Tuesday, June 15, 2010

a party in your mouth.

well well well. i'm too busy and tired to be of much use to anyone these days, especially myself. my apartment is a fucking mess and i keep washing a load of clothes here and a load of clothes there and not really putting any of them away. which isn't the biggest deal because i essentially wear a variation on the same uniform every single day, but it would be swell if someone came over and put all these black t-shirts away for me. i'm sick now, too. at both ends. fucking uncontrollable stressarrhea coupled with a super-gross head cold i woke up infected with. ugg, i would like to die, please. my face hurts.

lucky for me that i have the nonstop runs, as it means i get to catch up on some reading. and lucky for you that reading includes some back issues of our favorite tawdry ass piece of shit. i was flipping through it trying to find the articles on how to break a toxic love pattern and how to make exotic party food (i often read new recipes when i'm crapping out an old one; it's the circle of life, right?) when i came across THE GREATEST MAGAZINE ARTICLE OF ALL TIME.

the subject? BALLS. of course.

you bitches are going to stop acting like i'm crazy STARTING TODAY. i'm not the only one who gets hot for a giant plum smuggler, so you can all just shut up. because the sexperts at cosmo have weighed in and are in agreement that the handling of testicles is a matter that totally shouldn't be left hanging. some genius who is on the ball has written a step-by-step instruction manual for how to touch and lick and caress your man's funbag, and these are moves he's sure to go nuts for. i'm sure there's some sort of copyright infringement involved if i listed the highlights here, plus i'm goddamned lazy and my hand is fucked up, so go find that shit yourselves. or call me or whatever. we'll have a laugh. AND we'll totally be experts on how to tickle his pickle.

the other night, my boyfriend brought ice to bed. he wanted to stick a cube inside my vagina, but i freaked. is it safe?

it makes me laugh thinking about these horrifying situations as they are happening. like, what did he bring the ice in? how soon after playtime got started did he go get it? did he just leave a glass of ice on the bedside table in the beginning then reach over for it all cool like? or did he pull out and run down the hall to the kitchen before sprinting back juggling ice from hand to hand because it was too cold to touch, flaccid junk bobbling from side to side?

my initial reaction is one that i need a chemist or physicist to help me sort out: can my vagina get freezer burn? because i know how much it pisses me off to pull an expensive cut of sirloin out of the freezer only to discover that the edge is all dark red and extra hard, and i would HATE for that to happen to my succulent lady meat. and there really is no way to salvage freezer burned ice cream or a lean cuisine that sat behind the the ice cube trays and batteries for too long. you just have to throw it out. and if i wanted to throw my vagina away for the rest of my life i'd go bump uglies with a hot piece of hiv. a magic johnson, indeed.

preston used to enjoy a little tea bag + ice water action, and there was only so much of that my cavities and sensitive teeth could take, but i've never dunked my snatch in an ice bath. how does a vagina respond to temperature change? because WHO CARES how it makes him feel, i have to make sure that anything i do feels good to me, too. i have a huge vibrator with an infrared tip that heats up, but whenever i use it i get too preoccupied with whether or not i'm going to set my labia on fire to properly enjoy the experience.

a numb kitten sounds sort of appealing, though. ESPECIALLY if you've got some idiot dude who takes forever to get off because he's busy fantasizing about marlon brando or whatever. a little north pole in your hole might come in handy. and i bet afterward you're totally going to walk like a penguin.

what, if any, STDs can i get from giving oral sex?

all of them, except one: BABIES.

the guy i'm dating has a foot fetish. seeing my toes in sandals gets him hard, and he loves to touch my feet during sex. i want to help him, but it also weirds me out. what's his deal?

i know a SUPER sexy foot fetishist, so i'm totally into this. and him. the first time a dude involved my feet in bed was five or six years ago, and i balked at first because i have fred flintstone feet and why would i spend forty dollars on a pedicure when i could just as easily drink that money? i'm the dirtiest hippie when it comes to foot maintenance. seriously, i don't give a shit. you hoes know that i broke my foot, TWICE, and you also know that when the cast finally came off it looked like a gnarled yellow gorilla hand. and they both pretty much still do. i wear flip flops all the time because i can't deal with it being so fucking HOT, and my feet are generally yellow, pink, and gray from june to october. even when you wash summer feet they look 100% dirty, so why kill myself trying to fight the inevitable?

now i would never expect any normal person to suck on these feet. and even if someone offered i'd be like, "dude? there's probably dog pee and hepatitis trapped in that flaky callous. let's wait until december." but he could totally touch them. trim the nails. massage them. with aquaphor. get my nubbly old lady slipper socks out of the drawer. get me a hot water bottle. turn on the humidifier. grab me a box of lotion tissues. make me some tea. put the tv on. find my soft jammies. wash my baby blanket. rub some vicks under my nose. climb in bed. rub my back. spoon me. mmmmm.

sorry. i told you, i'm fucking SICK. i need someone to come over and play nurse. anyway, i'd only be weirded out if the fetish 1 happened randomly outside of the bedroom with you or 2 happened regularly out on the street with strangers. for cereal, if homeboy walks down the block in the summertime with his eyes trained on the ground popping boners every time he sees an exposed big toe, you should probably leave his ass.

when i'm trying to talk to a cute guy i've just met, i stumble over my words because i get nervous. my friends tell me to look adorable and just listen to what he says. so what's better: talking and being bad at it or clamming up and being cute?

isn't there a third option? how about you get your fucking shit together, bitch? i'm not nervous talking to any dude ever, and here's why: THEY'RE IDIOTS. and they aren't listening to you anyway. so when i see a hot dude i just imagine him reading at a third grade level and then forge ahead. you aren't afraid to talk to children, are you? well just think of him as one of your little brother's hot friends or something. all systems go.

it's frustrating to me when women spend more than half a second thinking about what to say to some goddamned dude. maybe i'm insensitive because of the buckets of hilarious that pour out of me with relative ease, but even if jokes aren't your thing i'm sure you can come up with SOMETHING. has it been raining a lot? good, talk about that. new season of dog the bounty hunter starting up? great, bring that shit up. tell him about your new dog. bore him to tears with what you do for a living. show him your slutty hidden tattoo. give him a lapdance. vomit on him. something. ANYTHING.

and what the hell are you supposed to do if you're bad at talking and not cute? shrivel up and die? fuck that. let's make you funny. i would walk up to the hottest piece of meat in the bar (make sure you've got your tits pushed up to your chin and are batting your eyelashes a lot) and say, "hey handsome, (dramatic pause) how big was the biggest shit you've ever taken?" he will laugh, you will look hilarious, and if he actually gives you a measurement you should MARRY HIM IMMEDIATELY.

on a recent vacation, my husband and i were walking on the beach at night when i suggested we have sex. i meant for it to be an unusual thing for us to do far away from home. but now that we're back, he wants to have sex in every crazy place you can imagine. how can i make him understand that i didn't mean for it to be a regular thing?

dummy. god, why are you skanks so dumb?! we might have gone over this before, but you girls need to drill into your heads that if you allow something, anything, even ONE TIME, you better be prepared for that shit to keep happening. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES. that is why i am up front and honest about what a dude can expect to find at the bottom of my treat bag in the beginning. and i'm not so rigid that i won't let a dude throw a little salt or sugar on it to spice things up, i just don't say yes to anything i wouldn't be comfortable doing again. and again. AND AGAIN.

are there dudes who let you get away with "special treat" moves in bed? hmm. as much as i like to boss a hot man around, the majority of the time i liked to get OWNED. fucking around with a moist dude isn't that appealing to me; sometimes i like to know you're not going to put up with any of my SHIT. including rationing out the naughty. i can't imagine a hot young man settling for "blowjob thursday" or "every other tuesday anal." like weekly specials at a restaurant or some shit. that's just not sexy. but you know what is? THE BUFFET.

i just started dating a great guy. there aren't any problems right now, but he had gotten out of a long-term relationship just a week before we started going out. i would never want to be his rebound, so i need to know: is he really over his ex even though their relationship ended so recently?

this sucks the most. isn't it totally the worst when some bitch you've never even met completely DESTROYS your new relationship? or ruins a perfectly acceptable dude before you can get your hands on him? and do your own dismantling? barf.

this is how my relationship with the lobster went to shit before it could even get jamming, because some wretched hag broke him into a million pieces. and i don't do "damaged." because those dudes always fuck you up, intentionally or otherwise, and my days of donning the tights and cape are OVER. because it never works in the saviour's favor. you devote all of your blood, sweat, and tears to some lovelorn bag of sad, and just when you get him fixed up to the point that you might be able to make a relationship of it, you're in the friend zone and he's using everything you gave him to fuck some other bitch. pffft.

the lobster was honest about his state of emotional bankruptcy, at least. so i got to back right on out and moved his name to the "no booty" section of my little black book. some dudes would just pack up the uhaul and drive it right over to your house without even stopping to take a breath. i don't know shit, but a week seems awfully soon for this dude to have completely and successfully moved on. i mean, did he even get all of her bobby pins and spare sunglasses out of his place yet? has he thrown out all of the love letters and birthday cards? has he donated her clothes to the salvation army? has he burned all of her photographs? changed his phone number? blocked her from emailing him? dumped the body? buried the incriminating evidence? confirmed an alibi?

um...yeah. BAIL.

i recently broke up with my boyfriend of six years and, since then, my relationships with my platonic guy friends have changed. they're all flirting with me a lot more, and a couple have flat-out suggested that we hook up. i want to keep my friends, not have flings. but if they started behaving like this the minute i became single, were they ever really my friends to begin with?

dudes are such dirtbag pieces of garbage. tariq always advises against male-female interpersonal relationships that aren't sexual in nature for this very reason. because, unless he is a eunuch, there is no such thing as a non-sexual relationship. to them, it's just not sexual YET. i have SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT THIS that it's getting its very own post, because i have a lot of scumbag con artists and hangers-on who need to be put on blast in a very public way, but my specific beef is with the other type of male friend, the "i'm going to act like i want to fuck you just to keep you around." stay fucking tuned.

anyway, lover, these dudes aren't your friends. they are assholes, they are opportunists, but they are NOT your friends. and i'm not against dudefriends. at all. i have quite a few of them. REAL ONES, men who wouldn't come around with their dicks out the minute i finished with some other sucker. and who also don't mind changing my lightbulbs and carrying air conditioners up three flights of stairs. (thanks, quincy!) but the key to the success of those relationships is that they are clearly defined from their inception, and everybody is clear that no fluids of any kind are going to be exchanged for the duration of the friendship. and you have to stick to that, or else it doesn't work.

when the lines get blurred shit gets complicated, and you know i take an anti-complicated approach to everything in life. manfriends especially. because i don't like getting my feelings hurt, which is exactly what happens when your "best friend that you make out with sometimes" gets a serious girlfriend or the "booty call you occasionally go to the movies with" develops real feelings and suddenly wants to be your steady and cockblocks any action you might otherwise be getting and you have to figure out a nice way to let him down while also ensuring that he'll still help you move your couch next week. that's what dudes are good for, right?

so it's your fault as much as it is his, because i'm going to go ahead and assume that you haven't been crystal effing clear about the nature of your friendship and what is or isn't appropriate. with some dudes you don't have to say it, you both just know that you aren't into each other. but with the other 99.9%, be up front in the beginning. and by
up front" i mean that you say "i am never going to have sex with you" to his face and mean that shit. then hand him a screwdriver and point him to that dresser drawer that won't properly close.

i've been dating a guy for several months. it was clear that we weren't seeing other people...or so i thought, because i just discovered he slept with someone else. he claims it wasn't cheating because we aren't in a relationship, but i don't agree. what do you think?

that you and i and every other woman on this rotten planet give WAY too much undeserved benefit of the doubt. we get all excited and flush with the glow of possibility and throw out all our tricking off phone numbers and stunt penises without any real proof that it's time to do so. pffft. not anymore, babies.

remember how we aren't calling dudes anymore? excellent. now add "no more committing to someone who hasn't proven he's committed to me" to the list. i wonder how it was "clear" that they weren't seeing other people? because coming to the conclusion that he is IT for you doesn't justify that assumption. did he say something? something CONCRETE and SPECIFIC? because if he didn't, then he also didn't cheat.

i'm not so arrogant that i don't understand how this happened. i've been through this nasty business firsthand. which is why i now make dudes sign a contract. i had this boyfriend when i was nineteen; 100% average, 0% extraordinary. which was fine because i was goddamned NINETEEN. he was nice enough, smart enough, and he fixed cars. which came in pretty handy because i was driving a piece of shit at the time that always needed work, (brakes, clutch, fluid pump, oil changes, the heat never fucking worked right, the radio was trash...) and i don't mind paying for services in ass. one night he dropped my car off at my apartment after replacing a belt or whatever (cars are for boys) and someone else's (INCREDIBLY TACKY) purse was in the passenger seat. just chilling there, mocking me in all of its fake gucci glory.

when i am angry i shut all the way down. i don't cry or yell or scream, i just stop talking. and that terrifies most people. so i just pointed at the offending accessory, and he looked at it and said, "you can't get mad. you're not my girlfriend." and, as stunned and furious as i was, he was right. i wasn't his girlfriend. but that WAS my motherfucking $1300 car, so i yanked the door open, threw that piece of shit pleather purse as far down the street as i could, then threw that raggedy bitch into gear and drove over it. because even when i lose i WIN.

now bring me some soup already. i'm dyyyyying.