When I was 15, I had this soft spot in my heart for boys in bands, specifically, the lead singers. I guess I didn’t really care if they COULD sing, so much as if they DID sing. These boys were “sweet” and “deep,” they could feel pain and express emotion, and do sexxy things like lick the microphone while singing. It was a completely stupid school-grrl fantasy, one in which I frequently indulged and thankfully broke myself of later on.

On the rebound from another boy in a band, I met Ken, who sang in a band called 7 Times Around. The name was super deep, as it meant he had been “through the ringer” with 7 other girls. You know, because at 15 everything is very, very important and relationships happen very quickly.

Well, Your Aunt Becky because dumb ass lucky number 8.

I knew he liked me because he gave me a necklace in the shape of a smiley face with a bullet hole through it’s head. Romantic, eh? That probably should have been my sign to run away, but because I am not only stupid but a masochist too, I stuck around. Not for very long, though, because Ken was a weenie and I knew it. I mainly dated him because, you know, I was trying to get over someone else.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A couple of months later, I’d made my friend Evan pick me up and drive me around in his car, and we were gossiping like a couple of bitches when he’s all, “What happened with you and Ken?”

And I was all, “Dude, I dumped him because he was fucking lame.”

And he was all, “No way.”

I could tell by the way that he said it that he didn’t really believe me.

“Why?” I asked him. “What have you heard?”

“Well,” he said conspiratorially. “You should know that Ken’s been going around telling anyone who will listen that the reason HE dumped YOU is because you wouldn’t put out.”

“Oh?” I said, my eyebrow arched, annoyed. We hadn’t even come close to having The Sex.

“Wait,” he said. “It gets better. You wouldn’t put out, Ken tells us, because you had a yeast infection.”

Internet, I will tell you that I laughed until I cried. Whatever Ken had been smoking, I want some of that.

Every couple who has sex without using condoms is familiar with a nasty phenomenon that occurs post-boning. It’s so commonplace that most people can make jokes about it without many quizzical looks or questions unless, of course, you shout it out in a kids museum, in which case it probably takes on a whole new perverted meaning. But THAT is neither here nor there.

That’s right, The Internet, I’m talking about The Dreaded Wet Spot.

This occurs so frequently to me that I have tried to position myself while having sex on The Daver’s side of the bed. This way, when I make my frantic run of shame to the bathroom immediately post-ejaculation, the residual is left for my loving fiance to sleep atop of.

Because I am a very, very nice person.

I’m not really sure what it is that makes the Wet Spot so damn gross to sleep on. I mean, semen itself isn’t exactly awesome, but it’s also not that sick either. It reminds me a lot of pennies and dishwasher detergent, neither of which are all that grody, and plus, if I’m covered in The Spooge, it means I just got laid, which is always full of The Awesome.

But there is something so fundamentally disgusting about the wet spot that kind of astounds me, who is grossed out by so very little. I’m training to be a nurse, for God’s sake, and it’s not poo or anything. I guess it’s cold, and slimy, and sticky and if you fall asleep on it, you’re kinda stuck to that particular stretch of sheet/mattress, trapped on the sheets until your bedmate chooses to pull you off of it.

IF your bed mate is kind enough to pull you off of that, I suppose I should say.

Well, the moral of the story is that last night, I lost the battle with the Wet Spot to totally destroy all Wet Spots. It was truly a sight to behold. And un-luckily, and the reason I’m writing this post, is because it was centered directly on my side of the bed. My back has the strangest crick in it because I spent most of the night arranging myself into positions that didn’t allow too much of my skin contact with the disgusting puddle I nicknamed Lake Spoogekins.

Normally, when I nickname things, even gross things, like Stinky The Skunk, it’s because I love it so very much and I want to keep it forever and ever in a jar under my bed because I am so full of The Love for it.

Not this time, tho. I would punch that Wet Spot in the fucking face if I could.

Asshole.

A couple of months ago after a particularly awesome boning session, The Daver and I were laying in bed talking. For the life of me I can’t remember how the comment got brought up because you’d think it would really be kind of important, but it the implications were that Dave disclosed that there were actually ugly vaginas. And that he’d seen them before. I’d never thought of a vagina as ugly before and was immediately on edge.

Scared now, I retorted with, “You mean like the porn roast beef puss?” which was genuinely what I’d thought he meant.

“Nope,” said The Daver. “I hate to break it to you Becky, but some vaginas are just kind of ugly.”

A phobia was born.

Let’s be clear here, Internet. I am not the type of person that likes to get up close and personal with a hand mirror and my crotch. I figured that vaginas, like penises, were all a little different looking, and all a little FUNNY looking, but ugly? Hm, well, if Daver was saying so, it was probably true because even to save his own lily white ass, the man cannot lie.

Well, of course my next thought was if SOME vaginas were funny looking, did that mean that MINE was? I started gnawing on my thumb nail nervously as I remembered how large my newborn son’s head was and how small a vagina is. I quietly processed this in the dark, my eyes as wide as saucers until I quietly piped up with,

“Is having sex with me like throwing a hot dog down a hallway?”

I may have to call in an impartial third party because The Daver couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer me.

That’s fine.

The next time he brings it up, I’ll tell him that I think penises look like the Alien from Aliens.