Somewhere, someplace, in some mystical, magic land, the fashion fairy waits to whisk young girls away and teach them things like how to match colors, style their hair, and put on make-up that doesn't look like color-blind Rose Tyler did it left-handedly in the back of a moving TARDIS dodging Daleks in the dark*. There they learn how to be good little girls and adorable princesses and sweetie-pies and cutie-patooties, and learn the benefits of Good Behavior, Perfect Posture, and—most importantly—how to unleash the power of the Color-Coordinated Purse & Shoes Ensemble*.
…needless to say, the fashion fairy never came for me*. Apparently my mother didn't leave enough cookies or shit for her. Prerna's mother, on the other hand, didn't just leave cookies she bought the bitch a whole damn bakery.
Fun fact: Did you know that the brain processes images in as little as 13 milliseconds? Eyes are awesome! Did you also know that the part of the brain responsible for the sexual arousal to visual stimuli literally shuts down the visual cortex* and everything else? These boots were made for fucking, people.
[This SciShow dose brought to you by Ida Anderson. To keep getting smarter with us, follow us on Subbable* or click subscribe!]
Ida, Ida, you're asking me, what's with all the nerdy asides?
Prerna "Foxy Minx" soon to be Anderson née Prashad, that's what.
I heard the door creak open behind me and whipped around, snapping the Red Book of Westmarch closed to hide my growing guilt/insanity…not that I need to've bothered. Prerna emerged slyly from the bedroom with an impish grin to say she knew she looked positively gorgeous, thank you very much, and would be accepting due worship, applause, and general mindless, sweaty, chaffing fuckery at her leisure.
…
No, really, I...
But—
WAIT.
—What?
WARNING. WARNING*. SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. HIGHER MENTAL FUNCTIONS SHUTTING DOWN.
[Note: The following narrative prose description of the physiologic response of the female genitalia to visual and/or tactile sexual stimulus has been censored for rating issues. If scientifically interested, see Dr. Lindsay Doe's fantastic Web Series Sexplanations for vernacularly-worded yet clinically accurate edutainment on nipple hardening, localized vascular throbbing, clitoral engorgement, cervical tenting, uterine contractions, and vaginal lubrication.]
Gone was shy, sweet, slightly awkward Prerna the still-in-the-closet-lesbian with her friends and family and some wickedly weird fetish fairy had left Sexy!Prerna in her place. Goodbye, Hermione Granger. Hello, Vina Asparta. Hola, Raina.* She strutted down the hall in 5 inch stilettos, her lipstick combat ready, packing cleavage that could fell an ox at twenty feet and wearing her best smile and brownest eyes*.
"Um, hello?" She said, bemusedly, standing feet from me when blood flow finally started going back through my brain, her painstakingly perfect perfectly-lipsticked lips pulled into the world's most perfect perfectly-lipsticked-lipped grin*. "Earth to Ida!"
"You. Look. Amazing." I managed to grunt*. Jewel-toned, low cut purple silk top over a generous, lacy push-up bra peeking through, form-fitting, high-waisted black pants tucked into the most extravagant pair of high heeled peep-toe sex boots I've ever seen. My girl came out of the closet and GOT. BUSY. "Who are you and what have you done with Prerna Prashad?"
That smile threatened to split her face open*. "Finished yet?"
Given that my bush had just been terraformed into the swamps of Dagobah, I did what any girl would do in the same situation. I shouted "Just about!", glomped her into my lap and snogged her face off.
Literally. Her next words were a wail of "Ida, my lipstick—!"
[So much for that ten minute makeover…]
"So getting all dressed up and sexified is a "look don't touch" deal?" I asked her as she straightened her hair (I still have no idea where she managed to find a patch of Devil's Snare that big in the middle of NYC. Honestly…). "Is that some sort of sexual torture your people invented? Because as a US citizen I'm protected from the cruel and unusual."
"How disappointing," Prerna's eyes nearly disappeared into her liner and false lashes as she touched a deep-purple finger tip to her pouting lips. But this wasn't us—this wasn't her, and within seconds she'd ruined the mood by bursting into giggles and sending a string of snot out her nose.
And that was that. All that effort and instead we were cracking up, gasping, tears rolling down cheeks, clutching each other but in the end we fell off the computer chair a la Casino Royale anyways.
Some people in this instance might have had sex. We had squishy, giggly cuddles.
It's a thing*. You might not find it in the Kama Sutra, but it works for us.
Oh. And she peed herself. Again.
[Bladder: 2; Prerna: 0]
"Again? Really?" I asked as I hauled her into the bathroom to get her cleaned up. She was still laughing so hard she couldn't stand, although the giggles and snorts had turned to groans of belly pain. "Damage assessment?"
Her face and chest flushed my favorite shade of dusky crimson. "You know that scene, with the talking trees—"
"Release the River?" I whistled. "That bad?
"Shut up," she moaned as she changed from ruined lacy lingerie into her usual high-cut cottons. "We're going to be late!"
"Sexy lingerie*?" I raised an eyebrow.
"You know, you could make an effort sometime," she scolded me.
"Hey, I'm not wearing any underwear," I argued as she burst into laughter (and nearly peed herself anew). Which, despite what the movies may tell you, is 100% just plain damn gross. Not only do you have to worry about skid marks and lady jizz on your favorite jeans*, but it makes Spiderman's surprise depantsings as awkward as hell (which is now the main reason I do it, just to watch him squirm in embarrassment/horror at my bush).
But finally we were ready, ring on her finger, paint on her toes, color-coordinated purse in hand, hand in hand, getting ready to walk out of our apartment and into the widening world for the first time as fiancees. So I looked over at her, my Sun-and-Stars, the love of my life*, my Lúthien, this beaming, blushing ball of excitement and hormones who'd be my bride, and I asked the singular, burning question that'd been on my mind since she'd come out earlier in the evening so openly:
"Prerna, sweetie, can you even walk in those things*?"
*Forget the Daleks, BEWARE THE CLUMPS. But ye ol' Tits&Teeth was my first companion, so it's hard to hate her—and yes. I started watching after the 2005 reboot. 'MURICA!
*HAWT DAMN.
*Same with my tits, Prince Fucking Charming and my Hogwarts Letter, as Scott used say. As an aside, he also used to say I inherited our dad's tits…he stopped when I started telling his prospective girlfriends/fucktoys he'd gotten his dick from our mom.
*Your Amygdala: Fuck eyes. Fuck ALL THE THINGS! (Insert Allie Brosh caption here.)
*Because 2014, and "patrons on " just doesn't have the same ring to it.
*Fucking YOWZA. Do not, at this point, Yowz.
*Well, you've certainly illustrated the diversity of the word.
*My ladybits went from 0 to Defcon1 quicker than as many licks as it takes an owl to get to the center of a tootsie pop (that um, that was actually a lot dirtier sounding than I meant it to be). And no, fyi, I'm most assuredly NOT in the habit of referring to my clit as 'Will Robinson', although in this case the analogy is rather apt.
*And if you don't get those references, then clearly you haven't read enough Salman Rushdie or Rainbow in the Dark. What's that, you ask? It's an Indie comic, motherfuckers. Go buy it immediately. Why, you ask? Because it's the graphic novel that Gotham needs, and also the one she deserves. Essentially a My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Twilight Sparkle/Rainbow Dash slash fanfic told in the manner of Lisa Frank meets Frank Miller. And it's everything you could ever want it to be.
[I would've gone with Amanita but it was 2014, dammit, and sense8 hadn't come out (pardon the pun) yet. And given how much time travel/transdimensional shit was about to go down, this story doesn't need any unnecessary anachronisms…]
*Well you've certainly illustrated the diversity of the word.
*Hey, I'm Caucasian. Odds are I'm AT LEAST 3% Neanderthal, so give a girl some credit, will you?
*You can forget the TARDIS. I know where the crack in Amy's wall came from…
*Just ask Sherlock.
*Yeah, right. With as many accidents as that girl has, she can't wear sexy underwear any longer than it takes for me to slide them off her.
* TMI, Ida. TMI. Also, as I'm writing this, I distinctly remember the tag making my ass itch.
*And liver! If you've never read DIGGER, then you're missing out on some of the greatest one-liners in the history of webcomics, not to mention this little cross-cultural gem: "My darling, my carrion-scented flower, you gnaw my liver—let us enter into a binding legal contract together until the stars fall from the sky, as determined in subparagraph F, section 12." (Blood and Shale, NO!)
*My girl was very, very, and I mean very fond of flats and other practical footwear for a job that kept her on her tiny feet all day.
