Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Sexy Time Cardiovascular Tattoo

o

I have absolutely no words. What's worse? The realistic heart or the fact that two people are having sex in it? That can't be sanitary.

Not to mention that this is presumably based on two real people- people who were in a relationship and who probably aren't anymore. I am very superstitious about tattoos and relationship or couples tattoos absolutely always with no exception curse the relationship.

And that also begs the question: who was this tat on?

these are some banging laws

This made me happy:


Via: Medical Insurance

Girl's Club

Hot topics seem to trend in and out. Hot button issues.

And lately? Gender roles and inequality seem to be on a lot of bloggers' minds. Many of my friends have brought up the topic lately. This is something close to my heart so, of course, I can't leave it at a short yet entirely too long comment. I have to tackle it too.

I've always been fascinated by gender roles. Always. From the little girl who didn't understand when my little guy friends didn't want me to play with their boy toys to the woman who struggles today, it's always been an issue for me.

As a little girl, I asked for Big Foot, the monster truck, for Christmas. Not the toy, the actual truck. I was 3. Needless to say, my parents got me the toy, which I'd put my Barbie in and have her drive all over my house.

3yo me SO wanted this!

That's what I've always been: a Barbie in a monster truck. And what's wrong with that? Why the distinctions of gender roles? We all exist somewhere in between those worlds, those two worlds which we like to think are distinct delineations of hormones and sex organs. But that's just not the case.

I don't bring this up a lot. Mostly because it's not necessarily relevant to my daily discourse. I was raised Mormon (dundunDUUUUUUUUN). Both my parents were converts and I think we all know how insane my mom is and how supportive my dad is. At church I learned to toll paint and make cookies and talk about values and that marriage and babies are paramount. At home I was told I could be whatever I wanted. What did I want? I wanted to be an astronaut, the President, and a ballerina.

All in a dress.

Let me know when they make dresses for astronauts.

As a teen, I was wildly rebellious. I discovered feminism. I burned my bras. I went to the extreme (as teens do) of what was an expression of my burgeoning beliefs. I was bored with church activities. The boys got to hike and play basketball while the girls learned to sew. What the fuck is that? So I talked the leaders in organizing a girl's white water rafting trip.

It's probably obvious that I left the church while I was barely an adult and I didn't come out of the closet as queer until my mid twenties. THAT story is not necessarily relevant to our discussion today. But what is relevant is that I always suspected I was slightly different than my peers and I knew palpably that that was okay.

In college, I studied literature that addressed gender and ethnic roles, whether in post-colonial lit or Chinese lit or modernist American lit. It is all related. And you know what I think? It all comes down to fear of difference and control of the subjugated. Gender roles enforce control of the ruling class in society and the subversion of a society's traditional can help a conquering nation subjugate native people. But the subversion of these roles within a society? Can begin revolutions. Which I think is insanely cool.

But what of that subversion? Feminism was supposed to free both sexes, at least according to Gloria Steinem. It was never meant to just empower women and leave men in the dust. It was supposed to blur the lines of gender and allow both sexes to choose their paths sans the restricting patriarchy.

I don't see that happening.

The other day, one of my fave bloggers Stay at Home Dad PDX wrote a post about how hard it is to be a stay at home dad in a world of women. Tell me how many times you've heard a dad referred to in disparaging terms. Bumbling and stupid, that's how we picture men, with a woman always coming to the rescue. We expect men to be captains of industry but sheer idiots at home.

Which, frankly, pisses me the fuck off.

I am not a mother. I am not a mommy blogger. I don't have any logical investment in this world. But women? We should be ashamed of ourselves for this. I suspect the reasoning for this girl's club is complicated.

I think it's partly about being threatened. About having a place in the world that belongs just to women and that men aren't allowed to take over (as they have taken over the rest of the world since time immemorial). But ladies? This is counter-productive. Some men are great at the traditionally homemaker schtuff. Cooking and cleaning and caring for little ones. How many of you SAHMs have complained about the thanklessness of your home jobs? Don't you think you could develop a little empathy for men in that role too?

And don't tell me that a man who's great with his kids isn't incredibly sexy. Okay, I could see how some of you wouldn't be turned on by that, but I lurve it and I know a great many women who do too.

But how many women suck at that? I know many gals who cannot cook, hate to clean, hate children (or don't have the patience or attention span to be home all day). How many women excel in the business world? And who have fought to break glass ceilings and climb corporate ladders? Don't we applaud these women? So why are we so exclusive when a man wants to leave that world and stay home or even to choose a traditionally female job?

Pot? Is that you? 

Women these days are under more pressure than ever to have it all. We've surpassed feminism too far in some ways and now it's not about choosing our own paths; we're expected to simply do both. While looking beautiful and well dressed. Are you kidding me? That seems insane to me. Nobody has that much time and energy in a day.

So if a man recognizes that maybe he's better at home and supporting his ambitious wife, what's the problem? Or a woman chooses to live alone and work full time, what's the problem? Or anyone of any gender decides to work part time to spend more time with their children (or their cats), what's the problem?

And don't get me started on queer theory and gender. That's a dissertation for another day. In fact, until I do get around to writing that, go read my pal Made of Words. But be prepared for queer nakedy pictures. I love it, but it's not exactly safe for work. 

I realize we cling to these roles tightly because we're ingrained to believe they're the threads of our society. But I'm here to tell you two things:

1. If you pull those threads, we won't die. Subversion can be healthy for a society to stay alive. Change means we grow instead of implode. I mean, look at Rome.

2. Our society ain't built on all the grand hoopla they taught us in school. We're not built on a utopia; we're built on salacious scandal and subjugation (how's that for alliteration?). On slavery. On racism. On warmongering and genocide. On unyielding patriarchy.  On utter brutality and bigotry. I won't comment on the current political state right now, but just crack open any history book (despite being written in favor of the Great White Male) and see the mayhem.

All I'm saying is to question these roles. Question their supposed sanctity. Question why we hang on to them? Relax a little. It won't kill us to realize that blurring the lines is healthy and we all really live between the lines anyway.

rabid beasts

The other day, my friend Krissy told me that it seems like all the women of the world are syncing up their periods right now. I think she's right too. Ladies, by a raise of hands, who is about to start, is currently on, or just finishing their periods? That's what I thought.

Men should just hide now. It's for their own good.

I started my period Monday. So on Saturday, I found myself very much PMSing. Now, I'd had a very good, girly day with my new friend Sonja. She's awesome, bee tee dubs, and I'm sure I'll talk about her much more. But between the whole celibacy thing and PMS, I felt like if a man touched me I might just maim and dismember him.

So it's interesting that at karaoke on Saturday night, I kept getting accosted and literally and physically molested by more than a couple men.

I don't know if guys can smell the pheromones and turn into rabid beasts or if they're just that douchey, but it was out of control. Now, I'm used to getting flirted with. I also put up with a lot less than I did when I was, say, 21, but I've never liked being hit on. Never. We all know how much I detest getting hit on, but I typically get one guy making a move on a night out.

Never have I felt so hunted than I did on Saturday. I felt like a lone Wildebeest who had wandered into a pride of lions. It was incessant.

One guy asked me to dance, which I accepted politely, and then he proceeded to place his hands all over my body which I kept asking him not to as I dodged his penis being thrust into my hips. When I told him I wasn't interested and I was celibate, he said, "I'm celibate too!" Horseshit. Not getting any and being celibate are entirely different things. 

Another guy grabbed my ass as I walked up to sing. After I was done, I told him, "don't grab my ass again." He said, "It wasn't me!" I said, "Do I look stupid? I never thought I looked stupid, but maybe I do."

Another guy asked me to dance and then proceeded to pick me up. Literally. I screamed at him to put me down and then he threw me around, his version of dancing I suppose, and just about pulled my arm out of its socket. I stopped and he went to push the hair out of my face. I backed up and said, "Don't touch my face." He goes, "Are you scared?" Um, what the fuck?

That's weird, right? Touching some girl's face? That's a really intimate act, if you ask me.

And these guys were untiring hunters. If one of us turned them down, they moved right on to the next one. Sex sex sex sex sex.

I have a tiny secret to let you in on, boyos: if you didn't act like assholes, if you would back off and not molest us and treat us with a little respect, we might have sex with you. Well, I won't because I'm celibate right now, but that's how I generally feel. Most girls I know feel the same way.

Look, you want a hooker, hire a fucking hooker.

But I have never experienced such primal hunting. At first, Sonja thought I was just that pretty, that the dudes here in Portland aren't used to a pretty girl.

Well with all due respect to my lovely friend, that's just not right. I get that I'm pretty. But I've seen many pretty gals here in the land of port. I'm not exactly Claudia Schiffer wandering into an Eskimo village.

But even if I was that unusually pretty, which I highly doubt, no way should men just go mad and turn into rabid beasts at the sight of me. Yeah right. No way. That's just bizarre at best.

So that left us thinking it was just the location. Maybe something about that crowd and maybe the cold weather and whatever is in the beer at our fave little karaoke bar turned the guys into horny sex werewolves.

But whatever the reason, it's not okay, guys! NOT OKAY! You don't get to assault women. You're not a fucking caveman. You might be as stupid as one, but knocking a gal over the head and dragging her back to your cave will land you some jail time. And rightfully so.

Back the fuck off. Talk to us nicely. Ask us our names. Remember our names. Try your best to be smart and interesting. And for the love of all things legal, do not fucking touch us unless we indicate it's okay to do so!

You'd think it wouldn't be so hard.

Yet Saturday night found me utterly exhausted from fending off the animals and rubbing my sore shoulder from my "dancing" experience.

And then they wonder why I'm celibate. THIS is why.

Can't a girl just go sing on a Saturday night without having to bring her mace and rape whistle? Fuck.

Sexy Saturdays: Size Does Matter

Oh Sexy Saturdays.

No guest poster today. I'll be telling my own sex story this week. What? Oh yes. Believe it.

But what story will I tell? What story could I possibly interrupt the brilliant stream of guest posters I have shared with you thus far? It is a challenge. Yes indeedy do.

Naturally, my instinct is to tell you an outrageous story. Something crazy. But if I tell you one outrageous story, I guess I have to you its bizarro counterpart right? Life is nothing if not balance.

So here we go: the biggest and the smallest.

I was maybe 22 or 23 years old. Living in Hollywood. I had just been through another nasty breakup and was rebounding hard. Then I met Adam. We'll call him Adam because I don't remember his actual name, but I recall it was something biblical.

I met Adam in a bar, of course. But not just any bar. My bar. My haunt. My cheers. Where the bartender naturally always knew my name and gave me and my friends free drinks and got me drunk on my 23rd birthday on slippery nipples. Where the doorman was constantly trying to get down my pants, but I forgave that because I never had to wait in a line. Where I knew all the regulars and they knew me and I probably dated about 4 of them at one time or another.

I had never seen Adam in my bar before. Come to think of it, I think I met him on Halloween. I was dressed as a devil and he was an angel. Perfect right? We made out. He had deliciously blond curls that I got my fingers tangled up in. And he had nice lips. I gave him my number and then forgot all about him.

When he called, I had to pretend I remembered who he was until I actually did remember. I agreed to meet him for a date.

The date was nice. Chill. He had just moved out to LA from New York and didn't know how to drive which I thought was adorable. I decided at some point during the evening that I'd take him home.

Back to my place we went and the making out was great. Very hot. Very steamy.

What happened next I can barely describe.

We were naked. He was on top of me and gyrating and groaning and obviously enjoying himself.

But I couldn't feel a thing.

He finally made his O face and collapsed on top of me leaving me to bewilderingly wonder, What just happened? Did we have sex? 'Cause you'd think I would have noticed that.

Yup, ladies and gents. He was just that small.

I did my best to be nice and say I enjoyed myself (well, the kissing was nice) and I think he went on his merry way confident that he'd sexed me up good.

Hey, don't judge me. It's not like I faked an orgasm. I would never do that (Who wins in that scenario? No one. No one.). I just couldn't bring myself to ask, Was that it?

I didn't hear from him for months. Until my phone rang on Valentine's Day. Right. Like I was gonna fall for that one.

Side note: when you get desperate on Valentine's day and start calling every girl you know, they're on to you. We know your game. Save yourself some dignity and skip the pesky little holiday altogether. 

*Ahem*

Moving on.

Rewind to July of 2002, the July before I met Adam.

I was in New York with my cousin Stacey and we were out in the Bowery having a good time in the sauna that is the evening in July in Manhattan. Stacey's friend Carrie invited one of her friends along and he brought his baby brother visiting from Texas. We'll call him Texas because I absolutely do not remember his name and he was like 6' 6" and we all know they make everything big in Texas. At least so I'd been told.

Texas and I hit it off. He was funny and engaging and smart. Turned out he used to work for Enron. Which I thought was interesting. And he thought I was pretty damn cute. Which I thought gave him points in his favor.

So we went back to his brother's studio apartment a few blocks away. I knew I'd never see him again and so this was going to be my first deliberately one night stand. A tryst with a practical stranger in another city. I was very excited.

Besides, my cousin's friend knew his brother, so I wasn't too worried.

PS? girls can rationalize anything when they're horny.

Fooling around was a challenge. Simply because the guy was so tall. I felt like I was climbing a wall just to kiss him. If I sat in his lap, I couldn't reach his lips to kiss him. Seriously, the distance between his crotch and his lips must've been several miles at least.

So it should come as no surprise that he had the largest penis I had ever seen and have yet to ever see in my life.

Huge. Frighteningly huge. Hulk huge. I felt badly for Betty Ross after that.

Or Shaq's wife.

I guess it was proportionate, given the sheer height of the guy, but dude! Seriously. Dude.

No way was I having sex with that. No way was that freakishly large manwand getting shoved in my delicate vajayjay. Nope. Not gonna happen. No way in any hell I can possibly conceive. And I'm pretty damn creative.

So no, we did not have sex. He was kind about it though. Wasn't all butthurt and, looking back, he was probably a little proud of himself. He was the guy who was so big the chick wouldn't have sex with him.

Which seems foolish, if you ask me. I'd rather have the smaller dick and get to have sex. But I guess I'm not a man and so I'll never understand how that works.

I've often wondered who Texas has had sex with since. Amazon women? Elastigirl? Betty Ross?

See, fellas, size does, in fact, matter. We just want a nice, safe size that we can actually feel and some talent behind it.  Of course, I can't speak for my gay men friends. There might be a whole 'nother standard there. But I think I speak for the girlies when I say average is just right.

In fact, the best sex I've ever had was with a very averaged sized penis. But that's a story for another day.

This Morning (NSFW)

I awoke this morning to a delicious dream, one of those mornings where I didn't want to get up, but wanted to stay nestled into my decadent dream. Instead, I wrote a poem. Warning: this poem is prob totes not safe for workplace reading. Just sayin. 

I slipped into your bed this morning

dripping with nakedness

and curled into you

waiting, wanting

need vibrating from every inch of my skin

you awoke

and held me as I’ve never been held

you pressed your mouth into mine

and kissed me into your soul 

you caressed, you kissed, you licked, you fondled

you breathed love onto my skin

you slid into me 

with strength and tenderness

filled with you, I let out a small cry

you moved with passion 

and shook my world apart

we yelped, we panted, we sweat, we laughed

gently

you held, you whispered, I smiled, I hoped

but it was only a dream

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.