I’m pretty fabulous, you know.

I know I like to joke about lame being my default position, but it’s not.  Awesome is my default.  I just don’t want to flaunt it so I can seem accessible to the common people.  Yet despite all this awesome wonderfulness following me around, I cannot say that I am completely fabulous because I don’t have any gays.

Now I know that I have all you Toy with Mes and that totally makes you an entourage of sorts and I love, love, love that, and if I could have sweaty sex with every last one of you I would, but I’m betting you’re all just a bunch of straight people around here, right?

That’s why I need to get me some gays.

Or maybe even an entourage of gays.

And I want them all to look like this proud fellow:

Can’t you just picture us walking into Target together?  Only he’d be lugging the baby carrier for me because just look at those guns!

But sadly for me, I don’t even have any gay friends, but I’ve dated a few gay guys who were still trying to make themselves like boobies at the time.

The first ‘mo I dated was Eric.  He was super cute, and he loved Madonna. He even had a license plate that said MDONNA, and his favorite thing was dressing up like her. His skin was sooooo smooth and soft, and HELLO! That boy was as gay as the day was long, but I was only 18 at the time and I tried to kiss him because I thought he liked me.  After all, he asked me out on a date and was acting like a straight guy except for the smooth skin thing and the Madonna thing and as it turns out, Nooooooo.

I kissed him and he ran away and never called me again.  He literally ran out the door, hopped into his car and peeled out.

Had I played my cards right and been smart about it, I would have just put in a Madonna CD and let him try on my clothes, and then I could have had me a very nice gay fella.

We would have been just like Will & Grace.

I kick myself for that, and I find myself wishing Eric was on his way over here right now to drink some wine, watch Project Runway, and make fun of straight guys with me.  (Sorry straight dudes, I love you all, but you know you’re kind of stupid, right?)

After the Eric situation, you’d think I’d have learned a little something, but nay, nay Toy with Mes.  I’m a slow learner because a couple of years after Eric came Adam.

Like Eric, Adam was a cutie patootie.  He was a jewelry designer whose turn-ons included anything by Ralph Lauren, interior design, avant-garde art, and kittens. He always smelled incredible and looked as pretty as a picture in a magazine.

I KNOW! I told you I’m kind of a fucktard.

And he wanted to like boobies, but it just wasn’t working.  He was horrible in the boudoir, but I kept sleeping with him hoping it would get better, but it didn’t.

Do you have any idea what it’s like for a woman to have sex with a gay man?

It’s not good you guys, not good at all because the whole time, they’re totally screaming inside their heads and they want to run away so badly, but they stick it out and then jump out of bed and take a shower to wash all the yucky girl cooties off of them because OH GOD IT BURNS!

I cannot tell you what it does for a girl’s self-esteem when the guy you just had The Sexy Time with blows his load on your back and then jumps out of the bed trying to discreetly cover his mouth so he doesn’t throw up on his new scatter rug from Pottery Barn.

I wish my gay-dar had been existent at the time. It could have saved us all from some pain and humiliation, but I was a youngin’ and I didn’t know any better.  I just thought we were soul mates because we were so similar.

I dated that Adam guy for about two months before the sun came over the mountain and I was confronted with the truth about him.  I used to hang out at his apartment, and he had this friend named Paulie.  He would call every ten minutes while I was there.  Literally. I thought that was a little strange until one night I was over there when Paulie stopped by, and to make a long story short, I caught a reflection of them kissing in the mirror.  Needless to say, that was a big light bulb moment. I got my coat, left quietly, and sat by the phone for a week waiting for Adam to call me, but he never did.  I never heard from him again, actually.  I found out from a mutual friend that he now works as a lion tamer in the circus.

I shit you not.

Gay, gay, gay, gay, GAY.

And that sucks that it had to go down that way because I really liked him, and it would have been fine with me to just be his fruit fly.  I’d love to be the kind of girl who hangs out at gay bars and comes home covered in glitter and singing “It’s Raining Men.”  That’s what I assume goes on in gay bars, but I really have no idea because I’ve never been to one.

The only gay guys you see around here in suburbia are the Woodland Gays who lurk in the woods at the park.  They scope out my husband when he takes the kids for a hike. I’d ask him to collect a few phone numbers for me, but those aren’t the kind of gays I want to be friends with, so I’m thinking of taking him to a gay bar as my bait. Gay men seem to love him, but that’s a story for next week…

Post from: Sex Toy Reviews

I Need To Get Me Some Gays

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Mommy, Your Vagina Is DIRTY!

When we starting potty-training our first son, we made sure to drag him along to every bathroom break either of us took, just so he could get accustomed to the idea of stopping what you were doing to take a pee now and again. While it was a good thing because he did end up putting his bodily fluids into the toilet eventually, it lead to more ridiculous conversations than I could possibly have foreseen. My son was born without a filter, so on any given day, you could find us in the Target bathroom where he would loudly proclaim such nuggets of parental embarrassment as, “Wow, Mommy, your vagina is DIRTY!” He’d mistake, you see, the pubic hair for dirty, and like a vocal bullet, that statement would ricochet around the full bathroom. There was simply no un-saying that, and I’d walk to the sink, red-faced and ashamed that the other women at the sinks knew that I needed to wax my beav, while my son bounced along next to me, oblivious to my plight.

His father, The Daver, didn’t escape unscathed either. No, Dave was equally humiliated by our son, who would frequently ask him questions like, “what is your penis doing?” I have to give him massive credit for answering him with a straight face, because I’d already left the room, laughing hysterically.

Mr. Tinky-Winky

We somehow managed to get through those awkward potty training years without dying of embarrassment and shortly thereafter got pregnant with our second child. I’m not really one to sugarcoat names of private parts, and although “Mr. Tinky-Winky” might sound better to a child than saying “I have a penis,” we’ve always taught them the anatomical terms. When they’re older, I’ll happily teach them the slang words, but for now, they’ll learn the proper names.

It’s Not The Stork

So when I found out that I was pregnant, I made sure to find a very honest book to teach my eldest about where babies come from. He’s a literal kind of guy who needs that sort of thing, and if I tried to come up with clever euphemisms, it would fly over his head. We ended up with a book called “It’s Not The Stork.” It was mostly a cartoon book, and it showed all sorts of things about how babies are made and had neat little spermies swimming up to the gigantic ova and then you’d see a pregnant lady and it took you through all the stages of fetal development, and it was pretty cool. My son dug it and really enjoyed reading all about it. He even made up a nifty little ditty about how “he was an egg and a sperm and then BAM he became Ben!” He sang it everywhere he went which was pretty adorable.

The Time Wasn’t Quite Right

We somehow managed to gloss over the part about how exactly the sperm made it into the fallopian tubes to meet the ova because he was four and I didn’t know that we needed to horrify him with the mechanics of sex until he asked. So, we just waited. There was an entire part of the book devoted to sex and puberty, but we just sort of left it alone until the time was right. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to talk about it, it’s just that we didn’t really want to talk about it right then.

Because Ben, for all of his awesomeness, is like a dog with a bone on a topic. Once he starts on it, he simply can’t let it go. It’s part of the autism and it’s just a part of who he is. So we knew the minute the sex conversation started, we’d have it over and over and over and over again until Dave and I wanted to shove our heads underwater. Don’t think us unkind, please, just remember how often you want to talk about sex in public, at the park, with your parents, at the store, in the bathroom, while he tells it to every person he sees on the street.

OH MY GOD

It took until he turned eight for him to rediscover the book and find the section on sex. And for all of the times that I said smugly to myself, “I’m going to be full of The Awesome when my kid wants to talk about sex,” what happened was anything but. He happened to catch me while I was in the middle of nursing my swine flu migraine. He burst into the kitchen, where I was trying to shove something to eat in my mouth with this horrified look on his face. Knowing he’d been reading the book, I knew what was coming out of his mouth before he spoke,

“OH MY GOD,” he yelled. “DO YOU KNOW HOW BABIES ARE MADE?”

He went on without waiting for me to answer.

“THE MAN PUTS HIS PENIS IN A WOMAN’S VAGINA.”

A lifetime of poker faces were thrown clearly out the window and I did the one thing that you should NEVER do in this sort of situation: I started to snicker into my hand. Between the way he said it and the look on his face, I simply couldn’t hold it back. Luckily, he didn’t notice, and continued staring at me, mouth agape, as my snickers turned into a full-fledged coughing fit.

“Yes,” I managed to sputter out.

“Oh my GOD,” he continued. “I HOPE I don’t have to do that for a long time!” Then he looked warily around as if a roaming vagina might pop out from behind something and try to have sex with him and walked back into the other room. I followed behind him to have The Sex Talk. I also made a mental note to start saving up for his future therapy.

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The Birds And The Bees, My Style

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You’re curious now, right? I know, I figured, so I made a list of nine of the things and part of me wants to say “you’re welcome” but a bigger part of me wants to apologize profusely in advance because the entire list is like a train wreck in that you’ll be horrified by it but you won’t be able to look away no matter what because you just absolutely have to see what happens next.

1. Feeding the Horse: Stimulation of the vaginal lips with the hand in a manner similar to feeding a hungry horse.
Okay, so, I’ve fed horses before and my strongest memory from it wasn’t what I did with my hand while putting the food close to their mouths, it was how weird the movement of their mouth felt in my hand as they were eating. Can a vagina replicate this? I don’t know, but I’m totally sitting here trying to do some weird vagina squeezing thing but all I’m accomplishing is round after round of solid Kegels, which I guess is better than nothing. But really, let’s not feed my vagina anything that you’d feed a horse, okay? Actually, can we agree to just not feed my vagina at all? Awesome. Thanks.

2. Donkey Punch: Dude fucks someone in the ass from behind. Dude punches that someone in the back of the head or neck while fucking them in the ass from behind, which in turn forces them to tighten their ass muscles and make it all the more pleasurable for said Dude.
Punching? Seriously? I mean, what? Let’s get something straight here, if I’m going to be cool enough to let you put it in my ass, you sure as hell better not do something like, oh, I don’t know, PUNCH ME IN THE HEAD WHILE I’M BEING GENEROUS AND GIVING YOU A PIECE OF THIS ASS.

3. Dirty Sanchez: Right after anal sex, the guy takes his penis out and rubs it on his partner’s upper lip, leaving a “moustache.”
Excuse me, but what did I just say? I’m being generous by giving you a piece of this ass! Please tell me you are not even considering putting your post-anal dick on my face. My face! Near my mouth! What the fuck is the MATTER with you.

4. Boston Pancake: When a dude defecates on the other person’s chest, pats down the feces with his ass to make it into a flat surface, and then ejaculates on it to create the “syrup.”
I mean. I just. It’s just. I can’t. Do people really? I mean. Like. But. Vomit stab vomit stab.

5. Alligator Fuckhouse: During sex, one person bites the other person’s neck, locks their arms and legs down and goes into a deathroll, all while maintaining insertion.
I’m not going to lie, this one is amazing. In fact, this is the only one on the list that I actually want to try. And by “want to try” I mean “would consider doing on a one night stand before getting up, fist pumping, yelling ‘alligator fuckhouse!’ and walking out.”

6. Abe Lincoln: When a guy ejaculates on the face of his unconscious partner and then shaves off his pubic hair and applies it to the semen covered area to form a beard.
Imagine this scenario for a second. Seriously, imagine that you drank a little too much tequila one night, passed out at a guy’s house, and woke up with a SEMEN AND PUBIC HAIR BEARD the next day. How do you get through that? Where do you even go with your entire life from there? God, and what if you also woke up wearing a black top hat? WHAT THEN!

7. Snowballing: The act of passing cum back and forth between two or more people’s mouths. As it gets passed, the amount of saliva and cum gets larger and larger. As in, it snowballs.
Who’s sitting around after giving a blowjob thinking, “Man, I haven’t swallowed yet, I wonder if this dude and his roommate and that chick on the street want to snowball with me.” No one, that’s who. Except there’s a name for it, so obviously someone is doing this and if that person is you it would be stellar if you could please raise your hand so I know not to share a water bottle with you ever, ever again.

8. Felching: The act of sucking semen from the anus. When the semen is too deep inside the rectum, it can be done with a drinking straw.
A drinking straw. A DRINKING STRAW. I have nothing else to say about this. Someone please remove my eyes so I can stop with this list. Maybe you could just suck them out with a drinking straw. Sigh. THE HORROR.

9. Bukkake: A group of dudes getting together to masturbate and ejaculate on one woman. The objective (because apparently things like this come with objectives) is to get as much cum on her as possible.
Yeah bro, this is exactly what every woman wants. Oh no wait, I don’t think there’s anything I’d want less than this. Except to do the thing with the semen and the anus and the drinking straw.

Okay, deep breath, that’s it. I mean, that’s NOT it but I had to stop somewhere because otherwise I’d go on forever and ever because the realm of weird sex is virtually limitless. But I’m stopping because I’m pretty sure you already hate me. Do you hate me? It’s okay, I understand if you do, even I hate me right now. Oh well, at least if you’ve made it this far you know all the same fucked up things that I know and I can now be all, “welcome to the dark side see you in hell thank you the end.”

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(and do I have to move to Canada to scream it?)

I read the news sparingly. Reason? There’s enough doom and gloom in this world without my days being thrown out of whack by some plasticized TV journalist’s skewed view on all the happenings fit to broadcast. I don’t need to see a young luger’s tragic crash. I don’t need to see a killer whale indulge in a Sea World Staff Snack. My Google Readers suits me fine and I can click or skip as I please on a per-headline basis.

Hot out of the frying pan and into the brimstone and damnation fire this week is the current Presidential administration’s recent meeting with nonreligious advocacy groups on Washington’s sacred soil. White House Aides welcomed the Secular Coalition for America, a group comprised of “atheists, agnostics, humanists, freethinkers and other nontheistic Americans,” to discuss the specific issues of child medical neglect, military proselytizing and faith-based initiatives. This is a Presidential administration’s first-ever meeting with a group of “nonbelievers.” Not surprising since such groups were mentioned in his inaugural address.

I started some click-digging across the interwebz, intrigued to learn more about the matter. I stumbled across a well-written article from my hometown publishing behemoth (The Houston Chronicle). Brief and concise, I found myself at the end of the article and face-first into the comments section.

Holy shit. And even shit that isn’t holy.

Texas is a Red State. I grew up there and the majority of my family still lives there. It’s three notches in the Bible Belt whereas every other state can only claim one. Here’s some of the intellectual input from readers on the above article:

Go figure this fake and useless president would meet with a bunch of fake and useless sinners on their way to Hell.

oslama the muslum (sic) lover meets with other atheists

It is my understanding that next week Obama meets with Lassie.

Why not meet with everyone? I mean he’s met with Republicans and they’ve proven themselves to be idiotic. He may as well meet with the rest.

What a waste of a Presidency this is turning into.

I can’t deny that there were some well thought-out retorts to the epic fucktardery above. What amazes me most, however, is that one’s religious preferences dictate patriotism.

It’s a not-so-slippery slope if you look at the matter from other behavioral practices:

• If I am a man and have sex with other men, I am engaging in homosexual behavior.

• If I am a woman and have sex with other women, I am engaging in lesbian behavior.

• If I live in America and I don’t believe in the Christian ideal of God, then I am a bad American.

Sing with me, kids – “One of these things is not like the other…”

What is it with the evangelical Christian sect that feels the need to decimate, denigrate and otherwise demean those who don’t subscribe to their thought process?

Defining Religion

Not trusting myself to offer you a definition myself, the interwebz saved me again via Dictionary.com:

re·li·gion [ri-lij-uhn]

–noun

1. a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.

2. a specific fundamental set of beliefs and practices generally agreed upon by a number of persons or sects: the Christian religion; the Buddhist religion.

3. the body of persons adhering to a particular set of beliefs and practices: a world council of religions.

4. the life or state of a monk, nun, etc.: to enter religion.

5. the practice of religious beliefs; ritual observance of faith.

6. something one believes in and follows devotedly; a point or matter of ethics or conscience: to make a religion of fighting prejudice.

Let’s pay particular attention to numbers 2 and 6…If we consider that atheists and nontheists are dedicated to following a life that needs no deity as a guide and that there are a number of persona who agree upon living their lives in the same manner, would that not mean that we could assert that both atheists and nontheists are practicing a religion?

A recent hullabaloo in Illinois got me thinking. This Republican dude (William J. Kelly – candidate for Comptroller) in Chicago got himself a personal escort off the grounds of the Illinois state capital building back in December for removing a sign posted on its lawn by an atheist group.  Incidentally, the group had gone through the proper petition procedures to have its sign placed on the capitol lawn adjacent to a nativity scene and this is the second year the sign has been lawfully displayed.

The exact verbiage on the sign reads: “At the time of the winter solstice, let reason prevail. There are no gods, no devils, no angels, no heaven or hell. There is only our natural world. Religion is just myth and superstition that hardens hearts and enslaves minds.”

Kelly states that the sign is “”hate speech,” saying it’s not right for a sign that “mocks” religion to be placed next to a Christmas tree and nativity scene.

Funny. He didn’t say anything about the aluminum Festivus pole also on display nearby on the Illinois State Capitol lawn.

I guess Mr. Kelly is against multiple ideologies being on display in one place. I’m betting he’d have a shit time at The Smithsonian.

All Sides Have Their Evangelists and I Don’t Like Penetration Toys

The hate (and ignorance) spewed in the quoted comments from the Houston Chronicle along with Mr. Kelly’s actions reinforce something I always knew: all sides have their evangelists. We’ve met the man-hating lesbian. The queen who can’t stand straight dudes. The Christian with the un-Christian lack of tolerance for other faiths. The Democrat who would skewer a Republican and vice-versa. We can’t even agree that sex is good on a universal scale because of the not-so-thin veil of shame afforded the issue by religion. I will say one thing, however:

You don’t see atheists and nontheists bombing abortion clinics and driving wars that last decades…centuries. And I’m not asserting that religion is bad. I’m stating that evangelism is one thing – the promotion and support of an idea set. However, zealotry is something else entirely. It’s driven by hate and fear. And it’s the zealots who speak the loudest (or at least get the most airtime due to their fanatical behaviors). I think it’s quite intriguing as well that here’s even news that’s linking atheism with IQ. Perhaps science has its place in the moral/sexual landscape more than the fundies would be comfortable believing.

What the current administration has done by meeting with nontheist and atheist groups is offer a different, more inclusive view of patriotism.

As we’re a nation filled with people with unlimited potential and the framework for people from many ways of life to ultimately succeed, the Obama administration has opened the doors of the nation’s capitol and offered a refuge for those who live well but don’t subscribe to the Christian ideal. Across all faiths (and lacks thereof) there are people who are infinitely comfortable in their own skin. It’s the lack of security in one’s own beliefs that drives people to lash-out at others for holding contradictory thought. I mean, hell – I’m not a fan of penetration toys but do I damn those who are to hell? (Straight to hell, no batteries included.)

Americans are Americans

Free speech – it’s protected. Whether you like the speech or not has no bearing on how protected it might be. As with the sign on the Illinois lawn, it’s bitch-slapping time: not everyone believes what you do. Thank. Fucking. God. And it has no bearing on how “American” we are. I asked my Twitter community: how do you feel patriotism and religion are intertwined?

“Personally, my beliefs or lack thereof have no bearing on my patriotism. I am a former United States Marine, proudly and honorably serving for 6 years during the Gulf War. (1989-2005) I served because I am a proud American, and I defended our rights as Americans to worship as we choose (or not) and to speak our minds freely.” – Tammy Colson @TLColson

“Well, we are a country founded on people who were fleeing religious persecution. Yet, we’ve become a nation of religious persecutors. Our laws are very similar to the Ten Commandments (don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t be a fucktard…). However, there is the whole separation of Church and State. Yet, the Pledge of Allegiance and all of our currency has “God” all over it. I think we are the best country to be a religious nut in, because you basically have the entire government backing you up. To be a religious nut, you are basically allowed to say, “God is responsible for man.” We send a guy to the electric chair with the idea that God will give him the real punishment. To be an atheist and say that “Man is responsible for man” would give the believers a fucking conniption.”  – Dave Pennington

“The only way my atheism affects my patriotism is how the vocal minority tells me I’m un-American for not being Christian. This has less to do with atheism and much more to do with Christian evangelists shunning not only non-believers, but different believers as well.”  – Grant Beery/@voteforgrant

I don’t feel that patriotism is aligned with Christianity or religious beliefs at all. There’s a beauty to the diverse beliefs that make this world a wonderful place and there’s a respect that comes along with both the right to believe and the right to not.

But it has me asking…

If There is No God, What Should I Yell Out During Sex?

Let’s recap what we’ve got so far:

1. America is, currently (and on currency) “One Nation, Under God” as that’s the dude in which we trust.

2. Those who don’t believe apparently have no place next to those who do according to some folks.

3. Some equate a lack of faith in the Christian ideal with the labels “fake” and “useless” and have something against Lassie.

4. Spelling is not protected under the U.S. Constitution, especially for those who feel that hate is an appropriate weapon to use against their fellow Americans who don’t believe as they do.

I’m not big into blasphemy and frequently use phrases like “goddammit” and “Jesus Fucking Christ” (strung together as one word in heated rage or moments of utter frustration). It’s simply because I don’t believe in the myth of Christianity and place little value on names. But since the zealots think that not following Christian faith is immediate cause for revocation of my American Card, I wonder where I can hold my beliefs and work towards living a good life without the ever-present influence of “you’re going to hell” looming over my red head. Canada, perhaps?

And since yelling, “Oh, dear GOD!” is apparently right out, what would we yell out into the pillow when our head is pressed down into it and we’re this close to (oh, you know)?

I offer some suggestions:

“Ohhhhh, James Madison!” (via Martin Burns)

“Ohhhh, Flying Spaghetti Monster!” (via Dave Pennington)

“<bark> Oh, Dog!”

“Did you register to vote, lovah?!”

“Holy shit, if you’re Republican, I’m switching parties!”

But they just don’t have the impact of, “Oh, dear GOD!” do they?

If I can be tolerant enough to recognize that beauty comes in many forms and that every religion and mindset brings something of value to the table, why can’t others? We’re surrounded by intelligence and enlightenment from those who believe and chose not to and it has no affect on how they perceive their dedication to the place they call home. My other half was raised Catholic and still wears a St. Christopher medal around his neck with a scapular from his grandmother. Does it change the fact I love him? Not in the slightest. But he gets to see me at the rare moments I find religion.

End Note (and brilliantly stated)

“I’m not anti-religion, personally, but I do get leery when people go on and on about how they believe in a giant man who grants wishes – to me, it’s the equivalent of people who think the Easter Bunny really does drop those Easter Baskets off.

I think of it as a lack of faith in each other – we refuse to believe that people can do great good on their own, and ignore history. Thing’s aren’t perfect, but I’d much rather be alive today than say the Dark Ages.” Martin Burns/@WriterMoe

Special thanks to @darkheath who contributed his thoughts to this week’s column as well.

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I actually have a Queefie (that’s what I call my blog readers, just so you know) whose husband will not allow her to own a dildo.

I know, right?

Around these parts, that’s like pooping on Jesus!

And when I read that, I was like “he won’t let you what now?”

I didn’t even understand what she was saying, because it’s so totally out of the realm of my daily reality it about knocked my universe all into a kerfuffle. I always thought a chick who liked a little t-o-y action was a good thing, and I thought all men thought so too!  Isn’t a woman who enjoys her body and enjoys sex and has no hangups about getting herself worked up into a lather pretty much the hottest thing a guy could imagine?  I’ve seen an assload of a little porn in my day, and about 80% of it starts off with a girl treating her body like an amusement park before the guy gets there!

And here’s the new thing you’ll learn today: people have been dildo-ing it since back in the upper paleolithic day, (I had to put my glasses on to write that part.  They make me smarter.  I don’t know why) so masturbatory tools are hardly a new thing us modern people invented to get our rocks off (HA!) and our knickers in a twist.

Not only does my husband (modern-day caveman that he is) promote and condone dildo usage, he goes so far as to purchase them for me now and then.  A while back, he picked out a glass one that’s actually very nice: smooth, clean, and hard–what more do you need?

Lately we’ve been thinking of moving on to a stainless steel number because we’re all about being dishwasher safe around here (message to the Toy With Mes: please, please, please toss any stainless steel toy reviews my way! Even though the speculum my pimp gave me as a present may be stainless steel, I’m really looking for something a bit less gynecological).

The first time I went to an Athena party, my husband about peed his pants with delight and started jumping up and down, clapping his hands and squealing like a little girl. Then, he handed over a check with $1,000 written in the amount box.

Or maybe it was $100?  I can’t remember the exact amount, but it was a very enthusiastic check.  He also provided me with a list of suggestions.

So obviously, when my dear Queefie told me this problem she’s having with her husband, I was shocked and even a little bit angry. That’s probably because I had The PMS at the time, but I was pissed at him for telling her what she could stick in her hey-nanny-nanny because really?  Husband or no, it’s none of his beeswax.

Amiright?

I mean, is she allowed to use tampons or do we have a problem with that too?  How about a finger?  Is it ok if it’s HIS finger, but not if it’s HER’S?

Don’t get me wrong, Toy With Mes– I’m not trying to slam her husband here.  I’m sure he is a perfectly nice man.  Everyone is entitled to a little jackassery from time to time.  In the case of my dearest husband, the jackassery is pretty much a default position, but at least he never tells me what I can and cannot do.

To me, it sounds like this lady’s hubby might be suffering from jealousy and insecurity that he might be replaced by an object, but whatever.  I fell asleep pretty often during Freshman Psych so I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.  Don’t judge.  It was at 7:30 AM!!! Try doing that with a hangover!

Or maybe he’s got one of those Madonna-whore complexes and can’t stand to think of his wife as someone who would–GASP–masturbate!

Or maybe he’s scared she’s going to chase him around the house with it and try and use it on him?  Even worse–maybe he’ll enjoy that! THE SHAME OF IT!

Don’t worry dude.

A little bum play doesn’t make you gay.  You can scratch your balls and forget to brush your teeth from time to time and still enjoy a little assical action.  It don’t mean a thang, brotha.

Hey, I stick things in my bum, and I’m not gay!

(HI MOM! Please remember that I’m your least disappointing child! )

Anyway, being a gal with a big ol’ bottle of wine and a mind of her own, she went online one night and bought herself a new friend despite her husband’s objections, plus she got a bunch of other stuff that they could share just to smooth his feathers a little bit.  That was a very nice diplomatic move, so yay for her!

But!  She says she’s nervous about the package arriving in the mail.  How is she going to break it to him?  Should she hide it under the bed?  Should she fess up right away?  Should she take her new best friend and hide her love away in a hotel room somewhere? Should she give him the Tony Danza and show him who’s the boss?

I don’t know, but these are the only suggestions I can come up with because I’m not a sex advice columnist. I’m…I don’t even know what I am and that’s why I need you Toy With Mes today. I need your input because we have got to help this poor girl have a come to Jesus meeting with her hubby. There’s still hope!

Please feel free to put your suggestions and/or totally non sequitur dildo stories in the space provided below.

Post from: Sex Toy Reviews

My Friends Husband Is A Dildo Nazi

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The first time I came across the term “anorectal foreign body” I nearly choked on my tongue. I’d heard of people who’d put things up their butts before, and I’d certainly seen butt-plugs before, but I’d never really considered shoving things up my poop chute for fun. Apparently, I was a stick in the mud.

There is a whole culture of people who like to insert things into their rectums. Things that even I couldn’t imagine shoving up the puckered poo-hole. Emergency Room staff see this sort of thing frequently, because people, upon insertion of foreign objects, will often be unable to remove the object. Which presents a problem. Your colon is a long, long place and not really ideal for foreign bodies to just, you know HANG out. So these poor saps have to go into the ER and say “I have a bottle stuck up my asshole.” And you thought getting a colonoscopy was embarrassing.

I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest here and go with “I don’t really get the up the butt insertion thing” because genuinely I do not. I’ve had a colonoscopy and trust me, they’re not fun, so I’m not quite sure how inserting a large zucchini or a tire iron would be any better. I’m in the minority, because a quick google search handily pulled up a number of things that people have inserted into their butt-holes.

My favorite quote from an actual medical case study is this:

A 39-year-old married white male lawyer presented with a self-inserted perfume bottle in his rectum that he was unable to remove using various objects, including a back scratcher. He had inserted this bottle on previous occasions.

I don’t know where to begin on this great snippet of a case file. He tried to get the perfume bottle out with a back scratcher, Toy With Me-ers, which provides me with the most delicious mental picture. And whose perfume bottle was it? His wife’s? Furthermore, how did she feel about the perfume bottle up his ass? Because if he’d tried to get it out on his own it means she probably didn’t know about it. I have more questions than I have answers and I hate to say that I have actually lost sleep thinking about this.

Anyway, here is my list of the best things I could find that people put up their butts and then could not remove themselves:

A Frozen Pigs Tail

Dude. I don’t even pretend to understand why someone would own a frozen pig’s tail in the first place, let alone why it would occur to them to stick it up their butt, but for some reason, there you have it. A frozen pig’s tail. If you own one, please don’t tell me. There are simply things that I do not need to know.

An Ice Pick

Now this defies reason and logic because while the bowel is certainly a stretchable organ, it’s also a puncturable organ. And while it may seem like a handy hiding place to store your weapons, maybe something that can punch holes in the colon isn’t the best idea. I’m just saying.

A Knife Sharpener

I’d normally be the first to crack a sharpest knife in the drawer joke, but in this case, I simply can’t. It’s too easy. So instead, I’ll simply say that maybe the ice pick person decided that his ice pick needed a sharpening in his butt.

A Bottle Of Soda
I personally searched high and low to determine the brand of soda, but nowhere was it listed on any of the case files that I found. So, the particular brand of soda this genius shoved up their ass (and was then unable to retrieve) is bound to haunt me all night because really, don’t you need to know? I DO.

A Can Of Baby Powder

Now the previous items, I can sort of see being the proper shape to fit up a butt, but this defies all logic to my pea brain. I simply don’t see how it’s possible to fit that up there, but you know what? I don’t want to know. The one perk, I suppose, is that the person must have had a nice smelling ass.

Food

A very popular thing to insert up the rectum is food. Food is also, apparently damn hard to remove from your rectum, if the ER logs are to be believed (and really, who’d make THOSE up?). Bananas and salami, okay, but an apple? Or worse, an ONION? I’m sorry, but I can’t walk into a room where an onion is being cut up without weeping, so I cannot imagine the agony of having an onion exposed to my delicate butt. Then again, I wouldn’t shove food into my butt, so why worry?

A Curling Iron

You know, for all that hair up there? What bothers me about this isn’t that someone would think to put it up there, but that it got stuck. Gentlemen, ladies, if you don’t know what a curling iron looks like, well, they’re fracking huge. That must have been shoved way the hell up there.

Lightbulbs

Wow. Just. Wow. I’ve had some terrible luck breaking lightbulbs by dropping them onto things. Hell, one time I think I actually broke one by just trying to take it out of its socket. So to actually manage insertion WITHOUT BREAKAGE takes an amazing sense of agility and daring that I can’t even begin to comprehend. Well played, sir (or madam). Well played, indeed.

Balls

The report that I found listed several varieties of balls that people had, for some reason or another, shoved up their ass. Baseball, tennis and pool cue balls were the favorites. Their spherical shape seems to me that it would be almost impossible to remove (unless it was attached to something else) so this would win Aunt Becky’s dumbest thing to put up your butt award. Why not go with anal beads like EVERYONE ELSE?

A Live Bullet
The gentlemen who used a live artillery shell to tuck his hemorrhoids back up into his butt wins my Darwin of the Year Award. Because that’s a live bullet up his ass, which could technically discharge at any point in time…inside his body cavity.

I’ve never been happier to say that the only thing I’ve ever had up my ass was my head. Now, I’m off to bathe in some bleach.

Post from: Sex Toy Reviews

People Stick Weird Things In There

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So the waxing, right. Well, anyone who gets it done will tell you that the overarching cardinal rule to having your pubic hair yanked out with hot wax is that if that’s the kind of hair removal you’re choosing, it has to be your only kind. You’re married to it. You can’t have a casual relationship with your hair removal – as in, no shaving in between. No matter what. No matter how badly you’re tempted. No matter how much you want to bone the new guy that you happened to start seeing at an unfortunately inconvenient point in your waxing cycle.

You No Shave!

And I know this rule. I know. I know. But what did I do last month? I fucking shaved anyway. Because I was so drunk on my desire for last minute sex that I momentarily let myself forget about the out and out horror of that first post-shaving wax. Fast forward to last week and my finally sacking up to get just that very wax and and and oh my actual HELL. Tammy, the woman who does my waxing, literally slapped me on the thigh and was all, “you no shave!” and I was like, “I know but -” and she was all, “YOU NO SHAVE!” and handed me this little paper fan and motioned for me to start fanning myself while making a face that said, “Oh yeah? You couldn’t wait? You had to shave? Well, get comfortable you little slut because you’re going to be hot and sweaty and in so much pain that you’re going to need to fan yourself over and over for the next 45 plus minutes while I undo all the damage you caused to my masterpiece of a wax job.”

So I did, I fanned and fanned and about halfway through I had to stop with the fanning because of all things, my arm was sore and as soon as I stopped, I saw that while the front of the fan was blank, the back of the fan had a picture of a Geisha on it and a quote in big bold font that read, “You just know something beautiful is happening” and I’m all, “Yeah bro, beautiful” and continued to writhe around in agony while Tammy shook her head and pulled out the tweezers and kept muttering, “You no listen! I say no shave!” and I felt like I was four years old and had taken a cookie from the cookie jar except I’m 24 years old and this was all about my cookie and yet somehow I had still been a very bad girl.

Bling For My Thing

Fast forward through another 20 minutes of my losing the will to live to the part where by some grace of whatever, I actually made it to the end of the damn thing, to the part where I paid for the torture and walked out feeling like I had come through actual battle and I was skipping to the bus and I was so fucking proud of myself for my valiant vaginal efforts and all I could think was, “I’m so hot and woo-hoo and everybody have sex with me right this second” but, and of course there’s a but because life is hard and cruel, just as I got home and was at the pinnacle of it all, I checked my email and saw that while I was off doing more than my due diligence in vagina maintenance, two different people had sent me links to some new process called Vajazzling and oh my god, my entire world has come to a halt with the knowledge that my hot and progressive Brazilian wax is now a thing of the past because there are women out there who are ACTUALLY BEDAZZLING THEIR VAGINAS.

Oh Bitch, You Have No Idea

And at first I was like, “no way” and the article was like, “Oh bitch, you have no idea” so I kept reading because I was all, “I don’t understand how this is possible” and the article was like, “It’s a 2-step process involving some pretty high-tech wax, and then some pretty fabulous Swarovski crystals” and I looked at the photos and watched the video and I was all, “BUT SHE HAS CRYSTALS STUCK TO HER VAGINA LIKE IT’S PARIS HILTON’S CELL PHONE” and the article didn’t have anything to say to that except to assure me that the crystals are guaranteed to last for at least five days if you don’t engage in any vigorous physical activity on the first day and I was all, “Okay, that’s lovely, but for serious, who’s going to go down on me when my vagina is so full of sparkle and glitter that the only guy who could possibly be into it is a guy who’s also into other guys??” Because I mean seriously, men of the world, can you imagine bringing a girl back to your place after a date and it’s all hot and awesome and normal and you’re slowly taking her panties off and you see that oh, by the by, her snatch is full of actual straight up Swarovski crystals? Like, what in the what do you even *do* with that kind of situation? “Hey girl, I’m really diggin your crystal pubes.” Ew. No. God. Stab stab stab.

But I mean, blah blah vagina blah blah, let’s get real here because I’m obviously going to get this done at the first available opportunity and I know, I know, you’re all, “But you’re going to have bedazzled lady parts!” and I mean, true, but my counter argument for you is that, um, I’M GOING TO HAVE BEDAZZLED LADY PARTS.

Which is to say, Dear Vagina: You thought waxing was labor intensive? Well, the stakes have been raised, welcome to sex in 2010.

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Vajazzling – Crystals For Your Clitoris

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I know you know the three date rule. It even has its own Wikipedia page.

The Three Date Rule is a dating rule of thumb which states that the third date is a milestone in determining whether a woman will consent to physical relations. This is not to be confused with the Three Day Rule cited in the movie Swingers, which states that the “industry standard” waiting period for a guy to call a girl after obtaining her phone number is 3 days, the purpose of which is to not appear desperate.

Sidenote: if you wait three days to call me, this is what will happen by the time you do call:

a) I assume you’re not interested in me and therefore, alas, possess below-average decision-making skills.
b) I am already sleeping with someone else. That guy called right away.

I digress.

The three date rule is a cliché, and it is not even true. That same Wikipedia page says that msn.match.com conducted a survey (so gawd, like, it must be true) asking: how long does it take you to be intimate?

(I wish we didn’t use the word “intimate” as code for having sex. Intimate and getting nekkid can be two different things. Ideally they are entertwined but *heavy sigh* not always.)

(I also don’t like the phrase “make love.” If you are a man who wants to sleep with me and you call it “making love”, please trust and believe it will never happen. Instead, I prefer the economical and multipurpose – it can be a noun, verb, adjective and even punctuation – “fuck”. BEST WORD EVAH.)

Circling back to my point. Survey says y’all are knocking boots

• On the first date: 12.74%
• On the second date: 24.94%
• On the third date: 21.48%
• On the fourth date or beyond: 34.18%
• Only after marriage: 6.66%

So the third date rule is obeyed by only 21% of us.

Like you, if I got 21% on a test, I’d be pretty upset. That’s not a great score, especially when we’re talking about scoring.

But in this case, I think that is awesome. Because I think the third date rule is ridiculous.

We should all be having sex on the first date.

Think about it. What if sex on the first date was the rule?

• You’d get really picky about who you decide to go out with. No more wasting time on pity dates or I’m bored dates or don’t really wanna be here but hey, you’re buying dinner dates. The bar would be set high.
• Sex is a great icebreaker. It is hard to posture and bluff and pretend when you’re naked. (Unless you’re in porn, and let’s be honest: no one in porn is pretending all that well, either.)
• All the torturous does he/doesn’t he/or does he just want the booty that goes on for three or four weeks? Eliminated.
• You screen the sexist guys out. Guys with fucked up attitudes to women and sexuality – you know, the ones who lose respect for you if you put out but unfortunately you get attached to them before you figure that out? You get rid of them right away. No muss, no fuss.
• If he doesn’t call? Perfect. Better now than a month from now when you actually care.
• You get to try before you buy. This is important. Haven’t you ever dated someone for a couple of months, started liking them, and then discovered – horrors! – that the two of you are completely sexually incompatible?

I haven’t. Wanna know why?

Maybe I have a first date rule. But don’t tell anyone.

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What If We Had A First Date Rule?

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My entire 16 years as a resident of Texas were shattered in an instant. Apparently, not everything is bigger in Texas.

Condomania, makers of the TheyFit line of condoms, compiled data based on measurements associated with their “Fit Kit” which matches users with 76 different sized condoms based on erect length and girth. Based on the results from 27,000 men, they know whom to salute and published lists of the top 20 most sizeable cities and all 50 states ranked by their crank.

Another Reason to “Head” to Mardi Gras

New Orleans ranks as head honcho in the prickography rankings by city. After all these years, I thought Mardi Gras was about the boobs-for-beads exchange. I’m wrong. If you’re in search of something more fulfilling than beads, The Big Easy is waiting. I was pretty impressed by the Super Bowl upset but given this info, I’m really not all that surprised: Indianapolis was only 13^th on the city-specific list of schlong.

Objects in the Mirror are Larger than They Appear

While New Hampshire may only be 9,351 square miles, it’s the biggest swinging dick of them all in prick. Unless you’re from there, it’s unlikely you’ve thought twice about this blink-and-you’ll-miss-it New England gem. Well, here’s some other awesome shit about New Hampshire you never wanted to know:

• Four-Legged Chicken. You can see one at the Woodman Institute in Dover (get in the motherfucking car. NOW).

• Stevie Ray Vaughan – eat your heart out. The author of the famous rhyme (Sarah Josepha Hale), “Mary Had a Little Lamb” was from Newport, NH. That’s hot.

Perhaps they should change their state motto from “Live Free or Die” to “Go Big or Go Home.” Just a thought.

We All Knew Politicians Tend to Exaggerate

The truth is in: politicians are liars. I know – say it’s not so. But Condomania’s study indicates that Washington, D.C. is only SECOND in prickonomics. New Orleans, a city duly fucked by FEMA during Katrina, has the last hurrah – our dicks are bigger than yours. New Orleans makes better blues music and here’s an awesome tidbit: blue states have bigger dicks than red ones. Gonna have to assume that red states rank higher in cases of blue balls as a result.

Yeee-ha…ha-ha-ha

The joke’s on you, Texas. Dallas/Ft. Worth ranks dead last in dick size. As a Texan (raised in Houston, born in Alabama…shut it), my world is shattered. What you’re telling me is that not only is the phrase “It’s bigger in Texas” a lie, but since Texas ranks a measly 35^th out of 50 states in penis size, that George W. Bush may indeed have a small, red state schlong? I don’t know what I can do with all of this new information in one day.

A Lesson in Dickenomics

New Hampshire isn’t small. Texas isn’t big. Politicians lie. Hurricane Katrina wasn’t the biggest thing to hit Louisiana. But let’s go beyond the numbers and look at this study as fodder for a different kind of stimulus plan. Let’s look at some schiz, using a handy dandy spreadsheet:

It’s simple numbers, folks: spending more doesn’t make you a big swinging dick. The State of New Hampshire boasts the highest income per capita according to the U.S. Census Bureau, has a very modest GDP and rather spectacular size rankings. Texas, in all it’s glory, is only ranked 38^th in per capita income, has a huge GDP and (apparently) a bunch of residents wishing all of the urban legends were true. Louisiana sits smack in the middle, partially obliterated by a hurricane and while a paltry per capita income ranking of 49^th out of 50, they’re a pleasing 7^th in penile.

I knew that New Orleans would triumph again. A Super Bowl title (explained above), a city returning from true desolation to a lively Mardi Gras celebration and now, the model for Dickenomics. They may not be first in GDP… their residents may make a modest living.

But they sure do know how to swing.

If Washington started paying more attention to statistics like penis size we may see an interesting paradigm shift. A decrease in braggadocio accompanied by an increase in personal productivity. There’s something that New Hampshire’s doing right, and it ain’t just good genes. A prick is still a prick (and Washington has those in spades) but perhaps what Washington needs to light a fire under this economic weirdness at present is a sit-down, rock hard lesson in Dickenomics. Not the kind that Cheney would deliver, either. God knows, he chose Palin as a running mate and that’s proof alone that thinking with your dick is a bad idea. But Dickenomics breaks down to this:

It’s not about size. It’s not about money. It’s about strength and a collective willingness to get the job done. Kinda like a good romp in the sack. A $400 per night whore will lie to you and say Captain Fantastic is fantastic but a guy who makes less money than you may be the lay of you life. It’s about using what you’ve got – brains, chemistry, resources, a kitchen table. It’s Dickenomics. And we’re lacking it in Washington these days.

The reality of Dickenomics is simply this: size isn’t everything, but it does matter. We knew all along that the voices of Washington were filled with some fish stories and that Texans were prone to brag. Perhaps that’s why Washington, D.C. and Texas are so far down in the rankings. Fish stories and filibustering aren’t going to get you anywhere in a Super Bowl or the Senate. You can sit there and brag to your date about how big your dick is, but when the pants finally come off, you’re the one who stands on trial. Who knew that a study on penis size would lay it all out on the kitchen table that so many of you like to be bent over?

Now I ask you, dear readers: is there a relocation in your future? Are there famous folks from states of note with whom you’d like to have your very own Dickenomics roundtable?

(Note: I’m filing a grievance regarding Colorado’s ranking. My better half should have blown the bell curve on it’s ranking as 40^th out of 50 states and Denver’s most average 16^th place among cities. I’m willing to submit evidence – but I ain’t sharin’.)

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Dickenomics – Penis Sizes Ranked By State

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Some commenters even said they’d rather cook with breast milk than semen, and I couldn’t agree more.  At least it’s meant to be consumed.  Semen on the other hand, is NOT.  That’s why it doesn’t taste good.  Semen — not food — tastes bad.  Breast milk tastes good, because it’s food.

Just ask the kids in this video:

See?  Delicious!

I couldn’t watch that whole thing, could you?  Once they started drawing pictures of mommy’s boobs, and giving them names, I was out.  I feel really, very sorry for those poor little girls once the kids at school catch wind of this insanity.  Those kids are way too old to be nursing.

You know who else is too old?

My husband.

The other night, our baby fell asleep before being nursed for the night, and I was getting a little uncomfortable with all the boob juice on deck and I didn’t feel like pumping,  so being the good and selfless husband he is, my beloved offered to help me out.

By drinking it… from the tap.

And he was really serious.

He would have done it if I had let him, but I didn’t because the very idea of nursing my husband makes me die a little bit inside.

No, scratch that–Actually, it makes me die a lot inside and it gives me the heebie-jeebies and I want to jump all around the room shouting Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! When I mentioned this to a friend over dinner, she told me her husband has offered to do the same thing and we were both just like what the fucking fuck is up with that?

Not everyone feels this way.  For some people, it ain’t no big thang.  In fact, they think of an adult nursing relationship as an act of love and intimacy.

Honestly?

I find this a little creepy.

I guess I’m not enough of an earth mother as to embrace the notion of feeding all creatures big and small from my bosom.  Shit, I don’t even get all the way naked when we do Sexy Time because my top half belongs to the baby, and it’s totally off limits as far as anything sexual is concerned.  I don’t even want my husband to touch them, and it’s not because they hurt or anything, it’s just because they’re strictly for utilitarian purposes; right now, they’re for FEEDING THE BABY, and that’s it.

Don’t get me wrong, when I’m finished nursing in a couple of months, it. is. on. honey.   But until then, it’s ix-nay on the boob-play.

And so for me, the whole idea of people nursing other grown people is just…confusing.  It’s not because  I  have hang-ups about breast milk.  It’s not gross.  I’ve tasted it.  It’s baby food, and if I can feed it to my baby, I can feed it to my husband, right?

Nay, nay.  I don’t get how people can have milk to nourish an infant, and then turn around and involve that same milk in Sexy Time.  I’m never one to be bringing The Almighty into things, but it is not what God intended.

I mean, I can understand that adults are attracted to the “packaging” because it’s rather nice, and gets even nicer when engorged, but actually drinking milk from the boobages opens the door for the sucky-fucky to rise to a new level of kinky. If we’re breastfeeding our boyfriend/husband/neighbor/fuckbuddy/uncle, are we also putting diapers on him and cleaning up when there’s  a stinky in his pants? Where does one draw the line?

Sometimes I feel like my husband’s mother as it is: I remind him to take a bath and to brush his teeth.  I buy him clothes.  I schedule his doctor’s appointments.  I send him to go and “play outside” (aka yard work).  I make sure he eats his vegetables.  I scold him when he eats too much candy and stays up till 2 in the morning playing on the Wii.  I don’t really think I need to nurture him any more than I already do.

Also, he calls me “mommy.”

Now that I think about it, we’ve already crossed some lines…

Anymyrelationshipwithmyhusbandmightbetotallysick, I want to leave some room in this conversation for your comments (that’s a fancy way of saying I ran out of shit to say).  Sooooooo, do any of you Toy With Mes engage in this nursing behavior?  Have you ever tasted the boobie juice?  Have you made it a part of Sexy Time?  Are you horrified right now?  OR are you totally turned on??

Post from: Sex Toy Reviews

Breastfeed My Husband? Hell No!

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