‘Cheeky’ does, indeed, describe my personality…
…as well as my most spankable naughty bits. 😉
Happy Hump Day!
Visit the ‘Wanton Wednesdays’ page on my blog for more information.
(One person will understand this post. If you are not that person, feel free to go away. The sooner, the better.)
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I have a (female) blogger friend who describes sperm as ‘bleachy’ and, not being a woman prone to sputtering on chlorination, she chooses not to swallow any. Ever.
She and I have tried (in vain) to explain the concept of bleachy sperm to a mutual (male) bloggy buddy, but he’s convinced we’ve been exposed (heh) to the wrong types of guys. Namely, the ones who work at the Clorox plant.
Despite the fact that dull whites are one of those pesky annoyances that go along with doing laundry, I do not use Clorox. (Nor do I use the gentlemen who work at the Clorox plant.) So his argument is moot.
However, I think between the two of them (‘them’ being my bloggy buddies), the current state of the human condition can (maybe, possibly, perhaps) be explained.
Let’s pretend for a moment that the human gene pool is a bit chlorinated. (If your imagination needs fodder, I invite you to stroll your local Wal-Mart at noon on a Saturday and examine the Wal-Martians. You won’t have to pretend. You’ll simply recognize said chlorination as fact.) How do you suppose it got that way?
Bleachy sperm.
But what, you are wondering, is bleachy sperm, Feve?
Well.
It’s sperm that smells like bleach, of course.
Duh.
Simple biology (or chemistry or just plain cause-and-effect) dictates that what goes in the body affects what comes out. And what comes out is bodily fluids. All kinds of bodily fluids.
Urine, for example, is not supposed to be dark yellow. If you are drinking enough water and throwing other healthy sustenance down your gullet, it should be almost clear. Likewise should sweat. And neither should be particularly smelly. That said: Ever smelled the sweat of a man playing basketball the morning after a beer bender? *Shudder* Not exactly bleachy… But neither is it a garden of roses. So: good stuff in, good stuff out; garbage in, garbage out. Toxins (excess sugar, caffeine, alcohol, etc.) in, toxins out.
If the toxins out come (heh) in the form of bleachy sperm and subsequently become toxins in (as in, in utero), I submit (heh) to you that the result is (once again) toxins out (i.e., future Wal-Martians of the world).
Which brings us back to our (oh-so-hard-to-believe) supposition that maybe (just maaaayyyybe) the human gene pool is slightly (only 90%) chlorinated.
And it’s all the fault of bleachy sperm.
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I admit that, as a theory, it might need a little work. But I think my hypothesis is sound. Perhaps I should experiment…
Besides, someone needs to figure these things out. Might as well be me! 😀
Spanking should sound like a symphony; thwacks and smacks interspersed in time, with occasional rests and shhh-shhh strokes on heated skin to offset the downbeats, amidst a nice mix of dolce and allegro, pianissimo and forte, and of course crescendo…
I could go on, but I think you get the point.
So spanking should sound like a symphony. However, occasionally there is a bit of an…hmmm…shall we say…errant note. Perhaps the palm is too open or too cupped or it just plain misses the sweet spot. In such cases, the crack of the maestro’s hand against waiting flesh sounds less like a thwack and more like…
Well.
Like a thwuck.
(Please note that thwuck rhymes nicely with fuck and suck. Please also note that fuck and suck are sometimes the most eloquent words in the English language. Other times they are the basest of four-letter words, which is just fuckin’ sucky.)
So that’s how my Monday morning rolled in.
With a thwuck.
I can count on one hand (ONE. HAND!) the number of orgasms I’ve had since last Monday (thanks in part to three days of Zuulfather and two days of sicky Feve – I was not well for most of the weekend) and while I’d like to be using that hand right now to gain some relief, I can’t.
Well, not that I CAN’T. More like I’m not going to.
Because the dog needs to be walked and the floor needs to be vacuumed and the laundry must be done and the body must be showered and all of this must be done if I am going to make it out of the house at all today, let alone make it to work anywhere near on time. And also because the cat just puked.
Again.
Lovely.
Kind of like he did this morning.
Which is just one of the many reasons my Monday started off with a resounding thwuck.
And if you think you can laugh/snort/chuckle/harumph at my recent dearth of orgasms or my domestic chores (or my domestic short hair puke-face pussy), all I can say is…
You deserve a spanking.
And, of course…
Thwuck you.
Some people…like say, ohhhh, I dunno…at least half the bloggerly population…and most definitely a particular BDSM blogging couple (Hi Scot! Hi Leigh!)…just, ya know…ahem…for example…think “coffee is a food group.” (Yes, that was a direct quote. Courtesy of The Dom Next Door.)
So while I was in the process of cleaning up my other blog (from which I’m using the ‘slow withdrawal’ – heh – method of extricating myself), I ran across a post I wrote that is sure to be…um…appreciated by the coffee set. And the chocolate set. And the barista set and the Starbucks set. Oh! And the anti-all-of-the-above set. So I made a few modifications and posted it here for your perusal. And if you don’t appreciate it? Well, let’s just say…
I really don’t care. 
So without further ado, I present you with…
May I Take Your Order Please?
Allow me to preface this post by saying that I’m normally a patient person. But one of my pet peeves is waiting in line. Add to that the fact that I was tired and hungry when this happened. Also, a disclaimer: Hubby claims that when I’m hungry, I’m a bit like a grouchy bear. Not like Winnie-the-Pooh in a bad mood. More like a grizzly who just woke up from a long winter’s nap.
So yesterday I was between appointments and, having neglected to pack myself adequate snacks before running out the door in the morning, I was hungry. Desperately in need of (at the bare minimum) a shot of glucose. I didn’t have time to actually *eat* anything (I refuse to eat in my car), but I learned long ago that liquid is filling and chocolate is the cure for all ills, so I figured hot chocolate would tide me over. Calculating the time and distance between my current whereabouts and my next appointment, I mathematically deduced (using this genius brain of mine) that I had just enough time to hit the Starbucks drive-thru. Worst case scenario, the stop would take five minutes. (Please remember that deduction. It would serve to bite me in the ass.)
Anywhoo… Hot chocolate = happy tummy = functioning Feve = NOT a grizzly bear. Starbucks it is!
So I pull up to the little camera-fortified order box and wait for my turn to be obnoxiously specific about my drink. (I may be a transplant, but I’m 100% Pacific Northwesterner in that regard.)
So I’m at the order box.
And I’m waiting.
And I’m waiting…
Eons later (Probably more like 15 seconds, but seriously, that’s a long time in my world. I’m basing this drive-thru visit on a very precise mathematical equation, remember!), a girl’s voice comes over the speaker asking if I would like to try a mocha-poka-hippa-dippa something-or-other. I respond with a resounding, “No!” and begin to place my order.
Me: Hi, can I get a grande nonfat peppermint hot chocolate please? Two pumps chocolate, two peppermint, and one vanilla.
The Barista from Hell: Wait… Um, whaaaaat do you want again?
Me: (Slower this time) Grande. Nonfat. Peppermint hot chocolate. I only want two pumps of chocolate and two pumps of peppermint. I still want one pump of vanilla.
The BFH: Oh, that size only comes with one pump of vanilla.
What does that have to do with anything?
Me: I know. I still want it.
The BFH: So why did you say you want one vanilla if it only comes with one vanilla?
Are you fucking kidding me?!?! Have you ever ordered a hippy-dippy drink of your own, you snot-nosed, tweeny-bopper punk bitch?!? Specifics are important! I’m in a hurry here. Save me this ridiculous discussion and repeat my order back to me, already! Yeesh!
Me: (Deep breath) I learned long ago that if I’m not specific about what I want, I don’t get what I want. When I don’t get what I want, I’m not a happy camper. (Can I get a ‘Hell, Yeah!’?) I WANT one pump of vanilla.
The BFH: Uhhhh… But it only comes with one, anyway.
I poke my head out the window, stare directly into the camera, and cross my eyes at her. Ha! Take *that*, you silly bitch!
The BFH: Okaaaaaay…what was the rest of it again?
You have got to be fucking kidding me!
Me: Grande. Nonfat. Peppermint. Hot chocolate. This is how I want my syrup: TWO chocolate, TWO peppermint, ONE vanilla.
The BFH: Okay, so that’s a tall nonfat peppermint mocha with two chocolate and one vanilla.
How the HELL did this person get through an interview with these coffee cads? Let alone actually work here?!? I wish, I wish, I WISH my little independent corner booth barista made hot chocolate. They never get anything wrong, the girls are friendly, and they are quick to get me on my way! YOU are obviously not quick at anything! My order is quite simple, You Fucking FREAK!
At this point, I am clenching my jaw and I’m ready to back out of the drive-thru entirely, except I can’t. Not only is there a car in front of me, I’m now hemmed in from behind by a sporty little red corvette. (And a Prince song is jangling through my brain…Sing it with me now: Little Red Corvette…)
Me: No, it’s NOT a mocha. It’s a HOT CHOCOLATE!
The BFH: Oh, that’s right.
Me: And it’s GRANDE, not tall.
The BFH: Okay, got it. Grande nonfat peppermint hot chocolate.
Finally!
Me: Did you get the syrup?
The BFH: Two chocolate, two peppermint, one vanilla.
Me: (To the tune of the Hallelujah chorus) YES!
The BFH: Did you want the whip?
I’d love a fucking whip! However, you’d be in grave danger if one were to suddenly appear in my hand.
BDSM, anyone?
Which reminds me… I need to see about getting a new flogger.
But I digress.
Me: Yes, please.
The BFH: You know, most people who order nonfat prefer not to have the whip.
What are you, my fucking dietitian? I didn’t get this cherubic figure by avoiding whipped cream! (Actually, I been known to do pretty amazing things with whipped cream on occasion.) I’ve cut my flavored syrup – and therefore my sugar – intake by one third already, and I want the fucking whipped cream!
Me: (With a saccharine smile) I want the whip.
The BFH: Oh.
Silence.
Me: (Teeth clenched) I DO want the whip.
More silence.
What. The. FUCK?!?
Then, after an interminable length of time, I hear…
A New, Different, Friendly Voice: We’ll have that right up for you! Please pull ahead for your total.
Me: (Suppressing a grouchy-bear growl) Thank you.
NINE MINUTES LATER, after the ordering debacle, after waiting (forever) for the car in front of me to GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, ALREADY(!)…
I pull up to the window, hoping to see the face that rescued me from the BFH and express my eternal gratitude.
And just as I’m thinking to myself, “Ahhhhhh….”
The NDFV: (With a chipper smile and a perky voice) So yours was the peppermint mocha, right?
A beat of silence.
NOOoooooo!!!!! 