I’d like to issue a public apology to two of my lady friends for ever having doubted in the slightest their mutual investment advice re: high-end sex toys.
Used it once, totally worth it. And holy shitsnacks, I can do it again?! Whenever I want? Life rules. And by “life,” I obviously mean Lelo.
(Also, they sell them cheaper on Amazon. Shhh!)
Last night I saw porn that made me want to get married.
No, wait… Actually, I think I just want to wear a pretty dress, and be pleasured orally then taken from behind by a man wearing remnants of a tuxedo.
And then we’d eat cake.
Yeah. That sounds way better.
After that goddamn debacle o’porn yesterday, screw this, I’m writing my own. I can’t do any worse than referring to a guy’s cock as “his craft.” (Heh. Cock-craft. I can’t decide if that would be a penis-shaped aircraft, or crafts you do on a dick, like covering it with glitter or bedazzling it or some shit.)
Anyway. Here’s MY sample passage: “Her kisses were needful, urgent, hungry. She kissed with her entire body — soft sounds of pleasure, wandering hands, hips pressed into his. Logic supplanted by instinct, desire overtaking shyness. She pulled away slowly and crawled on to the bed, arching her back, looking over her shoulder at him defiantly, daring him to resist.”
I get a little tingle in my bottom just reading it, but I’m the first to admit that might be an ego boner.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you serious?
Sasha Grey Book Features Erotic Sex Scenes: Read An Excerpt From The Juliette Society
Choice quote: “I turn on my side to accommodate him, bending the top leg at the knee, like a dancer doing the Can-Can, to give him a clear view of the runway as his craft comes into land.”
The runway? His CRAFT? Like what, a Boning 747? *headdesk* I gotta start writing porn.
P.S. Calling your vagina “my sex” may be the worst euphemism ever. I’d be happier with “pussy.” “Axe wound.” “Spirit cave.” Whatever. I’m aware this is purely my own hangup, but every time I see “my sex,” my blood is forced back to my brain so I can think, “I’m sorry, your WHAT now? You mean your vagina? OK, excellent, carry on.” I can’t get ladywood from your story if you insist on calling it “my sex.”
For those of you who missed me, the blog is back on Facebook. Let’s try not to use my real name in association with it, ‘kay?
Also on Twitter, if that’s how you were raised. (The Twitter feed does have bonus extra retweeted content from people funnier than I.)
This probably isn’t true for all women, so gentlemen, your mileage may vary, but…
I’d say about 27 days out of a given month, you can try anything to stimulate my breasts and I’ll barely feel it. As I understand it, this is fairly common once you find yourself in the larger sizes. It’s not unpleasant. It’s just that I can hardly tell what you’re doing unless I look down at you.
However, those other three days? Good God, my boobs feel ALL THE THINGS at once, and are so tender that even having a bra on them almost itches, like they’re just trying to escape all day. And when I finally get to take the bra off…oh, the unbridled joy and freedom! That’s some Braveheart shit right there.
I’ll issue a press release for the future playmates whenever the next episode of Happy Fun Breast Playtime is. I’ll make sure he sees that it IS humanly possible to get a reaction out of me that way; you just have to pick your moment. I feel bad when I can tell the guy’s confident the breast move is his best move and I can’t even feel it.
P.S. Remind me to go to Japan and see if I can sell Happy Fun Breast Playtime as a game show.
Daydreaming about moving to a new city and starting over managed to get this song stuck in my head.
And now it’s stuck in yours. You’re welcome, Internet.
This morning, I read an article about how crap-tastic my local job market is right now. Going on Month 4 of unemployment and borderline depression, I’m starting to think my BFF has the right idea looking for jobs out in Iowa. Forbes just named Des Moines the top job market in America. I have a college friend who lives out there who said if I seriously consider moving, he’d help me get set up. (And that’s not an offer of dick, he’d really actually help me.) But I don’t know…
I know Des Moines is a “city,” but it’s still Iowa. I’m comfortable admitting that I’m kind of an East Coast asshole. I’d definitely have to visit first, I can’t just fucking move to IOWA having never been there. I’m sure the corn-fed guys would dig me, but once they find out I won’t eat steak, I’ll probably get shunned. (“Shun the non-believer! Shuuuuuunnnnn!”)
Plus, between The Ex, my goddaughter, friends, and really the area itself, I feel a genuine connection to this place as Home. It’d be really hard to leave. (I understand that’s the point of moving to a new place and leaving everyone and everything behind — that it’s a Giant Life Change. But it’s only dramatic and poetic when you go to, like, Paris or Rome — some Eat Pray Love shit like that. Even California. Ain’t no one writing memoirs about Iowa. Hell, maybe I’d be the first! From Wawa to Iowa: My Journey of Self-Discovery. And Corn!)
Conversation with a male friend about a message I got on Facebook from another male friend asking me if I wanted “to hang out sometime”:
Me: “The Girl Contingent has advised me to delete him from Facebook, but I’d feel bad. If he skeeves me one more time, though, I’m out. By the way, was that a date request? I thought he was just looking for a friend in the area, but I told Ex-Factor that and he gave me an eyebrow, like it’s adorable how oblivious I am to the Attentions of Men.”
Him: “Yeah, that was most definitely a date request. I feel like you have two options: delete him or tell him in no uncertain terms ASAP that it ain’t gonna happen. Otherwise I think it has the potential to get worse before it gets better.”
Me: “Holy shit, are you serious? That’s ballsy. I really thought he was just looking for friends. No. Just…no. I can’t date anyone more inept than I am.”
Him: “I mean, only he knows for sure …. I’m just basing this off the assumption that he’s interested in you given he may have subtly propositioned you in the past and how much he tries to interact with you on Facebook. Perhaps he’s casting a line out there seeing if you’ll bite.”
Me: “Nope. Nooooope. I’m not biting anything for him. I’m not sure how, exactly, but I’m pretty sure I’ll get stupider if I let him touch me.”
EDIT: I sent the invitation to “bowling” verbatim to another male friend, who said, “Yeah, you could easily replace every line of his in that conversation with ‘would you like some dick?’ and lose no context.”