Today is Nick Jonas' 24th birthday.
To celebrate, I've decided to come clean about the five instances in which glancing at his picture on Instagram has led me to experience an intense, often collaterally destructive, full-body orgasm.
WARNING: I have included the inciting photos within this post. If you feel yourself beginning to reach an unexpected, uncontrollable public climax, please attempt to relocate to a more secluded area for the safety of yourself and those around you.
The time I came in Home Depot.
I took a break from work one day to run across the street to Home Depot and buy a small plant to put on my desk and prove to myself I can properly care for a living thing.
Waiting in the checkout line, I opened up Instagram and scrolled past this beaut of a post. Logically, I knew Nick Jonas wasn't pointing at me personally, or staring into my soul, but tell that to my reproductive system.
Before I had a chance to brace myself, I dropped my phone and my succulent. My knees buckled and I tried to grab a nearby shopping cart for stability, but it ended up capsizing on my head. I remained writhing on the floor in front of the register in my own tantric prison and an actual pile of dirt for the next four hours.
Employees in orange vests initially expressed concern, but over the course of the afternoon began stepping over my body as waves of pleasure moved me to twirl on my side, dragging the cart across the cement floor by my skull.
I left without the cactus.
The time I came at my stepmom's funeral.
I prepared a short but touching eulogy for my stepmom's funeral, as my father was too heartbroken to address the congregation.
Some charming anecdotes were stored in the Notes app on my iPhone, but, when I stood at the pulpit and unlocked the screen to access them, my Instagram was already open from earlier that morning.
Confronted with this picture of Nick Jonas' powerful arms, I froze. Suddenly, my stomach clenched and my nips felt like a block of dry ice at an amateur magic show.
I couldn't lift my head to make eye contact with my family and friends, so I just kept my eyes on this photo of Nick in the batting cages and screamed, “NO ONE TOUCH ME,” as I doubled over and fell down the altar steps, knocking over a series of enormous flower arrangements and a massive portrait of my late stepmother.
I was asked by multiple members of my family to please skip the burial.
The time I came during sex.
I know you're thinking, “Taylor! Intercourse is a totally acceptable time and place to lose yourself in a full body orgasm!” but just let me explain.
I was having sex with my boyfriend for the last time before our tragic breakup when an alarm went off on one of our phones a mere two minutes into the action. The sound of my boyfriend gently crying along to the jarring, repetitive radar alarm was overwhelming, and not in a hot way.
Realizing it was my phone making the noise, I reached over to silence it. In an attempt to swipe one of three alarm notification on my lock screen, I biffed it and swiped an Instagram notification instead.
To cheer me up, my friend Lauren had tagged me in this photo of Nick Jonas alongside his “Goat” co-star Ben Schnetzer.
I threw my phone across the room, but not before involuntarily imagining Nick and Ben sharing a passionate and impossibly handsome kiss with lots and lots of face grabbing.
Despite having just begun one last somber, joyless tour of the ol' boneyard, I began to orgasm so hard I looked like the Beast at the end of “Beauty and the Beast,” when beams of enchanted light shoot out of his fingertips and he transfigures back into a human prince.
My boyfriend was forcefully ejected from my vagina and flew across the room, landing in a pile of his own dirty laundry that, if I'm being honest, I still really need him to come pick up from my apartment.
We don't speak anymore.
The time I came in the West 4th Street subway stop.
On my way home from work one evening, I spotted a friend from high school whose Facebook messages I had ignored a few weeks back out of general flakiness.
Playing dumb, I buried my head in my phone and opened up Instagram to fake-occupy my attention. There, in all his frosty glory, was Nick Jonas on a mountain.
Up to that point in my life, I'd had a lot of sexual fantasies about Nick Jonas, but never one that took place on a snowy mountain as Bear Grylls looked on with pride in his eyes.
Just then, as if I'd been transported to an icy Appalachian slope, my butt went totally numb.
An out-of-service train whizzed past where I stood on the platform and the resulting blast of air influenced the rest of my body to join my frozen butt on the mountain in my mind.
When I came to after what was easily the coldest, most invigorating orgasm of my entire life, I stared up at a crowd of commuters (including my high school connection) and MTA workers shouting.
During my pleasure blackout, I had fallen on the tracks.
One good Samaritan tried to jump down and save me, but several families of rats had already crawled beneath my body and were quickly carrying me out of the station and into the network of tunnels beneath New York City.
I lived among the mole people for the following six months.
The time I came at my own Jewish wedding.
I am not Jewish. I was raised a skeptical Catholic and attended years of private Catholic elementary education.
My husband, Avi, however, is Jewish, and it was important to both of us that we honored his religion at our wedding.
When it came time for the Hora, our family members lifted Avi and I up on two wooden chairs hand carved by my uncle to bear our initials.
I glanced around the room at our loved ones having the time of their lives and my heart swelled, until I spotted my cousin Gina standing a few feet away, staring at her phone instead of enjoying the reception. My eyes darted from the back of Gina's head to the phone in her hand, and there on the screen was this delicious photo of Nick Jonas on the cover of Flaunt.
Even perched high atop my my family's shoulders, I could see the definition in Nick's pelvic muscles and my eyes fully dilated.
Immediately, the sound of “Hava Nagila” playing from the speakers slowed to a dull, trudging rumble, and I clung to the sides of the chair. Between the sight of Nick's V and the sensation of being repeatedly tossed up and down, I broke out in a full body sweat. It required every bit of strength I had to remain safely in my seat.
While I strained to keep my vagcanic eruption from incurring any collateral damage, my feet spasmed and I reflexively kicked my new father-in-law hard in the neck.
He fell to the ground as I screamed, “NOOOOOO! I'M SO SORRY!!! NO ONE TOUCH ME, PLEEEEEEASE!!!!!” but it was too late. Avi looked at me with profound disappointment in his eyes, and, in that moment, I knew he'd never forgive me for cumming his dad into a calendar year of spinal therapy.
I left my wedding alone.