Hershey Kiss Nipples

My Nana really wanted me to be a sexy girl when I was a kid. She isn’t a pervert, she is just a little bit of a skanky grandma. Growing up as a chubby, shy wallflower, I had no concept of what was sexy. Instead of going to spin the bottle parties in middle school, I liked to play “hide and go seek”, and barbies with my kid sister, Katie. My whole look, and attitude was very immature. This bothered Nana. She would make comments like, “Don’t you have any boys you could call up to come over and watch a movie with?” Instead I preferred to play dress-up with Katie. At Thanksgiving, she would encourage me to be careful not to eat too much, stating that I “had enough meat on my bones already”. I have to admit, it really got to me. Being as insecure as I was, I did not need all this criticism.

On Christmas, when I was 11 years old, my Nana kept stressing how much I would enjoy the present she got for me. I wasn’t very excited seeing as how she always got me weird ceramic sculptures of cats that she must have picked up from the clearance section at a local pharmacy.When I got to her present, it was larger than a ceramic cat, or a bottle of knock-off perfume. Maybe this year she would surprise me. When I pulled the gift-wrapping off, it was a pink box with “Victoria’s Secret” written on it. I thought, Wow! I’m only 11, what in the world could this be?When I pulled off the top of the box, I could see white lace peeking out under the pink tissue paper. It was a nightie with matching lace panties. Definitely meant for a woman, not a little chubby redhead with no boobs. (Well I did have “boobs” I guess. Because I was overweight, I had fat lumps where my boobs should be) Despite all of this, I was secretly excited. I always tried to buy the more flashy, womanly panties at the department store, but my Mom was adamant about buying me the 6-pack of white “Hanes Her Way” briefs. She wouldn’t even get me the bikini briefs. I was only allowed the kind that came up over my belly button, almost reaching my breasts. When my mom saw the new ensamble, she gasped with disgust. She said, “Nana! Tara is too young for that!” Nana ignored Mom and with a devilish smile asked me if I liked her gift. Embarrassed, I didn’t answer. I looked over at my brothers, who seemed like they were mentally blocking out the whole situation. I think it was a bit too much for them having to picture their kid sister in lace lingerie. After we finished with opening presents, we headed to church. The whole time I was sitting in church, instead of praising the birth of Christ, I was imagining what the nightie would look like on me. I wondered if maybe in a year or so, my body would change and I could wear it with pride.

When we finally got home, I rushed upstairs to try on the outfit. I was lucky that my Mom was so distracted with house guests, and preparing dinner. She would have confiscated the gift under normal circumstances. So I took off my Sunday best, and my “Hanes Her Way” Briefs and stared at my nudy, premature body to assess how this would look on me. With rolls-galore the outlook wasn’t good. But I tried it on anyway. How frustrating! It looked ridiculous. Since I only had a little bit of fat bumps where my boobs should’ve been, the top hung down so far you could see my nipples. It needed some bigger, perkier boobs to fill it out. The panties cut into my love handles so far, you couldn’t even see the fabric because my fat was hanging over it. Oddly enough, I still felt a little sexy. Just knowing that I owned lingerie, whether it looked good on me or not, felt good. I began to wrangle up some ideas to make it look more flattering. I pulled the panties up on the sides, so it was over, not under the fat. Then, I grabbed a hair twisty and tied the straps in the back into a bundle, so the top would fit more properly in the front. It looked a lot better, except for one annoying factor. I had soft nipples. My nipples had never been hard in my life until I was about 17. I would try every trick in the book to make them hard. Tickle them with a feather, rub ice on them, nothing worked. I really wanted to have hard nipples in this lingerie. So I came up with a great idea. I got dressed (with the nightie on underneath my clothes) and I ran to the downstairs cupboard. My mom always had a bag of Hershey kisses in there, so I found it, grabbed two, then went back to my room. I took off my clothes, then peeled back the Hershey kiss wrappers, and put them in my shirt, where my nipples should be. I had to stand with perfect posture, and stick my chest out to make them stay. It looked great. Very convincing. I stood in front of my mirror and modeled the outfit for myself for a little while. I grabbed my lamp from my desk, and placed it on the dresser as a spotlight. It got pretty hot, and I began to sweat. Before I knew it, my Hershey Kiss nipples started to melt. I quickly took off the top and noticed two large chocolate stains. I quickly ran to the bathroom, holding my t-shirt out so it wouldn’t press against my chest, which was also covered in chocolate. When I went to the bathroom, my brother was in it taking a shower. So I went to my parent’s room, but my Dad was using the bathroom. I wouldn’t dare go downstairs to clean off the stains, afraid my mom would find out. So I waited in my room, and listened by the door to hear when someone left the bathrooms. Ten minutes later, I finally got in there. The chocolate had dried, which made it pretty hard to clean. First, I washed off my chest, then I scrubbed the shirt. When I was done, there were still two stains, but now they were bigger from the scrubbing. Not knowing how to do my own laundry yet, I had no choice but to throw it away and tell my Mom I lost it, or confront her about what I did, and ask her to wash it. I chose to pretend that I lost it. My Mom actually never asked about it. Maybe she, like my brothers chose to block the thought of me having lingerie in my possession out of her mind.

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Music Boner Syndrome: Part One

I have a medical condition.  It’s called, “Music Boner Syndrome”.  I get insanely, unreasonably, incredibly horny for anyone who I find to be musically talented.  Listening to music is like reading a porno magazine, and seeing a show live is like sex.  It has mainly been an issue with anyone who is singing songs that have to do with sex, love, lust, romance, and usually when there is a constant drumbeat going on in the background.  Synthesizers are often involved, but not always.  If the singer grunts, moans, closes his eyes hard like it hurts, makes fists a lot, bobs his head around a lot, bites his lip, its all over.  I may as well be a guy getting a hand job at this point.  It also happens with girl bands, there just aren’t many sexy girl bands around (anymore).  When I am in the height of the lust for the singer, or drummer, or guitarist, etc., I will often look around the room at a show to see if anyone else is suffering from this condition.  I really feel alone.  I look at people’s faces and they are blankly nodding along to the song, or they are enthusiastically dancing, but they don’t have that psycho, drooling, sweating, panting look that I have.

This started in middle school.  I went to my first “show” at a local arts barn with my super cooler, bigger boobed, non-virgin friend, Sara.  Whenever I hung out with her I made sure to wear a thong that I shoplifted from JCPenney (i stole it because my Mom wouldn’t buy me one), and I wore lots of makeup and made my hair all 80’s.  I always assumed at that age, that if you hang out with a girl who has had sex, guys will smell it on her and try to have sex with her so maybe they would try with me too.  At the show I made eyes like a maniac at the lead singer the whole time.  He looked flattered but freaked out because he was like, 30 and I was 13.

It just got worse with age.  I actually avoided going to shows in high school because it was too depressing to fall in love with all of these talented older guys, just to go home and get yelled at by my Mom for staying out too late.  When I got to College, my music interest shifted from alternative/indie rock to hip hop and r&b.  I was in Savannah in the early 2000’s so “the dirty south” hip hop scene was at its peak.  So the new music boner victims were mostly freestylers and DJ’s.  I had a good friend back then that was a hip hop DJ, and I had a hard time not crushing on him because of it.  If he would have just stopped being involved in music, I would have stopped having feelings…and painful boners; because we had nothing else in common besides that and he was a dick.  A nice friend dick-head, but not at all what I would want in a relationship.

This continued to plague me every night, so I decided to give up on the musical types and go for the opposite.  I dated an old dude that had no musical talents, and listened to french rap and blues.  That should explain it all.  I think I wanted to escape from the intense emotions and confusion I felt when I was around musicians.  Its like they could say the worst shit to me, cheat on me, lie, and be stupid, but once they got on stage I was putty in their hands.  I didn’t like how out of control it made me feel.  As much as everyone ragged on the old dude boyfriend..um, grandpafriend is a more appropriate name, he wasn’t so bad.  If you like raging abusive alcoholics who are awesome to party with until they hit their 80th “natty ice”, then he is the go-to guy.  He would have been an okay dude if it weren’t for that, because he had a big heart.  But I realized while I was in that long ass relationship that I needed to be with a musical genius because I just had to.  It was like my destiny or something.  I didn’t set out to find that, I just realized this music boner addiction wasn’t going away and one day I would stumble on the guy that reciprocated my boner relief.

Ronnie and Sammie and You and Me

I am a big fan of The Jersey Shore on MTV.  I think it is just great.  I know there are many people who find it a disgusting show, but I disagree.  I also know that they are a team of writers and manipulators who “script” the show to the best of their abilities.  But with all that puppetry and commercialism and silliness, you just can’t fake the relationship between Ronnie and Sammie.  It is a train wreck.  Those two would be just as sick and demented of a couple of living anonymously in Long Island, as they are now, even if fame had never entered their lives.  (they met on the show, but you know what I mean).  If you are unfamiliar with the show, basically Ronnie and Sammie have a co-dependent relationship.  They intentionally hurt, cheat, lie, and manipulate one other, and they are both jealous hot heads who have a voracious appetite for fighting and screwing.  I do believe that in the place they are now, that they do “love” one another.  I don’t think it is a healthy or selfless love, but I do believe it is love and not lust.  Because if it were lust, they would be having a good time.  My definition of lust is two basically strangers fucking in random areas and ignoring each other when they are around peers.  I really can’t think of anything more blissful than that in terms of pleasure, so yeah, lust is great.  It is my conclusion that, if you are truly in love, you are fucking miserable 60-80% of the time.  “miserable” in different degrees and for different reasons.  Maybe you are miserable because you cannot stand how your wife or girlfriend who you adore, is too friendly and touchy feely with other men.  Maybe you are miserable because you never get laid by your spouse or partner.  Maybe you are miserable because your husband or boyfriend undermines you in public.  Maybe they are too bossy.  Maybe they are poor as fuck.  Maybe they are kinda stupid.  Maybe they are cheap. Maybe they are a drunken ho who has cheated on you a number of times and it just kills you that you still love them.  But there is one thing for goddamn sure, and it is, you are in misery A LOT if you are really in love.  I know this because of my personal experiences, and because I have pretty much studied this topic since birth.  I have always, always, been fascinated and bewildered and curious about how people in love interact.   There are a certain freakish percentage of the population that have unusually healthy relationships.  I bet it is about 10%.  These people, and I have met them, and I don’t get it, say things like, “we have been married 40 years and never uttered the word divorce”.  Or they say “we just don’t fight.  We are respectful of each other’s boundaries and we just know how to work problems out peacefully.”  These people definitely have some skeletons in their closet, but I will bet that they actually are pretty peaceful couples when it comes down to it.  But again, they are freaks of nature.  That is just not normal.

Now here is what is normal.  And, remember, I am an expert on the topic.  Saying “I hate you” during heated arguments, normal.  Occasionally having only your hand and your private parts to please each other for weeks to months on end in a long relationship (5+ years),  normal.  Thinking about divorce a lot if you have been married for at least 5 years, normal.  Fantasizing about an ex while fucking your current mate in a relationship of 1+ years, normal.  Wanting (but not actually acting on it) to throw it all away for a mindless fuck when you are wasted, normal.  I could go on and on.  Basically, if you are a horrible asshole, chances are you in love.  I was SOOO fun when I was single.  I was a party animal, and everyone preferred for me to stay that way.  Problem is, I, like most people, am looking for a companion who will be by my side to laugh with about the shit filled diapers we are wearing and the blood in our creamed-cereal-puke when we are 80 years old.  Yeah, I really want that.  I want the security of knowing I will have my husband (god willing he survives this long) to make me laugh until I breath my last breath.  My ideal death, is laughing so hard when I am 98 that I have a heart attack and die.  Oh, at the same exact time that my husband dies.  Nothing is worse than being an old widowed fart.  That is like going bankrupt emotionally.  It must feel like such shit.  So that can’t happen.  But I am getting off track, I am trying to explain how marriage is miserable but necessary for most people.  You know movies about prison?  Like, American History X or Shawshank Redemption?  They show how fucking horrible and miserable the time they spend there is getting fucked in the ass by scary gangs, having mean wardens, no freedom, too many chores, but there is a silver lining.  They get to make relationships that are so valuable it takes the memory of the pain away.  That is how marriage is, to me at least.  It is so shitty.  I would so much rather be fucking a new guy every month, getting all excited about this new fuck a thon each morning, and be able to go drinking with my girlfriends every weekend flirting with guys like I am 19 and not giving a shit every night.  That is, if it actually was fulfilling to do that.  That is the problem with being single.  It is not fulfilling.  It is too boring.  Too sad.  Too pathetic.  Too trashy.  That is why we all want love.  Even the lying assholes who say they prefer being single, they don’t.  We all want it.  We all need it.  At some point or another, it gets soo old.  And we just want someone to fart in front of and who makes us laugh, and someone who we can shit in front of and they will still want to fuck us.  But you can’t get all that convenience without a price.  Just as Sammie and Ronnie have so clearly shown us on The Jersey Shore.  But it is so addictive because we don’t want to part with someone who can be funny, sexy, ridiculous, and disgusting all at the same time but still fuckable.  I mean, I don’t know about you, but if I was having a one night stand, and the guy (or girl) told me to run out and get them some pepto bismal because they had the shits, that would be a done deal.  So nasty.  But when my husband needs me like that, it doesn’t change my feelings.  That is love.  Being able to be covered in shit and green ass gasses and still be lovable to your partner.  We all need someone who will still love us while we are nasty.  But as much as I love him, I literally want to kill him. like a lot.  He is so selfish and childish.  He is a disorganized broke ass.  He doesn’t fuck me nearly, not even close, pretty much never enough.  He needs to shower waaaay more. He has cheated and lied.  He is that guy who has “girl-friends”  aka….dumb dick head.  He is the cheapest guy I have ever met.  But somehow with all of these shitty, crappy, horrible, sucky, kill me now, fml, i hate it all, pull the trigger, i need a drink, this sucks problems,  i still love him.  What. The. Fucking. Hell.  It makes no sense.  So here is the big reason we are together…He makes me laugh harder than anyone I have ever met.  And I guess that is where I am screwed, because that has always been my #1 requirement of a guy, and he scores BIG TIME.  It almost trumps all the other shit.  That is how much I love to laugh.  I am willing to give up my sanity, my vagina, my convenience, my freedom, all for shits and giggles.  I don’t know whether that makes me sweet or retarded.  I have been with guys that are ambitious, rich, hot, sexually available, emotionally available, reasonably funny, and totally into me.  And I was bored out of my mind.  While in relationships with these guys, all I would think about was someone really funny one day whisking me away from these douchey douchers.  The guys I dated in college were very desirable.  Tons of girls would tell me how “lucky” I was to be on dates with them, and how “all the girls” wanted them.  Well I just couldn’t give two shits.  Because they weren’t good enough.  Because they didn’t make me stomach-hurt, fall on the floor, snot out the nose laugh.  The price I am paying is clear.  As of now, I have no car.  We are on welfare.  I am sexually frustrated.  I want him to listen to me about his shitty business tactics and how they could improve.  I am stir crazy 98% of the time because he is the non-adventurous type.  I want to divorce him a lot because of these things, but then he makes me laugh.  And then he makes my babies laugh.  To the point that we are all crying tears of laughter and getting an insane ab work out from the funnies.  And it turns it all around.  My mother will never understand this.  She thinks I deserve better.  I agree.  I think he is pretty shitty to me in a lot of ways,  compared to how the boring good guy would be.  But I guess I would rather be entertained than treated right.  Maybe we have an Ike and Tina-esque type of thing going on, I don’t know for sure.  But I do know, that I am not alone.  Other relationships may not have the exact shape and size and circumstance as us, but I know that is common to feel depleted in needs categories to the point of misery, while you are in a long relationship.  So when Sammie gets mad at Ronnie for straying, but then goes right back to him, and he to her after all the nagging, I get it.  They can’t live without each other for what they DO do for one another. Even if it is just one thing.  That one thing may be the deal-maker.  And might be so rare and precious to find, that you just can’t let it go when you do find it.

So If you are one of the million people out there who is presenting a squeaky clean appearance of your relationship either on facebook, in public, on television, in politics, etc.  You are really just making the world more confused.  I just wish everyone would be more honest about how hard relationships are.  Do comics really need to be the only ones to have the balls to say it like it is?  Because the more people out there who are posting facebook statuses that have been windexed and bleached for our reading enjoyment, the more hopeless, honest people or worried people, or skeptical people feel, and the more poorly informed children and single people feel.  The second I think I might be wrong, might be too cynical, because I have met or seen or heard about a “perfect” couple, they soon end up divorced, or dead.  Seriously.  It just doesn’t exist.  No one gets out without lots of scratches and bruised egos.  And the more happy happy shiny happy happy you act, the more horrible and demented it must be.  So thank you, Ronnie and Sammie for airing your dirty laundry, and being judged to no end and stuck as a disgusting caricature, all for entertainment’s sake, because the truth is, 70% of your audience is just as, if not more disgusting, co-dependent, and demented than you two, whether they want to face that or not.

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