Runner’s High OR Runners Are High

Previously Posted on November 17, 2011

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Without doing the actual math, I would venture to guess that 80% or more of my friends are runners – albeit, various stages of runnership. ‘G’ is a badass marathoner. Her SUVcould be completely covered in those 26.2 decals like some sort of bizarre math autowrap. Meanwhile, ‘S’ just completed the Couch to 5K program, ending in a neck-jarring 5K. Seriously. She injured her neck. She doesn’t even know how she managed to pull that feat off, either. But most importantly, she trained daily and completed her first 5k!

Sidebar: why are races labeled in kilometers until they reach marathon status? 5K, 10K, 13.1 miles, 26.2 miles. Is it because 3.1 miles doesn’t sound nearly as kickass as 5k? Or maybe it’s because 42.195k sounds ridiculous compared to 26.2 miles.

I’m kind of jealous. I would love to be able to run (without pain). Don’t waste your typing skillz on explaining to me exactly how I, too, can do it. I’ve tried. And I now have titanium trophies implanted in my back. Let me back up and regroup (like our kids’ obnoxious “new” math)…

Rewind to October, 2003. I am working out with my trainer and we’re discussing her training me for an amateur figure contest. She thinks I can do it. I think I can do it. Let’s do it! But first let’s do some dead lifts! And then *POP*… poor form, shoulders rounded, lumbar disc is blown from my spine to the opposite wall. November, 2003: Laminectomy and partial discectomy (which is surgical speak for snapping off a piece of the vertebrae and plucking the bulging disc from the spinal column).

Full recovery! Hurray! Then I got knocked up, had a baby, and got fluffy(er). What gets rid of excess fat faster than anything? Say it with me… RUNNING!!! So I tried it: Walk for an hour, jog for 1 second. Walk for 30 minutes, jog for 2 seconds. I hated running. It hurt me from head to toe. My lungs burned with the intensity of a thousand forest fires. I had to keep stopping to re-light my cigarette. My toe nails hurt from being repeatedly slammed into the toebox of my shoes. My knee caps filled with water and felt like they were sliding right down my legs. I swear my shins cracked like aged tree bark. But I kept at it cuz I just needed to “work through it”, right?

It took me a while at this pace, but eventually I was jogging upwards of 3 CONSECUTIVE miles! AY DIOS MIO!! I was a RUNNER!!! At 6 feet tall, you’d think I’d look like a blonde gazelle bounding across the concrete Serengeti wearing cool running pants and slick running shoes. Smooth, fast, graceful!

No.

At 6 feet tall, painfully uncoordinated, and comically awkward; I more resembled an ostrich with a broken leg, flightless wings outstretched to help maintain balance – limp/running to safety.

Sadly, I would never pass the 3-mile marker. One day, while shaving my legs, I noticed I couldn’t feel the razor glide up my shin or the ledge supporting my foot. “Weird,” I thought. “Should I be able to feel that?” So I tested it on the other leg. Yep. I should be able to feel that.

August, 2007. 2-level Anterior Lumbar Interbody Fusion (ALIF). Apparently, the impact of my ‘long-distance’ running had caused a domino effect of crushed discs up my already-compromised spine. No more running for me. Ever. Again.

I felt like the poor, dorky kid in gym class (who was always picked last for EVERYTHING) was just handed a permanent “Excused From Gym Class” note. It was awesome! I was told to never run again! I didn’t have to try, anymore. I didn’t have to beat myself up because everyone else was doing it. I had a legitimate excuse!

Oh, man! That was liberating. I discovered less painful forms of exercise and even became a fitness instructor (I know. I still can’t believe it, either). But somehow, over the years, I managed to surround myself with a passel of runners. The gnawing feeling that I should be running with my crazyass friends has plagued me for years. Ohhhh… I don’t evny them! Ohhhh I DO envy them!

I like to get into their heads and learn all about the process of the long distance runs. What is training like? What happens to your body during the process? Do you get bored after THE FIRST TWO HOURS? What kind of illegal drugs would I have to administer to motivate myself to run for fucking 2+ hours?

Here’s what I’ve learned – beyond the obvious knee, ankle, foot ailments:

• Toes get banged around in running shoes, a lot, resulting in bruised nails that turn black and fall off. Awesome! Are pedicures discounted if you don’t have all 10 toenails??
• While running long distances, the friction of clothing (and even rubbing skin) can and will cause chapping and rashes. Brings a whole new meaning to the “That really chaps my ass” saying, doesn’t it? Locations that make me cringe the most: nipples (from prolonged rubbing of shirts/sports bras), armpits, inner thighs.
• Research has documented links between marathons and increase of cardiac events immediately following and for up to 24 hours after a marathon.

(http://www.active.com/running/Articles/New_study_cites_link_between_marathon_running_and_some_heart-attack_factors.htm)

Bonus! Why wouldn’t I run a marathon?!

Interestingly, the marathon finds its origins in the legend of Pheidippides – a Greek messenger, who ran the entire distance from Marathon to Athens to watch a Georgia Bulldogs game, got drunk, collapsed, and died. Or something like that.

So, it appears running isn’t all cupcakes and candy canes. It’s grueling, painful, and – in rare instances – fatal. So why the hell do so many people ‘just do it’? Repeatedly?

Accomplishment. I get it. I mean, I’ll never “get” it… but I get it.

I’ve heard of the runner’s high. I kept waiting for the runner’s high. I never achieved it, but surely everyone else does or they wouldn’t keep at it. Maybe I have some sort of odd immunity to the runner’s high. What does it feel like? Does it occur before or after you throw up?

I have a friend who was recently talked into training for a half-marathon. While I outwardly called her a sucker; inwardly, I am in awe and fairly jealous. Nevertheless, I haven’t loosened my death grip on my permanent doctor’s note.

-B(Sting)

An Open Letter to Mike Linch

An Open Letter to Mike Linch – Sr. Pastor at NorthStar Church

Previously Posted on February 23, 2012

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Rumor has it that my great grandmother renounced Judaism out of fear.  She became Lutheran, apparently.  Quite a jump, right?  As a result, my mother was raised in the Lutheran church, but in the ELC (Evangelical Lutheran Church) synod.  As children, she and her brother were told by a Lutheran priest of the WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran) Synod that they were going to Hell because – while they were Lutheran – they belonged to the wrong (lesser quality?) synod.

Wait.  What?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my father was being raised Catholic.  While at Catholic schools, he was periodically punished (with a wooden ruler) for 1) being left-handed – which was considered ‘The Hand of  The Devil’ in those days;  2) outwardly questioning the concept of indulgences (because why wouldn’t we all be able to just buy our way into Heaven?  Sweet!); and 3) frequently pointing out – during class time – the corruption of The Papacy (Pope… politician… whatever).

If you ever met Dad, you would quickly ascertain he was punished A LOT (he’s an ordained button-pusher).

Dad was quick to leave the Catholic Church to marry Mom and they lived happily ever after in the Lutheran Church (but, of course, among the Hell-bound ELC synod folks).

Fast forward to the birth of my brother and me.  While we were both baptized into the Lutheran Church, we never actually attended church.  Mom and Dad had enough of church ‘values’ (aka hypocrisy) crammed down their throats, so they mutually decided not to cram it down our throats.

Growing up, I always wanted to attend church on a regular basis.  It seemed so beautiful and structured. To me, structure equaled love.  Not that I’m Type A, or anything (yes I am).  I would go to church with my (Catholic) grandmother.  Man!  I loved the pomp and circumstance of those services.  Sure, I had no idea what the Priest was saying… but who did?  Just being there ROCKED!  And that incense?  I would inhale deeeeeeeply when they’d walk by, swinging that lantern-thing on the chain; smoke billowing from within.  I didn’t know what its significance was, but I told myself it was all part of The Salvation Experience.  Next-up:  Communion!  Bring it!  The Priest called us up, pew-by-pew, to receive the ‘piece of Christ’ (or was it supposed to be ‘Peace of Christ’?  Saaaay, was that intended to be a double entendre?  Those clever bastards!) and the ‘blood of Christ’.  But as I stepped out to get in line, Gram stopped me, “No, dear.  You cannot take Communion.  You’ll go to Hell because you’re not Catholic.”

Wait.  What?

I became very disenchanted with The Church and religion, as a whole (or should I say ‘hole’?), on that day.  Nobody could seem to get their story straight.  Mind you, I still believed in God.  But religion?  WhatEVER!

Fast forward to my adult years.  El Jefe and I are newly married and trying to have a baby.  Trying.  Trying.  Trying.  Each year, my faith in (even) God waned.  And then I had ectopic pregnancy #1 on my 30th birthday.  Ectopic pregnancy #2 occurred on Matt’s 31st birthday.  Was I being punished?  Is this because I never went to Church?  Is this because I wasn’t Catholic?  Maybe because I wasn’t WELS Lutheran or Jewish.  Is this because I lied, that one time, about having horses in my backyard (in inner city Milwaukee) when I was in kindergarten?  Yes,  I told lies in my past.  Other than that, I was a pretty good person, God!  What gives?!

Let me state for the record, 7 years of infertility is hard.  It’s hard on a soul, it’s hard on a marriage, it’s hard on one’s faith in God.

Eventually, I became bitter and dark.  I still believed in God… sort of… barely… but certainly not The Church… not any church.  El Jefe would try to get me to go to churches with him.  Reluctantly, sometimes I would; but I would hate every moment of it, scoffing at the sermon.  Yeah, yeah.  God loves me.  All I have to do is pray.  Blah, blah, blah.  I’ll put that on my to-do list. I would think to myself, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Priest!  I HAVE prayed!  I prayed HARD!  You think I didn’t pray for a baby??  And look where I am after all that praying.  No baby and I’m down one ovary.  Thanks.  Thanks for the advice, dumba….” (well, I’m sure you can guess how that rant ended).

My bitterness drove a wedge between El Jefe and me.  We nearly divorced because of the darkness in my heart and soul.  Somehow, we eventually yanked our heads out of our butts and got back on track.

And then… (wait for it)… we became pregnant with Her Royal Highness (HRH).  The conception was a bit miraculous, if I do say so, myself.  Without boring you with medical details, suffice it to say the chances of conception in my circumstance were very slim.  But here we are, today, with a 7-year old royal spitfire daughter!

While my distrust in God, religion, and The Church were eased over time; it was not resolved.

Then some friends (Dina and Neil) lured us to NorthStar under the guise of some sort of couples nite out event the church was hosting.  El Jefe was hooked.  We began attending services… occasionally.  I still dug in my heels on the mornings he’d announce we would be attending, “Am I gonna have to sing?  I’m not singing.  Rock band at church!  Seriously?!?” (Remember, what little church exposure I had was quite formal)

Here’s the thing:  I really liked the feel, the message, and that I knew a whole slew of people that already attended.  But most of all, I liked you, Mike.  You spoke to us like we WEREN’T on the fast-track to Hell AND you demystified passages in the Bible.

Wait.  What?!?

Sure, I still scoffed and questioned and thought, “yeah, but that doesn’t even make sense and is even contradictory” – and I certainly did NOT sing; but I was hooked on your talks.  That singing-to-a-rock-band-at-church-thing, though… No.  Just…. No.

Now we attend (almost) every Sunday, El Jefe is involved in church groups, and we are (for the first time ever) attending church events as a couple (the retreat AND a couples group).  What is happening to me?!

But wait!  There’s more!

Recently, we attended NorthStar’s 15th anniversary service.  As mandated, we brought HRH (Her Royal Highness).  As expected, she was bored out of her mind.  But when we stood up to sing, I looked down and SHE was singing along.  She was unabashedly, open-heartedly singing with (God help me) The Rock Band!  And do you know what happened next?

I.  Sang.

True Story.

-B(Sting)

PS

I’ve regressed, a little.  Singing along still doesn’t happen very much.  But I DO tap my toes.

Fifty Shades of Grey: Introduction

Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy Review Overview

Previously Posted on April 19, 2012

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The Fifty Shades trilogy by EL James (Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed) has been dubbed by the author’s fans as ‘Mommy Porn’.  Admittedly, I devoured all three books within 1 ½ weeks (would have been done sooner, but El Jefe and Her Royal Highness (HRH) needed dinner and shit).

Once done with the books, I found myself meandering around the house, feeling empty and lost.  I wondered if Anastasia and Christian even do stupid laundry. Or do they just roll around in it?

I'll break book 1 down into three easy posts, but first let's begin with a quick and dirty run-down of data...

Characters: 

• Christian Grey :  Mid-to-late 20s and self-made gazillionaire.  Devastatingly handsome.  Dark, luxurious hair that apparently requires a lot of ‘raking’.  As the 4-year old child of a crack whore, he was abused by mom's pimp and then left for days with her dead body.   Christian has some emotional baggage and a sexual dark side.
• Anastasia Steele (Ana):  Early 20s (21 or 22?), just graduating from college.  Bland, at first, but proves to be alluring.  Shy but sassy.  She blushes a lot.
• The Others:  Don't pretend you give a rat's ass about character development.   

Basic Story Line:

Essentially, these books are erotica with a more developed plot than your typical erotica genre.  Christian Grey is a control freak who knows what he wants and always gets it.  Ana is unassuming and quiet.  She's one of those quiet-types that blows people's minds when they drop the f-bomb.  Christian Grey can't figure out what it is about this plain-Jane that rocks his socks, but he suspects it has something to do with that hidden f-bomb.  In other news, Ana is a virgin and Christian is a sexy sexual deviant.  

Buckle up, bitches, cuz we’re goin’ in… and so is Christian. 

-B (Sting)

Weight! What?

Previously Posted on December 7, 2011

I’ve always said that the scale messes with my head. That smug digital readout carries more weight about how I perceive myself than my actual ass.

Every week I step on the scale. Hahahahahahaha…. No I don’t. I suffer from lardassaphobia – a mortal fear that the number that flashes before my eyes will be greater than the last time it flashed before my eyes. I never forget that number. It is seared in my brain until the next slap in the face-weigh-in.

When I do get on the scale, however, the process goes something. Like. This…

Walk around naked for a few minutes to dry out any errant moisture I may have accidentally absorbed. Bonus points if the room is chilly! Go to the bathroom. Squeeeeeeeze out every last drop. Take a deep breath. Tap the scale with my toe to activate it. Wait for an eternity for the 0.00 to flash (approx 1.5 seconds). Step on scale and exhale forcefully to get all that heavy air out of my lungs. Rock back on my heels a bit so I’m more ‘light on my feet’. Try to not care as I STARE at the flashing number, waiting for it to stop reeling from the heavy load thrust upon it. Bend over to get closer to the display to read it (cuz I don’t have my glasses on … Cuz they would add unnecessary weight… DUH!).  Tell the scale to fuck off, step off, and get dressed (cuz I’m freezing!!).

I force myself to step on the scale so I know where I’m at and how much damage I’ve blindly done since my last self-induced punishment.  It’s painful but at least I know.

Imagine how quickly my life turned upside down when I went to the doctor and stepped on their scale…

“Okay, Miss B.  196.”

“What?!  Whoa, there!  Back up, bitches.  I don’t accept that readout.  That’s not even remotely what my scale told me just yesterday morning!”

“Well, honey, that’s what it says.  See?”  The nurse pointed at the number like I was some sort of slow monkey-child hybrid.

“Yeah.  I see that.  And my husband also says I’m the most spoiled bitch on the planet – but I don’t accept that either.  So – much like my husband – that scale is wrong.  Find me another.  I’ll wait.”

Needless to say, she did not find me another scale.  Useless hag.

You may have noticed that I bravely shared my “medical weight” (everyone knows those scales at the doctor’s offices are buckass-wrong; so I use the term “medical weight” to indicate a fictional number).  Now look, smarty pants, before you judge me based on that number I just threw at you; remember that I am 6 feet tall.  I weighed 110 pounds when I was 10… and skinny.  So suck it!

But still… 196 – no matter how fictional – is pretty jarring.  That’s only 54 pounds away from my highest weight ever (Yes.  I was a ‘woman of size’ in my 30s).  Just yesterday, my scale told me I was 186 lbs (post peanut butter and wine binge). So who do I believe???

A Note about my weight fluctuations: 

My highest recorded weight was 265 lbs.  My lowest recorded (adult) weight was 152 lbs.

[I looked emaciated at 152 lbs.  But I was pretty proud of that starving Ethiopian look.  Nevertheless, it was too low and I couldn't maintain it (oh shut the hell up about that Ethiopian comment.  This isn't a political rant.  Stay focused, for chrissakes!).]

My average holding weight is 180 lbs.  I prefer to be around 170 lbs – which allows me to maintain my boobs AND wear tight jeans.  I look spot-on-hott at 160 lbs and tend to wear only hooker clothes.  I don’t even remember the last time I made it to 160 lbs.  Maybe it’s better that way.  A 40-year old mom probably shouldn’t be strutting around her daughter’s elementary school in her finest hooker-wear.

So which scale was correct?  I spent my entire day flipping back and forth.  I felt like Sybil.  Am I fat?  Am I slender?  Could my scale really be that wrong?  That may explain why my spandex seemed oddly tight around my thighs.  Maybe my thighs are meatier than usual?  I tried telling myself it was from excessive squats and lunges.  But the truth is I’d have to actually do the squats and lunges for that theory to hold water.  Water!  My period is right around the corner.  So I must be retaining water.  Is 4 weeks considered right around the corner in regards to water retention?

Their scale cannot possibly be correct!  A few weeks ago, I weighed in at 178 lbs on my scale.  178 lbs is in the 170s range.  Which is practically the same as 170.  I was SURE I looked awesome!  I walked around my bedroom NAKED… in front of El Jefe AND MOOSE THE DOG… cuz I was so confident with my 170s(ish).

Is it possible my scale really is 10 lbs off and I was actually strutting around at 188 lbs?  OH MY GOD!  THE HORROR!!!  Is that why Moose now averts his eyes whenever I approach him?!?

After the doctor scale-incident, I put on the biggest, bulkiest sweater I could dig out.  I just wanted to cover up (my body and my face).

I had to know.  Was I making a fool of myself, prancing around like I was all hott and slender?  Or was I actually hott and slender?  How could I test the validity of my scale?  I didn’t have any dumbbells.  You know what I did have, though?  A handheld luggage scale.  At least that would give me a comparison.

Once I got home, I went through all the proper pre-weigh-in steps:  Naked, chilly room, pee, weight in heels, no eyewear…. (drum roll, please)…. 186.

But I wasn’t in the clear, yet.  I needed to compare my scale to something.  So I darted to the guest bedroom – naked, of course – to dig out Big Blue, our ginormous (blue) suit case.  That bitch weighs a ton (or 15 lbs, whichever).  I rolled Big Blue back to our bathroom (still naked – if anyone peered into our 2nd story foyer window from the street, they either got a thrill or is scarred for life).  I hooked Big Blue onto the luggage scale:  15 lbs.  Then I hoisted it onto our
bovine human scale.  15 lbs.

OH MY GOD!  REDEMPTION!!!

I re-weighed Big Blue 2 more times.  I’m all about statistics, you know.  14.8, 15, 15

So there it is.  The doctor’s scale really was jacked.  Fucking bastards made me nutbuddy, batshit crazy for an entire day!

But do you see what’s been happening to me?  I have been seeing myself through a scale’s window.  When it ‘gives’ me a favorable number, I see myself favorably.  When it ‘gives’ me a shitty number, I see myself shittily.

I don’t know how to change my behavior, but this can’t go on.  I can’t be the scale’s helpless little bitch, anymore.

-B(Sting)

50 Shades: Dark Grey

Previously Posted on May 3, 2012

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Anastasia and Christian stand at the precipice of pain… both emotional and physical.

Alright.  That’s enough flowery writer-speak.  Let’s get down to brass tacks (I have no idea what the hell that actually means, by the way).

Ana has agreed to enter The Red Room of Pain (Christian’s evil playroom where he assumes the role of Dominant and bosses around his Submissives).  Christian has a thing for hearty food consumption, so he makes Ana eat a well-balanced dinner first.  He worries like a Jewish mother.  After dinner, he announces, “… right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you senseless.  Are you ready for that?”

Yes.  Yes I am.  Oh… wait.  You weren’t talking to me, were you.  Dammit!

“Yes,” she’s all in.

“Good.  Come.”

I’m a little surprised she didn’t actually come on command, there.

He takes her hand and leads her upstairs to The Playroom (seems to me, a place like that should be in the basement… like a dungeon), leaving all the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar.

Oh, hell no!  That would never happen in my house.  We do not leave a pile of dirty dishes to go have savage sex in a dungeon that happens to be located on the wrong floor of the house.  No sir!  We clean that shit up!  THEN we go have savage sex in a …. Well… then we go watch TV or scan Facebook.  

In The Playroom, he undresses her, “… and absentmindedly folds [her] dress, not taking his eyes off [her].”

So you’ll leave a festering pile of dirty dishes, but you neatly fold a dress before whipping your girlfriend.  Fair enough.

As part of the party-prep, he braids her hair and then “… ties it with an unseen hair tie…”

Does El Jefe know how to braid hair?  How many men have hair bands on their person… just in case they need to quickly braid their women’s hair?  Is this standard issue for women with long hair?  Do your boyfriends/husbands stop the throes of passion to exclaim, “Baby, let me just braid your hair real quick-like so it doesn’t get all up in my way.”

Christian performs a brief Playroom Orientation, “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel [wearing only panties] over there [a spot near the door].  Do it now.”

I am confident El Jefe would approve of this rule.  However, HRH and Moose (the dog) may be a bit confused and scarred to find me kneeling at the back door, wearing only panties, looking down at my spread legs… awaiting El Jefe’s arrival.  Knowing Moose (the dog), he’d jam his snout between my legs and breathe deeply.  That dog is so odd. 

“You can sit back on your heels.”

Oh, thank you for your generosity in securing my personal comfort.  Asshat!

“Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”

Ana’s response:  “Yes, sir.”

My response:  Fuck you, Jackwagon.

Why aren’t chiseled, domineering, hyper-protective men ever attracted to me?  Oh.  Wait… never mind.

Throughout all three books, Ana uses the same verbiage to describe Christian, a lot.  For instance, she addresses his smell frequently.  Apparently, he “smells of body wash and Christian.”

What the hell does this mean?  What kind of body wash?  How does she know it’s body wash?  Maybe he swipes a garden-variety bar of Irish Spring or Lever 2000 across his man-parts?  And what IS Christian-smell?  Curry?  Next time I smell a bouquet of flowers, I’m going to murmur that they smell like Christian. 

 Another one of her favorite descriptors is “trussed up”.  Everything gets “trussed up”… her boobs, her wrists, her entire body… all “trussed up”.  I have to admit, this one has crept into my vocabulary, too.  Now, whenever I work out, I “truss up” my knee.  And when I’m getting dressed, I “truss up” the girls, too.  Although, those bitches now need industrial strength shackles… or a good surgeon.

“… he hooks his fingers into my panties and… peels them down my legs… so that he ends up kneeling in front of me.”

That’s right.  Nooooooow we’re cooking with fire.

“… he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply.”

Weirdo.

Ana is “trussed up”, hanging like a slab o’ meat in a plant and Christian slaps and runs a riding crop through her cucaracha, “See how wet you are for this, Anastasia?  Open your eyes and mouth.”

He jams the wet crop into her mouth.

I’m imagining myself in this scenario.  It goes something like this:  With the wet crop in my mouth, I slur, “Is this thing clean?  This can’t be hygienic.  I guess I always assumed I tasted better than this.  I need to eat some pineapple, or something.”

“See how you taste?  Suck.  Suck hard, baby.”

This is just stupid.  I’m embarrassed for you, Christian.  Sucking a riding crop.  Really?

Ana thinks to herself, “I can taste… the saltiness of my arousal.”

You know, it’s not a dinner roll glaze, for fuck’s sake!  “Say, B, what’s on these dinner rolls?  Melted butter?  Some sort of glaze?  It’s just lightly salty.” / “Why, no.  In fact, it’s my special arousal sauce.  See, I run each roll through my hoo-ha just seconds before I serve them up.  So you like it?”

“Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine.”

I know, right!  That’s what all my friends say, too.  Eat up, Christian. 

So, he slaps her with a riding crop until she comes.  So… what… 2 slaps?  Then he tells her, “Lift your legs, baby, wrap them around me.” (cuz, you know, they’re now going to have The Sex while standing)

Help me out, here.  Does this really work?  I’m 6 feet tall, so this has never worked for me.  My leg (note, it’s just one leg, cuz no man can support me AND hold both legs) is always still dragging on the floor and the parts never line up correctly.  It sounds hot on paper, but the dots just don’t connect.  Are you picking up what I'm putting down?  The dots. They don't connect.  

“I feel the build up again.  Jeez, no… not again… I don’t think my body will withstand another Earth-shattering moment.”

Go to hell, Ana.  

Lessee… a few pages later… oh look at that… they’re having The Sex.  How is her vagina not broken?

“I can feel a gathering deep inside me.”

Why?  Are you hungry?  Do you have to poop? 

“Oh no… and for the first time, I fear my orgasm… if I come… I’ll collapse.”

Oh shut up, you fucking cry-baby.  Jeezus!  Does this book ever end?!?  I think I’m growing weary of make-believe great sex.

Oh!  Here’s one of my favorite parts...  There’s this one scene where Christian has laid out Ana’s clothes while she’s in the shower (If I let El Jefe do this for me, I’d spend every day dressed like a circus clown whore) and he’s craftily omitted her panties.  So she goes to meet his parents SANS PANTIES!

Right.  Okay.  Let’s stay here, for a moment.  I have a friend or two who have gone sans panties.  I have never gotten my head around this.  Men, brace yourselves, cuz I’m about to reveal something about women that you may not want to know but it’s time for you to grow up.  You see, after ovulation, there’s almost always some sort of 'stuff' dropping outta there.  Panties’ main purpose, therefore, is to catch the errant drips.  If she’s not wearing panties, where do you think that shit ends up?  How ‘bout the back of her dress or every chair and couch she sits on.  Basically, she’s leaving a shiny snail trail everywhere she goes… all because she’s trying to be sexy.  Tell me… do you still think that’s sexy?

In another scene, he’s about to insert a pair of Ben Wa Balls into her.  Wondering what those are?  Here’s a brief explanation:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Wa_balls  Wondering how I knew what they were?  Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.

Upon insertion, he tells her, “Now turn around, bend down, and grab your ankles.”

Funny.  The IRS tells me to assume this position ever year.

There’s a lot more sex, but I’m getting tired of explaining it all to you.

But then there’s this one scene that grabbed my attention…

They’re about to climb into bed to do a crossword puzzle… haha… no, no… they’re about to have The Sex, silly.  And Christian asks Ana, “Are you bleeding?”

Foreplay, arousal, blah, blah, blah.

And then…

“He reaches between my legs and pulls on the … string… and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet.”

STOP!  STOPSTOPSTOP!  He can’t toss that into the toilet!  Those are not supposed to be flushed!  This is a little wrong on other levels, too, but I’m guessing I don’t need to state the obvious, here.  

They move on to sex and then she remembers, “I’m bleeding.”

That doesn’t bother him, “Does it bother you?”

Uh… how ‘bout Yeah!?!  Cuz the room would look like a damned CSI crime scene!

Thankfully, they proceed to take a bath.  Filthy bastards need to clean that shit up, too!

In the tub, he grabs her and pulls her onto his lap, “I’m going to have you now,” he whispers.

Water sloshes all over the floor.

I can’t take it.  Water all over the floor, too?  Where does it end, people?!?  Dirty dishes, blood, water… you’re pigs!  PIGS!!

I’m certain there’s more sex.  And then she agrees to let him spank her with a leather strap… six times… really hard.

To her surprise, she doesn’t care for that activity.  Who knew?

Dumbass. 

They have a poignant conversation (without sex) and book one concludes.

-B(Sting)

50 Shades:  Medium Grey

 Previously Posted on April 25, 2012

4

When we left off, Ana was administering her very first blow job… in a bath tub… like a snake swallowing an entire rat.

Let’s finish that scene up, shall we?

While forcing Christian’s river rat all the way back to her uvula (that goofy flap of flesh that hangs down waaaaaaaaaay in the back of our throats), he cries out and then a gush of “salty liquid” oozes down the back of her throat.

So, we’ve now learned that our comely little Ana can come on command via any method of stimulation AND she’s expert at providing barnburning blow jobs. (good word usage AND double entendre, yeah?)

Well, that’s just great. Good for you, Ana. Never mind that it took me several passes before I got pretty good at what I do. And, frankly, who knows if I’m really any good at what I do? Jefe’s never said, “Wow, B! You’re really bad at this!” So I just assume I’m really good. No news is good news, right?

Not five minutes out of the tub and they’re at it again. Only this time, he binds her wrists with a tie and she is instructed to keep her hands over her head. He sensually sashays his mouth down her body, stopping to “kiss her there”.

Don’t pretend you don’t know where.

She’s “…mortified and embarrassed…” when she realizes what he’s about to do.

Really, Ana? NOW you’re mortified and embarrassed??

“Do you know how intoxicating you smell, Miss Steele?” … he pushes his nose into [her] pubic hair and inhales.

Intoxicating, how? Intoxicating like a rinsed-out tuna can? Intoxicating like fresh salmon? 

Christian goes down on Ana and makes her come.

Never saw that one coming, eh?
See what I did, there?

Then they have sex and she comes again.
Of course.

We’re still on book one, by the way.

Words, plot, blah, blah, blah…

Later… I don’t know… that day? There’s so goddamn much sex, I constantly lose track of time in the book. Anyhoo, later, Christian and Ana are in Ana’s room. He binds her hands to her bed and then he gets to work on unveiling her bottom half, starting with her shoes. “Oh no… no… my feet. No. I’ve just been running.”

Oh, God! Not that! Not sweaty feet from running?!? Abort mission, Christian! Abort! Her FEET! SHE’S BEEN RUNNING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!

Yes, that was sarcasm. Ana’s good at orgasm. I’m good at sarcasm. We all have a calling.

All the things she’s already revealed and engaged in and she’s worried about her feet? Personally, I’d be a little more worried about my post-run “intoxicating scent”. But… you know… whatever.

He pushes her shirt up over her eyes to act as a blindfold and then leaves her to get a drink. Upon return, he asks if she’s thirsty. Of course she is! She’s just been running and getting her feet all gross and sweaty! She concedes that she is and he pours wine in her mouth… via his mouth.

Let’s stop here and back up, a minute. You’re naked, semi-blindfolded, and bound to your bed. A man leans over to kiss you and liquid pours from his mouth to yours. Do you a)swallow in greedy anticipation of what it might be b) swallow because you’re trying really hard to be all cool and schexy but inwardly gag cuz you know damn well that shit’s laced with a ton of backwash or c) spew it from your mouth in disgust?

My response is somewhere between ‘b’ and ‘c’.

Back on track… Ana’s bedroom… mouth-to-mouth beverage transfer… more foreplay, witticisms, and then he flips her over and jams her knees forward so her ass is in the air…

Oh God, NO! NOT THAT!?! Already?!?

No. Not that, dear reader. Gotcha! Actually, he smacks her ass and takes her doggie-style. In keeping with the trend she’s started, he plunges inside her and she comes instantly.

Let me repeat that.

He plunges inside (one motion) and she comes instantly (one and done).

What’s going on here? Is it me? Am I broken? Has my orgasm switch shorted out? Am I the only one who requires at least a full stroke or more before my “flower unfurls its petals”?

Let’s dive into Ana’s first real spanking. When Ana makes the mistake of rolling her eyes at Christian (which, quite frankly, I have almost rolled my damned eyeballs right outta my head, by now), he tells her “I’m going to spank you, and then I’m going to fuck you very quick and very hard…”

At this point, I can’t decide if I’d punch Christian in the face or clap my hands with giddy delight.

“… Suddenly he grabs [Ana], tipping [her] across his lap… He throws his… leg over [hers] and plants his left forearm on the small of [her] back, holding [her] down so [she] cannot move.”

He pulls down her pants and caresses her bare ass.

I’m leaning toward giddy…

Then he delivers a swift, hard blow. The pain of the first strike sears through her and she tries to rise, but he digs his hand between her shoulder blades, keeping her down across his lap and proceeds to hit her again and again…. Eighteen times, in fact.

I just made up my mind. The motherfucker would get a swift kick in the pants and another kick to the head while he’s down. 

“Enough… Well done, Anastasia. Now I’m going to fuck you.”

Oh. Hold on. Maybe I don’t need to beat the shit out of him, after all?

I’m sure you can guess the rest. He fucks her. She comes. Yadda, yadda.

There’s a lot of condom usage in book 1. Safety first, you know. According to my Kindle Reader, condoms are used about 19 times (in the… what? 2 weeks they’ve known each other?).

Nineteen times! That’s some serious latex hypersensitization! How does that girl not have a perpetual yeast infection?!? Can she even feel her hoo-ha, anymore?

You know what? I’m getting tired of all this amazing sex and free-flowing orgasms. In a nutshell, book 1 goes on and on with:

1. Christian raking his hands through his dark, luxurious hair
2. Salacious glares
3. “mercurial mood swings”
4. Their first jaunt in the playroom

Oh. Perhaps you’d like to cover their first playroom event?

Another time…

-B(Sting)