Hypothetical Thursdays

Okay, so I have a question for you – one which might send me to a particularly hot place in a little woven basket, but ah well. So I’m not sure how many of you out there are voyeurs (well, ecouterists, really) but I’d bet the farm it’s a good amount. It’s really amusing to me how funny people are about it, how ashamed they are that they could get turned on by the noises coming from the next bedroom instead of just some grainy porn from 1986. One of my exes used to talk all the time (rather publicly – like in the middle of bars) about how hot is was when he overheard his roommates going at it into the wee hours. I used to laugh a little about how shocked people were, I mean, yes a little uncouth to mention it in mixed company but I could relate, I mean who doesn’t? Yeah, you know them, they’re you’re roommates, it’s a little taboo, but so what? Pretty minor on the scale of kink but for some reason when you talk about getting turned on by people entirely platonic to you, you’ve crossed some kind of uncomfortable line. I mean, you can’t exactly walk out of your room in the morning, pass your roomie in the hall and be like “Hey, heard you guys last night. That was totally hot – I mean TOTALLY hot”, it would elicit and uncomfortable silence and them immediately wondering how far you took it. I mean were you just listening or were you…errr, never mind.

(see, if I put up a classical painting to represent eavesdropping that makes it OKAY)

Now, for the hypothetical. (Which I can neither confirm, nor deny, actually happened to me in San Francisco)

Let’s say you have these downstairs neighbors – a couple, they’re quite nice but there is also not one bit of them that you find attractive. In fact, the thought of a threesome is just about as far down the spectrum from HOT, as you can get. Although, you’re pretty sure they want one – but that’s beside the point. So one night through an open window to the courtyard downstairs – to their open window – you hear it. Muffled at first but increasing in volume as the minutes pass. You crane your neck a little and sit very still. You hear it. They’re totally and utterly going at it. So ugly people DO have sex! And HOT sex apparently!

Now. We’ll take a little poll, you can answer in the comments and don’t worry, there’s no shame here – it’s a happy place, with good energy (as they say in Cali).

So, what happens next?

a) It finally dawns on you WHO is having the sex and you get up and close the window and go to bed – vowing to go out the next night and yourself laid.

b) Sit very, very, still. What’s that? Oh yeah, it’s the sound of suspended disbelief. Somehow, you’re able to forget WHO is actually doing the nasty and pretend it’s Brad and Angelina down there. After that, it’s voyeuristic business as usual. Wash, rinse, repeat.

As for me? Well, if enough of you bitches step up to the plate and answer the poll I’ll oblige, but until then – your guess is as good as mine.

Smooches,
Lo

Recently I have become fascinated by the O face. You know, the face you make when you cum. I’m not entirely sure what my O face looks like but I imagine it expresses a pure state of bliss, harmony, and zen. I like to think it is my most beautiful moment, the moment when I emulate the ultimate in femininty. Think bluejays chirping, a warm yellow glow around my face, eyelashes fluttering with every spasm and as I smile a sparkle of light flashes from my teeth.

Unfortunately, I’m probably deluding myself.

I probably get that fucked up, you just stabbed me and I’m bleeding internally, look. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the primal orgasm face. The face that scientifically proves the missing link between ape and man. The same face you’d get if you were constipated for 5 days. Nope, not good.

I wonder if we can re-train our facial expressions. Like when someone goes to a voice coach to get rid of their accent. It takes an average of 21 days to break a habit so perhaps we could start a movement ~21 Days to a Happy O Face~. Or if that’s too difficult, I propose O Face Masks. You pop it on when you’re about to cum…yeah right, like I could do anything other than grab his ass firmly and encourage him to pound furiously in me at that precious moment.

I suppose we just have to accept this human quality and learn to love it. But I would enjoy orgasms more if I didn’t think my man wasn’t secretly laughing at me (or worse, filming me.) Better yet, hanging out with the guys and imitating me. ‘Cause guys have got to think it’s funny, if not disturbing. The thought has to run through their heads “Am I hurting her?” “Should I stop and ask her if she’s OK?” Or even worse, “God damn, I am never making her cum again…that shit’s fucked up.” Maybe he’s well-seasoned and is able to distinguish between O Face and O Fucking Hell Face. Perhaps there are subtle clues. The head tilted back=Good, reaching for the lamp to hit you on the head=Bad…same face, two totally different sensations.

You can see I’m deeply troubled by this. What to do? What to do?

Maybe it’s better just to keep the lights down low ’cause if I saw my man looking at me like this dude I’d be scarred for life.

But no, my poon isn’t stuffed to the brim with cock as we speak.

What does it mean that I so embrace the sexual side of life and do it with a smile? I have my theories, but people usually seem to think it means that I’m a cockhungry fuckwhore who likes it in every hole as often as possible.

Well, speaking on behalf of all people who talk about sexual subjects openly and honestly, I’d like to shock and awe you by letting you know that I’m not … not that there’s anything wrong with being a cockhungry fuckwhore who likes it in every hole as often as possible.

Yes, I really love sex. But not with everybody, and if I’m not with the right person, I’d rather not have it at all. And sure, I like certain kink. But there’s certainly some things I won’t do, like let a man piss on my face for example, and I have no interest in letting a man shove it in my vagina’s friendly next door neighbor.

But boy oh boy, am I cool with my cooch. I talk about it and think about and I think it’s just about the funnest thing ever! It can do so many cool things, and penises- forget it! Nuts too- so neat, funny, interesting. Good lord gennies never tire of their interestingness. No my friends, genitals are like snowflakes- each one so unique and special. And exploring one’s sexual experiences? Forget it! You can learn so many fascinating things about a person vis-a-vis their stories and sexual history. Anything from what kind of porn they like to their first sexual memory- it opens the doors to a magical place- exciting, vulnerable, important …

We live in a world where some women refuse oral sex, or so I’ve heard. These women are embarrassed of their vaginas, which are awesome. They are scared about someone being all up in there, the taste, smell, and look of it. They can’t just let go and enjoy the greatest thing that god has blessed woman with, and it ain’t childbirth, it’s the magic little happyspot- the world famous clitoris. This kind of shame is … a shame. Being open and comfortable with sex, your body, and yourself is vastly important beyond entertainment value.

Sex is the thread which binds all living things, binding all human beings at both the most primitive and sophisticated levels. Developing a cultural dialogue about sexual subjects improves the quality of civilization. (sex education, improvement in sexual pleasure due to relevant knowledge, people getting what they want out of sex, dealing with a abuse …)

And for fucks sake, it makes for many a good laugh.

Sex is fascinating. I live it, love it, breathe it, and spit it out. And there’s something in me that’s always been very comfortable doing so. But for those of you who jump to the conclusion that in order for me to be so comfortable with discussing sexual topics, I must be sluttin it up big time, a reality check is in order. Sites like girlspoke exist for a mighty good reason, and I’m glad that you’re here.

And for boys who are intimidated and think they need to step it up a notch to please the likes of gals like me, please, I beg you- just be yourself. I either like you just the way you are, or I don’t like you at all.

After a bit of a vacation, I’m going back to work this week. And aside from my new clothes, I’m not all too thrilled about the matter. Of course, the discrepancy is that I like my job. I mean, I sure as hell complain quite a bit about it, and I’ve started the rumor that I’m quitting “after this year” about three times of my five years of employment. But, at the end of the day–or year–I really like my job.

I spent, oh, about five minutes, thinking about my quandry and came up with the following logic for my love/hate relationship with that which brings me a bi-weekly paycheck. In fact, I’m sure it’s why just about anyone hates (but still kinda loves) their job. It’s the fucking people. I heard on NPR the other day (because I’m so incredibly pretentious) that somewhere around 90% of people would be happier with their careers if they didn’t have to deal with people. Granted, this would also mark said jobs as obsolete, without a client to serve, but whatever. The point is a good one. So I’m narrowing it down to a tangible enemy. I figure that if this doesn’t at least make me (and you–misery loveslovesloves company, right?) feel better, then at least I’ll create some fodder for when my identity is discovered by my superiors and I’m not-so-graciously tossed onto my proverbial ass.

Public Enemy #1: The Power Secretary

You probably heard about her clout during your first week on the job, and if you’re anything like me, you totally ignored all caveats to befriend her. As a result, none of your paperwork was ever returned on time, your requests for personal days were lost or forgotten, and you started getting a funny vibe every time you walked by her desk. This chick has fucked too many people to have a little pissant like you act superior to her administrative assistant duties. I mean, without her, the office would simply fall apart, right? The computer literate are hard to find these days people! She’s irreplaceable!

Public Enemy #2: Your Spineless Co-Worker

This fucking douchebag, male or female, makes your daily work a living hell. When there are obstacles to climb, he’s more content leaving well enough alone. When things need to be updated, he points out that colored pencils and Sharpie markers still make a beautiful chart. This dude will lay just beneath the radar for a predetermined amount of time. And then, as if he’d planned it all along, he’ll rise to the top with a single act of suggestion and will certainly be your boss by the end of the year. Motherfucker.

Public Enemy #3: That Chick–What Does She Even Do Here, Anyway?!

Everyone knows this woman works here, but no one is exactly sure what title she holds. Similar to the power secretary, she has a lot of pull around the office, and is even seen yelling at the bosses on a regular basis. She doesn’t give a shit about being fired, because, somehow, there’s a cannot-be-fired clause in her contract. Of course, you can’t fully avoid her, but do your best. When face-to-face with this Wonder Woman, it takes all your restraint not to tell her how amazing a bitch she really is. In all likelihood, she’s the ex-wife of a “Main Office” guy, or she has some serious blackmail over one of them.

Public Enemy #4: The Do-Gooder

This is typically a woman, as I’ve found in my experience. Characteristics include being entirely too cheery to be employed at this place, humming and singing showtunes as she wanders the halls, an inability to dress well, and a fiery temper that is seen on rare occasion at closed-door meetings. She will be a kissass for as long as she lives (at the workplace, of course–at home, she’s a miserable troll) and she will be the brunt of office bitching sessions for as long as you live. But remember, she likes it that way.

Public Enemy #5: The “Main Office” People

Last, and probably least, the head honcho(s) are meant to be disliked. I mean, with all the policies and paperwork and red tape you’ve got to deal with, they’re certainly to blame! You’re supposed to want to stick it to the man in a very non-sexual way! But often times you find yourself thinking he’s funny or the other guy is so stupid that it’d be illegal in most states to berate him. And then you remember the Power Secretary and the What Does She Do Here Chick, and your anger shifts. At least you know your enemies are close, right?

As you may recall from my previous tales of international bikini waxing, I had been reticent to put my pussy in the care of an English stranger. An impromptu trip to Los Angeles quickly saw me getting over my fears and with my legs spread eagle on the slab I had my first Brazilian in the Mother Country.

It was by far the worst bikini waxing experience of my life. Worse than the Russian anti-capitalist, worse than the homophobic prude and yes, even worse than the little woman who cut me.

I was grateful at first that my newly found waxist (recommended by a friend of a friend) could take me on such short notice, seeing that bikini season was sprung early on me due to the last minute trip to LALA land. Warning signs should have flashed in my pretty little head the moment she took me into the torture chamber, I mean epilation room. There were big bay windows over looking the street one storey below with a direct view into the apartment across the way. A big shower curtain in the middle of the room was there not only to provide “privacy” but also to split the room in half so that one part could be used for manicures. What the fuck? Who in their right mind would want to get their nails done in the same room where women get their pussy’s waxed? Unless of course stray pubic hairs in your French manicure is all the rage these days and I’m just out of the loop.

My waxist pulls the shower curtain/ room divider and tells me to get undressed and sit on the table with the towel draped across my nether regions. As I sit there, naked from the bum down, staring at this shower curtain in front of me, I realise it’s not completely shut and if I lean over just an inch I can see directly into the apartment across the street. Now I’m not too much of a prude so this didn’t really bother me until I turned around to see my ass staring back at me (and the neighbours apparently) in the mirror. Which explains why that one flat is so much more expensive than the others in the building – you just can’t beat the view.

The girl finally comes back into the room and starts going to work. I make the occasional sucking in of breath when the level of pain catches me by surprise. She makes vapid small talk that doesn’t take my mind off of the situation at hand (NB: A good bikini waxer will ask you interesting probing questions about yourself, ones that make you open up about how you believe if your parents were still married you’d probably be a spoiled brat, the names of your imaginary future children and what you really think of president Bush – thus insuring that you’re concentrating more on the conversation at hand than on the searing wax on your labia) My waxer proceeds to tell me, upon noticing my intake of breath that “You find this really painful, don’t you”? What kind of a fucking question is that? What woman doesn’t? It was at this point I knew that she was one of those dreaded waxers that have never actually had a wax job herself. They are smug and curious about how much it really hurts. Makes me want pour wax down the front of her starched spa pants so that she can finally know what she is making her customers go through and would then know not to ask stupid fucking questions like “You find this painful, don’t you”?
Perhaps she was a dominatrix at heart. I can imagine her continuing with a tirade of “Tell me how much it hurts Bitch. I’m gonna rip all those little pussy hairs out of you, one by one. Scream for me, slave.” In fact, I bet the neighbours across the street pay her extra to play it rough as they sit in their dark flat with binoculars drooling.

Towards the end of the waxing she mentions to me that I’ve started to bruise. Bruise people. In my ten years of getting bikini waxes I have never once had any bruising, bleeding yes, bruising? Never. I look down and sure enough my pussy and thighs have dark blue splotches all over and what appears to look like welts from a whip of some sort.

She proceeds to demonstrate what must have caused the bruises by practically punching my pussy saying, “ See? The bruises must have happened when I was doing this”. Gee, Ya think? Well then STOP DOING THAT.

Needless to say I did not go back there, in fact I stayed angry at my boyfriend for nearly a week and was forced to sarong it poolside in L.A.

I even told myself that I would never go through torture like that again. Yet somehow I found myself meeting a girlfriend at a beauty spa to get our wax on. The poor thing was a 25-year-old wax virgin and was taking the plunge by getting a Hollywood (the 12 year old look for those not in the know), which her current lover promised would be well worth it. I just couldn’t let her go on her own. I found a different Beauty Salon (this time recommended not by a friend of a friend, but an actually friend – and two of them at that).

Clean rooms without a view. Courteous non-pussy punching staff that keep your mind off the pain with good conversation and who do NOT ask if it hurts because they KNOW it hurts. And I can finally report that I have found my bikini waxer in England.
You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find, but you have no idea how happy I am now that I have.

My friend and I finished our rather pleasant waxing experience all considering with a shot of tequila and a couple of pints of guinness down at the old man’s pub. Damn good sex awaits us both which always deserves a drink or three.

LIVE from Montreal…it’s the estrogen shit show.

So recently I went off birth control. Yes, it’s true. Patrick Dempsey and I are trying to get pregnant. I know, I know, very exciting news, feel free to tell TMZ and the pressure off K-Fed and Brit, seriously I don’t mind.

Regardless, I guess I had no idea the horrible little balancing act one little pill can cause your precious little hormones to do. Stop taking it and poof! You’re a walking personification of Terms of Endearment tragedy. Seriously, I’ve never cried so much over stupid shit in my entire life. It’s positively cliché. It’s the kind of crying that just wells up and won’t be suppressed despite the fact that you’re not sad at all. For a mere second you’re overcome and then the next thing you know you’re looking around to make sure no one saw you because really, what the HELL were you crying about?

I have friends who refuse to take birth control because of how much it fucks with your body and I’m beginning to agree. If it weren’t for the prospect of tiny little Lo’s running around spewing vitriol and baby formula in equal amounts, I’d probably swear it off for good. Because what else, what else I ask you, could be responsible for THIS. THIS is a list of the shows I have cried during in the last week, and it’s an incomplete list at that. I don’t know what’s more abhorrent, the fact that I’m actually watching them or the fact that I’m CRYING about them.

Exhibit A: Grey’s Anatomy

Now, this isn’t so bad, I mean it’s designed to be a tear jerker for twenty-something chicks looking hopelessly for their Dr. McDreamy, but seriously? I’ve watched five episodes and cried during EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. Christina stole Burke’s surgery cap and I lost it, just fucking lost it. Doesn’t she know he can’t operate without it? Doesn’t she know that Izzy’s little man friend will DIE if Burke’s not at the top of his game? Heartless bitch. And forget about the way that McDreamy looked at Meredith, I mean just forget it.

Exhibit B: 20/20

Now this one is also semi-defensible, there was a story about a Mormon family with eight bazillion kids and the last two puppies of the litter were twins with allegedly fatal heart abnormalities. One of Christ’s little soldier’s had to have a heart transplant which he got from another baby who had died due to suffocation. SERIOUSLY people? Doesn’t John Stossel KNOW I’m suffering from an over abundance of estrogen already. You gotta lay on the terminally ill babies too? What. The. Fuck.

Exhibit C: Sex and the City

Poor Aidan. Oh my god he LOVES her. Can’t she see he’s the perfect man? No, all she does is think about her shoes and her need for horribly contrived voice-overs. I’m sitting here single and alone and there are men out there pining after women who don’t deserve them. Sob, gasp, choke, sob. What a world, what a world.

P.S. I decided that a picture of this guy was much more entertaining and/or stimulating than a picture of the four ho’s. That he was a minor character in the show at large and entirely absent from the episode I watched, matters not.

Exhibit D: Miami Ink

More dead children. If Kat von what’s-her-face inks one more person with a disturbingly accurate yet heartbreaking portrait of their dead kid I’m going to kill myself.

Exhibit E (a.k.a. nail in the coffin): Charmed (yes that’s right, the one with the witches)

Yes, I do on occasion (albeit very bored occasions) watch this show and no I don’t date guys who play D&D in their spare time, although I’m sure they’re very nice. But this is a show about SISTERS, you see. I have sisters, I love my sisters and here these women are and they’re fighting every day for their LIVES people – against EVIL okay, EVIL. But they’re in it TOGETHER no matter how many time Piper gains ten pounds or what offensive color Page dyes her hair, TOGETHER you hear? And they’ve got all these powers and responsibilities and all they want to do is LIVE their lives and all they want to do is have babies with white lighters and date Nick Lachey, is that too much to ask? They didn’t ask for this! It’s not their fault they’re Charmed!

Deep Breath.

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am one hundred and ten percent guilty of being a total fucking nutjob, due, in large part, to the overabundance of free agent estrogen running around in my body pumping out eggs like Karl Rove pumps out propaganda. It’s not easy being a walking fertility clinic and I’ll tell you what, there is another mitigating circumstance. Not only do you want to cry all over yourself at varying points in the day but every male that walks by, every phallic object you see, quickens the pulse and provokes SERIOUSLY dirty thoughts. How’s that for a fun little contradiction. If I were to have sex right now (and my number is 415-897…) I would probably inexplicably cry in the middle of it. So for now, I’m keeping my skirt (and hand) tucked neatly between my legs, and tuning into McDreamy until my body stops trying to conjure little Lo’s with every waking thought. Oh the horror, the horror.

One of the more dangerous things you can do is go grocery shopping on an empty stomach. I know for myself it’s a particularly perilous situation. I fill my cart with all kinds of cheeses, cookies, ice cream, frozen pizzas…all things that require minimal cooking time so I can reach in the bag on my way home and start my gorging. Of course once my foodfest has satiated my cravings I’m left with about twenty pounds of dorito/pringles/entemanns/oreo crap in my kitchen to devour over the following days. Bad. Very bad.

Now, I’m sure you would agree that sex is much like food. (And sex with food is pretty damn hot too.)

So let me be the first to warn you. Never, I mean never, go sex toy shopping whilst horny. This is even more dangerous than the previously mentioned food/empty stomach dilemma. Allow me to explain. You see, food generally goes in one orifice (depending on what you’re doing with the food.) But sex toys. Well there are plenty more orificial uses and oh so many toys for all those places. You could end up entirely plugged up, tied up, and completely over-satiated. Not to mention how damned expensive some of those things are.

Here’s my suggestion: Do your sex toy shopping while hungry and your grocery shopping while horny. That way you’ll grab your toys as quickly as possible in order to go eat and your groceries will be so darn healthy with all those cucumbers, zucchini, carrots and margarine spreads.

When I’m in a man’s life, I like to be the sexiest thing in it. I mean right in the core of his mind, like my tits are digging a tunnel into his cerebral cortex. I want him to want me in the worst way. One of the hottest things ever is when a guy stays stiff as a ketchup bottle while he’s making kisses on my sugarpuff. To me that’s the truest sign of his desire. So I’ll put some work into getting to know what he’s into, what his fantasies are, and what kinds of superfun we can have. It’s sooo awesome to drive a guy crazy. God, that look in their eyes when you are doing some crazy jedi shit on their crotch and they can’t control a thing- it’s priceless as all hell.

And so yeah, I find out a guy likes to be tied up, get out the handcuffs.
He likes skirts a lot, well looka me, I ain’t got no underpantsies under this thang and - woah I’ve just dropped something on the floor.

But goddamn it all to fucking hell when he has race fetishes.
So many guys look at Asian porn. I had an ex who looked up every small country in Asia just to get some variety in his results- like Cantonese and Laotian bitches all up in his search fields (I was with him for a long time, a girl’s gonna see some google history at some point).

And that just drives me crazy.

I mean- go ahead, wrap me in saran wrap and throw jello on the nape of my neck,

Ask me to call you a naughty naughty boy while breakdancing and wearing nothing but a men’s tie,

Fine.

But I can’t be Asian for you.
I CAN’T! I am half Dutch and half Jew (I think my Jew people are from Minsk or something like that). People will think I am Swedish, Russian or even resembling Siberian Husky, but Asian- never!

Stop fetishising races, men. It gets on my nerves and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like looking at Victoria’s Secret catalogues. A guy looks at that, then he looks at you- and it’s all like “aw, you’re trying” … I don’t like it when there’s stuff I can’t be, like astronauts. Fuck those guys.

HOLLYWOOD, AP — Whether it’s a dangerously low-cut dress, a wet t-shirt, a shirt with large arm holes, a bikini that doesn’t fit your new implants, or a child that enjoys a game of peek-a-boo, this season’s trend demands to see your nipples! In fact, the more familiar the general public is with your areola, the more good fortune shall be bestowed upon you. Just take a lesson from the pages of our beloved celebrity icons. Some have taken better advantage of this trend than others, but the bottom line is that it doesn’t matter how deformed, small, or abnormally hued your nipple may be! Just let it be seen! Finally, Hollywood has found a common ground for its ever-changing hierarchy of hot and trendy women. Of course, for all you men out there, apparently the pot-belly is the new gigantic cock.

Ok, all sillyness aside, I am sitting here trying to remember the last time I even came remotely close to accidentally flashing a nipple. And, aside from my bedroom romps or that on time at Hogs and Heifers, I cannot think of a single occassion. Doesn’t anyone remember a time when Hollywood was classy?

We all like gifts. It feels good to give them…it’s mighty nice receiving them. But let’s stop giving the wrong gifts. And let’s, by all means, quit buying into the holiday prescribed gift-giving fiasco. Allow me to present the following list of gift giving no-nos:

Christmas/Hannukah: I’ve never understood why adults give each other gifts on these holidays. These holidays are for children. If there are no children in your immediate family then find a friend with kids and thrown down a nice drum set so the parents never invite you over again. Otherwise please do not spend hours running around the mall only to find 10 identical candle/soap gift baskets you give to everyone you know because we will re-wrap them and give them back to you next year. If you feel you must spend money on me send a donation to Doctors Without Borders or an “adopted” child from a 3rd world country ala Sally Struthers.

Flowers on a date: Don’t get me wrong, flowers are nice and all. But they DIE. After a couple of days (especially if you haven’t called cause you think you need to wait 3 days) those flowers will be rotting in a vase on my coffee table. The stench will be unbearable and will forever be associated with you. Unless you’re going to hire someone to show up at my apartment every couple of days to replace the flowers, remember that I will always psychologically attribute drooping wilted stinky things with you.

Jewelry: There are so many mistakes to be made with jewelry that it’s best to avoid the entire thing. First of all, you could buy the wrong jewelry (say, gold instead of platinum…etc.) which your lady will take as a message that you don’t know her at all, oh ouch. Or you could buy her a diamond necklace after only 2 months of dating, put it in a small box that is mistaken for a ring box and completely freak her out to the point that she dumps you right then and there.

These are only a few examples but I think you get the point. Don’t buy me gifts, unless you saw something and thought of me outside of any holiday context. Just treat me well and give me a good poking once in awhile. Is that too much to ask?