Tonight, I’m going to be interviewed by Wombat of Kiss & Blog on his BlogRadio channel at 8PM EST. If you want to laugh at my accent, it should be on the archives afterwards. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this until after I’ve done it, just in case I’m really boring or I say “like…” and “um…” a lot. But what the hell. We’re all fake friends.

Considering that Wombat usually interviews bloggers about relationships and sex, he has definitely picked the WRONG person this time if he wants a lively interview. The last blogger he spoke with spent much of her time talking about her pierced clitoris. How am I going to compete?

This morning, I turned to Sophia for help:

“Sophia, I need to make something up in order to make myself more kinky for this interview. Can I lie and say you have your nipples pierced?

“How does that make YOU more kinky? If anything you should say that you have your nipples pierced.”

“Jeez, that sends shivers down my back. Yuch. Maybe I can say I have a c**k ring?”

“Ha. Like anyone is going to believe that. Do you even KNOW what a c**k ring is?”

“I’ve read about it in Penthouse years ago. You sort of put it on your penis.”

Sophia started typing on her laptop.

“Here’s a photo of one on Wikipedia.”

“Holy crap. No way. Jesus, there is NO way I would ever use that. You can get a stroke or give your penis gangrene.”

“Look at this one,” she said, laughing.

“Ha Ha. You’re right! That one is the same style as your wedding ring!”

“So, WHAT are you going to talk about? You’re not going to talk about ME, that’s for sure.”

“I can’t talk about you?”


“Hmm… that doesn’t leave me much to talk about.”


“Without me talking about you — rather than interviewing ME, he should probably be interviewing my hand.”

“Well, you have a talking penis. Why not a talking hand?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “I could tell the story about the first time I saw a p***y.”

“Oh, yeah? You never even told me this story!”

“I was about bar mitzvah age. And there was this girl, Lisa, who liked me. But despite me becoming a “man” that year in the Jewish tradition, I was still more interested in my stamp collection than girls. One afternoon, I was in Lisa’s home and she asked me if I wanted to see her pee.

“OK,” I said.

I went with her into the bathroom and watched her as she took down her pants and sat on the toilet. And then she peed sitting down. It was amazing. I never saw anything like that before. After she was done, she leaned back.

“Would you like to look at IT?” she asked.

“OK,” I said.

I got on my knees, adjusted my glasses, and looked at her p***y. It was pretty interesting. It looked like a giant paper cut.

“Now it is YOUR turn.” she said to me.

“What do you mean?”

“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.”

I thought this was rather rude of her, despite the fact that I was on my knees staring at her p***y.

“I never said I would show you mine.”

“You promised!”

“I never promised anything!”

She started to cry. Not only was this my first look at a p***y, it was my first real encounter with the irrationality of women. Why was she getting so emotional?

“Get out!” she yelled.

“Hey, calm down. If you want, I’ll show it to you.”

“Too late. Get out!”

Sophia laughed.

“That’s the whole story?” Sophia asked.

“It was the first, but not last time, that I disappointed a woman.”

Sophia laughed for five minutes. I thought she was laughing just a little TOO LONG.