Fucking stop it already.

You know what pisses me off? Like, royally?

Porn. You already knew this.

But my major beef lately is how much completely inaccurate information is being spread because of this preoccupation with porn.

What's so wrong with it, you ask?

It's unrealistic by and large. It has men thinking that women get off as soon as they're touched and/or penetrated. It has women thinking either 1) there's something wrong with them if they don't get off within a minute or two of being penetrated, or 2) that being an obnoxious screamer that sounds largely like a donkey braying is what men find attractive.

Ladies, if your man can't or won't get you off, teach him what you like. If you don't know, you better be prepared to spend some significant time on self love. If you don't know what does it for you, how can you possibly expect him to figure it out? He'll be happy to help you out if you can give him some positive feedback. If he doesn't care enough to try or doesn't get it, ditch his ass. There are too many good lovers out there to put up with one who's selfish.

Men, if your woman can't get off, it's time to face the music. Odds are you could stand to alter your routine, or spend more time trying new things with your lady. Most women require some form of direct clitoral stimulation to get off. I mean, think about it. You like it when she touches your dick. Clit = female equivalent of the dick, by and large. TOUCH IT GOD DAMN YOU.

And like men, each woman enjoys a different kind of touch. Luckily for you, all it really takes to learn what a woman likes is some time and effort. And fucking pay attention, for the love of God. I know you're really distracted by OHMYGODTHATFEELSGOOD, but make an effort here, kids.

If at first you don't succeed, offer her a dick pic. Yeah, that'll probably (not) work.

Oy vey.

A month since I last published. I have plenty going on to write about, just haven't had the time. Next entry will hopefully be about my latest adventures in moshing. I've gone to a couple concerts since I last wrote, and man was that fun! I'm still healing from the bruises sustained at Trespass America.

At any rate, since I have nothing of substance to say, I figured I'd leave you with yet another idiotic dating site email I received. This one is from a 21 year old kid. Let's just say he's younger than me, and I won't be sharing by how much. But as far as I'm concerned, we're in completely different generations, and maybe even on different planets from how little comprehension he demonstrates.

Without further ado:


Stupid kid who thinks I'm his personal slut (SKWTIHPS): hey my name is tyler u should text me my number is XXXXXXXXXX.


Me: You've given me absolutely no reason to text you. Also, you're not even in the same state as me. I'm not interested in virtual relationships or texting buddies.


(SKWTIHPS): I'm moving to Oakland in a month I was lookin for people to hang out with when I move


Me: Oakland is about an hour away from where I live. With traffic and my schedule, that would make hanging out casually nearly impossible. Good luck with the move, though.


(SKWTIHPS): Hear I'll send u a pic of my dick and see if it will change ur Ming u have to text me so I can send it though


Me: What. Thefuck.

Are you fucking kidding me dude? I've been around the block my dear, and unless yours is green or has some mutant growth on it, I'm fairly sure you're not packing anything I haven't seen before. Just the fact that you think this is an appropriate pick up line proves that we're never going to meet. Stick to girls your own age. They're the sluts you want.

EDITED TO ADD ('cause apparently the kid's too stupid to just move on to the actual sluts) - 

(SKWTIHPS) 20 minutes later: Nope just thought I'd be a dick since u wasn't willing to want to talk



Me ('cause I can't resist prime opportunities to be a smartass): News flash - I don't have to talk to every guy that hits on me. A little unsolicited advice for you: girls pretty much have their pick online, with all the guys that are online looking for a piece of ass. You might want to actually practice your game before thinking douchebaggery is going to help you score.

Also, you being a dick to me - is that some retarded way of trying to get me to apologize and be all, oh I'm sorry I'm not rearranging my schedule to meet you when you get to Oakland? Or some immature attempt at bullying me into giving my number out to someone I have no interest in? Come on, kid. Get real.

Another [loser] bites the dust...

More actual conversations with random online dudes. Is this honestly what passes for attraction these days?

Random clueless fuck face (RCFF): baby ur hot (sic)

Me: Try that line on someone else, dude.

RCFF: oh :( whats up btw

RCFF: hello

Me: Not interested.

RCFF: ok....i am bad at pickup lines anyway... :/

RCFF: take care miss

[waits 5 minutes]

RCFF: just one qs.....are u into BDSM?

Me: What the fuck? Are you totally clueless? What part of not interested says I'm willing to share intimate bedroom details?

RCFF: im just high ('cause that makes it all better, right? WTF?)

Me: Good for you, totally valid excuse. Glad you find me hot, and thanks for the compliment. That is not what I'm looking for. Have a nice day.

RCFF: okie. bye.

What do I look like, a hooker!?

Reason #12319841029473287 not to date online. I think I just got asked if I'm a hooker by some internet random. Or maybe dominatrix? The thing is, this isn't even an adult-themed site (read: a site where people look for sex hookups). It's an actual conversation from a DATING and relationship focused site.

He's in green, and I'm in grey.

hello there how are you doing?

i'm good

you?

fantastic thanks for asking

are you gutsy at all?

what on earth does that mean?

ok be honest would you have the guts to make a guy do whatever you said if he paid you a lot and no one knew? :)

i'm not a hooker

good luck in your search

i would recommend not approaching every woman who interests you in this manner, by the way

no sex

i don't fucking care

i wasnt talking on those term

ok sorry then

My favorite pickup lines

Most women have heard a lame come-on at some point in their dating lives. It doesn't matter how a chick looks - some dude has tried to pick her up with some corny, "I lost my number, can I have yours?" routine.

Many, many (manymanymanymanymany) moons ago when I was in college, I was a regular at a local dive bar. My favorite bartender had just made me my favorite drink, and I settled in to listen to the not quite so favorite local band. To my surprise, a young man approached. He never introduced himself. He simply sat down next to me and asked a strange question.

Young Man (YM): I'm curious. Are you a chicken farmer?

Me: [stunned, blank stare]

YM: Well, are you?

Me: What on earth would make you think I'm a chicken farmer?

YM: 'Cause you're raising my cock.

Me: [beat] [hysterical laughter]

YM: [beams]

Me: I'd like to buy you a drink, sir. That was a damn good one!

I never got his number. And I certainly don't remember his name. Hell, at this point I'm not entirely sure he was a man, except lesbians probably wouldn't be claiming I raised their cocks. I just remember the line, and the fact that he was ballsy enough to pull it off. I bought him a drink, true to my word. And we spent the next couple hours chatting until we parted ways.

That line is one of my favorite memories from my singlehood. I loved it so much that I routinely get into best pickup line contests with my girlfriends. Here are some of my favorites:

• That shirt is very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you, I'd be coming too.

• How do you like your eggs in the morning, scrambled or fertilized?

• That dress looks great on you. It'd look even better on my floor.

• Can I take a picture of you? I want to show Santa what I want for Christmas.

• You must be a parking ticket 'cause you've got fine written all over you.

• How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice.

• Your dad must be a baker, 'cause you got some hot buns.

• Fuck me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name ___________?

• I'm glad I have my library card, 'cause I'd like to check you out.

• Don't you think most people who use pick-up lines are dipsticks? (Yes.) In that case, mind if I check your oil level?

• Excuse me, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

Have you heard any lines that made you laugh? What about lines that actually worked? I wanna hear the best of the best. Maybe I'll even buy you a drink. Maybe.

Sex, love, and crazy chicks.

Sounds weird to wake up and suddenly realize you love yourself, right? Some sort of bullshit self-empowerment Tony Robbins mumbo jumbo.

Except this actually happened to me. Me, the wiseass, who's always had everyfuckingthing figured out. Even though I don't know it all, I always know it all. That's just who I've always been.

I suddenly realized how much posturing it was. I bought into that "fake it 'till you make it" crap until I had myself convinced I'd made it when I was only faking it.

By now you're probably wondering what the hell I'm smoking, so I'll cut to the chase -

I really liked that last guy I was seeing. Problem with that? Yeah - I tried to play cool and pretend I didn't, and that all I wanted was some sort of casual thing. I'm a tough broad, right? No one gets close to me, I hold all the cards.

Except I'm not. My whore of a vagina led me to someone I dug. And in denying that I liked the guy, I became a crazy. One of those cunts that I'm always ragging on about "why do those chicks go crazy and convince all guys that all women are psycho?"

It's because we obsess. We over-analyze. Chicks, I'm talking to you so fucking pay attention.

We try to play tough even if we're not. What's worse is we play weak when we're not, all in the name of some false definition of what guys are supposed to find attractive.

I'm that chick I love to hate, because I'm always railing about how I don't play games and it turns out I was. Only I was playing games with myself, convincing myself I'm above dating and relationships and love because I've been hurt before. That cool ungettable girl. Yeah fucking right.

My takeaway is kinda surprising though. As I said, I spontaneously woke up and realized I love myself. No, that's not a euphemism for masturbating up a storm.

It was just a sudden realization that I've been unhappy for a long time. I've let my happiness and self-worth be pinned on outside forces in my life for so freaking long that I forgot how to let go and be me. It's kinda liberating to know I'm just as big a fuck-up as the next crazy chick.

I love myself. Even on days when I'm not happy with myself. And that's leagues ahead of the rest of the human race.

I've never laid down and given up, despite the bullshit in my life.

I get curious about something and I go out and do it, even if I'm afraid, because I'd rather be a little reckless and have a hell of a story to tell later than play it safe and wonder the rest of my life.

I'm a mosh pit dancing, blues singing, crazy red-headed happy chick. Watch out, world. Especially those of you who play dodgeball against me. My balls are coming for you. Errr...yeah.

The hilarity of online dating

Ever wonder why I'm a bitch? Read the little exchange below.


Random asshat trying to get his dick wet (RATTGHDW):
Hello! How is everything ?

Me:
I can't really speak for everyone else and everything in general, but most things for me are going decently.

RATTGHDW:
Great! I'm fine as well, thanks)))) I' m not sure, u are really woman, honestly, it' so f...ked up here! That's why, if want me, then text me over- *************** I'll wait for u cutie!

Me:
That's not the best foot to start off on with me, dude.

I know that you don't know if I'm a woman, but to be fair I don't know if you're a dude and I didn't start things off by accusing you of being something else.

Second, you've done absolutely NOTHING to pique my interest. "How's everything?" That's not the brilliant opening line that gets you my contact information.

RATTGHDW:
Yahahaha.... I have more than u can accept! And don't call me dude! " how is everything" - it normal here! If u so special, what u doing over, or u can not find somebody without chat?

___________________________________

I love it. I've been railed on before for my "don't make small talk" point of view before, but it's the damn truth.

If you're not going to say something interesting, don't bother. I don't want to talk about the weather for the 50 billionth time. I don't want to talk about [insert sports team name here]. I don't even want to talk about what I do for a living or what I'm doing here. I want to talk to someone who makes me think or who makes me laugh.

Want to know how to get in my pants? Be smart and/or witty and/or charming. Those traits are panty melters, fellas.

Move On, Mom and Dad (MOMAD): Adventures in (bikini waxing for) dating

I started writing this back before C and I went up in flames. Believe me, good sex is the ONLY reason I'd go through this amount of pain.

________________________________________


Years ago before memes existed, there were chain emails. One I saw over and over was one about a woman trying to wax her bikini area for the first time. If you're a dude, you're cringing. If you're a chick, you're cringing AND laughing your ass off.

I've tried this at home with various kits. I've also gone to an aesthetician and had it done professionally. NEVER have I had the awful experience the anonymous would-be waxer did. Then came yesterday.

The hilarity started when I agreed to go on a date with two different guys the same weekend. I had a set date on Sunday with my fuck buddy C. Per my preference for exclusivity, I knew I wouldn't be boning Mr. Saturday Night. I decided to prepare myself for C and our Sunday night rendez-vous before my Saturday date so that I'd have time to heal.

Saturday afternoon, I went to a beauty supply store to pick out the perfect kit.

I wound up choosing honey wax over all the other varieties. Cold wax is too difficult to heat without burning off your nether regions. Regular wax is too messy and gets everywhere. I mean it. Little stringy bits of wax will somehow work themselves into your hair and random strangers will be picking bits off your clothes days later.

Honey wax heats easily, and while still fairly messy, is relatively easy to handle, minimizing the risk of feeling like you have just poured burning hot lava all over your girl bits.

Everything started out well enough.

Heat wax to proper consistency? Check.

Line bathroom with paper towels? Check.

Music and strategically placed mirror? Check.

All that's left to do is do a little below-the-belt cleaning and then we can get this show on the road!

I apply the included cleaning gel to my skin. By cleaning gel, I'm fairly sure the manufacturer meant alcohol-based antibacterial gel. That shit burns. Coincidentally, it also makes you dance around like a moron as you try to escape the rapid cooling-burning sensation that's taking over your hoo-ha.

Soon enough, I feel like I'm ready to go. I sit down in front of my strategically placed mirror and turn on the tunes.

The first areas to get done are around my bikini area (read: easily reached). Riiiiiiiiiiiiip. Hey, not nearly as bad as I remember! Riiiiiiiiiiiip. Oh, I totally got this. No big deal.

THEN we get to the more sensitive girly regions. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. HOLY HELL! I think I just somehow pulled a child out of my womb, that hurt so bad!

Oh well, no pain no gain, right? Also, it would look fairly retarded if I quit now. I'd be all "welcome to the jungle" on one side and baby smooth on the other. Even Cruella de Ville had a full head of hair with that half-n-half thing she's got going on.

I steel myself. Pain is temporary. Silky smoothness is good for at least a month.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip. JESUS, I just pulled out a twin. The fuck!?

I examine the goods in the mirror. There appears to be some wax clinging to the skin, but the hair is gone. Okie dokie...we'll take care of this little problem when I hop in the shower to wash off.

Finally, we get to the tricky part -- the posterior. For those of you with a limited vocab, by posterior I mean ass cheeks.

Obviously this presents some difficulty. I have to bend in an awkward pretzel pose while staring at my bunghole in a mirror and trying to aim this waxy stick/ripping strip. I somehow manage to get the strip placed correctly and Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

Tears. Holy hell. WTF.
I still see wax.

Let's try the other side and then come back to it. Riiiiiiiiiiip.  
JUST AS BAD OMG THAT FUCKING HURT.
I still see wax. Now on both ass cheeks.

Then I make a fundamental mistake that you never have to think about with cold wax, which would have hardened by now. I sat up. Now, if you're not aware of the specific muscles that help you sit up, you may have forgotten that one of the first things to happen is the flexing of your gluteal muscles.

Yes. My ass cheeks are now stuck together.

Then I stand up. Remember there was wax elsewhere? Now my girl parts AND my ass cheeks are stuck together.

By this point, I'm done. NO MORE RIPPING. Time to shower all this goop off.

Only this is honey wax. There will be no washing off. The wax will come off in clumps and get EVERYWHERE. Your feet will stick to the bathtub. Your hands will stick to the wall, your hair, your body. Your nether regions will STILL be stuck when you get out of the shower.

My solution? Get dressed. Now my underwear are stuck to my ass.

I no longer care. So long as I'm not bleeding or missing skin, all systems are go. And we are DEFINITELY NOT getting laid tonight. At least if he's hot, I won't be tempted to sleep with him AT ALL. Stuck-together lady bits = not sexy.

And that's how I wound up walking around on a date with my panties literally stuck to my ass.

Sex 101: Where Babies Come From

Years ago, I had my tonsils taken out. At the time, I lived on a military base and was scheduled for surgery at the on-base Naval Hospital.

A friend came to stay with me in the event of complications. She drove and waited with me in the private room as I was getting ready (read: baring my ass in a cheap hospital gown and sexy non-skid hospital socks).

Soon after I was dressed, the nurse came and asked that I go pee in a cup to prove I wasn't pregnant before they could OK putting me under general anesthesia.

I naively remarked that my significant other had been gone for many, many months. I highly doubt I am the next Virgin Mary (a little too late for that). Whatever immaculate conception I might have would probably bring about the apocalypse.

He laughed. Why are you laughing, good sir? I asked. I probably left out the "good sir" bit though. I always like to imagine myself in the best possible, most mannerly light even though I probably swear more than Lisa Lampanelli and Andrew Dice Clay's imaginary love child.

Goddammit, motherfucker! I don't want to piss in a cup, asshole!

The nurse explained that he once was stationed on a ship. About five months into his deployment, one of the guys suddenly started passing out cigars and telling all his cronies that he was a daddy. His wife was officially four months along. Keep in mind the wife was on base the entire time husband was deployed overseas.

Say what?

So....you've been gone for five months. And now your wife is four months pregnant. Something's not adding up, dude.

It turns out the young, misguided soldier was under the impression that sperm doesn't die.

He thought he could jerk off into a plastic baggie and then MAIL THAT SHIT ACROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN. Once it arrived safely, likely smelling like death and wet dog, the loving wife would of course somehow inject this loving gift into herself and conceive (I imagine a turkey baster works best for this kind of self-marination).

Poor abused turkey baster.

Holy COW are those strong swimmers, man. They must look like THIS dude:

Or we could go with the more likely option - your wife is a tiny bit smarter than you. She figured out you'd buy her story about sperm-in-a-bag impregnation and that she could shack up with someone else without worrying about whether she'd have to deal with that nasty if-I-get-pregnant-I'm-screwed scenario.

Of course, the nurse informed the confused young man that his chosen method of procreation doesn't really work, and that there was a strong likelihood he was not the father based on the dates of conception and deployment.

And that, my friends, is where babies come from. It's the new Dick in a Box: Sperm in a Bag!

Step 1: Open a plastic bag

Step 2: Put your jizz in that bag

Step 3: Make her open that bag

Step 4 (optional): Also, include a turkey baster.

Pantsless O'Clock - The perfect time to break up!

I was chatting with a girlfriend about a recent breakup. For a change, she was dating a nice guy. But he was too nice. She broke up with him. Then she dropped a bomb on me - she was upset he didn't fight for her.

Only she had a very specific definition of "fight".

She told me how upset she was that he didn't immediately try to finger bang her and growl, "you're not going anywhere" at her when she tried to leave.

Apparently, she's a fan of grudge fucks and being dominated.

I've NEVER heard of this as a strategy for breaking up and making up. There's that infamous scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Jason whats-his-face refuses to put on clothes because she can't break up with him while he's naked, but that's as close as I've ever heard it getting.

(Apparently he really WAS naked)


But seriously. I'm trying to figure out logically how this scenario is possible. The nearest I can guess is that she tells him, "honey, we need to talk. First, I'm gonna need to you take off your pants." And then she proceeds to remove hers.

Once everyone is pantsless, it's time to sit down and talk, right? But if she's sitting all dainty and cross-legged, he's not gonna be able to shove his fingers up some poon when it's go time. I figure she has to further insist that they sit with their legs splayed like they're stretching their hamstrings. I doubt it looks like the image below, but picturing it amuses me greatly:

Remember, we're not actually wearing pants. Peek-a-boo!

Now that we're all de-pantsed and sitting in the proper position, it's time to duke it out. Normally, there'd be a rule about not hitting below the belt. But I guess that's out since she technically DOES want to be hit below the belt, right?

Question!?

Is there an optimal fingering strategy for this type of scenario? Are we talking one lone, delicate finger? How about two? Is there some wiggling going on? Or do we move straight to whole-fist-up-the-vag? I feel like that last option is more junk punching than fingering, but I hear some people are into it.

This strategy is totally on my to-do list. First step, find boyfriend. Second step, piss him off and insist on pantsless fighting/finger banging. Wish me luck!

Move On Mom And Dad (MOMAD): Why you should always listen to your gut when dating

Why am I lucky?

For the past few years of dating, I have not been stood up once. I've been a lot more picky about who I set up dates with, and the result has been a lot more quality and a lot less headache.

One dude snuck in under the radar though, which sucks ass, and not in a good way.

C is the guy I've been seeing for about a month now. It's been super casual. In fact, so casual that its very nature is why this entry merited the MOMAD label. He was my fuck buddy. In fact, on our first date, what started out as a 1 pm lunch date turned into me not getting home until the next morning.

Whew. Hormones.

So basically we just meet at "our" hotel these days and keep things casual. He knows I'm still dating other guys (FYI -- dating around is not sleeping around. I do one guy at a time thank you very fucking much), and seemed cool being friends with benefits.

Fast forward to now. What was supposed to be a night of hot post-Christmas sex has turned intome sitting at Starbucks the day after Christmas, pissed off.

Here's how it went down:

I hadn't heard from him since Friday, so I went to double check with him that we were still on for today. I got a reply to my text that read, "How r u looking 4". Odd. He and I are the type to obnoxiously spell everything out. After that, I sent one more text and didn't get a reply.

Like a moron, I still went. I showed up and asked the front desk man if C had made the reservation he said he would.

No reservation.

I sat down in the lobby and called C, left a voicemail. Checked my email. Checked my texts.

Nada.

I left him an email, a real simple job. Something along the lines of "I made it, and am waiting in the lobby. I plan on leaving at 6 if I don't hear from you before then".

That could be read as pretty bitchy, but I don't particularly care. I spent too many years being nice and accommodating to the douche nozzles I dated. Fuck that noise. Fuck it with a rusty foot-long railroad spike. In the ass.

I waited until 10 to six, by that time having spent just shy of an hour in the lobby. The front desk man was morbidly curious, coming by to check on the poor just-stood-up chick sitting in the lobby fucking around on her phone.

Dressed up? Check.

Nice hotel? Check.

Playing Sudoku on my phone? Well, that wasn't how I envisioned my night going.

I went down to my car, threw on a pair of sneakers and changed my nice blouse for a t-shirt. I bundled up (it's fucking cold) and got in my car. As I pulled out of the hotel driveway, I swear to God I saw his car parked just down the street.

Ever the fucking optimist, I actually turned around and went back to the hotel to see if maybe I'd somehow missed connections. The doorman looked down on me with all the pity he could muster and informed me no one had come in.

I left again, pissed off. Then I found a Starbucks. Now you're all caught up.

Oh! I almost forgot...when I left the second time, the car that I thought was his was gone. No clue.

I'm a fucking idiot. I knew what I was getting into up front, and I'm glad that the crazy switch was flipped before this went on too much longer.

The dude told me on our second date that he was bi-polar. Not only did he tell me that, he disappeared for about a week at the beginning of December, telling me he'd had a "bad period" and that his paranoia had been in overdrive.

From the moment that little over-share hit my ears, my gut was screaming RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!1!1!111111!

My vagina, slut that she is, overrode my head and said, "but crazy sex is fucking awesome sex!"

My head responded with, "yeah, but we've been the crazy sex route before. After awhile, all that's left is the crazy."

And my vagina responded with, "shut up, for real. You know we haven't been laid in a long time. Do this for me. Please? Please?! PLEASE? OHMYGODPLEASEHE'SSOHOTANDIWANTHIM! Please?"

And my head, ironically the pussy in this little skit, caved.

I fucked him every which way to Sunday. I saw, I conquered, and man I fucking CAME.

Boo on the crazy. Boo, I say.

Imagine me in Starbucks, wagging my finger in admonition at my vagina.

"You don't get to make decisions for us anymore, 'Gina," I'm telling her. "If you pull this crap again, we're becoming a nun."

That ought to teach my whore of a vagina.