A rather mediocre, albeit vulgar, musing…..

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.

You read that right.






this past weekend.

I haven’t been right since.

I even wrote a blog entry about it.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to post it as it revealed a bit much for this quasi-anonymous space.

But just know that it happened.

As I have a relatively engaging social life, you can certainly appreciate how this unexpected fuckmedown might disorient a worldly woman like myself.

Suddenly I was looking at life through a new fuckmedowned lens. I couldn’t allow extended periods of time to pass without getting distracted by flashbacks of the weekend.

I turned down a dinner invitation with one man and passed up an evening with another.

I was trippin’.

That’s what happens when you let unexpectedly phenomenal genitals all up in your lumbar space.

Shit just ain’t the same.

I asked myself, “Am I ill? Am I unwell? Will I ever get back to good? Am I destined to walk the earth concerning myself with nothing but the memory of my rapturous encounter with this man’s pulsating, bionic, pleasuredome?”

Then it hit me.

I was sick.

But it wasn’t cancer, or hepatitis, or shingles.
I was tormented by something far worse; infected by a virus with no known cure—

I was sprung.

Like a motherfucker.

This had never happened to me, before. I didn’t know how to counteract it. It didn’t itch, or sting. It wasn’t tender to the touch anywhere that I could discern. But something was off.

And while I didn’t know how to cure it, I knew, instantly, what had brought it about.

The unexpected fuckmedown had compelled me to break all of my clandestine encounter rules.

What rules?

*Fooler’s Guide to Clandestine Encounters*

1. He can’t sleep here. Ever.
2. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he can’t sleep with me. Ever.
3. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he must leave the space he has occupied throughout the night (someplace not with me, in accordance to Rule #2) at daybreak. He cannot linger. I REPEAT. He.CanNOT.Linger.
4. The only thing he can eat up in my house is water. I don’t have a problem getting this for him. I am not an asshole.
5. At no point, at any time, should there be any unsanctioned, inappropriate touching. That is: handholding (ESPECIALLY including, but not limited to: that intertwined, interlocked finger shit), cuddling, spooning, casually intertwined limbs, cheek caresses, delicate finger tickles across the contours of exposed flesh, and most certainly not any gentle, absent-minded, soft kisses to the shoulder, forehead, or nape of neck areas.
6. If you have somehow bypassed Rule #s 1 and 3, under no circumstances are there any next day outings planned. Y’all don’t go anywhere. Y’all don’t do anything together. This rule is damn near as important as #1.

I created these rules for the sake of efficiency and economy. They are here for my protection, as well as the protection of any guest. The rules hone everyone’s focus. They leave no room for confusion. They quickly separate any gray areas into definitive palates of black and white. They are bedrock; the Magna Carta of any worthwhile NSA sexual endeavor. (Feel free to print them out and attach them to your bedpost.)

And you know what? They work, damnit.
They bloody well work.

But when you’re hit with the unexpected fuckmedown (and please note the “unexpected” modifier, as it indicates an element of surprise that chinks the armor of any otherwise-in-place shield of emotional preparedness) you lose your ability to act rationally. Your eyes mist over with the wonderment of how such a creature could come into your life. ‘Member that song in “The Sound of Music” where Maria and the Captain are all happy that they’ve found this great thing so they’re all, “somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have done something good?” Yeah. The unexpected fuckmedown is like that.

I wasn’t able to properly implement my rules, so blinded was I by the power of the UF.

*How Fooler Completely Screwed the Pooch on the Implementation of her Clandestine Encounter Rules*

1. He slept here.
2. He slept with me.
3. It might have been close to noon before either of us got up at all.
4. I made this motherfucker breakfast. The whole sha-bang. And I don’t eat meat, but I swear on everything had that man had a taste for bacon I would have shot and dressed the hog myself.
5. I don’t even want to go into this.
6. Yep. This too. Eastern Market like a bitch.

Which brings us to my current predicament. As it happens, my guest’s company was beyond tolerable.

In fact—

It was





I had to consult my friends.

Now, as a general rule—on account of their individual and collective monkeyness—I rarely consult my friends for anything. But I had showed my ass, and was in dire straits.

Frankie, aged 29. College professor and generally well-informed gay.

Me: “Frankie, you ever been sprung?”

Frankie: “Ummm. I think, maybe once. Maybe for like, a summer. But, after a while you come to the realization, ‘Oh. This Negro is basic as hell.’ That’s how it usually goes away. One day you see how basic they are.”

Mark, aged 30. PhD candidate; oscillates between being tender and sweet and trifling as a motherfucker.

Me: “Is it possible that I’m sprung?”

Mark: “Nah. Not after a weekend. Sometimes, if I start to feel like I might be a little sprung, I’ll call another girl over and get with her, just to prove, you know, hey—“

Karen, aged 34. Lawyer, wife, and mother. The latter two do nothing to diminish her overarching characteristic of huge asshole.

Karen: “Bitch, I hope you ain’t sprung. You know the two types of bitches I don’t get down with. Unemployed bitches and sprung bitches. Get yourself together and call me back.”

Erin, aged 29. Big time DC political hotshot with whom I should have never discussed aforementioned.

“Girl, what if this man is the one? I’m so excited!!!”


I don’t know if there is a moral to this story (outside of the affirmation of my long-held belief about discussing NOTHING with my primate friends).

In all likelihood, like everything else, I’ve overthought this to the furthest recesses of my mind.

Maybe, this once, I’ll concede defeat and keep it simple.

And the simple truth of it all is—

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.


4 Responses to “A rather mediocre, albeit vulgar, musing…..”

  1. May 6, 2010 at 5:57 am

    well at least the story had a happy beginning and end. *shrug*

  2. 2 Yem
    May 6, 2010 at 3:16 pm

    Bitch u better have me negotiate your book deal and give me back end. this shit is funny!!!

  3. 3 Rick James
    May 9, 2010 at 11:50 pm

    I have no clue what was just said.

  4. May 19, 2010 at 5:59 pm

    OMG!! it’s official I love you and I must befriend you although through cyberspace….

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May 2010
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a history of my meanderings….


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