Tuesday, February 1, 2011

but would you go down on a woman?

you can blame the fuckery that's about to go down in this post on laura. so we were bullshitting around on the interwebs last tuesday afternoon, bored out of our gourds and dreaming about the delicious dinner we were going to have at the southern, and she was on dlisted and read me the post about melissa etheridge's ex-wife being delivered a package of dildos that were intended for the woman she was cheating on her with. sucio. now for those of you who aren't obsessed with celebrity lesbians and all of their crazy, and how could you not be?, melissa was married to tammy-lynn michaels, this chick who used to be on the show popular. which i watched DEVOTEDLY, despite the fact that i was way too old to be into that stupid shit in a serious way and probably should have been somewhere learning how to knit booties and beguile a man. anyway, now these bitches are separated, and melissa is moving her more-famous ass on to greener carpets. while tammy-lynn is totally losing her fucking shit all over the internets. FOR SERIOUS. her blog is like a peek inside a glamourously decorated insane asylum, full of enraged outbursts and shitty "poetry" rife with lurid details about their defunct relationship. it is amazeballs. we're talking serious trainwreckery. anyway, when TL got them she picked up the catphone and called melissa and said "i have your new dicks on my kitchen counter," which is quite possibly the greatest thing any one person has said to another. then i told laura about how i need to get the ball rolling on my transformation into a lesbian.

now let's be serious. i don't want to be a gay woman nearly as much as i want to be a heterosexual man. i want to find a hot, nurturing mommy-type broad with a sporty haircut to bake me shit and drive me around in her SUV. don't you dare act surprised. dudes are so fucking stupid and inconsistent, and even if you find one you think is awesome it's only a matter of time before you catch him with his dick in the nanny, so i'm going to skip all that noise and spend my chico's years with a retired gym teacher rescuing shelter dogs and going on fishing tours of alaska.

doesn't that sound relaxing and nice? i'm tired of jumping through hoops for these thoughtless-ass dudes. chicks are just better. i need to be around somebody who will remember my fucking birthday without having to be reminded twenty goddamned times and heat up my pajamas in the dryer while i'm taking my night shower. and GUARANTEED i'm not about to get that shit from a man. i need a health-conscious dinner to be waiting for me when i get home after work, and i want someone to read the newspaper to me while i eat it. then clean up my dishes afterward before giving me a soothing scalp massage and letting me pick whatever we're about to watch on television. you think i can't trick a broad into doing that shit?! my vagina is ten times smarter than most men, and she talks A LOT LESS. stand back while i get my gay on.

i know exactly what to say to a woman.
dudes always think a bitch wants to hear shit like, "i'm gonna fuck your brains out through your eye socket" or whatever, but that's just dumb. no one wants to be spoken to like a goddamned hooker. women need to feel beautiful and perfect and special. i'm not going to bore her half to fucking death with bro talk and chest flexing, i'm going to say, "hey girl, you look really pretty today. and totally skinny. i like the way that flannel shirt accents your eyes. your new haircut is cute, too. and it's so shiny. i thought you might be using a different conditioner! are those new jeans? you look SO GOOD in them. oh, stop it. i love cellulite, girl. nobody wants a bone but a dog." listen up, gentlemen: THAT IS THE LINE THAT IS GOING TO MAKE YOUR WIFE LEAVE YOU TO GIVE ME BACK MASSAGES AND DO MY TAXES. and you fucking deserve it. jerkballs.

they also want to know that you fucking care about them, and that you're fucking listening. and fake empathy (femme-pathy?) is something i can goddamned DO. "hey girl, i'm sorry traffic was bad on your way back from home depot. how was your golf tournament? how's that bitch at work that you hate? i bought your favorite cookie dough brownie caramel chocolate cake potato chip nacho cheese pizza crust ice cream when i was at the store earlier. i'm sorry you're sad, lover. would you like to cry together? should we have another discussion about our emotions? do you have any feelings you want to talk about? want me to go grab your cleats out of the back of the subaru?"

are you fucking kidding me?! your panties are wet ALREADY. and it isn't just lies and lip service. women are less boring, and dudes don't really have interesting conversations. i already know everything i've ever wanted to about comic books and kung fu movies, thanks. have you READ anything today? this week? this MONTH?! yep, i know derrick rose made the all-star team, but what did you think about the mayoral debate last night? oh, you missed it? you didn't even know there was an upcoming election?! AWESOME. i don't know what men do when they're hanging out other than rattling off basketball statistics and banging their dicks together, and that's nice and everything, but i sort of want to know what you think about other shit. not too much, because you're pretty boring, but talking for an hour about the sweet carbon fiber wing and coax speakers you just got for the 2002 celica your mom handed down that you've been "working on" for three years while "saving money" from your job at starbucks to move out of your childhood bedroom (note to dudes: GETTING YOUR OWN PLACE > CUSTOM-KITTED VEHICLE) does not make me want to see your penis. your impassioned rant against the cowering of the president by the conservative establishment? yes, please: penis time. but a lengthy, tedious debate about who would win a fist fight between doctor doom and magneto? holy fucking shit, dude: VAGINA TIME.

i read a lot of fucking books and i know about a lot of fucking shit. plus i'm interesting and i do stuff that's fun. my jokes are hilarious, and i'm not going to mispronounce the name of some regular shit and embarrass a woman in front of the goddamned waiter. true story: i went out with this dude maybe five or six years ago who waited until we'd met in person for the first time to reveal to me that he was dumb. i fucking hate that. how is it possible that you maintained some semblance of intelligence during TWO telephone conversations yet devolve into a bumbling mess the second i introduce myself to you? i don't even remember this dude's name, but i met him on a sunday at this bar in the south loop. there were cards on the table that listed the bar's "special drinks," ie DRINKS FOR LADIES. you know, vaginaritas and tampontinis and fruity shit like that. i saw him eyeing the card and thought "strike one, idiot" but didn't say anything because i try not to be such a jerkballs before i've gotten the chance to disappoint someone sexually. the waitress came over and i asked for a shot and a beer, and then she turned to my companion. "i'll take a black orsh," it sounded like he'd mumbled, and the waitress and i exchanged "um...what was that?" glances. "i'm sorry?" she said politely. "A. BLACK. OR-SHUD," he deaf-person shouted. i flushed with shame and tried to calculate how much of an apology tip i was going to have to leave this bitch. what a fucking asshole. finally, when she still hadn't written anything down, he snatched the card from its holder and pointed midway down the list. "BLACK! OR-SHUD!" (sam = dead.) "ohhhhhhhh, you mean a black ORCHID?" she said, matching his obnoxious "are you dumb?" volume. "an ORCHID? like the flower? the ORCHID FLOWER? coming right up."

STRIKE FUCKING TWO. listen, honeypants, i'm a product of the public school system, too, so don't give me any of that bullshit about my upscale edumacation from the university of fancy learnin'. we drank our drinks then walked to that movie theater connected to that bowling alley that is always teeming with black folks on any given evening and saw "notes on a scandal." (sam's choice, OBV.) he was asleep before the end of the opening credits (and why not? pssshhh. british movies? totally snoozers!) and that was just fine by me. let me enjoy my movie jams in peace. EXCEPT. he started fucking snoring. AUDIBLY. which i might not care so much about a year into it. or even a month into it. or, quite possibly, a week into it. but on the FIRST DATE? come on, man! i put on silky underwear for this! and you're just going to FALL ASLEEP?! so that was the end of that.

point is, that's what some dudes are out here offering. which is why, i'm almost certain, when a woman sees that i can speak intelligently about current sociopolitical happenings and converse while keeping all of the food in my mouth she will fall hopelessly in love and want to spend the rest of her life separating my colors from my whites because i can hardly be bothered to do that shit. women need compliments and adoration; and not cheesy "your eyes are like the stars" bullshit, but ACTUAL PRAISE, like "i can totally tell that the nutri-system is working" and "thank you for organizing my desk drawer." that fruity shit is for suckers. i want dudes to pretend to care (or even fucking NOTICE) that i categorized and alphabetized their dvds while they were passed out on the kitchen floor. i mean, sometimes that shit is helpful, like when you want to look through all his shit and can't reliably put everything back in its exact place, but i want you to pay attention to me. as do most girls. and they never will, which is why i now have to channel my inner billy dee williams.

women know how to make shit comfortable.
if i never got banged on a king-sized bed with NO SHEETS and ONE LUMPY PILLOW ever again in my fucking life it would be too goddamned soon. pffft. dudes always want to try to fuck you in the abandoned warehouse in which they're squatting. or at least that's what the shit fucking LOOKS like, all bare walls and "furniture" procured from alleys and shit. would it kill you motherfuckers to put a mat in the bathroom? to buy soap with a moisturizing agent? to have anything other than gatorade or muscle milk or power juice in your fucking refrigerator? to put all twenty-seven pairs of jordans in a closet rather than the arranged display over which i am bound to stumble in the middle of the goddamned night?! i like soft things that smell awesome. i like multi-colored le creuset rubber spatulas. i like coffee mugs with handles. i like fresh gerbera daisies. which is why i have to learn to like strap-ons. or marry a gay man.

why do you dudes only own one towel? and a HAND towel at that?! why do you have no paper towels? why is all your shit in garbage bags even though you moved in two years ago? why does it smell like gym shoes and testicles in your apartment? why do you refuse to purchase a fitted sheet AT THE VERY LEAST? do i really have to SLEEP IN MY GODDAMNED CLOTHES TO STAY WARM UP IN HERE? why don't you have BLANKETS? why do you need SO MANY remotes? why do you have a roommate at forty-two? why do you own a leather couch and a 573" flat screen but not a single motherfucking plate? do we really have to share CUTLERY?!

every time i have nearly BROKEN MY GODDAMNED NECK tripping over the 20+ wii and playstation and xbox cords in the dark in some dude's raggedy house trying to find my way to the bathroom that has paper towels in lieu of toilet paper and a cracked and dried-out bar of dial melted into the sink i think, "i really have to start fucking women." and eventually won't we all? standing in the cold and dark, feeling beard stubble and dirt from outside being ground into your bare feet (why did you get that pre-date pedicure again?), shaking your hands dry because you used the last square of 1-ply toilet paper to try to soak up whatever droplets of post-sex pee it could absorb, you mean to tell me you didn't wish HE was a SHE? or that you were at least in your own fucking house? where there is plenty of toilet paper?!

you won't want to eat at my house because crohn's food is awful (dry toast!), but you'll want to do every goddamned thing else. there are nice candles everywhere and dozens of expensive soaps and lots of blankets and clean, crisp sheets. there are paper towels and toilet paper and hand towels and bath towels and a rug and both a shower curtain AND a liner in the bathroom. and dudes don't have the market cornered on technological fun shit. i have a little flat screen! a couple hundred dvds! ten thousand records! a mac! an evo! three ipods! THE INTERNETS! if i bought a fucking video game system you'd never have to goddamned leave. especially since peapod is the jam. i'm not saying a dude has to have an interior decorator, because that is moist, but 99% of them can't even clear the empty mcdonalds and taco bell bags from the bed before trying to put it in your butt. come on, man! you're getting special sauce in my pussy hole! and NOT the sexy kind.

i refuse to plot and hunt and trap a man only to spend the rest of my life trying to get him to turn off espn and pick up a book that doesn't have pictures in it, let alone being the only one in the house who cares enough to buy paperwhite bulbs in season and change the plug-in when it starts to get all dried out and ineffective. i mentally and emotionally cannot cope with being the one who notices that the curtains need to go to the cleaners and the knives in the drawer are all dull. that is exhausting and robs you of your joy. so i'm just going to be a dude and be happy all the time. just not in the ways that suck. i am going to make a bitch feel so amazing that she'll be falling all over herself to let me lounge on the plush couch in her comfortable house that smells like pine cones or pumpkin pie or whatever scent martha stewart says is hot this year. and i will NOTICE that pine cone scent! i don't give a shit about staying in and having a romantic evening for two; i am going to order shit on pay-per-view in my jammies while she takes recipes she printed off of rachael ray's website and tries them out in the kitchen, getting drunk on white wine and listening to the indigo girls. sounds like a perfect night to this asshole, especially if she keeps refreshing my plate of chewy cherry chicken cheesies. or naughty nachos on noodles. or bacon brisket brownies. or crazy carrots and crackers. or eatza meatza pizza. (you get the idea. rachael ray is blarf.)

i like laying around without a bra on in cozy, shapeless inside clothes and passing out drunk on boxed wine at 9:00 pm in front of a lifetime movie, and those things make me an ideal lesbian. plus, i don't have to be reminded to change the cat box and i know how to properly make a bed with a duvet. in other words: i'm perfect.

i could eat a bitch out, i guess.
the FIRST THING laura and ginger asked me, simultaneously, when i said my sapphic ass was steering my canoe toward the island of lesbos was, "but would you GO DOWN ON A WOMAN?" my answer? "TOTALLY." i like oysters and mussels, so what's the problem? i'll just pretend it's a taco and sprinkle a little lime juice and chili oil on it. nom nom nom. seriously, how hard could it be to have sex with a goddamned lady? i have TWO EARS and the SAME GODDAMNED ANATOMY, so what's the big deal? "hey girl, what kind of sexing do you like?" i'll ask, and when she answers i will LISTEN TO HER and then DO WHAT SHE SAYS. what a novel idea, right? you dudes oughta take note. fucking really is that easy.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD SEX WITH A MAN? if he's not obliviously pounding away at every orifice on your body like you're a fucking blow-up doll, he's outrageously over-selling his abilities only to mimic some dumb shit he saw on redtube once he gets his dick out in your presence. and then he'll have zero qualms about leaving you 100% UNSATISFIED. and THAT is only if he can maintain a fucking erection. do you know how many times i have had to say, "my vagina is not your hand, asshole" to some neanderthal dude who was rabbit-fucking so rough my sensitive meat was chafing and shooting sparks? GODDAMN YOU. and why are you trying to force the head of your penis through the back of my skull? PLEASE STOP FUCKING MY FACE SO HARD, SIR. even the "sensitive" dudes! once you get them naked they just do whatever the fuck they want, no matter what you said will get you off or what you told them works best for you. they really do just do whatever the hell works for them, and if you happen to have an orgasm too that's just icing on the cake. pfffft. just reading this makes me never want to have sex with another dude for as long as i live, and i'm sure there's some old softball coach who installed her own heated bathroom tiles out there who feels the EXACT SAME WAY.

and goddamn it, i have fucked every single CUNNILINGUS EXPERT and ORGASM SPECIALIST in the fucking city of chicago. apropos of nothing, dudes always want to tell you how amazing they are at banging. ALWAYS. you could ask what type of food this motherfucker eats and he'll be all, "baby, you know what i really love to eat? pussy." EXAGGERATED EYE ROLL. "great, blind date whom i've never met before and am not sure i'm even going to fuck, but where should i make our DINNER RESERVATION?" bla-arf. it's infuriating. every dude i've ever met claims to have a phd in fucking, and that proclamation is usually made before we've even finished the first (inter)course at a restaurant he can't really afford. i can barely get my water refilled before dude is trying to tell me how he makes bitches squirt and shit. and that is lame. i wouldn't care about a little harmless braggadocio after he's slayed this dragon in bed, but before we've even established that his fire hose can temper the flame? YEAH fucking RIGHT.

i don't have to tell some hot lady i'm the president of pussytown or whatever, i just have to show up with my suitcase of sex goodies and ask which hole she likes the vibrator in. women use chapstick and floss their teeth and files their toenails; we spray perfume behind our knees and replace our fancy underpants frequently; we make bruschetta for fun and buy good wine and fold cashmere throws over the arm of the couch in case our company gets cold during movie night. now who couldn't cozy up with a little bit of that? most grown women know how and where they like to be touched, and if a dude ever bothered to pay attention i wouldn't be writing this blog. a little "where is your g spot?" can save everyone involved a whole lot of goddamned trouble. basically, i'm going to do the opposite of everything men do. because they do just about everything wrong. guaranteed success.

making a woman happy is easy.
you know what makes me happy? unexpected phone calls in the middle of the day. remembering what i liked at that one restaurant we went to that one time. half-dead grocery store flowers just because they were on sale. a good morning text that says, "have a good day and try not to burn anything to the ground in a furious rage." i think dudes like to pretend that we're so difficult both to please and comprehend, but that's got to be because they watch too much dumb shit on television. sure, there are broads who aren't happy unless a man is subjugating himself at her feet while direct depositing his paychecks into her account, but for the most part she is the exception. the rest of us are just trying to get a phone call every few days and maybe get banged twice or three times a month.

and that i can totally do. burn up a few anytime minutes and tinker around in her tool shed every once in a while? TOTALLY. i'll even buy a twenty dollar bottle of wine and rent  "chocolat" on dvd. i will prepare a beautiful dinner, keeping in mind that she hates both onions and smelly cheeses, and serve it on one of my many PLATES, accompanied by an actual GLASS. she won't have to pout alone in the bedroom because my boy tee and i decided to order the fight on pay-per-view, nor will she have to worry that I'M the one who got her friend sharnay pregnant. i won't ever ask to "hold a few dollars" or borrow her car to go drop some formula money off at my baby mama house. fuck all that. i'm going to go to roll my eyes through her book club meetings, listen to her josh groban cds in the car without complaint, continue building my shrine to our patron saint, rachel maddow, wear pink ribbon t-shirts and cargo shorts, obsess over the kitten colony i started in her basement, and let her go down on me every night while i watch conan. in other words, my shit is about to get AWESOME.

i'm so ready for this. i even got a haircut.