by Van Barrett
We all have our likes, and dislikes, and we all have our own limits. And if you've truly discussed this heart-to-heart with your beau, and you've given it your best effort, and you found that you still can't stomach that cock – then your personal limit just might be that you can't give head. You wouldn't be the first person in history to say no.
And if that's the case, you have to accept the possibility that your limit might be a deal breaker for him. Honestly – if you were my significant other – it would be for me. Sorry love, them's the breaks. But that's because I adore giving and receiving. Especially giving. And receiving. Shoot, who am I kidding?, I love it all. But a partner who takes, yet doesn't give in return? And never made an honest effort to compromise? Nope. Deal breaker. Sorry.
Point is, TMJ, if you truly love this man, you'll give it your best effort before you dump his ass. If you already gave it your best, and you still can't do it? Hey, at least you tried. But please, TMJ, please at least try if you're serious about this guy!
… Or just give him my phone number, like I said. Kidding, kidding! (But seriously, I'm not kidding.)
Good luck in life and love, TMJ, and I sincerely wish you all the best with snake charming that anaconda this summer! Thanks for writing!
Love,
Moan
P.S. And with that, we've wrapped up the first year of Bitch and Moan! I hope everyone enjoyed this column – Bitch and I have enjoyed all your feedback, comments and praise! Seriously, thank you all so much. We're excited to announce that we'll be back next year. Hope you guys have a great and safe summer vacation!
Stay loyal, UND!
1
Frustrated Rubber
– Lane Matthews –
Friday afternoon, in the journalism department computer lab.
My eyes darted left to right across the glow of the monitor as I sped-read another letter from a fellow student. It started off innocently enough, and then … well … that train went flying off the rails. I broke into a fit of outraged laughter.
“Oh, puh-lease!” I shoved off my desk, and my office chair went sliding into the middle of the room. I spun my chair around in circles, my limbs going limp at my side.
“What? What is it?” Devon, my best friend and partner-in-crime, was already sneering. Reading the ridiculous questions people sent us was one of our greatest, and sickest, joys in life.
“Did you read this question? From the back massage guy? What'd he call himself? The – the …” I quickly scooted my chair back to my computer desk. “Ah yes. The 'Frustrated Rubber in Fulton Hall.'”
Devon giggled. “The what?”
“Yup. Here. Lemme read it to you.” I cleared my throat.
“Dear Bitch and Moan. Help. I live in Fulton Hall. There are lots of cute girls that live here too and I'd like to talk to them. I think I am attractive enough for a guy, but I have a hard time talking to girls. Anyway, one thing I'm really, really good at is giving back massages. Girls love my back massages, and it's truly a fun and interesting way to break the ice!”
“Uh oh,” Devon interjected. “I already know where this is going. This is every creepy, unwanted back massage guy that's ever existed.”
“Right? But wait. It gets better.”
I continued. “Last week, I was prowling the computer labs for sore shoulders, as I'm sometimes wont to do, when I saw her. A beautiful Goddess. A blonde damsel in distress. Hours of typing had taken their toll on her lovely, nubile body. Her Trapezius muscle, the poor thing!, was as bright and red as molten iron. Her Rhomboideus minor pulsated with a sad longing.”
“Oh. Lord.” Devon slapped her forehead.
“I'll spare you most of this. It reads like an anatomy lesson.” I turned my mouse wheel, scrolling ahead to the last paragraph of his e-mail. “Trust me though, he goes into scary, Dexter-like detail about her muscles. And everything he sees is inflamed, swollen, and in urgent need of his talented touch.”
I read aloud once more.
“She ached for the pleasures that only a skilled back-rubber like me could give – that much I knew. Yet this girl, like all the others, rejected my patented back massage. In fact, she literally shrieked when I laid my hands upon her shoulders. I shall let you know she even slapped me! So my question is this: how does one deal with mates who continually display mixed messages? Your advice, please. Signed, Frustrated Rubber in Fulton Hall.”
I turned away from my monitor and met Devon's astonished stare. “So, it's gotta be a question written by a troll, right?”
“Has to. Has to. It's just too ridiculous to be real,” Devon said firmly. But then doubt set in and made her brow wrinkle. “But …”
“Right. But. There's always that creepy back massage guy, like you said. In every dorm and every office – we've all seen him! And who really knows what goes through that guy's head? Maybe this is the truest letter we've ever gotten! We could be doing this guy a valuable service if we, uh, …”
“If we tell him to stop seeing women as throbbing, pulsating muscles, desperately in need of his skilled finger-tips?”
“Well, yeah!” I snorted. “If nothing else, we can use his question to kinda jump on our soapbox, and say, hey people, surprise back rubs aren't cool! They're actually kinda creepy, so don't do 'em. Unless you're already dating.”
“In which case, yes please! And I'd like a foot rub, too!” Devon giggled. “Okay. So you wanna write the response, or should I?”
“Hmm.” I tapped my chin.
See, she's the Bitch, and I'm the Moan. She tears into people when they need a good, ol' fashioned whack upside the head with a heavy helping of common sense. Like our friend the Frustrated Rubber over here. As Moan, I write about more sensitive things that need a lighter touch: life, love, and all things sex.
“I think you're better for this one.” I chuckled. “Give it to him. Hard.”
“Okay,” Devon sighed playfully. “But we're only giving him what he wants, you know.”
“Oh well. Trust me, it'll be worth it. I can't wait to see that letter actually published in ink!”
We both cracked up at the thought.
“So, hey, speaking of throbbing and pulsating things …” Devon trailed off. I peeked up and noticed right away the devilish twinkle in her eye.
I gave her a look as I waited for the punchline.
“Got any weekend plans with the new guy? Pablo, right? Pablo with the pretty penis?”
I sighed. “Well, first, his name is Paulo.”
“Right! Paulo. Paulo. Paulo.” She pronounced his name over and over, exaggerating it so that it sounded more foreign and exotic each time his name left her lips. “Is he from Brazil or something?”
“Yeah, I dunno, his family came from somewhere in South America. But he's like, third generation or something. So yeah, uh, you don't have to say his name like that. He's anything but foreign. Hell, the way he says it sounds more like 'Paul' with an 'O' after it. Pahl-o.”
“Ew. Pahl-o.” Devon giggled, this time affecting a Midwest American drawl. “So when do I get to meet Pahl-o?”
I sucked my cheeks in and made a noise. “Well … I only met him last week … it's nothing serious.”
“Whaaa'?” Devon leaned back in her chair, her voice going high. “That's not how it sounded earlier this week. What's up, Lane?”
“Nothing!” I lied.
“Liar.”
Argh. Devon knows me so well.
“Damn it! Look. I dunno. He just uh … Paulo isn't very good at answering texts. I guess.”
Devon gave me a look. She knew there was more.
“And um, getting sloppy drunk the other night and firing off a salvo of texts at him, begging him to answer me, probably didn't help my case.”
Devon gestured with her hands for more info, as if she could pull the important stuff right out of me. Damn. She really knows me too well.
“Aaaand, so … when he finally decided to answer me, he said something like, you know, – 'hey, last weekend was fun,
but I'm really not looking for anything serious, dude.'”
I rolled my eyes at myself after I came clean. God. Yes, I know I'm pathetic.
Devon got up and quietly walked over to my chair. She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me while I sat.
“I'm sorry, Lane.”
I let out a deep sigh. Me and Devon are always screwing around and making horrible jokes. But the one thing I love about her is that we can always get real in a hurry. And her show of love here almost made my eyes misty. Is someone cuttin' onions in here?
“Hell. It's my fault.” I swallowed, and my throat was so tight, I'm sure we both heard the gulp. “It was way too soon to get my hopes up. As if I haven't learned that lesson enough times? I'm pathetic, I know.”
She squeezed me tighter.
I tapped my hand on her arm. “Um, Devon?”
“Yeah?”
“Your breasts are totally mashed against my face.”
Devon jumped back and covered her mouth. I laughed too, and I started to feel kinda normal again.
“Just think. If you were the back massage guy, and my tits pressed up against your face, you'd have totally died and gone to heaven …” Devon joked as she plunked back into her seat.
“Yeah. Or you'd have died and gone to heaven, 'cause you actually got close to that creeper.”
Devon clapped and squealed with delight. “That's so dark! I love it!”
After trading a few more one-liners, we turned back to our monitors and went to work.
***
If you're wondering how I can possibly be qualified to give relationship advice to people while my own love life is a complete disaster … well, first of all – hey, I resent that, pal! Ahem. Second of all, you're totally right. I'm not qualified.
But I'm also not paid to be doing this, and I'm not administering my advice as if it's some kind of professional or legal counsel. No, see, Bitch and Moan is branded strictly as entertainment. And for me and Devon, it's a labor of love. We're not even doing it for bragging rights or publicity, since we write under pen-names and no one knows who we really are. (I'd rather not have all of campus know me as 'that gay guy in the newspaper who always writes about his love of sucking dicks,' thank you very much.)
So how did we get this column? Long story short: freshman year I thought I wanted to study journalism. So I took a bunch of journalism courses, and that's where I met Devon. Bitch and Moan was supposed to be a throw-away, one-time assignment that we created together for one of our classes. But our professor liked our 'tone' and our 'chemistry,' and he ended up sharing our assignment with the student newspaper people over at the Dakota Student. The editor over there liked it, too. He asked us if we wanted to run a weekly column in the paper. We said sure, why not? And so last year was our first year in the paper. The campus loves us. We're a hit.
Now, since then, I've actually realized that journalism is not the path for me. Basically, my beef with journalism is that all the courses focus too much on the 'money' part of media, and not so much on the how to be a good reporter aspect. The j-school is more concerned with teaching you about advertising, and gatekeepers, and not pissing off the guy who signs your paycheck by covering some story that he'd rather his readers not find out about. Basically, it was all a little too 'big business' for little ol' me.
So, at the end of last year, my sophomore year, I officially switched my major to psych. (Yeah, like everyone else and their brother.) I'm not sure what I'm gonna do with that psych degree once I've got it, but … all I know is I love the idea of helping people, and if I could do that professionally? Then life would be amazing.
For as long as I can remember, my friends have always sought me out whenever they needed life advice, and that's a damn good feeling! They say I can see things objectively. Cool. (If only I could see my own life's problems objectively! Ha ha / weep.)
So that's why I keep writing for Bitch and Moan, even though I'm going down a different path now. That, and I love hangin' out with Devon.
Oh, right. There's one more wrinkle in this fold: if I complete one more j-school course, I'll graduate with a minor in journalism. Might as well, right? Who knows, maybe if I get licensed someday, that minor could actually lead to something bigger. Like, say, I dunno, a nationally syndicated column, like Dear Abby or Savage Love or something. You never know!
So this semester, I'm taking an independent study course in journalism to fulfill that requirement. Which is great, because I don't have to attend class – all I do is get assignments from Stan, the student newspaper editor. And we're supposed to meet sometime next week to discuss my final assignment. Wheee! My last journalism course. I'm pumped, to say the least.
I'm supposed to find out what that assignment is any day now … and I can't wait.
2
Stan the Man
– Lane –
An hour later.
Devon stood up from her chair and stretched. “Alright, Lane, it's about to turn six.” She pressed and held the power button until her computer chimed and shut down. “You know my rule. I don't stay any later than six on a Friday.”
She didn't have to twist my arm; I shut my computer down in a hurry, too. “Sounds good. I'm starved, anyway. I'll finish up on Monday.”
“So, if you're not doing anything tonight, you wanna hang out?” Devon asked while we stuffed our backpacks with our belongings. “We could head out to the ba~ars!”
I zipped my backpack up and shrugged. “Sure. Sounds great.”
“Perfect. With Paulo out of the picture, I could be your wingman!”
“Y'know.” I paused with a contemplative sigh. “Honestly, I think I just need a break from meeting guys. I need to get myself straightened out.”
“Sure.” Devon stifled a laugh. “I give you seven hours.”
“Hey, c'mon!”
We headed for the door. I reached for the handle, but before I could grab it, the door flew open. I had to leap back. Stan, the student editor of the Dakota Student, came rushing in.
“Hi!” Stan said, sounding like he sprinted over.
Stan is tall and skinny, and I mean skinny – so any clothes, no matter the cut, always end up looking baggy on him. He also practically lives in the journalism building. I don't think he ever goes home.
“Shit, Stan! You almost crushed me.”
“Er. Sorry. Heh.” Stan looked sheepish, always hiding his eyes under his long bangs. “But uh, you're probably gonna wanna hear this. Something just came down from above and I've got your final assignment for your independent study.”
“Hmm. Can it wait 'til Monday? We were just heading out.”
“Umm, I'd rather you hear this first. It's kinda important and it'll only take a sec.”
“Fine.” I dropped my backpack in defeat and plopped back into my computer chair. “Dev, you can go on without me, if you want.”
“You kidding?” She dropped her backpack and took a seat, too. “This sounds juicy already. I'm stayin'.”
Stan shut the door and leaned his wiry frame against it. He jingled keys and coins and god knows what else was in his pockets.
“Okay.” Stan chuckled nervously. “You're not gonna believe this.”
I propped my chin up with my hand. “Just tell me already, Stan.”
“Alright. So. I know you're not a fan of sports.”
I already didn't like where this was going.
“… To put it mildly, no, I'm not.” I caught Devon's eye and we exchanged expressions.
Stan whipped his bangs out of his eyes. “But I just got off the phone with the head of PR over at the Athletics office.”
“Okay, and?” I blinked at Stan. “Keep going.”
“He told me that there's an athlete here at UND who wanted a reporter to follow him around and write an expose on him.”
I laughed. “An expose on what?”
“He's kind of a big deal, I guess.” Stan didn't look too certain himself. “All I know is they want the article to coincide
with an award that's given to the best college player in the nation.”
“So … they're assuming he'll win that award, then?”
“Sounds like it.”
I scoffed. “Giant ego – check.”
Stan shrugged. “Maybe his agent told him it'd be a good idea?”
“College athletes have agents?”
“I know as much as you do, Lane.”
“Okay. So what's this gotta do with me? Because I know you're not saying what I think you're saying right now.”
“Well!” Stan clapped his hands together and rubbed them furiously. “Actually, I am telling you that! You're the man for the job.”
Stan swallowed uncomfortably. As if he knew how crazy he sounded, too. Was this a joke?
“No.” I laughed with disbelief. “No. I am not the guy for the job, Stan. I don't know a thing about sports.”
“Believe me, I know it.”
“Wait, what sport are we even talking about, anyway?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
“Hockey.” Stan grinned toothily.
“Hockey!” I howled, slapping my palm against my desk. “Here's everything I know about hockey, Stan: a bunch of angry men punch each other and skate around on ice, all while chasing a little, uh – a little black thing … Shit, I forgot. What's it called?”
“The puck,” Devon volunteered.
“Right. Puck. Thanks Dev.”
With a mousy face, she gave me the thumbs up. “No prob.”
“See that, Stan? I didn't even know the word for puck. And yet I'm the first person you thought of for this assignment? Are you nuts?! Ask any one of the sportswriters on this newspaper if they'd do this and they'd leap at the opportunity …!”
“Correction.” Stan raised his index finger. “You are not the first person I thought of for this assignment. In fact, you're the last.”
