How I accidentally sexually harassed the FedEx man

Sometimes when I’m having a really good day (ex.: when I find $5 on the ground or see a squirrel chasing a bunny in a circle) I forget that I’m socially awkward and have trouble forming sentences. It’s times like these when I do things like accidentally sexually harass the FedEx man.

Like, today at work. I was high on that feeling you get from fixing a seemingly impossible technical problem. Fine. I was high on that feeling you get from asking the IT guy to fix a seemingly impossible technical problem. Potato, potato.

It was at that moment of carefree delight and wiggly inhibitions that FedEx man strolled into my life (or, office) with a dolly full of parcels and the uncanny ability to lure out my surprisingly sexual subconscious.

“Man,” I said, tipsy on happy and thinking that I should make an effort to connect with this fellow human being over some relatable aspect of his chosen profession. “I never get packages in the mail. I want some! I want some!”

Sure, it was a dorky thing to say. Dorky I’m okay with. But, what I didn’t realize until it had passed from my lips, ahem, twice…was that it sounded very much like I was propositioning FedEx man for a night of sexual bliss.

I think he thought this, too.

“Did you just say you want some?” asked FedEx man in a tone I’d describe as somewhere in-between “you’re absolutely retarded” and “are you subtly trying to get in my stylin’ FedEx shorts?” (Hint: no)

“Yeah…” I said trying really hard to be nonchalant because it became clear to me seconds after the first “some” that I was actually being a giant whore. I desperately searched for words to undo this. Instead, I got:

“You know, I would love to get a package…

…IN THE MAIL.”

I don’t remember what he said after this. I don’t remember what he said after I followed that first gem of a sentence with the words: “ I would love to get a package” and then tried to make it sound less like I was talking about his genitalia by tacking on “in the mail.”

Unfortunately I do remember the look in his eyes. It was a look that said: “Honey, I would love to give you a package,” and it was gross. It apparently doesn’t take much wit or finesse to sweep FedEx man off his feet. Actually, it apparently takes the opposite of that.

Tomorrow I might see how selective UPS guy is—whether or not he likes his girls good and dumb and full of hackneyed sexual metaphors. Hopefully yes because form-fitting chocolate brown shorts are totally my kryptonite. Sorry FedEx man, I’m flattered and all. I just prefer my (delivery) men in calming earth tones.

This blog is intended for a mature audience: Fifty shades of god awful

I like to keep abreast of the latest currents in literature. But, it’s hard. So, so hard. When I read I feel something deep, deep inside of me. I have a passion for books that makes me tingle with SEX… SEXXXXXXX….SEXXX!! Think of SEXXX NOW!

Welcome to the first five chapters of Fifty Shades of Grey.

In them, we’re privy to the interior monologue of Anastasia Steele, a 21-year-old whose list of things she’s never experienced includes getting drunk, having sex, and finding any man attractive, ever. But that’s all about to change. In a big way. A big, big way. (Notice the dick reference there.)

Well before author E.L. James gets into all the sadism and bondage (I’m serious), or even the initial sex scene, she slathers her prose–by prose I mean sentences strung together with as little effort as possible—with one “subtle” sexual allusion after the next. I mean, thank god I studied English Literature, or these precious gems would have been completely overlooked. Some personal favorites include:

“I swallow” and the variation “I swallow hard.” (Just wait, swallowing is about to get even harder.)

“He cocks his head.” (He later vaginas his wrist.)

“As I pull up outside, I know Kate is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and she is tenacious.” (So many blows, so little time.)

“The cork makes its loud pop, and Jose looks up and smiles.” (This one’s not even a stretch. This one can’t even be chocked-up to my perverted mind. Replace the last two letters in “cork” and we’ve got blatant smut on our hands, people.)

“What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open.” (Blue, red, green: All suitable sweater colors that don’t conjure thoughts of semen. Oh, and then there’s that mouth popping open bit.)

…and the ultimate:

“My mouth pops open as I gasp and swallow at the same time.” (I’m pretty sure that’s…nope. It’s not possible.)

All this is juxtaposed nicely with Anastasia’s pre-pubescent vocabulary. “Crap” and “double crap” are her go-to expletives. In fact, a particularly helpful Amazon.com review mentions that Anastasia says some variation of the word “crap” 92 times. Even better are her choice words for describing Grey (“yummy”) and how she refers to her sexuality (“inner goddess”) and vagina (“down there”).

At one point, Anastasia talks about her desire to lick his face. She thinks licking his face is a sexy thing. Silly virgin. That’s just weird.

“I’d like to run my tongue along his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble makes the prospect doubly tempting.”

Actually, stubble makes the prospect not tempting at all. Stubble makes the prospect less tempting than it was originally, which was definitely not tempting.

Following the first five chapters of alluded smut, are twenty-one more chapters of actual smut. I can’t criticize the sex scenes much—not because I’m shy, or find it awkward (though, my mother does read this blog), but because I couldn’t continue reading the book after the first one, where Anastasia comes three times in five minutes with almost no provocation. I think he touches her nipple and she then explodes into a fit of yummy orgasmic delight, or something.

“Double crap, I came too soon!” Just, kidding. She doesn’t say that. But, she should.

Really I lost interest after I figured out that once sex came into play, James had no intention of making Anastasia and Grey characters capable of meaningful communication, beyond their constant “gasping,” “shivering,” “quivering,” and “moaning.” Once Grey tells Anastasia “I don’t make love. I fuck…hard” and then reveals his “playroom” room full of S&M paraphernalia, any trace of humanity in the story dissolves just as quickly as an Anastasia orgasm.

At that point the book just became hilariously bad porn. Which, you know, isn’t worth the effort to read when you can watch it on the Internet for free.