The Worst Sex Ever and Fat Lip

Last night was the Worst Sex Ever.

Ten bloggers got on stage at PS 122, told stories about the worst sex they ever had, and had us rolling in the aisles with laughter, and wincing in our seats with pain. Stories that I simply can't replicate because this is a family show (and I recently realized that everyone I work with comes by here sporadically, when they close their doors in their offices, and wonder what it's like to not watch TV after work (Hello Coworkers!!))

Ran into Nina's friend Cheryl there while waiting in line. I had a momentary lapse of politeness, and was in my own world (typical after a day of work) and was less friendly than I'd like to have been. So if you're reading this, Cheryl, sorry if I seemed brusque and rude.

While waiting in line to see many of my friends perform, Blaise and Dori came out to look over the line, and likely to see how many people they knew out there. I give credit where it's due - they were two brave ladies, facing all hundred odd of us, telling us about "Nerve Date 19" and "the transvestite yelling at my window" and such. I was impressed.

As I stood in my little world, waiting to get in, they spotted me, and Blaise gave me a kiss. I smiled and said hi to Dori, who rebuked me for not kissing her. She got one too, and I felt a little more bold than I had before, but like a dunce for not smooching Dori on my own. I have to update her castpage, apparently, we're no longer fighting. Which is really good. I missed Dori.

When I got in, I didn't realize it would be sitting room only - by which I mean that every seat was taken, the standing room was taken, and people were literally sitting on the stage. In chairs. Indian style. Everything.

I spotted people I knew in the audience - David Griffin, Phoebe, Will, Jesse. I saw some people who looked familiar, probably other bloggers or something, and a sea of faces I didn't recognize.

The show started with Andy of Andy's Chest introducing the whole thing, Chris MCing, and going first, and then a succession of friends of mine (and some folks I didn't know) telling wonderful, amazing, horrible, tragic stories of sex, disfigurement, toeless women, midgets, cops, drugs, strap-ons, assmunching, male prostitution, Nerve dates, and god, you name it, if it's awful, they covered it.

It was hysterical. I lauged my head off. I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard at something. My sides hurt. My jaw hurt. My everything hurt, and all in the best possible way.

After the show, I congratulated the players, and we loped over to Holiday for a post-performance celebration. I bought Dori a drink, and we got to talking. We were talking about dating, and the fact that certain men, when they date, become spineless wimps. Instead of being men, they become the creepy passive aggressive "Yes Dear" guys that frankly, scare me a little. If you ever catch yourself doing that, go play with powertools or something. Preferably in the bathtub.

She wrote about our conversation, but I feel like I have to add something. It came up today, since I first saw on Gawker the whole notion of the whimpster. Now, leave aside two questions, for the sake of clarity. 1) Since when does wimp have an H? Ok, just leave that aside. 2) When the fuck did everything start being named "-ster?" After Friendster? What's next? Bushster? Stop with the fucking -sters, ok?

Anyway, whimpsters. These are the passive aggressive guys that date my friends and try to get them to love them by the really nice things that they do. Without being asked to do them. Without you wanting to do them. What's interesting, to me, is that where Blacktable writes about this, they suggest it's only men. I can tell you from experience - it's not. If I haven't asked for or earned or want gifts from a woman I'm dating, then when I get them, they can be nice, as long as they're, you know, tasteful, and it's part of the dating phenomenon. If I, instead, start getting an avalanche of gifts, and phone calls, and suddenly if I'm not available it's a crisis, and you don't understand me and why don't you want to spend more time with me type stuff keeps coming up, I think I'm dealing with a female-whimpster, which would be what, a whimpsterette?

Dori's conversation with me hit a few chords, and the main upshot of it all was "act like a god damned man when you're dating a woman" (Assuming you're a man, or possibly if you're a butch lesbian, but I digress...) and don't act like some spineless jellyfish, don't put your beloved on a pedestal, don't put his/her interests ahead of your own, be a god damned man.

So it was ironic to stumble on the article on whimpsters tonight after talking about them without a name last night. I just called them "wussbags" and chuckled.

So that was yesterday.

The worst sex ever was followed by work. Which was long and hard and I got out around 11. At which point I went to Angel, on Orchard, wherein I had a rendezvous with the always beautiful although very often difficult to get ahold of Alex. She's running these parties, now, these "Fat Lip" parties, twice a month, where her friends can show up, drink, since it's a bar, and socialize. Which I did until around 12:30, at which point the bells went off in my head, told me that I was indeed screwed if I didn't go home and write this piece and then go immediately to bed, and so I made my excuses to Alex and left. To stop at Rosario's for a slice of pizza, but still, to go home after that.

Which is where I am now, going to sleep.

See you tomorrow, dear readers.

Posted by Swerdloff at February 13, 2004 01:38 AM