Oh, fuck:
Govs. Pawlenty And McDonnell Apply For Abstinence-Only Funding From Health Law They Opposed:
On Monday, both Virginia Gov. Bob McDonnell (R) and Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty (R) said they would not be applying for funds from the Personal Responsibility Education Program (PREP), which provides states with $55 million for comprehensive sex education programs. Instead, they applied for Title V funding, which has $50 million a year for states to implement abstinence-only education programs. The catch is that in order to get the federal dollars, states must provide a 75 percent match.
I hardly remember what sex education was like at my high school. However, there was a day care for all of the mothers who also happened to be sophomores, so my best guess is that it was a Hell-House-esque journey through photos of herpes sores and shades of avocado discharge.
Sadly, the curriculum even planned for the fact that in order to prove that sex always leads to infectious and in many cases incurable diseases, they’d have to show actual genitals. Their loophole depended upon showing outbreaks worse than the writing on Lopez Tonight, so that most of the sores actually eclipsed their penile residence in size. Or at least, what I think was a penis. So not only did I leave my nine weeks of, ‘This is what happens to you if you have sex, but don’t think that means we’re telling you that sex is real” with no mention of contraception, but I also began to question my own jittery grasp of how sex worked. Like, if this so-called ‘herpes’ was so bad, why did it look like a sea of pleasure nodes not unlike my own lousy uni-clitoral mud-flap? And why would I want to protect myself from it by promising Jesus that I would only take on multiple sexual partners after marriage?
It’s like taking a class on candy making that revolves solely around photos of cavities. And then telling everyone that if you make caramel, you will get burned. I mean, yeah, you probably will but that’s not the point. Because just like sex, candy is fucking awesome and if enjoyed responsibly, it can be more than an invitation to pass out in the bathroom of a 7-11.
But, really, $50 million is a great deal for a time machine. Just not one that is unable to actually go forward in time.
I waxed my vagina. At home. On a towel. In a room with one 60 watt light bulb. The scene was just one step up from what would typically be provided for a dog before giving birth. About the same amount of blood though.
I’ve had an issue with body hair since I was about nine years old. That’s when I let my own paranoia falsely convince me that other girls my age were shaving their legs, so I should too. For weeks I went to school with noticeable cuts around my ankles and in the government subsidized light of my classroom, noticed that without their dusting of blonde hair, my legs looked a lot like discounted lunch meat. From there I moved on to my arms, 60% of my eyebrows and, soon after learning about nocturnal emissions and birthing hips, my pubic area. My endeavor to turn myself into the surface of a bowling ball came with very little conscious effort. Most of it was simply motivated by the need to be consistent.
However, my pubic hair was an entirely different beast. I vacillated between a bush so voluminous it was noticeable through jeans and Barbie crotch. I could get away with it because, other than my tracings of rare dog breeds, no one ever saw me naked. Still, I preferred to be completely bare. Years of trial and error informed me that orgasms were easier to come by when I actually had direct access to myself and not something akin to a squirrel pelt. But since I had no real reason to be fastidious about maintaining a vagina suitable for moonwalking, I slid back into indifference.
Then I discovered oral sex and the details are hazy from there. But from that moment, I became nearly obsessed with what I could do to make my vagina more welcoming for someone’s face. I knew that my pubic hair could grow to almost inhumane lengths and I never wanted to go back, fearing that both the frequency and sensation would wane. Luckily, not even my ham-fisted attempts at shaving around my ski slopes could dissuade the shared inexperience and desperation of 17-year-olds.
Eventually I found myself in a relationship where cunnilingus was nearly a daily activity and not just something that was done when his parents left to go grocery shopping. I soon realized that my razor could no longer keep up.
Which is why, when my boyfriend suggested that I wax my vagina, I agreed. He even said he’d do it for me, all I needed to do was order the wax. The first sign that I was absolutely fucked came when he decided to slather wax on my cunt like he was buttering toast, instead of applying it in strips. By the time I looked down, the wax had already hardened and I was left there wondering why I let him do this to me, considering that I still have to find socks for him in the morning. I started panicking because I knew that, outside of melting the wax off with an iron pressed against my labia, I was now committed to having my pubes torn out en masse. Aside from being unable to find even one sock out of a collection of 50, he also lacks manual dexterity. I learned this when it took three or four pulls to successfully emancipate each portion of flesh from the wax puddle he created. The pain was immense, but I couldn’t really be too angry because I probably would’ve stripped myself of the ability to urinate if I tried to do it myself.
After each abortive yank, I had to ask him to stop so I could drain the tension out of my muscles. I also needed to make sure I still had a clitoris. During this time he would apply ice to the area that now had its own heartbeat and remind me that I could hold on to him to help with the pain. If I hadn’t been busy wiping the torture-induced tears from the side of my face, I would’ve asked him if he also goes to the Burn Ward to offer patients advice on how to crate train a new puppy. Because unless he was going to spontaneously secrete morphine, that offer was useless to me.
Somehow, after many suggestions that I pet my freshly removed hair because, ‘it feels like a cat nose,’ I got through it. I couldn’t argue with the results. My vagina felt like a handful of baby powder, but it would’ve had to start whistling The Best of Bobby McFerrin for me to consider it a winning value proposition.
I resented my boyfriend for a few days after that. I took most of it out on his face, seeking solace in the fact that he could hardly breathe. Yeah, it’s a weak victory – I go through a medieval level of pain, he gets to eat pussy. But just give me a few months, when I welcome back the Barbara Bush. And force him to formally address her. And remove her smart little skirt suit with his teeth.
A few weeks ago, I found a new hobby. For an hour or so every night, I would collect a handful of the most illiterate and horrifying Craigslist personal ads imaginable. Then, I would send the links to my boyfriend and before bed, he would read them to me as phonetically as possible in order to really emphasize the I am so fucking desperate I can’t be bothered to spell-check this well and mostly because my internet access at the library is about to expire quality of each ad. As bedtime stories go they had everything – a fallen hero (or more realistically, someone who never got up in the first place), usually some sort of infidelity that required a clandestine meeting, and of course, the deeply disillusioned idea that their dick was worthy of a honey baked ham, much less a woman with an equally savory, but somewhat less edible, vagina.
Like many of my hobbies, it was short lived and able to be done from the couch. There are really only so many times you can laugh at the fact that an alarming number of people don’t know that there is a difference between ‘woman’ and ‘women.’ Oh, and not surprisingly, seeing the cock and balls of men who seemingly traded in all of their potential for extra hair on their taints can put a damper on your sex life.
Continue reading…
I am rarely ever able to take advice. And, despite what you may be thinking, this isn’t a roundabout way for me to say that I listen to Papa Roach and fasten my pants with a belt buckle shaped like a gun. Instead, it’s a way to express that sometimes I am just a different kind of moron.
When I was in middle school, I made myself look like Eddie Munster’s twin, only with more hair product and eyeliner. My dad, as delicately as could be, suggested I go the more natural route. However, that only caused me to increase the amount of hair spray I used, which curiously seemed to have a direct relationship with the number of people who would be willing to see my boobs.
When I was in high school, my parents pleaded with me to take driver’s ed so I could get my license and have a life outside of watching Shipmates and fashioning dildos out of tampons. I refused, mostly because I was too busy taking Latin online. As a result, I got my license at the age of 21.
When I was in college, I was urged to major in anything other than Art History in order to ensure that my degree would mean more than my ability to offer up the history of the paper it was printed on.
But, I own my mistakes. I would even go so far as to say that I cuddle my mistakes at night and seductively whisper in their ear that they’re not mistakes in my eyes and they’ll be all like ‘You’re just saying that’ and I’ll just kind of smile since they have no idea. Because for me, my mistakes comprise a chain of the happiest accidents I could ever hope for. I was hideous for years, which meant that it didn’t matter that I had no life in high school, which then led to me majoring in Art History because really, the only thing more tailored for losers would’ve been ‘Anime’, and here I am – grateful for all of it.
This is why I think Steven Ward should be hung by his scrotum from a meat hook and forced to drink Clamato while watching re-runs of Night Court. If you’re unfamiliar with the name, I don’t blame you. But, Steven Ward is a self-proclaimed matchmaker who asserts that he is, “on a mission to bring love into peoples’ lives one soul at a time.” Since bringing love into peoples’ lives goes hand in hand with having a reality show on VH1, guess how I know about this poor man’s Matt LeBlanc?
They're totally fucking.
He, along with his mother JoAnn, host Tough Love – a show full of so much bullshit, it makes Dick Cheney look like the kind of guy you’d go out drinking with and trust to drive your car back at the end of the night. The premise is simple – assemble a group of women who can’t find men because of commitment issues, career obsession, body image or all of the above. Then, he fixes them by instructing that they all stop being such sluts. With its assumption that women need to take it upon themselves to keep a relationship or risk being thrown away like an old pair of underwear because the elastic has broken, Tough Love is a feminist’s worst nightmare. Luckily, I’m not a feminist. I’m just kind of irked in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The differences may be negligible, I understand, but I don’t want to harp about slut shame or how this show, along with Tucker Max, hurts society.
My issue is that choice is stripped of these women all so they can find a man with just the right amount of tribal tattoos as to be bad ass, but at the same time employable. They are advised on how to conduct themselves in the company of men (usually this means that they don’t say anything at all) and since most of these women are both dependent on alcohol and estranged from their child’s father, it is not pessimistic of me to assume that they will make mistakes along the way. The biggest one most likely being that they signed up to be on a VH1 reality show. But they’re Steve Ward’s mistakes as delivered to him by the umbilical cord he undoubtedly still shares with his mother.
Point is – never take anyone’s advice seriously. Unless of course it’s coming from a 20-something who just ate a sleeve of Oreos in her Snuggie. Only then does it make sense.
