Dumpster-Dancer

I beat myself up all day yesterday after offering to loan one of my wife's sex toys to a young, married woman I barely know. In some ways it wasn't as bad as it sounds . . . but it got worse. And who does stupid stuff like that anyway?

We returned to our local Church roots on Sunday after a long spell of mega-churching in the big city. Of course we bumped into old friends and soon found ourselves in a cozy booth at I-Hop catching up.

Our friends' newly-wed, youthful, daughter-in-law joined us. We knew her casually through her ex-husband. Our reputation must have preceded us. #openness She had been talking about an exceptionally stressful time dealing with an ill loved one. But, when her in-laws stepped out to attend to an unruly child, the normally shy thing leaned close to my wife and asked about home remedies for Urinary Tract Infection.

While my sweetie talked Cranberry Juice, Cornsilk, peridium, anti-biotics and doctor's visits, I was thinking “Hmm? It's been a long time since she's been with her ex and now she's newly wed and highly stressed. That might not be an actual infection.”

Thinking frustration and irritation, pretty soon I was asking when she last orgasmed and from what kind of stimulation. Not the sort of stuff you really want to risk the in-laws overhearing. In the parking lot, I discreetly whispered how to lubricate a finger, curl it inside herself and feel the front wall of her vagina for the tell-tale “cat's nose” wrinkle that marks a swollen urethral sponge.

It was . . . mmm? . . . awkward's the only word I know, but that doesn't even come close.

I do this stupid stuff so much that there's a pattern to the way I abuse myself afterward. Psychologists even have a word for the things we habitually say to beat ourselves up. It's “Automatic Negative Thoughts,” or #ants . And those damned Ants were crawling all around between my ears on the drive home.

I just hoped that when her husband came for me with a gun he'd blast the voracious rabbit in my yard too.

Then her text came. Surprisingly fast too. “Yes, Cat's Nose! Hurts. What do I do?” I was so relieved that she hadn't been offended. All my negative thoughts fled. On the phone I waaaay overexplained how to perform the “Healing of the Yoni” ritual massage from Tantra.

She was clearly uncomfortable with the level of sharing, but if she didn't have the full detail the technique would not work and then she'd be feeling betrayed by me on top of being unable to pee. She could even make her condition worse. So I kept her on the phone making sure she knew what to do. I even offered to loan her a special toy designed to massage the spongy, sensitive area that surrounds the urethra. (Hush with the ick factor . . . it's stainless and can be boiled.)

And then the ANTs were back! Everywhere. Who loans sex toys to married strangers from church? I hated on myself all day. All I could think was . . . well, you don't want to know what I think when my “shame” ANTs are in the sugar bowl.

12 hours into my #ants fest she texted. Apparently the technique helped. Her exuberant “thank you” text was like Raid on the insects in my mind. She even used the word “revolutionary.”

This morning she asked a new question on another intimate topic. Can you believe I was stupid enough to give a detailed answer from Tanta?

Why do I knowingly do socially akward stuff that I know will make me feel awful?

Enough for now, it hard to write with bugs crawling around behind my eyeballs.