these are some banging laws

This made me happy:


Via: Medical Insurance

breaking up is not hard to do, evidently

So you may as well know that it's over with the Fella. Don't feel badly at all though. I think we've both realized that it was time to move for over a week now.

In fact, it was such an easy breakup that now I'm wondering if we broke up at all. If I imagined that, I'm sorry, Fella! Tell me that's what happened.

Anyway, we were a pretty bad match. Our personalities just did not mesh and thinking back, I'm hard pressed to find anything we have in common. Not that you need everything in common in a relationship, but shouldn't you have something?

Well, we both felt that and I think we're both relieved, because it kind of felt forced there for a bit.

But I have to wonder, at what point does one start settling for someone totally wrong for them just because he's a nice guy or is a good potential mate on paper? 10 years ago, I never would have even gotten this far, but the older I get, the more I want to give someone a chance. Is that desperation? Or just a sign that the pool of good guys is dwindling?

Is it too much to want someone who suits me completely? Or what qualities will I begin to compromise on the older I get?

The thing is...I like being alone though. I'm independant as hell and I like me and enjoy the pleasure of my own company. I've never been one to settle for the sake of being in a relationship because why waste my time? Not to say that I haven't slept with people that weren't relationship material. THAT'S something else entirely. But I won't dedicate my time to a relationship that's not going to suit me. Why should I?

It's not 1850. I don't have to get married. Instead, I want a relationship because I want love and intimacy and connection with someone special. And as my friend Lori helped me figure out,  I want to look up to a man,  admire him, feel safe, but not weak and needy.

But I also recognize that I want to be a mother one day (like yesterday) and that is unlikely to happen alone (why helloooo, Turkey Baster) and parenthood is damn hard alone (as you single moms tell me). So I wonder if there will come a point that I lower my expectations just for the sake of becoming a mother.

Not that I will. Or won't. I don't know what the future holds and I don't know that I have the answer as to what one should or shouldn't do. I just wonder. Maybe you smartipants readers have some thoughts?

Anywayyyyy, that brings me to a command decision. In the meantime, while I'm waiting to find someone great for me, I'm starting a harem.

I'll be taking applications starting now. Qualifications:

• Must be witty and intelligent. Nothing is sexier than someone who can teach me something and make me laugh.
• No limits on build and age, except: you must be taller than 5'7" and/or big enough so that if I sit on you, you don't break. 
• Must have plenty of sexual experience. I don't have the time to teach you anything other than my personal preferences and how I sound when I'm really, really, really happy. 

Now let the applications come pouring in.

Celibacy Fail

I fail.

I mean, I'm not that bummed about failing.

Which is odd since I'm such a winner.

I am. I win at everything.

Don't you wish you could be me?

Ahem.

Anyway, for those of you who are new, I've been doing a celibacy thing. It began at the beginning of January. I don't have the energy to explain it to you, so you can read about it here and here.

I fail because I'm dating someone. I cheated. I cheated on my celibacy. I'm such a cheating cheater and I don't regret it at all. I feel like Richard Chamberlain in the Thorn Birds. Just kidding. I don't feel like that.

it doesn't feel like this either, but she sure looks like she's having a good time

Because this feels right.

So I'm going with it. Will see what happens. Go with the proverbial flow, as it were.

Incidentally, I kind of hate the word flow. Flow. Flooooooow.

Ahem.

I clearly wasn't looking for it. Not the flow, the guy or whatever.

Which I guess was the point of the celibacy thing, to stop looking and reset my radar. It just happened a hellofa lot sooner than I could have even anticipated.

It's so incredibly new that I hesitate to share any more details. All you need to know is he's cute and makes me laugh and seems to be really into me, which, you know, is a quality I highly encourage in those I date. He's been very kind and respectful, which, after the parade of douches in my life, is very nice.

Suffice to say, we're taking it slow and waiting on The Sex, which will also be a learning experience for me. If you've been reading for any time at all, you know the Crazy Lady likes The Sex. Trust. I does. Mama likes it.

But I'm still determined to learn what I set out to learn. I don't have a time frame in mind. Just that I want to wait and see and trust my gut.

So we'll see and I'll keep y'all in the loop.

Don't you hate it when I write short posts? Sorry. I need more angst to write long posts. For your sake, you should hope this doesn't work out for me. Then I'll have lots of angsty things to write about. Just kidding. Don't hope that. That would make me sad. And kind of hate you people. And you want me to love you, I know you do.

my Hooha deserves some luxury

You know what my hooha needs? A little luxury.

That's right. You heard me.

After all these years of The Sex, my vajayjay has to have what she thinks of as "luxurious" sexy time.

And the way things are going? Ain't never gonna happen.

Don't get me wrong, I've had some goooood sexy time. Sweaty, yummy, sexy time. Deliciously dirty sexy time.

The penises in my life haven't all been, shall we say, solid gold. A select few have been down right terrific in action, though. And I've even had a few magic Os during The Sex from time to time. True story.

But let's be honest. It's never been...extravagant. Never been coating in gold. I mean, really.

Even my solo time, which, well, you know, I know whats I likes, has never been as lavish as my hooha deserves. Now, I know how to make it happen and I don't want to put down Rosie, but she's an inexpensive red vibe that fit my budget. She's like the practical car of vibes. She does the job and never quits on me. She gives me 10 to fifteen O faces and I'm a satisfied gal.

But Rosie needs a pretty sister to look up to. Someone shiny and opulent she can look up to, can aspire to be like one day.

And my hooha? She needs more. She needs some sexy time out of my budget. She needs something lustrous and fancy and downright decadent to rock her world.

Which is why I need to win a 24K Gold Jimmyjane Vibrator.

You heard me right. 24K gold for your hooha. I don't even wear gold around my neck (teehee) let alone up my vaj.

It's time this lady had some luxury. And this luxury? is fully loaded.

Behold, the Jimmyjane Little Gold:

See? I need this in me.

 Thus sayeth my lady friend Mommy Wants Vodka:

The Little Gold Vibrator is  waterproof  so you can take it with you into the shower or submerge it into warm or cold water to mix up your experience, should you like. For a vibrator, it’s incredibly quiet, which means that for those of you with children, your kids won’t be running in to see if aliens are attacking in your bedroom.  The vibrator comes with a three year limited warranty, which is good for people like me who tend to break sex toys.

Does it sound better than that? Fuck me. Literally.

And as it happens? Toy With Me is giving one away (you know, those dolls who write sexy toy reviews?). I shit not. And I will win. Hell yes I will.

Do I have to continue to say why? I don't think I do. If you don't understand why my vajayjay deserves a little gold, well, then you must not have a vagina. Sucks for you and your single orgasm. That's right. I said it.

Vaginas rock. But mine would rock more with some gold vibrating goodness.

Awwwwyeah.

~~~~~~~~~~

* This just in: I WON!!!!!!!! ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You know a review will be happening right?

On Virginity

Virginity.

What's all the fuss about?

It's impossible for me to tell the story of losing my own virginity without railing against our obsession with it for a wee bit.

Virginity.

Girls are told to wait and wait. Guarding it like some precious gift. For girls, sex is bad.

Sex is for marriage. Sacred. Divine. Pure.

Sterile.

Boys are told to give it up as fast as possible. Prove their virility. Become a man. Sex is good. And you must have lots and lots of it.

But with whom? Isn't that the dilemma? (Gay is the way, friends!)

Virginity is a commodity. Traded to the most worthy candidate for their love. 

Except, usually, it's given away in the back of a car on prom night and last 5.3 seconds with a sweaty boy who smells like weed and cheap beer and who has begged and begged and pressured and cajoled and convinced and maybe even threatened. 

Because its value is overrated. 

We're obsessed with the female virgin. A virgin is holy (virgin birth). A virgin has special powers (virgin sacrifice). A virgin is worthy of love and your money (virgin bride).

But a virgin who is too old is a spinster. An old maid.

Basically, women are screwed if they do (literally) and screwed if they don't (figuratively).

So it's with great reticence that I talk about virginity thus giving the topic more value than I think it deserves.

I was raised...wait for it...Mormon. It goes without saying that sex before marriage is not an option for Mormon teens (I say teens because once you leave your teens, you pretty much enter wedded bliss and pop out 10 babies).

But I was never a typical teen. I was always the rebellious kid. Always pushing the limits. Testing the waters. Blazing a trail of shenanigans and regaling my more religious peers my scandalous tales much to their shock and horror. I may have liked the attention just a bit.

It wasn't all in rebellion, however. I was a curious personality. I didn't see why I would go to hell for making out with a boy in his car or petting or wait is that his hand up my shirt? now down my pants? oh that's nice. I did what I felt like and stopped when I felt I wanted to.

I never felt too attached the idea of my own virginity. I didn't want to screw every boy I dated. I was patient, all in good time. But I just didn't get what all the fuss was about.

I remember my first pap smear. The nurse inserted the speculum and asked me if it hurt and I said, no, I barely felt anything. She laughed. Said, "don't tell your future husband that!" As if a metal speculum was anything like a penis. I'd had fingers inside me before that and that felt muuuuuch differently.

It still pisses me off, that nurse's joke. Assuming that she was in on something I couldn't possibly understand. When it seemed to me, at the time, she didn't even understand herself.

You think you know where this story is going, but, I assure you, you don't.

I didn't have sex in high school. The reason is sad and kind of scary and something I'm not really ready to share on the blog. But I didn't. I was certainly ready by 16. But I had a setback and I avoided boys for about a year.

Then came Ty. We met when I was 18. My Mormon friends would shit a whole city worth of bricks if they knew how we met. They would GASP! in horror. Surely I was lighting the last match of total defilement and corruption.

Eh.

Anyway, we kept our on again off again romance a secret (it was all very Romeo and Juliet) until I was 19. Ty lived in Arizona going to college and I lived in California. Mostly, during our on again periods, he'd come to visit me and we'd get up to no good. But we hadn't slept together yet.

Not because of him. Even though he was a Mormon boy, he was just as rebellious as I was and was much more focused on his penis than on his soul. And I was in the early stages of leaving the church for a myriad of heartfelt reasons. But after what had happened to me in high school, I just wasn't ready yet. I was still a little scared. 

I hooked up with several guys during our off again periods and experimented sexually without having sex. I gave my first hand job to a minor league baseball pitcher (oooooh!) and learned about oral sex from a young Marine named Mike who then asked me if I would mind if he slept with my friend Gina. Classy, that one.

My best friend Lynnette was also living in Phoenix during this time, going to school. When I flew out to visit her, Ty drove to Phoenix to see me. I'd decided before I got there that I was ready to just have sex already. So when we were alone and making out, I told him that if he could find a condom, I'd have sex with him. Not my smoothest moment, but I've never seen a guy move so fast. He found one and sex we had.

I remember thinking, well, it was okaaaay, but really? It didn't hurt, but he didn't exactly try his best either. It was short and kind of, well, boring.

Needless to say, I've had great sex since that more than made up for it. Sex with fire and passion and heat and chemistry. And sometimes lube and toys. Definitely a little dirty talk.

Yeah, the first time is supposed to kind of suck. Nobody knows what they're doing and they're worrying too much about mechanics to be in the moment. But I think if we didn't make such a big deal out of "The First Time" (dun dun duuuuun), maybe it wouldn't be such a let down.

Like an over hyped movie. It wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't expected it to be so good. Am I right?

This post participates in:

fishcunts and cum dumpsters

Disclaimer: I'd hate to start a feud or hurt anyone's feelings (which is why I'm not naming names), but something has been nagging at me lately and I need to say something about it.

This is what my blog is all about, after all, having a space where I can vent my feelings about a particular subject. And today? I am taking full advantage of this forum. Even as I write, though, I feel badly. Like I'm being a spoil sport. Like I just can't take a joke.

But I'm gonna keep on writing, because this is important to me. Because some things just aren't funny. And I know funny.

Imagine there is a website that you love. You love it because it is liberal and talks about The Sex. You read it religiously, because its columnists are some of your fave bloggers and because it makes you laugh. It is total awesome sauce, which, admittedly, is one of your favorite things.

But one day, said website posts a column poking fun of smelly vaginas and calling slutty women "fishcunts" and "cum dumpsters," and if you sleep around, "you’re gonna smell like the dirty girl you are."

And while this was genuinely not meant to hurt, but be funny, you can't help but feel hurt. Like the butt of a joke you're not in on.

So what to do? My plan was just ignore it. It doesn't affect me. It's a site and I don't have to visit. And I still don't, I guess. But that makes me sad, because I do love that site. But this gnawed at me and gnawed at me. I had to tell my side of the story, dammit!

I get the joke. I do. It's funny to make fun of such things. I get the comedian crossing the line to make the joke. I get it. And I'm not faulting the author of the article. I'm faulting the concept that sluts are somehow excluded from acceptable sex dialogue.

Is talking about sex somehow okay only for the monogamous? And the rest of us are, what, "cum dumpsters"?

Vaginas smell. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. But I'm reminded of the Vagina Monologues here. Why don't we love all vaginas? Why are some vaginas good and some disgusting? Some too gross for proper society? Why is it that we have a class system of vaginas?

These cum dumpsters, women who sleep around, clearly their vaginas are disgusting. Our vaginas are disgusting. What I truly don't get is the connection between these lower class, smelly vaginas (because we've already established that's disgusting) and sluthood.

I'm really trying to understand. Sex is awesome, but only if you do it with one person?

So what does that have to do with vaginal hygiene? I see my gyno. I get tested. I pee after sex (no infections for me, thanks). I wear my cotton panties. I drink plenty of the agua. I don't "scrub" my hooha, because the skin is sensitive down there and my gyno said don't scrub, but rinse gently with plain old water.

And still? Sometimes, because of hormones and body chemistry, my vajayjay smells.  Yup. It does. Better fucking believe it. And I'd bet a good bunch of money that plenty of monogamous women out there practice the same hygiene and still have smelly vaginas sometimes.

I'm going to channel my inner Eve Ensler and declare that we should love our vaginas. We should revere our vaginas. Our vaginas smell. And they're hairy. And they're delicate. And they're amazing and beautiful and unique.

But beyond the fishcunt moniker which just gets under my skin (because I think there is a line between something funny and something derogatory), my issue comes back to the derision of "loose" women. This is a bigger problem, beyond sex websites. Beyond what Summer's Eve tells you (read this article by Lissa Rankin, btw!). This is about sexual revolution.

Somewhere along the way, sex became more acceptable. But not for everyone. Somewhere along the way, it was decided that you, as a woman, can like sex, but ultimately must want it only with one person. If you have sex with multiple partners, you're a slut, a whore, a ho, a cum dumpster. Somewhere along the way, a woman who has lots of sex with different partners became equal to a sex worker, one who gets paid for sex acts, a prostitute.

And even as we take back the word slut, even as we reclaim our sexuality as empowering and important and vital and a source of pride, we're nowhere close to achieving the goal. Because sluts are still funny. That stupid cum dumpster smells like the dirty girl she is.

Because having lots of sex is clearly poor hygiene for your vagina. Or something. And that's funny I guess.

The problem with that is that it's only funny if everyone agrees it's clearly sarcastic and wholly untrue. But people still buy that. They buy that lots of sex is bad. For women anyway.

But I see it as derisive, not funny. Where does the joke end and the harmful archetype begin? When we poke fun at women who are "sluts," it doesn't feel like fun to those of us living a lifestyle that might characterize us as sluts.

I was told, in a sense, to lighten up. That it's all in good fun.

Some jokes are only funny to the comedian and those in a select circle who aren't the butt of the joke. Some jokes are passe or in poor taste because the societal mores have dictated that it's no longer appropriate to joke about.

If I heard a joke today about a lynching, I'd cringe. I could never be forgiven for blogging about racism "all in good fun," so why is this any different? Why are women who aren't monogamous or who have multiple sex partners still below society's esteem? Why?

I can't tell you how much that angers me.

So what would you do?

I'd love to challenge everyone to (first) love your vaginas!

Do you have a vagina? What do you love about it?

If you don't have a vagina, go love a vagina today. It will thank you for it.

Sex writers and people who read about sex, hell, people who have the sex: let's value all vaginas equally.

I totes want this vagina pillow

who wants to buy it for me?

hug a vagina today!

in defense of the casual

Ah Stumble. Do you remember the other day when I  complained about Stumble? Well, it just redeemed itself. Stumble took me to this post by Jaclyn at Feministe. And I'm so glad I found it. I devoured each word. I was moved. It spoke directly to me, to my story, to my soul.

Go read it. It's okay. I'll wait.

Did you read it? If so, you know me a little better now. With some exceptions, of course. And with that in mind, here's my side of things. This is quite possibly the most honest post I've ever written*. So here bares my soul:

Warning: sluts and sex be ahead.

I believe in Love. Love with a capital L. Not every day, I don't, though. Some days, my belief in it is shaken. Some days, I feel unlovable. Like the girl everyone enjoys but gets bored with easily. I'm never the girl you fall in love with.

You're commenting already, aren't you? Getting ready to tell me that's ridiculous and that I just haven't found The One. Well, could you just wait a sec? Let me get to the end first.

First of all, I don't believe in The One. And I don't believe in Fate or Soul Mates or any of that hoopla. I believe in timing and compatibility and I think that people fall in love and work hard to make a life happen.

At least that's what I'd like to believe. But it's never happened that way in my experience. A romantic partner has never loved me. At least not that I know of. It also doesn't help that one actually told me that I'm not the kind of girl you have feelings for. That's a direct quote. So it's easy to see how my faith in the big L is shaken.

My heart has been kicked around this past year more than it should. More than it can really handle. I can't really be in another relationship anytime soon. Not one where my heart gets invested. Because my heart is still in physical therapy right now. It's bandaged up, healing, recuperating in its own way.

I should back up.

I first had sex at 19. And then I fell head over heels at 20 (well, almost 20) (different guy and someone I consider a good friend now). And he broke my heart. Ripped it out. For the first time in my young life, I was learning the rules of heartbreak.

Enter: sluthood. I entered sluthood the first time quite by accident. I liked boys. They seemed to like me. I liked sex. Sex seemed to like me. So I had sex (I think I've brought this up before). Good sex, bad sex, it was all the same. I was learning the rules of the game. Learning how to use sex to feel good. Learning how to not use sex as a proverbial weapon. Learning when to let my heart off its leash and when to leave it at home. I had some short relationships and I had casual encounters. I had straight sex and I had same- sex sex (hehe. grow up, Andrea).

By my mid-twenties, I had tired of the game. I wanted to be in love again. Partly due to the aftermath of the death of someone I was dating and partly due to my heart's feeling restless in its cage, I began to seek relationships. I even had my first same-sex committed relationship (she was an insaniac, but still). I spent most of the next 5 years ping ponging from relationship to relationship, looking for IT. Looking for Love.

I mean, isn't that how it's supposed to work? That's what I thought back then. You spend your early twenties slutting it up and then you settle down and fall in love and some fab guy decides you're his dream girl and you spend the rest of your Saturdays in bed (which is covered in a fluffy white comforter) reading and discussing philosophy. Right? Except it was really five years of breakups and heartbreaks.

Nonetheless, I was never good at the whole "waiting for sex" bullshit. Isn't that the rule? If you want a relationship, you wait. But why? Because he'll lose respect for you? That's just bullshit right there. Maybe it's so you'll fall for him before you figure out you're not sexually compatible or his penis is the size of a raisin. I don't buy that sex changes things or maybe that's the case for women who fall in love once they have sex. But I don't buy that either. They're not truly in love; they just can't separate the lust.

I always liked sex. And I want to enjoy sex in a relationship. So why should I wait?

My one detour was the time I spent in Paris and traveling Europe. I found myself there in so many ways (even if I somewhat forgot myself when I came home) and found pleasure in casual sex and flirtations. I felt like a woman in Paris, like someone who inhabited her body in mysterious ways. I wasn't a girl searching for a fairytale; I was a black dress in a smoky room reciting poetry and cutting sexual tension.

I felt like myself in Paris. Does that make sense? When I wasn't searching for wove twue wove (bonus if you get the movie reference), when I was behaving in a way that for most would seem like playing a part, I felt like myself. There was no pretense. There was no bravado. I was the bravado.

So. So where was I? Right. Fast forward to today. Today I am looking for myself again.  I want to just be me, wholly and completely, sans affectation or guile. What does that mean?

Enter: Sexy Man (who I know reads my blog. Hi, Sexy Man.).

The timing is just perfect for him. He stepped into my life at the right time for what we both can and are willing to offer (or so I assume; that's how it is for me anyway).  And maybe I'm revealing too much the nature of our interaction, but it's simple really. How to describe? We're enjoying all the benefits of each other without any complications. It's casual. It's fun. It's undefined and absolutely enjoyable.

It's beautiful really. The first thing is we were (Once again, at least I assume. I was at any rate. I believe Sexy Man was as well) completely honest up front about what we wanted. And a relationship was not it. And so it's off the table. Not even a thought. Not even a worry or a desire.

It's amazing really how the absence of that elephant in the room changes the dynamic of things. In a great way.

I don't know about you, but even when I'm first dating someone, even when it's so new you haven't decided if you like the person or not, I am constantly sizing that person up. Is she relationship material? Would he be a good father? A good life partner? All these questions haunt our interactions. Hovering over every exchange, every flirtation, every kiss. The promise. The judgement. The hope. The doubt. It permeates everything.

Is that toxic for a relationship? Probably. Is it human nature? Absolutely. Could I control that? No fucking way.

But it's not even an issue with Sexy Man. And I'm not sure if this qualifies as irony (Don't I have a degree in English? Shouldn't I know?), but without all that mess, I'm more in the moment. And I haven't done that in years.

I'm enjoying things as they are. Moment by moment. I'm enjoying Sexy Man for what he has to share with me. I don't need to dig any deeper than he wants. If Sexy Man has other lovers or is pursuing other lovers, good for him (wear a condom!). I encourage that. Because it doesn't matter. We can just be. I can enjoy all the benefits of getting to know a smart and interesting (and fucking sexy) man without any drama, any commitment, any demands.

And it's utterly delicious and incredibly liberating. And it makes me happy. I highly recommend it.

It's also true that the last few men I was entangled with would probably have loved this kind of "relationship" avec moi. But all I can say to that is tough titties. That's not how it worked out. Some pairings are relationship material. And some are lover material. And I can't control that. And I can't control timing.

Not that I don't want a relationship again ever. I just don't right now. I don't foresee wanting one anytime soon either.

I've experienced sex in a completely committed and trusting relationship and I know how beautiful it can be when you connect with someone on such a figuratively naked level through sex and outside of sex. I can only imagine how awesome it could be with Love in the mix.

But for now? This is what I want. For now? This is what makes me feel good.

And don't you worry, friends. I have love in my life. I am loving myself (not just in that way, pervy). But I am giving my recuperating heart as much love as possible. Because while I've never met a lover who can fully appreciate my heart (and maybe one doesn't exist), I can appreciate it. While no one has ever returned the love I've given fully and freely, I can nurture it in myself.

That's all I ever can do. Or should do.

*This post is dedicated to my dear friend Lizzy who is going through a heartbreak of her own. May she get through this pain in its due course and come through stronger and learning to love herself as the warm person, dazzling poet, kickass mother, fantastic friend, and warrior woman that she is.

Puma Fail

I have failed, Internet. Failed. Failed at being a future cougar. A cougar in training. A puma (I've been told it's called).

I failed.

Because I just spent the last 24 (ish) hours with a 31 year old man (a hot man, but shamelessly not younger than me nonetheless).

I KNOW! I know.

How am I supposed to be a puma now? I'll be the laughing stock of the cougars' club. They'll strip me of my puma status.

Fail.

Eh fuck it. It was worth it.

Goddamn was it worth it.

24 (ish) hours of entirely too much fun (the details of which are none of your busy-ness yo) worth it.

More about this ridiculously hot man later. I have to think of a blog nickname for him first (Because I'm a nice girl. Stop laughing; I am!), possibly The Leo (because that's what he is and he's all about that) or maybe The Photographer (since I met him on a photography site).

Let it be known, my friends, that you never know what is going to happen.

One day you're all, I think I'll find a dumb, young guy to dote all over me and have lots of The Sex with. I'll be queen of the Pumas. And the next thing you know, you're making sounds only dogs can hear and practicing things that are probably illegal in Alabama with a fine man who is not only not too young for you, but is also wickedly smart and entirely entertaining.

Eh that whole cougar thing is a bunch of malarky anyway. Why babysit an Axe-soaked little boy when there's a man who really knows how to use his hands?




This post participates in:

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

What's with bicycle cops? I mean, they look all happy on their bicycles, all fit in their shorts and helmets. But I kind of don't get the point. How are they forbidding in any way? I could see how they could chase a criminal who is on foot. Bike wins every time. But then what do they do with said criminal? Smush him in the basket? Have him balance on the handle bars?

Wait a sec. Let's all take a moment to picture that. Are you picturing a thug balancing on a cop's bike with the cop in shorts and all happy he caught the bad guy? Good. So am I.

But how is a bicycle cop supposed to stand a chance next to a car? A car that has gasoline. And an engine. And gooes vroom vroom (or so I learned in preschool)? And how does a bike cop pull someone over? I assume he has one of those bike bells, the ones that go ching ching. So if he wants to pull someone over, does he just ring the bell really fast over and over? chingchingchingchingchingching! Very threatening.

Poor bicycle cops. Such a hard life. So misunderstood. Especially by me. I feel bad for them now. I want to buy one a drink and let him (or her) tell me the woes of copping on bicycles (that sounded dirty).

I am an old lady. And need to buy epson salts for my aching hips. That is all.

I have mentioned to more than one person in the last few days that Portland has a lot of sexual energy. My theory is that it's because it's so damn green. So much pollen in the air. Life exploding out of the ground. Spores copulating everywhere. This has worn Rosie out. Momma either needs to get laid or buy Rosie some new batteries. Poor Rosie.

A tweep brought up music in 1993 today. And I was instantly reminded of the glorious sounds of the Proclaimers. How had I forgotten about them? Or about Benny and Joon? And why is it when I think of the Proclaimers, I think of Benny and Joon? They are inexplicably lined in my mind.

Do you remember this?


Or this?


Or this?


Reminds me of high school dances and my friend Elise and big floppy hats with sunflowers on them and spaghetti strap dresses worn with white T shirts underneath and making grilled cheese sandwiches on an ironing board with my cousins.

If you haven't checked out the Raw Photo Contest yet, you totes should. Submit your raw photos and peruse the wonderful submissions we have so far and leave them nice comments. Everyone loves comments, you know.

Epiphany

Did a significant life decision ever just you smack in the face? 

Okay, yes, I realize I did just move like 1,000 miles or something, but I don't mean that. I mean, I woke up today and got smacked in the face with a new vision of the world. 

I got inklings of this vision yesterday when I was in the rebuilding store and needed help with the cabinet we'd decided to purchase (for 15 smackers!) and refurbish. And I saw this:

perfection

So, I realize the photo is blurry and you're only getting a view of his ass (which, take it from me, was a very nice view inDEED), but this right here, ladies and gents of the Internet, was a-fucking-dorable. 

And entirely too young for me. 

But instant fantasies entered my head of, well, you can guess what of. Just let your imagination run wild, my friends. Just let it run wild. Wild. 

And these fantasies lingered the rest of the day. And then all night. And I awoke this morning to an epiphany ("an ephiwhat?" - bonus if you get that movie reference): I could be a cougar.

My only reservation with the plan is this: I think I'm technically too young to be a cougar by definition. So maybe I could just be a cougar in training. Maybe a bobcat or a lynx or something. 

I think I've been looking at this all wrong. See, I've been looking for guys that were relationship material. Who would maybe be old enough and experienced enough to want the things I want, to build a life with. Except, I'm pretty sure those guys don't exist at any age. So I might as well have a lot of ridiculously hot sex until I can just afford to have those things by myself. 

Therefore, I am no longer looking for a relationship, at least not an emotional or committed one. I just want sex. With someone altogether too young for me (but perhaps I should set the bar at a minimum age of 21.). I'm not looking for one night stands either. I'm too old for that shit. I mean, I'm too lazy now to go looking for someone new every time I want The Sex. Who has the time? Nope, I'm looking for a longish term sexual relationship. 

Since it will be purely sexual, he needs to be H-O-T hot. Things that normally aren't on my list when I'm falling for someone's brains or sense of humor or kind nature are totes on the list now. Aesthetic beauty is paramount here. Of course, my definition of hot is not exactly typical anyway, but why don't you let me worry about that, mmmk, pumpkin? 

He also doesn't need to have much in the way of brainpower, which is usually the first thing I look for in a guy. But hell, he's not going to be doing much talking now is he? Of course, if he happens to rock the smart, BONUS! But if he's a little dim, he can just keep quiet. I don't need him to deconstruct The Wasteland. I've already done that anyway. 

What IS important is smarts in the sack. I don't want to waste any time teaching him what's what or what's where and for how long and with who (wait, what?). He's got to have a little savvy, a little intuition. Communication au lit is always important, but I'm not a sex tutor, son. I need to relax a leeetle. 

There will be no dates, so I don't need him to have an income (And lard knows I don't have a job yet.). I don't want to wake up with syphilis, so Collin Farrell is not an option (plus he's too old), but the point being: STD free is required. He needs to bathe regularly and keep his nails trimmed (My hooha doesn't like the long or jagged nails. *shudder*). He needs to brush his teeth daily and NOT smell like he bathed in Axe. If my nose is offended, you don't get in my bed, thankyouverymuch. 

Um, what else? Oh yeah, nothing! Hot and rocking the sexy time. That's all I need. 

Don't bother sending a resume. Just send a photo. Full body. I don't want to see any penises,  but ass shots are encouraged so I can judge hairiness and squeezability. 

The Sex (and more)

So, remember my post about The Sex the other day? I've gotten a lot of responses. Mostly in private messages. And all of it awesome! (oh and p.s., at the bottom of that post, there has been a recurring ad for "Cougar Life." I'm just gonna say that at 29, I have a long way to go until I'm a cougar thankyouverymuch)

Anyway, I won't divulge anyone's name. For one, not everyone wants to broadcast their lives on the All Humiliation Network like I do. Two, this is still a sensitive subject. The Sex, casual sex, unmarried sex, and masturbation still carry some taboos and it seems that the subject has really resonated. Here a couple of my fave responses:

This is from a gal in her early twenties:

"Let's just say that I have a VERY NICE relationship with my vibrator. I got mine when I was 21 and have fallen in love with it. Them. I have three (hehe). And I love it! I love not having to depend on a man for sexual pleasure. I've been doing 'it' for oohhh lets just say 100 years and I throughly enjoyed them all. Some good, most adequate. Why? Guys know squat about sex and pleasuring a woman. I mean seriously, get it together people! Stop watching main stream porn and pay attention to your lady (or men). She is just more than tits and an ass. There are other parts! ANYWAYS, oh yes, me+vibrator=eternal love. Sometimes, it can be better than a boyfriend. If I am not in the mood, it won't be mad. It can go on for as long (or short) as I want to AND it comes in different colors. It's all about diversity. Don't get me wrong, sex can be eternal bliss but your vibrator... it won't get mad or jealous or rebelious. It just loves you back."

Well, said, my friend. Well said.

This is from a guy in his late twenties:

"It is wonderful for you to put it into words. I've always been closer to females than males, but something most males will not do is be honest about their feelings. So as a person, I really do appreciate this blog. I hope it sparks some good and enlightening conversation from both men and women...The thing I will say I've learned is that yes it is a good thing to know when to "take charge" but you also have to be willing to listen to your partner. It does not matter how much your last partner may have thought you were the best. You need to make sure you make your current partner feel like he or she is special and the only one that matters to you."

I can't tell you how refreshing it is to hear a guy's honest perspective that is so respectful and astute. Not that men can't be astute, but in regards to women? That's a little more challenging to find.

Keep talking about The Sex, kiddos!

So, I leave for Los Angeles today and off to New Orleans in the morning (woot!). Posting will be light over the next week and a half as internet access will be limited, but I'll try to post as much as possible. Pictures when I return!

In the meantime, just hold in your mind this picture of me dominating the chop saw last year:

*rawr*

Sex and the Single Girl

This is one of those posts that I write with confidence knowing full well that my dad has yet to discover my blog. When that day comes, I'll imagine his head to toe blush at knowing his daughter is a grown woman who does The Sex and I'll sheepishly wave, "hi dad!" and smile the best I can.

See, not only is my family one of those that acknowledges that many things are natural and normal as long as you don't discuss it, but they're also...wait for it...Mormon. And I really don't want to go into my reasons for leaving church some time ago and if you've been paying attention, you'll realize that I'm a dirty liberal heathen and it all makes sense anyway. Moving on.

Clearly I don't talk about The Sex with my dad. Poor guy. I know he wants to be a grandpa and I know he wants me to get married and pop one out and I know he knows that that involves The Sex, but he also doesn't want to acknowledge that single people have The Sex too. Especially his only daughter. The other day I made a joke (over the phone with him) about making a baby with a turkey baster and the response I got from him was:.....

Yeah. So sex. The Sex. I didn't have The Sex as a teenager like most of my compatriots did, though I was well on my way at 16, when I was assaulted, which I don't talk about much and which scared me off sex for a few years. My First Time was the summer before I turned 20 and I was totally ready, but, let's face it, the first time is always crap. And the guy was a little insane to boot. So for years, I didn't count that as My First. But it was.

Aside: teenage boys, most people will tell you that screwing a virgin is easy because she has nothing to compare it to. I'm here to tell you that she'll know if you're crap in bed no matter how experienced she is.


But I more than made up for that in my early twenties. I had The Sex. I had great sex. I had bad sex. I had sex out of my league. I had pity sex. And, because I was living in Hollywood at the time, I had a fair share of not unattractive guys to choose from. I'm not going to say I was a slut, mostly because I have major issues with that word (but that's a diatribe for another time). But, I was safe and discerning. I was also young and having fun and experimenting with life and learning all the way. And there ain't nothing wrong with that, ladies. Ain't nothing wrong with that.

But even so, life was just not like Sex and the City. I was always amazed watching that show (which I became addicted to back then, watching it with my friend Cassidy in her downtown apartment, drinking cosmos, and imagining we were such savvy city girls) at the sheer volume of sex on that show. I think it is literally impossible to have that much sex. That many men just don't exist in the world. I just don't think so. But shows like that, while they break down the taboos about sex, they also perpetuate this idea that the life of a single woman is a revolving door of men and mind-blowing sex. I mean, C'mon!

Life is just not like that, yo. And it certainly isn't now. My late twenties (barring the time I lived in Europe. because, you know, when in Rome...literally.) were much more mellow sexually. Probably because I moved to a small town and the pool of available attractive men of legal age shrank dramatically, but also I was in some longer-term relationships. And I became much less interested in casual sex. But during the last 5 years or so, the most important part of the sex learning curve has been me. Me. What do I like? What don't I like? What am I willing to be adventurous about and what won't I?

And...oh boy...I'm really going to go there....what about vibrators? Every single girl needs a vibrator. It's how you experiment. How you figure out what you like on your terms, on your own time. Vibrators are like really fun homework for an even more fun practical exam. They make The Sex so much better. I bought my first vibrator at the Hustler store in Hollywood when I was 23. It was pink. And sparkly (because sparkles make such a difference in your pleasure zones, right? *ahem*). And I've been through a couple others since then. They've been good, reliable friends. There for me as long as I have batteries. And, I won't lie, there were times when I thought, if I could magically make this a real penis, life would be perfection. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Am I right, chiquitas? Am I right?

But now? I am vibratorless. It's tragic. Seriously, what's a girl to do? Do I take a risk and buy on the internet? Or make a drive farther than I care to in order to make sure I get something quality and exactly what I want? It's not like I'm shy about these things, but I want good quality for my money and time. Advice and presents are always welcomed.

As I near the end of my twenties, I feel ready for my next sex adventures. I will go where probably lots of other women have gone before. I will have The Sex, and have it better. And I will do things that would give my poor father a heart attack if he knew.