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I have a snake phobia. If only Freud was alive today to work that one out. People get very confused with the difference between a phobia and a fear and, thus, frequently tell me to Just Get Over It. To clear it up, a phobia is having a heart attack when a snake is on the same piece of mainland as you. It is an irrational and uncontrollable feeling encased in hypochondria. A fear is just what we all have when we see pictures of Lindsay Lohan. I have a snake phobia. Almost everything else I am not fond of is just a normal, boring old fear that is curable with the aid of alcohol. The social lubricant.

I am absolutely terrified about anal sex. Like communism, I don’t even think that it works well in theory. Just talking about anal sex makes me nervous, clenching every muscle in my body, so, in practice, I just can’t fathom how it would work.
“Can we have anal sex?” My Then Boyfriend asked me.
“No.”
“Can we have anal sex?”
“No.”
“Can we have anal sex?”
The constant begging left a bad taste in my mouth. But not one to pass up an opportunity, I decided to negotiate with the Devil.
“OK,” I relented.
“Yippee!”
“The next time I have to go to the bathroom, you can come with me. If you still want to have anal sex after that…Welcome.”
“That is disgusting.”
“Ohhhhh. THAT is disgusting?”

Shit will never be a part of my sex life. I am not one for making rules. But I think That is a good place to start. There are a lot of shit people who are part of my sex life and, thus, I feel that I have fulfilled the quota allotted to each of us at birth. Shit is a disgusting, dirty and, lets be honest, smelly reality that should never, ever be fantasized about.
Society has watered down the word Shit so that it doesn’t sound as bad as it actually is.
Poo. Poop. Nugget.
It all sounds, well, kind of cute. I don’t get grossed out when someone uses the word “bog” or announces that they need to do a Number Two. I have long since come to terms with the fact that ever human being does it. Actually, to be really honest, sometimes when I am intimidated by someone I simply remind myself that they occasionally get constipated and, suddenly, I have my power back. But, the fact is, shit, poo, poop, nuggets and number two’s are all completely disgusting things and no one should have to deal with another person’s unless they are under the age of one or really, really drunk.

There is a loop hole for a lot of [religious] girls who don’t want to have sex before they are married. They put It in the butt hole instead. Irony, like smell, must not be their strongest sense, because they don’t seem to realize that God doesn’t really care about the hole itself. That isn’t His problem. And it isn’t mine.
I am not morally against anal sex. I hope that all of those Catholic school girls are having a gay old time (no pun intended). And I can totally get behind people exploring each others bodies (totally intended). I am not even opposed to the actual physical nature of anal sex. A hole, really, is just a hole. Just like people are people but some people are just assholes. My problem is, only, with the Shit.
“I did it one time,” my Boy Friend told me. “And it was fucking stinky.”

I have a pooping in the bed phobia. Sorry, that sounded, well, kind of adorable. I have a shitting in the bed phobia. And I refuse to Just Get Over It. I have heard the Urban Legends and I apply Pascal’s Wager to them. Because, while I don’t care about being safe than sorry when it comes to religion, I do give a shit when it comes to mixing a digestive system with a sex drive. I choose to believe that The Girl Loosing Her Sphincter And Shitting Her Way To The Emergency Room is a true story. One that would, without fail, happen to me.
“Just think, if you, YOU, of all people, didn’t have a sphincter,” LA Girl Friend warned me, “You could no longer fart. You could also no longer control your shits. That is scary. And I bet petrifying to you.”
She was right. Like how my snake phobia doesn’t make sense because of my love of…[Yeah. This is where I choose to be discrete]…my abdication from anal sex is in direct opposition to my love of all things rectally amusing.
If someone farts, I laugh for days. If I fart, I laugh for years.
My heart would break if I had to find all of this sexy instead. It is disgusting and, occasionally, hilarious.

I fear that I sound like I have no sense of adventure. I have been told great stories about anal sex, wondrous tales of orgasmic bliss, solutions of lubricant and not eating [for weeks in advance]. And, I admit, that it all sounds fantastic. But then I wake up and smell the reality and remember that just because you can make something sound good, it doesn’t mean that it is. Like, Shit.
I will never be able to get That drunk. Or That lubricated.
Freud once said, “If you can’t do it, give up.”
Some times I think that we would have been a match made in heaven.