OK, so Mother wouldn’t help him put his hilarious Halloween costume together. Now he’s waving his dick around like a gun, holding the entire internet hostage until someone lonely enough accepts his offer to mix some “stuff.” I mean, I didn’t get invited to any Halloween parties this year (don’t worry, these are happy tears), but I have to think that if I did, then I would have enough friends to help me make a lifelike mold of my genitals. That is how friendship works…right?
Anyway, I’ve assisted in making a penis mold. The only difference is that it wasn’t kind of kit where you can make a usable (or chocolate) replica of your penis, because I chose the cheap route and bought one of those precious memories kits from a craft store. So instead of a baby’s foot or prayer hands, I got a ceramic dick that was at least 2/3 of the way to pleasure town. But that’s not the point.
The point is that I had to perform a sex triathlon to keep my dude at the time hard enough to get my $15 worth. It wasn’t easy and I’m pretty sure one of those soft-core Showtime pornos where everyone is dressed like Charles Darwin only sexier was playing in the background as I touched myself like I was on fire. So there’s more than mixing involved. Oh and I love his preference to have a girl who won’t “freak if by chance they saw anything.” Yeah, because what are the chances that I would see your dick while you are MAKING A MOLD OF YOUR DICK.
But whatever – you don’t have to do anything “nausty” (except, you know, maybe penetrate him with the finished product) and there’s probably some free Long John Silver’s in it for you.
So…ladies?
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.
Continue reading…
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.
The other day, I was looking for movies hoping to find something not directed by Judd Apatow, when I came across this:
Total jackpot and from the looks of it, more believable than the premise that Adam Sandler is funny. Despite being a poor man’s Gremlins, Hobgoblins is best known for being shown on MST3K (or, Mystery Science Theatre 3000 for those of you who don’t stay up late eating Taco Bell and wishing that your grandma would just go to sleep already so you can jerk off) and just being an overall terrible movie. Priding myself in being a connoisseur of awful movies in the vein of Santa’s Slay and The Gingerdead Man, I immediately thought, “I need to see this.” But I caught myself because I knew that my boyfriend would have something to say about how poor the production value is and that the goblins are totally not believable or scary and I would just get mad because that’s not the point, asshole.
I get frustrated a lot because my boyfriend isn’t into the same things as I am. It’s hard being a pop culture junkie when you’re with someone who believes that pop begins and ends with Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire.’ It’s not funny because I’m serious. But, I deal. Sometimes I think that maybe I shouldn’t have to adjust to his Lawrence Welk bullshit and find someone who will watch Bibleman with me without whining about how Jesus wouldn’t condone such a flashy display of Christianity.
Then I realize that relationships are fucking hard and maybe I should stop being such a cunt. Regardless, it took me a long time to come to that very basic conclusion. I mean, an embarrassing amount of time–even more embarrassing than the time when I couldn’t figure out the answer to those Suave commercials when they would ask the very obviously rhetorical question, “Which one of these women uses Suave?” So embarrassing that I would fervently try to search for clues, like what kind of shoes each woman was wearing or how white her teeth were, so I could finally figure it out. Then one day I got my answer: I’m a dumb ass.
But the point remains that it’s not easy for me to get along with another person, even if that person happens to be better than me at giving me an orgasm. I’m slowly realizing this about myself, which is painful because someone else is involved and that means a lot of conflict. This is made worse by the fact that we are both unemployed with purpose (freelancers) in an unfamiliar city with limited funds. At this point, the conflict that has gone on between us probably outnumbers Dolly Parton’s wig collection and while I wish I could pull out a particularly horrific example, I can’t. Either it’s not as bad as I think, or I’m learning to cope with the fact that for awhile, it became normal to see a smashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting forlornly in its Ziploc bag, waiting to go on the picnic that never happened because I thought it was unnecessary to put peanut butter on each slice of bread since I was already sacrificing most of my principles by using chunky peanut butter anyway. Either way, to fight over something this irrelevant is more perplexing than the fact that someone actually sat down for an extended period of time and dedicated themselves to finishing Hobgoblins and then even more time and money was put into bringing it into production so I could one day use it as a source of resentment. But, eventually, I was able to discard my expectation that my boyfriend should have even poorer taste than I do and focus on what really matters.
Like when I break into The Charleston while singing Naughty By Nature’s ‘O.P.P’. and instead of looking at me and telling me to stop because people are staring, he tells me that he loves me and in that moment, I can be sure that everything will be alright and that the PB&J probably got what was coming to it anyway.
