|THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO OOOF.|
|Rachel Sklar, Raquel Hecker, Jen Hubley, Alexis T., Ellen Standard Deviance & Litsa Dremousis|
This month, The Black Table's ladies go all Cosmo on your ass and share with you some of their most embarrassing moments. The original topic for this month was supposed to be "farting", an always well-received and engaging topic, but we were informed by one of our editors and a few female writers that girls do not do such thing and that if they do their gaseous emissions are small, muffled noises that most of the time go unnoticed in public and carry an odor comparable to a field full of daisies.
Fair enough. However, some of our ladies did submit suitable replacement stories that are sure to make some of them wish they used pseudonyms when their future employers and husbands discover Google. We love it when that happens.
I'm in my second year of college, not even 20, dating Phil, a guy in med school (he's an ENT now). It's our third date and we're in the living room of his house (he lives in his parent's basement) watching a movie ("Star 80" -- how romantic) and I excuse myself to the ladies' room (because I am nothing if not a lady) to attend to the monthly exigencies of my delicate womanly flower.
For some ridiculous reason, I am using a very undelicate pad, which I wrap thoroughly in toilet paper and deposit in the garbage can before returning to snuggle up to some scenes of porn and violence. I hear something in the hallway, and turn -- there, about to enter the room with bounding joy, is Phil's family dog, a large black poodly thing. In his mouth is firmly clamped a white, messy bundle, faintly streaked with red. It is my FUCKING PAD. I leap from the couch in horror and rush out into the hall -- the dog feints away, wise to my game. We circle around each other -- he's having a grand old time playing with his new toy, I'm about to vomit -- until finally, mercifully, I am able to grab onto the edge of the pad. We then tussle back and forth, tug-of-war style, while med student boy watched Eric Roberts descend further and further into madness.
Bits of toilet paper and absorbent cotton litter the hallway but in this epic battle of menstruating woman against dog I WILL not budge. Finally, with a yelp of frustration, the dog releases its bloody prize into my custody. With a harsh inner cry of victory, I sweep up the spoils of battle and desposit them firmly in the industrial-strength kitchen garbage can ... just as Phil ambles out into the hallway. "Hey," he says, a hand absentmindedly tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants. "What's going on?" I smile sweetly, and take his hand. "Nothing," I say, leading him back to the couch. "I was just playing with your dog."
Rachel Sklar is a New York freelance writer who really hates large, black poodly things.
It was a relatively innocuous date with a sweet-faced young man whose name I conveniently can't recall. We were sitting at a Thai restaurant and I was gesturing wildly with my chopsticks to illustrate some fascinating topic I was all heated up about. As I emphasized one particularly exciting point, my chopstick flew out of my hand behind me and hit an unsuspecting diner on the ear. My date looked shocked. Impulsively, I tossed the other chopstick over my other shoulder. "I'm Jewish," I explained. "To my people it means good luck."
That wasn't even the embarrassing part. Five Tsing Has and a set of silverware
later, it was time for the inevitable trip to the bathroom. I stood up,
swayed and staggered to the loo. It was a single-seater all the way in
the back of the joint. With gravity weighing heavy on my bladder, I was
thrilled to find the door unlocked. I flung it wide open. There standing
at the toilet was a young nubile hipster pissing with a remarkable display
of force. "I am so embarrassed," I intended to say, blushing
and backing out of the bathroom. However, "I am so impressed!"
was what actually came out of my mouth.
Raquel Hecker is part creator of Two Noses Productions, dedicated to the production of comedic plays. She is now serving time in prison for accidentally killing three people with her chopsticks at a Thai restaurant last winter.
Ellen Standard Deviance
I've walked into glass doors, twisted ankles falling down the stairs of Yankee Stadium, and dropped more food on my chest than a normal person should. One of the more mortifying of these incidents occurred in seventh grade health class when we were learning how to perform CPR. In order to pass the class, we had to successfully resuscitate "Danny" the CPR Dummy.
While most of the class easily completed the uncomfortable task, I had more difficulty. I blew into Danny's gaping mouth with all my might but his chest would not rise. I looked pleadingly to the teacher, Mrs. Ellis, for help and she said "Make sure you make a seal with you mouth, Ellen." On my second attempt I pressed my mouth firmly on the plastic lips and exhaled heavily, but still Danny would not cooperate. When I finally gave up and returned to my seat, the girl sitting next to me said "You have something under your lip." I looked into my pocket mirror and gasped in horror at what I saw: A purple line. As if sucking face with a plastic man wasn't embarrassing enough, my fervent huffing and puffing left me with a pressure bruise under my lower lip. For the rest of the day I fielded comments like "How was your makeout session with Danny?" and "Ooh Ellen, did the dummy bite you?"
After a few days the bruise faded and I managed to successfully revive Danny. (Thanks, Mrs. Ellis, for not telling me to tilt the head back to open the airway. Stupid cow.) However I did learn one important lesson that would haunt me in makeouts to come: I bruise easily.
Ellen and Danny have rekindled their relationship and share a home together in Westchester. Ellen can be seen causing trouble daily at Standard-Deviance.com.
Like everyone else, senior year in college marked my journey into the alleged "real world." That same year, I also passed out on a guy's dick.
After coming home from a martini bar I made my friends drop me off at his place. I remember stumbling into his apartment and taking articles of clothing off, one by one, as I headed to his bedroom. Sloppy kisses and drunken babbling were exchanged. He was already naked so I ducked under the covers and proceeded to do the deed.
I was bobbing up and down for a bit when the cheap vodka suddenly hit me and I passed out. Please don't think this turned out to be a Kobe Bryant scenario, that didn't happen at all. The next morning I woke up (because back then I had cool classes instead of corporate hell) and awkwardly asked him, "Um, did I pass out on your ?" He cut me off and responded with, "Yes. Yes, YOU did."
I think he was waiting for me to finish the job but instead I jumped out of his bed, used his toothbrush and went to class. I never hooked up with him again. To this day, I have yet to fall asleep on another penis.
Booo ... Alexis T. must stay away from cheap vodka. You can hear more of her stories at Alexist.com.
I went to a consolidated elementary-middle school in northern Vermont, along with every kid between the ages of five and twelve in the surrounding three towns. The worst part about this if you were, say, a bookish first grade girl with poorly developed social skills, there were a lot of big kids to make fun of you.
The sixth graders' favorite game was to wait until a little kid went into the bathroom, and then sneak in and turn off the light, leaving them to spin around in circles looking for a light switch until they wet their pants. I was at school for about a month before my number came up. Some 14-year-old fifth grader from the trailer park shut off the lights, cackled, and slammed the door. Right on cue, I panicked and wet myself.
Fortunately, I've always been good at denial. If I just acted like nothing had happened, I reasoned, no one would notice that anything had. So I sloshed back to my classroom and sat down and looked intently at the blackboard. A puddle immediately began gathering beneath my chair.
Spurred perhaps by the plink-plink-plink of dripping urine, my nearest neighbor turned to stare at me. No problem, I thought. I leaned over conspiratorially. "Whew!" I said. "Smell that? I guess somebody wet their pants!"
I was honestly surprised when she figured out it was me.
Jen Hubley and her sopping wet pants get all bloggy with it at JennieSmash.com.
"I think I'm going to have a seizure!" Ken yelled. He was inside of me and I laughed. We'd known each other since college and our decade-long flirtation had combusted at a Halloween party earlier that night. We were having sex for the fourth time in six hours and I assumed he was kidding. When he began violently jerking up and down, I realized this wasn't mere flattery. Suppressing an urge to freak out, I rolled him onto his back, reached for the phone and called 911.
"911. What's your emergency?" the dispatcher asked.
"My friend's having a seizure," I responded, simultaneously moving a pillow between Ken's head and the wall.
"Do you know what caused it? Were drugs or alcohol involved?"
"Um, no. He had a beer or two eight hours ago," I paused. "But we've been having a lot of sex." I thought I heard her snicker.
"What's your address? We're sending an ambulance."
I lodged another pillow underneath Ken's head and pulled on jeans and a sweater. Minutes later, I answered the door and showed two paramedics to my bedroom. Ken was still convulsing and there was blood around his mouth.
They stabilized Ken and administered oxygen. One of them asked me, "Where are his clothes? We need to take him to the hospital."
"He doesn't live here," I replied. "All he has is his dog costume."
One, then the other, began laughing and couldn't stop. I was horrified.
Then I started laughing, too. Mercifully, Ken was still semi-conscious.
As we wiped our eyes, one of them asked, "Do you know which hospital his insurance covers? Where should we take him?"
I called our friend, Mike, for the insurance info and gave him a truncated version of events. He rushed to my place and we followed Ken and the ambulance to Swedish Hospital.
Unbeknownst to me, Mike had called Ken's mom, who ran to us as we entered the emergency room. It was 6:00 a.m., Sunday, and she'd just seen paramedics wheel her son, dressed as a dog, into an exam room.
She put her hand on my shoulder. "What were you doing when Ken had his seizure?" I bit my cheeks.
"Were you having breakfast?" she asked, scared and oblivious. I couldn't answer. I knew if I opened my mouth, I'd laugh 'till I choked.
"Yes, Mrs. Crutcher. They were having breakfast," Mike reassured her.
Plainly, I could not.
Wow Litsa Dremousis wrote, directed and produced the plays, If I Wake Before I Die and 9:00 in the Afternoon. Her work appears in McSweeney's, The Black Table, BlackBook and Paper, among other notable places.
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