The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ve wondered if my life is such a fucking dramedy because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because my life is such a fucking dramedy.  Granted some of it is a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a complete innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was pretty stoked when I was given a gift certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas.  (You might be already thinking that this is a bit of what-the-fuck since who gets stoked over being given a gift where a complete stranger yanks all of the hair from your nethers by hot wax, but I’m really lazy and was thrilled to let someone else do this for me.)  I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo this aesthetic torture, but was assured that it was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC”, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed in the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center entailed but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include poon grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in the perverse, I just rolled with it and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  Good thing since I planned on praying the entire time that my pubes were being violently removed.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building and it turned out that I was correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa.  After wandering the halls for ten minutes I finally stumbled in a panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  There was an elderly gentleman receptionist who assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an eldery Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might be, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there were small children just a room away in the daycare center as I was having my poon waxed, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down my every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it and be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum and I’m still adapting on keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work–I pretty much live on my computer–but I love it.

Fifty Shades of Kat

What could be a better way to start a month than with a Soft Core Friday post? And what a SCF post it is, too! My laptop started overheating from only the notes of everything I wanted to cover! (Or uncover since this is SCF).

First up on this SCF is the bidding adieu to Zombie Awareness Month with the ultimate bang, namely by my writing some zombie-inspired smut. When I had originally wrote this piece several months ago, it was more humour than erotica, so I did a massive rewrite over the past few days (despite a summer flu) and I came up with something that I actually kinda love.** Seriously the piece is not as whacko as you are probably thinking it is–because how could zombie smut possibly sound whacko?–and I think that it’s one of my better written pieces, so please check out “Love Bites”. Don’t be shy about leaving comments either because you can leave them anon, and I’d love your feedback.

And zombie smut was just the intro, peeps! Now onto the post!

fanfic sex fail, fan fictionToday’s SCF post comes courtesy of those “Fifty Shades of Grey” books. Bloody fucking hell I am so fucking sick of hearing about these books! While I am admittedly more likely to disdain anything promoted by The Hype Monster, the reason these books make me so angry that I see fifty shades of red is because they are so fucking poorly written. They originated as fan fiction. As “Twilight” fan fiction. Twilight. Fan. Fiction. And the writer is making millions. Kill me now. The only thing that I can conclude is that people are really starving for BDSM stories, and since I’m all about being helpful, I’m going to provide the world with a little ditty about the topic from my own experiences. Off we go then.

I’d met my former shagbuddy while sparring so it wasn’t surprising that our sex always had a wrestle-y, competition for dominance to it.

“You are a bad girl and you should be tied up during sex,” he had told me one time while pinning my hands down.

I rolled my eyes, “You couldn’t tie a knot that would hold me, so I’ll pass.”

“Scared?” he was obviously trying to goad me, but in this case it wouldn’t work.

“No, I know how my brain works and the entire time I would be more annoyed that I was supposed to be restrained by a pathetic knot. Get some handcuffs and I’m your huckleberry.”

We continued our pillow play, and I thought that we were done with the subject until we were in the throws of the main course and he suddenly told me to hit him.

I ignored the first request, but when he barked at me again to hit him, I gave him a hard pat to the side of his face just to shut him up.

“You call that a slap? You hit like a fucking girl! I said to hit me!”

Now, there are a few phases that you never want to say to me, at least when you are within my reach. Number one, “I drank the last cup of coffee.” Number two, “I erased all of the music from your iPod and replaced it with Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus and the best of Glee.” And three, “You hit like a girl.” Furthermore, none of these should be followed by an invitation for me to hit you. Because chances are that I will. (I really love my coffee.)

In this particular case I drew my hand back and I nailed that fucker with a slap that would have made the most jaded pimp weep with pride.

He didn’t ask me to hit him again.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I broke my hand.
(No, not really, but I find the idea is so hilarious that I almost wish that was true.)

No the real moral of this story is that you don’t provoke a trained fighter to hit you as hard as they fancy. To Shaggy’s credit, he at least laughed about it after we were finished.

That story probably didn’t titillate the way that you were expecting, so to make up for it, I’ll conclude today’s Soft Core Friday post with the next member of the sexy Writes Like a Slut crew. I purposely wanted to make sure that I posted her pic on a SCF since she is the originator of the idea. I give you the hotness that is my darling Random Girl from Random Girl Blogs.

writes like a slut shirt

Have a kickass weekend, my dear naughty ones! Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do–which means that you have free reign to do pretty much anything. And if you do, please blog about it since I’m sloooowly catching up on my roll.

The Shining at Victoria’s Secret

victoria's secret, VS credit card, VS VIP

You don’t get a black VS credit card without having a problem.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve a *ahem* problem with Victoria’s Secret, to the point where I can’t even part with their bags.  Luckily, I don’t like shopping and despise having to deal with large, roaming packs of humans, so I’m very unlikely to go into a mall where they are located.  Unfortunately there are times that I cannot avoid the wretched mall.  Like when I have to get false eyelash glue.

As soon as I walked into the mall, I felt a strange, almost other-wordly force pulling me into the Victoria’s Secret, and though it was in the opposite direction of my original destination, I found myself walking through their doors, dragging my confused mother behind me.  A saleswoman immediately appeared and handed me a shopping bag

“Hello, Kat,” she smiled.

The fact that she knew my name should have been the tipoff right there that I was in very big fucking trouble, but I was too mesmerized by all of the lacy, pretty things surrounding me.

“Yes.  Yes, I’ve been away, but now I’m back,” I mumbled.

“It’s good to see you, Kat.  What will it be today?”

“Hair of the bra that bit me.”

“Dream Angels,” her eyes glowed as she gestured to a display in the center of the store.

“That’ll do ‘er,” I said shoving a woman with a baby carriage aside and vaulting over the makeup counter.

One way that I’ve been able to control my Victoria Secret spending is because I only really fancy the one style of bra, and they were running out of colours that I didn’t own.  As I perused the drawer with my size, I saw one bra that was black under white lace that I loved, but given that I already had a white one under black lace at home, I was able to put it down.  I was about to make it out of Vicky’s without getting another bra!

And then the saleswoman appeared in front of me.

“The bra in the corner is a Dream Angel, too,” she told me.

I glanced over to the corner and amidst some PJs was an ice blue bra under silvery white lace.

This was a problem.  I did not have an ice blue bra.  I have antique blue, but that’s a completely different similar blue, and besides mine is antique blue under antique blue lace, not under silvery white lace!

I could only pray that they wouldn’t have it in my weird size.

The saleswoman reached into the rack and pulled out the correct size, and then handed me the piece of Kat-Kryptonite.

“How did you know what size I wear?” I asked her.

“I should know, Kat, I’ve always been here.  Just as you have always been the caretaker…of these bras,” she replied.

I looked to my mother for help, but the saleswoman was obviously working her evil mind meddling on her because she just nodded her head with a glazed look in her hazel eyes.

“I think we have the bottoms, too.  Do you want to see them?” the saleswoman continued.

“No!”

‘Yes!’ I screamed in my head.

“Oh,” the saleswoman said sadly, “We only have one pair, and it’s too big for you.”

The bottoms were not too big for me, in fact they were my size, but using her telepathic power, the saleswoman knew that I feel that my ass is too big and that this last bit of flattery would be the thing to send me over to the edge.

gollum

Once again VS turned me into Gollum.

“Give them to me!” I demanded, “Give me the Precious!”

“We also have the matching gar-” she started.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and began humming “The Star Spangled Banner”, but then I heard the woman’s voice finish in my head, ‘-ter, you know.

“Red rum!” my mother suddenly yelled.

“You are so right, Mumma!  We need to get out of here right now!  I mean, like, right after I pay for the Precious!” I turned to the saleswoman, “So how’s my credit in this joint, anyway?”

“Your credit is fine, Kat,” the woman smiled.

“That’s swell.  I always liked you,” I told the woman as she took me to a register and checked me out.

“Come and see us again soon, Kat,” she told me as my mother and I began our escape, “Come and see us and stay forever…and ever…and ever.”

“I am never going in that store again,” I declared once Mumma and I were safely in the car.  But I know that I will.

The semi-annual sale is only a few months away.

**Today’s zombie survival tip is to not go to the mall ala Romero’s Dawn of The Dead.  As you can see the place is already corrupt.

Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You

I have so much bizarre shit happen, and so many inane conversations that I rarely have to delve into my checkered past if I’m looking to tell a story to curdle your mind.  Occasionally though, a story of What-the-fuckery Past will push through the repression therapy and I’ll be reminded of a real gem with which I must traumatize regale you.  And you all can thank Dan from Shameless Promotions for pulling this tale from the depths of repression with his last post.  Make sure to go over there and thank him for the forthcoming mental assault.

The tale begins many years ago in the gay capital of northern England while walking home one Winter night from the pub with a friend.  Thanks to several hours of drinking, I was in desperate need of a loo, but Eion was dawdling around and taking his time as we walked.

“Will you please hurry up!  I!  Have!  To!  Pee!” I stomped my boot on the icy ground with each word for emphasis.

“Ha!  I do, too!” he replied with drunk giddiness.

“Too bad you can’t do this!” he add, and then he pulled himself out of pants and peed in the snow.

“I’m green with envy,” I said sarcastically, though I had to pee so bad that I actually was.

“HeyKatlook!”

peeing in the snow, writing name in the snow‘HeyKatlook’ was always said as one word, and it usually meant that I was going to see something that would scar my brain, but I looked anyway.  A yellow E-I-O-N had appeared in the snow.

“That’s great Ei, you can spell your own name.  And in urine no less.  Any six year old would be proud.  Though your penmanship is horrible.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” he zipped himself back up.

“If I had a whackado I could.”

“Bullocks!”

“Fine!  Let me use yours the next time you have to pee and I bet I will!” I snarled because I say the stupidest things when I’m challenged and angry.

Flash forward a few years later to me telling this story to one of the weirdest (and coming from me that’s saying a fucking lot) friends I ever knew.

Dawn’s eyes were as large as saucers as I finished the story.
“And that’s why you should always use the restroom before you leave a bar,” I took a swig of my Yuengling.

“So what was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“Holding a man’s penis while he peed?”

I nearly choked on my beer.

batman spit take, spit take“Are you completely mental?,” I wheezed between fits of coughing, “I didn’t fucking do that!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  You are seriously asking me that?”

“Just think about how cool that would be.”

I did think about and I didn’t think it would be cool at all.  I did however erupt into hysterical laughter.  For some reason this really pissed off (pun intended) Dawn and she hissed at me to keep it down because people were looking at me.

“You’re the one who told me to think about holding a guy’s peen while he pees!” I snickered.

“Well you brought it up in the first place,” she huffed at me.

And unfortunately I had.  But in my defense I blurt out a lot of random things so you would think Dawn would know better than to listen.

Dawn found a boyfriend a few months later.  As a result she didn’t have much time to hang out with girlfriends, and when she did, she brought her weirdo boyfriend with her.  This was the case on one of the last time we ever got together before her strange habits (she liked to talk about different ways she could pretend to drown in her pool and would practice them frequently) got to me.

“Guess what I did!” she greeted me as they arrived at the local watering hole.

I could tell by the look on her face that I did not want to guess what she did.

“I held Steve’s dick while he peed!”

(Did you ever have one of those moments where you felt something trickling out of your ear, and then when you touched it you discovered it was your brain?  Yeah…)

mind shattered, brain melt

It kinda feels like this.

“It was so much fun!” she gushed on.

“I liked it because I didn’t have to wash my hands,” Steve smiled his freaky smile.

I knew then that I was suffering from irreparable mental damage because I’m usually pretty sharp with the comebacks, and with all of the potential hand jokes there were, I could not think of a damn thing to say.

“I told Steve that it was your idea,” Dawn informed me.

That broke my silence.

“The hell it was!” I roared, “I never told you to hold your boyfriend’s penis while he peed!”

“Shhh!” Dawn glared at me, “I was trying to thank you!”

“Well don’t!  Take that credit for yourself!”

The topper of the evening though?  Steve had to use the men’s room a couple of times while we were out and Dawn went with him to “help”. Every. Single. Time.

youre welcome, you are welcome

Hammered, Head & Obnoxious Dogs: Moving ala Kat

I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.

It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.

It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.

(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them.  There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)

Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love.  I’ll catch up soon though.  I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.

Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.

I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day.  And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week.  I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping.  Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.

This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.

scattered papers

Thanks, Kira.

Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.

(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)

((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back.  I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))

Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.

american eskimo dog, pink doughnut, dunkin' donuts

Kira wants this doughnut. Oh yes she does.

After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping.  Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.

smashed furniture

The remains of the battle left by Mumma’s Hammer

I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature.  To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table.  The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.

We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open.  BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg.  This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this.  And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing.  Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.

Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.

margarita

I held it against my forehead to keep the swelling down so this was for medicinal purposes.

I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze.  And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie.  Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.

Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.

Thus concluded Major Moving Day.

Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.