TWENTY TWENTY HINDSIGHT

Q: How do Women Who Sleep With Women (WWSWW) practice safe sex?

A: I don’t know about you, but when I was in high school, sex ed consisted of forcing students to carry around mechanical babies filled with sand for a weekend. The babies were programmed to cry at inopportune times, like when you inadvertently swallowed ecstasy when looking for Asprin because you (ironically) had cramps during your weekend with the plastic baby and the bottle of Aspirin at your friend’s house wasn’t Aspirin at all, which you probably should have figured by the little Buddha on the pill. And if you were too busy petting your friend’s linens to press the little Shut The Fuck Up button on your mechanical baby’s sand-filled ass, you were granted custody for an additional weekend, which might have been the weekend you were supposed to go camping with your new friends (seniors!) who liked to smoke grass out of apples and let you light their cigarettes. Point being, I barely know how to have safe boy/girl sex, much less that girls gone wild shit.

Thankfully, I happen to be good pals with some older, more experienced WWSWW, and they teach me things.  According to my mentors (friends), some women engage in this thing called “monogamy,” which is a euphemism for Lesbian Bed Death.

However, even monogamous couples sometimes have to deal with STIs. In this case, there are several ways to ensure you’re partner doesn’t throw a lamp at your head or post a libelous Myspace bulletin when she notices that her mons no longer has the healthy pink glow of the disease-free.

If you’re really concerned, here’s what to do: invest in latex gloves. Seriously. While much R&D has been devoted to safe boy/girl conjugal action (copper wire in your innards?  Good idea!), there just aren’t that many options for WWSWW. There are, of course, dental dams, but they look like fruit roll-ups and probably get more action from dentists than from the Sapphic set. Also, they taste like balloons.  Latex gloves, however, are apparently standard operating procedure for responsible fisher-women.  Use lube.

Ironically, WWSWW using sex toys often rubberize them the same way you would a bio-ween. This strikes me as unfortunate. Didn’t we choose to be gay because we think condoms smell funny? Yes, yes we did.

I, however, have devised a new method of safe sex. But before I explain, you should understand something….

After many years of unchecked hedonism leading to forced employment termination; the end of perfectly cute and/or meaningful relationships, romantic and otherwise; the desecration of what could have been an upstanding reputation in various towns and cities; and a constant state of insolvency, I have decided to grow up. That’s right. I’m going to pay my own phone bill. I’m also no longer sleeping with people just because I’m drunk and they’re willing. That said, I do plan on the occasional libated evening, and because there is a causal relationship betwixt booze and sex, I have come up with a method to ensure that even if I get jovial enough to make out with a straight girl in an alley, I will go absolutely no further.

How? By making myself so unappealing beneath my drawers that I’ll be too embarrassed to show my body to anyone, regardless of my BAC. I’m going to dye my pubes tangerine, get a $30 tramp stamp of Celine Dion holding a preemie, and shove garlic in my birth canal before I leave the house. Safe sex? No problem.

Now, I realize this won’t help those of you who actually want to have sex. For that, ask actual experts.

Have a good weekend, people.  Don’t catch anything.

It’s going to be a good day….

Dear Katie,

Earlier this evening I was talking to J. Storm about this miraculous sweet potato with a vagina I found at work. I was showing her a picture of it on my cell phone and telling her that I wanted to show everyone I knew, that I wished I could put it on posters or on the internet, and she agreed that I should. And I asked: “But what would be an appropriate venue for a sweet potato with a vagina?”

The immediate answer, of course, was “Katie’s blog.” I think that’s a ringing endorsement.

Thanks, Lizzie!

I did this Q & A thing with a DC blogger yesterday. It brought up up some unpleasant memories (No. 6) and forced me to contemplate my cultural identity (No. 3) as well as our crisis du jour (No. 1)….

Small Talk!

You familiar with Gustavo Arellano’s hilarious column, Ask a Mexican?
Well, you should be. Reader’s of the OC Weekly write Mr. Arellano with ignorant questions about Mexican culture.

I’m no expert on Mexican culture, obvi, but I do speak fluent Lezbot, which you might have picked up on by my constant reminders (Did I mention I’m gay? No? Well, I am). And, facing the same dilemma mentioned below (i.e. no one actually asks me for advice), I’m taking Arellano’s questions and applying my expertise….

———
Dear Ask a Mexican Lesbian,

My friend and I were wondering why Mexican lesbian girls are so beautiful when they are teenagers, then over the years, they become fat, old bags?

Mark M.

Costa Mesa

——–

Dear M.M.,

Whereas Mr. Arellano gave you shit about being a racist fuck who barely recognizes his own hairless gut and fails to see that immigrant women who work 18 hour days laundering your skidmarks actually keep pretty trim into the elder years, I’m going to agree with your embarrassing generalization.

Why agree with an ignorant whitey like yourself, M.M?

Because it’s true. While you may have been exaggerating about lesbians being beautiful teenagers, and even though many dykes easily retain their softball-playing bodies north of 50, old lesbians, look like, well, lesbians.

Our popular side-swept bangs and ironic mullets gradually give way to the ubiquitous man’s cut. It’s short, it’s gray, and it makes you look like Ted Kennedy. Our Chuck Taylor’s and tight pants turn into hiking boots and cargo shorts. Our single speeds become Subarus.

We are old and covered in faded star tattoos and have dogs named “Indigo” and “Comfort.”

Why do you think there’s an entire class of ex-gayelles called Lesbians Until Graduation? These women, Mark, understand. They know what’s going to happen and get out before their cars are so weighed down by Equality stickers that they can’t possibly get the promised 22 miles per gallon and have to take the fucking bus to fucking Target.

It’s just the evolution of things, M.M. We all wake up in a long-sleeve Life is Good shirt someday. You can’t fight it.

Love,

Katie

If you have a burning question, problem, or fag joke, email krherzog@gmail.com.

Material for this blog directly correlates to bad behavior. That is, the more dumb shit I do, the more I have to write about. However, because I spent four (five) years in college waking each morning with a chest-billowing joy because I felt just so blessed to have a bowl packed with sticky marijuana on my bedside table, I have fewer than average brain cells. So even though I’m an excellent liar, my powers of imagination are sub-par. And when you spend the weekend being a Responsible Adult and watch 13 episodes of Heroes because you maybe definitely have a thing for the blond girl with the faulty wiring (and are fascinated by the truly awful weave that makes the cheerleader look like she has a Barbie’s head on a swimmer’s body) instead of dry-humping on the pool table at OCSC like the two bi-curious young women you saw recently, you run out of shit to write about.**

Yeah, so I can’t think of anything to write about. I can, however, answer your questions. But because no one is actually dumb enough to ask me for advice (except this guy), I’m going to steal questions from an actual advice columnist. Here goes….

Dear Cary

I’ve got my cool Facebook account, but now an uncool friend wants to Friend me.
I have what appears to be a simple problem: A childhood friend found me on Facebook and wants to be my Friend, and I am faced with a monumental decision.
To Friend or not to Friend? That is the question.
——

The Internet actually is a popularity contest. Online popularity, however, is not measured in numbers (which somebody forgot to tell Tila Tequila, apparently). No, it’s quality, not quantity, that crowns the Internet prom queen. Sure, you could friend the entire cast of The Hills and the heavy-breather who sat beside you in Algebra II a decade ago, but that’s only proof of your desperation. You want a respectably but not ridiculously high number of friends (say, 320, which, coincidentally, is the exact number I have) who will actively comment on your wall, tag photos of you, and invite you to events.

Your behavior has to be reciprocal but aloof: you don’t want to be a neglectful asshole, but you also don’t want to respond to every post on your wall or comment on every status update. You want to appear too busy to spend excess amounts of time on Facebook even though you only work four hours a week and dropped three of your classes this semester.

Your own status updates should be a) semi-regular but not obnoxiously frequent, and b) witty. This is vital. An example of a successful status update: Anna wishes she were alive during the era where you could smoke and drink at work. This tells you something about Anna—she smokes, she drinks, she works, and she probably watches Mad Men—without being overly explicit or pedantic. See? Witty.

Just Say No To Undeserving Friend Requests. Take my sister’s example, creator of the group, Why Do People Who Were Too Cool For Me In High School Think they Can Be My Friend On Facebook? (Which, Sister, has a pathetic number of members.) This doesn’t just apply to that asshole who stuffed you in your locker in ninth grade; it also applies to the guy next door who smelled like Play-Doh and pissed in your sandbox.

Ignore, Dear Facebooker. Ignore.

Love and want,

Katie

*Not actually an expert.

**Not actually a Responsible Adult. I woke up at 1:30 Sunday afternoon with broken glass carpeting my living room floor, which I vaguely remember deciding not to clean up Saturday night because it was late and I was drunk. Also, I slept through brunch, which is truly a First World Tragedy.

Everybody hear about the mass hysteria and subsequent shut down of the Memphis International Airport Tuesday due to a bike with a This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb sticker?

Part of me feels all smug about this, like, How stupes. These people don’t know it’s a fucking band? Bourgeoisie crackers deserve to miss their flights to Aspen. FOREVER TWO WHEELS!!! FREE THE WEED!!! FEEL THE WIND!!! FUCK THE WORLD!!!

But then I remember that even though I first heard about freak-outs like this years ago and that every other fixie in the two hipster cities I’ve lived in have those stickers, I’ve never actually listened to This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb. Truthfully, the vast majority of my aural hours come via NPR. And I was in Aspen last month.

The only reason I would ever go to a TPIAPB show if I were all snatch-happy over some Dirty Punk Rock Girl. Even then I’d probably use my handy pocket hand-sanitizer immediately upon touching her, and if I managed to lure her to my house I would Febreeze all upholstered furniture upon her exit, despite knowing that Febreeze kills house cats and small children. I would only, however, invite DPRG to my place after hiding that print “Clare” gave me with the horses and powerlines that I assumed she picked up at some hipster craft fair but actually came from the discount bin at Urban Outfitters.

So uncool. Even my mom is cooler than me:

“Dear Daughters, I’m getting a lot of pressure to start a facebook. I’m resisting. love, mom”

1. Despite common knowledge,  Lisa Frank did not actually invent the unicorn.

2. She did, however, violate the Children’s Online Privacy Act for letting kiddies ride her unicorn to her backyard rainbow without parental permission. Or for using her website to garner lil girls’ personal info (e.g name, address, phone number, favorite color) minus guardian consent.

3. For the above violation Lisa F. was fined 30 large by the FTC (aka Fuck The Centaur).

4. She also predicted the origins of the planet:

5. The unicorn is actually the direct descendant of the billy-goat.  The earliest genus had a little goatee thing like your old neighbor Guido, as well as a lion’s tail and cloven hooves, whatever the fuck those are.

6. The unicorn’s horn neutralizes poison, so you best order some of that shit off Ebay before your next Jagerbomb.

7. Not only is the unicorn’s horn a panacea for those really, really bad hangovers where you wake up with a half-eaten take-out box of Time Out mac ‘n cheese on your bathroom floor, it’s also good for herpes and yeast infections, at least according to my friend Spencer P.

8. The unicorn is closely related to the narwhal, which has a phallic bone-thing jutting from it’s head like one of those dudes with devil horns implanted in his skull.

9. The narwhal is, like my stuffed polar bear Cozy, especially vulnerable to global warming, being all cold-water-friendly and shit.

10. This could be problematic if you’re actually concerned about global warming, but I personally am attracted to the healthy glow of that big tanning bed in the sky.

11. AKA my car’s running right now.

12. Another rare species of magical being? Precocious adolescent boys whose love and sex lives become the apple of our collective speculation and whose hobbies generally include song and dance (see Hansen Bros, Michael Jackson pre-vitiligo/rhinoplasty/cleft chin, Nick Jonas).

13. Speaking of Nick Jonas, I spent several daylight hours on Valentine’s Saturday writing a love letter to the virgin heart-throb (available here), before realizing that Nick and I will never consummate my undying and slightly creepy cougar love for him. See, Nick Jonas is gay.

14. Upon the above realization, I traveled from coffee shop (burnt coffee; cacophonous music; service that reminds me of my own as a very disgruntled barista before I left the food-service industry to pursue higher eduction; free wi-fi) to the bar up the street to drink away my love’s faggotry with my dear friend S. Windsor (Yes, of the Pensacola Windsors) to the tune of Senor Cuervo.

15. It was five o’clock in the afternoon.

16. By last call I had made out with a girl in the bathroom of a bar shortly after being introduced to her boyfriend; watched two besties alternately make-out with each other and slap each other to the shock of dining Valentine’s couples; cried; told a kind woman that the reason I couldn’t get my bike unlocked was not because I was drunk but because I am legally blind (lie) and sometimes the combination spontaneously changes (true); invented the charred chard pizza; and texted three different people with the news that I was having a heart-attack but would like to get brunch the next morning anyway. All this for Nick Jonas.

17. At this point I feel it necessary to re-affirm my gayness, just in case you’re under the impression that I’m a reformed vagatarian.

18. I am still gay, but it turns out that I’m actually a gay MAN. See, I’ve done some qualitative research (Google) on the mating habits of the homo Homo sapien and it turns out that I am no longer Lohan. No, dykes are NESTERS. They say things like “Happy Valentines Day! Let’s get another cat!” and enjoy sharing popcorn on the couch while rooting for whichever woman on Survivor has the biggest biceps.

19. Fags, on the other hand, are perfectly willing to knock you up and lose your number in the same night. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. Unlike most scissor sisters, I have an actual documented allergy to other peoples’ DNA on my pillow case. It’s true. I’ve started to keep hairnets on my bedside table because I was doing so much laundry that Teeter literally cut off my quarter supply.

20. Speaking of fags, lets get back to unicorns.

21. It’s a well-known fact that unicorn hunts must use virgins to entrap the horny (HA!) bastards.

22. In light of the above, if you really want that rainbow-colored unicorn for your next birthday, best keep your pants on.

23. Remember that one Harry Potter book where he hitches a ride on a centaur’s back? Well, that centaur’s name was Ronan, which happens to be my middle name, which happens to mean that I’m part magical beast.

24. According to Marco Polo, of shallow-end fame, unicorns spend their time by preference wallowing in mud and slime. They are very ugly brutes to look at. They are not at all such as we describe them when we relate that they let themselves be captured by virgins, but clean contrary to our notions. Looks like someone’s been sipping on the Haterade.

25. Unicorns are mentioned in eight passages of the Bible. That enough evidence for you?

That’s right. Number one hit when you Google “Dickthroat.” Mazog will be so proud.

Dear Nick,

It’s Valentine’s Day, my love, and the distance between us feels like taking a wide swig of beer and realizing that it’s not your beer, it’s your friend’s beer, the friend who ashes her Camels into half-empty bottles.

I know we’ve never met, my love, but each time I come across your face while Googling “lesbian celebrities” I feel as though I’m looking at myself. Yes, you have a dark complexion and an afro while I am opalescent and and mulleted, but look lower. No, not that low. It’s the chin, Nick Jonas, and the smile—serious but full of life—which you possess naturally and I cultivate by practicing in the mirror. Do you see it? Yes? Also, do you have strangely-angled ears that make hoop earrings hit the side of your face even when you’re not turning your head? Of course you do.

I know there are differences, Nick. You, for instance, were born during the Clinton administration whereas I can purchase pornography and Swisher Sweets without the butterflies one often experiences when using a blond 30-year-old Canadian’s ID that you found at a strip club. You have a penis, which I find the most repugnant food that I’ve never tried. You wear a purity ring and I will sleep with anyone who buys me a drink and remembers my name. And there’s the religious difference—you believe in a giant bearded man who lives in the sky and has some issue with those of my ilk (I’m just gonna say it, Nick: gays) but thinks it’s cool to hang his disturbingly thin son from a splittery T-shaped thing, and I believe in Santa Claus. But still, Nick, look at the chin!

In honor of you, Nick Jonas, on this special day, I’m going to illegally download your album just to hear that beautiful voice because I’m pretty sure you’re a singer. Is that right, my love? A singer? I knew it.

Love always,

Katie