Sunday, November 29, 2009
Now I know what to get my mom for Christmas
Looking for something special to get your favorite Rammstein fan this Christmas, but can't find anything they don't already have? Well, look no further. Rammstein is selling limited edition box sets of their new album, Liebe Ist Für Alle Da (which I'm pretty sure means "Our Band Sucks" in German) that comes complete with a six-pack of dildos, handcuffs, and some lube.
Now, while I normally make it a policy not to look a gift dildo in the mouth, I don't think I would really welcome this present. The fact that these dildos are packed with a Rammstein CD is a big turnoff, since that basically seems like it screams "loser." I suspect that most of the people who rushed out and bought this have no reason to use handcuffs or dildoes on anyone, much less six at a time. In fact, I bet the main demographic targeted by this item are sad, lonely shut-ins with little to do besides cash unemployment checks who rant incoherently on the internet, and have no experience with sex toys other than posing for self-portraits with them. I can't imagine that anyone I'd be fucking would get remotely excited that I was offering them a choice of custom Rammstein dildoes, especially since these fake weiners are supposed to represent each member of the band. So not only are you pulling a dildo out of a custom Rammstein case, you can imagine that you are actually banging one of the guys in Rammstein. Danke, but I'll pass.
For those of you who have not heard of Rammstein before, they Germany's answer to Ministry. They do a lot of shouting (which is doubly frightening because it's in German), they wear a lot of ridiculous outfits, and, despite their tendency to write songs with titles like "Pussy," they always take a lot of really homoerotic pictures.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Labels: gross, ridiculous absurdity, sehr gut, weiners
Monday, July 06, 2009
And they say romance is dead
I was busy celebrating America's birthday with my dearest college pals LL Cool Jew and Wmania this weekend in San Francisco, so I wasn't really paying attention to my text messages until we left the party we attended and got back to Wmania's condo. Once there I noticed that one of my honeys back in the P-N-Dub had undoubtedly been watching all the many exploding fireworks and naturally thought of me, and sent me a text sharing his feelings. What followed was an exchange of brief messages so romantic and sentimental they make The Notebook look like it's about a one-night stand. And not a nice, respectful type of one-night stand either, but the kind of drunken, why-the-hell-did-I-bone-this-idiot one-night stand where you say you have to go see a guy about a thing immediately afterward, use his shirt to wipe the jizz off your chest without asking or thanking him, run the fuck out of there, and then put him on permanent send-to-voicemail status.
Anyway, this series of texts is way, WAY more romantic than any of that. I wouldn't be surprised if the fine folks over at Harlequin Publishing hit me up asking me to write a book with Fabio lording over a heaving bosom on the cover based on these texts, because they are just that beautiful. Cue the violins:
Dude: Hey Razzy?Razzy: Yes Dude?Dude: I want to put my wiener in your vagina.Razzy: Well duh.Dude: I was trying to sweet talk you.Razzy: Mission accomplished. You better pen me in tomorrow, because I missed choking on your dick all weekend.Dude: Oh I'll pencil you in all night long, if you know what I mean.
Jealous? It's okay...I know that every girl dreams of one day sharing drunken texts with a silver-tongued Prince Charming of her very own. Maybe, just maybe, if you drink enough scotch and sodas and add enough random pieces of dick to your stable, you too can live the dream, single ladies, and start receiving poetic sentiments such as these. Dream big!
Labels: correspondence, hot dudes, Razzification, sex, weiners
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Some (un)cut
I've been skanking it up hard with the fellas since July 26th, 1995, and in that time I've gotten a lot of random dick under my belt, so to speak. Although she used to be more of a relationship-type lady, my friend JerseyGirl has since caught up with me with a great deal of gusto. In the course of her recent adventures, JerseyGirl managed to stumble across a phenomenon that you don't often encounter with native-born American fellas:
JerseyGirl: met this brit at brunch
Razzy: uh huh...
JerseyGirl: went back to my place
JerseyGirl: and did it
JerseyGirl: like 5x
Razzy: LOL
JerseyGirl: it was NUTS
JerseyGirl: BUT razzy
JerseyGirl: i was bugging
JerseyGirl: bc when he got naked
Razzy: let me guess...not circumcised
JerseyGirl: it was UNCIRCUMSIZED!!!
JerseyGirl: i was DYING
JerseyGirl: i was like "ewe"
JerseyGirl: he goes that's not very nice to say
JerseyGirl: i'm like sorry but it looks gross
Razzy: dude euros are always uncircumcised unless they're jewish
Razzy: i can't believe you said "ewe" about his D OUT LOUD!
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i know
JerseyGirl: but i was so wasted i didnt care
JerseyGirl: it was HUGE though
I likewise have never personally encountered an uncut schlong, probably because of my propensity for fucking red-blooded Americans and/or Jews. I keep waiting for the day when I will stumble across one, because I'm intensely curious about it. I've certainly seen pictures, so I doubt my response will be to say "ew" when I see that homeslice's weiner is wearing a turtleneck. In fact, I remember this girl I knew in college was dating an uncut dude, and she showed me and a few other intensely curious girls photos of her inflating his foreskin. I remember laughing hysterically because they were really some of the most absurdly ridiculous sex pictures I'd ever seen. I also remember vowing that should I ever come across a honey with extra casing on his sausage I would promptly make like this bitch and blow it up like a balloon for humor value alone. Combining goofy jokes and fellatio sounds like a win-win to me.
JerseyGirl clearly got over her shock about this dude's foreskin because she subsequently planned a trip to England to go get more strange of the tea-and-crumpets variety in spite of the likelihood of encountering more peek-a-boo dick. She was telling me about the new international mark she was wooing via Facebook, and I was encouraging her to whore us up proud.
Razzy: toss it up
Razzy: as i think they say in england
Razzy: i know "tosser" means "slut"
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i just emailed you his pic
Razzy: yeah he's cute
Razzy: although i'm getting MAJOR pencil dick vibes from him
Razzy: i think it's the 5 o'clock 'stache but NOT beard
Razzy: how tall is he?
JerseyGirl: no he's tall
JerseyGirl: i've touched it before
JerseyGirl: it's big
Razzy: well pencils can be long
Razzy: they're just skinny
Razzy: i call a long pencil a "cervical spear"Razzy: i fucked a dude like that once, it felt like fucking a pap smear
JerseyGirl: well i'll let you know!
Razzy: please do!
JerseyGirl: although i dont think it's pencil
JerseyGirl: i have a good feeling
Razzy: i hope i'm wrong, i hate pencil
JerseyGirl: it's probably all skinned up though
JerseyGirl: nasty
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: well now you're an old pro with the uncut weinersJerseyGirl: i know. it's so nast though
Upon her return from Merry Olde Englande, JerseyGirl was pleased to report that her man was a European rarity: not Jewish or Muslim and yet still trimmed. I was a little disappointed, if only because I wanted to hear about JerseyGirl insulting the appearance of her partner's package as foreplay. Now that she's back stateside, she dumped her original skinjob and has no future prospects from the United Kingdom or continental Europe in her sights, so that well of uncircumcized weiner follies has run dry. So now I guess I'm going to have to go out and find some uncut dick of my own for amusement. So take notice all you Razzyphiles of British, Australian, other European, or Americans with hippie parents extraction...for any fellas rocking Shar-pei schlongs, I'm currently enrolling subjects in my personal study. Holler at your skank.
Labels: international intrigue, JerseyGirl, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Chris Cooley is my kind of tight end
Apparently, Washington Redskins tight end Chris Cooley is, like me, a blogger in his spare time. Also like me, he does his best writing when he is in a state of undress. Sunday, he posted a photo of the Skins' playbook for their big game against the New Orleans Saints. Too bad he obviously snapped the photo as the playbook rested on his entirely pantless lap, as immediately noticed by the entire sports blogging world:
Even though my starting Fantasy tight end is Antonio Gates, who is pretty much universally regarded as the premier tight end in the entire NFL, I am almost tempted to start making some wild trade offers to my buddy G-Cat just to get Cooley on my Fantasy team. Any guy who sits around naked is my sort of dude. Any guy who sits around naked blogging about his Fantasy team is my destiny. Seriously, all the man needs is a pepperoni pizza, a sixer of Heineken, and the extended edition Lord of the Rings DVDs and...well, hello, Prince Charming. Marry me.
Labels: Fantasia, internet domination, NFL football, nudity, weiners
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
Friday, August 22, 2008
The head doctor is in
"Really?" I asked. "I kind of love it."
"It's hard! I always feel like I'm going to puke," she complained, then made a face that plainly said, "EWWWWWWWWWW. You're crazy, Razzy." I wasn't surprised, because this same friend told me that in her 18-and-over clubbing years, she was kicked out of a banana fellating contest at some Jersey Shore club when she drunkenly ate her banana because she was hungry.
"Well, you can get over that with some practice," I said. "You at least get used to it. I mean, don't you blow your boyfriend once in a while to show him how much you appreciate him?"
"No way! I have regular sex with him to show him that. I NEVER S his D! He doesn't care."
"Oh, who are you KIDDING, dude? Guys LOVE having their Ds S'd. Next time you really want to show him you care, just literally suck it up. He'll be grateful...TRUST!"
A few days later, we were all drinking at this bar, and despite our best intentions to only have a few beers, after a few hours we were all suddenly brutally drunk. My friend decided this would be a stellar time to take my advice, and dragged her boyfriend into the men's room. She pulled him into a stall, pulled his dick out of his pants, and started getting her suction on. He is kind of a straight-laced guy, so this was simultaneously exciting and nerve-wracking for him. However, just when her drunken enthusiasm managed to overcome her reservations about fellatio and his reservations about receiving same in a semi-public place like the Latitude men's room, some dumb i-banker type staggered in and decided to drop a deuce in the stall next to them. Even a dirty girl like me would probably be turned off by a douchebag in expensive loafers interrupting a solid session of bar bathroom brain with an ill-timed literal shitshow. I'm not sure my friend ever gave cocksucking another fair shot, and she's since broken up with the gentleman in question.
I think that it's most unfortunate so many ladies lack enthusiasm for delivering a solid blowjob. I used to, but I've grown to truly enjoy it. For one thing, gulping it right down is the quickest way to have guys give your bedroom skills an extremely positive review, and I like having my efforts recognized. I work hard to be a hot lay, and I'm pleased when this is acknowledged. For another, there's something incredibly sexy about having what is arguably every man's favorite body part in your mouth. Men regard their penises with such reverence that it's almost like taking some kind of perverse erotic communion. Maybe that's why Catholic schoolgirls have such a reputation for being champion sword swallowers.
Sure, sucking dick isn't always easy. No matter what the movie Deep Throat might lead one to believe, I don't know any woman who has actually had an orgasm from performing that titular action. It's certainly called a "job" for a good reason. I used to avoid it because I thought it was too difficult, and I worried that I wasn't particularly adept at it due to my lack of enthusiasm. However, as I've gotten older and more experienced (Razzy Haters read: HAGGARD OLD SLUT!), fellatio has really grown on me. I've learned a few things that make it way more fun than stressful or unpleasant. In fact, I've decided to take it upon myself to respond to concerns and enlighten the ladies with my very own guide to enjoying rolling a fella's cigar.
The Joy of Cocksucking: FAQs by Razzy
Sucking dick doesn't do anything for me physically. Why should I do it?
The true pleasure of giving head for women is entirely psychological, so to enjoy it, you first need to get your mind right. If you regard cocksucking as a distasteful chore, then it's probably not going to be very fun for you and will only be a mediocre BJ by his standards since you obviously aren't into it. If you think of it like a gift you are giving to your man to please him, then you are thinking like a good lover and a decent human being, and you might even like it. One of my favorite things about having a dick in my mouth is looking up at the dude it's attached to during the process. Usually guys have an expression on their face like they just saw a vision at Medjugorje and won the lottery at the same time, and you can attribute that solely to your weiner consumption. You might not have an orgasm from it, but it's gratifying nonetheless.
Even if you can't get into that frame of mind, you can at least use head for practical self-serving purposes. If you want to get some brain yourself and don't care to ask outright, you can indicate what you'd like the guy to do by setting the precedent yourself. Also, if some drinks were involved in the prelude to your sexual encounter, the dude may have a problem with the liquor going straight to his cock. If he's having some trouble maintaining wood, then think of BJs as nature's own Viagra. Most of the time, a little dome goes a long way to overcome a bad case of whiskey dick.
Is there a way to get around choking or gagging when I'm sucking dick?
This is probably the primary complaint women have about giving head. Many women are concerned that they have to get facefucked like (big time NSFW) Sasha Grey or (also *EXTREMELY* NSFW) Belladonna in order to give a decent BJ. This is not true. I can certainly deep throat, but I don't think I can tolerate a dude jackhammering my throat to the hilt for an extended period of time without puking. In fact, most dudes aren't trying to be Max Hardcore and skewer your vocal cords while simultaneously producing gallons of gagged-up vomit. Unlike Sasha and Belladonna, I am not a porn star, and don't always fast extensively prior to doing some hardcore cocksucking, so an unmitigated gag would be very bad after an evening of slugging back brewdogs and bar food.
There are several solutions to this, all of which can be practiced to ease discomfort. First, you can deliver a combo job, or suck on the head while you jerk off his shaft. I generally think this is a supplemental maneuver to be used while catching breath between big swallows, because it's sort of a half-assed move that says "I can't be bothered with more than the most simple, basic head." However, this can be a solid way for beginners to get used to the practice in general and I encourage newbies to give it a shot. Another way to get more comfortable with deep throating is to practice in your off hours. It's clichéd, but a banana is a great tool for becoming physically accustomed with the sensations you might experience while swallowing a whole penis. If you slowly put it as far back as you can stand, then close your eyes and take a few deep breaths through your nose, you might find that your gag reflex relaxes along with your mind. The first response a body has to a dick in the tonsillar area is panic, and that brings gagging. Ameliorating your panic with some controlled breathing and chillaxation does wonders for quelling your urge to spew. Finally, an advanced move that can be used in emergencies is gross but sometimes necessary. Should you find yourself beginning to blow chunks during a vigorous session of brain surgery, you should immediately pull back a little and swallow hard. If you catch it while it's still down in your throat, you can prevent disgorging your dinner all over his cock, as well as his observing the decidedly unsexy move of swallowing your own vomit. This may be gross, but it's an occupational hazard, and it's important to master this skill should it ever come up (no pun intended). If you let it get past your throat into your mouth, you had better hope you've got a washing machine, a shower, and a well-developed sense of shamelessness handy.
What the hell am I supposed to do with his balls?
Guys are usually pretty sensitive about their balls, so you don't want to just grab them and start manhandling them roughly. Usually guys like them licked or sucked on, but don't suck too hard. You wouldn't treat delicate family heirlooms roughly, and the same policy that applies to your grandmother's china applies to your man's family jewels. If you want to really impress, you can always give the dude a hummer, where you take his balls in your mouth and hum (this can also be done on his weiner). Guys like this, but I usually can't execute it because I start laughing. Hummers are pretty absurd. One time I was sucking on this dude's balls and he requested a hummer, so I went with the first song that popped in my head: the Battle Hymn of the Republic. I barely got past the "trampled out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored" part before I was snickering about it. That ended that hummer. The dude sighed and indicated that I should redirect my attention to his penis.
But what if I hate the taste of jizz?
Simple: don't finish the blowjob. I love the taste of semen, to the point that I will ask a dude to pull his dick out of my twat and blow his load in my mouth. However, it's not for everyone. I almost always imagine a dude is making like Tay Dizm and inquiring "Can I be your appetizer?" before the main entree of regular sex. In fact, I hardly EVER give a guy a blowjob to completion. If I do, then I have to wait for him to recharge to fuck him and that's annoying, especially with one night stands I don't care to chat with much. I generally only give a full blowjob to guys I really, really, really like, and those fellas come along very rarely. Usually I work him up, but when I think he might be getting close to the grand finale, I stop and actually fuck him properly. Generally he'll be rock solid at that point and you can buy your vagina some dick time by taking a moment to catch your breath and throw a wrapper on him.
Should I spit or swallow?
Your call. I always swallow, but that's because I like cum and it makes for less mess. The urban legend that semen contains 5,000 calories per load is exactly that, so you don't have to worry about screwing up your diet (and it's mostly protein, so those of you doing the low-carb thing have nothing to worry about either). Besides, have you ever tried to scrub jizz out of your hair? That shit is like epoxy when it dries, especially when it's become extra proteinaceous from mixing with saliva. On the rare occasions I've spit somewhere in the vicinity of where I'm getting it on, I always have wound up with straight-up cement in my usual fuck-knot. It takes like half a bottle of Pantene to get untangled. Avoid that. Trust.
A guy asked me to bite his dick once. Do they all like this?
In a word, HELLFUCKINGNO! I've come across the odd gent who liked a little teeth here and there, but that's an exclusively by-request move. This one guy I used to bang would always say, "Nibble on it, Raz, nibble on it!" I would always double-check that he REALLY wanted me to do that before tentatively chomping down gently, because guys are usually so sensitive when it comes to dental-penile contact. However, while every fetish has at least one fan, that doesn't mean such a maneuver is universally enjoyed. In this case, it is most CERTAINLY not, so don't do this unless specifically asked.
I heard I can get herpes this way. Is that true?
Unfortunately, yes. You can get oral herpes from sucking a herpetic peen, so steer clear of any schlongs with suspicious ulcerations, lesions, or sores on them. Also, you can give a dude herpes if you have a cold sore and you suck him off, so if you have an ounce of decency, you won't put your partner at risk. Cocksucking to be a hot lay and a generous lover loses its mystique when you give a dude a bad case of the herp along with some killer head.
Do I have to do anything with his ass?
Not if you don't want to, but some guys do like it. I generally avoid anal play with boys because they just don't maintain as well as girls. Boys' butts are gross, and they usually pride themselves on that. How many times have you been around a guy who farted and acted like he just cured cancer or invented time travel? Even if they don't want a chick poking around down there, guys relish the nastiness their posteriors can produce. However, I've had a few dudes ask for some ass action, and I usually get down there to check the situation up close first. After making sure he meets my hygiene standards, I might give a dude who I like the occasional salad-tossing, but it's not a standard part of my playbook. I liken it to a fleaflicker or a hook-and-ladder play. It's not a regular part of my offensive strategy, but every so often it's warranted in a clutch situation, and when it works it can be spectacular. So my advice here is to use some discretion depending on your and your partner's tastes and preferences.
So there you go, ladies. I hope this is useful for overcoming any reservations about cocksucking you might have harbored. Now get out there and suck those dicks!
Labels: perversion, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Monday, July 21, 2008
Trans-substantiation
A while back, my dumb (now ex-) shrink told me that I should consider the possibility that I'm transgendered, on the basis that I like football, drink scotch, and fuck girls every so often. When he said this, I about fell off his couch. I was already getting annoyed with him because he kept wanting to talk about lesbian stuff, which I stated clearly many times is not a shrink-worthy issue for me. I kept trying to direct our discussion back to my nicotine addiction and the chronic post-abortion depression I've been suffering the last five years, and he just wouldn't get off the topic of bisexuality. I suspect this is because he was GETTING OFF on my bisexuality, which I could have dealt with had he not played the "do you think you might be transgendered?" card.
Granted, I recognize that there are many very masculine aspects to my personality, and I have a lot of interests (sports, hunting, fishing, Hemingway, action movies, porn, tits, the NFL, world domination, etc.) that have traditionally been the province of men. However, just because I like a lot of boy stuff doesn't mean that I actually want to BE a boy. In this day and age of modern feminism, I would think that just because a chick does some things that aren't traditionally feminine doesn't automatically mean that she is having some sort of gender identity crisis. I've certainly thought from time to time that it might be easier to be a man and get away with my behavior, and it would be fun to have a weiner, but when it comes right down to it, I'm totally comfortable with my female body. I would hardly be showing off my naked tits whenever possible if I wished I'd been born without them or was planning to chop them off. I can't recall a single occasion in which "I wish I were a boy" or "I'm trapped in the wrong body" thoughts ever crossed my mind, and I certainly have no desire to make the switch and make everyone start calling me "Ethan" or "Bobby" or "Colin," much less get a double mastectomy, take testosterone, and have my vagina turned inside out into a pathetically small penis. I have no problem with people who do, but I think that gender identity is something much deeper than what kind of liquor you drink or whether or not you like sports. I know plenty of dudes who don't like sports, drink fruity cocktails, and spend more money on skin care products than I do, and they're usually called "metrosexuals" rather than M2F trannies. I am perfectly content with my XX karyotype and the body that goes with it, so fuck you if you think that my aggressive personality means I am not.
Anyway, I had dinner Friday with my friend Miss Corbutt, and we were laughing about this.
"You know, Razzy, I have a bunch of pictures of you turning household objects into phallic symbols from back when we lived in Tacoma that might support the transgendered theory," she said. "I'm going to scan them and send them to you."
And so she did. While I'm not certain these substantiate the rumor that I'm secretly yearning to be a boy, they certainly prove that I have a huge case of penis envy. Take, for example, this photo of me working a hose from a summer getaway I took with a posse of Smith lesbians. I'm literally making it rain on myself:
And here's one that's even more incriminating, of me working in my garden and getting my she-male on. I suppose one could consider gardening to be a feminine hobby, but in spite of that I manned it up by locating a surrogate weiner while digging invading roots out of my roses:
It's a good thing my ex-shrink doesn't read this blog, because if he did, he'd probably feel really fucking validated.
Labels: gender bending, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, weiners
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Watch the eyes
In a week or so, I'm going to be attending an event (read: bachelorette party) where there will most likely be a professional male entertainer who specializes in taking off his clothes. LL Cool Jew told me the other day that she had never seen a male stripper before, and I reminded her that she had once before at Senior Banquet, a Smith event in which the graduating seniors get the underclassWOmen of Jordan House drunk and "will" them crap they want to part with.
"At my Senior Banquet at Smith! Remember? I know you were there...I willed you my Dr. Dre poster!"
"Uh, I remember going to your Senior Banquet. I don't remember a stripper there."
"Dude, the Jordan underclassbitches totally hired one for us! He came in dressed as a cop and then proceeded to wag his smiley-face banana hammock in all our faces!"
"I still don't remember that," LL Cool Jew said.
"Yes! And then, do you remember that shitty bar in Leeds or wherever called The Office? Well, the stripper came there with us afterward, and then Martindale brought him back to Jordan and fucked him!"
"How do I not remember that?" LL Cool Jew wondered.
I then took it upon myself to explain to LL Cool Jew what it's like witnessing a male stripper in action: BORING. Male strippers never take it all off. While LL Cool Jew pointed out that many female strippers keep their bottoms on too, they at least have tits. I could care less about some pretty boy guido's muscle definition. Sure, I might say, "He's got a hot body," but after about 30 seconds of lame gyrating I'm going to get bored without seeing some weiner. I mentioned that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in which we had that bitch in the private party room at Scores literally drowning in lady strippers, was going to go down in history as being WAY better in the nudity department than this upcoming shindig because male strippers are by definition sort of boring.
Anyway, I did a little research about male strippers, and I concluded that some of them may actually take it all off. For a moment, I felt cheered up. However, then I went to see what was going on in the world of internets celebrity gossip, and came upon a disturbing anecdotal tale. I'm now a little nervous after hearing this story courtesy of Michael K. at Dlisted:
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
This just validates my view that male strippers are far more loathsome than their female counterparts. I have enough trouble with guys and my eyes as it is. One time a dude shot his load on my face and hit me in the eye, and it felt like my contact got soaked in liquid fire. You wouldn't think that shit would sting so bad, but then again, semen is at a pretty alkaline pH to counteract the acidic environment of the vagina and maximize sperm survival, so I guess it can really fuck up a pH neutral mucosal surface like the eye. On that occasion, the guy noticed me clutching my hands over my eyes and saying "Holy FUCK, ow!", and was like, "What's the matter, baby?" Then I was all, "Nice shooting, asshole! Annie Fucking Oakley you are not! No more facials for you." As semen was bad enough, I have absolutely no desire to be picking the exoskeletons of pubic lice out of my tender, contact-wearing baby blues, so if this dude plans to dick slap me, he better brush up on his physical defense skills, because there will be no weiners in my face. In my mouth, vadge, or ass, maybe, but NOT IN MY FACE!
Labels: assholes, epidemic geekery, gross, holy fucking matrimony, nudity, oh the horror, sexual assault, weiners
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Marathon Man by JerseyGirl
The length of years a woman is single in New York is directly proportionate to how many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories she'll wind up collecting in her repertoire. Though I had had a "boyfriend" for the my first two years in the Big Apple, to actually call him my boyfriend in the traditional sense of the word would be a misrepresentation. I cheated on him freely and at will, which is the main reason as to why I have so many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories. Here is one of the more hilarious ones.
I work as a television news producer and once a month this publicist throws an extended happy hour for media types. It’s always done at some fancy, up-and-coming bar in the city, and tons of people go to mingle with their coworkers and enjoy two free hours of copious drinking. One January a few years ago, I decided to take advantage of said party, at some club in the Meatpacking district. Since I'm an experienced drinker, especially when the booze is free, when the two hours had passed I was three sheets to the wind. My colleagues decided it was time to head home, and I thought I should probably get going too. On my way walking through the door, however, I spotted a really cute guy sitting on a couch. He was sitting alone, talking to another guy who was standing up. Since there was ample room on the couch next to him, I brazenly stumbled over to couch, plopped myself right next to him, and said, "Hi, I'm Annie."
Liquid courage is the best isn't it? Or in this case, THE WORST!
He said his name was Marathon Man, and he was a reporter for the Daily News. I have a total and utter weak spot for print reporters, since my ex was one himself, and I thought for a long time he was the love of my life. But that's a different story. MM and I chatted for about twenty minutes, and the conversation flowed easily. He was cute and seemed totally interested. When I announced it was time I got my drunk ass home, he made an attempt to come home with me. But even through my drunken haze, I knew I had to be at work early, and I could tell this guy was so into me that I was certain he'd call way sooner than later, so I politely declined, gave him my card, and got myself a cab.
The next day I had an email waiting for me in my inbox from Marathan Man, asking me out. I replied yes, and we had a great first date. He took me to this cute Italian café downtown, where we had a delicious meal, and listened to some live music afterwards. I got to know him better, and learned he was an accomplished marathon runner and loved to hike, rock climb, and all that outdoors shit. I'm not into that at all (at least I wasn't at the time), but I thought he must be in teriffic shape with all that exercise. All the better for me.
We ended the night with a few more brewdogs and a game of pool. We split a cab back uptown and made out the whole way. I was psyched - he was a great kisser! I thought for sure that Marathon Man and I might be headed towards a little place called love.
A few days later, we made plans to hang out again. This time, I invited him over to my place instead of going out. I did this for one reason and one reason only - I wanted to seriously hook up. I wasn't sure if we were going to have sex or not, but I at least wanted to fool around with him enough so that I could check out the goods, if you get my drift. Plus, my apartment at the time was about 350 square feet with a table and two chairs, a bed, and that's about it. It would be nearly impossible for a guy not to pick up on the reason I invited him over. We started off the evening drinking some brewdogs at the table, and watching whatever game was on tv. After about three beers a piece, I got up to get something out of my closet, and when I peered back out he was lying on the bed. Smooth move, I thought. He clearly was on the same page I was. Let the humping begin!
Which is what we immediately started to do. I will admit that in my earlier years I was something of a freak and could seriously, literally, have an O from dry humping. So in the course of me grinding all up on him, I totally came. It was awesome! What was not awesome was that two minutes later, I was partially deafened by:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
In case my aaahh, oooh, aaahhh wasn't explicit enough for you, that was the sound of Marathon Man. Having an orgasm. While we were dry humping. With all our clothes on. For only five minutes.
Did I mention, he's 36 years old?
I looked at him with a horrified expression on my face, I'm sure, and he mustered up something about how hot I was, and that he couldn't control himself.
Dude, I don't care if you had freakin Gisele on top of you, NO MAN, and I mean NO MAN over the age of 15 has the right to come in his pants. It is just something that boys, who are turning into men, learn at a very young age is NOT COOL. Wanna know what else is not cool? Watching a wet spot slowly start to form on your date's jeans, while he's lying on your bed. Yuck!
About one minute later, I said I didn't feel well and asked him in the nicest way possible to leave. He begrudingly did, and then asked if he could see me again. I told him to email me and we'd figure it out. That of course, meant no.
For inexplicable reasons that I still have not figured out to this day, I decided against my better judgment, and that of every woman out there, to see him again. He told me he wanted to make me dinner, and he said he'd make my favorite meal - steak and mac'n'cheese. I figured at the very least I'd get a free meal out of it and an interesting story to tell later on. And interesting, it most certainly is.
We had a great dinner, and he was really nice and funny throughout and had put a lot of effort into making the meal a nice one, so I decided to take him up on his lame cue to "look through a photo album" in his bedroom. While lying on his bed, looking at pictures, it seemed as though he had a really nice family, normal friends, and he really seemed to be a good guy. So I took pity on him and decided to try to hook up with him again. I mean, there's no way he could come in his pants twice, right? Right?
Wrong.
Again, we were hooking up, and again through the course of dry humping, I came. But this time I was totally quiet about it; I didn’t want to give him any reason whatsoever to think that it was okay for him to come in his pants. However, after what I would say was about ten minutes of kissing, light petting, and dry humping, again I was horrified to hear:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
It had happened yet again. The 36 year-old Marathon Man had managed to come in his pants, not once, but twice, over the course of four days. While he was coming, I had to stifle a laugh. For I knew at that exact moment I had a doozy of a story to tell all of my friends. I uncomfortably rolled over and while lying next to him, and was yet again forced to watch a wet spot form on his jeans. We layed there for about five minutes and made chitchat while he sat in underwear soaked in cum. Then, at the very first opportune moment, I yet again announced that I wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He was really sweet and asked if there was anything he could get me. Hmmm, maybe just a towel? For yourself? So you could WIPE THE CUM OFF OF YOUR PANTS, YOU FREAK!
I ran out of his place as quickly as possible, immediately met my girlfriend for a beer, and regaled the story of my very own Marathon Man, who came in his pants while making out with me - fully clothed.
I work as a television news producer and once a month this publicist throws an extended happy hour for media types. It’s always done at some fancy, up-and-coming bar in the city, and tons of people go to mingle with their coworkers and enjoy two free hours of copious drinking. One January a few years ago, I decided to take advantage of said party, at some club in the Meatpacking district. Since I'm an experienced drinker, especially when the booze is free, when the two hours had passed I was three sheets to the wind. My colleagues decided it was time to head home, and I thought I should probably get going too. On my way walking through the door, however, I spotted a really cute guy sitting on a couch. He was sitting alone, talking to another guy who was standing up. Since there was ample room on the couch next to him, I brazenly stumbled over to couch, plopped myself right next to him, and said, "Hi, I'm Annie."
Liquid courage is the best isn't it? Or in this case, THE WORST!
He said his name was Marathon Man, and he was a reporter for the Daily News. I have a total and utter weak spot for print reporters, since my ex was one himself, and I thought for a long time he was the love of my life. But that's a different story. MM and I chatted for about twenty minutes, and the conversation flowed easily. He was cute and seemed totally interested. When I announced it was time I got my drunk ass home, he made an attempt to come home with me. But even through my drunken haze, I knew I had to be at work early, and I could tell this guy was so into me that I was certain he'd call way sooner than later, so I politely declined, gave him my card, and got myself a cab.
The next day I had an email waiting for me in my inbox from Marathan Man, asking me out. I replied yes, and we had a great first date. He took me to this cute Italian café downtown, where we had a delicious meal, and listened to some live music afterwards. I got to know him better, and learned he was an accomplished marathon runner and loved to hike, rock climb, and all that outdoors shit. I'm not into that at all (at least I wasn't at the time), but I thought he must be in teriffic shape with all that exercise. All the better for me.
We ended the night with a few more brewdogs and a game of pool. We split a cab back uptown and made out the whole way. I was psyched - he was a great kisser! I thought for sure that Marathon Man and I might be headed towards a little place called love.
A few days later, we made plans to hang out again. This time, I invited him over to my place instead of going out. I did this for one reason and one reason only - I wanted to seriously hook up. I wasn't sure if we were going to have sex or not, but I at least wanted to fool around with him enough so that I could check out the goods, if you get my drift. Plus, my apartment at the time was about 350 square feet with a table and two chairs, a bed, and that's about it. It would be nearly impossible for a guy not to pick up on the reason I invited him over. We started off the evening drinking some brewdogs at the table, and watching whatever game was on tv. After about three beers a piece, I got up to get something out of my closet, and when I peered back out he was lying on the bed. Smooth move, I thought. He clearly was on the same page I was. Let the humping begin!
Which is what we immediately started to do. I will admit that in my earlier years I was something of a freak and could seriously, literally, have an O from dry humping. So in the course of me grinding all up on him, I totally came. It was awesome! What was not awesome was that two minutes later, I was partially deafened by:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
In case my aaahh, oooh, aaahhh wasn't explicit enough for you, that was the sound of Marathon Man. Having an orgasm. While we were dry humping. With all our clothes on. For only five minutes.
Did I mention, he's 36 years old?
I looked at him with a horrified expression on my face, I'm sure, and he mustered up something about how hot I was, and that he couldn't control himself.
Dude, I don't care if you had freakin Gisele on top of you, NO MAN, and I mean NO MAN over the age of 15 has the right to come in his pants. It is just something that boys, who are turning into men, learn at a very young age is NOT COOL. Wanna know what else is not cool? Watching a wet spot slowly start to form on your date's jeans, while he's lying on your bed. Yuck!
About one minute later, I said I didn't feel well and asked him in the nicest way possible to leave. He begrudingly did, and then asked if he could see me again. I told him to email me and we'd figure it out. That of course, meant no.
For inexplicable reasons that I still have not figured out to this day, I decided against my better judgment, and that of every woman out there, to see him again. He told me he wanted to make me dinner, and he said he'd make my favorite meal - steak and mac'n'cheese. I figured at the very least I'd get a free meal out of it and an interesting story to tell later on. And interesting, it most certainly is.
We had a great dinner, and he was really nice and funny throughout and had put a lot of effort into making the meal a nice one, so I decided to take him up on his lame cue to "look through a photo album" in his bedroom. While lying on his bed, looking at pictures, it seemed as though he had a really nice family, normal friends, and he really seemed to be a good guy. So I took pity on him and decided to try to hook up with him again. I mean, there's no way he could come in his pants twice, right? Right?
Wrong.
Again, we were hooking up, and again through the course of dry humping, I came. But this time I was totally quiet about it; I didn’t want to give him any reason whatsoever to think that it was okay for him to come in his pants. However, after what I would say was about ten minutes of kissing, light petting, and dry humping, again I was horrified to hear:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
It had happened yet again. The 36 year-old Marathon Man had managed to come in his pants, not once, but twice, over the course of four days. While he was coming, I had to stifle a laugh. For I knew at that exact moment I had a doozy of a story to tell all of my friends. I uncomfortably rolled over and while lying next to him, and was yet again forced to watch a wet spot form on his jeans. We layed there for about five minutes and made chitchat while he sat in underwear soaked in cum. Then, at the very first opportune moment, I yet again announced that I wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He was really sweet and asked if there was anything he could get me. Hmmm, maybe just a towel? For yourself? So you could WIPE THE CUM OFF OF YOUR PANTS, YOU FREAK!
I ran out of his place as quickly as possible, immediately met my girlfriend for a beer, and regaled the story of my very own Marathon Man, who came in his pants while making out with me - fully clothed.
[RAZZY Note: This post was written by JerseyGirl, as those of you who were like "wait a second, since when has Razzy been a TV news producer?" probably deduced, although in fairness I do share her weakness for print journalists that like sports. She e-mailed it to me because ho probably forgot her Blogger login or something. That's okay, since she posts as "Annimal" and not "JerseyGirl" because SOMEBODY didn't pay attention when told "set up your Blogger account using your Razzy name as your username." Anyway, I know it says "Posted by Razzy" but this was actually written by JerseyGirl, so give credit where credit's due. The quickest draw I've ever been with at least managed to get his pants off and get his dick in the vicinity of my vagina before anything like what happened above transpired. Either I select men with more stamina, or I turn guys on way less than JerseyGirl does. Your call.]
Labels: gross, JerseyGirl, real-life rejects, scathing indictments, sex, weiners
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Huge load (of shit)
As I mentioned yesterday, I'm bad about checking my razzy@razzy.org e-mail sometimes because the e-mail program sucks and does a terrible job at filtering out spam. Therefore I have to try to sort through all the mail and delete 90% of it before I can read the adoring words from Razzyphiles and the wishes of death, disease, and lifelong misery from Razzy Haters. I'm always astounded at the sheer volume of spam I receive promising enhancement to the form and function of my non-existent penis. Are there really enough guys out there dumb enough to buy something from an e-mail that reads "Make it hard as a br1ck!" or "Pund her hard all nit3 with ur new powerful 1ove mussle fleshrod!" sent from a Czechoslovakian e-mail address that looks like an eye chart and directs you to some sketchy website? There must be, because the flow of this type of spam seems endless. However, I noticed a new variation on the spam theme of penis enhancement that shocked me a little.
"BLOW HER AWAY WITH YOUR BIGGER LOADS!" the e-mail subject proclaimed. Bigger loads? As in more volume of ejaculated semen? I was mystified. What's the point of that? Surely this means something else.
I hit the internets, and sure enough, that is EXACTLY what this spam was selling. I found a website promising all sorts of ridiculous benefits to using "sperm enhancing" products called VolumePills (which supposedly "allow any man to cum like a porn star") and Semenax (which supposedly "gives you the ability to shoot a load as far and as powerful as anyone you have ever seen in a movie"):
After a quick read of the propaganda, I was even more mystified by this line of bullshit. It's news to me that "being able to produce a massive amount of semen is the key to getting more women." I've slept with my fair share of dudes and never once has my qualification pre-screening (translation: buy me a drink and tell me I'm pretty and/or smart) involved determining whether or not they can blow a Peter North-sized load. I don't usually care much one way or the other, and I have sort of a semen fetish. I love it when guys do hot porn star shit with their jizz. While I don't like taking it to the face without being warned first, I DO like it when guys give me pearl necklaces or shout "DRAINAGE!" when they're spraying all over my ass and lower back. Nonetheless, I have never heard "a woman talk about a man who shoots a small load without laughing" as the website suggests. In fact, I've never heard women talk about this much at all. Usually, we ladies only care about semen in that it doesn't taste bad, it doesn't stink, it isn't chunky or otherwise possibly diseased, and you don't get it in our eyes, because a cumshot to the peepers stings like a bitch. I've never thought, "Wow, that was a pretty pathetic paltry volume of ejaculate. What a loser."
After a quick read of the propaganda, I was even more mystified by this line of bullshit. It's news to me that "being able to produce a massive amount of semen is the key to getting more women." I've slept with my fair share of dudes and never once has my qualification pre-screening (translation: buy me a drink and tell me I'm pretty and/or smart) involved determining whether or not they can blow a Peter North-sized load. I don't usually care much one way or the other, and I have sort of a semen fetish. I love it when guys do hot porn star shit with their jizz. While I don't like taking it to the face without being warned first, I DO like it when guys give me pearl necklaces or shout "DRAINAGE!" when they're spraying all over my ass and lower back. Nonetheless, I have never heard "a woman talk about a man who shoots a small load without laughing" as the website suggests. In fact, I've never heard women talk about this much at all. Usually, we ladies only care about semen in that it doesn't taste bad, it doesn't stink, it isn't chunky or otherwise possibly diseased, and you don't get it in our eyes, because a cumshot to the peepers stings like a bitch. I've never thought, "Wow, that was a pretty pathetic paltry volume of ejaculate. What a loser."
I also don't believe that "men who shoot weak loads are often timid and meek." One of my high school boyfriends was timid and meek, and he produced such copious volumes of cum that after sex I would have to change my pants because my entire pelvic area from stem to stern would be so goddamn sodden. It made sex in the car (the number one preferred location for illicit teenaged high school sex) a royal pain in the ass in terms of mess, too. In fact, the only advantage I can think of regarding making lots of baby gravy is that it's probably easier to knock a girl up with, which is an undesirable thing in my book. Supporting this theory is the fact that my high school boyfriend now has two kids.
This sounds to me like a marketing myth that, for whatever reason, men are especially susceptible to, or what I call the "strap-on blowjob" phenomenon. In porn, you always see chicks sucking some other chick's strap-on, and the recipient is always moaning and acting like it's driving her wild. While I guess it's mentally kind of hot to see that and it makes practical sense to lube up your dildo, it's not like the chick wearing the strap-on can actually feel the fabulous blowjob she's getting. Having used strap-ons to bang chicks myself, I can say with certainty that the real trick to using one is learning how to work your partner's cooch blindly. When you're fingerbanging a chick or licking her snatch, you can get the lay of the land by touch. With a strap-on, you have to rely on your instincts, because you can't feel anything that's going on in there. In fact, when I first started using it last year, I had a terrible time even figuring out the correct angle to even commence penetration (thanks to all your helpful tips, by the way, that has now been resolved). The point is that the strap-on blowjobs so common to pornography are believable only to men, whose own love of fellatio render them especially gullible when it comes to buying that this act is awesome for the woman receiving it. The concept that blowing a gigantic load is guaranteed to get a guy laid like Hugh Hefner is the strap-on blowjob of penis enhancement lore.
Ladies can feel free to tell me that I'm wrong and that they actually do give a flying reverse piledriver about how much semen a man can produce with any given orgasm, but I am pretty confident that the vast majority of bitches DO NOT CARE. So, guys, save your money. Your ejaculate's size is much less important than its texture, smell, and taste. Besides, these pills probably don't work anyway. If you buy them, then it will actually hinder your chances of getting laid because it will demonstrate to all your prospective sex partners that you are STUPID.
Labels: gross, lezbollah, perversion, porn, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Daily Douchebag: John Mayer and his supposedly giant weiner
DOB: October 16, 1977
Occupation: pussified "rock star," fucker of ugly celebrity bitches
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Deep down, I truly hate John Mayer so much. I've discussed this previously and at length, and even typing the name "John Mayer" annoys me to no end. However, recent developments in celebrity gossip have compelled me to opine once more regarding the depths of douchebaggery to which John Mayer has sunk.
It seems that John Mayer has compelled the world's most seductive and sexy woman, Jennifer Aniston, to spend her idle hours playing MASH and hoping she ends up in a mansion driving a Ferrari and named Jennifer Mayer. Well, I assume that's the kind of thing Jennifer Aniston occupies her spare time with, because she strikes me as the desperate type not above resorting to grade school means of sorting out the boys she likes. Why has an effeminate d-bag like John Mayer caused a sex goddess like Jennifer Aniston to wile away the hours playing John Mayer-themed MASH, you ask? Because he supposedly has a giant penis.
As a big hoed-out slutbag, I would like to interject at this point and offer my professional opinion. While I've never met John Mayer or seen his schlong myself, I have pretty solid dickdar, and most of the time I can tell roughly whether a dude is packing a cannon or a twig. I have NEVER had the slightest inkling that John Mayer is rocking a huge cock. In fact, if anything, he's a classic case of pencil dick, and if I'm wrong, I should have my official skank card confiscated. Have you ever heard that crappy "Your Body is a Wonderland" song? That was NOT written by a dude with an impressively large weiner.
I suppose one could argue that John Mayer's cocksure attitude and numerous celebrity girlfriends attest to the giant penis theory. However, I would counter by pointing out the fact that any tool can swagger around with an attitude and a famous piece of pussy on his arm when he has a large enough bank account and a few hit songs about his feelings. And frankly, Jennifer Aniston is not exactly a hot bitch so unattainable that a guy has to be hung like Lexington Steele to get with that. She seems like a whiny pain in the ass who likes to have a doting, effete wuss around, and hardly selective about the size of the dick she occasionally deigns to sit on.
And let's examine the above picture of John Mayer in comedy mode, thinking that he's hilariously funny because that was how everyone reacted when Sasha Baron Cohen's (totally fucking hot) ass rocked this get-up. Too bad that even on his best day, John Mayer can't even compare to one of Sasha Baron Cohen's ass pimples (and if you want to talk about guys who are rocking huge packages, I would argue that Borat is probably hung like a fucking blue whale). Sure, John Mayer has some crotch volume in that nutsling, but it isn't sufficient to warrant my being suspicious that he's got an elephant trunk tucked away under there. And trust that if I did, I'd probably be singing a different tune about John Mayer.
The rumors are NOT true. John Mayer is hung like the douchebag he is, and until he sends me pictures of his wang to refute this, that's my story and I'm dicking to it.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, small penises, weiners
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Senator John McCain's penis (YES, I'M GOING THERE)
DOB: August 29, 1936
Occupation: staying erect without Viagra (I presume)
Hometown: Coco Solo Naval Air Base, Panama Canal Zone
Current residence: the campaign trail
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Last night while I was watching "Deadliest Catch" and salivating over Sig Hansen, while LL Cool Jew was obviously glued to MSNBC and the Indiana/North Carolina primary returns. Probably forgetting that my priorities Tuesday nights lie on the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea and not with Tim Russert, she engaged me in a text message discussion about politics.
LL Cool Jew: thats a pretty slim margin of victor in ind. at best. she'll win but the lead keeps closing. she cdnt capitalize on the worst period of his campaignRazzy: No dude. John mc cain!LL Cool Jew: dude he wdnt survive his first termRazzy: He's a tough old sob. He will survive both termsLL Cool Jew: u can change his catheterRazzy: It would b an honor. But im sure his junk s still in prime condition n every wayLL Cool Jew: its probably totz covered in melanomasRazzy: No way. It looks like a mighty elephant tusk: hard and ivory.LL Cool Jew: hil.la.ry bitches. sighhh but its totz depressing right now
Poor LL Cool Jew, weeping into her herbal tea along with JerseyGirl and Motherbucker and most of my other Smith College friends about the inevitable lingering death of Hillary Clinton's presidential bid. However, my sympathies for my sad Hillary-loving friends do not extend to tolerate aspersions they may cast against Senator John McCain or his penis, which I am sure has weathered the years extraordinarily well. Though it may be old, I'm sure his penis looks preternaturally youthful and strong. John McCain just strikes me as a man who packs an impressive piece of dick. I know I'm sick, but I don't care! I won't sit idly by while the character of his penis is besmirched by bitter Hillary Clinton supporters. John! Mc! Cain! John! Mc! Cain!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, LL Cool Jew, politics, weiners
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Rumors that I've gone totally gayelle
DOB: 2008
Occupation: cockblocking me
Hometown: the internets
Current residence: my inbox
Douchebaggery: I just received an e-mail from a male Razzyphile who urged me to reconsider my new decision to be strictly not-dickly, a decision that was news to me. He also sent me a picture of his dick because he noticed that even though I'm supposedly now a lesbian, I acknowledged that I enjoy weiners and he wanted to remind me what I'd be missing. While I'm always happy to field pictures of Razzyphiles' genitalia, this compels me to address these rumors in the most clear manner possible.
I AM BISEXUAL. I AM *NOT* A LESBIAN.
I still like boys, and in fact, I prefer boys. As much as I think women are beautiful and sexy, and as much as I'm quite partial to a hot set of tits, there's just nothing like a good old-fashioned hard penis. Furthermore, I like the rest of the boy package too. I like chest hair and strong arms and hard pecs and the musky smell of balls. I like deep voices and bodies that are bigger than mine. I like sucking dick, and when it comes right down to it, I'd rather have a dick in my vagina than anything else. I also tend to get along better with men in relationships (though rare, I have been involved in these). I don't like to spend a lot of time processing about my feelings. I like to work through problems directly so we can get back to fucking. In the one disastrous relationship I had with a woman, we spent 95% of our time dissecting every last nuanced emotion regarding our sapphic coupling, which left very little room for actually getting physical or having any kind of fun. I know that there are lesbian relationships existing outside that paradigm, but I have yet to be involved in one, unless you count my "special girlfriend." I don't, since my main ho is one of my good friends that I just happen to sometimes have dirty girl-girl sex with, and it's not like we go on dates unless that term includes us getting shitfaced at bars and picking up guys to tag-team. I don't think she counts it as a technical "relationship" in the classical sense of the word either.
I'm not offended by people calling me a lesbian, because I don't think there's anything wrong with being a lesbian. If you want to restrict your diet to the sushi bar, it's none of my business. I think people should just fuck who they want and it shouldn't be a big deal to anyone. It's just that I'm not a lesbian. I'm bisexual, and irritated by the fact that bisexuality is often discounted as either a pitstop on the way to tuna town or an attention-getting technique rather than a legitimate sexual orientation.
Although it took me a while to come out as bisexual (mainly because I was splitting rhetorical hairs over whether or not I can consider myself that since I just bang chicks and don't have committed relationships with them), I am comfortable with that label and believe that it is an accurate description for my tastes in the bedroom. However, in my case, I have to quash these rumors that I've fully committed to carpet munching, because I don't want the fellas to be discouraged from trying to hit this hotness. As the term "bisexual" implies, I like to get busy with both men and women. My bisexuality is not some transitional stage meant to ease me into giving up dick altogether, nor is it some insincere show that I put on in order to attract men. I genuinely like having sex with people of both genders, and I'm still mystified by the apparent fact that this isn't clear to people, especially since I've addressed this directly in the past.
So, for the record, just because I'm down to let hot chicks sit on my face doesn't mean I've instituted a "No Boys Allowed" policy with regard to my vagina. My legs are still open for business, and by "business," I mean "dick." Feel free to continue sending me pictures of your weiners, though. Penis pictures make me smile.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
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