The other day, I was at Red Robin for what was at least the fifth time this month because I can’t just kill myself in one afternoon like everyone else, I have to do it as slowly and with as much ranch dressing as possible. While trying to pretend my turkey burger was something more than a feeble attempt to offer the illusion that I’m health conscious as long as there’s cheese, I was told that I should start writing about gender misconceptions but…in a way that’s funny.
I chewed on it, but couldn’t get excited about it. Mostly because repeating patriarchy over and over again or spelling ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ is never funny or even remotely enlightening. The last time I boarded that ship, I tried convincing my ex’s best friend that women are equal to men, but the response I got was something along the lines of, “Yeah, but that doesn’t apply in the real world.” I shrugged it off, because since this was coming from someone in their fourth year of community college, their concept of the real world was not one I was concerned with. But then I started thinking about what I could get excited about, and that, of course, is uncircumcised cock.
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I bought a pussy pump.
There’s no dignified way to pose with a pussy pump. I tried, and it just looked like I was posing for my senior portrait with a football that I was really proud of. I was tempted to take a picture of my actual hot dog bun, simply because it looked like my vagina sprouted this supremely cool and sexy tumor, but I’m not getting paid enough (read: at all) for that, so my other lips will have to do.
I knew that engorged cunts were a thing, but since I didn’t care for the look, I never thought of trying it. Then, I read that female pumping could lead to more intense orgasms, and since I would drown the Cadbury Bunny if it meant my vagina would benefit, I started shopping. Initially, I felt weird about buying one, because I knew this meant that I was just a few clicks away from from buying a leather bridle set and diving into pony play. But so far I have no desire to to put blinders on (except for you know, the metaphorical ones I have when it comes to my life) while sucking a dick so I think I’m safe.
My pump came with an instructional DVD and I got through about 20 seconds until I saw Ron Jeremy talking about my “plump wet pussy,” at which point I had to turn it off before entertaining the idea of using my pussy pump to gouge out my eyes so I could somehow unsee the chicken salad sandwich living in Ron Jeremy’s mustache. So, since that was rendered useless, I gathered the basics and went to it.
I knew I had to approach pussy pumping with caution. Mostly because I wasn’t sure if I would even like it, but also because I didn’t want my boyfriend to look at my bouncy house vagina and run away in horror. Oh, plus, I could’ve permanently turned my coffee bean into the stomach of an overweight Labrador. Luckily, when I tried it on myself in private, I responded positively. As expected, my boyfriend approached the whole thing like he was the Will It Blend? guy, but with a boner. At first, he started pumping like he was filling up a flat bike tire but once I told him it was causing my uterus to slide out, he slowed down to a less deadly pace.
The discomfort I predicted occurred early on but was quickly replaced by arousal. Despite my skepticism, my entire panty hamster filled the cup and after 15 minutes (the maximum amount of pumping time recommended), I experienced an extreme jump in sensitivity. My orgasm took about half the time to achieve and there was even a reported gain in tightness.
Get one — but if you do, don’t put it on your face because it could get stuck and you could panic and then have to wrestle with it for awhile until you get it off and then deal with the reality of a face hickey that will stay with you for the rest of the day.
Earlier this week, I hit the very artery from which copious amounts of bone chilling cautionary tales gush about what happens when you piss in the face of consensual relationships and decide to get a cat. This artery is better known as Cat People, a fairly low budget special on Animal Planet that documents the lives of show cats and their life partners. 
I got through only about half of the show on my high horse, pitying these people for turning their cats into giant dildos that they lube up and use for their own personal enjoyment. Then I realized, I have a lot of cat stuff (shirts, figurines, plates–the usual fare for any budding Gary Ridgway) and am probably one Tabby away from perming and bleaching my hair, dressing like Barry Gibb and taking my cat to Sears so I can share a loving embrace in front of a delicately diffused background that just happens to compliment our eyes.
I blame my dad, because years ago, he bought me a t-shirt in NYC that said “Cats Fifth Avenue” with a stylishly dressed cat on the front…shopping. Thinking back, I guess I can’t really fault him, because all he was doing was making a hunch that maybe his daughter, who practiced slow dancing to Boyz II Men with her life size Bugs Bunny stuffed animal just in case the opportunity ever arrived, would enjoy a nice cat pun on a t-shirt. Unfortunately, he was right.
Still, I never thought I was one of those people. The kind who refers to their cat as a PMSing teenager and then takes a private bath with them in their cat themed bathrobe. And I’m not, but that could be because I don’t actually have a cat…yet.
The dangerous thing about cat people is that the pictures they keep in their wallet of their cat dressed up like a pumpkin for Halloween are cute until you find out that the wallet was made by collecting materials from its hairballs and you touched it. Then, you see a list about why cats are better than people and only then do you realize that you should’ve never loaned out your favorite cashmere sweater to one of them because it’s probably being used as ceremonial de-flowering sheath this very moment. How do I know that? Probably because some of the items on the list look like this:
- You don’t have to worry that your cat will do drugs or join a gang
- Your cat usually won’t leave you for another human
- Light petting is always enough to satisfy a cat
- Cats won’t drink beer and pass out on the bathroom floor
- Cats don’t brag about whom they have slept with
Even though I was reading this in my own home, I still wanted to slowly back out of the room. The content is obese with vivid details concerning the reasons why every relationship ever in a cat person’s life dissolves because of drug abuse, infidelity, or most likely…cat obsession.
I know I’m probably alienating a lot of people here, but this will just make my “America sucks and it’s your fault” post go down a little easier so…count your blessings?
I’m not a feminist, and while we’re at it, I’m clearly not a Christian. I minored in Women’s Studies in college, which is just another thing defensive white people say, along with “Some of my best friends are black” in order to prove to everyone that they’re socially aware and not like all those other white people who are in the KKK. I don’t regret it, since I learned a lot of what I should’ve already known, because while it’s cool that history focuses solely on how George Washington was a fucking badass, it would be nice if Nancy Reagan saying “No” to drugs wasn’t the only example of women making a difference.
I wouldn’t say that I’m scared to write this post, even though I know I’m putting myself at risk of being attacked by droves of 20- something grad students marching to Ani DiFranco’s Not A Pretty Girl as they hold me down and make me wear reusable pads, I just don’t want to be misunderstood. The thing is, choosing to opt out of calling myself a feminist somehow means that I don’t support women’s rights and am part of the “You can’t rape a slut” group, which is not much different than assuming that I would illegally purchase methamphetamines or use an escort service while touting family values because I’m not a Christian.
I actually used to be an avid feminist, because I was in a shitty relationship and I figured that feminists don’t have shitty relationships. So, somehow claiming a label without context meant that I would suddenly stop trying to escape by watching Roots and thinking, “That could be nice.” Of course, I was wrong, and instead of getting myself out of the situation, I just felt ashamed every time I sacrificed my own happiness for convenience because it felt like Lucretia Mott herself was looking down on me with disgust and all I could come back with was, “nice beard.”
Eventually, I packed my suitcase of feminist platitudes and hauled it into my current relationship, only to discover that he didn’t refer to himself as a feminist. From this, a conflict sprouted in which I flew off the handle because although our beliefs paralleled one another, he chose not to assign an innocuous term to the bundle of truths he subscribed to, and that made me uncomfortable. We went through the usual play list–female genital mutilation, Purity Balls, and sex trafficking. We both agreed on their collective ability to provoke both rage and nausea, only difference being that he didn’t find it necessary to refer to this visceral reaction as “feminism” and that pissed me off.
For years, I cultivated my defensiveness–always ready to blame everything on patriarchy and Miss America Pageants, so when he said that these were human issues, not women’s issues, I lost it because it sounded like, once again, women’s issues were being put into an empty room labeled, “People who care.” I fervently tried to defend my position but in doing so, I realized that feminism, like everything else, is composed of numerous pockets of self interest that are ultimately exclusionary and contradictory. While I never would’ve admitted it then, I was having a hard time finding the reasons why feminism should even exist as an entity because when it came down to it, I was only defending a word, and that’s certainly not a business I want to be a part of. Being an R Kelly fan or two-time winner of the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest are both interchangeable with “feminist” because ultimately, none of it changes the chemistry of what I believe.
I know that there are people out there who legitimately believe that women are inferior or that equality has been reached so we should all sew up our mouths, open our cunts, and shut the fuck up. But those people also fall into a unique Venn diagram in which “People who will die of Rabies” and “People who own the Fast and the Furious Franchise Collection on DVD” intersect, so I feel safe in knowing that life has punished them enough without me quoting The Feminine Mystique. Sure, those people are assholes, but assholes come in all different shapes and sizes, some of them just happen to wear sweatshop free “This is what a feminist looks like” t-shirts made of organic cotton.
I’ve peed on a lot of different things. The beach, the street, and right next to the “Welcome to Colorado” sign (which has unfortunately been documented in photos). In each case, I had to pull my pants as far forward as I could, hope that I wouldn’t wet myself, and deal with the inevitable disappointment upon realizing that I had…wet myself.
Luckily, GoGirl recently sent me a sample of their product, which means that my pants are now free from the threat of being soaked with urine.
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