5 Reasons to Dump a Dude (and a video)

February 11, 2015 § Leave a comment

Just in time for Valentine’s Day, or more importantly, Galentine’s Day (thanks Leslie Knope). Here are some random reasons to dump a dude who’s not worth it.

#1: He has an unconfirmed tick. You’ve seen it on the first couple dates, and are now on the look out. You end up paying more attention to a twitch sighting than what he’s saying. Translation: You aren’t that into him. If he was perfect for you, the supposed tick wouldn’t be an issue!

#2 He’s got a trick and he likes to show it off. So he can do a cartwheel. Bravo. The second time he does it in an unprompted,”look at me” fashion, eh dude, this is old news. The third time. He’s not well rounded enough for you. Sit, Stay.

#3 Sex is subpar. Subpar all the time from the beginning of time. It’s not going to get better. You can settle, or you can be honest. If he doesn’t take your notes, maybe it’s time to be friends.

#4 He’s lazy. Don’t date a couch potato unless you are a potato. Have some ambition.

#5 He doesn’t make you laugh. Amendment: He doesn’t make you laugh when you do something laughable (like trip or spill food). Amendment: If he doesn’t get slap stick comedy, it’s just not worth it.

Here are a few more my little Galentines.


Have You Touched A Boob Today: A Theory

July 15, 2014 § 2 Comments

My newest theory on relationships is about boobs. Your boobs, the ones you own and are attached to the front of you. Also consider the male psyche and his unquenchable desire for the female body. Specifically we’d like steer his desire to the female body of the girl he’s dating/married to (at least that’s what we’re aiming for).

Instinctively, heterosexual men feel the need to spread the seed, but psychologically they crave a loyal female counterpart. Ladies, if you’ve ever had a sustainable platonic friendship with a member of the opposite sex (brothers, cousins, roommate’s, roommate’s boyfriends, etc.), then you know how much a guy needs a gal’s ear to whine to. When with a woman, a man feels truly safe to show actual emotions.

As little boys men are taught to toughen up, walk it off. Go cryin’ to pop and he’ll tell you it will put hair on you chest. Tears are for sissys. But mom will listen, sympathize, kiss it and make it all better. Why do you think there are so many mama’s boys running around?

When mamma’s boys into men, and don’t have a significant female, they’ll trot off to cry into the nearest bosom, figuratively speaking. A lot of times it’s still his mommy, but it could also be the robust chick at the deli counter. If a man doesn’t have this emotional outlet he may act out in other ways, violently, lazily, vindictively, promiscuously, melancholy-ly.  He has his time of the month too.

If men need a feminine safe haven, what’s with the wandering eye of attached dudes? You hear it time and time again, the little man downstairs wants just about every oven to bake its bun. The family lineage must be carried on in as many vessels as possible. I have a feeling, even the born-to-be-mothers of the world would say that two or three kids is ample. It’s the man who wants to have ten thousand babies. Thus the urge to rub their faces in every pair of passing tits. Zero self control. That hotdog needs to be slathered with condiments and wrapped in a warm bun with great regularity in order to create the allusion it’s trying its best to procreate. He’ll do it solo if he has to. You’ve caught him before.

So here’s what I think: To prevent future mamsypamsyness, each man should touch at least one boob every day. And if you’re the one he’s sleeping next to at night, make that boob YOUR boob.

You’re making dinner, he’s telling you about a horrible day at work, look him dead in the eye and ask, “Have you touched a boob today?” The belly aching stops right there. You see what’s happening here? Providing him a bosom to cry into, and then letting him fondle the nipple a little. It’s nurturing eroticism. Killing two birds with one… jug.  You’re watching movie and he’s drooling over Jessica Alba’s perky trot, just ask, “Have you checked my headlight yet?” and it’s not about your car. He’s groaning about aches and pains, say, “I’ve got a muscle that could use a rub.” He wants to motorboat a rack every day anyway. Why not give him what he wants? Why not make that rack yours?

70% of men think about sex every day, 43% of men think about it several times a day. Conditioning him once every 24 hours to take a titty time-out with your pair, other than foreplay, forces him to associate sexual feelings more consistently with only you, especially if you’re not a seven-times-a-week type of gal. And if he’s not a boob guy, bend over to get a daily spanking. All it takes is a few seconds. He’ll never be too tired to grab an ass. You don’t have to be Betty Paige, you just got to think like her for ten seconds. You’re already satisfying him emotionally, go ahead, put the icing on the cake.

My hypothesis states that if men receive their daily dose of girlie parts, they will be less likely to stray. If you feed the dog at the same time in the same place every day, the dog will learn to always go to that place to receive its meal. It’s not going over to the neighbor’s house for dinner. Don’t let your man go to the neighbor’s house for anything! You can fix him a fine meal at home. It doesn’t take much effort to remember to do it. You could have Mountaintop Mondays, Tata Tuesdays, Wild Jug Wednesdays, Funbag Fridays… you get the idea. After a while, he’ll remember on his own (speaking from experience). One simple little grope a day, stick to that and he’ll always be eating in your kitchen.

This may be the key to a healthy relationship. Not only will you get a daily breast exam, who knows, you could be rewarded with more frequent oral pleasure, impeccable execution of household chores, a night out on game day, he might even be moved to purchase jewelry. I’m not saying boobs will fix something already broken, but it should strengthen something in need of improvement. No big whoop, let ‘em cop a feel.

Touching her boob every day will keep his eye from wandering away.

***This was originally posted in Jan. of 2011, and I believe it rings true to this day. If you want to make a man smile when he’s blue… Boobs are powerful weapons, use yours wisely. 

The Big O

March 26, 2013 § 1 Comment

First Posted March 7th 2011 

Oxytocin. Have you heard of it? They say it’s the cuddle hormone. It triggers labor pains, it’s also the reason why new moms love their babies so much even though they look like little alien things from another planet. Men produce far less oxytocin than women, which is why we occasionally cry at fabric softener commercials. Guilty as charged. Oxytocin levels rise as bonding encounters increase: touching, caring, experiencing an orgasm, experiencing multiple orgasms etc. You’re hooked, you’re attached, you want to glue him to your hip and feed him chocolate.

I don’t like to admit this, but I’ve had a couple of boyfriends who I have absolutely hated the first time I met them. I hung around them for one reason or because I was forced to and they literally grew on me, we were feeding off each other’s oxytocin. It’s funny how quick shameless office flirtation leads to sex. Bam, I am hooked.

Riddle me this. I’m not a hugger, so when I get a surge of oxytocin from sex I am in love with this doofus. I have hormone-goggles on. I was broken up by the Polar Bear because I was finally getting the oxytocin I normally deprive myself of when I don’t let my hairdresser give me a hug. This is why people tell me to get a cat! If I had a pet I would feel sufficiently cuddled. And if I were sufficiently cuddled maybe every casual relationship wouldn’t feel like an arranged marriage. Or every guy who just isn’t that into me wouldn’t seem like he’s the last man on earth with a good pair of testicles.

But damn it feels good to be in love, or think you’re in love, or just be high on oxytocin. Maybe I will get a cat.

Bed Stats

November 20, 2012 § Leave a comment

Although I haven’t combed through horizontal polka variations in a while, a few things I’ve come across lately that let me know I am out of touch society. So in no particular order here are some thoughts on things I cannot unlearned.

I read on the internet (so who knows if this is true) that the average American only has sex 2 to 3 times a MONTH! I know, I thought it was high too… Kidding! Call me an over achiever. They must have included infants in this gross mean. Either that or we just figured out that the government is not the only thing wrong with this country. In the same article I also read that increasing this to just one love session per week brings the bliss factor up to that of making an extra $50,000 per year. Um, I’m pretty sure at this rate I wouldn’t be that blissful with twice that extra cash. Money can’t buy love I guess. The average American’s intimate encounter last 18 minutes. Which only tells me there are a lot of ladies out there who are not properly warmed up.

This same publication also said that couples who like each other have better and more frequent sex. Well I should hope you at least like your partner just a little bit. If not, it might be time for a split. As far as frisky countries the Greeks and Brazilians are up there and the Japanese are on the low end. And Japan lives in the future. Does anyone else see a correlation between technology and getting a little hubba hubba? On the flip side this might be why Greece’s economy is in the toilet. I’ve also learned that the average female has kissed 78 frogs before turning one into a prince. That seems a little high to me. Anyone else kissing that many frogs? I’ve made lip to lip contact with my fair share but not 78. Who are these kissing sluts?

Again, this is data I found online, who knows if it’s true. I did some more digging because fact checking is sacred to me. I’ve found conflicting results so I’m just going with the most shocking and hope that it’s wrong.

84% of women (don’t know how many surveyed) say they have sex to get the man to help around the house. Why don’t we all just do our share. I rather do it to have a happy partner and enjoy myself in the process. What’s wrong with these people?

According to the internet, intercourse can burn anywhere from 84 to 300 calories in a 30 minute session. Conflicting reports considering the average American romp is only lasts 18 minutes. In other words use sex as a two-a-day and don’t skip the workout to be on the safe side.

Among all these confusing stats there is this notion of pansexuality. Kids these days. What the heck is this? It’s like being bisexual in the 90s or bi-curious. I’ll have to admit I heard it (on a New Girl Episode… figures, humor for hipsters) and I had to look it up. I had no clue. Apparently its a name for the attraction you have to people regardless of gender. Basically any person that’s hot they are attracted to. I could say that I’m a pansexual. Doesn’t matter the gender if your hot, I am attracted to you. That’s not it. What turns pansexuals on are belly buttons? Everyone has one. It says they are open to all genders. How many genders are there again? Right, there are two. There’s a few people that are caught in the middle of the two but together they don’t make a third gender? No there are only two genders. After some digging I learned that the opposite of transgender (across) is cigender, meaning that the mind and the body agree, but that still doesn’t clear things up for me on the pansexual preference thing. Maybe thats just it, they don’t have a preference?  Maybe I’m being too black and white about it because I’m a straight girl. It just really makes me mad when people have to put labels on sexuality. Stop competing with the gays, they have a corner on the market and a few real reasons to complain. If I ever hear someone say, “I find that offensive because I’m pansexual,” I will slap them.

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby.

January 31, 2011 § 1 Comment

Smitten. Total swoon. Crushing hard. Gaga. Head over heels. The whole nine yards. Okay, enough! It’s time to have the sex. Eventually, one way or another hands are going to wander to where they should not be and bodies will surrender to impulses. It’s only natural, we are all raw human beings. After the climax you ponder… Was it worth the wait? Or… How do I avoid seeing him ever again?

It shouldn’t be anything less that phenomenal. You’ve both done it before (unless someone has a secret) – it’s an instinctual act, there really isn’t much that can malfunction. We’re all adults here. Yet, trying to do it together for the first time is more awkward than watching and extra large person try to buckle themselves in for a domestic flight in late July. Sweaty, furrow-browed, and chafing. There’s nothing pretty or glamorous about it.

I feel judged quietly. Being of the female gender, I stew over the episode until the next time I see him. Seeing him completely naked, him seeing my bare ass… it’s completely game changing.  He now knows about that unsightly scar, that questionable mole, the shape of my southern lips and every little dimple more commonly called cellulite. On the flip side, I now know exactly how much body hair I’m dealing with, how much he truly works out, the sweat factor, and everyone’s favorite: the size of the dong.

While I’m being honest, even the prettiest of pricks can be unsatisfying if there is no rhythm. It’s as if the best song in the world was performed by a tone-deaf vocalist. No matter how many times we say it, they still don’t believe it. It’s not the size of the ship but the motion in the ocean. I had to convince an old boyfriend that he was actually growing, “Babe, I swear it’s getting bigger, I can tell.” It took months of unsatisfying sex and faux measuring tape to get him to feel comfortable with his size. Amy Poelher said it best in a SNL guest appearance on Weekend Update, “We can’t waste time arguing over penises. Besides, ladies don’t care how big a penis is. Unless it’s really big or really small.” You got to own it, guys. Own every inch of it and know exactly how to use it. Don’t be lazy with your love muscle. Let’s not forget that sex does take some athleticism.

You’ve been painting yourself as a fair maiden this whole time, but once the legs are spread the whole ladylike mirage goes straight out the window. I don’t even know what comes out of my mouth. I’m a gal who likes it a little rough, so if my ride isn’t up to par I might blurt out some instruction. “Let me tame the bull,” seems to be a favorite segway for a position changer.

Never mind the lady bits hair-do situation, especially if I’ve been caught on an off week. I could be known as “the prickly one” to all his friends from here on out. Which is another thing, yes, we talk about it, and they talk about it. I don’t like to kiss and tell, unless I’m asked twice. Us gals, we call it Brunch and that’s where we swap sack stories (get it? sack stories).

When you go to there with someone new, even if it’s not your first rodeo, it always feels like you’re in the middle of the ring without your rope. The pressure is on. Measuring sexual chemistry is different than adding up sexual tension. If he flops maybe give it another turn on the merry-go-round? Beyond that, it might just not a good fit, and be honest, it’s probably not you. There are stickier situations you’d rather be in, and I hope you’ll find them with someone else. Above all, condoms on hand, back up lube, and safety third.

The Diaphragm Experience: The Bottom

January 12, 2011 § 7 Comments

Believe it or not, humans have been trying to have sex without consequence since before the first recorded condom in 3000BC. I’m going to spare you the description of the first condom because you’ll cringe at the thought. The barrier method was very popular across the globe as well. Ancient African women used plugs of chopped grass or cloth, Japanese prostitutes employed balls of bamboo tissue paper, Islamic and Greek thought wool would be a good idea (though rough and itchy), linen rags were used by Slavic women, even a concoction of crocodile dung and honey was thought very progressive. As early as 1838 the first diaphragm was born of vulcanized rubber (angels singing).

Back in those days, abortion was also a very popular choice until it was declared murder by Pope Pius IX in 1869. Then there was all that junk the church spewed about sex being immoral if practiced for pleasure. What else would you practice it for? Today’s society seems to think that people weren’t having recreational sex before the 1960s, but if cavemen were wrapping their dongs in fish bladders, I think there was some ancient hanky panky going on.

After the church came down hard on sex (that’s what she said) birth control was illegal all together in the US. Gasp! It wasn’t until 1938 was the law deemed unconstitutional, 65 years after the ban. I’m going to take this moment to give a shout out to my girl Margaret Sanger, a devoted Suffragette who dedicated her life to making birth control available by prescription to anyone who desired it. She also is responsible for raising the money for the pill. If she were alive today I’m certain there would be a parade in her honor. She should have her own day with a long weekend so the good people of this country can fornicate.

Enough with the history lesson and back to my own diaphragm experience. Although it’s 8% more chancy then taking hormones, a diaphragm incredibly cost effective. Each ‘phragm is less then $70 and can be used for up to two years. My Ortho-Tri-PMS prescription was costing me upwards of 50 bucks a month! I convinced myself further on the barrier by doing some more math. A diaphragm when used correctly with spermicide is 11% more effective then withdrawal and natural family planning so I figure if I use the diaphragm AND I keep my calendar-o-ovulation AND he pulls out when times are dangerous, the three combined will be just as effective if not more then getting my tubes tied. Seems right to me. I discussed this with my Polar Bear and he was cool with it so I marched on into my Gyno and asked for a fitting.

My lady bits doc was delighted to hear that I wanted a little flying saucer of my own given the hormone hell I had gone through previously with my missing period. Best not to mess with the cycle. He was down there doing his thing asking me the usual questions, “How’s the job, How’s your parents” etc. When he asked me what I was doing for New Years he cut me off and said, “I know, you’re going to be using your new diaphragm!” I started laughing hysterically right there on the table in my paper robe. What can I say, he knows me.

Next was the search for spermicide, which there seems to be a shortage of. We must have gone into five different drug stores. We gave up and decided to erotically read each other the diaphragm directions instead, which are quite lengthy. Sexy time was turned off when I learned about the huge risk of UTI. If you’ve had one, you know you need a prescription to get rid of it, and there is nothing worse then to ALWAYS feel like you have to pee really really badly. As we’ve covered above, prescriptions are expensive, so I promptly bought a cranberry supplement when I went out to get the calendar for family planning. This is lot of hoopla just to replace the pill.

During the next couple days of reading up on the ‘phragm and devising the insertion strategy I came across something I didn’t expect: there is nothing sexy about excusing yourself to go put a silicone cup in your vagina. When it came to game time I said in my most seductive whisper, “let me slip into something more… protective.” With that I marched off to the bathroom. No, he was not going to get a show, of course not! I got my directions out and lubed it up with the spermicide. Note of caution: it will be very slippery, be sure to have the lid to the toilet seat down.

So there I am wrestling with the slippery little bugger, trying to follow the step by step illustrations with my leg practically over my head, and having no real idea what I’m doing. There is like some choreography you have to execute in order to get it in the right spot, which is covering your cervix. I was told your cervix should feel like the tip of your nose, but I must have been put together wrong at birth ‘cause I don’t think that’s what it feels like at all. So I emerge from the bathroom with the bad lunch face and say, “I don’t know, but I think you’re going to have to check my work.”

The Polar Bear thinks quickly on his feet and launches into some role-playing where he’s the professor and I’m some dumb blonde student. Now that I think about, I’m pretty sure he was mocking me for his own amusement. Regardless, I was feeling more comfortable when he started going down on me and confirmed everything was in place. The during part was fine, I couldn’t even feel it, and the only complaint from him was that he thought the spermicide made his tongue numb. So I guess we did everything right. There’s only one way to know for sure and it’s the first exit on the crimson highway.

The trouble came the next morning. See you need to leave the diaphragm in for up to SIX hours after intercourse. Makes sense, you don’t want any little swimmers sneaking by the ropes into the deep end after the pool’s closed. I stumbled, half still asleep, into the bathroom to remove the apparatus from my bathing suit area. Not to be too graphic, but my fingers were up there as far as possible and I could touch the ‘phragm with the tip but I could not grab hold of it. I talked myself through it, “Okay, don’t panic, the Polar Bear’s got longer fingers then you.” Aw man, I had to ask him to do this for me. I slowly opened the lavatory door, he’s just stirring awake. “I have a tiny bit of a problem,” I said. When I explained what was happening with the catcher’s mitt of love lodged so deep I could not retrieve it, we laughed about it and he did agree to lend a girl a hand. He’s no magician, but it was like some kind of raunchy allusion. Embarrassing.

I’m not one to write off something because of one experience, so we tried it again that night. In the morning I had the same result and my manfriend needed to assist me in the removal. Bless his heart, he’s okay with the way things are going to have to be until I can figure out how to do it myself. There has to be some sort of finger extender or grabber. We have now started to affectionately call it Framsies and I think it’s a great addition to our sexual activity. If I come across a solution to my little short of reach problem, I’ll be sure to let you know. Until then, I’m using my diaphragm.

The Diaphragm Experience: The Top

January 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

Alright people, today we are going to talk about contraception. Family planning is essential, just ask the 16 year old who’s got to tell her parents she’s eating for two. That’s a priceless look from dad. Come on America, did we not learn anything from the first season of Glee? Speaking of which, am I the only one who was really uncomfortable when Quinn and the other teen soon-to-be-mommies did that preggers dance? Not as charming as Juno. Eight pregnant teenagers dancing in a sultry fashion isn’t an image for network television. “Sending an important message about birth control and tolerance,” my ass. I’ll send an important message about birth control: during childbirth you can rip your perineum. Yeah, that’s from one hole to another, and if you were paying attention in anatomy class you know there’s only three down there, so guess which two are becoming one. Chew on that, then tell me you still feel weird about insisting he wears a condom.

Ah yes, we all agree, it really DOES feel so good without a rubber. I say, if you’re STD free and so is he, that’s one little diver that won’t be needing his wetsuit. This is where my dilemma lies: what form of contraception is best for me, ahem–excuse me, for us? See, I have this winter boyfriend, Mr. Right Now. I am single-ish and don’t judge me just because I like to keep a man around during the cold months as a personal heater and to lift heavy things from the car to the house. Plus it’s hard to be a floozy targeting casual sex when it’s too chilly to wear a bikini. One of my favorite things the Polar Bear and I have in common is phenomenal sexual agility. If he keeps this up, I might have to keep him on through spring. When we became monogamous after the first frost we both got tested and I’m happy to report that we are both squeaky clean. The problem is neither one of us have enough money for birth control, so… I guess that makes us pretty good parents? KIDDING! Last winter after I retired that season’s boyfriend I went off my oral contraceptive and experienced some lady complications, therefore I’m a little weary of getting back on the hormonal bucking bronco.

Don’t get me wrong, the pill (who just had it’s 50th birthday last year) is one of the greatest inventions/discoveries of all time. Woohoo! Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. Just set an alarm on your phone, carry around a little compact of hormones, swallow a pill no bigger than a nugget of granola, and PRESTO! Babymaker temporarily out of order. And now, the pill isn’t just a pill, you have more hormonal options then ever before. You got your 4 bloody marys per year kind, the 3 day light flow kind, the shove a ring up my vag kind, the patch kind (which doesn’t give me the impression it actually works, but I guess it does), the shot in the ass kind, the never ever have a period ever kind, and all that shits basically fool proof. You got to really be brain dead or on crack to mess up today’s birth control. But as with all prescriptions now, no matter what brand, it comes with a laundry list of side effects waiting to pounce on your little uterus. I can’t tell you how many of my girlfriends I’ve this conversation with, and chances are if you have complaints, you’re on the wrong kind.

Think about it, if you’re on hormones the birth control is basically telling your body it’s got a bun in the oven. No wonder you have weird food cravings, irrational mood swings and a decrease in sexual appetite, your eggo think’s your preggo! I’m no doctor, but that seems a little backwards. Most GYNs say your body gets used to the cycle of hormones and the side effects will even out after a few months, but even after being on it for over a year, I was still crying at commercials for fabric softener and my lbs were climbing the scale faster then an 8 year old boy climbs a rope in gym class. It was like my ass was getting off on the stretch marks. After going pretty much bat-shit crazy (see CGS), I bought a cosco-sized box of condoms and swore off hormones. Of course, once off the pill I became hornier than ever, and being newly single, I’d say that plan kinda backfired.

Let’s fast forward to the current predicament. I need to have great condomless sex, but I should not become pregnant. I live in a studio apartment and my car isn’t exactly reliable, not the best environment for child rearing. I don’t want to go back on the pill. Between now and when I originally went off it, I skipped 6 periods. Let me tell you, 6 months without a monthly visitor equal a lot of pregnancy tests and psychosomatic insanity. The sad part was, it would have had to be the Immaculate Conception because I was going through a bit of a dry spell. As a result I learned it’s impossible for your vibrator to induce a baby bump. My woman parts doc just loves my introspective questions. The thought of becoming a blubbering PMS case and gaining 10lbs in my boobs which are already too big (I know, not a common problem), combined with the possibility the pill had made me barren for half a year drove me to research other options. Meanwhile, the Polar Bear and I are exercising the “pull out” method, which I know doesn’t work if he gets prematurely ecstatic.

I took the webMD “what contraceptive is best for you” test online. Turns out, the “pull out” method is actually pretty effective when “practiced correctly,” but it’s not something that a woman could ever know for sure was “practiced correctly.” A barrier method was rated best for me, even though it’s not as effective as hormones by about 8%. I happen to think that 8% is a lot when the consequence is harboring a uterine parasite like a fetus for 9 months just to have it shoot out your twat after it grows to the size of a football. An IUD would be a dream if I had the funds, because I don’t even want to think about incubating offspring until I’m 32. But that’s not realistic for my current bank statement, the calendar thing is risky because sometimes I barely know what day of the week it is and there was all that stuff about taking your temperture and monitoring the mucus-ness of your discharge. Gross! And just the thought of a female condom is foul. So… diaphragm it is!

***Please note, this is a two-piece post, like a bikini. Come back on Wednesday to get the bottom half of the story. As always, comments and discussion on these hot topics are encouraged.

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