I will admit it, I’m an awkward girl.  I’ll say goodbye to someone and then walk in the same direction as them with a stupid grin on my face.  I’ve messed up high fives more times than should be legally allowed.  I’ve called my roommates good friend (whom I’ve known for months) “Tyler,” when his name is “Lucas”…HOW DO YOU MESS THAT UP?  I’m able to take a perfectly normal moment and transform it into a typical scene in any Wes Anderson film (it’s a gift). The trouble is, I don’t realize how incredibly dorky I must look until looking back, and slapping my forehead accordingly.

So by the rules of physics (which I am unsurprisingly sucky at) it would only make sense that I would take this persona I’ve been cursed blessed with and apply to almost every sexual encounter I’ve experienced.  Well, of course, the beginnings are more of learning experiences rather than “fun timez.”   Now let’s time travel back 7 years when it all began…

Cue the hazy flashbacks and dream-like sound effects.

It’s 2002.  I am 12 years old and in 6th grade.  According to the more experienced middle-schoolers on the playground, I had a “boyfriend.”  This boy would talk to me on AOL (yeah…old skool), but we wouldn’t dare even look at each other during school.  I was so nervous to have a boy like me, I was completely unaware of how I should act around him.  Even at school basketball games together I was so scared just to sit by him because maybe he’d put his arm around me! (OMGG!!)  So one day I decided I needed to break out of my shell a bit.  My good friend lived by his friend, and on weekends I naturally spent most of the weekend there trying to make plans to have us all meet up and hang out.  For the 4 months we supposedly dated, this “weekend hang-out plan” worked literally 1 time.

That night my mom called me asking me our plans for the night, and I told her we were going to see a movie (lie). What I was really doing was sneaking out with my one friend to meet up with my “boyfriend” and his friend.  This rush I got from lying to my mom for the first time sent me on this adrenaline high of “I’M SO EFFIN’ COOL I CAN DO ANYTHING! I’M A REBEL!”  Later that night we eventually met up, and, as was naturally destined for me, it was awkward.  I’m pretty sure there was an unspoken agreement between the group that me and my “boyfriend” should seal the deal and KISS!

I can definitely say that feeling “nervous” was an understatement.  We stood there in the backyard in the dark for what seemed like hours in the middle of an mid-April night, as our friend sat on the curb of the street under the streetlight patiently waiting for the deed to be done.  It was chilly and I didn’t have a sweater, so I decided I was sick of being cold and waiting for my first kiss, so I leaned in so he’d get the idea.  He definitely got the idea, and as I was slowly ready for my first kiss to happen, even schizophrenically hearing the tune to “Dreams” by Cranberries in my head, that record scratch sound came into play at that very moment.

Instead of demonstrating a sweet (and normal) peck to be given, I felt something wet.  Huh? WTF David Blane?  He. Licked. My. Mouth.

He didn’t even start with a normal peck and move his tongue around, like an inexperienced 6th grader might.  He straight up licked my mouth like a melting ice cream cone in August.  Maybe he was expecting a sexified makeout session, or maybe he was expecting a normal kiss but started it off wrong?  Was it wrong that I was expecting just a peck?  So as a mature middle-schooler I was, I decided to stop… and start screaming.  I walked out of there wiping my mouth and ran to my friend so she’d get the idea that we had to leave NOW. 

I realize this story should be called “Seven Years After” instead of “The Morning After,” but I also know that first kisses tend to stick around in everyone’s memories. And this one just had to be shared. Anyone else have some first kiss horror stories?

My tongue ruminated on memories of peanut sauce and bean sprouts, quickly tasting each dish with which it was presented and re-shelving the phantom platter for a later craving. When my eyes came to rest on the Spicy Green Curry, I knew my mouth had found what it wanted.

Something in me was telling me that this was the dish I should order, despite the warning label under the menu description advertising this as a “very spicy dish.” Or maybe precisely because of that label.

As I barreled my way through that burning sensation that was my breakfast, I wondered why on Earth I was doing this to myself. There was so much spice that I could barely taste anything else. There were hints of coconut milk here, and eggplant there, but mostly my mouth was a wasteland of curry on fire.

That got me thinking about my whole relationship with spicy food. I can’t say that I really like how it tastes. So why do I love eating it?

As a child, if I thought I saw even one speck of pepper in a dish, I wouldn’t eat it. I hated hot food. It burned. It hurt. I had good common sense. Except there was always this nagging part of me that said, “You are Jamaican. You are supposed to like spicy food.”

Nowadays, telling me that an item is superspicy is like dangling catnip in front of a cat. I have gulped chunks of wasabi, gobbled whole jalapeno peppers, and guzzled teaspoons of hot sauce on request. I make a great show of being unaffected by the fact that my head is imploding.

I think it goes along with some unrequited need for a rite of passage. I put it right up there with my extra piercings, substance experimentation, and tattoos. There is something about spicy food that says, “I am no longer a child,” even if it doesn’t quite say, “I am an adult.” I am subjecting myself to the pain simply to prove that I can do it.

Don’t we all have our little tests of self-mutilation? Like stalking around on stilettos for the entire day, or going through cramps with no Midol, or running the entire five miles even though the last six months have been spent lazily on the couch?

However much I have to suffer, it doesn’t look like I’m going to stop eating spicy foods anytime soon. The other day I ate half a block of cheese full of jabanero peppers. Yum.

If you’re feeling adventurous (or slightly masochistic), here’s a recipe for some Jerk Chicken that will scorch your tastebuds.

[photo from img.timeinc.net]

Saturday night: You’re at a frat party. You just won three consecutive games of beer pong. You don’t think twice about drinking your cups, despite the fact that you’ve seen the ball land in other peoples’ used cups, roll along the basement floor, and watched the ball pass between thirty-something unwashed hands.

What gives?!?

Obviously, beer pong isn’t the most sanitary party game out there. But you have the “water cup,” right? That cup of tepid, dirty water is totes gonna disinfect that old, recycled ping pong ball (that was most likely found under someone’s bed 10 minutes before party time). Or not.

Some microbiology students at George Washington University decided to test exactly how detrimental to your health beer pong can be. If you like beer pong, you may want to skip this article.

After a somewhat mild night of beer pong, consisting of eight students and thirty beers, the budding scientists collected samples from each of the beer pong cups and the water cup. What’d they find? A haven for germs. Bacteria from the E. Coli, salmonella, and pneumonia families were present in every single test tube containing samples from the game. Oh, and that water cup that everyone used to clean the balls? That was the most infected, and housed the most bacteria growth over night.

This study centered on beer pong only, but what about other potentially sickening games? When’s the last time you did a kegstand, putting your mouth on the tap that’s been who-knows-where after a dozen other people slurped down a few seconds worth of brew? How about the time you stood in for flip cup, and rotated through other peoples’ cups round after round?

We put our mouths everywhere when there’s cheap beer involved (and some of us really put our mouths everywhere), but we’re super cautious about where we place our ASS when we’re in a public place? Just some food for thought.

Not that you have to quit beer pong — hell, no! To be just a tad cleaner, change out the water cups and beer pong balls throughout the night, and keep your own beer cup to drink out of after the ball hits (just dump the shot’s worth of beer into your own cup).

Alcohol is bad enough for your immune system; don’t give germs a better opportunity to take up residence in your body.