Here’s a picture of them just so we know what we’re talking about:
The first thing you thought was “Crissy must be cold!”

So what about a little nippleflage here?
I went online to see if I could find a little help with my embarrassing problem and as it turns out, they actually sell bra inserts with big ol’ nipples on them!

Post from: Toy With Me

The Permanipplelipilis

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When I confessed to my best friend, who, at the time, worked in the lingerie department at an upscale department store, that I never wore a matching bra and underwear set, she was aghast. I wasn’t. I mean, I was a single mother working part-time while I put myself through nursing school. I barely had time to shave my vagina, let alone imagine coordinating my undergarments. Besides, while I kinda wanted to date, I wasn’t actively seeking it out, and I figured that any guy that would be uninterested in me solely because I didn’t wear matching lingerie was probably not the kind of guy I wanted to be with. I mean, I had a toddler who routinely pooped in the bathtub, which is about as unglamorous as you can get. Wearing mismatching underwear was the least of my fucking concerns.

But I did let her talk me into coming to visit her at work so that she could set aside some nicer bras and underwear from the sale rack for me. I was cheap and I was broke, but with her discount, I could afford to buy some of the nicer stuff they carried. It worked out really well for me for quite a long time until, eventually, she quit working there, which left me back to where I started: buying cheaper underwear.

Every couple of months, Victoria’s Secret would run their X for $X underwear sale (I cannot bring myself to say “panties” because it’s a word that simply shouldn’t exist in nature. It offends me, which is weird because almost nothing else does.) and I’d hear about it, go in, blow about a hundred bucks stocking up, and then leave. Underwear shopping isn’t something I relish. Coat shopping, diamond tiara shopping, shoe shopping, clothes shopping, yes. Undergarments…not so much. It doesn’t so much make me feel badly about myself, because my ego knows no bounds, it’s mostly that I get pissed off by spending cash on stuff that only a certain subset of people will see.

Knowing I’m wearing something sassafrassy underneath my clothes has never made me swoon, even though all the beauty magazines tell me I’m supposed to. Mostly, they serve a purpose: to keep me propped up and/or tucked in. They’re great and all, and I’m totally pro-undergarments (GOOO BRAS!), but I’m just never able to get excited about spending forty bucks on a pair of undies. Or eighty on a bra. I guess, as I’ve told everyone, I’m just cheap.

A couple of months before I got pregnant with Alex, it was time to do the pilgrimage to Victoria’s Secret to replace my ratty undies. I should have known better. I really should have walked out and come back another time. But since I hate doing the deed and I wanted it over with, I just dove in with the hoards of people who were frantically digging through the sale bins. I’ve never seen Victoria’s Secret so packed with rabid women elbowing each other out of the way for a pair of boring undies, but there they were and there I was. Just looking for some boring Size Small undies. I wasn’t even being particular about the pattern on them like I normally am because I was so desperate to get out of there.

The estrogen level rose as the women clawed over the ugly undies and soon, I was sweating and ready to punch someone in the taco. Finally, I was done and headed to the cashier with my stash of undies in hand. She warned me that I couldn’t return anything with the tags off and we both laughed, talking about the things people had tried to return, because people are fucking freaks. I took my stash home where it was promptly packed into a box as we prepared to move from our condo to our new house.

That box wouldn’t be touched for many months.

When it was, probably a good four months later, I smiled at my good fortune, because finding a boxful of brand spankin’ new underwear is like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old pair of pants. It’s a fucking bonus from the Gods that you don’t expect and when you get it you’re all, BEST DAY EVER!

So I ripped the tags off and threw the lot of ‘em in the washing machine. A couple days later, when my ass got around to sorting laundry again, I saw my fresh underoos and did a happy dance all around my bedroom. New undies, FUCK YEAH! I even remembered to close the blinds so that the neighbors didn’t get an eyeful (I was getting used to the whole suburban thing again)! I was on cloud nine! Nothing could ruin my mood!

I stripped down and pulled the new undies on, relishing how the elastic wasn’t all old and tired and the underwear was just all new and shiny looking and I realized that I just kept on….pulling. Right up to my nipples. I looked like Motherfucking ERKEL from this angle.

Oh, FUCK NO, I didn’t! Horrified, I ran to my full length mirror to see if I had been stupid enough to do it, and my reflection didn’t lie. I had.

I’d bought GRANNY PANTIES. Whimsical granny panties with adorable hibiscus flowers splashed here and there! TROPICAL granny panties! They were the nicest granny panties I’d ever seen, but they were still fucking GRANNY PANTIES and there was no way in motherfucking hell that I could wear them. Sure, Granny is a nice person, but you don’t want to FUCK her!

Please, please, please, please, let this have been the one pair I’d bought by accident, I pleaded as I made a mad dash for the clean laundry. I pulled them all out and one by one lined them up. Each and every pair of underwear that I’d just bought, cut the tags off of and then washed, oh yeah. Every fucking one was a pair of granny panties. Oh hell no. I couldn’t wear these. Ever. I may never be the girl who coordinates her lingerie drawer, and I’ve accepted that years ago, but I also cannot be the girl that wears motherfucking GRANNY PANTIES.

Groaning, as I took them off and pulled on a pair of old undies, and prepared to go back to Victoria’s Secret to buy a new stash (this time I would be the one elbowing other bitches out of the way), I did have to note one thing.

Those granny panties were fucking comfortable.

Post from: Toy With Me

I BOUGHT “GRANNY PANTIES!”

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I got off in thirty seconds, BUY IT!

The End.

Do you really need to know more?

Oh, okay, okay, I’ll tell you more.

I was actually intimidated by the Ina when it first arrived because it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.  It looks sorta like a one armed cactus– the thicker part is the part that vibrates inside of you, and the cactus arm is a clitoral stimulator.  I’ve never tried anything quite like it, and honestly?  I was a little scared.  I mean, a cactus in my twidget? EEEK!!!

I’m also scared of things that spin too fast, kites, balloons, my garbage disposal, tall buildings, and clowns, so you can’t really go by me in the “normal and reasonable fears” department.

Anyway,  upon opening the package I also thought the diameter of the internal vibrator part was  sorta thick.  Looks like a fat bratwurst.  My husband measured it and it turned out to be around 4.5″ circumference, which means nothing to me.  Then he said that it wouldn’t be a problem (and with a little looby-doo he was totally right).

Additionally, the clitoral stimulator part was a little rigid and also kinda thick.  This was also not a problem and I’m really glad because I was prepared to break my vagina giving this baby a whirl.  I am that dedicated to this website.

My first encounter with Ina was with my husband because I don’t have time for masturbation, really.  If anyone is landing her plane around here, it’s not going to be a solo flight.  Luckily, he’s the kinda guy who is not intimidated by this kinda thing, but he might change his mind after this because we had intended to use the Ina in foreplay, but, well, I kinda…had a short flight and I needed a little time to cool my jets before letting him re-board.  Yes, it works, and it works well.

Are we tired of the plane metaphors yet because Ina’s motor is like a jet engine!!  It’s not loud like that (it’s pretty quiet, actually), but holy crap!  When on the highest setting, it felt like my vagina was being launched into outer space.  Personally, that’s a little too much power for me, and I had to turn it down, but for those of you who like to feel like you’re impaled on a Saturn Rocket, it would probably be pretty magical.

The little cactus arm thingy that seemed so rigid when I first took it out of the box softened up a little after flexing it around.  It’s actually pretty perfect and sort of ingenious because it’s flexible enough to move around and position where you want it, but rigid enough to stay put.  That makes it way better than a Rabbit which does nothing but look cute with it’s little bunny ears and such…

I have to warn you that there’s a little bit of a learning curve involved here because you have to get the right vibration setting AND the right position on the ol’ clitoris or else you sort of feel like your pubic bone is going to somehow vibrate out of your body, but I have faith in you.  You’re a good little masturbator.  You’ll figure it out.

Presented in a pretty black gift box, Ina comes with a satin storage pouch, charger, user manual, and a full year LELO warranty.  She’s made with FDA-approved and phthalate-free PC-ABS/ silicone so you don’t have to worry about getting crotch rot or cancer of the cunt.  She’ll work for up to four hours on a two hour charge, and she plugs into the wall so there’s no fooling around naked in the dark with a screw driver taking the batteries out of your kid’s toys while they’re asleep (not that I’ve ever done that).  The fully lockable control panel is pretty intuitive, which makes changing the speed and intensity effortless.   I never tried to lock it though.

Overall, I think the Ina is a very good toy, but I don’t think my husband would agree because it’s a little too good and I very well may not need him anymore.

My video review of the LELO INA

Psssst, check back tomorrow because I have heard whispers that Babeland is giving us one of these bad boys to giveaway. ….

Post from: Toy With Me

Crissy Reviews The LELO INA

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The justification for the site, according to them, is that half of the people in the UK are aesthetically challenged and feel rather left out of the dating pool, what with all the pretty people taking all the good dates, and so why not have a dating pool full of ugly people?  And they say that pretty people aren’t very nice anyway and so they’re really un-datable.  Ugly people, however, are better people because they’ve suffered at the hands of their ugliness, which everyone knows builds character and makes them more loyal and considerate.  I would also argue that it can make you a bitter asshole.  I wonder if there’s a dating site for assholes, too?

We should check on that, actually.

Hang on…

I just Googled “dating site for assholes” and I got this. I LOL’ed.

Anyway, according to TUBB, not only are ugly people inherently nicer folks, they also try harder in bed because they want it more because they get it less. They’re just so grateful to be there, they’ll do anything!  And once two ugly people have found one another, they probably won’t stray because who the hell would want them?  And this next one is my favorite so I’m going to quote directly from the website here:

In these straightened times TUBB is cheaper as a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations – for a first date a Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

There’s even a wonderful pie chart, for those of us who are visual learners:

The Brits are super bleeding hearts, right?  They want everyone to get laid!  I love them!  Plus they have SEXY ACCENTS.  I love sexy accents.  I think it makes just about anyone fuckable, but I guess Brits don’t really think the sexy accent is sexy…or an accent.

In the name of research, I decided to see if I could find myself a nice, sexy accented lady friend.  I looked for women between 18 and 35 from Bedfordshire because Bedfordshire seemed an appropriate place to start, and guess what?

Not one ugly chick in the bunch!

Huh.

What about the guys?

Nope.

They’re not half bad either, with the possible exception of the dude with a ciggie hanging out of his mouth, but that might just be a cultural thing.  And their profiles were all pretty great!  I found at least two guys on the first page I wouldn’t mind taking a chance on!

Feeling encouraged by my findings,  I did something I’ve always wanted to do, just to see who would  I’d get hooked up with, so I created a profile.   I didn’t put a picture, and all I did was check off some of my passions like motorcross, weight lifting, martial arts, and macrame pot holder making, and people started contacting me almost immediately!  But you have to pay to read the messages and look at the pictures, so I closed my account because that’s bullshit.  Also, I think it would make my husband sad if I started dating.

From what I saw though, the TUBB dating pool ain’t so bad!

So what gives, “ugly” people of Britain??  I wanted to see some dogs! I wanted to have to call my husband into the room and be like “check out the hot mess!” but to my supreme disappointment, there was nary a hideous beast to be seen.  Maybe this is just another example of that self-deprecatory British humor? Or could it be, Toy with Mes, that fuckability is not exactly in the eye of the beholder, but in the eye of the…the…face-holder?

What is fuckability, exactly anyway?  It is really just a socially constructed Beauty Myth type deal where you only think you’re fuckable if you conform to the ludicrous standards everyone feels they have to live up to?

Or is it all in your mind?

Need I remind you of my old boyfriend, Vito, who was, by all beauty standards, fat and kind of ugly, but all my friends were up in his grill because he thought he was sexy and so he was sexy.

If you ask me, all these people need is a little attitude adjustment and they’ll be fine and fuckable in no time.  Get them into a swagger class or something. Maybe the Brits should put a few bucks into a national self-esteem building project instead of just going around buying hookers for people and setting up websites for pretty people who only think they’re ugly.

Post from: Toy With Me

Dating For Ugly People

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I’ve been casual friends with a number of strippers for years. Before I was Your Aunt Becky, I was Student Nurse Becky, and as Student Nurse Becky, I had to pay the bills somehow. My chosen profession was serving food and slinging drinks, both professions that also have a high percentage of exotic dancers as employees as well.

Almost immediately after I’d popped Crotch Parasite Number One out of my vagina, I waddled back to work a single mother so that I could pay for diapers and assorted baby things and it was there that I met my first exotic dancer, who I will call Susie, because I think it was her name. Susie wasn’t an overly bright girl, but one of the first things she said to me after we’d met was that I should consider ditching the crappy pizza place where we both worked on weekends and coming to work with her over at the strip club down the road.

Now some of you may be nodding your heads vigorously and saying, ‘GOOD IDEA, SUSIE,’ but you have to remember that at this particular juncture, I looked approximately like the Michelin Man in both size and shape. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, because you live under a rock and haven’t seen the commercials of the Stay Puft Marshmallow tire guy, picture Grimace. Or an Oompa Loompa. I’d just birthed a baby, was a newly single mother and pregnancy doesn’t tend to leave me in a resplendent glowing state of post-partum beauty. I felt as attractive as a rancid sack of turkey giblets.

Plus, I’m the very same person who broke a door while carrying a Diet Coke (it WAS a 32 ouncer, but still) and a toe while making a sandwich, so the complex moves required to slide myself up and down a pole would leave me paralyzed for life. Hell, I couldn’t even participate in a step aerobics class without thoroughly embarrassing myself because I’m always the asshole in the back that’s at least thirty moves behind the rest of the class. Or still doing Jazzercize.

So the very notion that I could shake my wobbly, gibblity money-maker on a stage and not make people vomit or howl with laughter was something that brought me no end of amusement. But Susie was persistent, which endeared her to me tremendously. Every time her boss from the strip joint came in to visit her, she made a point to introduce me to him as, “this is the girl I was TELLING you about!” And every time I shook his hand and tried to indicate that I wasn’t interested, thank you very much, but thanks anyway, as he eyed me up and down, appraising my stripper value.

Soon, Susie quit or got fired for being a lousy waitress, but I never forgot her and her absolute certainty that at my grossest and heaviest I, too, could get men to pay me to take off my clothes. In a world that there really is a fetish for everything, that girl was probably right. Learning to be comfortable in our own skin is probably the most important lesson that any exotic dancer can teach the rest of us, and I’ll always be grateful for Susie for reminding me that even though I felt like a stuffed sausage, I was beautiful. Just as I was.

I should never forget that I am beautiful. We are all beautiful. Thank you, Susie. My therapist may even laughingly describe me as “brash” but in this I am being entirely honest: we should all remember that we are beautiful just as we are, not as we think we should be. I’m a master of saying to myself, “Oh, I’ll be happier with myself when I’m X amount of pounds thinner,” but really, Susie is right: we’re all beautiful just as we are. We should flaunt the shit out of it, hold our heads tall and proud and remember that. Strippers do. Why the hell don’t you?

Last night, at the wedding, over drinks, I met another exotic dancer whom I adored instantly. There’s a confidence about a stripper that’s always exuded because that’s part of having sex appeal: being completely confident. Walking confidently, acting confidently, and knowing that how you use your eyes to get what you want. You’re certainly not going to make any money by standing on the sidelines and letting all of the other girls do the work, and really, that’s the way life works, too. Opportunities don’t always just present themselves to you in a neatly wrapped package. Sometimes, you have to go out and hustle your ass off to make even the most marginal opportunity appear.

That’s another one of those lessons I picked up awhile ago. Confidence is beyond sexy. Even if you have to fake it until you make it, the dancers know that there’s something about a confidant sexy woman that gets your engine going every time. Because even when you start out faking it, eventually, you’ll start to feel it. Exuding confidence will get you everywhere in life.

I don’t see myself ever taking up Susie’s offer to become an exotic dancer anywhere. Not because I wouldn’t get a kick out of it for a week or two, but because I seriously doubt I’d ever be able to learn any of the moves. Or if I did, I’d end up in traction somewhere, and while I do love pain meds, I don’t particularly want to crap in a diaper for the rest of my life. But it’s a job that takes balls and confidence, and it’s a job that I respect. Thanks, Susie, wherever you are, for reminding me way back when that I was beautiful. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it until later.

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Life Lessons From Strippers

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Hahahahahahaha!  It gets me every time.  My entire life is a Boo Radley moment, I swear.

I even named my kittens Benny and Joon because I got them just after the film came out.  (I know it’s weird, but fuck off.  They’re cute names.)

Anyway, the movie, in case you’ve never seen it, is about a mentally disabled woman, Joon, living in the care of her brother, Benny.  One evening Benny loses a poker game and winds up having to take care of his poker buddy’s super- weird but not totally nuts cousin, Sam, who is played by the Deppster.  I don’t know exactly what Joon suffers from, but it might be something like Asperger’s. Sam is just kind of quiet and uneducated although very smart.  Sam and Joon are immediately drawn to one another and begin a secret romance. Benny eventually finds out and rails against Sam for taking advantage of his sister when really, Sam just understands and appreciates her multitudinous quirks since he has quite a few of his own.  Problems arise when Joon decides she wants to live a more normal life with Sam, and Benny struggles to protect her from the real world which she has been totally unable to deal with.

I’m not gonna tell you how it ends in case you want to see it.

What’s interesting about the movie is that it raises some important issues about the disabled and their perfectly natural desire for sex and romantic love despite whatever challenges they may have.

I remember when my grandmother was in a nursing home in the Alzheimer’s unit.  It was severely frowned upon for the patients to have romantic contact with one another, even though they so clearly wanted it.   They separated my grandmother from her boyfriend which I thought was kinda mean.  WHY CAN’T MY CRAZY GRAMMA HAVE A FUCK BUDDY?  What’s she gonna get, pregnant?  Crabs?  Her maidenhood stolen?

Like two star-crossed lovers, somehow they kept finding each other and going for a roll in the hay, despite the staff’s best attempts.   She didn’t recognize her own children, but this last love interest in her life brought her happiness in that awful haze of dementia.  From the looks of it, a LOT of happiness.

Would it have killed the staff to turn the other cheek?  Slip ‘em a bottle of astroglide now and then?

Why is love and sex for the disabled such a taboo subject?  Why do people get the heebies when they even think about it?

Are they not human?  Do they not need physical, sexual contact just like everyone else?

I believe they have a right to their own sexuality–it’s cruel to deny anyone their fundamental and natural urge to procreate or share physical love.  Yet,  we don’t educate them the same,  and that tends to make them particularly vulnerable to sexual health risks, unintended pregnancy, and sexual exploitation.

How sad is that?

In the UK, there’s  a controversial  new social policy document called Putting People First: Transforming Adult Social Care that provides funding to help meet the disabled person’s needs, whatever they may be. 

Including visits to a prostitute.

Yes!

And folks over there are getting their knickers all twisted up in knots because they don’t want to pay taxes for a mentally challenged guy to get laid by a Dutch hooker, and I kinda see their point.

I don’t think I’d be too thrilled about it either.  I mean, yes.   Love and sex are basic human urges and everyone has the right to be a part of such things, but hey–some people NEVER find that.  There’s no social program to help the rest of us get lucky, so why should the government (or in reality, the taxpaying populace) help the mentally disabled in this way?  Aren’t there some people who, through  no fault of their own, are just physically and socially repulsive? Are we going to send them to the whorehouse with a stack of Benjamins too? (Of course in the UK it wouldn’t be Benjamins, now would it?  What’s the slang for money in Britain?  I have no idea.  A stack of Elizabeths?)

I just have trouble drawing a line for where to stop the “assistance” because there’s plenty of us fully functional folks out here who are struggling too.  For example, I can’t do math for shit, but nobody has offered to get me a mathematician for me to have my way with for a few hours: balance the checkbook, do the taxes, show me his slide rule…

And please don’t get me wrong, Toy with Mes.  I think it’s a lovely thought and in a perfect world, everyone would get help with their problems, but the fact is that life sucks and it sucks for everyone in some way. We can’t fix it all.  There must be a better way to help these folks fulfill this basic need without the government sponsoring it.  Maybe they can have some sex ed classes and the people who graduate get some birth control and  go to a mixer or a special singles club and find a mate that way.  There may even be a chance at a Benny & Joon love affair instead of an emotionless encounter with a hooker.  That just seems like it might do more damage than good.

I’m just thinking out loud here, you guys… I don’t claim to know anything about social policy or dealing with disabled people.  In fact, I’m a little anxious around them because I’m so scared I’ll say or do something accidentally offensive and I don’t want to be that asshole.

I thought it would be an interesting thing to bring up to you Toy with Mes.  You always have such great perspectives on stuff (plus you’re hot and I love it when you sip your coffee that way).  Do you guys get the heebies when you think about disabled people doing Sexy Time?  Do you think the British government should be sponsoring visits to Amsterdam brothels?  Do you think they should at least take them to British brothels and help the local/national economy?  Where do you draw the line?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Why is love and sex for the disabled such a taboo subject?

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Once more, however, I digress. Happy with the prospect of using a sex toy that wasn’t held together by tape, prayers and sheer force of will (note to self: spend actual money on sex toys), I packed my bags for New York City, preparing for that big old blogging conference, BlogHer. While we writers normally write clad in such finery as “stained sweatpants” and “old tank-tops,” for some reason, we feel it is HIGHLY important to convince each other that we do, in fact, not, so we all spend months ahead of time shopping carefully for just the right outfits that say, “Hey World, I’m NOT actually a huge freaking NERD who writes on The Internet.” Because I do not plan ahead, I also ordered a bunch of things online right before I left, hoping they MIGHT get there before I had to leave.

My bedroom before I left looked as though a bomb of shopping bags, discarded labels and tissue paper had exploded inside of it, and because I do not plan ahead of time—ever–it looked that way as I walked out the door to catch my ass-early flight. Since I do have children, and I would have rather swallowed hot tar than bring them with me to a conference about blogging, or, really, anywhere that required an airplane ride, going out of town for a couple of days meant that I couldn’t just leave them locked up in the basement with kibble and a water bowl. So I had to get them a babysitter.

That task fell to my incredibly conservative mother-in-law. And when I say “incredibly conservative,” Toy With Me-ers, I hope that you understand the magnitude of what I am saying, because there are people out there who are just, you know, KIND of less risque than, well, US, but then there are people like, well, HER. She’s pretty much my inverse. If she saw one of my newly minted “Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts,” I think rather than be horrified and disgusted and “tut-tut” a little bit, her brain might actually liquify in her head. She just couldn’t comprehend something like that.

So, to leave her in charge of my entire house, ALONE, for several days, well, this was going to be an interesting trip for her. I certainly thought it might be rather EYE-opening, but then again, that’s how I think about these things.

On Day Two, I called home to see how things were going and check in to make sure one of my kids hadn’t eaten off the arms of one of the other ones, and she said in her high pitched, sweet-as-pie voice, “Oh! And you got a PACKAGE in the mail!”

My heart thudded to a stop in my chest. The gold motherfucking VIBRATOR. She fucking got the GOLD VIBRATOR in the mail while I was out of town. Holy shit! Please tell me that she didn’t OPEN it or something!

Carefully, I said, “Oh, well, that’s for me. Can you put it in my room, please?”

But as I said that, she was distracted by a cacophony of shrieks in the background and had to get off the phone. And I was left sitting in my hotel room just wondering what had happened to the package. Because my children are as narcissistic (ahem) as their mother, they tend to assume that every single package that arrives has presents for them inside. Would they have convinced her that the package was actually for them?

If they’d managed to finagle the package open to see what was inside, would the box say something like, “Gold Vibrator?” And if so, would she even know what that meant? She was uptight and sheltered enough that I sincerely doubted she’d ever heard of a sex toy before, but if there was a scantily clad couple on the front, perhaps she might understand what it was. And, DEAR SWEET MERCIFUL BABY JESUS ON A STICK, what if she USED IT? I gagged just thinking about it.

There was no good way to be sure. I couldn’t exactly call home and be all, “oh, and hey, ABOUT THAT PACKAGE, did you open it? PLEASE don’t open it. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY LEAVE IT THE FUCK ALONE.” Because the minute you make something sound THAT appealing, you know whatever is inside has GOT to be 1) illegal 2) immoral or 3) both. And I don’t know the lady well enough to know if she’d be able to resist the temptation. I mean, with a freak-out like that, even someone like me, who IS very, very respectful of privacy, would be sorely tempted to open it up to see what was inside this mysterious package.

The rest of the trip, I heard no more about the package because, well, I didn’t call home again. I figured that I’d deal with Package-Gate when I returned. And when I shuffled through the door, late Sunday evening, there it was, displayed not on my bed like I’d begged, but on my computer, a nice flat box, with my name happily written across the top. I took it upstairs and tore inside, eagerly looking for my new golden toy, singing “I GOT THE GOLDEN TICKET, ERM, VIBRATOR!” in a stage whisper, but when I unpacked it, I realized my error in assuming.

Inside was the coat I’d ordered from French Connection. Oh well, I sighed, as I put the new coat on, and twirled in front of the mirror, there’s always tomorrow’s mail.

Post from: Toy With Me

The Story Of The Golden Vibrator

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How To Make A Homemade Toy – Watch more Funny Videos

This is an absolutely hysterical video of a guy giving step by step instructions on how to make a homemade sex toy. It is part of a Ranker list of 7 homemade sex toys for men that I just had to share. It takes arts and crafts to a whole other level.

Post from: Toy With Me

How To Make A Homemade Sex Toy

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You think I’m a hot and horny fuck kitten who sells her pre-moistened panties to strangers on Craigslist, makes porn, and after the kids go to sleep I try out all my toys and surra de bunda my husband’s face all night long, right?

Well, not so much.

The truth is that I have a hard time getting in the mood to do Sexy Time.

I know this shatters some pretty awesome images–and I’m sorry, I really am–but it’s high time I came clean and revealed the truth about my mostly lame sex life because I know you’ve all been jealous and you’ve been sitting there going “God! What I wouldn’t give to be that girl!” and I don’t want you to feel bad about yourselves anymore because even I’m not that girl. Most of the time, I’d rather go the hell to sleep than get it on till the break o’ dawn. Or even for an amazing 20 minutes.

(Just now this very moment my husband came downstairs totally naked and said “hey bay-bey,” did a windmill with his wenis, and ran down to the basement, giggling. I can hear the baby screaming her head off from her crib because she doesn’t want to go to sleep, and the cat is head-butting me because he wants his dinner. Is it any wonder why I’m not in the mood? This place is a fucking circus, and I’ve never been turned on by carnies.)

It wasn’t always like this, you guys. Before we had our two little crotch fruits there was sex on the dining room table and on the floor and in cars and in the pool and JESUS.  I don’t even know those people anymore. Nowadays, the phrase “I might let you touch me later” is our “signal” that one of us might be interested in Sexy Time. And by “one of us” I mean me. (Protip: Notice the non-committal “might” in there. I always leave myself an out because while my intentions might be good when I say it, the events between that moment and the time we get the kids out of the way can totally obliterate that shit.)

Actually, it’s not just me: my husband is wicked tired too. Like most guys, generally, he’s better at rallying for Sexy Time than I am… but not always.

Take last Friday night for example. We had a romantic evening planned, but as soon as the kids were in bed, we both fell asleep with all our clothes on in awkward spots on the bed, our glasses of wine left half-sipped on the nightstands. We both woke up confused at 2:30 am and wondered what the fuck happened. We’ve even had sex in our sleep because we were too tired to do it when we were awake!

On the whole though, he is much better at getting in the mood because, well, he has a dick. Those things seem to always be ready to spring into action.  Sadly, my vajeen is not so eager.  Some nights, when the tiredness knocks me out, I wake up over and over and apologize to him for falling asleep AGAIN.

It’s not just tiredness though because if  by some miracle and coffee I manage to stay awake after the kids go to bed, I want to be touched about as much as I want to pick up toys and wipe asses for another 12 hours. What I WANT to do is vegetate and watch me some horrifying, yet strangely compelling Real Housewives or read a book or just sit there and drool on myself. I’ve been climbed on and grabbed at and argued with all day long. The mommy machine has run down. It needs to do NOTHING for a while.

I’ve tried all those stupid, predictable things Cosmo suggests like having a romantic dinner (Yeah, right. Ever eaten dinner with some kids? Romantic ain’t the way to describe it), take a hot bath (with a 5 year-old banging on the door looking for her Care Bear), light some candles (we all know how that shit works out for me) give each other a sensual massage (if he massages me–and he often does–I fall asleep in .05 seconds) open a bottle of wine (ZZZZZZzzzzzzzz….), and play some sexy music (that wakes the kids up for a dance party).

I’ve also tried some other stuff like reading romance novels, not wearing panties during the day, aphrodisiac cooking, and thinking sexy thoughts.

Basically, even if I’m not asleep, all the stuff that’s supposed to help ya get in the mood is not totally possible/effective for me at this juncture. The spark is there, but the tinder and kindling ain’t takin’ it. Eventually it gets to the point where I offer my husband a playthrough, just to keep the peace, but then I’m the one left with the blue balls.

Sigh.

I don’t know, Toy with Mes.  Maybe this is just the stage of life I’m in?  It’ll get better, won’t it?

WON’T IT??

Do any of  you guys have a lame sex life like me?  What gets you in the mood?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

I’m Not In The Mood For Sexy Time

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Shrugging my shoulders and figuring that if I can’t beat ‘em, I might as well join ‘em (whomever “they” may be), I plunked my ten dollars down for the magazine and jauntily made my way onto the airplane where I snapped a bunch of self-portraits with Britney. You know, because we’re BFF’s and all.

When I finally stopped being a narcissistic asshole, I opened up the magazine and eagerly turned to read about my BFF Britney. Turns out, I’d fallen for the old bait-and-switch. My girl Britney had filled out a survey for Cosmo, and that was it. I’d been had again by Cosmo! I shook my fists angrily at the unfairness of it all and pouted for a couple of minutes into my lukewarm plane coffee. Then, I put my big girl pants on and decided that I would make the best of this lousy situation and read the damn magazine. At the very least, I reasoned, I might be able to come up with some more Toy With Me topics! Instant win!

Oddly, one of the first articles I flipped to was something I was actually interested in. It was an excerpt from an interview with Meryl Streep where she revealed that of all the characters she’s played, the one men like the most is cold-hearted Miranda Priestly, from The Devil Wears Prada.

I’ll admit that I was shocked. Now, it’s been awhile since I’ve dated, but I do remember devoting many hours in high school sitting with my best friend Stacie trying to decode what it meant when he said, “I’ll call you later” or “touched my hand by my locker while he looked backwards at his friends while touching his nose with his other hand at precisely 2:31PM Central Standard Time.” Once I got older, though, I realized that dating was a little simpler than that, especially since I had a kid, and decoding hidden meanings using a super-secret stealth decoder ring seemed, well, tiring. And kind of stupid.

I thought back to my (pathetic) dating past: I’d always been pretty upfront with what I wanted in life, once I figured out what that was, of course. I’m not a bullshitter, either, so what you see is exactly what you get. When I was younger, I think these traits put guys my age off. Used to the more innocent coeds who drank until they barfed and lived a slightly more carefree life than a grimly determined single mother working her way through nursing school, guys my own age were taken aback by someone who knew precisely where she was going and wasn’t ashamed to do anything it took to get there. I didn’t have a whole lot of luck dating, and while I did occasionally miss having a companion, I was so busy that it didn’t get me down very often.

The more I sat there on that plane, drinking my tepid coffee and reading that simple one page article about what men really wanted in a woman: a woman like Miranda Priestly, the more I realized that the article was right. Maybe not twenty-one year old guys, but certainly older men like a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing in life. It’s all cute and stuff when you have that friend who is constantly blowing shit up in her microwave (or her life) just to see it happen and spending all of her paycheck on shoes instead of food and then spending the rest of the month scrounging your fridge for leftovers, but eventually, we all have to grow up and that shit gets a little…well, OLD. I don’t mean to sound Old Balls on you, because just last week I microwaved some Marshmallow Peeps, but you know, I also do have a plan besides “don’t die.” (it’s: don’t die…much!)

So maybe that’s it, I thought to myself, as I tried to ready myself for the onslaught of vaginas at BlogHer, maybe this is why so many younger men were going for older women. This whole Cougar phenomenon may have less to do with older women reliving their glory days when they could date men who didn’t have droopy asses and saggy ball-bags and more to do with men who appreciated women who knew precisely what they wanted and weren’t afraid to tell anyone exactly what that was.

I thought happily about the quote from Madonna that I always liked so much: “I’m tough, ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay.” For so long, I’m sure that DID make Madonna a bitch. Maybe now, though, it’s these particular qualities that make men go crazy for her (and her slightly creepy arms). Perhaps now it’s the image of a strong, powerful, kicking ass and taking names kind of woman that makes men fall to the ground, week in the knees and overtaken by lust.

I simply don’t know.

I’ll never be an expert on dating, mostly because I can totally see myself not as the crazy cat lady, but as the crazy orchid lady, dead in my apartment for weeks, surrounded by my rare breeds of orchids, so I’ll probably never be able to tell you “what men want” with any more certainty than I can tell you “where my fucking pants are,” but I’d venture a guess that this Cougar phenomenon is not going away any time soon. There’s something hot about powerful women who will tell you what they want, where they want it, and how they want you to do it. And, you know, there’s something hot about women who grow ORCHIDS, right? RIGHT?

Shut up.

So, Toy With Me-ers, what do you think? Is this what men want? Powerful women? Women who will say what they want and stop and nothing to get where they need to be?

Post from: Toy With Me

Men And Strong Powerful Women

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