I’m just now realizing that my birthday is one week away and that most of it will probably be spent trying not to cry. I’m paying my bills with birthday money (yeah, I’m 11) and I’ll probably either have to strip or fingers crossed find a guy who is willing to pay $20 an hour to brush my hair. So I’m bummed. Not in a hey that ceiling fan looks like it could support my weight way, but in a general why did I even go to college I could’ve been a nail tech way. I know, boo hoo, I don’t get to eat my ‘Best Birth Ever’ buttercream cake in front of poor people like I do every year. Mostly because I am the poor people. But that’s ok because I have something that tastes way better than sugar, butter and the tears of people I’ve never met. Giant Cheetos.
I tried to get a sense of scale with these by putting one in my mouth but it began to look like I was starting a new kind of porn so you’ll just have to take my word for it that they’re fucking huge. The only downside is that they have a built in Loser Detector that turns your tongue green. For me, this means that everyone has to know that I spent my night eating Cheetos larger than the average testicle and watching Gilmore Girls while convincing myself that my life could’ve been so much better if only I had gotten knocked up at 16.
Missed opportunities aside, I will never love another snack the way I love Giant Cheetos. Unless of course Frito-Lay decides to finally return my calls and take me up on my Doritos Stuffed Pizza idea because I am sick of making them from scratch.
This is what I see…every day.
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.
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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