I had to get Plan B today, which is why this post is really late. I’m sorry, but I had to choose between delaying this post or my period and something tells me that $26 and a plastic crab shaped plate don’t qualify me for motherhood, so here we are. I guess it’s a moot point though because clearly, I didn’t even have any material until my cervix got into the business of devouring condoms.
So, I’m doing what I normally do. Only, I’ve added lube this time because sometimes it’s like my vagina is a pair of Isotoners and the dick is OJ Simpson’s hand and then eventually, people are outraged because someone got away with murder based on a catchy rhyme. I’m moving along with a particular favorite of mine, where I basically squat over the dick and use the strength of my thighs to bounce up and down. It’s effective, but it’s brutal on my legs and so after about 5 minutes, I’m ready to strangle my boyfriend and hope that he finds it sexy enough to blow his load. Anyway, he finishes after I desperately recount some of my filthiest fantasies, as I try to pretend that my legs aren’t burning like one giant herpes outbreak. In my haste to confirm that I would, in fact, walk again, I failed to notice that the condom had come off inside of me. I was relieved that after essentially fisting me, my boyfriend was able to remove it, but it meant that I had to put on pants to go to the pharmacy, which is the real tragedy of this whole thing.
Before leaving, we called to confirm that Plan B was in stock and that we would not be denied for being fornicating heathens, and established that although we were going to hell, we would be able to at least elect to opt out of the procreation raffle. On the way there, I was calm and mostly worried about showing up with no makeup and wet hair, imagining that the pharmacist would refuse us convinced that no one would fuck me while looking like Michael Jackson. Regardless, we got our Plan B and it was easy and painless. Unlike the first time I had to get Plan B, when the pharmacist looked at me like I was the one to hand over the nails at the crucifixion, causing me to walk away shamed and embarrassed.
The thing is–there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you find yourself in a situation where you need Plan B. Unfortunately, it’s been skewed that way, and the fact that it’s commonly referred to as the ‘abortion pill’ doesn’t help. Used responsibly, Plan B is an effective method in preventing pregnancy in the case that routine birth control methods have failed, or if none were used at all.
The moral is: keep fucking, keep loving and always be careful if you are trying to be the Hercules of cock.
I usually get kind of unnaturally giddy on the day I go to the gynecologist. I don’t necessarily get a thrill at the thought of my gyno touching me, but that’s mostly because I’m in a paper gown, the lighting is atrocious and I’m being finger banged all the way up to my stomach. Otherwise, I think we could have a good time together.
The one thing I don’t like about the gynecologist is when I’m asked questions I’ve already answered on the paperwork. She’ll be like, “When was your last menstrual period?” and not only am I trying to remember what I wrote so she doesn’t think I’m a liar, but I’m also trying to hold myself back from going into my usual I already told you. You never listen to me. I can’t believe I’ve wasted all of this time with you. mode.
Anyway, for whatever reason, my gynecologist’s office usually looks like your typical NASCAR audience, only with more pizza flavored Combos. When I went in today, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a pregnant chain smoker and the father/uncle of her unborn child. He was obviously very displeased with the fact that he was at the “lady doctor” (his words, not mine), and she kept lamenting about how she “needed a fucking drink”, and I’m being kind because drank is actually more phonetically accurate. From what I gathered, they just bought on new car (if a ’95 Lumina counts as ‘new’) and needed to deal with some sort of insurance issue, so they took it upon themselves to flippantly cancel their appointment minutes before and reschedule. Meanwhile, I’m approaching my first hour in the waiting room, thinking, “What kind of sweet ass deal do they have where they can just cancel an appointment within the hour and not have to pay?” Then I took my head out of my ass and thought, “Oh right. Welfare.”
Now I hate to get all Bill O’Reilly on everyone, but if you’re on government assistance, or at the very least you can’t afford to feed yourself (as was the case with these two based on the mention of their “food stamp card”), then I can’t justify any reason why you should reproduce during the time in which you are not economically viable. Ok, economically viable is kind of a bullshit term. What I mean to say is: If you can’t keep yourself in Cheetos and beer, don’t have a fucking kid.
I know there’s a slippery slope when it comes to dictating whether or not women can/should reproduce. At the same time, I refuse to accept that it is somehow anti-feminist or misogynistic to believe that women and men who choose to have children under bleak economic circumstances are at best misinformed, irresponsible, selfish or all of the above. Attempts have been made to actually consider family planning, but without much success because I guess foresight isn’t on the to-do list of the Jerry Falwell types.
So, as I’m sitting there trying not to stare at the inappropriate pictures of babies with rose peals over their genitals, I notice that the reincarnation of Anna Nicole Smith has struck up a conversation with another patient. They exchange stories, which means that in addition to learning about how nice her 14 year old car is, she has an existing brood at home and at 23, is pregnant with her third. Her new victim in this lesson of “Holy shit my life just got exponentially better” produced only one response, which was, “Well, God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” At this point, I almost left my post as shifty-eyed eavesdropper to challenge her to a duel because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Instead, I sat back in my chair, not knowing which fire to put out first, while ultimately landing on “meh.”
Look, I’m all for deferring personal responsibility just like everyone else, but only when I eat two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and blame it on the fact that I needed to use the rest of the bread or else it would start to mold and I paid good money for this so it’s senseless to throw it away. This doesn’t really apply when I’m responsible for another human being or really anything that doesn’t involve gorging on afternoon snacks.
Oh and on my way home, in a sick twist of consistency, I saw a bumper sticker that read, “Relax, God is in control”. We’re so fucked.
I get a lot of visits from keyword searches relating to, or asking about, cunnilingus. Things like, “first time cunnilingus”, “what happens during cunnilingus”, and “cunnilungus mom”. I can’t help with the last one, but I…consider myself lucky for that.
As much as I talk about it, I rarely actually say cunnilingus in my every day life, and instead, opt for some sort of derivative of pussy eating, or if I’m feeling especially eager, I’ll say something like, “I want you to bury your head in between my thighs”. It may not be elegant, but when I need to grind a face, requesting something like, “Would you be so kind as to perform cunnilingus on me?” just isn’t as effective as, “Eat my pussy now.”
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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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I hope I’m not in the minority when I say that period sex is fucking amazing. Being on my period triples my sex drive, so I go from wanting sex twice a day, to wanting it six times a day. It’s as if Rick Moranis has engineered some sort of ray gun for my already hyper-active pussy, freaks out, and yells, “Honey, I blew up your libido”.
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