(Sally, just skip this. Just don’t even read this. Don’t even think about this one. This above all else. Since I know you have ignored my other warnings and just won’t admit it to me, trust me, don’t read this. You don’t want any of this in your head. Please, please, please do not ignore this warning)
For anyone else who is still reading this story I will warn you this is a little graphic (not 50 Shades of Bullshit graphic, but graphic). Also this story is exceptionally embarrassing for not only myself but the other person involved with the very important life lesson that is set forth. As per usual I will be changing her name to protect her identity and I do hope if she ever reads this story she will forgive me for telling this story because as hilarious as I found it she did not want this story to come out. She and I are not very close anymore and I’m certain that she already hates me so I may as well go for gold on this one. Please enjoy our pain.
Rule #3: Always make sure that you wash your hands after you have cut jalapenos.
After I moved to Tennessee I was immersed in college football lovers. Actually let me amend that statement. After I moved to Tennessee I was immersed in SEC football lovers. For those of you who don’t know what that means, it means if the college football team doesn’t come from a state that says “y’all” and believes good grits are the work of Jesus it doesn’t actually exist. They are adamant about SEC football in Tennessee, and just because we were in Tennessee did not mean they loved the University of Tennessee.
They love Alabama, Auburn, LSU, Tennessee, Florida, South Carolina, all of them. It did not matter. Throughout the regular season an Alabama fan could spew bile about how much he or she hates Auburn, but if Auburn makes it to the National Championship they will root for them because they support the SEC (this phenomenon boggles my mind by the way, I will never root for UNC to win, nor the Yankees to win just because they are in the same conference). They are in love with their football down there and are willing to fight to defend it. It was this contagious excitement they collectively shared for football that I caught slightly the first year I was there.
Now, “Shannon” and I were living together at the time and she and her friends were huge Alabama fans (they weren’t rabid enough to get tattoos of their favorite sports teams, like I am, but they were pretty dedicated). Every Saturday they would get together at Brad and Lindsey’s (not their real names) house to watch Alabama play whatever team they were playing and talk about how they were destined to go to the Championship game yet again. I would sit there and not care about the conversations since I was still a little bitter a lost bet on an Alabama/LSU game was kind of the reason I was in Tennessee in the first place (inconsequential story in the long run, just something I recall). The particular Saturday in question, I don’t remember which team Alabama was playing, but I know it was a huge game since we were having a cookout for it and we were in charge of bringing snack foods. She had decided home made jalapeno poppers were going to be the perfect thing for this game and I, like most normal people, love jalapeno poppers so I was 100% on board for this event.
I had never had homemade poppers (because I am a normal person) and the process intrigued me. You can ask many people I have lived with/dated/grew up with and they will all tell you cooking is not my thing. I do not really cook; I am no good at it. Granted, I never burned ramen noodles like a roommate of mine once did but I am closer to his level than I am Wolfgang Puck’s. I have attempted to cook for women I have dated but I have found it probably more impressive when I just buy food as opposed to giving them food poisoning. She was adamant about making them so she and I sat there, making the delicious cream cheese filled delicacies with ever so careful precision in order to assure the jalapeno to cream cheese ratio was just right and the home made breading would not detract from the spicy, cooling sensation of the treat.
Now she and I had already had our share of problems and issues with our relationship, but at the time of this event we were in the middle of a good period. I didn’t despise being around her and she didn’t appear to think I was cheating on her all the time, physically or emotionally (still don’t know what that means). In all honesty we truly enjoyed each other’s company, at least for the time being. This was good enough for me since we had just spent an entire summer of fighting, bickering, arguing, hating, despising and basically self-torturing ourselves through an already doomed relationship that was being held together by fear and the worry of if I were to leave her she would have a break down so bad she may end up moving to the mountainous woods of Montana and sending pipe bombs to anywhere she thought I may frequent (bars all over the world would have been in trouble).
We placed the soon to be devoured hors d’oeuvres in the oven and patiently sat on the couch waiting for them to be ready to eat. Screw Brad and Lindsey, I wanted these things for myself. I turned on whatever football game was on before the Alabama game (it was probably an SEC game) and we watched as the wondrous scents wafted through the house from the kitchen.
Now, I am not sure if it was the fact she and I were in a good point in our relationship or if it was the scent permeating our little townhouse but both of decided this was the appropriate time to be a little turned on (let’s be honest, it was the poppers). So, we sit on the couch and start making out with the sounds of Brent Mussberger in the background calling the play by play. As things got hotter between us (oh, god, that’s terribly punny), we move upstairs to continue what we were doing.
We fall on the bed and continue making out, picking up right where we left off on the couch. It was intense and passionate. It was like when we first got together again. It felt right.
She starts stripping off my clothes and I am trying to restrain myself from ripping her clothing at the seams just to get them off of her. Soon we were lying there naked, holding each other, bodies pressed tightly together, as we squeezed each other closer. Slowly she reached down and grabbed onto my already exceptionally erect penis and started slowly jerking me off (I hope Sally heeded my warning at the beginning). It was amazing, incredible, sensual. I was in ecstasy. I reached down and slowly ran my fingers inside of her already exceptionally wet vagina and started stroking back and forth.
Slowly she pushed me onto my back and started kissing my neck, moving her way down my chest, stomach, eventually ending by sliding my dick in her mouth and sucking ever so gently.
She was always exceptionally good at this (and I hope her parents aren’t reading this as well, because I am certain nobody wants to hear that about their daughter) and it would make me harder every time, no matter how hard I was before. It is one of my favorite things a woman can do well, but in all honesty, what guy doesn’t feel that way?
So she is going down on me and I am, of course, into it. I had the full body movement going on as she went up and down my shaft with her mouth. Then something started to happen. There was a strange sensation starting to emerge on my penis. At first it was intriguing, then it slowly grew to a mild burning and soon I was in enough discomfort I was trying to figure out what the problem was.
I lay there trying to figure out what the problem was without interrupting her from what she was doing but I needed to figure something out soon because it was growing to a level of discomfort so quickly that soon a different fight would have started (you don’t find me attractive do you?). That was when it hit me! How could I have been so stupid? We were eating fried jalapenos earlier; there must have been some of the jalapeno juice in her mouth that was causing this discomfort to occur. So I stop her from what she was doing so very proficiently down there, pulled her up so our faces were in front of each other and I slid myself inside her.
There was momentary reprieve from the pain that was slowly growing and having me in almost sexually ending pain. We start getting into it even more passionately than before, mainly because it didn’t feel like someone had just dipped my dick in gasoline. My head was back into it, as was the rest of me (if you know what I mean, har, har). Shannon was on top of me, riding away as we grew closer and closer to mutual climax.
Suddenly, as though it came back out of nowhere, the pain returned and it was getting exponentially worse every time she rose up and down. She was flailing in delight while I was attempting to keep tears from falling from my eyes. The pain had grown to a point that I had to stop her (one of my friends back in Virginia at one point chided me for never having cried during sex, as though I was the weird one. I can now say I have done that, just not for the same reasons she had).
“Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I..I..I don’t know,” I said. “It just burns whenever I am in you.”
She understandably looked hurt by that statement, but she also saw the look of sheer pain that was written all over my face.
“Why does it burn?” she asked.
“I think it was from eating the jalapenos and then you going down on me,” I said as the burning continued to grow worse.
“Oh, God baby,” she said. “I am so sor…”
She paused, and her eyes slowly grew wider.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I think you gave it to me.”
(As though it was an STD or something. Of course if you’re going to get one this one it’s probably the easiest one to get rid of.)
The burning had reached a point of being completely unbearable. I got out of bed and ran to the bathroom going through the cabinets looking for anything that would reduce the pain in my groin. I pulled out rubbing alcohol (no), lotion (maybe), lotion with fragrance (probably not), hand soap (maybe), among other things. Shannon ran into the bathroom after me the burning in her groin growing at a rate faster than mine, since she had a constant flow of moisture spreading the spicy film that now coated our genitals.
“What do we do?” she asked.
She was a scientist (not she was a smart person, she was a real scientist) and was asking me, a writer and a server what to do in this situation.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s get into the shower.”
Listen to me when I say this. I want everyone to go get a pen and paper and write down this little piece of advice or bookmark this page or whatever because it may save you an excruciating amount of pain someday. If ever trying to stop the burn of jalapeno oils from your genital region, DO NOT GET INTO A SHOWER!
After only a moment in the shower I was nearly doubled over in pain. I jumped out as quickly as I could and grabbed a towel hanging from the towel rack and wrapped it tightly around my waist, rubbing it gently on my penis as the burn had suddenly worsened by, oh, I don’t know, 1000%. Shannon jumped out almost immediately after me and lay down on the bathroom floor moaning in pain.
I did the only thing I could think to do; I crawled, butt-naked, downstairs to where my computer was and Googled what to do.
Yes, it’s true; Google knows everything.
I ran to the fridge and grabbed the milk out off the lower shelf and poured a huge glass of it.
Shannon had made it downstairs asking me what Google said to do.
“It says to dip it in milk,” I said.
“What about me?” she asked.
“I guess you have to…” I looked down at her vagina and shrugged again.
She grabbed the milk carton and ran upstairs, I sat down on couch and fashioned my body in a way I could dip every part of my genitals into the glass of milk. Almost immediately the pain subsided.
I laughed to myself and wondered if I could convince one of my friends to drink the glass without telling them what had happened to it.
I could breathe once again. I pulled myself out of the glass of dairy and sat back to relax. The pain slowly started to come back so once again I submerged myself back into the glass of milk, with all the grace and tenacity of a teenager who was just told that he could “do it again” after his first time.
I decided it would be best if I just sat there watching the football game with my penis fully submerged. I didn’t want the burning to come back.
Shannon came down a little while later, while I was still sitting there making love to a glass of milk, holding a half full carton of milk. She walked into the kitchen and dumped the rest of it down the sink.
“Feel better?” I asked.
She nodded. “You?”
“I think so,” I said. “I’m afraid to take it out.”
“I understand,” she said.
She sat on the couch next to me and watched the football game. Both of us were naked. I still had my dick in a glass of milk, sitting in a very uncomfortable position but the only one in which I was able to not have a burning sensation and she with her legs spread wide open occasionally fanning herself.
If anyone had walked in they probably would have thought we were getting into Japanese porn (for anyone who doesn’t get that joke, good for you. You are probably a good person).
For the rest of the day I had a slight tingle in my crotchal region and after a while it turned to an almost arousing cooling sensation but I was afraid to attempt to have sex with her for the rest of the day.
I don’t remember who won the football game, like I said, I don’t even remember who they were playing. Even though I had been looking forward to them for so very long that day, I couldn’t bring myself to eat a jalapeno popper, no matter how good they looked. Brad and Lindsey loved them though, as did everyone else at the party. I just stared at them with mild contempt as I remembered we now needed to pick up milk on our way home that night.
So ladies and gentlemen, as with many other things I have learned from failed relationships I wish to share this rule with you:
Rule #3: Always make sure that you wash your hands after you have cut jalapeños.
With the sub rule:
Rule #3a: if you forget Rule #3, never take a shower to fix the pain.