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.