Friday, January 24, 2014

at what point are you comfortable enough to stick your tongue in a dude's butt?

i haven't had sex in 500+ days. and it's cool, man. like, for real. i have read HELLA BOOKS. my apartment is spotless. i made a perfect carbonara. i started thinking about my next book. i brushed helen a few times. i bought a lot of nail polish. i watched every single beyonce video ever made, plus: the most recent season of sons of anarchy and all of the movies nominated for best picture oscars this year. my male BFF (oxymoron, i know, but work with me here) carl called me from DC the other night to make fun of both my new haircut and current life choices, and eventually the conversation wound up at the dead end of whether or not i would ever want to have sex again. "with a human?" i asked. "ugh, kind of. but after all this time i'm not even sure i would know how." and i probably don't. it's been long enough and i have so little practical experience that i'm not even sure how dating works. (are you kids still calling eating overpriced sushi with a veritable stranger a date? also, what the motherfuck is a tinder?) which warranted a handy guide, DUH. a guide written in red lip pencil on the back of an overdue electric bill, but a handy guide nonetheless. i'ma keep this shit in my purse, just in case i ever get back on

1st date: innocent cheek kiss. i'm only saying this because i feel like this is what you should say. i don't have any goddamned impulse control, man. like, if you get anywhere near my face you might have to forcibly restrain me from trying to put my lips on the corner of your mouth or whatever. a couple weeks ago i was at heartland with my girl julia and she gave me one of those extralong heartfelt hugs, the kind you give while placing your hand on the back of a bitch's head and shit, and ten seconds in i swear to god i had my eyes closed and some of her hair in my mouth. if i'm out with someone i like RUL RUL BAD i spend the entire time just watching his mouth and teeth move while he's talking about some shit i don't care about (probably) and no that isn't creepy or disconcerting at all. i guess what i'm trying to say is that there is no way i can stare at your lips for two hours and not attempt to hoover them off your face while awkwardly ensnaring my soft meat in the complicated seatbelt in your car. what a fucking asshole. tentatively going in for the kiss and before being violently slammed back into my seat because i forgot i have that stupid belt on. ugh fuck safety.

2nd date: maybe some open-mouthed kissing? if you're me? YOU ALREADY DID THIS SHIT ON THE FIRST DATE, BRO. but here's the tricky thing: where is this tonsil hockey supposed to take place? because if it's at my spot: we're fucking, my dude. and if it's at your spot: i'm surreptitiously going through your medicine cabinet, i'm maxing that leftover papa john's and drinking that last lagunitas, and then: we're fucking, my dude. and by fucking i mean "making love like we both have hip dysplasia." 

3rd date: on-top-of-clothes groping. unless you're naïve to the game you already fucking know that this is my preferred method of all the way sex. i am not fucking kidding when i say we can just stop here for the rest of our lives and i would be fine with that. seriously can't we just make a bunch of pina coladas in the blender and touch ourselves in silence? a couple years ago i placed a craigslist ad in the "miscellaneous sex" personals that read: MARGINALLY-ATTRACTIVE HUMAN WITH FEMALE PARTS LOOKING FOR A GIANT MEATBEAST WITH WHICH TO ENGAGE IN SOME ON TOP OF CLOTHES SEX. nothing else. i received easily a hundred responses, 99 of which were some queried form of "what does sex with clothes mean?" or another and 1 that was just a picture of an old playa in a crush velvet suit holding a pitbull in the type of living room that still had plastic on the couch. yeah, no.

4th date: oral +/- a handjob. so sometimes i do triceps curls. my upper arms, man: GROSS. and who cares because cap sleeves are a liar and i always wear real shirts even in the summer. but i keep these bitches strong in case i ever have to give an emergency handjob. same reason i keep up my CPR certification, on the off chance that someone faints in front of me and i can get my shit together for long enough to save a life. HJs are tiring so i usually go straight to the B, especially since i'm 33 and 3/4 and i still have no idea where i am supposed to goddamned look while jerking a dude off. staring into his eyes is creepy, turning my head to watch the television is rude, so where in the fuck am i supposed to put my eyes!? i'll tell you where: on that little thicket of man grass just above his wang. because handjobs are the worst. and my arms aren't that goddamned strong yet.

5th date: vaginal sex and/or the homosexual equivalent. right out of the gate i gotta say that i don't have a real rule about this. i'm one of those "whenever it feels right" fruitbags, which is definitely an excuse to be as slutty as i please because i am a grown ass lady and i do what i want. 

6th date: toe sucking, biting, nipple clamps, buttplay, poop. when do you scat queens introduce all of your weird fetishes and kinks? and once you've decided when, how do you go about having that discussion? in fifty shades of grey when dude drew up that sexcontract i was like, reading about potential sex > having actual sex. and you know how much i hate getting busy. i would much rather we both pull our kindles out and hold hands while jimmy fallon is on and then sleep on separate sides of the apartment. or maybe just talk about vomiting on one another. my typical style is to just blurt "USE YOUR TEETH FOR THAT" in the middle of the, OMG DID I EVER TELL YOU GUYS ABOUT THE DUDE WITH THE KNIFE!? homeboy liked his steak a little bloody in the bedroom and okay, i guess? but you have to ease a girl into that kind of shit. dude pulled out a switchblade for me to use on him with zero warning and i was like, "fuck he's about to use my skin to make a coat" before totally wetting the bed. i legit thought i was going to die, friends. from now on, let's all learn to use our words.

7th SMORG-ASS-BORD. now according to carl, if you are the “receivee” (dude really said that shit, i can’t make this up; i think this motherfucker’s parents might be brother and sister, BECAUSE THIS DUDE REALLY SAID RECEIVEE LIKE IT'S A REAL GODDAMNED WORD) you can demand this shit anytime you want, but i think you gotta be RUL CONFIDENT that the person you're fucking with is ready to split a checking account and go adopt a cat with you if you're just going to bust out a knife and fork while pointing to your butthole with no warning after the second time you jerks meet for coffee or whatever. i got my ass eaten out by accident once, and i spent the entire time it was happening holding really fucking still with my entire body clenched tight as a fist. i couldn't even enjoy it, i just kept thinking, "what if i taste like poop, what if i taste like poop," while lying stiff as a board until it was over. then i immediately had to take a shit and that was awkward. i'd like to think that while i haven't yet, i am progressive enough to toss some dude's salad. i've stuck my finger in any number of butts, and every time it always ends the same way: with me covertly sniffing my finger on the bus ride home. but i know that when the time comes i'm going to be foraging around back there thinking, "please don't shit on my face, please don't shit on my face" with my eyes squeezed shut. but if i meet a gentleman worthy of possibly sharting on my tongue i'll try it. AND THEN WE ARE GETTING A MOTHERFUCKING PUPPY.

i love you. click here and buy this thing i made.

Friday, January 17, 2014

you need to stop fucking dudes who don't understand that you've finally reached your lovemaking years.

¡feliz 2014, compañeras! how many resolutions have you already completely fucked up? all of them!? ATTAGRRRRL. 2013 was my motherfucking jesus year, and we should probably see how the lion of judah and i compare and contrast, amirite? PARTYTIME:

jesus turned water into wine.
samantha turned whiskey and champagne and bourbon and vodka into urine and sometimes vomit.

jesus healed the official's son.  samantha let her friend's kid eat a box of glazed and infused doughnuts while watching reservoir dogs.

jesus healed at the pool of bethesda. samantha went to the pool at the YWCA a handful of times as part of physical therapy for her shattered nerves, and doesn't bother shaving her pubes or armpits anymore so yeah.

jesus fed the five thousand. samantha bought your homeless uncle a three-piece on her way to au cheval and not only got two sides but also came out to ask him what drink he wanted with it even though she already knew the answer was going to be "fruit punch."

jesus walked on water. samantha got her period unexpectedly while walking from barney's on oak street to the wit hotel and somehow managed not to ruin her underwear.

jesus healed the man born blind. samantha wrote a book about sucking her thumb and shitting the bed and killing her parents and basically her vain, desperate attempts to find proof that she is a worthwhile human being despite not ever having had a boyfriend.

jesus raised lazarus from the dead. samantha tried to nudge a pigeon she thought was dead off the el platform into the path of an inbound train and just as her foot grazed it that motherfucker sprang to life and almost pecked her succulent eyeballs out.

i guess what i'm trying to say is that we're BASICALLY THE SAME. except jesus never wrote a book.

i'm working on myself, tho. no shit, i'm trying to get my act together a little bit. i've been working with a life coach and i'm getting bodywork and i got a full astrology workup for the next six months and YES I CAN HEAR YOU LAUGHING. but one of my for real resolutions was to pay my bills more regularly than i have in the past and that doesn't leave a whole lot of money left over for licensed professional therapy and a membership to the kind of gym that has a massage room and snacks. like i said earlier, sometimes i leave my eyes for a second too long on your mom as she's struggling to get that 1987 swimsuit over her hips in the locker room. my other resolutions: use a datebook for something other than writing down what attractive people at restaurants are ordering; drink more la croix to stay hydrated because plain water is DISGUSTING; give away all of my clothes other than the three pairs of soft pants i rotate and the cropped jacket i wear basically every day; clean the toilet more especially now that i discovered kaboom is a motherfucking miracle. i also resolved never to pay more than $12 for a cocktail but omg who are we kidding.


1 please don't be weird about your dick. i know it's all funny-looking and discolored and small and speckled with granulated smegs because you aren't circumcised and don't wash thoroughly and you know what, babycake? that's totally fucking fine. dudes who are weird about their bodies make me weird about my body and once we both start sobbing uncontrollably while apologizing for our bulky thighmeat and nonexistent baby toenails (seriously, i don't have them i'm an alien) there's nothing left to do but button our sex cardigans all the way up to our chins and order a pizza. and while that sounds like a party, especially since there's pretty much nothing i love more than eating pizza with my shirt off, that's not what i hid all my good bottles of wine to do. 

2 enjoy watching the mindy project. well no, not really. that might be kind of moist. so just don't talk too much while i'm watching it, okay? i know how to just BE ON MY PHONE when a game i don't have money on is blasting out of your 2,768" television, my dude, so is it too much to ask you to sit quietly in the corner while the good wife is on!? i need will to fuck alicia like my very life depends on it, and it won't be nearly as enjoyable for me if you are in my ear talking about some shit i don't care about. I THOUGHT MEN HATED TALKING. when i said, "let's communicate" i meant, "right after this episode of the bachelor goes off." these sobbing 24 year olds are all i have to live for right now, bro. shut the fuck up.

3 cook me something, right meow. second to rebuilding a car engine slash putting together all of the furniture in my tiny apartment slash choke-slamming anyone who so much as glances my way on the bus, COOKING SOMETHING DELICIOUS is easily the sexiest thing a grown ass man could ever hope to do. not grilling, because fire is terrifying, i'm talking about elbow deep in a quiche or whatever. my undying foreverlove to the man who arrives on my doorstep bearing a pot of freshly-made crab bisque. it's just so nice when someone cooks you something, isn't it? also, it has to be good. and from scratch. but not not a salad. boxed macaroni and cheese is cute and a pile of kale with lemon juice on it is healthy but they will not get your dick sucked, sir.

4 hold up let me finish, kanye. you are probably less interesting than i am. unless you are more interesting, which i will gladly concede once you've unequivocally proven that fact to me. I AM NOT A HATER. if your life is more exciting than mine i will gladly smile and nod as you regale me with tales of all of the glamorous parties you attend and all of the private jets you've rented and what was that? you interrupted my story about how the love of my life forest whitaker retweeted one of my dumb jokes to tell me that you think baby ducks are born with fur that somehow turns into feathers!? you may have all of the seats.

5 make room in the bed for the cat. SHE WAS HERE FIRST. and she doesn't growl and complain when i stroke her belly like you do. plus she doesn't really understand what "it's only going to be a few minutes go wait in the other room" means. when helen keller was a wee lass i was dating this cool dude named john who rode a skateboard (true story) and burned backpacker hip hop cds for me that i could tell he had really put a lot of thought into. like, it was obvious that he had really thought about the track orders and shit. but the most perfect thing about him was that whenever we were about to get busy he would pause mid-foreplay to allow helen to find a comfortable position from which to glare scornfully at us. fucking dreamboat, man. and he didn't even get grossed out when she would shake her head in disapproval while purring, "you're doing that wrong." take notes, gentlemen.

6 delete your instagram and shit. or just pretend you don't have one. never tell me what your twitter handle is. please don't tell me how to find you on the facebooks. i think we just have to agree to never be social media friends with anyone we ever date because JESUS CHRIST HOW THE FUCK DID YOU HAVE TIME TO GET A BEER WITH YOUR "FRIEND" WHEN YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE IN THE OFFICE ALL AFTERNOON AND COULDN'T HANG OUT WITH ME. stop checking in, stupid. I CAN SEE EVERYWHERE YOU GO. STOP POSTING DUMB MEMES. WHO IS THAT BITCH WHO KEEPS COMMENTING ON YOUR STATUS AND SHIT. WHY HAVEN'T YOU LIKED MY HILARIOUS POST. UNTAG YOURSELF IN THAT HOE'S PHOTOS. ugh it's motherfucking exhausting, keeping track of your crush's various internet presences. just fucking unfriend me already and save me from my goddamned self. the internet is a crazymaker.

7 separate beds. I AM DETERMINED TO BRING THE SHIT BACK, YO. and if that means i have to die unloved and alone so be it. i am not a cuddler. as a matter of fact, cuddling is a lie. unless you're sleeping next a vampire, snuggling right up next to two hundred pounds of 99° heat as it farts and kicks and grumbles incoherently is the worst shit ever. i snore, i have to get up to poo and pee half a dozen times, i hate the top sheet, i need a sound machine, i keep books in bed, THE CAT HAS HER SPOT: sleeping with me is kind of a nightmare. even if you don't mind all of that you're going to be irritated by the three or four remotes and extra pairs of glasses and possibly a knife and/or fork tangled within the blankets. also i'm going to drool on you a little bit. and then in the morning, after 6 or 7 hours of fitful, oft-interrupted sleep, you are going to wake up groggy and annoyed, scraping cat hair off your tongue and picking bits of my shed skin and fingernails out of your eyelashes. you will spend your day intermittently falling asleep at your desk and nursing the black eye i unconsciously gave you while ignoring my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed text messages because i got a full night of sleep and am filled with energy to blow up your phone. and by the time night falls again? YOU WILL HATE ME. not if you're in your own bed, tho. from your own bed you can wave goodnight to me before putting your earplugs in and turning to masturbate against the opposite wall. no more duvet tug of war! no more kitten fangs buried in your testicles! no more wishing i would die in my sleep!

8 your booty getting playlist better be the motherfucking jam. and no, you cannot just put that one sade record on repeat. first of all, you're going to be mid-thrust in my asshole and i am totally going to pop your dick out and turn my vibrator into a microphone and wail that part when she screams, "my love is wider than victoria lake, taller than the empire state; it dives, it jumps!" with my full lung capacity. then i'ma recover real fast and whisper "is it a crime? that i still want you?" breathlessly into the tapered end of my lelo while you wonder why i'm not looking at you while i sing that shit. and second, i need to know that your music choices aren't 100% stupid. and i know, i can just flip through your dusty record collection, but making mixtapes is fun. plus you get hella insight into exactly what type of maniac you're about to show your pubes to.*

9 understand that i have finally reached my lovemaking years. on the phone the other day this dude said to me "I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU." and at first i was stung, because i am not a sexless robot and it hurt my one feeling that this nice, unavailable gentleman has no desire to stick his honey bee in my flower. but then i thought, "I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU EITHER, SON. THESE ARE MY LOVEMAKING YEARS." yeah, i said it. fucking is for young, healthy people. i'm not ever getting rode hard and put away wet ever fucking again. no more punching me in the face. no more elbowing me in the kidneys. no more running me over with a lawnmower. from now on, here's what i'm going to do: lie comfortably on my left side, making sure the brace i sleep in isn't awkwardly poking me anyplace soft, prop up my right buttcheek to ensure a smooth entry, and grind against dude's nuts until it gets boring. and then when it's over we're going to put my handicapped placard in your car and get the good parking spot at target. I NEED SOME MORE KABOOM.

*click here and listen to my bootymix.