A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas with my ex one month after breaking up. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it’s not like I would’ve even considered it if we hadn’t still been living together and sharing the same bed. Come on, guys. I’m not an idiot.
Seriously though, we (I) had already paid for the trip before deciding to make the whole loveless no sex thing official and no amount of “I just don’t have feelings for you anymore…now please stop touching me” was going to keep me away from those buffets. There were also plenty of opportunities to get plastered and since I had it on good authority that my life was falling apart, I knew I could capitalize. Sadly, the closest I ever got was half a strawberry daiquiri at this raunchy little acrobatic show where all of the men let their cock and balls hang out while they juggle over-sized root vegetables. This is primarily because Cirque du Soleil grossly overcharges for their drinks and also because I didn’t want to be hungover for the next day because I had plans to go to an exhibit of Picasso’s ceramics at the Bellagio. Yeah.
The only thing that could’ve made my trip a little more Lance Bass would’ve been well…another Cirque du Soleil show, probably. But after two hours of low lighting, creaky floors and unnaturally rendered breasts, I couldn’t convince myself that I was plunging into a stripper’s fjord of glittery flesh instead of quietly assessing the influence of African art on Picasso’s work. Mostly because I wasn’t wearing my boner concealing sweat pants. But also because I was distracted by a nagging sharp pain above my rib cage.
There was no mistaking what this was, even though I had never technically encountered it before. The underwire in the bra that I bought for $11.99 and wore every day for at least one year had escaped from its garish weave of faded maroon lace. At that time, I didn’t wear bras based on how sexy they were (clearly), I wore them so that my nipples wouldn’t get caught in the waistband of my pants. After numerous futile attempts to reunite the wire with the fabric, I decided it was time for a new bra. Luckily, there was a Victoria’s Secret nearby and while the only thing I’d ever bought from them was a pink polka-dot pajama set for my first year of college (you can imagine how popular I was), I was determined to figure out how to house my boobs. I avoided their pushy and intrusive staff at all costs, not wanting to potentially come to terms with the fact that I would be better suited attaching two bowling ball shammies to a seat belt, and headed straight for their line of wireless bras.
Now without what used to be my boyfriend and what used to be my bra, I was left to weigh my options alone. It was a small step, sure, but it ended up being the first one in what eventually blossomed into an appreciation for my body and its potential to be sexy instead of simply utilitarian. It was also what turned me into a loyal Victoria’s Secret customer.
Even though I don’t believe in the first (and only) tenet of Victoria’s Secret that BIGGER BOOBS = BIGGER DOWRY, I can’t argue with their ability to make a bra that combines fit, longevity and boner appeal. Other things I can’t argue with? The fact that they have testicles so large that they make a Level 5 padded bra in 36DD. The only thing more illogical and useless would be a Broadway production of Kindergarten Cop. So of course I bought one.
This is my first padded bra and although it’s not something I plan on wearing everyday, I’m amazed at its comfort level and how dramatic the effect is. The bra claims to add up to two cup sizes, and from my experience, it delivers on that promise. Oh, and if you want to wear this with a freakum dress or something, the straps can be worn as halter or racer-back.
Left: Clown tits in VS Miraculous push-up, Right: Regular tits in VS Angels Ipex demi bra
The VS Miraculous push-up truly surpassed my expectations. I actually had a lot of fun turning my breasts into something comically large enough to appear in Cirque du Soleil, but still realistic enough to suggest that I just got it like that. With any luck, the next time I go to Vegas, I can be the stripper instead of making a halfhearted attempt to pretend that I touched one.
Can we talk about my pubic hair for a minute? If I had my druthers, I would grow a bush so big it would become a threat to national security. But as it turns out, that kind of plumage really cuts down on the toe curling when I’m grinding face. So I choose to keep it trimmed, and for special occasions like when I’m trying to fuck with Al Gore and use as much hot water as possible, I’ll shave it off completely.
Luckily, my hair is trimmed now, which means that when I found a way to dye it, I could. I’m not sure how I came across the Betty Beauty products, but since my days are usually like one long, aimless walk in the forest that end only when I stumble upon a patch of sleepy-time mushrooms, I’ll probably never remember. The important thing is that I found a way to get rid of my dull dirty blond pussy toupee.
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This is what I see…every day.
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.
