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finger bang to my heart

Think of this as a sexual favor

November 13, 2009

I bought a cupcake shake last night from Burger King. I didn’t get a picture of it because there isn’t a camera in existence that would’ve been able to capture it in the time before it was devoured. The cupcake shake mimics the taste of cake batter, but the best part is that you don’t have to worry about getting salmonella or diarrhea from the raw eggs (well…it’s Burger King so you probably still do BUT it’s totally worth it). There’s a dollop of whipped cream with sprinkles on top and what I think is ACTUAL CAKE at the bottom. Oh and it comes with what they call a ‘BK Pipe’ (straw) which is about the size of a hot dog. Full disclosure? I’m typing with one hand right now.

I had to fight for this shake. My boyfriend was skeptical and so was hesitant to take the plunge with me. But cake and I are total buds and since I’ve never been let down by anything that tastes like it, my faith didn’t waver. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Can we get a cupcake shake from Burger King?

Him: No, we have to eat dinner first.

Me: Ok, well can we go after dinner?

Him: Maybe.

Me: Ok so we’ll go after dinner.

Him: We’ll go a few hours after dinner.

Me: NO, AS SOON AS DINNER IS FINISHED. AS SOON AS WE PUT OUR FORKS DOWN.

Him: But we’ll be full from dinner.

Me: I’ll break everything you love and make you watch.

Conclusion? I was inhaling my shake within the hour.  The point is – I know how to negotiate. Sure, I have to resort to petty threats and sometimes even pretend I have a gun, but I get results.

In a related and less violent note, I’ve been nominated in the 2009 Weblog Awards for Best Humor Blog. When I see shit like this I usually have an in-depth conversation with myself about the nerve of some people to ask me to stop refreshing Twitter for the 52nd time in the last half hour to leave the page and click on something else. Then I’ll egg myself on to say something and finally take these people to task, but talk myself out of it so I can listen to ‘Candy Rain’ again. So I know it’s a pain in the ass. But you have until November 20th to click here and vote by clicking the green button next to this comment:

WeblogAwards

I’m dropping all my weapons. I couldn’t ever threaten any of you because honestly, I love you more than cake.

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SILS: Plan B

May 3, 2009

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.

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We're All Doomed, but Don't Worry

May 1, 2009

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.

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Hurricane Tongue

April 9, 2009

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.

2006-11-07_7

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.”

Continue reading…

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Baba Booey Baba Booey

February 1, 2009

My streak of rebellion peaked in middle school.

I was fairly precocious when it came to doing shit that horrified my parents, but once I hit high school, I started eating my lunch alone in the library and talked to my teachers about Ronald Reagan. Even sadder, my rebellion wasn’t terribly extreme to begin with. I didn’t do drugs or contract Chlamydia,  I smoked one cigarette and didn’t wear underwear to school. Womp womp.

lolsnoopy
Apparently, pretending to inhale cigarette smoke and having chafed labia were all I needed to be scared straight into a life of over-sized sweaters, bad hair, and subscriptions to the Weekly Standard. However, before relegating myself to four years of family game night, I had one last hurrah.

In eighth grade, I had a friend named Bobby Long. He was tall, funny, and to my recollection, one of my only male friends who I didn’t fantasize about dating. It’s not that he wasn’t attractive, he was just one of those guys who you can’t imagine in a relationship because he is too preoccupied with eating pizza flavored Combos and watching the Wizard of Oz while high. Anyway, we would talk on the phone for hours, probably about how smelly our teachers were or how much parents suck. You know, all of the hard hitting shit in a 13-year-old’s life.

One night we were talking and he suggested that he ride his bike over so we could hang out. It was late (I remember, because I was watching Howard Stern), and I knew my parents would object, but they were asleep so I gave him directions to my house. At the time, I thought, “Cool we can hang out and maybe play Sega Genesis.”, but he was 13 and had a dick, so in retrospect, I’m sure he was expecting more than fucking Ecco the Dolphin. He showed up at my window minutes later, but didn’t actually come in to my room, most likely because I was too much of a pussy to pop the screen out and risk having my parents catch us.

This resulted in what I still consider to be a damn good peep show, especially considering that it was coming from someone who still humped her pillow to masturbate. I don’t know how it started (although I blame Howard Stern), but before I knew it, he was sitting outside my window, watching me slide as many fingers into my vagina as possible. I attempted to compel him to jerk off, but he declined, at which point we realized that it would be best that way. Otherwise, he would run the risk of being caught jerking off outside someone’s window, and we both knew that I would throw him to the wolves with fake tears and claims that I’d seen him do this to all of the girls in the neighborhood.

After probably about 15 minutes of a finger bang so bad it could be considered self mutilation, I faked an orgasm and he showed me the tent that his dick had made of his pants. That was enough for me, so he left and I closed up shop.

About one hour later, I awoke to the sound of a gentle knock at my window. In my haze, I opened it and focused in on Bobby’s nice, but ultimately annoying, friend. He was like the Eddie Haskell to Bobby’s Wally. I assume he was hoping for a sequel of Window Pane Pussy, but before he could say anything I said, “No.”. He tried to continue, but I cut him off and said “Go home” and shut the window.

After that night, there seemed to be a mutual and unspoken understanding that Bobby and I would never speak of this again. I’m sure he relayed the details to his friends, but at least none of them ever came tapping. Our friendship tapered, but I found myself wanting to recreate the charmingly juvenile acts of that night.

So, Bobby Long, if you’re out there give me a call. I’ve got bigger windows now.

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