“F” Montezuma and His F’ing Revenge
Something like 40 years ago, maybe a couple more, I was just a kid who was lucky enough to be raised in a community with no baggage or shame around bodies and sex. I realize now how lucky I was, though that’s really neither here nor there for the purpose of this story.
Except that roughly 40 years ago, maybe a couple more, I had my first orgasm. A thing, orgasms that is, with which I would have a rough relationship for the rest of my life. People care so damned much about them, like it’s a badge of honor, a prize, how you prove you’re good enough at fucking and justify the time you spend doing so.
But I digress.
We were at the home of my family’s best friends. They were, like us, a family of academic, artistic, liberal intellectuals who believed in free expression and empowerment. We were what happened when hippies got jobs as college professors, and it was a pretty wonderful way to be a kid. The kitchen was filled with adults and children alike, cooking one of the huge meals that was so often had. Words like “revolution” and “liberation” and “expression” seasoned my childhood, served in great doses at meals like these.
I had to go to the bathroom, so I excused myself, and went down into the powder room that thrilled me so. It was down 2 steps, so, with the door closed, it felt like it was totally removed from the rest of the house. It was wall-papered with images of people having sex. Every zodiac sign illustrated like a tarot deck, with all configurations of people doing all manner of things to each other. Oral, missionary, doggie, 69, threesomes, you name it….. I didn’t know the names of it all at the time, but I committed every pose to memory and knew that someday I was going to do all of that. And more. I looked at that wall paper like a child with wanderlust looked at maps.
This particular day I had a lot of time to stare. The poop just wasn’t coming out. I could feel it there, I could tell it had to come out, it wasn’t going back in, but it just wasn’t coming out either. It was like a cartoon, and I needed a bunch of tiny people on the inside to push it out, that was clear. It also wasn’t possible.
In my frustration, I began to pump. Leaned over on one side and was squeezing my legs to see if I could dislodge what I assumed was a redwood. Then bear down and push. Then pump. Then push. Although I had no idea of the log’s progress, I was delighted to feel a tickle between my legs. A TICKLE! But not in the poop place, more like the pee-place, in my child’s mind. Who knew pooping could tickle the pee place? And that it would feel so good? 7-year-old me was delighted to have found a way to tickle myself, from the inside, all by myself. With great enthusiasm, I continued, until, well, something utterly unknown happened and I laughed. It was like a tickle sneeze.
And then I pooped.
With the sexual zodiac looking at me knowingly, I was sure I had accomplished something, something more than a giant poop. And I could scarcely wait to tell everyone about it!
I burst into the kitchen and exclaimed “guess what I did!” And with the focused and genuine curiosity of a room full of hippie parents, I exclaimed, “I found out I can tickle myself from the inside by pumping my legs and it feels so good and then it’s like a sneeze, but it tickles.” And I showed them how I did it, on my side, just pumping my legs.
Silence. Knowing glances. Then much laughter. Epic laughter. But I wasn’t made to feel shame of any sort, indeed, I was reminded that pleasure is good, what’s private stays private and presumably told to set the table or something.
We went on about the evening, wine was poured and children played as our parents continued to discuss revolution in Central America, Corruption in politics, Civil Rights and probably listened to Gilbert and Sullivan, for which I blame my lifelong hatred of musicals.
No one told me that I had an orgasm. The details didn’t matter.
The memory of this faded, only popping up a few times, really, until, in adulthood, I discovered that there was such a thing as anal sex. If the sexual zodiac had done that (and in retrospect I am sure they had,) it hadn’t been clear to me until adulthood. I was somewhat aghast at the idea.
I have never been what one would call “repressed” when it came to trying new sex things. I approach it rather like parents approach introducing their children to new foods. “Two tries, and then you can opt out.” So when anal sex was first suggested to me, I was all like “sure, why not?” Then it came to me, poop. Poop is why not.
Now, this is where I need to confess my complete and total disgust at the actual idea of poop. It is in no way rational. I feel about poop the way that normal people feel about being put naked in a box with angry venomous snakes.
So I was thusly confronted with how to be my generally “game” self, and reconcile that I was considering sex in the poop place, which greatly increased the odds of having to interact with poop. After much internet research, I was convinced that yes, it can actually go in there, and I came up with a plan that involved baby-wipes, surgical gloves and condoms. I was confident that it would be done in a way that any potential stinkiness could be hidden from me, as my partner was significantly less concerned with this.
And let me tell you, if you have a kink for “neurotic germophobes with OCD,” I was your pin-up girl.
And so, with my first timid attempt at this new thing, I was immediately transported back to that bathroom. I was that kid, thinking “oh my god, I’m gonna have that tickle! Weeeee!”
As awesome as I’m sure that sounds, it wasn’t. Because I had to deal with two things. 1. I SERIOUSLY HATE ANYTHING HAVING TO DO WITH POOP. And 2. I have never been one to orgasm in any of the so-called normal ways. None of the “usual” things worked for me, and it was frustrating as hell. I felt like a failure, even though anecdotal evidence showed that I had mad skills.
Like, to the extent that when I had a terrible car accident that left me with a traumatic brain injury that rewired my somatic systems and took with it any ability to orgasm whatsoever, I was relieved. I was so psyched to tell future lovers, “look, I don’t orgasm, so let’s just dispense with that particular treasure hunt right now and just have fun exploring whatever.”
But here it was, two of my greatest fears and phobias conspiring to make me….. happy? The rediscovered ability to orgasm was not welcome news. That it came with poop? Even less so.
Years flow by, with every pitstop on the sexual zodiac map duly visited. And then I meet the man of my dreams. THIS IS THE ONE! To say that I am fulfilled and happy with him and our life together is an understatement. In every way. Cue the trumpets.
He closes the door and runs the water in the bathroom when he poops. He’s knows I’m neurotic but game, that I don’t orgasm, and loves me anyway. I have SCORED.
Poop has stayed completely separate from sexy times. As, in Alyssa’s world, it must. AS have orgasms, as in Alyssa’s world, they always had.
Until…… until we were on a fabulous adventure in Nicaragua with our teenage daughter. Sound awkward? You have no idea.
It was noonish, my husband, our teenage daughter and I were on a somewhat desolate stretch of road between San Juan Del Sur and Granada, in Nicaragua. Though I’m not sure what I’d done to anger him, Montezuma was seeking revenge.
My husband and daughter were remarking on the things they were seeing, the piles of garbage, the starving horses, the people resting in the shade of trees that look uncomfortably like those kitschy ceramic souvenirs you’d by in a gas-station in New Mexico.
I was just trying desperately not to poop in my pants. A problem made worse by my decision to not wear underwear under my baggy cargo shorts, because it was hot, day 6 of vacation and mostly I was too lazy to dig through the piles of sandy laundry to find a cleanish pair. At this point, if I had underwear, I would happily use them in lieu of toilet paper and just leave it all on the side of the road with my offering to to a vengeful god I frankly new nothing about. But, now, I didn’t even have that.
I was in the front seat, our daughter in the back, my husband driving. I wasn’t so much sitting, as writhing around on my left hip and butt cheek, pumping my legs about and wriggling, just trying to stop anything from coming out. And hopefully find a comfortable position
It’s hard to explain what I was feeling physically, but roughly as if a nest of snakes were fighting it out in my gut, with an occasional tongue flicking dangerously close to the bright sunlight of Nicaragua at noon. At the same time, I was becoming aware, I was feeling more than a little aroused. In a way that, had it been the comfort of my own home, and my husband’s tongue rather than that of a demonic snake of some sort, I’d probably be close to orgasm.
What. The. Fuck. Seriously?
So here I am, writhing in some sort of painful ecstasy on an infinite and scorching road in Nicaragua. “Did you take those Pepto tablets?” my husband asks. “I think I ate all of them.” “What about the liquid? There’s some liquid too,” he assures me.
I ask my daughter to dig in his bag for it, so she’s facing backwards digging through the way back as we’re careening down the road, because I am not pulling over and slowing our process towards the bathroom that I’m dreaming of. I mean, this is a country where a dozen people will cruise down the road in the back of a pickup. Hell, we saw a guy riding on the back of his hog in the back of a pick up, so I’m okay with her not having a seat belt on in her attempts to rescue me. I’m on my left hip, facing back towards her and I feel it, the exact same feeling I had as a kid. Squeezing my legs together out of sheer desperation. Writhing in pain. And…
Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Are you kidding me? This CANNOT happen.
But it is.
I try to stop moving. To uncross my legs. To do anything I can. But I am too far gone and I’m rolling towards the apex, in hysterical, ecstatic agony, now trying to simultaneously not climax and not shit at the same time, while carrying on a conversation about toilets and Pepto with my family.
My daughter hands me a bottle of Pepto, still sealed, and with my guts roiling and my clitoris tingling I’m trying desperately to get the damned plastic off the top, and I can feel it. Now…. I’m almost…. I can’t… I’m……
“I can’t get the top off. Fuck.” I hand it back to my daughter, “I can’t handle this right now, you have to open it for me.”
She’s flustered, trying to get the damned seal off, and I’m trying to smile and be patient.
And I remember Stoya. If you’ve not seen the Hysterical Literature series, you must. Short version, a woman (Stoya’s is the only one I’ve seen, because, Stoya….) sits at a table reading a book, while someone is under the table using a Hitachi Magic Wand on them in the most magical of ways. The camera never pans down, it never moves off her face as she reads, and tries to keep reading all the way through climax. It is probably the most adorable “porn” I’ve ever seen.
And inside my own head I’m all like, “this is just like Stoya. I’m totally just like her, carrying on a conversation while having an orgasm, or three….”
Except, of course, I’m careening down a bumpy road fighting off raging diarrhea and talking to MY DAUGHTER about Pepto. And telling her to “get the damned plastic condom thingie off the top.”
And wishing I had worn underwear.
“How about here?” My husband asks, suggesting he found a place to pull over that might have a bathroom.
Have you ever tried to make a decision in the middle of orgasm while trying not to shit your pants and driving down a road in a foreign country?
“Sure, I guess.” I eek out.
There is a giant cement trough on the floor which is either for a line of people to pee together, or feeding livestock, I don’t know. As I turn around to find that the door has a nail in the top of it with wire wrapped around that I can undo to close, I also see a thing that mostly looks like a toilet, in that it has water and a flusher, but no seat and…. I don’t care. I squat (congratulating myself on all the fine squatting work I do, thinking THIS is why I squat!) over it and sure enough, Moses wouldn’t have been able to control this. I have never, ever been so relieved in my life. I reach for the toilet paper, and, of course, there is none.
I am weighing my choices here. I mean, ya, no, something has to be done. “Brady?” I call, tentatively, thinking maybe he’s just outside the door.
“Brady?” I say a little louder? Still nothing.
“Brady???” I downright yelled.
“Ya, better now. Thanks so much. I think it’s safe to get going now.”
“Alright, cool, Ill just finish my beer.”
Travelers, if your wife is having diarrhea on the side of the road, you probably have time for a beer.
He gave everyone tips, because we didn’t know what else to do. They were so sweet, really, and I was in such need. Then we got in the car.
“You okay, mom?” my daughter asked.
“Yup, all good. That was some shit though.”
“so to speak,” she rolled her eyes at me. I really hadn’t meant that pun, but, shit.
I drank the rest of the bottle of Pepto. Just in case. I mean, we were still 10Km out of Granada.
“At least it was funny. And really, it could have been worse.”
I waited until we were alone in our hotel room to tell him how good some parts of it were.
“Honey, I’m just wired weird. Like 3 orgasms.”
“Are you serious?”
I asked him to imagine the horror of trying to carry on a conversation with anyone, much less your fucking kid, while having an orgasm. It wasn’t funny. Except that it was. Gut-wrenchingly so.
And then he raised his eyebrows in a way that is so adorable, and usually totally irresistible to me. But ya, I was about 6 showers away from ever wanting to be touched again. God love him, he gets it, and went down to the hotel pool.
Me? Into the shower. No lie, 3 times. (Moisturized between each one, got dressed, then, nope, not clean enough.) I told you I’m poop-phobic! But here I was, undeniably happy. I’d spent most of my life resisting anything poopy, including public bathrooms, where other people might have pooped. My lifelong germ-phobic but avoidance had removed me from that secret truth that I discovered in that lair of zodiac lovers. And if I hadn’t almost pooped my pants on a wandering road in Nicaragua, I might never have been reminded.
Finally, clean, I went down to my husband to tell him where I think we should go next.
I had the great honor of – and SO MUCH FUN – performing this live in Ashland, Oregon for Bedpost Confessions in Januray, 2017. On inauguration day. A way better way to spend time than watching that other shitshow in DC.