The Kitchen Sink and Everything Else: Alcoholism and Boners

This is the first in a series of random and uninformed exposés, blamed on chosen by you, the reader. Please, please, please (no pressure) leave your post topic requests in comments. This first one is brought to you by Doc, who states:

"I'm looking forward to your 'Boners & Alcoholism' post as I've suffered from both."

Well, Doc, since these two things, boners and alcoholism, go together like vaginae and nagging and America™ and WalMart™, I thought I would give it all I've got for ya. You betcha! This week's special report is brought to you by Meat. Eat it!™ brand boner inducers! "Get him drunk on your charbroiled love, and enjoy the ride.­"™

Alcoholism and Boners

I became familiar with boners quite a bit earlier than I became familiar with alcoholism- at least in a subjective sense. Besides the inevitable brother and cousin boner encounters and a couple elementary school dingalings I glimpsed, like the one I saw up my 3rd grade classmate's baggy shorts during our weekly classroom album time, I didn't really get to properly meet a penis until Junior High. Oh sure, while listening to Rod Stewart's "Do You Think I'm Sexy," on that album with the picture of a woman on it, I looked up that boys shorts for far longer than was proper or polite, but I blame my courage on his unintentional audacity. It was right there in plain sight. What was I supposed to do?

It was in Junior High, when I started french kissing, that I first really go to know boners. Blow jobs weren't hip and faddy forms of of sexual abstinence back then. All we had was sheer will power and the grave threat of being labeled a "slut," to keep us chaste, and I tell you what, grinding on boners didn't help. Somehow, I'll go ahead and attribute it to no cable just yet, I managed to retain my virginity until I was seventeen, which is, incidentally, when I had my first alcoholic experience, but more on that in a sec. I'm not done with this boner thing.

The back of my church's van (on the way to a hand bells competition or somesuchness) was the first place I really got to know the wonderful feel of a boner through jeans . After making out for a long ass time without being chastised to stop (we were Presbyterians) the pure novelty of such passion intoxicated me more than alcohol ever would- a lie. My hand, reticent at first, became not only confident after a time, but began to border on downright cajoling. Of course, there was no way for me to actually do whatever it is that one did with boners, most of which I had learned from Wifey, right there in the back of the van, but I'm pretty sure the impossibility of getting pregnant, my biggest dread, just made it all the hotter. One thing I know for sure is that touching that boner made me wet and tingly... beyond measure.

The intimacy of it all was just too much and I could hardly look my very good friend in the eye after that. Oh, the shame. Though I will never have a boner myself outside of the realm of dreams and strap-ons, I can only speculate as to the shame to be had from such a visible vulnerability at the perfectly wrong time. I must say, I am somewhat envious. To be able to touch a boner that is attached to myself would no doubt lead me to an intensive study of yoga though, because I never met a nice boner I didn't want to put in my mouth.

So, what about alcoholism? There's a link, likely. Yeah, there is, for me, but my pleasure trajectories from both of these mind altering substances, were quite different. In true alcoholic form, I first got lit on the most inopportune of occasions. My grandmother and great grandmother had driven me down from Arkansas to Alabama, where we visited my cousin and my aunt- who was going to vet school at the time. My cousin, two years my senior, incidentally my first kiss herself a long time before, took me out to a party on Thanksgiving night where there were just a few college guys from Auburn.

When offered some alcohol, I had no sense whatsoever what I was doing. Having grown up in a family deeply scarred by alcoholism, no model of healthy consumption was ever offered to me. My mother simply didn't drink... ever, and, before that time, I'd never noticed my step-father's drinking, which must have just been kept private from me. So, when handed an assortment of different types of hard liquor in small glasses, I may have puckered my lips, but I willingly consumed each and every one. I know there was brandy and whiskey, but I couldn't tell you the rest.

I recall sitting in that same chair with those few folks having more and more fun with it until, like a wall, it hit me. I was sent hurling into some dimension, as the Big Book might call it. I was home, indeed. After a minute or two of experiencing that, I don't recall a thing, but a hazy being in a bed with a guy, who I may or may not have had sex with, until I awoke the next morning. How cute. My first black out. My aunt, grandmother, and great-grandmother were not impressed.

Mainly, they got mad at my cousin. How dare she indoctrinate innocent (besides a few boner incidents and a raging hard-on of an eating disorder by this time) me into her, I'd guess, typical ways. Only my great-grandmother didn't fall for it. She'd never liked me, my entire life. She didn't fall for my innocent routine. She always saw me for the scoundrel she figured I was, a judgment that suited my level of shame, as there are bits and pieces that cannot be told in only this one post, bits and pieces that no doubt attest to my deservedness of her contempt.

Though, I know her dislike was rather for my father for ruining my mother's life by thrusting (sic) himself and me upon her at far too young an age, the thing is, it was always mutual. Yeah, she taught me how to crochet, which she did avidly, and ironically I am the only one of her many many great grandchildren who carried on with her knack, but no fondness was required in that.

It was clear that I was just another alcoholic bum in that family, and that 30,000 mile drive back to Arkansas was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life, even surpassing three natural births. One might think one would learn. But, no. Such is the way of alcoholism.

After many years, I learned that refraining from hard liquor prevented most of my blackouts, and it was in that period that I might most closely say that boners and alcoholism were really united. I got drunk so I could have sex. Time. And. Time. Again. I can't really say when the first time I had sex sober was; maybe when I was nineteen there was that one time. And, it was that way for many years.

Now, it's fairly easy to say that I wasn't comfortable with my sexuality. I still don't quite know what to label myself, but sometime after I started having "squirting episodes" triggered by Mr. Bee's delightful hand, he and I sought out "Sluts and Goddesses", and sex became something different for me. I'd tortuously gone through whatever it was, even after already having had my two daughters, I had to go through to be able to achieve orgasms with any sort of predictability through masturbation, some sort of emotional challenge that has led me to suspect some abuse in those first seven years I blocked out, violence at the very least. And, I think it was getting there with Mr. Bee, with someone else besides my, by then, regular fuck buddies- women included, someone I (perhaps, undeservedly) trusted, that I think contributed to my no longer needing to drink to lubricate my sex life- which, it seems, was all I ever needed it for. As soon as I became comfortable in my skin that way, aided by a number of other shameful reasons, I quit drinking- oh, and there was all the work.

That was 9 years ago, I can tell you that I no longer need to get drunk to meet a boner. In fact, I think I would consider it a waste of that boner's time if it were to meet me drunk, since I probably wouldn't enjoy its plump juicinesses quite as much. It makes me a little sad that when my desire to be drunk vanished during The Geniuses first birthday party- to be precise, my attraction to having sex with someone else who is drunk started to wane, as well. This is unfortunate for my and Mr. Bee's relationship.

Sometimes, I take advantage of Mr. Bee when he is intoxicated (maybe it's him that has to get drunk to be able to have sex with me), if I can get past the taste of his mouth (he did have it far worse, in that I used to also smoke like a chimney) since I can get him to be rougher than he's interested in getting sober. A little rape fantasy and spanking can get me off when the situation is otherwise unappealing, anything to feel as though there is some sort of emotional connection and adventure between us. It's because of all the fighting we used to do and all the ways I've felt betrayed (and all this trust I am engendering to write such things as these- which, for some reason, go completely unread by him.) I hate to be a boner squasher EVER. I regard boners with an awe I reserve for lactating breasts and pregnant bellies. I think they should be relished, protected, and utilized to their fullest extents, but for me, alcoholism and boners no longer go together.

I'll always regard that first boner in the back of that church van as "The One That Got Away," but I've had another fine boner on my mind lately. Not quite sure what I can or will do with it just yet, but I hope to get the chance to worship it as it so aptly deserves, rubbed upon under corduroy trousers until I'm so wet neither of us can stand it.... Ahem. In the meantime, when the pain of abstinence becomes too unbearable, I'll probably be unable to resist Mr. Bee's fine cock, denying the dying of our marriage- likely due to alcoholism, perhaps for the last time, a boner to be savored indeed.

Whatever you fancy, I'm up for the challenge. Whether it be A Day in the Life of a Rich Woman, Cole Slaw, Hula Hoops, or Letters to French Arthurian Men I Don't Know, I want to do your bidding at least until I don't, in this brand spanking new series... "The Kitchen Sink and Everything Else." (That's not a very good name. Oh well.) If I don't know WTF I'm talking about, as usual, I'll just make some shit up.

PS- If this comes off as though I think I am better with boners than you, don't believe the hype. I just slap 'em around and gag on 'em like the best of 'em. I have teeth like many others. Also, if it seems as some sort of disciplined piety I have to not drink, I assure you, my motivations are purely fear-based. I admire folks who can takes the ups and the downs drinking can add to one's life. I am simply unable to handle them.