The Rabbit and the Kitty

It goes without saying that my kitty loves my rabbit...

That being said, since moving from the Fantabulous Townhouse to the single level Cantankerous Condo, my rabbit has gone mostly unloved and neglected.

My new bedroom is next to the bedroom of my not-entirely-headless teenager, soooooo there's that.

You may recall that recently I discovered the delicious delight of that fantastic mint chocolate chip magical cream...

Ummmm....yeah.

Last night I decided after a glass of wine and a really awful day that maybe my rabbit would like to share the cream too and that my kitty would certainly be pleased with such a treat.

The teenager was busy drawing and had his iPod blasting in his ears...

Hmmmm....

I went to the "special" drawer where my pretty little rabbit has laid sleeping since the Spring of 2007 (Holy crap!)...

I took her gently in my hands and looked lovingly at her like a childhood toy found years after not realizing you even missed it. (...and how sad is that....REALLY!?!?)

Just as I was imagining the fun we were about to have, a moth flew out of the drawer...

YIKES!

The moment was gone but the symbolism remained...

I sighed and thought about how I have neglected my rabbit and kitty and made a resolution in the name of Lent *snicker* that I would pay them both more attention...

...Ummmm when I get my NEW rabbit, as much like an old husband, once the image has been tainted one cannot go back or receive pleasure from that source any longer. *double snicker*

Message From a Previously Dead Vajayjay

OK, so let me start by saying that I went to a "slumber party" Saturday night.

It was fun and fantastic and the host was a bit brilliant by planning a mixed after-party...just in case any now-horny gals wanted to rub all up on some very lucky fellas. (OK, that didn't happen.)

(Sucks for one of the dudes that he is always an obnoxious ass who thinks he is witty when really he is more douche than duke.)

...and ummm, he is also not pretty enough to be such the aforementioned obnoxious ass/douche. I think he killed the horn-buzz that many of us had, as we had previously sampled some magical balm that made everyone of us squeal (yes squeal) with absolute delight and then immediately select the product on our order forms.

Each lovely lady had skeptically gone into the ladies and sampled their flavor of choice of x-scream.

X-scream is fabulous flavored arousal balm. (It says so right on the cute little jar!)

As I am not easily aroused, I raised an eyebrow... (I do this a lot, yes?)

...until Raquel came screaming out of the bathroom.

*thinks in head, "Holy Shit! Did her hoo-ha catch on fire?!?!"*

Then I see she is giggling and bouncing and squealing!

The next lady comes out much the same...

*stares of open-mouthed amazement all around*

Then Maddy comes out of the bathroom. Tiny, adorable, un-shy. She says nothing but has a knowing look in her eye. She quietly sits down and makes her selection.

I jump up to try it!

I go in and use my sample of mint chocolate chip.

I feel nothing.

*crap!*

I must really be dead on the inside after all!

I zip up and wash my hands.

*sighs*

Then...

...just as I turn the doorknob...

I feel heat...

...and tingling...

...and heat...

...and coolness...

...and tingling...

Oh my!

It was like those freaks in the old York Peppermint Patty commercials!

I was beyond happy!

I bit my lip and tried not to look happy. (I was H-A-P-P-Y!)

Holy Trixie on a Triscuit!

Oh yes! Mama must have!

So, I get my little jar o'fun and wear a secret smile all night...

...and a little the next day too just knowing it is in my purse.

The idea was to wear a bit at the office.

I couldn't wait for Monday morning!

I get ready for work and dab a bit on and off I go...traffic be damned!

It hits me before I am even down the stairs.

I wiggled my ass all the way to the office...

About halfway there I am trying to mentally will it to stop because at some point soon, I will need to walk...normally.

I do some yoga breathing and my hoo-ha flips me off.

*bleep bleepity bleep bleep!*

I get into the office and go right to my desk.

Thankfully, my boss is busy, so I set up and then run to the ladies.

Let me say, I am thankful that there are private bathrooms here!

I swear to dog that I flicked my bean more before 10am yesterday than I have all year...and possibly 2007 too!

Between the wiggling in my seat and the constant runs to the restroom, my boss must have thought I had the runs or a UTI. Jeeezus!

Later I had to run a company errand so I hopped in my boss' Escalade EXT, cranked the music and rubbed one out...

That done, I washed it off and went about my day...but there were lingering effects...

I was aroused all damn day!

...and quite a bit happy!

So fellas, if your wife or GF has stopped putting out and you are CERTAIN that it is not your fat ass or wookie bush (or the fact that you are a complete tool) that has created such a lack of arousal from her, get her some of this cream and she will go friggin' ape shit!

Those Adorably Incestuous Pals of Mine

Let me just say (once again) that if you don't want to see stuff that you cannot deal with, you should probably not visit my page or read my blogs. I am not changing my blogs to accommodate your consciences. You're not changing your behavior to accommodate society's opinions.

If you cannot find the humor in the fucked up, pull the trigger, swallow the pills, slit the wrist. Don't come down on me for your shit.

If you cannot READ when a tag says "humor", dial 1-800-ABCDEFG. You are a soup sandwich.

Additionally, if you are also one of the people who want to "advise" me to "let it go" you may also want to advise the people that I am poking fun at to stop being insanely moronic.

If that is the case and that is your mission, start with the Bible y'all claim to follow. Those 10 Commandment thingies? Yeah. Not merely a suggestion. (I told you people not to follow that organized religion nonsense!)

You just can't fuck thy neighbor's wife and call me the asshole for shaking my finger at you while you claim to be a devout Catholic/Christian/Whatever. Do I look like futher mucking Moses to you?

Look, if people are fine with acting a fool in public, they must expect that people will have opinions on it. You. Me. Everyone. Deal with it or keep that shit behind closed doors where intelligent losers keep their lying and cheating.

Let this be the notice, I will not bring up the old and rehash shit from long ago, but if people continue to wear their stupidity like a badge of honor and flaunt that shit in people's faces as new and exciting events, I'm going to make fun of it. So what?

If you are one of the chicken-shit-futher-muckers who must hide behind an anonymous comment to tell me to "let it go", then I will assume you are either just an idiot, a coward, or are someone who engages in the act that you would like me to not make fun of. Possibly a combination of all of the above.

Let what go? Something of many things reported in 2 sentences during a weekend re-cap? 2 sentences in a paragraph in a section about modern dating?

Although it wasn't in the movie, if the person you are "dating" has a spouse, things are also not looking very optimistic for you regarding the likelihood of a "serious relationship". If you have not learned that after say 3 years (as a completely random example) of fucking the married person, you are dumber than soup and deserve to be pointed and laughed at.

*yawns*

That's hardly a rant, people. I've had farts last longer than that statement.

Here's the deal, a fair number of you are either fucking married people, have fucked married people or are married and fucking other married and/or single people. If you think that I am the asshole, you are dumber than soup and should be trampled by goats.

In some places, the method of punishment for adultery is stoning to death. I made a comment about it in a blog. Put things into perspective, people. I made a joke of your adultery. You are making a joke out of your marriages. I win.

If you think that I am the only person who thinks you people suck, you're wrong. I'm just the one who doesn't say it behind your back.

May all of your garbage dicks fall off and your rotten vajayjays be eaten by maggots.

And yes, if it even crosses your mind for a second that I may be talking about you, I probably am.

*smirks*

An Open Letter

I knew I had been neglecting you.

When I saw you there today, I don't know why, but I had to have you. My mind was suddenly frenzied at the thought of not having you.

I could not help but run my fingers over your hardness. Climbing on top of you, I felt control as the heat rose up in me.

My god, you are beautiful!

As I lowered my self on top of you and felt you slide between my legs, I felt the slow smile creep across my face.

This, I thought, is happiness.

Feeling you hard between my legs, my ass pressed down tight on you as I pumped away.

I could feel my heart rate speeding up.

I closed my eyes and listed to the sound of you beneath me.

Listened to my breath.

Listened to the sound of the gardeners cutting the grass outside the window. The smell of it mixing with sweat and heat.

It was delicious!

I felt myself getting wetter and wetter. Sweat dripping from my head. Heat soaking my breasts. Heat rising from between my legs. I am swollen and raw. I am loving it.

I grab hold of you and thrust myself forward. My body falling forward as I pump harder and faster.

Yes! This is freedom! This hot! This happiness!

I want to stop, but I can't.

Harder. Harder. Harder.

Every ounce of me is wet and dripping.

My fingers dig into you and I am lost.

Smiling. Breathing that hot, smirky, satisfied grin of a slutty heathen who has just gotten her way.

I am spent.

I collapse on you and slowly slide off you.

Legs quivering and dripping in sweat and happiness.

I am filled.

I wipe you off, letting my fingers linger for a moment.

You have never let me down. You are always there when I need my fix.

I will love you always, my sweet Dolce.

My beautiful bicycle.

She's Just NOT That Into You

Raquel and I were at one of our favorite wine spots last night.

We had some time before other members of our party joined us, so we discussed business and life all the while sipping a bit less than slowly.

Needless to say, by the time that our various parties had come and gone and we were seated with two male acquaintances, we were more than giddy and relaxed.

Having talked sex and relationships all night, this poor guy knew not what he was walking into by joining in.

The topic had turned to blow jobs. And where Raquel and I were discussing our various opinions and how common it is that women just don't do it, Glen adds that he feels no need to perform cunnilingus on a chick if she's not going to blow him.

(Awwwww, right at this point you can tell just how precious I think Glen is, yes?)

"So Glen what you're saying is that you inflict revenge on your sex partner in the form of withholding if you don't get what you want? Isn't that a bit of a temper tantrum?"

He is already defensive because I apparently said something that made him feel fat while discussing a former runner now huge alcoholic who clearly has some liver damage in that swollen gut of his. Glen looks nothing like that dude, but in his mind I guess he does. He mentioned that he was a "performance athlete" no less than 5 times.

I feel that that is much like with "that one brand of Christians"...if you have to say it a bunch out loud to people, it probably isn't true.

Eh-hem.

So Glen wants to defend his sexual tantrum and says, "No. I mean when you've had sex with the girl like 7 or 8 times and she won't blow you, that's just wrong."

I responded with, "She probably was just not that into you."

He blinks.

I know he is wondering if I really just said that out loud.

I did.

I can see the wounded look on his less-than-precious face and I continue.

"Glen, that doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with you. It just means that maybe that one girl wasn't as into you as you were into her."

He says, "I mean we were dating for a few weeks. It's not like I was in love with her."

"Right. And maybe she reserves blow jobs for when she is more comfortable with someone."

He looks at me like that is just the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard. All I can think is how the conversation with the girl regarding the lack of blow jobs may have gone with Glen.

I shiver.

"Glen, the thing is that when a chick is into you and wants a deep intimate relationship with you, she will do the things that make you happy. If she doesn't, she just isn't that into you..."

"Great. So first you make me feel fat and now I am unwanted. Thanks." He pouts.

"Glen, it's ONE girl. Who cares if ONE girl isn't into you? You said you weren't in love with her. And I didn't make you feel fat. I wasn't even talking about you and you don't look like that dude."

Jeezus! And guys say that us chicks are difficult?!?!

Fucking whiner.

I don't like blow jobs. In general, I don't do them. In general, I'm just not into that many dudes enough to sleep with them, let alone blow them.

However when you are into someone...really into someone, you do things that will bring them pleasure. You learn what they like. You don't revenge fuck them and punish them for what they are not doing to you. Where the hell is the communication?

...and honestly, Glen is no prize. He is a man who NEEDS to learn and DO what a woman wants in the sack. He needs to put her cookie in his mouth if not just to shut him up.

Ughhh...

I didn't even want to address the wookie bush topic with him. I thought he might cry.

In the end, Raquel and I left Mr. Weepy-Purple-Stained-Teeth-No-Blow-Job to cry into his vino as we giggled our way to the car discussing our fondness for vibrators and how they don't talk.

Shut Up and Drive

Back in the day when I decided to throw myself back into the dating pool, I was pretty naive about what to expect. I was 23. I was in Ft. Lauderdale. I was terrified.

It had been 3 years since I had dated someone and I was ready. So I thought.

I was a mommy. I had a good job. I was lonely.

A girl in my department whom I had become friendly with, Alexa, suggested we hit the clubs.

Since I loved to dance, I agreed.

On one of these nights when we hit our favorite spot we run into a group of guys, some of whom she knows.

A rather good looking Val Kilmer-type starts chatting with me.

(You should know that I had an obnoxiously ridiculous crush on Val Kilmer at the time.)

At the end of the night, Val asks for my number. I give it to him. Hey, Alexa knows him and he is hot. I feel safe.

Val calls. We schedule a date. We go on a date. We go back to his place. We watch a movie. We make out. (Yes, I am like 12 in my head.) I go home.

He called me and asked me out again.

I must admit, I scratched my head.

Seriously?

B-b-b-b-b-but I hadn't slept with him!

Why does he want to go out with me again?

I can't do that twice!

I can't get dressed up to go out with a boy twice!

I do.

We have fun.

He asks me out again.

I am starting to like him.

We go out the third time and go back to his place.

The fooling around gets a bit heated.

We are on his couch.

Things are coming off.

Places are getting wet.

Hey! I remember this!

Val strips down and exposed a pretty spectacular body and stands in front of me.

He lays me down on the couch and kisses me from head to toes.

There he stops.

He takes my French pedicured tootsies and places each toe delicately in his mouth...

If you know me, you can imagine the raised eyebrow look on my face. Mouth slightly agape in pure curiosity and stupefaction at this point.

It feels a little slimy.

I think to myself, "What the hell has been going on with sex in the past few years? Have I been asleep?"

Yeah. I had been.

He is licking and sucking my toes and starts stroking himself at the same time.

Here is where my having a poker face would have come in handy. However, I would not perfect that until some 8 years later...

He lowers my foot to his cock and starts massaging my foot with it.

OK, I know he wasn't really massaging my foot, but I was in my happy place. It was my preferred thought.

Then he speaks...

His voice husky and panting...

"Cor, I want you to drive me."

"Ummmm...huh?" My voice is far from husky or sexy at that point. I'm a little freaked out. Unfortunately, this makes my voice sound tiny and sweet. Dammit!

He comes forward and whispers in my ear. His hot breath making my skin tingle and my nipples rise.

"I want you to drive me...." he whispers.

What the fuck does that MEAN?!?!?

I search through my head for slang sex terms. I never heard that one. Crap! I don't even know what "69" is at this point. FUCK! What does he mean?!?!

I fake confidence and whisper back in what I think is a coy manner, "I'll do what you want, but I want you to show me exactly what you want."

Yeah, I think. That sounded good. That sounded convincing.

He smiles. Had I not been so full of myself at that exact moment, I may have taken notice to how creepy he looked just then.

He slides down me and kneels at my feet on the couch.

He takes my foot and puts it back on his cock.

My eyes don't leave his face. His eyes stare at my foot and his cock. I am watching him watch my foot and his dick. Fascinating.

He looks at me and says, "Drive".

I start to speak and he cuts me off.

"Drive my dick like you would drive a car."

Crap! I have a stick shift!

Is he thinking with my hands or feet?

Do I use his dick like a shifter?

Or do I use it like the pedals?

Is one ball the clutch and the other the brake?

Does he realize how hard New Yorkers ride the brake?

Will that hurt?

"Cor, use your feet and drive my cock," he says a bit more forcefully.

I do not know whether to laugh, cry or get up and run.

I start using his dick as my accelerator.

"Make the sounds, Cor..."

Is he fucking serious?

I make car sounds while playing with my son! I cannot make those sounds while driving some freak's dick! Who does this?!?!

He starts making the sounds. I start making a game of it and shift my imaginary shifter and steer my imaginary steering wheel.

"Make the sounds, Cor."

"Val, I can't make those sounds."

He grinds my foot into his cock, "Drive!"

I feel that I should explain. (Of course I should not explain, but I am young and stupid and still in my cute "aiming to please" phase in life.)

"Cory!" He cuts me off.

"Y-y-y-yes...?" I stutter.

"Shut up and DRIVE!" he growls. "I'm about to cum!"

He does. All over my pretty toes.

Yuck!

I snap.

I use the brake at just that moment.

"SCREEEEECH!....CRASSSSHHHHHHH!"

I get up.

He looks at me with his lip out.

What is he, 2?

I walk out and finish putting on my stuff in the hallway.

I walk a few blocks to the beach and soak my feet.

I find a taxi, get in and give my address.

I look like a wreck.

This should be no new thing for a cab driver in South Florida.

He starts talking to me in Spanish. I think he assumes that I am Latin.

I am too tired to attempt to figure out what he is saying, so I just mumble, "Shut up and drive."

I find this funny after a moment.

I start giggling uncontrollably.

The cab driver is looking at me in the mirror like I have lost my mind.

I had never been so happy to not drive in my life.

Wookie Pits

OK, so I started to write a piece on females with hairy armpits, after a pre-dinner discussion I had last night. Little did I know (but quickly discovered) that there is a whole underworld of armpit hair fetish out there!

Whooda thunk it?

I was just going to find a pic for the story and "POOOOOF!" there's all this armpit hair fetish nonsense.

I cracked up.

The women that I know who do not shave their pits (or legs...or bush) sure as shit don't do it for fetish purposes. They are against the ridiculous marketing in American culture that insisted that visible hair on women was not only unsightly, but a curse. There was even a 1982 article from the Journal of American Culture by Christine Hope titled "Caucasian Female Body Hair and American Culture." Since it was males making these claims and males seemed to rule everything at the time of the original female shaving movement (1915), these modern women went against the grain and stopped shaving.

It had become something that was specifically attached to male attraction, so they tossed it out the window.

And they were grounded in their reasoning...yet that was here in America. In many other cultures around the world, women do not shave. And in some cultures it is just downright sexy for a woman to be hairy.

hmmmm...

Now, that would never work for me personally, because I don't like hairy people. Male or female. Then again, I had a crush on Mr. Clean when I was 4, so there's that...

I don't think pit hair is sexy. I do not think armpit hair, regardless of gender, belongs in pictures or marketing pieces and wish to dog that dudes would shave their friggin' pits too. They're effing stinky or clumped with balls of antiperspirant/deodorant.

YUCK!

So in looking this all up, I even came across some people who are outraged by those who shave or like shaved "stuff". Apparently, according to one dip shit, we are "no better than pedophiles".

*GASP!*

Now seriously, I won't rail on someone who doesn't shave, so long as I don't have to fuck it and it isn't serving my food (which is what came up during the pre-dinner discussion). But I think it's a bit out there to say that those who shave their hoo-has are no better than pedophiles.

Seriously, have you ever been in the middle of receiving some mind-blowing cunnilingus and about to climax and have your partner stop to remove a pube from their mouth? Yeah. That can suck and truly fuck up the flow.

*snickers*

Let me say that a family member of mine has embraced this not shaving thing. YEARS ago. She loves to taunt me with her hairy pits and legs, but she doesn't wave that shit over my food.

When I left my husband, I got rid of the bimmer, got a Jeep, chopped off my hair and started climbing again. My friends were worried. I said, "If I stop shaving my pits and get like 27 cats, be worried."

This is the deal; a man can't serve food wearing a tank top because of those pit hairs, so why should a chick be able to? She is allowed to wear a tank because it is assumed that chicks shave their pits. Now, having worked there for a while, you KNOW that management knows that she is a non-shaver. Why can they not discuss this covering of the pit hair issue with her?

Now mind you, this place doesn't require that the employees wear hair nets or anything, but I would be far more grossed out by a pit hair in my hummus than a scalp hair. (Though for the record, both are gross.)

We are all different. Some of us shave and some of us do not, but life is not an Arrid Extra Dry® commercial. Put your frickin' arms down already!

A Secret Lover Is Trying To Get In Touch With You...

OK, I am going to go out on a limb here and say that if I had a secret lover, he would not be a secret to me.

...and if I don't yet know of him, can he really be my secret lover?

I mean, wouldn't that make him more of a bunny boiling/stalker type than a secret lover?

I happened upon this email in my spam box because one of my friend's emails keeps going in that box and so now I have to check it periodically.

There it was...

A secret lover is trying to get in touch with me.

Really?!?!

OH GOODY!

Does he have a fantastic dog, a bicycle and functioning penis?

Sign me up!

Still, if he's pimpin' his shit through the spam mail, he is likely to be a butter face and a garbage dick.

EWWWWWW! Gross!

The message said: "Your Secret Lover has instructed us to tell you they won't wait long for your response, so Click the link below to talk to them now!"

So my secret lover is also a lazy fucker who can't send his own effing emails and expects that I will snap to a response?

Clearly, this mystery man is unfamiliar with my particular brand of indifference.

Uh-oh, someone else may snatch up *snickers* my lazy lover and leave me with no secret love of my own!

Seriously, a man this lazy could not possibly be good in the sack.

*yawns and grabs vibrator*

Eh, at least I don't have to cuddle it after and it doesn't give me Dutch Ovens in the name of "fun".

((((bzzzzzzzzzzz))))

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut, Sometimes You Don't

No secret that I am picky about the twig and berries.

In a town where blow jobs are a dime a dozen and safe sex means that they don't (usually) fuck while driving, I am a mite selective with what I put between my legs or dog forbid in my mouth.

(The Lou is consitantly in the Top 10 for Gonorrhea and Syphilis according to U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.)

Oooooooh! Now we are talking FUN!

I would rather chomp on a piece of gum I find on a gas station bathroom floor than to screw some of the garbage dick that roams aimlessly around this town.

YIKES!

That being said, even once I have determined that IT is cleanish, which for me entails me actually being in a relationship with the dude and his agreeing to be tested, IT still needs to be maintained properly or it's a no go.

Nothing will turn my head faster than discovering that my companion has a wookie bush.

Truth be known, I like my men shaved pretty much everywhere and possessing a bicycle (and/or a fantastic dog), so if you don't have a bicycle or a dog, you better not have a wookie bush either.

Wookies are not pets.

Last year I started dating a very sweet and pretty boy (28 yrs old) who looked simply amazing naked. Fantastic (and functioning) penis. Very tall. Employed. Post-grad. So cute.

However...

He had the dreaded "wookie bush".

Holy hell and damnation.

Fooling around was like going on a safari.

It seriously limited my play time, as who wants to die being smothered by a mass of wiry, itchy hairs?

Now, because he was "polite for male", he never asked me to go downtown, but I used the one time we got on the topic to bring up his pet wookie.

He had read my previous blogs regarding the subject when I had discovered Detective Wookie Bush, but somehow did not think it applied to him.

SO cute!

He looked at me and blinked a lot.

I could see that he had been able to get by solely on his cuteness in the past and did not know what to do with a woman who knew what she wanted.

Awwwww! It was simply precious how he looked at me as if he could not fathom the possibility that I had not been sitting at my townhouse those years on the edge of my front steps just awaiting him to move into a neighboring condo and bless my life with his penis.

I mean, I had been...in a way...as I just expected a hot guy with a fantastic penis to drop right out of the sky, and I put zero effort into "looking" for a mate, so he was pretty close.

But still. Wookie is wookie and it must go.

I came home one night and called him for our nightly chit chat.

He told me to come over because he had a surprise for me.

Being a girl, when I hung up I squealed and tried my best to look cute and less exhausted and casually (with hidden excitement) walked the 4 doors to his place.

Because he is a sweet and adorable goofball, he is wrapped in his sheet when I walk into his room.

He drops the sheet.

There, with the second most beautiful penis on the planet is my surprise.

He has gone Edward Scissorhands on his wookie bush.

I swear he must have used garden shears.

Oh my!

There were paths shaved into it like when one shovels snow.

There were like 5 straggly hairs hanging from his balls.

It was a mess.

But it was a sweet mess.

This scared little man-boy had attacked his genitalia with sharp objects to make me happy.

And all the important stuff was still there so I could do nothing but reward him.

He never quite grasped the art of maintenance and only trimmed the wookie about bimonthly, but it was still sweet.

I would later get a proposal from this man and I can say with certainty that the wookie bush moment was by far a sweeter (and more satisfying) thing.

Men, if you do little else, learn the fine art of manscaping. The rewards are plenty.

The Evolution of the Garbage Dick

Being a huge fan of gender equality, you can just imagine how excited I get by double standards.

No. It's true. I love 'em. I gobble them up like a fat kid gobbles up cake.

Sex has always been one of the areas where this nonsense has come into play.

It's really quite precious.

Guys can diddle anything warm and wet and merely be labeled as a "player". A chick can screw two guys in the same month and she's labeled as a slut.

What the fuck is that?

Now, I may not be the best person to argue this case as we all know that I am sexually frigid and dead on on the inside...

*snickers*

...But come on!

I was having a three-way a few weeks back...

...ummmm...

*rewinds*

...I was having a three-way conversation a few weeks back with two other females.

At the time, two of us had no idea that the third was a bit cuckoo.

To be fair, it's really a sad fact that her cheese has just slid right off her damn cracker, but whatever.

Two of the three of us are realists when it comes to "sexual labeling".

We used the term "garbage dick" about some fellas that we know.

Two of them were dating former "garbage dicks" and I was the asshole who happened to use the term. It's funny. It was funny then and it is funny now.

My friend, "the realist" and I were puzzled by the odd look the third was giving us over the term.

We explained that a "garbage dick" is merely a male slut.

We saw the light click on in her pretty little insane head.

He wasn't now a garbage dick. At that very moment. But he had been before they went "exclusive" and he never lied to her about it. She was no virgin. No prude. So we had no idea that she allegedly took offense to the statement. We wouldn't have, because she laughed pretty hard at it and she herself lacks filters when speaking, so it was not like she was a descendant of Miss Emily Post for fuck's sake.

Later in the weekend when she was cooking up a nice batch of bunny boiler stew, she dropped the bomb on our friend that I called him a "garbage dick" while she was flipping out about one of his past sex partners. Someone before and not during her.

Now, in the conversation I had with him, he is laughing at the term, as we call each other names all the time. In the conversation he had with her, she is wigging out like an ADHD kid on crack.

What is the big effing deal?

By modern standards, a slut is "a person who has taken control of their sexuality and has sex with whomever they choose, regardless of religious or social pressures or conventions to conform to a straight-laced monogamous lifestyle committed to one partner for life. The term has been "taken back" to express the rejection of the concept that government, society, or religion may judge or control one's personal liberties, and the right to control one's own sexuality."

Hmmmm...

That pretty much defines an awful lot of people in the real world.

So, maybe "garbage dick" is funny. Maybe it's not. But it is no worse that "slut" and neither are the exception anymore. Women and men are just fine to throw the term "slut" out there regarding females. But males are sluts too.

Why can't we have a funny name to call them?

Why do women get all the grief?

"Player"? Come on now. They get a name that sounds like "fun" but is really not so much actual fun.

People are always quick to blame it on the sexual revolution when it really just boils down to what's good for the goose is good for the gander. Regardless of how I personally feel about the psyche of people who feel the need to sleep around with multiple partners and I'm a bit of a germaphobe, so I have to remain impartial. This just addresses that males and females are equal in their actions when it comes to this sleeping around business.

People are going to do what they want. The sluts I know are still sluts and the garbage dicks I know are still garbage dicks.

If you don't agree with their behavior, you don't sleep with them.

If you don't want to be labeled as a slut or garbage dick, you don't act like a slut or a garbage dick.

This is really not gene splicing, people.

However, if you act like one, you forfeit the right to then bitch about someone else doing it.

Let's say it together, "Don't be hypocrites, boys and girls."

*tosses bulk of condoms*

Now you kids go have some fun!

Smells Like Old People

So last week some time my pal Tits wrote a blog about "weird sex". It was hilarious because obviously it is subjective.

Well, what she decided was weird to her crossed over into a place in me that I had not considered when pondering what I considered "weird". And then there it was. It hit her and then her hit hit me and before I could stop my eyes from reading, it was there...

Burning...My eyeballs...Make it stop!

"My folks having sex. That is weird to me, and disgusting but why?" she wrote.

I tried to blink.

I covered my mouth.

Not at the thought of her parents having sex or at the thought of my parents having sex. I was raised by my grandparents and it wasn't even the thought of them having sex.

Suddenly, I was reminded of a conversation my grandmother had with me that damn near melted my eardrums at the time and made me want to shower with a Brillo pad.

I can say "at the time" all day long and know that I am still not old enough to hear what she told me.

It was after my grandpa died and she had a boyfriend whom we all despised. It is safe to say that we most accurately despised his existence in hers and our lives, as he had been my grandpa's best friend...and she had had an affair with him for 20 years before my grandpa died.

Grandma was a slut.

That being said, she never spoke about sex and would have liked us all to believe that the stork delivered babies.

She used goofy names for body parts and whispered all "unmentionable" topics.

Breasts, vaginae, and buttocks were all called "whatsis"...

Sometimes she would venture out and call the ass, a "toukis". That's when she was pissed.

But in Gran's world, I had to guess which body part she was addressing...which slowed the conversation down a hair.

When it came to talk about sex, I was given a pamphlet about menstruation by the nuns and a book on sexual health with mediocre pictures that was written in the 50's.

So you can imagine my shock (read: "choke, gag, shoots-shortbread-cookie-through-nose" type delight) while sitting one day at the table when my son was about two, she started babbling about her boyfriend, Carl.

It had gotten to the point that any time his name was mentioned, anyone she was speaking to would suddenly: get busy, have to pee, fart, fall on the floor in a fit, or simply hang up on her.

I was right there.

There was no escape.

Drinking a cup of tea and nibbling on a Stella D'oro Breakfast Treat.

I had let my mind wander and had no idea what she was saying until I hear, "You know, Carl can't get it up anymore but he is VERY good with his hands."

I screamed.

Loud.

High pitched.

More of a shriek.

Horror movie quality.

People have heard this.

Then I started coughing uncontrollably as cookie and tea watered my eyes and shot out of my nose.

This broke her into hysterics. Hysterical laughter from a woman who had no sense of humor to speak of.

My son stopped playing at our feet and looked up at us. His eyes grew large and his lip puffed out.

Grandma had made Mommy scream and now was laughing at her.

He got up, kicked her in the leg and buried his head in my lap.

This made her react much like I had and she cracked up harder.

However, she never discussed sex with me again.

And that is why I have two children, loathe erectile dysfunction and upon meeting someone named Carl, my skin turns green.

The End.

Permission Not Granted: An Open Letter to a Cheater

You didn't grant me permission.

I know.

You didn't tell me that I could.

I know.

Guess what?

I don't need your permission.

I don't need you to tell me that it is OK to for me to feel as I do.

I don't need you to tell me that I am allowed to disagree with your behavior.

I just am.

You don't have to agree with me or how I feel. But why do I need your permission to express myself in my personal space?

I didn't go to your space.

I didn't go to someone else's space.

I came to my own space and put into words how I feel.

If you expect me to apologize that my opinion hurts you, you are nuts.

It is my opinion.

I did not hide it from you.

I did not sneak around behind your back.

I spoke to you directly about it. You and I.

I did not lie.

I did not ask anyone to believe as I do.

I am sorry that you are not open minded enough to consider that some people will not agree with you and your actions.

People disagree with me all the time.

So what?

You hurt me. You lied to me. Personally.

If you are now offended that I reported it, don't do it. Because you sure as shit take pleasure when it is someone else at the receiving end. And you sure as shit take pleasure when people give it back to me.

I personally watched you waiting for me to pounce on someone for your own
personal thrill.

It must have killed you when I didn't.

It must have killed you that I simply went directly to them.

You wanted me to say what I did. You told me you did. You said you were too weak. You were simply naive to think that you would come out unscathed.

Why should you?

I didn't.

I knew I wouldn't.

It was a decision that I owned.

You got hurt.

Your pain was your karma.

I kept a few people from getting hurt.

Their thanks was mine.

Be angry, but pay attention.

I just protected others the way that I had protected you.

This is how people stand up for what they believe in.

This is how people stop the cycle.

Sure as shit you'll never fuck with me again, now will you? You should have listened when I told you not to fuck with me. I am not you. I do not allow people to use me like a doormat.

It should make you angry.

It should make you angry that what I say is true.

If you don't like the truth, change it.

If you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything. Right?

Well, you fell. Hard. Repeatedly.

You're down now. Are you going to stay there or are you going to get up?

Are you going to run to the safety of those who will enable the same cycle you have lived in for years with their delicious, red and beautiful poisonous apples of comfort?

Or listen to the inner self who cried out that it wanted change?

It doesn't matter if I believe you to be wrong.

It matters only that you know that you are.