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 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:
I’m dropping all my weapons. I couldn’t ever threaten any of you because honestly, I love you more than cake.
step by step instructions on how to masturbate and how to get the most out of it for girls only + pictures of vaginas and penis’s
This keyword search popped up today in Google Analytics, and while normally I would laugh and move on to the next fucked up keyword involving raw meat, Vaseline, and Corky Thatcher, I was saddened instead. Ok, I still laughed, but since there was no reported time on site, I felt that I had failed this person in their quest to discover self love.
It’s impossible to properly describe how to masturbate. If I could start going door to door doing at home demonstrations, I probably would. That is most likely considered lewd, so for now, I’ll talk about the process I went through that has given me the ability to get off on the inseam of my jeans if necessary. First of all: GET A MIRROR. Looking at my pussy in the mirror was the single most exhilarating experience of my life, and yes, I am counting the time I saw Boyz II Men guest star on Wayne Brady’s Don’t Forget the Lyrics.
It’s important to see what you’re working with and to know the where, what, and why of what feels good. A few phone sex sessions taught me early on that rubbing my clit and half-heartedly moaning, “Oh baby yes I am so wet” doesn’t work. I have to actively participate in my orgasm, I can’t simply be an enabler. Climaxing through stimulation alone is an act in futility, so it is essential for me to bring up my play list of erotic thoughts, which usually includes getting my cunt eaten, sucking cock or usurping Beyonce’s spot in Destiny’s Child.
Most (all) of my masturbation took place on top of a pillow until I was 18 years old, which is coincidentally when I started smuggling dick. In my teens, I went through a phase where I craved penetration. Since I still had a Mickey Mouse themed bathroom, finding the real thing wasn’t possible so I used tampons, markers, and even a Dizzy Doodler just to mimic what a dick would feel like.
There was a definite transition period from humping pillows to penis, and for a long time, I thought that I had somehow sealed my sexual fate by conditioning myself to orgasm on a pile of goose feathers. Truth be told, I didn’t even have a proper idea of where my clit was until my first boyfriend started sucking on it. In my idealism, I thought that the clitoris was strategically positioned somewhere near the opening of the vagina, meaning that it would be stimulated upon its rendezvous with the penis. File that under the list of things I was wrong about, right next to press-on nails and Joey Lawrence’s music career.
I remember I was really embarrassed about the fact that I fucked my pillow as if it was going off to war. I think, because I felt it wasn’t normal, but assessing sex based on whether or not it’s normal probably means that it’s no fun. I had it in my head that I was supposed to give my clit three or four counter clockwise manipulations, maybe insert a finger or two, soak my bedsheets and scream out to the monster cock that just gave me the best orgasm of my life. It doesn’t work that way. Of course, it can work that way, but it takes patience.
That being said, I am officially switching to plastic sheets.
I recently started watching a show called, “Sex…with Mom and Dad” on MTV. I’m already ashamed, but that hasn’t stopped me so far, so I’ll continue. SWMD features Dr. Drew (me-ow) counseling teens and their parents about well…sex. One of my favorite episodes features a 17 year old girl who lost her virginity without telling her parents. Oh yeah, and her parents made their own porn at home and then put it on the internet. It is, without a doubt, pure, unadulterated entertainment.
I’m torn though. I think it’s great that SWMD can at least be a caricature of open sexual discourse. The conversation between parents and children concerning sex is usually dissolved to, “You aren’t doing it, are you?” and then everyone ends up signing a suicide pact to ensure that this never ever happens again. I learned most of what I know about sex from the one health class in high school dedicated to passing around pictures of herpes sores and reiterating that abstinence is the only way to ensure protection against STDs and pregnancy. In other words, I had to learn the hard way.
At the same time, my labia would shrivel twice if I had to sit in a room with my parents and discuss my mom’s blowjob techniques or how much I love uncircumcised cock . Even if it did afford me an opportunity to make a pass at Dr. Drew afterward. I think I’m better off for having parents who didn’t try to stop me (or worse–talk to me) when I began masturbating at the age of 4, even if they didn’t bring out the condoms and bananas when I was 14.
Ultimately, my attitude toward sex comes from the fact that my parents never tried to interfere. I mean, it’s not like I was riding dudes on the kitchen table when I was 16, but when I burned through an entire box of tampons trying to shove as many as I could up my peach during one particularly inspired night of masturbation, they kept quiet.
Their silence has caused me to be as vocal as possible about sex. This means that, on my fifth date with my now boyfriend, I told him upfront that I would allow him to eat my pussy as much as he wanted (and oh my God was I willing), but it would be awhile before his dick would see the light of day. My reason for doing this came from the fact that he had began burying his face in between my thighs on the third date, and as is protocol, I figured the next step would involve sex. This wasn’t something I was comfortable with yet, and so I told him, figuring that he would either decline or accept. If he declined, we could still have a good time. If he accepted, we could have a really good time. The conversation resulted in an erection strong enough to lift the table we were eating on, and was then followed by many nights of intense oral sex. Of course, this may not work with all men, but it does work for the ones who are worth a damn.
By the way, in order to find an image for this post, I innocently googled “Sex with mom and dad”. Please learn from my mistakes. No matter how much your curiosity nags at you, just don’t do it. I know this logic doesn’t work with abstinence only education, but I hope it will this time.
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.
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.
