Life's Little Moments

This is a collection of real events from my life that I will never forget.

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My first time getting a bikini wax was embarrassing. Not in the normal I'm-showing-all-I-have-to-someone- who-is-touching-me-and-is-not-a-doctor-or-someone-I-am-planning-on-being-intimate-with-at-any-point kind of way, but in the ...well, what other kind of way is there, and is there a normal way for that?

I can tell you what happened. I was getting nervous, but I was tired of shaving and decided to try waxing. I walked down the mall where I worked and made an appointment at a local esthetician for after my shift. During my shift I managed to remember that this lady would be seeing at the very least, my underwear. That morning was one of the days I had dressed by a first-come basis. Whatever came into my hand first out of my drawers, I put on. I thought it might be a good idea to put on clean underwear. I should say fresh underwear. Not that mine were ripe and filthy when I put them on, I just, well, you know. I didn't have to time to run home and change because my shift was running late. I phoned my boyfriend to bring some by for me so I could just change them in the bathroom stall at work.

When I had asked for him to bring me underwear he wanted to know what ones. I had no idea what ones were in my drawer so I said "nice ones."

My boyfriend showed up just as the person who was replacing me came in. I thanked him and slipped into the bathrooms with the plastic bag he had handed me. I opened it to discover my hot pink, ruffled underwear that are trimmed in glittery lace. The ones with the heart ribbons on the side. The frilliest thong I owned was sitting in the bag staring at me. Flashy pink and bright satin. I had a choice, I could wear the ratty old one I had on, or I could don the fresh one and pray that she wouldn't notice.

I went down the mall corridor, boyfriend in tow and zipped into the salon, 5 minutes late.

There I am in this small white room with green plants everywhere with Enya playing through recessed speakers overhead hoping that this lady wouldn't think I was trying to impress her with my swank undies.

I'll tell you something I learned. When someone is around your crotch and their job is to make it prettier by ripping out hair by the root, you can't help but know they are looking at your underwear. I felt like the lady who accidently sprays herself with glitter on her cootch instead of feminine deodorant before getting a pap smear. You kind of want to explain why your underwear are very pretty and frilly basically screaming, "Look at me! I'm special!" but then again you don't want to draw attention to it anymore than you have to.

How do I know this? Because I blurted it out. I said, "I know my underwear are odd, my boyfriend picked them." It was at that point I blushed because what I had just said had sounded like my boyfriend was getting off to the idea of me getting waxed in these pink lacy undies by another lady.

I tried to fix it but it just went from odd to worse in a flash of, "I told him to bring nice ones and this is his idea of nice." Now, not only does my boyfriend sound like he's going to get off on this, but I sound like I'm an active participant in the sexual deviancy instead of passively being a prop. After that I shut up and tried to focus on the vent.

After a bit of silence she started to make small inane chatter about chick flicks I will never see or care about, music that makes me grind my teeth, and other such fluff. It must have been the pink.

I paid the fee and tipped.

This was the conversation on the way home:

"Why did you send me in there in lingerie???!?!?!?"

"You said "nice" so I picked the nicest pair."

"When I'm having my cooch looked at by another person, that is NOT the time for high fashion."

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"How was the waxing?"

"It was ok. I was surprised that the most painful part was the strip across the top."

"Really?"

"Yeah, weird, eh? The part I hated was when she started to make conversation. You know, gynos and waxers should learn that as a part of training. That when you're down there you just shouldn't try small talk. I feel like you're talking to my vagina."

"Yeah, it's not like it's going to answer."

"My vagina wouldn't say much, it's pretty tight lipped."

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There was a guy in high school who always bragged to us about the size of his dick. It came up in conversation fairly regularly until we just kind of let it go, and didn't really notice anymore.

I started to date him (not for his dick). He was pretty fun to date for the first bit. We went to movies, listened to music, hung out, walked along trails etc.

One night at his house we were watching television in the basement waiting for a show we both enjoyed to come on. During a commercial break he turned to look at me. "Want to see something? Like REALLY see something'?"

I just looked puzzled. His eyes lit up and he had this massive grin on his face.

He goes ahead and unzips right there on his sofa in the middle of the downstairs area with his folks upstairs. I was in shock. My mouth formed one of those comical little O's.

When I looked down I was confused. There was this piece of flesh that was barely protruding from the opening. I looked at him and said, "He's not erect right?"

He flushed bright red. "Well, the fat hides some of it."

I couldn't help it. It was so small and puny looking. Here was the guy who had bragged for years about how he wielded this magic wand, and all I was looking at was a handle, if that. It bubbled up as a giggle and ended with me laughing uproariously in his face. I'm not a size person, but holy fuck, that was anticlimactic.

We kept dating, but the short man never made a repeat performance. I always wonder if he ever uses that line, "You wanna see something'? Like REALLY see something'?"

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I had a really sweet boyfriend at one point. We paced our physical relationship really slow and it was almost a year before we decided we were ready. He was a virgin and I didn't want him having any regrets.

One night at my place we were all over each other, and I was about to give him a blow job when he said, "I'm ready."

I took a double take, and shook the lust haze from my brain. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, let's go."

Hand in hand, we walked up the stairs to my room where we slowly and quietly got undressed. We caressed and kissed each other. He was poised above me, sheathed in a condom and shaking.

"We don't have to, you know."

"I know." With that he thrust in to the hilt.

And froze.

I waited a few heartbeats.

He stayed frozen.

"Is everything ok? Are you hurt? We can stop if you want to?" My mind was rushing with nervousness about if he felt guilt or regret.

"Everything's fine." He smiled at me.

Still not moving.

"Then what are you doing?"

He laughed nervously, "I'm, um, having sex."

Now, I have been known to be quick witted. To have a perfect comment on hand at any time. To be off-the-cuff, so to speak. If any time was not the time for that to make its appearance, it's now, right?

Oh, no, my mouth decided to act before my brain could stop it.

"With who?" I replied, "Because it's not me."

He blankly stared at me, and I realized he had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea you were supposed to move. I always wondered what exactly he thought a vagina did during sex before he found out. I mean he masturbated, and had to move his hand right? I figure he thought vaginas had rolling muscle movements.

No worries, by the time we had to part ways, he knew the ropes and then some. I'm not just quick witted you know, my mouth is good at other things.

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The other week I was on some seriously strong muscle relaxers. I felt very...lightheaded. I had always had issues relaxing completely during sex and wondered if the mellow feeling I had would affect my regular reactions.

I had my suspicions confirmed when I started off by asking my boyfriend to hold my vibrator while I used it. That is not my style. I'm usually very private about my toys and the usage of such. At that point, I didn't care. I had an idea and I planned to follow through on it. I had always liked doggy style, but couldn't try it with my vibrator. I'm a short chick with small hands. Very hard to get properly without being some sort of contortionist.

He agreed. There I am rocking back and forth on Mr. Sparkle, when all of a sudden, I gush. Not once or twice but at least eight. Fucking fantastic. I had soaked five layers on the bed (one throw, comforter, top sheet, bottom sheet, and the mattress protector) and had to dry the actual mattress with my hairdryer. I took pictures and everything, that's how proud I was.

The next week, we tried it again. I was not on my relaxers anymore, and my boyfriend had "gotten into it" and had started to move it. While it was nice, it didn't produce the same effect as it had before.

I tried to explain to my friend what had happened.

"What do you mean he started to move?"

"All I wanted was for him to stay steady. It's like the kid in the play who gets cast as a tree in the school musical and decides to do a solo."

"Maybe you have to stress how important a role being a tree is? Tell him how important the tree really is."

"That it's atmosphere?"

"Yeah. Trees are super important. Wait, I can't believe you just used a kid's play for a sex point."

"You understood it. What's that say?"

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I was first introduced to porn by a friend of mine in junior high. A bunch of us got together and we watched one of the pornos she had taken from her dad's collection. The first one I ever saw was "Freaks of nature." for those of you who know what that title is, remember that we didn't. I bet it had an impact on me.

At one point my friend who had been dating her boyfriend for a while and had "done EVERYTHING except intercourse (and anal, "I am never doing anal," she claimed) pointed to the screen during a blow job.

"I wonder what that's called."

My other friend and I looked at each other in dumbfounded silence.

"What do you mean what's that called?" I wanted some clarity on the subject. It couldn't possibly be what I thought it was.

"When she puts his dick in her mouth."

My trademark eyebrow went up. "You mean the oral sex?"

"Is that what it's called?"

We may have been in grade nine but we knew a lot of names for a lot of things. "Yeah, it's also called head, ..........................or a blow job."

She replied, and I will never forget that: "I do blow jobs all the time; she's not blowing on it at all!"

At that point, I felt very sorry for her boyfriend.

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Apparently, it's better for guys to go into sex stores with girls rather than with other guys, even if that girl is your cousin.

"No one will know we're cousins."

"You just need to stop talking."

We walked in the unmarked door to a large room that had sectioned off its products by category. On one wall was a huge red and yellow banner stating: ANAL ANAL ANAL

I guess the butt plugs weren't dead giveaways. I'm fairly comfortable about sex toys. It wasn't my first time in the store. I recognized the guy behind the counter. He was the one who had turned red when I tried making small talk when purchasing lube.

I grinned. When my cousin was buying his nipple clamps I walked up to the display of the fister (a toy shaped like a hand and an arm up to the elbow that was poseable in the digits) and gave it a loud "HIGH FIVE!" Then I leaned over the counter at the seated man who was staring at me like I had just asked to fist his sister on the highway and remarked, "My dad likes the Bruins, too." "Uhhhhhhhh."

He stood up and rang my cousin through.

"Have a great day now!" I smiled and left.

My cousin came behind me. "You embarrassed that man to death."

"I figure I just shook him up. Not many girls go in there I bet and almost none make small talk."

"And none high five the fister."

"You don't know that, and for a guy who just sold you nipple clamps, he should be able to talk about his sports team."