technically I wouldn't actually have soiled my pant.

After I removed the evidence of my hugely embarrassing bowel disaster, had a shower and got dressed. The trauma of my experience hung over my head and I had to share it with someone. So I phoned my husband “Honey, something awful just happened to me. I bet you will never guess what it was!” and I was right, he didn’t. The rest of that day pretty much went downhill from there. It was not my finest hour, proudest moment or fondest memory. May this never happen to you! Shitting your pants really has a way of ruining your whole day! And Black Friday was indeed really a shitty day.

Till next time.

An Open Letter to Porn Addicts. You Know Who You Are.

If you are reading this you were probably on Google searching for porn and landed on my blog by accident.  But, before you put down the tissues and lube to close this window, I just want to first ask you a couple of questions, if that’s ok?  It’s totally anonymous but you should probably clear your search history when you are done, just to be on the safe side.  I mean, I have seen your search terms that landed you on my blog and you seem pretty messed up.  Honestly, the visuals I now have in my head are going to give me nightmares and will most probably cost me a couple of thousand bucks extra for therapy.

But enough about me, let’s get back to you.  I want you to clarify a few things for me about the stuff you search for on the internet, you know, the things that “help you get off”; the same things that accidentally landed you here.  Look I am grateful for any hits I get on my blog no matter where they “cum” from but some of your search terms just confuse me, and I don’t mean the obvious ones either.  So let’s get started.  Also, if you are not a porn addict, you should totally read this too.

The first thing that troubled me is how many times you search the internet for Clown Porn.  I know that is a “fetish thing” because I blogged about it once before and I am still traumatized by it.  Also, being terrified of clowns and believing there are way too few clown stabbings in the world I don’t understand how this is a fetish at all to start with.  Firstly, clowns should never have sex.  Period!

Clowns belong in the circus and that is why I have not been to a circus, other than Cirque du Soleil, in well over thirty years.  Clowns are way too jovial and wear way too much makeup.  Besides, if a clown was in anyway sexual or, god forbid, ever made a sexual advance at me, I would die.  Literally. Actually I would most probably first pee my pants, run away and then die.  Also, imagining a clown orgy, of any kind, is unsettling on so many levels I would not even know where to start expressing my mental outrage.  If you have a clown porn fetish you should be ashamed of yourself and it is something you should totally declare to your therapist who is treating you for having such a shitty childhood.  Bozo the clown says “Shame. On. You.”  And there is no Bozo the clown who works in porn.  I checked!

The next search term confused the hell out of me.  “Gay fellations anus blogspot”.  Firstly, I think you meant to write fellatio and you need to work on your spelling.  Do you expect Google to correct your spelling forever?  Secondly, in context of that search term I think you wanted to find a blogspot about rimming and/or blow jobs.  And in case you didn’t know, those are two very different things.  Seeing as I am not a pornographer or a sex therapist I am not going to guide you through these two types of oral sex.  I suggest that next time you Google these types of things that you first check your spelling and be more specific.  The only “oral” you are going to get from my blog is “oral diarrhea” that comes mostly from me and of which this particular blog post is a prime example of and, for that I apologize. I'm not a very good blogger. Although I have won awards but the people that gave me those awards were in all probability drunk. But I digress.

Unfortunately not all the porn searches that landed people on my blog were so straight forward.  Some were rather disturbing and resulted in me also having to do a brief internet search.  A good example of this was “adderall and diaper fetish”.  Firstly, adderall is drug used to treat Narcolepsy and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD).  Why you would have an adderall and diaper fetish in the same context, I don’t know.  I mean, do you want to be a chilled out baby?  Do you like shitting in your pants while your on a psycho pharmaceutical induced buzz?

If you suffer from Parafilic Infatilism or as it is also known, Adult Baby Syndrome, you need to see a psychiatrist because grown men are not supposed to shit themselves on purpose.  The only time which that is really ok is if you are in fact a baby.  Sure I have a background in psychology but there is a reason I don’t have a practice: I don’t like dealing with crap like this and if you are a grown man who likes shitting in diapers you really aren’t the type of person I want to associate with anyway or would want to treat as a patient. I don't want to be your daddy!

More disturbing than grown men wanting to behave like babies are some of your searches that deal with Donkeys.  Sure this is sort of my own fault as I have been going on about wanting a gay donkey on my blog and that we would call him our “challenged unicorn”.  But how you managed to sexualize poor donkeys is just wicked and scary.

Normal people don’t search for donkeys having sex with each other and if this turns you on I have serious concerns about the health of your sex life.  Also furry gay donkeys do not want to sign porn deals with people, because they are, you know – fucking donkeys!  Let them be and stop creating a market for gay donkey porn!  They are sensitive innocent creatures who should not be corrupted by your need to get off on them getting off.  They are bloody unicorns in disguise.  They are magical for fuck sakes!  …I apologize for my rant, I just really like donkeys y’all…

The last thing I want to address is how obsessed you are with your anus and the plethora of “anus” searches that landed people on my blog.  I still don’t know how Google links this particular search to my blog but hey, it is what it is.  The new trend some people are into these days, according to my blog statistics, is “fire in anus”.  And no, I am not fucking with you!  I am not sure what they do but it just sounds dangerous and painful.

Are people literally setting their assholes on fire?  Is “fire” a euphemism for something else?  Is “fire in your anus” a new STD?  I don’t know what kinky sexual shit the kids are into these days or what new sex lingo they have but I think somebody should notify the medical fraternity and forewarn them that there may be a few new anal burn wounds coming their way.  I, for one, know that I wouldn’t want a fire in my anus, but hey maybe that’s just me.

Look, I don’t judge a person for surfing porn on the internet; after all that is what most people use it for anyway.  Also, there is nothing wrong with sexual fetishes, although I don’t understand why some people find certain things that I find gross sexually arousing, but hey, we cannot all be the same.  If you want to tie your boyfriend up and do unsanitary things to him, well I guess that is your prerogative.  If you want to wear diapers and dress up in an onesie, it is your choice but just know people will judge you.  So if you landed on my blog due to searching any of the search terms I wrote about today, welcome.  Also, I am sorry that you didn’t find what you were looking for.  You can now take your tissues and lube and close this window.  That will be all. Happy porn surfing you freaks.

Till next time.

Don't let labels define us.

Labels are meant to divide us not unite us. Don't let labels define us.

Hey white people.

Is racism still a thing? 

No, I don't want to friend your cock.

I have been on Facebook since 25 June 2007.  That is like a really serious commitment or relationship in the cyber world.  I have been on Facebook longer than what most people’s relationships last; longer than what most people, including myself, stay at the same job.  Through the last nine years I had my fair share of dramas on and with Facebook. It's like having a really needy lover. I have also learned that there are seriously unstable people on Facebook who desperately need to be fucking medicated and in therapy.  They make me lean toward being a misanthropic person as I don't like to deal with fucked up people in real life nor do I want to in the cyber world. Reflecting back on my, sometimes tumultuous, relationship with Facebook I could not help but wonder, are people really as fucked up in real life as they seem to be on the internet.

During the last nine years I have been banned from Facebook twice.  Yes banned! Twice!  Coincidentally, both times were preceded by some rather disturbing hate mail I received from some fanatical religious freaks who took great umbrage at my mere existence.  These were the same assholes who, in all probability, reported me to the gods at Facebook who in return, instead of investigating the “complaints”, rather opted to disable my account.  Both times it took weeks and a torrent of emails for the Facebook gatekeepers to come to their senses and to reinstate.  It was much like being broken up with. It was horribly emotional. The most recent time they threatened to banish me was because I had too many friends.

You see, Facebook has a 5000 friend limit.  I have reached that limit a couple of times at which point I was instructed by a faceless bot message to clean up my friend list OR ELSE.  Facebook can sometimes be a very mean and domineering lover. Do you know how long it took me to scrutinize my entire friend list?  It toke not take days – it took weeks!  The last time I was threatened to clean up my friend list was last year and it took me a whole week to delete just over 2000 people.  My criteria was simple:  If you don’t have a profile picture of yourself, you were unfriended.  If your name is “Gay Love”, “iFuck a Lot” or “BJ King” or anything ridiculous like that you were deleted.  And if you have your private parts as your profile picture you were unfriended.  And this leads me to my next point.  Why do some people think you are primarily on Facebook for sex?

My Facebook profile clearly states “married” under my relationship status.  Surely the people who inbox me on Facebook can’t be illiterate?  I have gotten countless messages over the years ranging from people who were soliciting sex from me, wanting to know if hubby and I were into gang bangs, asking how big my dick is, what fetishes I am into and the best ones were “ASL” (age sex location).  Now if you need to ask me that on Facebook you are either just fucking retarded or super lazy!  I mean honestly, don’t these people read your profile before sending you profanities and wanting to have carnal knowledge of your body?  If I don’t know you chances are good that I also don’t want to play occupy the anus with you especially if we are not even on the same continent. Have these people never heard about fucking Grindr?

And then there are the people on Facebook who firmly believe that their dicks are their best physical attribute.  They are so very proud of their penises that they prominently display it as their profile pictures.  Now if you invite me as a friend and all I can see is your erection that is pointing the wrong way which barely disguises your unkept bush and hairy balls, chances are good that I will not accept your request.  Chances are even better that I will report your profile to Facebook and the message you will get in your inbox from me will read “No, I don’t want to friend your cock!”  I mean seriously, would you walk around in public with your crown jewels hanging out of your pants?  Doing it on Facebook is pretty much the same thing, don’t you think? You should be ashamed of yourself and possibly be arrested or lewd and lascivious conduct. There should really be a law about stuff like this. Just saying.

But Facebook don’t just have overly horny folks on it, they also have the spammers.  You know who I am talking about.  Those people who like to post products on their timelines, obsessively tag you in photos of brands, inbox 50 people at a time with “You can win an iPhone 6S” and those folks who troll groups and pages and post links to websites ranging from pornography to dating sites.  I believe there is a special place in hell for these fucktarts right next to telemarketers, homophobes, Hitler and Robert Mugabe.  I don’t know why Facebook doesn’t ban them.  Most of their profiles are fake anyway and this is why I never accept friend request from girls posing in sexy positions that have a lot of friends but never post anything on their timelines except for spam. Spam like dildos and cock rings. The latter making the song "If you like it you shoulda put a ring on it" pretty indecent. Shame on you Beyonce. Shame. On. You.

The other crowd of the people who occasionally annoy me on Facebook are the folks who clearly need to be in therapy and who are always airing all of their dirty laundry in public.  Sure sometimes it is entertaining reading their status updates in my news feed.  Following their mental meltdowns during the course of eight hours or reading how they are trying to get rid of their one night stands the next morning is quite entertaining.  But have these folks no shame?  Are they not aware that their friends are reading these status updates and are judging them?  Some days while reading my news feed on Facebook I feel so much more normal and mentally stable in comparison to some of my internet friends.  Watching their shit go down in real time feels a little voyeuristic, but hey if they post it who am I not to read it. The little melodramas is like watching a soap on television the only difference being that you can comment and engage with the characters. Not that I do that but I have been very tempted to.

Lastly, I have a certain group on Facebook which I have been trying to close down now for well over three years but with little success.  Apparently winning a war in Iraq is easier than closing down a group on Facebook.  I decided to close the group down due to spam, people using it as their personal sex hookup spot, endless “add me” posts and a few other unsavory reasons.  I have closed the wall, banned hundreds of folks and outright threatened people.  Yet, the group continues to grow and currently have well over 22 000 members.  It boggles the mind.  Why would people stay in a group where they can’t do anything?  Moreover, why the hell would anyone want to join the group either?  The group is called “Gaywarfare” but it should be called “Whores, Orgies & Spam” instead.

Yes, Facebook is filled to its cyber brim with some fucked up people.  Perhaps some folks on Facebook think that I am fucked up as well, the lord knows I too have my moments. The internet and Facebook is the one place where you can truly embrace how fucked up you really are. You can confess all your secrets to your lover called Facebook. You can tell him about all your problems and have a meltdown in front of your laptop and Facebook will comfort you. You can be a hot mess and Facebook will love you anyway. And we will all read about it and secretly judge you while liking your posts. Facebook never said he was the monogamous type. You should really have read his terms and conditions. I think all relationships should have them. If I had terms and conditions which you accepted you cannot later be all like "I did not sign up for this" because you did.

*mental note: start writing my terms and conditions*

Till next time.