Posts tagged as:

meat

No Logic, No Plan, No Worries

May 6, 2009

I’m moving, and it’s weird to tell you that because odds are the only person who cares is the one who keeps searching “where does vagina drum live?” in order to find my site and apparently, my address. I guess I should be kind of unsettled from seeing that keyword search pop up almost every day in Google Analytics, but my appreciation for unhealthy perseverance ultimately outweighs my fear of the possibility that someone out there will try to kill Will Smith in order to impress me.

So, to answer your question, John Hinckley Jr: I live in Florida. I feel safe in sharing that because it won’t be true in two months, and plus, I’m confident that the fact that there are at least 16 rebel flags and 3 teeth for every 6 people (these are real figures) in Florida will make anyone want to kill themselves before they even have a chance to get to me.

The decision to move was made a little over a year ago, when my boyfriend and I could only claim a 3 month relationship. The conversation to actually start living a life we both wanted happened in Chili’s, over BBQ bacon burgers, which I understand seems incongruous because people who want to do shit with their lives rarely try to end them prematurely with four pounds of meat. I don’t remember how the topic of conversation started, but I do remember being apprehensive about sharing life goals with someone who, at the time, was probably more interested in Garth Brooks’ alter ego Chris Gaines than he was with me, while casually mentioning to him that “Maybe, you know, it would be kind of cool if you came along. Whatever. I don’t really care, I mean it’s no big deal. I think I’m busy that night anyway.” Granted, I didn’t have much of a plan at the time, because I was just getting used to a life with options after years of acclimating myself to eating my weight in biscuit sandwiches, but I knew at the very least that I didn’t want to be in Florida anymore and would prefer a location change to the Pacific Northwest. He happened to agree and from there, we tip-toed through the awkward situation of wanting to have some sort of future together, while being careful not to be too invested or insane. This means that I never tricked him into going wedding dress shopping just for fun and he didn’t try to knock me up, claiming that it would “bring us together.”

Eventually, we both got comfortable with the idea of having one another around and just naturally began to launch into conversations about money, employment, and housing. Eating at home and relying on entertainment from the raccoons that occupy a nearby dumpster allowed us to save enough money to survive for 6 months. We’re completely skipping the job hunt and instead, are opting to put our respective testicles out on the table and attempt to survive on freelance work (for me, that means writing for church bulletin boards if it comes to it). Housing will have to figure itself out when we get there, but I’m optimistic that there will be a nice bridge or abandoned teen center to claim as our own.

To be honest, the idea of packing up my life, driving across the country, and doing it all so I can be glamorously unemployed gives me a heart attack. But to be fair, it all started that way with three strips of thick-cut bacon rubbed with brown sugar and smoked to perfection so I guess that means that I’m doing something right.

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Sexual Healing

March 17, 2009

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.

corky-169x2601

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.

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