toiletRecently, I experienced a questionable situation that shook me to the very core of my being.  I’m a reader, folks.  I like to read.   I think that my Summer Reading List Project proved that. Anyway, one of the things that comes with actually loving to read books is that you become very well equipped at finding other readers, among your friends, at the office, wherever.  It’s the intellectually version of Gaydar.  So you end up chatting away about your favorite titles, authors, etc.  And eventually it leads to moment when the other person recommends a writer that you’ve been interested in reading, but just haven’t gotten around to yet.  “Go ahead and borrow my copy,” they’ll say and you do.

And this is where things get complicated.  Everyone treats books differently.  Some handle them with kid gloves, other like abused housewives.  I’m more like the latter.   Most of the books I own are battered—food stains obscuring text on tattered and dog-eared pages held together by broken spines.  Honestly: I should be the worst person to loan books to, but I’m actually pretty good about that which I’ve borrowed from others to read.  I catch myself just as I’m about to mark my place by folding down page corners or placing it facedown on my nightstand.  But then I discovered a new dilemma when reading a borrowed book.

A friend who happens to be a huge Chuck Klosterman fan was recently raving about his latest book.  “You know, I’ve never read Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs,” I said to him.   To which he responded: “You should, it’s good.”   If you’re unfamiliar with Klosterman’s second book, which is considered his seminal work, it’s a collection of essays that humorously riff on a variety of pop culture themes with an intellectually critical eye.  While I appreciate Klosterman’s writing (I’ve read his stuff in the variety of publications he appears in), I’ve just always stayed away because he was a little too popular for my taste and I never really wanted to actually spend money on his book.  “Eh,” I said to my friend, “can I borrow yours?”

It was while reading Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs that I experienced my quandary.  I was at work and like most workdays, I needed to use the bathroom for an extended period of time just after lunch  (I’m trying to hint at what I was doing without being too graphic).  So I grabbed the book and strolled up to the eighth floor men’s room, to the stall I like in my office building.  And as I was sitting there, it hit me.  I was reading my friend’s book on the toilet and that was just not right.  I know people who get disgusted if you even call them on your cell from the toilet (okay, I may be referring to myself).  And there are many who think reading another’s book while going to the bathroom is a violation of personally hygiene.  Barnes and Noble won’t let you take any of its books into their store bathrooms.  Seinfeld did an episode about it. But did I do something that was really that terrible?  If I didn’t tell my friend, he’d never know. Still, it would gross me out if I’d found out someone I’d loaned a book to was reading on the john.

Racked with guilt, I confessed to my buddy.  Oddly, he didn’t seem that shocked.  “Doesn’t bother me at all,” he told me.  “In fact, I am delighted. I fully endorse reading in the bathroom, and if one of my books happens to be included in the process of someone enjoying a page or fifty (depending on the severity of the visit) then so be it. Read on my friend!”  He then added a little while later: “Just, you know, keep it clean.”

[Pic via]


sickFirst off, sorry I haven’t posted in a while, but I’ve been busy puking my guts out. This leads me to my second point: I’ve been sick.

After an amazing Valentine’s Day weekend with Kate that included catching an evening show of Will Ferrell’s You’re Welcome America. A Final Night with George W Bush, a lovely dinner at a tiny neighborhood restaurant, Sunday brunch, and an afternoon wandering around the American Natural History Museum, I awoke early on Monday, President’s Day—a national holiday. I love waking up early on my days off, yet it’s something I rarely do. But as I slowly became conscious, my eyes adjusting to the hazy sunlight coming in through the window, I became aware that something was wrong. My mouth had a bitter taste, my throat was dry, and my stomach felt bloated. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, falling to my knees right at the toilet.

“Are you okay?” Kate sleepily called from the bedroom. To which I gave the only known universal reply of “no” to such a question—the sound of vomiting. Once year I get really sick and this was it. By the end of the day, I’d thrown up the wonton soup (which I suspect as being the offending cuisine that put me in the predicament) along with half a tube of saltines, and several glasses of ginger ale, as well as e-mailed my boss informing her that I would not be in the next day. I need to note that Kate took care of me for the whole day—always an important moment in a relationship.

I love taking sick days. Well, okay, I love taking sick days when I don’t have to stay in bed due to the room spinning or an uncontrollable cough. Taking sick a day when I’m actually horribly sick, just plain sucks. To me, a proper sick day (or not-so-sick day) should be spent sleeping in, watching reruns (or old episodes of your favorite TV shows online), and not changing out of your pajamas. But instead, I used my actually-horribly-sick day to nibble on crackers at my girlfriend’s apartment until I was strong enough to walk her dog and survive the trip back to my place, where I collapsed on my couch and debated if the next day should be a not-so-sick day.

I decided to go to the office. As tempting as a not-so-sick day was, it wasn’t worth the hassle of being behind at work. I made the more prudent decision, which is actually kind of strange for me. Just a little over a year ago, I would have called out and taken the day off to watch some House on Hulu without a second thought. Maybe this means that I’m growing up, that I’m becoming a productive member of society.

Or maybe it means that the recession, with its poor job market options, has forced me to cling to my current employment by having an honest work ethic. Yeah, that’s probably it. Damn this economy!

KissingI’m a simple guy.  I like simple pleasures: a cold bottle of beer on a hot summer evening, coffee first thing in the morning, sleeping-in on the weekends, accidentally getting free cable, etc. This is a story of how I experienced one such simple pleasure.  Today, with no intention of seeking it out, I was able to enjoy some girl-on-girl action.

It all began easy enough.  I was at work and I went to take a shit in the bathroom (I’m not going to mince words about it).  Due to various office politics and behind the scenes manipulations, I no longer use the men’s room on my floor.  So I had to choose to go up to the ninth floor or down to seven. Oh faithful reader, my body quakes just thinking about if I’d chosen to go downstairs—how things would never be the same.

As soon as I walked into the completely empty men’s room, I could tell something was different, a kind of electricity was in the air, but I brushed it off and went about my business.  The slam of the metal bathroom stall door, the clang of the toilet seat, the rustling of the newspaper, and then silence…wait, there was something.  It was muffled.  It sounded like… “Is that a woman crying?” I thought, and then realized it was coming from the women’s room that was right next door.  My mind immediately flashed to the cliché of an emotion distraught young lady weeping in the bathroom stall, her purse by her feet and a Kleenex in her hand (to wipe away the running mascara).  The sound grew louder, the voice more passionate.  It was a sound that every man knows, either from first hand experience or Kim Cattral’s impressions—it was the sound of a woman in the midst of a full blown orgasm.

Immediately I began texting a coworker: “I’m in the bathroom on 9 and someone is getting it on in the women’s room.”

“No way!” He shot back.

I then realized that in between the female voice’s passionate moans, there was no gruff male voice.  “He must be the silent type,” I thought to myself. And that’s when I heard a distinctly different woman’s voice saying what sounded like “Do you like that?”

“I think its two women,” I texted to my coworker.

“SHUT UP! Two women????” He responded.

I listened to the orgasmic cries for a minute or two longer, until the woman making them yelled what I, whoever was doing whatever to her, and probably most of the ninth floor of 149 Madison Avenue already knew: “You’re making me come so hard!”  After which there was some more murmuring, confirming that it was two women, and then the sound of much pumping of the paper towel dispenser.

As I flushed I heard the door of the women’s room open and close and again as I was washing my hands.  They were leaving separately so as not to seem “together.” Smart. I caught a glimpse of one of them I was leaving the men’s room. She was tall, thin, with blonde curly hair.  Yeah, she was good looking—that made it even hotter.
When I got back to the office, my coworker demanded details. At each aspect of the story, he ohhed and awwed.  At the part where I quoted her climatic line about coming so hard, he punched the air.  I told another coworker via instant messenger.  “Wait…” He typed.  “Right now?!”  I then saw him run past my open office door.   “This is a dream,” a friend said when I gave him an early draft of this post.  “I’m holding a dream in my hands right!”

Why are we men so obsessed with lesbianism?   What would I do if I’d gone in there? There are two women getting each other off without even thinking of a man. And I’m a pretty sure that if I tried to join in—they wouldn’t let me.  I honestly don’t know what the attraction is. I just know it’s hot! And this was the best Friday (at work anyway) ever.