Our Thanksgiving history is the stuff of legends. Things like my brother dropping out of his Ph.D program to become a vacumn cleaner salesman (first of two), my brother announcing he had dropped out of a second Ph.D program to breed rats in a lab, mom and dad announcing their intent to build a new house so mom could live with her girlfriend, grandma going for a naked stroll through the hospital, friend Becky asking to pass the gravy and for a side of sperm (her and her girlfriend wanted to have a baby), dad shooting a hole through the side of the house thinking I was a burglar, my brother announcing he was getting married to a woman from the Philippines he had met at a conference years before (not only had the family not met her, but she was a catholic – it nearly killed my grandmother), cousin Terry (fundamentalist side of the family) walking in on me making out with my boyfriend, and my parents walking in on me groping a male nurse at the hospital.

These are the Hallmark moments that mark our family holidays. It is no wonder we all hate this f**king holiday. Typically we just have the meal catered and try to get it over with as quick as possible. But something convinced my mother that we need to prepare the meal this year – or as will happen that I need to prepare the meal. You see, my mom can’t even heat a can of soup without burning it (Martha Stewart she isn’t). I am the only one that actually cooks (I learned out of necessity when I was a child), so I will drag myself in Wednesday evening and start slaving over the kitchen to prep the meal for Thursday – weeee, what fun.

I already know that my mom’s girlfriend is bringing her son (he just got out of prison AGAIN) and the local family gossip is that my father has a new girlfriend that he is planning on introducing. Hopefully this won’t be another for the record books, but it is already shaping up to be. I wonder if I can come up with an excuse not to go between now and tomorrow morning.

Right now, all the things I need to catch up on are running through my brain. My move to Richmond (Indiana), the now ex (2 1/2 years together), the attack of the flying dildo, my former boss going exorcist on us (thus why I moved), the fast growing nephews, my god-daughter, all the fun family drama that reminds you how normal your family is, life, work, fun, and everything in between. I really was gone a long time.

For years I have been a spectator for the drama that is my family’s Thanksgiving holiday. Some of our more memorable moments include my brother announcing he dropped out of a PhD program in Biochemistry to sell vacuum cleaners (he managed to sell one before he quit – to himself). My parent’s announcing they were going to build a new house so that my mom and her girlfriend could live together (my father on an entirely separate floor from them). One of my best-friends asking me to donate sperm for her and her partner to have a child – while subtly asking someone to pass the gravy. Then two years ago, my grandmother (who has Alzheimer’s) deciding to go on a naked stroll through the hospital. But not to be outdone by my family, I decided to join in on the drama this year – well at least not intentionally.
No, I didn’t come out to them – I did that many, many years ago (I waited till Father’s day for my dad – I wanted to make sure it was memorable for him). Instead, I spent my holiday in the emergency room (a massive infection, I’ll spare you the details). But you see, that wasn’t the drama. The drama came when the nurses were testing the dosage for pain killers (to stop the pain the infection caused).
There is a little thing about me that my close friends all know and realize. I have a VERY strong sex drive and can be a little bit of a slut (okay a big slut) when I don’t keep myself in check – basically I will hit on anything with a dick. I generally keep my hormones in check by the logical side of my brain, but when I drink or in this case am given painkillers all bets are off.
One of the nurses on duty at the hospital was an old friend of mine, and knew this reality. I am still trying to decide if she came to watch after me, or to watch the show. You see, she was supervising the male nurse who was responsible for giving me the test dose – first mistake. When they came in she gave me a hug and told me what they were going to be doing (basically figuring out just how much was enough without being too much). The sad thing is, I can remember most of what happened. After the first dose, I became a little more chatty – though still in pain.
Now is when the drama begins, after about ten minutes they gave me another small dose, as it was starting to kick in, I began discussing how nice the male nurses eyes were and how his ass looked in his scrubs – still in pain. The third dose now begins to kick in, the male nurse who was now sitting on a chair in front of me was looking in the other direction, without thinking about it I begin to massage his shoulders – still in pain. The fourth small dose, the nurse now standing was in close proximity when this dose began to kick in, my reaction to grab and fondle his ass – still pain, plus mental note he didn’t seem to mind.
The fifth dose was the part that will go down in family history. By this point, I was still feeling some pain, but it wasn’t the only thing I was feeling. Denise (the female nurse / so-called friend of mine) was standing in the corner trying not to laugh, while I am busy with my own activity – feeling up my male nurse. By the bulge in his pants, I could tell he didn’t mind at all, when here opens the door with both of my parents standing in the doorway. My father immediately turns and leaves, while my mother manages to utter something to the effect of “you seem to be feeling better” before turning and closing the door. Denise is doubled over laughing and the male nurse has this look of shock on his face. Then there is me, half glazed look on my face and still fondling the nurse and still in a little pain. The nurse finally backs into the corner and hands “my treatment” to Denise. My sixth and final shot begins to kick in and Denise asks if I feel anything. My response, to her was something about there being one thing I wouldn’t mind getting a better feel of – as I stare at the male nurse, the bulge in his pants, and the slight wet spot that has formed.
As is natural for my family, everyone lives in a state of denial. My parents didn’t make even one comment about me fondling the nurse; instead, they decided to comment on how beautiful all the holiday lights were as we drove home. The next day Denise called to “check up” on me – but more specifically to tell me everything I had done. I told her I could remember almost everything, but the guy’s name. She told me that his name was Richard, but that everyone called him “Little Dicky” as he was kinda short – and clearly with the painkillers talking, I responded that I could definitely attest to the fact that there was nothing little about Dick. Mental note, call Denise and get his number (if he’s single) maybe “lil’ dicky” can be my holiday present – if I he turns out to be a “pain” in the ass, hopefully it will be the good kind.

Men are fascinating creatures, everyone says that women are confusing, but I definitely beg to differ. I understand women just fine, it is men I have yet to figure out. What brings this on, none other than a guy – but not for the reasons you are probably thinking.
The short version – Shortly after I moved here to Morehead, a guy randomly emailed me (from here in town). We got to talking and eventually hooked up, he was simply a “friend with benefits”. There was never any chance for more, for no other reason than that I do not date “closet-cases”. Until about a year ago, he had never even been to my apartment – I used to tease him about being afraid that someone whom he did not know and would likely never see again might just see him coming into my apartment – how scandalous that would be. Anyway, we have been just friends for about six months now, but tonight is what brings on this rant.
Over the weekend, I had a three hour “bi*ch” session with a friend. Traditionally, we get drunk during these as it is just that much more entertaining for the other. A few minutes after the bi*ch session ended, ***** called (I’ll keep his paranoia down and just leave him as blanks). We decided to get together and watch a movie, as I was in no state to drive, he came and picked me up. Everything was fine, we watched movies, and drank quite a bit – as I was already “sh*t-faced”, I ended up “skunk-a*s drunk” naturally. We talked, and laughed, and watched movies – nothing else. After he sobered up, he brought me home, and helped me to bed (I had one hell of a hangover the next day). Absolutely nothing sexual happened. As he had been a perfect gentleman, I decided to cook dinner to thank him (nothing fancy). Here is where the confusing part of guys comes in (did I say this was the short version, well I lied ).
So, Monday I cut out of work a little early and came home to cook. About 5:30PM ***** showed up. Everything was fine, we talked a bit and had a glass of wine. I went into the kitchen to put in the garlic bread, and asked him (from the kitchen) “Do you want parmesan on the bread”. When he didn’t answer, I stuck my head out of the kitchen to ask again. What was I greeted by? None other than ***** sitting on my couch with his dick in his hand stroking it. He looked at me (with his very bad come hither look I might add) and said “Fu*k dinner, let’s just skip to dessert”. All I could do was laugh, I told him that I wasn’t that drunk and to put his cock away. I went back in the kitchen, now everything would have been fine, except my uber-bi*ch kicked in. I came out of the kitchen (he still hadn’t put his dick back in his pants) and I went off, I told him that A) he needed a new line, B) I was no longer in the mood to have dinner, C) I had work to do, and D) “if you haven’t gotten the hint – get the fu*k out”. Needless to say, he put his dick away. When he didn’t make any movements towards the door, I looked at him and with as much bit*hy drama-queen as I could muster told him to “get the FU*K OUT!”, he got the hint and left (subtle aren’t I). Now was I a bi*ch – YES. Was it justified, I think so.
Let’s be honest, if I invite a guy for dinner, he should at least have the courtesy to wait until after dinner to pull out his dick, or at least let me pull out his dick.
Now, I can hear every guy out there, “you led him on”, what a typical guy response. You see, I have come to the conclusion that when talking to most guys they hear in an entirely different language.
If you say, “How was your day?”, they hear “F*ck me now!”
If you say, “Do you want to grab a bite for dinner?”, they hear “F*ck me now!”
If you even say, “Hi”, they hear “F*ck me now!”
But if you say, “F*ck me now!”, they hear something to the effect of “**** is on TV”. For str8 guys this is probably some sport, for most gay guys it can be just about anything else.
Now, on a side note, my favorite of all are the men that refer to themselves as “we”; the collective “we” to which they refer is often none other than themselves and their penis. What the F*ck? Now, in all honesty, I love my penis, but I do not refer to it as a person – that is just insane. I don’t ask my penis what it wants for lunch or dinner (though I have met guys that refer to what food their penis is in the mood for).
I wonder if it is a sign that ***** hasn’t called me.