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.


You ever do something that you thought you never would? You know like sky diving, illicit drugs, drunken lesbian experiences (ladies, you can e-mail me full details in 800 words or less…video too if you have it), or killing a hobo. Well, that’s what this is for me. Yes, for me anyway, writing a blog is like two beer soaked college girls making out and than repeatedly stabbing a beloved 20th century stereotype of American homelessness.

I never got the whole blog craze. “But you’re a writer,” people would say. “It should be right up your alley.” The whole concept just seemed like white noise to me-as if everyone was trying to talk at once. And the most prominent examples struck me as moronic and insipid narcissism, just read any celebrity’s “official” Web site and soak up the overused exclamation points and texting abbreviations if you don’t agree with me (The CIA should seriously consider using Kim Kardashian’s blog for interrogation purposes.). The word alone is probably one of the most hideous arrangements of a vowel and consonants in the English language. It rolls off the tongue like vomit and leaves the same taste. And then they slap an “-ing” at the end of it to make it a verb. “Blogging” sounds like some sort of sex act and not even a good one (though I would enjoy saying, “Oh man, I was totally blogging this girl last night!”). And when something sounds like it may be dirty, the mainstream media wants to get in on it. Professional MTV reality show contestants “write” about how awesome the new season is going to be and CNN cuts to an overweight partisan hack who runs his or her own web site (which somehow gives their opinion credence) with the title “blogger” under their name. “I’ve got better things to do,” I thought and went back to writing page upon page of work which I was too scared to ever show anyone.

So what changed my mind to make me want to start a blog? Well, like most everything that you swear you’ll never do, it just takes getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. When I discovered that one of my friends not only ran his own blog, which he contributed to practically daily, but had been doing so for almost year, I was shocked. It was like discovering that my father was living a secret gay lifestyle, and then writing about it online for everyone to read. He showed me his process for writing posts and interacting with his readers (You can checkout his blog here). And it seemed like a lot of fun.

The whole thing reminded of these lectures from professors who specialized in studying digital media that I sat through in college. “You missed it,” they used to say. “Your generation missed the heyday of the Internet.” To them, when people first started plugging their computers into phones line and connecting with each other, when it was just that bright green text on a black screen, it was pure and honest. It wasn’t about Google hits or porn, but human connection and sharing ideas. But when corporate America got interested in the technology for marketing purposes, they turned this new form of sincere two-way human interaction into just another television, a one-way medium. Maybe blogs are a way to get back to those original ideals of the Internet. That what I had always thought of as a self-centered need to express one’s opinions was just honesty. That the people who I had ridiculed had more courage than I ever did.

When I asked my friend if there was any advice he could give me about starting a blog, He told me that I should “write about things that are funny.  Like boobs.  That are funny-looking.” After a noticeably uncomfortable silence, he added that I shouldn’t be surprised if the only ones who end up reading my blog are my cat and brother. “It takes time to build an audience,” he said. “And really, chances are your brother is lying and your cat just reads it because he feels bad for you, so just be patient.”

Patience aside, I’m worried (and not just because I don’t have a cat and I’m an only child). Maybe no one will read this, maybe someone will and hate it—and then (worst of all) seek me out to tell me how lame I am. When I told another friend who blogs about the subject of this post, how I thought I’d never do a blog, she sighed. “Yeah, that’s pretty much everyone’s first post,” she said. Great, I’m not even that original. I’ve got a lot of work to do…