You have been warned.
Why am I admitting this?
It's my blog, and I'll give too much information if I want to, too much information if I want to.
A little bit of a preface first: I am not normal. No joke. You've probably realized this. Still, it's moments such as the one I just experienced that make me question how much the therapy I'm bound to need is going to cost.
I first started having sex in February of 1994. Groundhog's Day weekend, to be precise. Just like any other teenage male in the midst of trying to bust out of the horror that is puberty, I was over-excitable. Just how over-excitable? There were many a times that I had to walk to class with a backpack over my crotch in order to hide an erection that just wouldn't listen.
My dick was a disobediant puppy.
I'm sure there are at least a few guys that know what I'm talking about. There was nothing I could do to make it pay attention to me. Sit. Stay. Roll over. I even went far past rational and hit it with a rolled up newspaper, but that just ended up hurting me in the end. Quite literally.
Kissing, yes sir, that's going to cost me an erection. Exposed cleavage--a girls, not mine- was definitely going to result in a unwanted, and definitely unwarranted, not to mention highly embarrassing, response. Hell, even randomly thinking about something along the lines of, oh I don't know, Grandma's sponge bath sessions would create a tightness in my 501's that made even me feel like I'd fallen on the wrong side of the dirty tightrope. God, I just grossed myself out.
It was also, naturally, at that time that I became familiar with the "smell of sex". It wasn't until a few years later that I realized that it's not really the "smell of sex", it's the smell of "rotten crotch". There were times, while standing in the elevator on the ride up to my 9th floor, beiged walled prison dorm, that the smell would force it's way up my nose, and I'd think "Hey, that smells like sex!"
No, Chad, that's unwashed crotch that you smell, not sex.
I was in the Mexican Ghetto K-mart of few weeks ago, walking behind a short, pudgy woman with frizzy black hair and bad skin, when I was blasted in the face by that smell. Up until 5 years ago, I probably would've been transported to a certain time with a certain girl, happily reminiscing about all the bad sex that was had. Good times, those were. That's probably what I would've been thinking.
There, though, in the bright aisles of lowest of the low rent Big K's, I came this close to puking on a mexican woman with a filthy Hoo-Haw.
Also over the years, I became acquainted with my own smell; the smell of liquids seeping from my person. That's right, I'm talking about jizm. If you take enough target practice, shoot enough rounds, eventually you're going to become accustomed with the smell of gunpowder. Repetitiveness begets familiarity.
Or something like that.
As Raven Simone once said in an episode of The Cosby Show in which she was trying to convince Cliff that she was growing at an alarming rate of speed, "I know my body!"
So, of course I was suprised when I was sitting here, at the Independent, and I noticed the aroma of a very manly bodily fluid.
Why in the fuck does the Independent smell like the inside of my boxer shorts after the slow, painful walk past cheerleading practice during my freshman year in college?