It is starting to get HOT over here on the east coast. I am sitting here in my apartment, clothes virtually melting off, sipping an ice-cold beer, wondering how the fuck to compensate for my 85 year-old, inefficient air conditioner. And my complex’s communal pool is simply out of the question. You know what kids do in those things.
So, I’m left to my own devices and hoping that maybe you can help me out. Nothing seems to work. Look, these are some of the techniques I’ve tried thus far:

Being the sweet-tooth girl I am, I started with the ice cream. This only gave me some temporary satisfaction though; before long I was still hot and now sticky.

This time I ventured again to the freezer, but pulled out my ice cube trays instead. If I just suck on them, my jaw starts to hurt. Thinking I was doing something wrong, I put a few in a bowl and sat on them. This was actually quite nice, but immediately started getting me hot in other ways.

Eventually, I opted to let them melt against my neck, but this just got me all wet. My shirt, that is. Soon, it was on to the next trick…

The classic cold shower! Certainly this would cool me off enough to remove the sweat from my fingertips.

Well, as you can see, I have some unique showering systems installed at my apartment. Let’s just say that this also left me more hot and bothered than anything else. I was quickly running out of ideas. I had only one thought left, and that was only something I’d heard from a friend of a friend; you know the deal. But I was desperate. I could taste the sweat on my lips, feel in running down my chest.

So I went to my purse and pulled out some mints.

Of course, it was too late before I realized that they were cinnamon. I had a mouthful, and this girl was taught that it’s just plain rude to spit. So, I sucked and, eventually, swallowed that hot mouthful of candy.

And now, I’m still sitting here. Totally hot and completely bothered that I just can’t seem to cool down.

PS If you’re looking for the site I talked about this morning on Playboy Radio, it is www.tellyoursexstory.com. The boys were mispronouncing it at times, but who could blame them when they had me on the phone talking about wet cunts?

Ok, so I’m not all “sex sex sex blah de blah” but I am the kind of girl who can appreciate the beauty of a well-formed nutsack. You know- not too saggy or wrinkly, not too big or too small, but rather a good solid mouthful of tender skin covered repro-organs.

That’s why for my first article on girlspoke, I’d like to share some special things I learned from my fancy job. I hope you enjoy, and perhaps take the time to think about the topics discussed herein.

How I Learned to Love the Cock
AKA My Job In Gay Porn

by Heather Fink

As a kid I remember the excitement of unexpected bare boobies in a movie. Woah. Look at those. This must mean sexy stuff is about to happen. I empathized for those teenage boy characters when they were about to score. As they spied on some woman mysteriously showering nude in whatever coming of age story I was watching, my anticipation grew right along with them. It’s a simple formula really, boobies mean sex. Female nudity means sex. Hot naked women are something to want.

In a society that historically caters to men, it’s easy to forget that we chicks are consuming the same oversexed hype as the guys. That just might be why there’s so many bi-curious college co-eds going wild on each other’s crotches. Ok mainstream media: we get it. Naked chicks rule. Seeing my own body in fancy panties is a turn on. I like sex and all, but visually, that mess of clumsy skin and parts they call cock and balls had never been something I wanted a solid eyeful of.

That was until I took my job in gay porn.

There they were: splendidly lit cock and balls in all their grandeur. On my first day, I sorted through images of naked guys from our new movie, Fire Island Cruising 7. I had to pick the best pictures from extensive photosets of about 12 different naked men. Smoldering, sparkling eyes, well-defined abs, male genitalia shining in the warm sun … And since it’s gay porn, eventually these guys start placing their privates in each other’s cavities.

Now this can be problematic. I’m a straight chick. I like it when penises go inside vaginas. But by all means; let one man make love to another man’s boy pussy. It’s a beautiful thing. But my fantasy stops where the gay sex starts. That doesn’t mean there’s not plenty to enjoy. I wholeheartedly enjoy the images of really hot naked men before my eyes.

That’s the point of fantasy. You take only what you want. Go ahead filth consumers: unabashedly adapt works of pornography to your desires. It’s ok. You don’t have to worry about compromising the substantive message of a work of porn. We smut peddlers won’t be offended.

Days and weeks passed as I did my part in bringing the world the very best gay porn I could. My life went on and in my personal life I had my share of boys to date and asses to tap. Ah, asses to tap. I’ve always had an appetite for men. What has two thumbs and loves oral?
This chick right here. I love it when a guy goes down on me. A significant amount of my free time is spent ensuring that it happens. Whether it’s casual hookups or a committed relationship, I am simply not a whole person without having my beautiful flower in someone’s mouth with some level of frequency.

But something changed in my personal pursuits during this time. Suddenly, during moments of arousal, my mind was filled with new thoughts. Thoughts of hard manparts danced like sugarplums in my head. Hey cock, what’s up? What are you doing in my brain?

Oh wait a sec. I know. This one is easy.

Cock, sweet cock! I am exposed to beautiful images of you all day long. Of course I love you! For it is you, cock, that gives me a reason to get up in the morning. It is you, cock, that covers my health insurance and provides prescription drug coverage. Thank you cock, for copay. But even moreso, thank you, cock for looking great in a well done portrait.

In my private relations, I don’t ordinarily soak up a heavy eyeful before descending upon the manjunk before me. The majority of my cock consumption has taken place among dim lighting. And let’s not forget how fucked up it would seem if I stared at a guy’s crotch for any prolonged period of time before touching it.

It all makes sense. Boobies mean sex. But that’s when your psyche is dominated by pop culture. As my daily life is now decorated in wieners galore, boobies don’t mean sex any more. No. Now cock means sex. Now, when prurient interests dominate, I think about a man’s sparkling jewels more readily than I think about feeding a guy my sticky kitty. In fact, I’ve grown to love the cock, and I think about it all the time.

Working in gay porn is essentially a well-done private ad campaign for dick. And it proves, at least in this little mind, imagery affects sexual desire. Media ignores male beauty. Women are objectified and hypersexualized while men are treated like human beings. It’s about time that we treat cocks like the pieces of meat that they are.

If you’re a straight woman who wonders why she enjoys seeing naked women, or perhaps you’re less than enthusiastic about blowing your lover, let me pose you a little query: How much cock have you taken a good hard look at lately? Chances are it’s very little. I prescribe that you take a heavy dose in the privacy of your laptop computer.

(PS- sometimes there’s free pictures on my boss’ blog. lucasblog.com, just doin my part to help the sistahs out …)

For Immediate Release

HOBOKEN, New Jersey/Communicable Press Office/May 29, 2006—In a late night press conference, Girlspoke dot com announced the arrival of fresh blood, none other than Heather Fink, hailing from that quaint city across the Hudson River, Hoboken NJ. She is famous for her comedy shows and tireless attempts to expose the softer side of gay porn. According to Meme, co-founder of girlspoke, “This is a huge coup, we’ve already sent her a set of girlspoke panties.”

It is reported that Jenna has placed an order for an additional weekly case of wine and Heather was last seen packing up her porn collection and hopping on the PATH Train headed over to Girlspoke Central. The world waits with bated breathe for the new arrival.

Rizzo was rumored as having said “Thank god, someone new to take the pressure off of me.”

In other news, don’t forget to pick up some of the official “Welcome Heather!” raffle tickets. Winner gets a chance to pay full price to one of Heather’s comedy shows in NYC.

Dearly beloved,

What a day. I wake up, wondering why Simone is actually allowed in our bed PRE fucking OP (but whatever), annoyed that Betty has not cleaned up the kitchen, giggling at Casey’s bare ass sticking out of the covers, wondering why Lo is always gone in the morning, and fully not surprised by Meme’s incoherence as I climb over her and out of our heart shaped bed.

After showering, flirting with our friends on MySpace, and scouring the Internet for more compliments, I returned to find the rest of the girls puttering about our flat. Except for Meme, that is.

I started bitching at her to get the fuck up and post in a timely manner, you know, for the fans. But when there was no biting remarks followed by warnings of my imminent bodily harm, I realized that our Meme was in need of some medical attention. Groaning (not in the good way, mind you) and smelling like an abandoned brewery, I tossed our resident waif over my shoulder and sprinted to the hospital, her bare ass next to my distraught face the whole way.

Long story short, Meme is now resting comfortably in the heart shaped bed. All I can reveal is that there was alcohol involved, perhaps a sailor or two, and the follwing recovery directions from the sexy doctor in the emergency room:

Using her new notepad and magic marker, Meme wanted me to tell you all that she’s doing fabulously. She also wants to tell that guy from Fleet Week that she’d totally call if she weren’t in such a pickle at the moment. Let us all learn from Meme’s mistakes and have a happy and safe Memorial Day Weekend! How will you show your appreciation for our men in uniform?

Thieves and Cheapskates

So, angry Lo is back. All it took was a small injection of victim-hood and a sharp tug at my wallet to reinvigorate my vitriol.

Let’s start with the lesser of two evils. I’m sure everyone has had this experience but it never fails to invite my wrath. One of my least favorite things to do is go out to a huge group dinner with a majority of people I don’t necessarily know, or count as friends. Inevitably, some cheap ass motherfucker ends up screwing the people who have enough social grace to make up the difference without crassly yelling at the rest of the table to take the fucking crowbar out and cough up the rest they owe. It’s bad enough you’re making polite conversation with your friend’s socially awkward co-worker but now you have to pay for his gay-ass appletini too? What the fuck is that? Unless you are hot and I’m trying to get in your pants, I’m certainly not in the business of buying you drinks.

My favorite though is when people look at the bill, add up what they had, put in a 10% tip, conveniently forget to factor in tax and look at you like you’re crazy to ask them for two more fucking dollars. I maintain my mantra from my days of waitressing, “If you can’t afford to tip, stay the fuck home and eat ramen, bitch”. The list goes on - The beady eyed starving artist who drinks water and goes down on your calamari like-a-Tijuana-hooker but refuses to throw in any money- The well-paid, tight ass financial analyst who busts out her calculator and change purse when the bill comes around – The emaciated blonde who orders four Ketel One martinis and foie gras but at the end of the night says sweetly “why don’t we just split it 12 ways”, blink, blink; as you sit with your Caesar salad and house red.

I have sat idly by and watched my money slip away; money earned sitting under fluorescent lights and drinking unicorn blood to make it until five o’clock, money earned surfing craigslist until my eyes bleed and sitting on soul-sucking conference calls. This will not stand, this aggression against my wallet. The time has come for me to be that mercenary bitch at the end of the table calling everybody on their shit and watching them cringe and sheepishly reach into their wallets. So much for an enjoyable dining experience.  Little known fact; if everyone puts in a dollar or two more than they owe, no one will have to throw down an extra ten. Common sense and a little bit of class goes a long way. Bitches.

On to the second retarded situation of the week where someone tries to rip me off.

Considering I’ve lived in San Francisco for two years, Boston for three and traveled extensively in Europe, I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve never been robbed, held at knifepoint, pick-pocketed, or sold into sexual slavery (damn). Well, on Monday my lucky streak was decidedly broken.

I was sitting innocently on the F-train, head bopping along with my ipod and discreetly reading Playgirl. A normal afternoon commute.  Suddenly the train pulls to a stop and this punk-ass 15 year old kid reaches over and tries to RIP my ipod out of my hands as he makes a beeline for the door. In one quick rush of adrenaline I hold on to my ipod like it was my first-born child and manage to get it back from him, all the while bellowing “HEY!!! FUCK YOU!!!” as he practically tore eight different tendons from my arm.

Mother-FUCKER.

I sat back down, not quite believing that I managed to hang on to my ipod and also slightly embarrassed that I just screamed an obscenity at the top of my lungs in the middle of a public place. Shaking with adrenaline, shock and fucking FURY I sat there on the train not quite believing what had just happened.

That little fucking shit. Seriously. It’s one thing to jack a box of Twinkies from Walgreens, but quite another to deprive someone of Jeff Buckley when they really need to wallow. I realize it’s a slippery moral slope but fleecing corporate America doesn’t quite give me that self-righteous burning that stealing from your fellow man does. The little punk ass bitch on the F-train wasn’t exactly Jean Valjean, he was trying to steal my ipod so he could by another ounce of cheeba and deck himself out in the latest Fubu, so I don’t have a lot of sympathy.

Clearly I’m going to have to borrow some of Meme’s “equipment” to carry around with me on a daily basis. Whips, chains, and dog collars can have a use outside the bedroom - see Meme? I suppose there’s a silver lining, not only am I a tiger in the sack but apparently I’m no shrinking violet in the face of thievery either. Ha.

So, here I’m sitting in my GVillage basement flat giving myself a pedicure, and I got to thinking about Meme and Jenna and Lo and Casey and Betty, et al. I could focus on any one of them. But, hey, let’s dish ‘em all.

Now, Meme is my best friend, but she needs taking down a peg or two. She wrote about yelling off the balcony to the boys passing by. Well, who do you think she was copying? Moi, lil’ Simone. Yeah, we had finished off our third bottle of 3-buck Chuck (Charles Shaw wine at Trader Joe’s – you gotta try it). I was waving my panties around my head doing my, “hello, sailor,” when Meme stepped out and followed suit. That girl wouldn’t get in nearly as much trouble if it weren’t for Simone.

Jenna, Jenna, Jenna: she says that she’s not going to bitch and then goes ahead and does. She is gorgeous, all these girls are, but she really needs to be told that. A lot. As far as her yoga moves – where do you think she learned that? From Simone, that’s who. I’ve been known for my gymnastic sexual moves all up and down the Eastern seaboard. Ask any teamster.

Now, when Lo writes about hot sex with the Costa Rican and then, says, “Oh it was all a fantasy,” don’t you believe that last part. Lo is a slag in a well-fitting suit. And her rants are real. That girl can go on for 2 hours and 45 minutes without even taking a breath. Of course, she brings most of it on herself. She’s even admitted that. But, she didn’t know how to rant until Simone taught her how. She used to be shy. Can you imagine? Lo used to be the quiet one in the corner. Well, “shag on!” I say.

Casey is always going on about striking out, but don’t you believe it for a minute. That girl hits homers all the time. It’s just that she’s decided that she has to field her own balls, if you get my drift and if I haven’t carried the baseball analogy too far. Casey needs to look around the bandstand and see how many of those sailors are cheering her on. I’m working on getting her out there.

Betty tries to come across as a sweet thang, but let me tell you, the girl is hot. I happen to know a few things about Betty that would curl the hair on her boyfriend’s head. As a matter of fact, never trust girls who come across sweet, ‘cause you know something? They do come across, again and again and again. As a matter of fact, Betty and I first met at the bottom of a mosh pit. Wotta night!

I just realized that I know more about these girls than anyone else. They are the wild bunch, believe me. But, without Simone, they’d be the mild bunch.

Rock on.

I feel terrible that I didn’t point this out sooner, but it’s better late than never. Plus, my valid excuse is that it’s really distracting when you’re living with a group of scantily-clad, perpetually buzzed girls who are prone to pillow fighting and spooning.

But, you see, we’re girls. We crave your attention and praises. Me especially. And, quite honestly, I feel a bit neglected here lately. On the other hand, I know how everyone hates a lecture, so I’m not going to bitch. Instead, I’ve come up with a nice compromise.

Here’s the deal. I want you to leave comments because it makes me feel hot. In fact, on occassion, your comments actually get me hot. To facilitate this change, I am providing a post that only calls for your words. Feast your eyes on this visuals and respond to the best of your ability by providing a caption for one, two, or all of them. To play fair, I’ve come up with some captions myself.

And here’s the kicker:

The hottest, funniest comment wins Jenna’s digits! So are you ready to play?

• Yoga class with Jenna has done wonders for my weekly tea parties!

• Jenna told us that this stuff was going to be warm and delicious!

• Why Jenna has been banned from theme parks across the nation.

You guys got the swing of it? Remember, the hotter and the funnier, the better. And the more likely to get a first hand listen at my morning voice.

I bought some condoms
And a bottle of liquor
So come on over

I love having sex
Getting spanked is not bad too
Meow mmm meow

This is stupid, right?
I know, but you’re reading it.
Ok, so bite me.

So it seems your dear Lo has gotten herself into a bit of a pickle. I’ve been sitting here for the last couple of days tossing around ideas for rants and have worked myself into quite a fucking tizzy. Every single god damn idea I come up with is going to offend or piss people off that I care about. Under the banner of anonymity I have no problem being a total unrelenting bitch, but when it comes to hurting those I care about I have a conscience. I also have a dangerously low tolerance for conflict and emotional fall out, all of which have the potential for occurring should I post some of the shit that rolls around in my head.

Yes, yes, it’s my own damn fault. Call it narcissism and a persistent need for validation but basically I’ve told everyone I fucking know about Girlspoke; including but not limited to my friends, my Ex (before he was my Ex of course), my MOTHER, my aunts, my sisters and my co-workers. Awesome. Talk about painting yourself into a tight little corner. Sticking to generalized commentary about the male gender, ripping on reality TV, and bitching about ugly purses only gets you so far. At some point it has to get personal. Newly single in a city full of gay guys, metrosexuals and painfully clueless straight guys gives me plenty of fodder, right? Right. BUT I CAN’T fucking talk about it. It’s maddening. There must be some solution, can I block IP addresses? Can I change my name? Can I fake my own death? All of these have been taken into consideration I promise you. If you can come up with another way for me to spew my venom without,

a) being disowned
b) being fired
c) hurting/angering/provoking the ex-boyfriend
d)having to find new friends

-I’d be very grateful.

In the meantime, here are a few of the posts that you’re missing out on (and why) until you can persuade me to fake my own death, move to Ecuador and write anonymously about shagging the locals.

1) That hot steamy sex I had last night with the Costa Rican guy whose only English words were “harder” and “mamasita”. I can’t write about that mostly because it didn’t happen, but also because it would provoke my Ex’s next heartbreaking blog about HIS sexual escapades, which really I can’t handle, and lastly because my Mom would send me an embarrassingly large box of condoms from Costco with a note reminding me that my grandmother has the internet and she’s not afraid to use it.

2) Raging diatribe against the lesbian-friend drama in my life, including why NO I will not go with you to buy a strap-on before we go to the “tranny march”. This will most likely follow with a contradictory rant questioning why it’s so easy for lesbians to confess their love after the third date but if you try to leave a tooth brush at your boyfriend-of-six-month’s house, he looks at you like you have a raging case of herpes. If I wrote this post my lesbian posse would either stop inviting me to those really fun dyke dance parties or lock me in a room and make me listen to Tegan and Sarah for eight continuous hours.

3) Rant about the complete inanity of my job, detailing the ways in which I successfully do NO work but yet am praised on a constant basis. Including, of course, a breakdown of hours spent blogging, reading raunchy blogs, and IM’ing. Main reason I can’t write this? I don’t want to get Dooced. Need I say more?

4) Story about that time I was so drunk I ALMOST had a threesome with my friend M. and her hot boy-toy Tim. My extended family is ALREADY secretly convinced I am a lesbian simply by virtue of the fact I moved to San Francisco and play on an all women’s soccer team peppered with lesbians. No need to add fuel to the fire. Really.

There is of course more where that came from but this whole “not censoring yourself” thing lacks practical application, unfortunately. So basically, I hoped you enjoyed a brief glimpse into the blogs you’re NOT reading, comfort yourself with the fact that not only did I expose myself to one scathing phone call – but four!! What’s left to do when you’ve painted yourself into a corner? Shoot yourself in the foot, and hope someone will throw you a bottle of vodka.

P.S. Hi Mom!!! oh and don’t worry, I already have lots of condoms left over from the last time I……uh, never mind.