What A Mess: Rob Tries Grad-School

EDITORS NOTE: In this adventure, Rob decides on a whim to go to graduate school. A few weeks of poor-itude and homelessness later, and after an awkward "casual" encounter that was never meant to be, he gives up. Here is his story. (If you have any advice for Rob please post it here so everyone can read it.)

Being a liberal arts major has many advantages and many downfalls, perhaps the most pressing of which (given our recess/depression) is the difficulty in finding a suitable job. As I was reading an article about this struggle the other day, I was disappointed that no one had shown it to me last month, that is, before the tale I am about to recount occurred. Because of this very problem, and in hopes of falling upon a Mecca of success and happiness, I hastily enrolled into the Philisophy & Psychoanalysis MA program at the New School For Social Research.

I had applied to this particular school quite haphazardly last October. The school, as it is known to do, "lost" several of my forms and finally accepted me two weeks before classes were to start; in an email-my physical letter arrived last week while I was already on the east coast.

When I arrived in New York and realized that I was poor, jobless and living on my friends' brother's futon, my spirit began to sink. The plan was to take out a student loan and use some of the money for a deposit on an apartment, or, in other words, "making New York work." Quick-fix Buzz and I resolved to find sweet jobs to secure an apartment. I figured that this would enable me to forget the fact that I was about to acrue more debt that I could swallow (as undergrad put me into a tight hole) but I assumed that I would be able to make it up in no time. Probably the biggest ego-boost was getting a call back from New York Actors Rep after I auditioned to be an extra for a Red Lobster commercial. 

I quickly realized after the first week of classes that my my jaunt into the New School had been predicated on my previous love of school, but that I in no way, shape or form ever wanted to obtain a MA in philosophy. It wasn't just that however, being in school was the "easy way" out of my joblessness and working through this economic shitstorm.

The bottom line is that graduate school should never be forced as it is NOT the answer to self-esteem problems. It is something that should be done out of genuine interest or a desire for career advancement, not out of desperation. After realizing that I had done just that and put myself into a situation of helplessness, if nothing else, I got drunk at a friend's one night and answered a casual encounter on craigslist that led me to the apartment of a haggard Brazilian located here:

It was 1:00 am, I was drunk, confused and feeling desparate; but not that desparate. When I saw this person's face through the glass door of the building, I bolted and hid in a dentist's office parking lot around the block for about ten minutes. I don't know what I was expecting but I certainly was not sleeping with what I got. The dude looked like Celia Cruz and Marc Anthony's love child. I didn't know what to do! I was alone in the middle of nowhere, it was late and I actually felt like I had nowhere to go. I slipped into a nearby bar for a whiskey while I thought. Luckily for me, none of these impositions were a problem becaue none of my friends in the New York area were answering their phones. I got into the first cab I saw, and they took me about a mile out of the way to switch taxi drivers before bringing me to Red Hook to shamefully sleep on the futon once again. If I wasn't broke before that night I certainly was now.

I woke up the next morning feeling filthy and guilty, more down on my luck than ever. So Buzz and I arrived at a simple solution; we fled back to Woodstock, for we both knew that another weekend of good times was the cure to our lament. And with that bus ride went my dreams of big-city success, education and dolla' dolla' bills. I'm currently in beautiful Delmar, NY, writing on the very computer that fell six feet to the pavement a few weeks before. I had been scared to turn it on because it's new and I thought I had fucked up royally, but it's working fine. This cheers me up a little, because I literally have no money and I don't want to go home. I guess what's next in the cards for little Robbie has yet to be dealt.

OWI Weekend, ec cet'ra

Rob goes to court-ordered overnight alcohol counseling.

The Polk County OWI Weekend was designed more than twenty years ago so that Iowa could free-up its jails, and make a few bucks on the side. I arrived Friday afternoon at the Bavarian Inn to begin my 48 hour incarceration, remarking that I'd never seen such a classy jail site. I had, however, seen such a collection of corn-pone bumpkins many times before. The fashionable ones wore NorthFace fleeces, and I think everyone thought I was poor because I wore my grandfather's hopelessly moth-eaten cardigan all weekend.

For our class sessions, I sat at a table in the corner next to a young man who I thought was a little autistic and an older man who was easily 100 pounds overweight and, to my knowledge, drank nothing but Coca-cola all weekend. I quickly discovered that my roomate snored like a cement mixer full of bottle rockets, and although I had fantasies of blugeoning him in the night so that I could maybe get an hour of sleep, I knew if would get me sent home-no refund.

I learned quickly that staying away for fifteen hours of "class" was going to be no easy task. The first day we killed 45 minutes while all of the offenders put on different levels of beer goggles and tried to walk heel-to-toe along a taped line. I refused. Then, during the instructional video's examples of "songs about preoccupation with alcohol," several people brought up someone named Brad Paisley and agreed what a good show he put on. I guess I just didn't fit in with my fellow offenders.

As contradictory as it seems, I was the only one who could stomach the food without complaining, and the only one who wasn't concerned enough with the motel's hygiene to put on shoes or even socks when coming down to the lobby for the morning breathalizer.

Class consisted of lectures from our overly-enthusiastic instructor, who I call Chief John because he exclaimed that "The native populations in America hoot and holler because alcohol goes into their systems faster." You see, he liked to interject many anecdotes and tidbits with his lectures. He even introduced several terms that I had never heard and was therefore forced to invent definitions for, including: "acid reflex"-the inherent reaction one has when another throws acid in the face and "battered women syndrome"-a condition in which one experiences digestive discomfort from eating too many battered womens, often leading to acid reflex. He was also prone to using the phrases "ec cet'ra" and "Does that make sense?" I wasn't comfortable enough with him or my classmates to point out that no, it usually did not.

Instead I admired the paintings around the motel, including two identical likenesses of Neuschwanstein Castle, both taller and wider than my body lenth, which hung in the conference room. Lunch both days consisted of mystery meat sandwiches that tasted like they had been dropped on the floor and stepped on with a bare foot. Even this decrepid escape from class was ruined by my overhearing Chief John in the background, "You know if a horse died and you weren't going to eat it, you'd send it down river to the next people. Pretty soon the pilgrims realized that it was better to live upstream."

The whole thing was almost surreal, and I knew that I would just have to keep quiet and wait it out until freedom rang Sunday afternoon. So that's exactly what I did, amidst the conversation which exhibited a lot of double negatives and not pronouncing the -g- at the end of words. In fact, most of my new friends seemed to have rarely, if ever, ventured outside of their social trailer park to consider any social phenomena beyond the fact that men play sports and women make scrapbooks. By the time 5:00 Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was delirious. I still didn't know where I was and it felt odd to speak from my lack of doing so for 48 hours. But I had survived, and I couldn't have felt more ready to go home for a night of scrapbooking.

The Freight-Train Has Sounded (choo-choo!)

While the queer community has always been instrumental in introducing me to the awesome and perverse world of alternate sexual experimentation and practices, yesterday my roommate introduced me (the everly-perverted curious) to the world of urethral penetration, also known as "sounding". Within the heteronormative sphere I would generally be described as a straight woman [although I would never refer to myself in such constricting terms] it is not abnormal for me to involve myself in a conversation that touches on a variety of rituals from double-ended dildo play, male bodied female sexualization and vice versa, or even, oh, I don't know, anal fisting? I mean, after all, I do live here. But in truth, the term sounding was a completely foreign term for my meager vocabulary and it altogether crashed a train through my mutually exclusive deviance and virtue.

My roommate, a queer femme sex educator in a poly relationship with a male bodied female identified person (yeah, go ahead, read that again and go get yourself a snack) has been the information super bi-way for me and my other roommate. Yesterday, she indulged us in yet another one of the experiences she had with her partner which works both as our daily dose of gossip and an ordinarily modest amount of Q & A. However, I was more than a little perplexed when she went on to explain the extremely pleasurable encounter she had watching them "sound". My mind explored a great many possibilities of what that might mean, but it definitely never even broached the subject of urethral penetration. Upon a lot of investigation, my roommate patiently mollycoddled my array of questions and encouraged me to research the practice on my own.

This is what I've learned:

Sounding, an oft-taboo practice even for a weathered participant of the BDSM lifestyle, is the practice of imbedding long, thin, and surgical steel rods, called "sounds", into the urethra. In practice, an indivudual wishing to try this out should never use household objects for experimentation, as you risk breaking the object or omitting poison or bacteria into your body (a big turn-off if you ask me). Stainless steal sounds are ordinarily recommended because they are easy to clean and won't break inside of you.

Sounders should also be sure to use a lot of lube, as the sound is prone to be a painful procedure if the urethra is not properly dilated. This can in turn cause tearing of the fragile tissue which could be dangerous if forced too deeply. Lubrication allows the sound to more easily slide into the urethra, however the width and length of the sound is a personal preference so if it is not easily inserted, a shorter and narrower sound may be necessary. Silicone based lubricants are best to use since they last the longest in use and generally do not contain any sort of sugar, which is masked as glycerin in many commercial lubricants. For this reason, saliva should also be avoided because it dries quickly and also contains natural sugars which can lead to urinary tract infections.

Those in the know find that using sounds creates a very pleasurable sensation that is felt upon penetration. They are also gaining popularity among the S&M community as a means of power play. When used on a male-bodied person, certain sounds make reaching erection very difficult, therefore if the penis begins to engourge, the individual inserting the sound is forced to wait until the erection peter's out (haaaa!) to go any further. This underscores the identitied roles of submissive and dominant and can be interchangeable depending on who is in charge of the sound at any given time.

The main concerns in sounding are the prospects of cutting or tearing the urethra and creating an infection. Therefore any sound needs to be cleaned regularly and inserted slowly and carefully each time. Stretching of the urethra is to be expected, and irritation may consequently be a result of this, however if the feelings continue for an extended period of time or the individual experiences blood in their urine, they must seek medical attention.

The most important factor in sounding (and any sexual practice) is the maintenance of communication and safety between you and your partner. Sure, it may sound like a pretty far cry away from good old missionary position, or even, gasp, anal sex, but if you're confident and comfortable enough within your sexuality to experiment with yourself or your partner, anything is possible. So go out there and get it on and get sounded!

SOME FUN FACTS ABOUT SOUNDING:


Van Buren sounds have a pronounced curve at each end, for the purpose of penetrating far into the urethra, eventually reaching the bladder.

Pratt sounds are longer urethral dilators [double ended ones can be as big as twelve inches long] with slightly bent and round ends. These are geared more towards the male bodied user.



The Dittel sound has a flat and rounded end and is the most standard sound on the market. These can be found in many high-end fetish and sex stores.


Hegar sounds have two rounded ends and are moderately short and slightly curved in shape. These are currently the most affordable sound and many of websites sell them in complete sets of up to eight for as little as 40$. These sounds are suitable for the male of female bodied person and are generally considered the most safe. They usually consist of slightly curved double-ended sounds that vary in size to range for the ability and comfort level of the individual. Whether a beginner or an expert these sounds offer the most diversity.

If you are interested in learning more about urethral penetration, please feel free to voice your opinions, experiences, or questions, and be sure to visit the following websites:

BMEzine
UrethralInfo
UrethralPlay

Love,
Lauren