Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (Thoughts on the TV show)

I started watching it for the humor and the silly musical numbers. No, wait…I started watching it because of her. Rachel Bloom. I’d become aware of her last summer watching an episode of Lip Sync Battles, and felt drawn to her persona.

It’s not often I look at someone and think I see a physical resemblance, so when I do, I start to wonder if I’m imagining it, and then I maybe start semi-obsessively trying to find out more about them.

Which, if you’ve watched the TV show “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” you’ll recognize as a patently “Rebecca Bunch” move.

So I started watching it for her, but then I realized it was a silly comedy/musical romance story and I started watching it for that. Because I love silly comedy/musical romances.

I mean, I was absolutely hooked the moment I heard the “Sexy Getting Ready Song.”

But something else was going on, and I didn’t realize it at first. I don’t think I realized it until I was well into season 1, and I didn’t REALLY REALLY get it until I started following the lead/writer/producer Rachel Bloom on twitter.

I think her brain works like mine, but she does with music and comedy what I try to do with essays.

Because, yeah, it was some time during season 1 that I kinda realized the series actually featured a fairly diverse cast of characters in terms of race, sexuality, and size.

And I also realized that none of those characteristics actually defined the characters.

Then the crazy stuff she says – the tangents she goes off on with regards to feminism and the patriarchy and consent and slut shaming and …

…she’s my HERO.

Except she’s also a deeply troubled person with severe, untreated mental disorders. Only, she’s likable and kind of the heroine in her own story. Which makes her a bit of a narcissist. But a cute one, who sings and dances. And c’mon, I mean, it’s just a comedy…

…only it’s covering very serious topics more deeply, thoroughly, and honestly than most depictions I’ve seen in storytelling of any kind.

I knew I wanted to put into words how I felt about this show all day (I started binge watching season 2 on Netflix last night when my plans were rained out by the storm).

But there was so much. I wanted to use words like “rogue” and “subversive” to describe how this sneaky little comedy grabs hold of the heart of some very uncomfortable topics and sort of forces you to sit with them a while. The comedy and musical interludes serve to disarm you, but then..there those feelings are.

I keep confronting my own predispositions and preconceptions about people through these very silly, almost superficial characters that obfuscate the depth of their interactions with one another, as well as the show’s interaction with the viewer.

I swear I’m not high as I type this. I almost wish I were. I bet I’d get even more out of it.

Anyway, as I was saying – I wanted to write about how this show was making me feel because I thought that most people who watch it would stay on the surface and not get that deeper meaning, but then I read a few other blogs out there about the show and realized I am definitely not alone.

Also, the other bloggers were way more clear about the point I wanted to make.

When I was in elementary school I used to walk around the baseball diamond by myself singing songs I’d make up on the fly about things going on in my life. I wish I could tell you that habit ended as I got older, but I still do it. I’m often led by my emotions and my idealistic outlook on life in general. I don’t want to say I’m a big “schemer” but I definitely see and pursue opportunities that benefit my wants, just not to the point of sabotaging others around me. Oh, and a season 2 episode where Rebecca goes to visit her family at a bar-mitzvah? Yeah, that WHOLE episode hit really close to home.

Over these past few years, I’ve learned to confront my privilege and recognize some deep-seated tendencies toward codependent relationship and external validation. I’ve done a lot of introspection and I’ve learned to harness my empathy as a tool to help me help others, and not manipulate them. And, with the family thing, I learned how to cope with my semi-narcissistic family who value appearances over character.

The difference between myself and Rebecca Bunch is that I did the work to confront those issues and overcome them. That’s it.

That’s all that separates me from that crazy character.

Well, also she dresses better than I do…

…but I may start Single White Femaling the shit out of her outfits.

Weekly Enemas: A Cautionary Tale (with humor)

Heads up – I’mma talk about pooping, not in a sexy way. I’ll try to make it funny, though.


Hello, my name is phi, and I like butt sex.

I have liked butt sex pretty much always. The way it worked with the partners I’d had in the past, including one guy who ONLY was into butt sex (as in, we only had vaginal sex once) and my husband who was a big fan of butt sex, was to let them know on days that I felt pretty good about it and what days I was less likely to be receptive.

‘Cause, also, Hello. My name is phi and I am frequently constipated.

The results of butt sex on the days that I was good to go was that it’d compact whatever was hanging out in the background and I’d have a few days of extreme constipation. Then the shit would eventually pass and we’re all good.

Now, a few years ago, I attended my very first GRUE and I sat in on a discussion about preparing for anal. In it, the lovely woman hosting talked about how she’d use an enema to prepare for a date during which she knew butt sex would or might be happening.

Up to this point, I’d only ever done an enema on two occasions: once when I was instructed to by my doctor prior to a colonoscopy and the second time when I mistook my gall bladder exploding for severe constipation and thought it would help.

I’d never really done this sort of thing as “prep” work.

So, after several years of unfortunate abstinence, the first time my current partner came over and I thought…”hmm, maybe tonight’s the night!” I went to the local drugstore, bought a couple of disposable fleet enemas and prepped.

He didn’t fuck me that night.

A week later, he was coming over again and I got super excited. For sure this time, right? So I used the second one.

He didn’t fuck me that night either.

After this, I decided to have a chat with him. We discussed if and when we would maybe/hopefully be having sex. I was pretty darned sure that the next time he came over, it would definitely happen.

And so it did. And butt sex was involved. Hooray! Bonus – I was able to poop the very next day! This was a revelation!

Anyway, at that point, I started ordering 6-packs then 12-packs of the fleet enemas via Amazon. Seeing as how he came over once a week, I joked that he could tell how invested I was in our relationship via my enema order.

And that was that. It worked pretty well. Every week before he’d come over, I’d clean out and then we’d do the sex and the whole two-days-constipation-post-anal thing stopped happening. It was a win-win!

Until a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago, I was standing in the kitchen washing dishes (thankfully) alone. He’d just left, actually. And I felt the pressure of what I thought was a little gas.

It wasn’t gas.

Not at all.

I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say I had to get undressed in the shower and those panties are in a landfill by now.

After I told him about what had transpired, he mentioned having read or heard about something specific with fleet enemas having such effects.

My google search history is now quite interesting. I will save you the trouble.

One can become dependent on enemas. The fleet ones in particular do have some sort of ingredient that, over time, can cause the projectile response I experienced. Eventually, my research led me to some alternative options – namely, using a warm water “anal” douche, which the internet said one could find easily at any drugstore.

Well, it wasn’t that easy – but I did find it eventually, in the feminine products aisle – not in the butt-stuff aisle where I’d been looking. So, I bought it, threw it in my suitcase and went off to start my weekend.

Well, by the time we got to the hotel Friday night, I was…well, let’s say I was a bit anxious. I’d not had sex ALL YEAR (the year was a week old at this point). So I dispensed with the prep-work and we just….y’know, did our thing.

It was delightful.

But yeah, the whole next day I could sense that my butt would be off limits the following evening, which was kind of sad, ’cause the only thing better than butt stuff is public butt stuff.

So in between the end of the daytime event and the start of the play party, we went back to the hotel where I grabbed the still plastic-wrapped box and went to look at the instructions. In them, it describes this “smart and compact case!” that it comes with. I thought, oh, how delightful!

It’s a white plastic zippered bag.

Anyway, so I open the box and pull out this contraption and….

…it looks familiar.

I’ve seen one of these before.

As a child.

In my parent’s bathroom.

I used to think it was a balloon and that it was fun to blow air in and out of it.

I now understand my mother’s horror.

But, on the bright side, I also now understand the benefit of the smart and compact case!

In the end, (pun intended), it didn’t really work out that well that night; but I think that has more to do with the environment I was in. I was in a hotel with a small bathroom, not my own home, and there wasn’t really a comfortable place to really figure out the best position for this thing to work.

I’ll give it another shot this weekend, but if you have any further ideas….PLEASE feel free to comment below. I want to keep enjoying constipation-free anal sex without the…uh…explosive consequences.

tl;dr: weekly fleet enemas after a about a year can lead to projectile diarrhea and/or dependence. If you need to google this for yourself, the keywords that finally got me where I needed to go were “anal hygiene.”

Emergency kittens, orgasms, and Firefly in the wake of an unsettling election

Originally posted for my Fetlife audience; but lightly modified for a broader audience.


The cycle of writing topics on FetLife generally works as such: a thing happens. There is a divisiveness in opinion on said thing. Lots of posts start flying back and forth with heavy, anger-laden commentary within them, and inevitably, some people who grow weary of the fighting say something like “Can we get back to the kink?”

Then, this last time, that very request became cause for further divisiveness.

This entire election has been emotionally draining. Just a few weeks ago I even wrote about how difficult it was to find my “smut” in light of all the ickiness I felt about the national narrative on women.

Through it all, I never stopped being kinky.

I might have been less inspired to write about it; but there was still rope, spanking, hard fucking, throat grabbing, and cocksucking going on in my life.

I even masturbated to orgasm the night of the election, but I had trouble doing it. See, it was after 3am. I needed to get some sleep. I know that orgasms make me sleepy.

I literally justified an orgasm to myself.

Since the election, I’ve been more vocal on facebook and a lot more engaging with conservative family members has been happening. Those of my fetfriends who intersect with me on facebook have seen what’s happening there.

It’s exhausting.

And last night I reached a point where I needed to shut it down. I watched television shows, funny youtube videos, and browsed cat-related subreddits. I also ate a pizza and had some cookies.

And then, I felt like writing something; but I didn’t want it to be serious. I wanted to write something sexy. Or funny OR ANYTHNG BUT SERIOUS.

And similarly to that November 9th orgasm, I had to justify it to myself.

But, really, I don’t. I won’t speak for everybody, but I am a multidimensional person. Fetlife (and this blog) isn’t a place where I only express one part of myself (the kinky part); but the only place where I can express ALL of myself. That means sometimes my posts are thoughtful and introspective, and sometimes they’re sexy and drool-inducing, and sometimes they’re just plain ol’ attempts at humor.

I’m all of those things. Thoughtful, sexy, funny. I’m all of those things all the time, even when I don’t particularly feel one in the moment.

I keep remembering when Lorne Michaels of SNL asked Rudy Giuliani after 9/11 “Can we be funny?” and the then-mayor of New York responded, “Why start now?”

This world is far from perfect. I’m going to do my best to shed light on some of its imperfections and work to make them better; but at the same time, I can’t allow myself to become hyperfocused on just those ugly parts of life. There is beauty, and laughter, and passion, and love in my life as well.

So whenever I need to take a break and look at EmergencyKittens on twitter or take a smut break or go masturbate ’cause it helps me relax…

I’m gonna. And you can, too.

Stink

My house has an odd medicinal smell to it. I don’t know if it’s caused by whatever mysterious process is going on in the downstairs guest room that has been quarantined while they have these enormous drying machines running 24/7 since Saturday.

But I do know that I didn’t start smelling the new not-entirely-pleasant smell until I finally cleaned the cat box last night when I got home.

There’s something really icky about uncovering a new uncomfortable aroma after removing another competing odor that had been so pervasive and overpowering, you didn’t even realize there was still another nose-crinkling scent festering beneath it.

Somehow this situation reminds me of last night’s VP debates.

That is all.

My Vagina Has a Theme Song

And now, for a little levity.

Over on FetLife, I posted a “challenge” of sorts.  Here’s what happened.  I was chatting away when all of a sudden, the words “my vagina has a theme song” popped into my head. I thought it would make for a GREAT title for a blog post, but didn’t really have any message in mind for it.

So I asked people to …y’know, submit their vagina’s theme songs.

Eventually, I wrote one of my own and recorded it:

But so many of the other ones were so great, that I created a youtube playlist for your listening pleasure.  Just think, as you’re going through each of these tunes, that you’re listening to to the sounds of some stranger’s vaginal heartbeat.


Oh.  And one more thing.  My chicken pot pie was like, literal food porn today:

ctedpypumaefrwc

 

Of Sharts and Friends

I’ve had a delightfully polyfocused weekend. Thursday, my friend and metamour Elre came over. We cooked dinner together (or, rather, I cored, peeled, and sliced the apple and ey did everything else, including searing the pork chop and prepping and roasting the butternut squash). Then we watched the premiere of Dancing With the Stars (and subsequently fanned ourselves after watching the steamiest Viennese waltz of all time). Had a really awesome time, as we always do when we hang out.

The following night, Snugglemuffinpookieface(1) came over and we cooked dinner (this time it was chili-lime rubbed steelhead trout with roasted chayote and red onion and a mojo de ajo sauce). I did most of the work, though he did supervise the cooking of the actual fish, and we went out to the dungeon for the evening. We had cherry pomegranate smoothies with whole-grain toast and cherry preserves for breakfast while the solar company inspector stomped around in my attic and on my roof.

I was really excited for Saturday night, though, cause I had plans for a slumber party with Snugglemuffinpookieface’s other partner, Hellcicle, who I’ve not spent as much bonding/alone time with as I have with Elre over the past year.

She arrived just as I’d started prepping the vegetables for the fig-glazed pork tenderloin with roasted carrots and brussel sprouts. We worked together, with Hellcicle taking over any chopping after I took three times as long to slice carrots and brussel sprouts as she would have, considering that she and our partner are professionals in the kitchen. She plated the dishes like a pro and we headed upstairs to sit casually on the sofa and eat our fine food.

My cat, Mulholland, was being extra needy of attention. He kept trying to get between us to get pets and rubs, but it was putting us at risk of getting his fur in our food. In an attempt to get him out of the way, I scooted forward on the sofa to let him pass behind me, and tried to give him a gentle nudge from behind to push him past me.

Right. So, he basically let off a spray of shit juice that splattered all over my poor metamour’s arms, shirt and lap. She sat there in shock for a moment, unsure of what had just occurred.

I sprang up to get a towel but …i mean, we’re talking cat shit here.

She set her plate down and went to shower. I picked up my phone, and texted bentSapien(2): “Mulholland sharted on Hellcicle. Other than that, we’re having a blast!”

That’s when it hit me. i picked my phone up again and sent the text:

“Dear Lover, I’m sorry my cat pooped on your girlfriend and other stories by phi-is-me.” The title of my autobiography.

He thinks it’ll go straight to the bestseller list. Hellcicle is begging me to really write it.

I guess I’ve just completed chapter one. 😉

9 things we rarely admit to loving

1. The first shit you take after anal.  Come on.  You know it’s true.

2.  Peegasms.  I’ve mentioned these before and I know not everybody gets it, but for those of us who do – you know, that feeling you get when you gotta pee but you hold it in?  It’s like a little orgasm. It’s fucking good, yo.
3. Finally plucking that one stubborn hair.  Whether it’s on your chin (grrrr) or elsewhere, there’s that one that keeps slipping past your tweezers, but you can still FEEL it.  Then that moment you get it, finally GET that little fucker….bliss.
4.  When your cat tickles your bare back with his tail. You’re laying naked on the sofa, eating out of a jar of peanut butter and watching the latest episode of Dancing With The Stars when your little kitty decides your back, or your butt, or your thigh looks mighty comfortable.  It’s a little wiggy at first, ’cause you’re naked and his cat-litter paws are treading directly on your skin.  Especially when the kneading starts and those little prickles have you questioning whether your’e a masochist or a moron.  But then, the tail swishes.  You freeze.  Maybe he’ll do it again.  Swish.  Oh yeah, baby. Now we’re talking.  You try desperately not to disturb His Royal Catness so that he may continue to swish his tail over and over again.  Meanwhile, you haven’t even noticed how much cat hair is on your peanut butter spoon.
5.  A teensy, tiny hint of gaminess.  Not the full-on, wallpaper-peeling gnarliness from a partner who hasn’t showered in days, but that “I’ve been working all day, but I totally showered this morning” musky aroma (and taste, if you’re lucky) of a partner’s netherbits right up in your face.  That’s it.  Inhale.  Take it all in.  Then….yeah.  Take it.  All.  In.
6.  Being right.  I think it might be one of my favorite feelings, after orgasms, making someone else feel good, a warm bubble bath, and having my hair played with.  Being RIGHT feels so good.  Especially when it’s acknowledged by others.  It feels so good that I’ve just gone ahead and made it a habit to be right as often as possible.
7.  Being lazy.  There’s a framed quote in my house by John Lennon:  “Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.”  But these days it seems like admitting that you love being lazy is frowned upon.  Fuck it.  I’ve had lofty aspirations of this or that project that I’d do during my time off from work; like set up a garden or clean out the garage, or do the laundry – and you know what I end up doing all day long?  See #4.
8. Farting. I mean, we might not like the aromatic effects of it or the acute embarrassment if someone else smelts what we’ve dealt, but when you’ve got a horrid stomach cramp and then all of a sudden, PFFFFPPPPFBBBBBBBFFFFTRRRRTTTT.  Ahhhhhhhhh.
9. When you wake up thinking it’s 6am and it’s not yet midnight.  Oh yes.  That thing that happens when you wake from sleep thinking you have but minutes before your alarm goes off telling you that you should probably get out of bed (except you don’t for another half hour because you finally got comfy), but when you look over at the clock, it’s still only 11:45pm the night before.  WTF! You were just about to get up and go get ready for another dreadful day – but what’s this?  EIGHT MORE HOURS OF SLEEP IN THIS COMFY POSITION YOU’VE JUST DISCOVERED?  Fuck yeah!