Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.
Today's topic: Wet Spanks
This has been a busy week, what with the big Bloggyversary and all, and I have other news that I'll write about on Sunday night (NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. It is a well known fact that you generally need to have sex to get pregnant, and unfortunately Current Husband and I are too tired to tolerate each other naked much lately.) So we're boring. In fact, maybe we need to spice things up a little. This is where the wet spanks come in.
Mom, why don't you stop reading here and step outside for another cigarette. You, too, boss lady. And anyone who works with me. This will traumatize you.
So I start this job, and now I can't have nooners. But CH and I still want some together time, so we schedule a lunch together, because maybe later it will seem like foreplay. And if it doesn't end in sex, at least I get a Quizno's Turkey Bacon Guacamole for lunch, with the biggest Diet Coke I can wrap my mitts around.
The Diet Coke bong.
I don't even know where to credit this,
but I think it's hilarious.
And how I actually drink my Diet Coke.
So CH and I eat our sandwiches, but we both know we are having a nooner, except by eating instead of actually having sex. You'd be surprised how sexy a Turkey Bacon Guac can be to eat. Really. You'd be surprised. Because it's not that sexy to watch your wife cram a whole sandwich in her mouth and moan...but then again, MAYBE IT IS. There are guys on the Internet who would pay big money to watch that kind of thing.
You know you want me.
And no, this technically ISN'T a TBGuacamole.
Because those sandwiches are NOT on the 500 calorie menu.
So in an effort to be sexy (and quench my thirst), I suck down most of that Diet Coke and refill. CH and I wink and murmur sexy things to each other, like "Have a nice day" and "Are you picking up the kids?" and "You have guacamole on your shirt", shake hands, and walk our separate ways. I'm only a few blocks from work, so I hoof it in my heels, drinking the remainder of my Diet Coke to get the Bacon and Guacamole out of my teeth.
I'm feeling the sexiness, and I walk past a group of construction workers, tearing up the sidewalk downtown. I'm glad I wore my support undergarments, so they can appreciate my swagga. I'm feeling all that, shaking my moneymaker for the boys, waiting for my wolf whistle, when I suck up the Diet Coke and it goes in the wrong tube. I gag, choke a little, and then start coughing.
Here is a little math problem for y'all:
Q: Take a 41-year-old woman, subtract three children, multiply that by 64 ounces of Diet Coke, divide the bladder by the force of gravity pulling all liquids toward the earth, and what do you get?
Do you give up?
A: Wet Spanx.
Hand to God, I'm standing in the MIDDLE of the street, legs crossed, coughing, and knowing I am slowly peeing my pants in front of the drivers and construction workers. There were no wolf whistles that day, my friends. I slowly, tentatively started walking toward work again, silently cursing my addiction to soda and my inability to control myself, in ANY way. As I'm walking, I'm thinking, "Is it showing? Was it enough to show through Spanx and these fabulous Banana Republic work pants?"
I walk up to the building where I work. "Oh hi, Mr. HR Director. How is your day going? Please don't look at my crotch." I take the back stairs to the back bathroom on the second floor, and take a look in the mirror. Thank God, no dark spots on my pants, which would indicate that I attended a kegger at a fraternity over lunch, passed out, wet myself, and did the walk of shame back to work. OR, CH is Just. That. Hot.
This? This is why women need to do Kegels. And perhaps not work outside of the home. (See the archives, Whoreticulture Friday Issue 14 for Kegel background.) And why I need to take my own advice. I told CH I was doing WF on wetting my pants, and his response was, "Which time?" So let's all do them together, ladies and gentlemen....Clench. Hold. Release. Repeat.
Thank you to Jes Thomas Hamer for the idea (even though you ARE a Hawkeye fan! Oh, relax, I'm sort of kidding!). I meant to write about that happening a month ago, and forgot until I saw your post. I will credit you as a Whoreticulture Friday co-contributor.
So as long as you are all going to comment to get your name in the "Happy Bloggyversary Mini-Random Giveaway", tell me about your moist moments. (Doesn't that just sound gross? What is it about the word 'moist' that can be so revolting? I would rather asterisk that word than f**k, but if I put m***t, people would think I meant 'mount'. Oh, the blogger's dilemmas! *she puts her hand on her forehead dramatically*) All aboard the Tangent Train! Next stop, Monday! Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great holiday weekend!