Thursday, November 20, 2008
Ugly "betty"
Since I went brunette last week, I've gotten a surprisingly large number of queries about whether or not I dyed the "hair down there" to match the curtains. This served to remind me how ignorant many people are on the topic of girls' pubes. Back when I was blonde, I got a lot of questions about this from my paramours, especially those of the male variety. This was probably because a lot of people didn't realize that my blonde hair color was from a bottle too.
Granted, I am a natural blonde, and when I was a little kid, I looked like the poster child for the Hitler Youth. However, once I hit puberty, my hair started to get darker. I was tired of being what my mother calls a "dishwater blonde" and I had a very unfortunate admiration for Courtney Love's personal style, so at 16 I bought a box of Clairol Maxi-Blonde and peroxided it so hard my hair was probably emitting free radicals. Since that day, I'd been coloring it various brighter shades of blonde until I decided to get down with brown for my thirties, but my pubes have always been the same color of light brown. Despite the carpet always being darker than the drapes, I've never, EVER taken my L'Oreal anywhere near my southerly hedgerows, nor considered it.
I've hooked up with blond chicks and dudes and I have yet to see a "natural blonde" in that sense. In my experience, all people with naturally blonde hair of varying degrees have light to medium brown crotch curls, and thus I've never felt the need to match since it's hardly going to be shocking if my twat topiary isn't the exact same color as the hair on my head. It's not like the fact that my hair color isn't natural is some big secret, and besides, coloring hair is a real pain in the ass. It damages the fuck out of it, and you have to constantly maintain your roots. The last thing I need is to start the same drama with my short and curlies.
Sadly, now there's a pube dye being marketed in drugstores nationwide, and now I feel there is added pressure to get all matchy-matchy. In fact, a month or two ago, I was discussing the general issue regarding becoming a "natural" blonde upstairs and down with my fellow dye-assisted natural blonde ElCyd and we both expressed our disdain and suspicion about such a product.
Razzy: when i get a hot job soon
Razzy: i'm going to hit the salon
Razzy: for riz
ElCyd: fo sho
Razzy: dyeing is such a hassle
Razzy: and as much as i like the PWT aesthetic
ElCyd: it's worth it to not have my arms hurt for a day afterwards
Razzy: truly
Razzy: plus it's nice to have it look sorta "natural"
Razzy: because people who aren't blonde
Razzy: don't realize that it's fake
Razzy: because we are "natural" blondes
Razzy: although there's been more than one retard who got my pants off and was like, "wait, you're a brunette?"
Razzy: and i'm like, "what?"
Razzy: and they're all, "the carpet doesn't match the drapes"
ElCyd: zomg
ElCyd: so they've clearly never boned a blonde
Razzy: i'm like "NO SHIT, loser. there are no blondes who have platinum pubes"
Razzy: have you seen this pube dye they're selling now?
ElCyd: yes
ElCyd: because THAT is what need
ElCyd: to deal with more than the hair on my head
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/
Razzy: "betty"
Razzy: i'm like, bitch, look at my eyebrows! look at the hair on my arms and legs! it's blonde, loser
Razzy: pubes are always brown
ElCyd: except for the firecrotches
ElCyd: their shit is RED
ElCyd: ew
Razzy: i know
Razzy: and it's TRUE too
Razzy: i've f'd a couple and their shit was totally red
ElCyd: oh christ
ElCyd: p.s.
ElCyd: why would anyone want blue pubes
ElCyd: srsly
Razzy: oh i KNOW
Razzy: hipsters would, probs
Razzy: that's so dumb
ElCyd: fucking stupid
ElCyd: i hate hipsters
Razzy: i mean if i saw that on someone
Razzy: i would laugh in their face
Razzy: and call them stupid
ElCyd:i mean
ElCyd: that takes some initiative
ElCyd: which means you are completely lame
Razzy: who is like "you know what would be fun? PINK PUBES"
ElCyd: gezus
ElCyd:right?
Razzy: dude what about THIS?
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/charmcils.php
ElCyd: dude
ElCyd: don't even get me started
Razzy: like make a fucking dollar sign on your "betty"?
Razzy: (which is the stupidest term ever for PUBES)
ElCyd: i think i saw a real sex once that had some chick getting her pubes dyed pink wtih a stencil
ElCyd: from like, a million years ago
ElCyd: oh, did you see the thongs that say "my betty is ready"?
ElCyd: lame
Razzy: that is so dumb
Razzy: those thongs are pricey
Razzy: although pube dye is nothing in comparison to bad woman ideas when you consider the services offered by c'elle: www.celle.com
Razzy: PERIOD STEM CELLS
ElCyd: omg
And I'll stop there, because I don't think anyone needs a digression into the world of companies specializing in cryopreserving a girl's "monthly miracle." In any event, rest assured, there will be no pubic hair matching going on around my vagina anytime soon, much less any flamboyant colors or peace sign designs painted onto my racing stripe. Sorry to disappoint those proponents of color matching, but to be perfectly honest, it's not like anyone believes I'm a natural brunette anyway. Besides, in my experience nobody has particularly cared what my rug matched before they started munching it, and until that happens, there will be no Betty on my pubes.
Labels: bleach blonde, ElCyd, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, sex
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Phinish Phelps
I'm officially sick of Michael Phelps. I was actually sick of him the second the swimming part of the Olympics ended, but now I'm REALLY sick of his fug ass showing up everywhere. It was bad enough having my gossip pages cluttered up with reports of all the random pussy he was hauling with the help of his sheaf of gold medals, followed by denials from Michael Phelps's handlers that his Olympic gold turned him into a man-slut of the highest caliber. Now I have to endure him in commercials hawking everything from cell phones to cereal to Visa check cards. The other day when I saw him learning Mandarin with a Rosetta Stone do-it-yourself language lesson, I actually cursed at the television. I heard that he's currently negotiating with world-class dipshit Ashton Kutcher and his succubus wife for a reality show, which I can't imagine will consist of anything besides Michael Phelps eating ungodly amounts of food and flashing his ugly mug for the camera. Meanwhile, Page Six is reporting that he got paid 100K for showing up at some big shot television douchebag's wife's birthday party and swimming some laps.
I have no problem with dudes selling out in order to stack that paper before everyone forgets who they are. Surely, in Michael Phelps's case, he's MAYBE got one more Olympics to remind us all that he's got an allele or two in his genome that confers phenotypic traits more common to aquatic mammals, and then he'll be an afterthought at best. Like Mark Spitz before him, after his Olympic glory days are over we'll only hear about Phelps when he's sitting bitterly in the stands at the 2028 or 2032 Olympics trying to make backhanded compliments concerning his successor to an aging Bob Costas sound slightly less backhanded. I can't blame him for being completely shameless about his media whoring while demand still exists. However, I am over seeing his disturbingly Eli Manning-esque visage hawking Corn Pops, and I can't imagine why any woman who is married to an obviously rich old man would want to live the dream of having him strip down and swim for her. I can think of about 50 guys I'd rather see dripping wet in a Speedo, and most of them would do it for less than a hundred grand.
I'm not sure what it is about Phelps that I'm so tired of, but it may have something to do with the fact that he looks like this one dude I banged last year. This guy and I got along pleasantly enough at most grad school functions, and then one night we fucked while in advanced states of intoxication. After that, the dude proceeded to be an aggressively snubbing asshole every time our paths crossed. When I asked him why he was being such a prick, he informed me that he's a "relationship guy" not mature enough to deal with a no-strings roll in the proverbial hay and that my very existence was something he no longer cared to acknowledge as a result. As I was (not surprisingly) drunk, I decided this would be a great opportunity to show him that nobody–not even some dumbass Michael Phelpsian science nerd in his early twenties with bad social skills and a whole host of personal issues–ignores me...by hurling the contents of a freshly refilled glass of Johnnie Walker all over his button-down. That event has since led to some extremely awkward occasional social run-ins, and a persistent sense of distaste for Michael Phelps ever since. In fact, when I was watching the Olympics at a party and another grad student pointed out the resemblance between this guy and Michael Phelps and followed that with, "So, what does Michael Phelps's dick look like?," I was so perturbed that I couldn't even mitigate my involuntary glowering while shouting "U! S! A! U! S! A!" to celebrate him winning another gold medal for our great country. Between Michael Phelps's media whoring and the consequences of my own personal whoring, I am through with this dude. Maybe in another four years I'll be ready to watch him prostitute himself for the sake of consumerism, but for now this butterface needs to get the fuck off my television.
Labels: capitalism, media whores, Olympics, retard rage, sex, sluts, sportsmen, you're ugly
Thursday, October 16, 2008
To all the Joe Sixpacks I've fucked before...
Last night when I was watching officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain debate old Pointy Pelvis Obama, I have to admit that I got a little tired of hearing about "Joe the Plumber" and his fate. Yeah, yeah, I get it...Obama's a pinko who hangs out with ex-terrorist professors and is in bed with the Trotskyite community organizations my BFF LL Cool Jew used to work for. In fact, I'm getting a little tired of hearing about all these "Joe" characters. The McCain campaign needs to quit naming the average hardworking American "Joe" because it's getting old.
I know about the kind of (blue collar PWT) American McCain is referring to, because I grew up surrounded by Joe Sixpacks and Joe the Plumber, except none of them were named Joe. There's my uncle Don the Boeing machinist, my dad Rick the schoolteacher and former Teamster/dairyman/truck driver, my uncle Beau the Frito Lay deliveryman, my uncle Merle the carpenter, my uncle Gene the mental hospital handyman, my cousin Josh the county sheriff, my uncle John the shipping clerk, my cousin Kyle the drug addict/petty criminal, and so forth. Then, when I grew up and returned to my humble county of origin after college, I encountered plenty more Joe Six- Twelve- 24-Packs in the greater Tacoma-Puyallup non-metropolitan area. Among others, I fucked Chris the roof shingler, Carson the Alaska tour guide and metalworker, Don the piercing and tattoo apprentice, L.J. the meth dealer (my discovery of his particular small business venture marked the end of our affair), and Brent the day laborer. None of these guys, who I presume are the people McCain and Palin are talking to and about, are named "Joe."
Furthermore, the majority of these guys probably don't vote, and many of them probably don't pay taxes, much less care about tax breaks. Mike the proud deadbeat dad/drywall hanger was way more interested in fucking me up the ass while we watched WWE Smack Down (I was REALLY drunk) than he probably ever would be about the middle class share of the tax burden. Furthermore, since he actually bragged that he couldn't be bothered paying his child support, I doubt he was on top of getting anything out to the IRS. When Nick the landscaper came over and got shitfaced with me on two $7 bottles of wine that he pronounced "classy" prior to banging me to the point of vomiting said wine into my hand as I ran to the bathroom (that was obviously the classiest part), I sincerely doubt that he was concerned about the merits of trickle-down versus trickle-up economics. In fact, his main concern after I gargled the regurgitated cheap merlot out of my mouth and we resumed chafing rug burns into my ass was that my dog Caesar ate his entire bag of weed while we were screwing on my living room floor.
These "Joe Sixpacks" aren't even watching the debate to hear the message Senator McCain is trying to say to them and on their behalf. They probably don't even know there's a debate going on. To give you an idea of their general awareness of the greater world, Jeff the airplane mechanic, a dude who was trying to court me in a clumsy and ineffective way, asked if I'd ever heard of Thai food. Not if I'd ever tried Thai food or if I liked Thai food, but if I'd ever HEARD of it at all. I told him that I heard rumors of a mysterious land in southeast Asia called Thailand, and that they have food there. He completely missed my sarcasm and thought this represented an opportunity to introduce me to rare culinary treats like coconut curry and spring rolls. I decided that he was too dumb and annoying to continue banging, and dumped him before he could make a big show about putting me face to face with an exotic delicacy like a plate of fucking pad thai, and he commenced stalking me all over Tacoma, which culminated in him molesting me at a bar and my slapping him and getting him thrown out. Wherever Jeff the airplane mechanic is now, I have no doubt that his taste for mee krob comprises his sole interest in foreign policy, and he could give a shit less what ACORN does or what the Bush tax cuts are or what either candidate thinks about incorporating clean coal technology into their energy plans. Like most of the Joe Sixpacks I know, he's probably more interested in the Seahawks injury report than overhauling the tax code. I would wager that his sole expertise on the matter of taxes is that if you drive to the Puyallup reservation, you don't have to pay them on your cigarettes or chaw.
John McCain needs to quit talking to Joe Sixpack and Joe the Plumber and whoever else. He needs to start talking to his other constituencies. For example, I would like to hear him say something about how he's going to make sure Razzy the Impoverished Skankified Microbiology Graduate Student won't have any problem whatsoever getting an insanely high-paying job when she graduates, so that she can continue to look snobbishly down at all the Joe Sixpacks she bones whenever she's home in the P-N-Dub. They obviously need a fourth debate where John McCain can address this small but critical part of the American voting public, because these Joes have been hogging all the attention.
Labels: John McCain, P-N-Dub, politics, PWT, sex, sluts
Friday, October 10, 2008
If I don't do nothin', I'm-a ball
My reputation for expert braininess continues to precede me. When Razzyphiles find they are having a little trouble, they can of course go read my instructional essay on the topic. Unfortunately, sometimes specific situations arise that necessitate going straight to the source for assistance with all their cocksucking needs, and I'm happy to oblige. That's exactly what happened when I received this e-mail today:
Razzy, my roommate and I have been arguing this same point over and over for about a week now. Since I hold your opinion of fellatio techniques in the highest regard, I have come to you. My roommate is convinced that putting a ball entirely in ones mouth during oral sex is "unnecessary and gross". I say, when it comes to oral sex, you get what you give. My argument for putting a ball (or two) into my mouth occasionally during fellatio is that I love to hear my name being screamed. Not that having a ball in my mouth makes him scream, but the overall effect of a quality blowjob (which necessitates switching it up a bit).
Thoughts?
Well, I could not agree with the author more. I count myself staunchly in the pro-ball-or-two-in-mouth camp for the exact reason the author describes: it's important in the bedroom in general to make like David Silver and switch it up, and assuredly when demonstrating one's sword-swallowing abilities. A lot of girls think that sucking dick is just that: sticking a dick in your mouth and applying some suction. Actually, a lot of girls think it's just sticking the head in your mouth and jerking the guy off because doing some actual throat work is a hassle, and I think that's both a lazy cop-out and indicative of a greater character flaw. In cocksucking and in life, I have no respect for slags who strive for mediocrity at best. Besides, as I've said before many times, it's called a fucking job for a reason! It's not supposed to be easy, but hard work has its rewards. FDR once said that "happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort," and I wholeheartedly concur. As the author notes above, you get what you give. Greater investment will yield greater returns, and in this day of collapsing stock markets, getting paid back in gratification for a well-rounded BJ may be one of the few remaining low-risk investments left to us.
While putting balls in your mouth is optional, it shouldn't be discounted as "unnecessary." It may not be necessary for a basic blowjob, but as I already mentioned, any remotely admirable woman isn't going to aspire to boring the dude whose dick she's sucking with her banal, uninspired, lazy technique. Blowjobs are like cars in this way; sure, a boring, sensible Kia Rio with vinyl seats, manual windows, and a tape deck will get you where you need to go, but wouldn't you enjoy riding in some top of the line S-class Benz with fancy leather interior, a custom sound system, and every tricked-out car accoutrement in the book more? Sucking on balls is the built-in GPS navigation system of a blowjob: it's not required, but it sure does make the whole package seem a lot more luxurious and indulgent.
Also, testicle-mouth interfacing isn't gross. I can only imagine that the chick who attests that it is is relatively inexperienced, because in the pantheon of nasty sexual stuff, scrotum sucking is pretty tame. Obviously any chick who thinks it's sick has never rimmed a dude or stuck a finger up a guy's ass. I'll admit that most fellas' family jewels have a certain pungent muskiness to them, but that's actually appealing to someone like me who is a connoisseur of stinky aged semi-soft European cheeses. Apart from the occasional annoying inadvertant pube-flossing that can occur when a stray hair gets dislodged in your mouth, there's really nothing too gross about having a set of nuts on your tonsils. In fact, that reminds me of Dr. Dre/Snoop lyrics, which in turn makes me feel comforted and nostalgically joyful.
So, ladies, take my advice as a certified Head Doctor who has performed many a surgery: my official position is that when you are giving some brain, make sure you have a ball.
Labels: correspondence, perversion, Razzyphiles, sex, WWRD
Thursday, October 02, 2008
My night last night, by JerseyGirl
RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl. She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance. Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
No response.
So I send another text: "Come over"
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, sex, sluts
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A circumstance in which hygiene and sex actually DON'T go well together
Normally, I think that good oral hygiene practices are a must for anyone who wants to stick their face in my crotch. I don't like the idea of some person with furry teeth or bleeding gums or gaping tooth-holes going to town on my holiest of holies, so I always scope a honey out to ensure that their mouth meets my standards for cleanliness. This is advisable because usually if someone bothers with a regular dental care routine, they also shower and shave and do other necessary personal maintenance regimens. I may like fellow dirty minds, but I do NOT like dirty bodies or mouths, so good hygiene is a must for me. However, I just learned that too much hygiene can actually be bad, at least as far as getting head is concerned.
I just received an email containing a link advising me that I'm not supposed to floss 30 minutes to 4 hours before performing oral sex on some lucky guy or gal. Flossing can make your gums bleed a little, and this can increase the risk of passing on the HIV and basically every other gross form of twat rot known to man.
Is it safe to floss before oral sex?
Experts say various things about oral sex and flossing, but agree flossing is not recommended before engaging in oral sex. The advice varies anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours, regarding how long to wait. It takes 4 hours for membranes around your gums to heal.
The risk of contracting HIV from oral sex is relatively low, but other STIs can be transmitted through mouth to genital contact. If you have sores or cuts in your mouth or gums or an inflammation from an infection in your throat or mouth, you are at greater risk for contracting an infection or HIV.
Oral sex is a common sexual behavior. People enjoy various combinations of positions and techniques when engaging in cunnilingus and fellatio, but it is the mouth and tongue that provide the pleasure in all cases. (RAZZY Edit: Um, DUH!)
I'm a little curious as to who these uncited "experts" are. As a virologist, I recognize that it's theoretically possible to transmit the HIV by oral if you have a cut there, but extremely unlikely. It's a lot MORE likely you'll get it by swallowing a big load of HIVved up jizz (at least per this 1996 article that I totally wish I'd written, because getting a Science paper about blowjobs rules), but that's got nothing to do with flossing. Unless you have some serious gum disease, I can't imagine that flossing would cause copious enough mouth bleeding to significantly increase the risk of HIV transmission. Frankly, if your mouth is in such bad shape that flossing causes a gingival hemorrhage, you probably aren't flossing regularly anyway.
I'm getting really annoyed with all these articles highlighting the supposed dangers of oral sex. I love oral sex, and I really hate the notion that I'm going to have to start using condoms, or even worse, the albatross of prophylactics AKA dental dams. I'm already constantly worried about throat cancer since apparently sucking more than 6 dicks increases your risk more than smoking, and as many Razzyphiles have observed, I've done a shitload of both. I'm also especially annoyed that this might discourage people from flossing. Ultimately, that's going to lead to more bad breath, which is going to lead to my not hooking up with people, and thus no oral sex anyway. Everyone loses!
Labels: medical drama, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Homeopathy is bullshit
I slept weird the other night and now have an annoyingly painful kink in my neck. I've been taking ibuprofen and fielding all sorts of advice on how to deal with it. My boss suggested I get some of that cream that has aspirin in it, but "not the kind that makes you smell like an old person." My colleague and platonic life partner, J-Sexy, simply cackled and reminded me that I am getting up there in years and joint, neck, and back problems are going to be par for the geriatric course in my thirties. "Perhaps you should get a heating pad, Oldilocks! Or perhaps you should acquire a boyfriend to rub it for you!"
I gave her a withering look. "Aren't you from the Jamaicubahaitican Republic? Can't you do some of that santeria hoodoo shit to fix me up? Like kill a chicken, smoke a cigar, and blow dust at me or whatever. Help a rheumatic bitch out, Miss Cleo!"
"No, I can only tell the future. The cards never lie," said J-Sexy. "I predict your neck will get better. Now come over here and I suppose I can rub it for you."
While I appreciated J-Sexy's deigning to rub my neck, it didn't provide a long-term solution. Last night when I got home, I popped a couple more ibuprofen and went to dig through my medicine cabinet to see if I had anything that might further improve the situation. The best I could find was a tube of this stuff called "The Rub."
I've had this tube since the day after I fucked this guy who was a piercing apprentice in 2003. This dude's metal bodily adornments absolutely ruined me. Not only was my twat shredded thanks to his ELEVEN penis piercings, I had a raging urinary tract infection and a huge hickey on my neck. I recalled that while drunkenly hooking up with him the night before, he had really been licking and sucking on my neck a lot. In addition to spending a humiliating morning at the gynecologist's office the next day for a very unfortunately timed annual checkup, I had to actually wear a scarf to work thanks to Lestat leaving a hematoma the size of Texas on my neck. The scarf was not an effective disguise, and within five minutes of arriving, my cubicle neighbor T-Bag took a break from reading ZagsHoops.com to ask loudly, "Hey, Miss Ang, what's that on your neck?! What could that be? You've got something on your neck!"
Several of our other co-workers/drinking buddies joined in, and I spent a morning enjoying the ignonimy of being the office slut. Granted, this wasn't exactly a new position for me to be in, but having an obvious hickey was even more embarrassing than usual. So at some point I was outside increasing my risk of cancer and heart disease with my office smoking buddy, T-Bag's sort-of girlfriend the receptionist.
"What do I do about this? Freeze a spoon? Who the fuck gives someone a hickey at all, much less a visible one?!" I raged.
"I heard that freezing a spoon thing doesn't work," said Receptionist. "But I heard that Preparation H works within a couple hours."
"Preparation H? Like for hemorrhoids? Really?" I thought about it. It's true that hemorrhoids have something to do with clotted blood and fucked-up blood vessels, which is basically what a hickey is all about. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
"Well, yeah, I mean I think a hemorrhoid is kind of like a hickey on your ass," said Receptionist.
"Okay, dude, we have to go to Bartell's," I said, and dragged Receptionist to the drug store down the street from our office. "Keep an eye out and make sure nobody from work is around." I really didn't want to get caught buying Preparation H on the same day I showed up to work wearing glasses and a hickey-(ineffectively) hiding scarf. I grabbed a tube of Preparation H and went to purchase it. I placed the box label-side down and tried to act casual. The cashier grabbed the tube, examined the box, smirked at me, and took his sweet time ringing it up. It felt like an eternity.
Back at the office, Receptionist stood guard while I applied Preparation H to my hickey in the ladies' room. It was surprisingly thick and greasy, and had an unpleasant medicinal smell that I identified with my grandmother's bathroom. However, I sucked it up and waited all day for the Preparation H to shrink my hickey before my eyes.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the office, I realized that the hickey hadn't changed at all. I grew alarmed, because I only owned one scarf, and as it was June, turtlenecks were not an option. I thought I might have to call in sick from work unless I somehow got rid of the hickey. On the way home, I swung by this fancy grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. Because Queen Anne Thriftway was so fancy, they didn't have a regular drug store section that might have other anti-hickey options. Instead, they had a "homeopathic" section full of herbal tinctures and vitamins and bullshit like that. I think herbal cures are generally bullshit, but I was desperate. I found this stuff called "The Rub" that claimed to treat muscle soreness and "minimize bruising," which sounded to me like "snake-oil hickey cure." I purchased it.
I spent the rest of the evening rubbing The Rub into my neck, eating frozen pizza, and drinking a bottle of shiraz. The next day, to my extreme delight, the hickey was gone! I could have kissed that tube of The Rub. I put it in my medicine chest just in case I ever got another hickey. While I have since banged some real losers, none of them has ever been so despicable as to give me a prominent hickey, and I haven't needed it.
However, with my ouchy neck, I decided that it was high time I saw if The Rub was as good at relieving muscle pain as curing hickeys. I was full of hopes that if The Rub could perpetrate the miracle cure of shrinking my hickey by at least 90% overnight, it could provide some respite from the discomfort in my neck.
Too bad my neck is just as sore as it was when I fell asleep last night. Granted, last night I was eating delivery pizza and drinking Pilsner Urquell, so maybe my change of routine from the first time I used The Rub sapped its effectiveness as a magic neck malady cure-all. Or maybe homeopathic products are just a lot of inert bullshit dressed up in a lot of lame hippie marketing, and they don't work at all. Maybe my prior success using The Rub was more indicative of a placebo effect occurring due to my desperation to rid myself of that troublesome hickey rather than a panacea for slut problems in 2003. In any event, my neck still hurts, I'm probably going to spend the next week smelling like Ben Fucking Gay, and I'm pissed that I ever had hope in this homeopathic quackery.
Labels: aging, medical drama, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Eight bad reasons to trust CNN sex column advice
Every once in awhile, CNN sneaks a really lame feature article about women onto their site which usually results in my blood boiling. These articles are usually about how you should wait to have sex with a guy as long as possible, don't dress like a slut, and don't make trouble in the workplace even if it's warranted (ie: don't complain about sexual harassment or unfair pay because it will piss off the male establishment). Today I noticed that CNN's arbiters of ladylike behavior have dumped the contents of their most recent menstrual cup for women to thoughtfully peruse, entitled "Eight bad reasons to have sex." The author, who apparently is CNN's sex columnist, declares that "sometimes a lady finds herself doing all the right things for all the wrong reasons" and cautions women to "please extricate yourself as quickly as possible" from sexual congress for any of the following reasons:
Revenge: The most popular very-wrong reason to have sex, revenge sex never ends well.
Hooking up with his best friend because you're angry at your boyfriend will get you nowhere. If you do manage to break up their friendship, then you're stuck with an untrustworthy dude (if he did it to him, he'll do it to you).
Even worse, there's always the (strong) possibility that he went right back and told his buddy and the two of them are now comparing notes over high-fives and hot wings.
I've never been big on revenge sex, because I consider depriving a worthless bitch of my presence to be punishment enough. Besides, doing something like that just indicates to the first asshole that you care enough to get back at him. If I was actually pissed enough to perpetrate some kind of sexually-mediated vengeance scheme (and I can't think of a single instance in which I have been, at least in my adult life...I made out with my ex-girlfriend's new girlfriend when I was 16 and sucked another guy's dick to trick my high school boyfriend into dumping me, but those were youthful indiscretions that don't really count), I'd prefer to serve it more originally than something as trite as banging his BFF. For example, I'd rather go fuck his new girlfriend. Or I'd just fuck him, make a big deal about not enjoying it, and then neg his dick on my triumphant way out the door.
I also don't like the implication that fucking your boyfriend's best friend means you are "stuck with an untrustworthy dude." Since when has revenge fucking been synonymous with revenge dating? Does this author actually think women only have sex in the context of a relationship?
Ego gratification: You must be fine if that scorching hot bartender took you home. Or not. Men have been known to do some unsavory things for physical gratification. The fact that he's willing and able doesn't say squat about your appeal.
I suppose that some women have sex with hot dudes strictly to feel better about themselves. Sadly, there is no shortage of insecure bitches in the world. If there were, the Mystery Method wouldn't work for pussy acquisition and half the dickhead i-banker assholes who employ "negging" as their premiere pick-up method on the New York City bar scene would get laid a lot less. However, I'd encourage the author to consider another possibility besides assuaging her low self-esteem for the woman in this scenario's motives: she took the scorching hot bartender home because she likes fucking scorching hot guys. While I've been known to exchange some knuckle pounds with my girls after nailing a particularly choice specimen, my ego hardly relies on the ass I'm pulling. I consider doing hot dudes perfectly in line with an ambition I share with the immortal Todd "Too $hort" Shaw: a lifelong dream to be a player.
Appliance envy: Your roommate "doesn't believe" in air conditioning. You can't afford premium cable and are addicted to "Weeds." You're desperate to try out Wii Fit. All of these desires are perfectly rational.
However, they are absolutely not worth the price of waking up next to someone you otherwise cannot stand. (Well, except for the AC, but that's only if it's above 100 Fahrenheit.)
Wait, women actually fuck guys for their consumer electronics? That actually happens? I don't know ANYONE who has boned a loser because he has air conditioning. This is a bad reason to have sex, but frankly, you've got bigger problems than whether or not you like your sex partner if you are willing to prostitute yourself for a guy's Showtime subscription. I like "Weeds" too, but not enough to trick for it.
Weight loss: Yes, you may have read those women's magazine articles about how being physically intimate can help you shed pounds. However, a 120-pound woman burns only 57 calories during 15 minutes of sex. That's less than half a Hostess Ho-Ho. The sweat could do nice things for your skin, but your waist will remain the same size.
What kind of sex is this bitch having? Because I am certain that I burn more than 57 calories during 15 minutes of energetic dick riding. I suppose that if you're just laying there like a rag doll passively receiving your partner's weiner in the missionary position, you might burn 57 calories, but that's not how I roll when I hit the sheets. I like to change positions and move around and generally be an active participant in the sexual hotness. I also like to do it more than once a night, so even if this calorie burning count is correct, I'll still burn a solid 200 calories in one night.
Clarity: Ever since you were nine years old and saw that topless Kate Moss Calvin Klein ad, you've had a hunch you were same-sex oriented.
Unfortunately, the thought of sharing this with anyone scares you, so you get yourself a boyfriend. But you can't stop thinking about that ad....
Or, alternatively, you might fuck a dude and realize that you are bisexual. And once again, you don't have to get a BOYFRIEND to do this. Most of my lesbian friends have wanted to try dick at one point or another, but they didn't go through the trouble of actually dating a guy to sate their curiosity, any more than my straight friends got a lesbian girlfriend to experiment with girls. Then again, none of my lesbian friends are so lame as to rely on a fucking Calvin Klein ad for clues regarding their sexual identity.
Mercy: Empathy for a sad soul is one thing; holding an intimate pity party is quite another. Oh, and you know that saying, "no good deed goes unpunished?" It goes triple in this instance. Misery loves company -- good luck getting him out of your apartment.
It's a miracle. I actually agree with the author on this one. Mercy fucks are indeed a bad idea. However, she misses another negative consequence of mercy fucking a mopey sad sack of nuts: not only are they notoriously hard to get rid of, they usually suck in bed.
Quid pro quo: I'm not knocking or talking about the sex professionals out there -- this is for the amateurs among us. Just because he bought you a lobster doesn't mean you need to give up dessert. Catch my drift?
Um, DUH! I guess I probably fall into the "sex professional" category, but even when I was running on the amateur circuit I never put out because a dude bought me dinner. In fact, I distinctly recall one time when I was finishing my first year of college (characterized by my tearing around Amherst College fucking every snotty country club frat boy piece of shit I could get my hands on and not feeling very good about it), I spent the summer working at this Italian restaurant and went on a date with one of the sauté chefs. He bought me a huge steak dinner, drinks, and champagne that we drank on a beach. However, he was also insecure, whiny, depressed, had a bunch of gargoyle posters in his apartment, and was generally unattractive, and I didn't even kiss his ass. I may not have been a total amateur at the time, but I certainly wasn't the hardened slut I am today either, and I knew that his price of entrance to my pussy was more than a fucking filet mignon.
Fame by association: He's famous, you want to be. Contrary to what you might've surmised from that old Pamela Des Barres book, "I'm With The Band: Confessions Of A Groupie," fame is not transmissible through intimate contact. However, lots of other things are, so watch out.
Oh, PLEASE. The last reason on this list is that GROUPIE SEX is a bad idea? The bitch who wrote this must have really been racking her brains to round out the list. How many women have been in a position to even have groupie sex? I have never had the opportunity to fuck someone famous, and if I did, I would hardly be so deluded as to think that banging that person would somehow be my ticket to fame and fortune. However, that wouldn't mean groupie sex wouldn't be fun and/or make for a great story. In fact, groupie sex is probably one situation in which I absolutely should have sex.
The woman who wrote this must really have a low opinion of women's intelligence to think that this list is actually useful advice that bitches should keep in mind when selecting their sex partners. Unbelievably, up until Sarah Palin announced that her daughter isn't the skank who popped out her maybe-fake son Trig because she's already pregnant with another bastard product of skankery, this was the NUMBER FUCKING THREE MOST POPULAR story on CNN.
I honestly can't believe that a bunch of single women were reading this and finding it remotely applicable to their lives. What kind of self-respecting bitch needs to be told not to fuck a guy for his appliances? Fucking DUH, CNN! This is the kind of article that one of my married, actively procreating cousins would read and think, "Hey, I bet Razzy could use this information. I've seen 'Sex and the City'...dating in New York is hard! Maybe this will help her find a husband!" I'm surprised this hasn't actually shown up in my inbox yet, since some of my extended family members are doing whatever they can to make me respectable and help me obtain my MRS degree (which to them is far more valuable than the Ph.D I've pursued instead), even though my prospects for husband catching are now considerably dimmed since passing age 25 and officially becoming an old maid.
In fact, thanks to my lengthy stint as a single woman, I could probably outdo CNN's lame columnist with far less effort in terms of coming up with eight valid reasons not to fuck someone.
1. He's ugly. This should be obvious, but I'm constantly amazed at how many butt-ass hideous trolls get laid regularly by having a modicum of charm. Don't be fooled just because he's nice or funny; fucking ugly guys will get you nowhere but embarrassed.2. He has a girlfriend/wife. Take it from someone who has been "the other woman" on more than one occasion: fucking any dude with a serious significant other brings nothing but trouble.3. He has herpes. This needs no explanation, but just be sure you check that peen for ulcerating lesions before you sit on it.4. He's a dick to your friends. He'll be a dick to you too.5. He lives with his parent(s). Again, this needs no explanation.6. He talks about marriage or kids–and specifically how you might fit into his plans regarding either of these things–before you so much as kiss. RUN, don't walk from this type of douchebag. He's going to be even harder to get rid of than a mercy fuck.7. He has kids. If they're part of his life, you'll be expected to hang out with them, tolerate them, and actually behave in a maternal fashion. If they're not, he's probably a deadbeat. Either way, steer clear.8. He doesn't like dogs. A dog-hater is morally bereft, unreliable, disloyal, and untrustworthy. Stay away.
If CNN insists on giving women advice on their love lives, I strongly recommend they hire me. Not only do I have the experience fucking losers to dish out pragmatic tips for avoiding said bitch-ass punks, I am not stupid enough to think that most of my fellow single bitches are banging guys for their air conditioners.
Labels: retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Friday, August 29, 2008
Bob is no longer smiling
I knew this was coming several years ago when I first saw a commercial for this product called Enzyte, purported to provide "natural male enhancement." For a while, these ads featuring the creepy, "Black Hole Sun" videoesque Bob grinning maniacally about his Enzyte-improved penis were ubiquitous on television, particularly on cable news and sports broadcasts. I remember seeing these ads and scoffing, thinking to myself, "God, men are so fucking dumb about their weiners. Enzyte is bullshit."
Not for one second did I believe that Enzyte actually worked to make cocks bigger OR more functional. Since Enzyte was described by its manufacturer as a "nutraceutical" (a very scientastic way of saying "vitamin"), I doubted it contained any cGMP-specific phosphodiesterase 5 inhibitors capable of treating erectile dysfunction. A quick review of the label confirmed that while Enzyte is made primarily of B vitamins, some minerals, some random vaguely sexy-sounding plant extracts ("horny goat weed"), and oatmeal (Avena sativa), it contained no sildenafil whatsoever.
I can't fathom how these ingredients make a dick harder, much less physically larger. Penises get about as big as they're going to get during puberty, and short of surgery, medical science has yet to discover a way to get around the limitations of human development. Rest assured that if eating oatmeal gave dudes bigger dicks, Quaker would be a menu option at every restaurant all day long. Guys would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Unlike the unscrupulous marketers touting Enzyte, however, the rolled oat industry has stuck with selling the cholesterol-lowering properties of their grain to the health conscious baby boomer and livestock feed bag markets, and refrained from touting their cereal as a means of "male enhancement," and this has turned out to be a wise move.
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one calling bullshit on Enzyte. Some federal regulators decided they would look into the suspicious claims made by Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, the company running the Enzyte con. They discovered that founder Steve Warshak scammed sexually insecure men out of over $100 million by selling them a crap product, manipulating credit card transactions, and refusing to honor returned or canceled orders. Federal prosecutors successfully managed to convict Warshak on 93 separate counts of fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering, ordered him and three other employees to forfeit $500 million, and sentenced his bitch ass to 25 years in prison.
I'd be more surprised that Warshak was able to get away with a scam of such proportions if I didn't know how absolutely ridiculous men can be when it comes to their cocks. Their entire sense of self can literally rise and fall with their sometimes annoyingly mercurial johnsons, and I'm not even talking about in the bedroom. Phallic obsession seems to pervade almost every aspect of male life. Once my little brother got dragged out to sea by a riptide and almost drowned on the Oregon Coast when he was around ten or eleven, and after being pulled out of the surf and treated for severe hypothermia on the beach, his main concern was the paramedics observing "shrinkage." He almost died, but he was more worried that the medical personnel treating him might have been unimpressed with his pubescent package. And for all the trouble I've gotten in for discussing my sex life openly, I can't count the number of times I heard men in work contexts using their dicks as analogies for their professional abilities and achievements. If a woman shows too much cleavage, wears too short of a skirt, or is sexually titillating in any way in many workplaces, she isn't taken seriously, but men have carte blanche to bring their pricks into any and all conversations because their penis obsession is such an irritatingly prevalent aspect of human culture.
When it comes to sex, penises can be even more aggravating, and I'm not even talking about the physical aspects of penile function. They can make the guys they are attached to complete pains in the ass. I'll compliment guys on their weiners when warranted, but often they seem to interpret "you have a nice dick that I like sitting on" as worshipful reverence. One of my ex-boyfriends took to his blog after our breakup and wouldn't get off the topic of how much I supposedly loved his fucking penis. Obviously during happier times, I enjoyed having sex with him, but no amount of awesome penis-having could make up for the fact that he was an asshole who treated me like shit and fully deserved the summary dumping I gave him. Just last night, a one-night stand from a while back wanted to know why I haven't made good on a promise I apparently made to write about his "beautiful cock." Simple: I forgot I drunkenly said I was going to do that, and while it was a hot one-nighter and his dick was just fine, it's not like I've been sitting around thinking about how fucking phenomenal his penis is. I had nice weiners before, and I've had nice weiners since, and while I like them, I'm not going to venerate any of them. News flash, fellas: your dicks do NOT make you Jesus, Vishnu, Zeus, Gozer the Gozerian, or any other kind of reverential deity. They are just dicks, and you all have them. Most of them are perfectly fine (in my storied history of sluttery, I've really only come across ONE penis that was unacceptably small), and while I like fucking them, they are not what I spend my time fretting about. I'm far more intrigued by the rare man who I admire for the head on his shoulders as much as the one between his legs.
The fall of the Enzyte empire should be a lesson to men everywhere about their penises. While clearly they have been a driving force in human civilization, they are a man's Achilles heel, as evidenced by the number of dudes who were duped by Enzyte's marketing trickery into plunking down their plastic for empty promises of assuaging perceived inadequacies in this area. The most surefire way to coax out a man's inner moron is to neg his precious pecker, which is what Berkeley Nutraceuticals did to the legions easily hoodwinked into buying their oatmeal vitamin pills. Most guys aren't hung like Lexington Steele, and women don't expect them to be. A dude with a regular-sized dong who doesn't spend all his time fretting about it is considerably more attractive than a fucking idiot willing to invest in a panacea for his own insecurities. Besides, if a guy wants to be a hit in the bedroom, he should just learn how to give decent head rather than waste his time trying to achieve the impossible by bulking up his dick with a placebo. Guys should realize that overcompensating stupidity is far less attractive than any variation of penis size. Get over your fucking dicks, dudes.
Labels: crime and punishment, overcompensation, retard rage, sex, weiners
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Porn is for pussies, and I mean that in a good way
I got a fun piece of fan mail from a Razzyphile who requested the moniker DrunkenStumble a while back:
Razzy!
Though a contemplation of an email has been in the works for nearly a year, I finally had to send one in upon reading Aunt Jesus. Your Aunt Jesus smells an awful lot like my Uncle ... let's call him John (after the Baptist who, let's face it, looked more like a caveman than the baptizer of Jesus) who is a hypocrite of the highest order. He went from awesome drunken party boy to saintly congregation president with the turn of a screw. He also goes into what I've guessed to be Jesus induced hazes whenever homosexuality, liberals, or alcohol is mentioned. This I find EXTREMELY odd seeing that him and my dad's brother is walking that razor's edge between HIV and AIDS and is so far in the closet he's next door fellating the neighbor.
Now I'm one of many Razzyphiles on facebook and finally hunted you down to friend you on facebook, I can't help but thank you for bringing out my inner slut. Before I had met my ex I was so buttoned up that if anyone mentioned porn star I was crimson from the neck down and knowing porn stars openly was a bit of my dirty little secret. My ex introduced me to the site and upon the discovery that someone else thought Belladonna was pretty bad ass made me realize that living the boring life I'd had wasn't going to cut it. So, a smattering of mediocre bed rompings later, I find that you're the best thing I got out of dating my ex.
Now I finally have someone who also thinks John McCain is made of awesome and isn't touting a "God Hates Fags" sign makes the world a far easier place to live in.DrunkenStumble
I always love a good fawning e-mail, but I particularly love one that credits me for bringing a woman living an admittedly "boring life" to Jesus Belladonna. I think every woman could learn a thing or two from Belladonna, and not just how to (BOTH SUPER NSFW) make Cytheria erupt like Old Faithful or get double fisted by Jenna Haze. In fact, every woman could learn a lot from watching porn in general, and not just about sex. Porn teaches you what feminism is really all about.
Even when I was an angry feminazi type with a Ms. subscription and a chip on my shoulder about the patriarchy, I just couldn't get behind the deeply man-hating feminist theories of women like Catherine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin. These dumb bitches overcompensated for decades of being the ugliest fat hags at the bra burning rally by declaring all penetrative sex to be rape and claiming that pornography is a violation of women's civil rights. In a post she wrote discussing the world's most embarrassing Jews, my friend LL Cool Jew, a liberal, 1970s radical-bred, NPR-listening, lesbian on sabbatical from San Francisco, had some choice words to say about Andrea Dworkin the Hutt and her vehement anti-pornography stance:
This is a bitch against whom I passionately railed as a righteously sexually liberated Smith College junior for her repressive, primitive, man-hating, female-sexuality-mistrusting, straight-up-First-Amendment-violating crusade against porn. Saying porn does damage to women necessarily means that women don't enjoy porn, and every woman I know can attest against that. Anyway, don't get me started. Suffice it to say, thank God the good old U.S. Constitution was around to fend off that fat, embarrassing Jewess.
Even back in the day when I was wearing ill-fitting men's clothes, rocking the world's worst baby dyke haircut, jamming to my Bikini Kill CDs, and writing "RIOT GRRL" on my knuckles, I felt the same way as LL Cool Jew. No matter how pissed off I was about the nefarious patriarchy supposedly keeping us down and no matter how many bad poems I wrote, bands from Olympia, Portland, or San Francisco I admired, or unflattering pairs of Salvation Army cords I donned to express my subversion of the male establishment, I never directed my ire at pornography. Even before I had seen any porn, I could appreciate its intrinsic value to society, and specifically to women.
I realize that most porn is geared toward men and their fantasies, and that might lead an anger-prone feminist to believe that it is inherently sexist. I've seen a lot of things in porn that compel me to roll my eyes because they were so obviously thought up by a dude, such as peroxide blondes with five-inch acrylic claws fingerbanging each other and acting like they are shrieking with pleasure rather than vagina-ripping agony, or the feigned joys of a strap-on blowjob. The small amount of "female friendly" porn available is usually incredibly boring, relying more on romantic storylines and foreplay than hardcore fucking. In fact, if you believe "Sex and the City," women get off on shoes and relationship drama rather than any kind of actual sexual activity. However, to suggest that because porn is geared toward men indicates that it is exclusively their province would be wholly erroneous.
The other night, I was hanging out with a bunch of my bitches and I was regaling them with tales about how I learned to love performing fellatio. This turned into an instructional session involving me demonstrating some techniques on a beer bottle and referring some skeptics to recent posts from this very blog. One particularly resistant pupil continued to raise an eyebrow at me, so I said, "Oh, hell, just go watch some blowjob videos on RedTube and emulate it." The reaction at the table was explosive.
"I FUCKING LOVE RedTube!" exclaimed the hesitant cocksucker. "That shit rules!"
"What's RedTube? Is that like YouPorn? I'm on YouPorn all the time!" added one of her friends, who, I should add, was a pain-in-the-ass overly political lesbian.
"RedTube is my jam, for sure," said another one of the girls.
I should add that, of all these women, I am probably the most sexually in-your-face girl there. These ladies aren't prudes, but many of them are definitely the kinds of girls who don't fuck strangers or put out on the first date or have threesomes or otherwise engage in my kind of slutty antics. In spite of the fact, however, that they are all "good girls" with successful careers and lots of self-esteem, they are all apparently really into hardcore streaming tube sites. These women obviously don't consider porn to be objectifying or degrading. They consider it a source of enjoyment and a boon to their sexuality. Tons of women consume porn in spite of whatever male chauvinist trappings the self-loathing, man-fearing, sexuality-rejecting feminazi theorists of the old guard might base their wack-ass theories upon. The fact that many modern women have become so comfortable with their own sexuality that they consume male-directed porn with as much gusto as your average dick-jerking, woman-oppressing dude is a triumph for feminism.
I am happy to have done my part for the sex-positive women's movement by helping DrunkenStumble, a woman I've never met before, embrace her love of rubbing them off to Belladonna. Knowing that setting the example of an open, sexually liberated pervert helps other women achieve the same laudable goal is definitely one of the satisfying perks of being in the useless bullshit business, and it motivates me to continue singing the praises of smut. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch some porn.
Labels: correspondence, feminazism, I LOVE IT, perversion, porn, Razzyphiles, sex
Monday, August 25, 2008
It's a world of laughter, a world of horny local TV news reporters
Yesterday was my girl MillerTime's big 3-0, and I hope that she enjoyed it more than she thought she might. Ladies seem to have a lot of trouble with hitting thirty, especially if they haven't yet obtained their MRS degree, and all week I'd been fielding IMs from her saying things like "I can't believe I'm almost THIRTY." I have no doubt that a few Bacardi and diets at either the Roadhouse Tavern in Puyallup or Doyle's in Tacompton took the edge off, and she enjoyed her thirtieth natal day as much as she did other memorable anniversaries of her entry into the world.
Yesterday as I was at work between incubation times, I was checking out some "news" (read: random bullshit on the blogosphere). I stumbled across an article that made me wonder if the fates man