Guess what??? We won an award. I know what you’re thinking, crazy stuff…who would give those bitches an award? Well, it seems the readers of Glam did.

Does this mean we’ll become famous internet stars? Probably not. But if we do we’ll always remember the little people who made it possible. We love each and every one of you (especially those who voted for us.)

Now imagine me in some swanky gown up on stage, or better yet the entire cast and crew of girlspoke in matching sequined D&G backless dresses. Hot. “I’d like to thank all the brilliant GS writers for never letting up and bringing daily doses of smut, sarcasm, wit, and debauchery. I’d also like to thank the readers, especially those that leave comments (and especially those that leave mean and nasty comments that make us all giggly and warm in our panties.) And finally I’d like to thank my mom who reads the site everyday and has abided by the no judgment / no comment rule. And I promise I won’t let all this fame go to my head, nor will I let the paparazzi get pics of my cookie as I exit the limo (at least not for free.) Thank you.”

Now, I’m off to go party with all my cool new celebrity/jet-setting friends.

The love of your life. The one you thought you could never live without. Until he broke up with you and sent you into a three month long depression from which you never fully bounced back. And even though you’ve been over for more than two years, the sound of his voice leaving a message on your machine still makes your heart leap. The thought of seeing him still makes you excited.

Then you get a call that changes everything. The call where he says, “Hi there, I used to love you but last weekend I got married to someone else.”

This hasn’t happened to me yet. But it happened to someone I’m close to. I can’t lie and pretend that I don’t dread my turn coming. Putting a big huge grin on my face, choking out the words, “Oh really? That’s. . . .wonderful. I’m so. . . .happy for you.” I’ll pretend for a minute that I’m just now getting over hating him. For a moment I’ll pretend that we’re still friends and that his happiness means something to me.

It would be great if we could all come out of relationships with a smile and promises of good tidings, but unfortunately most of them end with harsh words and tendencies toward anorexia in the following weeks and months. And no matter how far I’ve come, I’m still not prepared to meet the news that he’s met someone new. Even if I happen to be dating someone wonderful (which I am). He broke up with me. And Brandy’s law says that this means he should never get to be happy.

My first concert ever was to see The Cure. I borrowed my parents’ car in 11th grade, loaded up my two friends, and headed to Albany on a school night. Not before, of course, piling on the eyeliner and collecting some excellent mix tapes for our road-trip soundtrack.

Maybe a year later, I found out that Radiohead was playing at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Excellent news! The problem was that the concert was the next night, sold out, and I naturally had no tickets. Solution? Grab my two friends again, pile on the grungy-punk clothing, and hop on the train to Grand Central. That’s what scalpers are for! Unfortunately, I also learned what “friends” are for that evening…for bailing out on the concert plans when they realized that the tickets were $80 from the man in the greasy coat. I had no choice but to pay for the two freeloaders in addition to myself, but at the time I couldn’t care less. I was getting in to see my future husband, Thom Yorke. What’s $240 to a teenager in heat love?!

Being kids on a mission, we were there way early and had tons of time to score excellent seats. But this is where my complaint begins (there’s always one lurking below the surface). We sat through Teenage Fanclub, the opening act, a band that I wouldn’t appreciate until years later, just waiting for the main event. There were whispers through the crowd about Courtney Love and Marilyn Manson sitting in the balcony or something, but who cared? Ok, maybe we did a little bit, but we were fucking high school kids!

When Thom and company finally took the stage, I was completely besides myself. I’m certain that if I needed to undergo a psychiatric evaulation at that exact moment, I’d be diagnosed as clinically insane. The humungous speaker on my left side kept the music vibrating through my bones and drowned out any possible sing-along I was attempting.

But then the couple arrived.

The dude was leading the way, but he wasn’t exactly the type of guy that commaded a room. He was on the short side and had a very clean-cut hair-do. Once he shoved his way past me and my friends and planted himself, and his female counterpart, directly in front of me, I wanted to stomp him into the floor. Now, mind you, I was a freshman to this whole scene really, and, therefore, could not be held fully accountable for what I was about to do. The fanaticism took control, and I only knew one existence…to get that motherfucker out of my place. This was, after all, my spot on the GA floor. How dare he shove in front of me for the better view?! I imagine that my shock could only equal that of a kid in Disney World being pushed aside for the front seat of the Batman Rollercoaster after having just waited for 3 hours. And then being told that the park was closing. Or maybe a fat guy on the beer line being shoved aside by some frat kid as the beer truck gets tapped out. You get the fucking picture. I was irate, at the least.

Like a wave, the fury too control. After tapping the guy on the shoulder, asking him to move, telling him to move, and then screaming in his ear that he move, I was greeted by his oblivious smiles. Silly boy thought he could ignore me away! Bah! I think at that very moment, the band started playing Planet Telex or something. That anger blended with my bouncing excitement and I began to jump up and down to the song, using the man’s shoulder as a balance for my leaping. Soon, he became a leverage so I could project myself even further into the air. The entire time, he did not budge. What’s more is that he never even turned around to tell my highschooled punk ass to grow the fuck up or he’d bully me out of the place. Later in life, I’d wonder about the chick and why she’d date such a spineless bastard.

Anway, I still love going to concerts, but the idea of General Admission gives me flashbacks of that evening in Manhattan over ten years ago. But whatever. I’m a big girl now, and my permanent scowl typically scares would-be spot-grabbers away before they ever think of striking. Besides, there’s nothing better than dressing up for the evening and pretending, for a moment, that you could possibly score the lead singer. He’s totally going to see me singing along to every song and be so fully impressed. Plus I’m sure he thinks my shirt is hot, and OH MY GOD, he totally just fucking made eye contact…! His people will be coming to find me after the show to invite me backstage, I’m sure…I better linger at the bar…possibly by the back entrance…

*I know, my guy wasn’t a chick with a “pom-pom head,” but that picture cracks me up.

My sexual history is a sordid affair. I’ve had my fair share of good/bad/mediocre experiences. Some of them have even transcended from physical acts to sentimental triggers. Don’t worry my therapist knows all about it.

One thing you should know about me is that I love music. I have a tendency to create playlists in my mind when I’m dating someone that usually end up on my iPod. You should see my iPod, you wouldn’t be able to find the music until you knew which guy it was listed under. So I decided it was high time I narrowed that shit down to one playlist, I think I’m gonna call it my “Sexual Soundtrack”, or “My greatest mistakes set to music.”

Track 1

My first boy-on-girl experience happened in the 5th grade. I blame it on peer pressure, all my friends had been kissed except for me. My poor virgin lips needed to be popped. So I set my sights on a boy named Julio. His was so cute. He didn’t speak a word of English so I got out my Spanish-English dictionary and wrote him a love letter which I translated word-for-word. Unfortunately I found out later that it was completely indecipherable, what did I know about conjugations and all that crap. I told my friends the plan, which had my letter been legible, Julio would’ve also known about. I was going to meet him on the schoolyard for our first kiss. My friends gathered and I cornered Julio near the ballbox. He was taken completely by surprise as I planted one on him. It was, in hindsight, the stiffest kiss I had ever had…and not stiff in the good way.

Track 2

It wasn’t until I was 16 that I would lock lips again. His name was Bleu, you know like bleu cheese, and he was my best friend’s boyfriend. It wasn’t the right thing to do but my 16 year-old body was raging with desire, naughty legs akimbo desire, desire that somehow warped my brain into believing “Oh, Kristy will understand…she knows I’m a virgin and she’ll probably be happy for me.” Thank god her and I are still best friends and can laugh about it today. So Bleu, he was so hot. I lived in Hollywood and he lived in Monrovia and we would take the 1 ½ hour bus ride every other day just to see each other. I would sneak him into my bedroom late at night and in the morning he’d hide in my closet until my mom left for work. One morning I had to leave before my mom cause I had to be at school early so I told him to wait there until he heard nothing. I came home from school that day to find him still there, in the closet. Apparently my mom had left the radio on, on NPR, so it was talk shows all day. He couldn’t decipher what it was and was too afraid to leave. The irony of this story is that we broke up shortly after when I found out he liked boys.

Track 3

Apparently this wouldn’t be my first experience with boys who like boys who like girls who like boys or however that goes. I met Travis when I lived in Berkeley. Cute messy hair, tall and lanky. He was a friend of a friend and we met at one of those legendary Coop Parties in Berkeley. Both stoned out of our minds we went up to his room and started to fool around. We tore at each other until neither of us had a shred of clothes on and I hopped on top of him. But then he stopped me. I was puzzled, “What going on here.” He looked at me and asked if I wouldn’t mind putting my boots back on. I thought it was odd at the time but said to myself, “Hey whatever works” and I said to him, “Ok, as long you smack my ass while I ride you, cowboy.” I did, he did. A few weeks later I found out through a friend of a friend that he was now gay and dating that friend of a friend. To this day I can’t bring myself to watch Brokeback Mountain.

Track 4

After living in Berkeley I moved to San Francisco and despite popular opinion there were plenty of straight men. Suffice it to say my San Francisco years were by far the most sexual years of my life. It was a veritable free for all. And I was a hot little number. Skinny, blonde AND I rode a motorcycle (a little Honda 250, total chick bike, but hey).

Around that time I met Francesco. A nice Italian boy from Calabria. He was always very sweet and polite and gentle. Until he got me into bed. Then everything would change. He would flip me around, spank me, contort me, bite me, scratch me. It was so damn hot. One night we were going at it, he had me on my hands and knees and he was smacking my ass. I must’ve lost my balance because as he gave me a hard thrust I fell head first into the wall. I swear I was seeing crazy colored spots everywhere. But that didn’t deter him, he simply pulled me back up and before I knew it I was coming.

Track 5

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Angelo. I knew he was trouble when I first met him, something told me to stay away from him. But I was 22 and apparently at that age instinct and common sense are secondary to a gorgeous Puerto Rican pursuing you. We went on a real date, dinner, drinks, then finally back to his place. I was putty in his hands. He kissed me passionately and then pulled back. He said, “There’s something I have to tell you before this goes any further.” Uh oh, right? So he says, “I have…well, how can I put this…I have a very large penis.” I think at that point all I heard were bells going off. But he continued, “I’ve even had girls call me from their gynecologist’s office to scream at me, so I just want to warn you.” I was confident, I thought “Come on how BIG could it be?” Oh my, I don’t think I could walk straight for a good week afterwards.

Track 6

Then there’s the other end of the spectrum. Poor poor Peter. We met through friends and went out on 4 mind-blowingly wonderful dates. He was perfect, we had so much in common. Even our taste in music. So on our 5th date he cooked me dinner, a great bottle of wine, we watched a Woody Allen movie and then he enticed me into the bedroom. Soft slow kissing and my clothes started disappearing from my body. Then he closed the blinds, climbed back in bed and started to undress. There was a sliver of light that peeked through the shutters and I caught a glimpse. I nearly gasped. I saw balls…and what’s that? Oh, a nub. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I tried, I swear. But when he couldn’t even maintain an erection I gave up and we “cuddled”. It was then that he decided to tell me that he was on anti-depressants and his marriage broke up because his ex-wife wasn’t sexually satisfied. Duh.

I remember learning during a public speaking course that if you fail to grab the audiences’ attention within the first 30 seconds you’ve lost them. As I began to make this entry I thought about that lesson. That was quickly followed in thought with, “shit, how in the hell does that translate into the internet world without resorting to money shots of yours truly or albino midget porn?” Suppose we have a zippy-do-dah reader who can read this page and half of the front page of the New York Times within 30 seconds? That sort changes the necessary attention getting to oh, I don’t know, about the word “the”. Frankly, that’s too much fucking pressure for me. I’m far better at face to face introductions. Granted, they’re not exactly award winning southern hospitality moments. In fact, there is about a 60/40 chance that I’ll either offend the shit out of someone or make a complete fool of myself (usually the two go hand-in-hand). It’s one of the only things that I do really really well.

At my husbands work Christmas party this past year I made my introduction with a woman in the ladies room by saying, “Please excuse me while I inappropriately fondle my boobs in front of you.” Being in the bible belt I thought for sure this woman might drop jaw, but to my surprise she did not. In what has since become one of my more pleasing public restroom experiences, she laughed and said “I don’t mind, if you don’t” and promptly took my flagrant boob adjustments as the green light to lift her dress and relieve the pantyhose bunching situation happening at her crotch. I’d like to say that I respectively glanced away, but I did not. I figured that a woman who doesn’t mind hoisting her evening gown and subsequently exposing her sugary almond mound to a total stranger doesn’t really mind that stranger looking at it. By all visual accounts she was pantiless (hey, there’s that word again). Okay, sure, it wasn’t as arousing as the days when I would lock lips with random women in the restrooms of Panama City’s Club La Vila, but for a married woman hard up for girly action, it was certainly a nice teaser.

Crimony. Nothing screams “crackpot” like making an introduction admitting that I stare at strange pussy in public restrooms if given the opportunity. But alas, that’s what you get from me: you get outdated Middle English words like “alas” and brutal exposure. Then again maybe it doesn’t truly count as an uncouth confession. Sure, it’s not entirely appropriate Sunday dinner conversation, but just because I admit to doing what almost any woman would do if the opportunity presented itself isn’t exactly taboo—especially considering the company I’m in (I’ve been following you girls long enough to know better).
Now, had I started off with the hot dog story it might be an entirely different situation.
Good thing I’m making 2007 a year of moderation.

Pussy gazing intro taboos aside, I am thrilled to become a part of Girl Spoke. I’m not exactly sure what Meme was thinking when she graciously accepted my addition to the sexy and intelligent lot of women here. My guess is that she was half a dozen cosmos into a weekend binge. But who I am to question it? I’ll leave that up to the rest of you.
Any one need a cosmo?
JB

These nice people asked me and Brandy to be lingerie models in their fashion show, Hot and Nasty. The other people that are doing it are comedians and writers who happen to also be sexy. It’s not run by seedy dudes who want to see ladies in their undergarments. Rather, it seems to be run by a bunch of cool chicks and the outfits are fun, cool, and vintage. Everything about it tells me that should be something cool and fun for me to be a part of, but the truth is, I’m terrified of the idea of doing it, I even hate the idea. Thing is, I let my ex boyfriend take artful nude pics of me- which he did, and they were not-pornish enough that he submitted them for a college photo project (mostly closeups of indiscernable parts, and one kickass ass pic). And I am totally open to the idea of having an accomplished artist paint or photograph me. I guess in that way I’m most curious what an artist would see. As a subject I’d feel a part of the art in some way and I find that totally interesting.

But I don’t like the idea of being sexy in front of people whatsoever. Actually I wouldn’t feel comfortable posing for a pic that was sexy as opposed to “beautiful” or even ugly. I wouldn’t mind them making me ugly. I kind of like the process of getting ugly- on stage or otherwise.

Just that idea of being in front of someone, being sexy, ugh it gives me nausea. Like an absolute grounding fear/hatred. I think maybe I hate more than others to be catcalled. I feel like when someone looks at me and says shit, it takes away my power, because I can’t control or stop who is looking at me. I want to punch them in their faces and rip their thoughts out of their brains. I want to jump inside their cerebral cortexes, find the image of a sexualized me in there, grab it, and rip it to shreds. I don’t like being looked at like that.

Unless it’s in my bedroom, in front of some dude I am getting it on with. I like wearing outfits and all of that. I do like feeling sexy, just in front of that particular person I have selected.

Sounds weird coming from a host of “sexytime” right? I guess to me that’s about being unintentionally sexy. I was once in this comedy workshop and the guy was like “never wear skirts on stage” and saying things about how people wouldn’t be able to listen to the words I am saying because they are going to be thinking about fucking me. I think he was just being a weird perv because I think I can look as cute as I fucking want and look my best on stage and all of that AND talk about sexual topics if they’re interesting to me. So fuck that guy. That’s a lot of what Sexytime is about for me.

Upon consideration, I’m quite certain it’s a power and control issue. I consent to a sexual partner having lustful thoughts about me. I give him my T and A happily and willingly. But any random fucker on the street can’t have that goddamn it! It makes me so MAD to be glared at! These titties are MINE.

In conclusion I guess I can’t be in their show. Though I really adore vintage lingerie, that shit is so hot! Unless I can hand select who sees me and I get to place them before me as I choose, it’s not gonna happen. Seeing as it’s a show/party … NO SOUP FOR YOU.

I’m going to attend though. Sounds pretty cool.

I wrote this a few months back for a magazine I used to contribute to but I never turned it in and I don’t remember why not. I was going to read this at the Smut show last night but my other piece was too long. So I’m posting it here now. Why?

Because everyone likes to talk about masturbation!!

Everybody does it.

My first time, I was twelve. A beautiful Saturday morning, lots of southern sunshine streaming through my bedroom blinds. Mom rustling around in the kitchen, the sounds of my brother’s cartoons drifting up from the living room. And me, a skinny slightly gawky preteen nestled beneath mounds of blankets, relishing every moment that was The Weekend. Of course as I lazed, my thoughts inevitably turned to Him. Bryan Kelly. I gave him a nice once-over in my mind’s eye, savoring every inch of his thirteen-year-old hotness. In my imagination the fact that I was a good four inches taller than him didn’t matter, after all, there weren’t many people in my class taller than me. In my fantasy we end up next to each other at a school pep rally. He whispers into my ear that he’d like to see a little more of me and suddenly we’re in the locker room and he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and it’s amazing and I need to touch myself to make it feel more real and
OH MY GOD

A feeling like nothing else washes over me. I’d played out the locker room scenario a million times but until that fateful Saturday my hands had never ventured south of my developing breasts. But now, now, I felt absolutely amazing. My legs were still shaking in the aftermath of…of whatever that incredible feeling was.

Then came the guilt.

I lay quietly for a moment, my heart racing. As the white hot shock of the pleasure faded away, a deep dark cloak of guilt took its place. I just touched myself. And I liked it. And that, according to everything my mother and father had ever instilled in me about my “privates,” was most definitely Wrong. Privates are meant to be covered and no one can see them. I’d rarely even looked Down There. But now I’d crossed the line. I felt around and it felt good and since I was a nice Christian girl who went to Sunday school every week, I knew that anything that felt good physically was definitely a sin and currently my seat at the right hand of Satan was getting extra hot and ready.

It’s too bad temptation is such a bitch. There was something so liberating about what I did behind closed doors, in the sanctity of my bedroom, beneath the covers, with just me and my imagination.

Masturbation. Even typing the word out seems dirty. Constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure someone doesn’t hear you say it. And it’s one of those things that’s never been “okay.” For all of our modern liberations there is still that one dark little secret that we all like to pretend we don’t have. Why is this? Our bodies are our own. Why should we feel embarrassed at touching any part of it? There is no stigma attached to a woman who admits to biting her nails. But if that same woman admits to a regular regime of masturbatory actions, she is immediately singled out—Not Normal. The reasoning behind the guilt I associated with masturbation as an adolescent was deeply rooted in both the church upbringing forced upon me from birth until college and in the fact that anything of a sexual nature was simply not discussed in my household. I feel that the first key to making masturbation acceptable for the norm that it is lies in actually talking about it and letting it out of the black box society has put the bolt on. It is also my firm opinion that we should embrace our bodies and what they are capable of. Touching oneself is nothing to be ashamed of. The act of giving yourself pleasure doesn’t make you a slut or a freak. I’m not saying that masturbation should be something that’s practiced for all to see. It’s a private act, an intimate act. But it’s an act that should be enjoyed if one so chooses without any kind of psychological repercussions.

After all, it would be a total shame to not have an outlet for those locker room fantasies, huh?

I don’t think I’d get many arguments if I throw the following generalization onto the table: people watching is one of America’s favorite pasttimes.

Whether we actively seek out specimens of fine human existence for visual study or participate on a more casual level, observing fellow mankind in action is basically unavoidable. The fun, as you know, is in assessing such observations as honestly and wittily as possible. Unless, that is, you are one of the few that maintains higher moral ground and does not stoop to such levels that call for mocking our peers on the sly. And if that’s the case, I applaud you. Of course, there’s probably something very wrong with you, and you certainly shouldn’t be reading this site. Ironically, both aforementioned flaws make you a perfect addition to our reader base, so you might as well call your therapist, bump up that appointment, and sit back and browse through the archives.

But I digress.

People watching. Right. It’s all about the honestly and humor of the situation. Case in point: my boy and I were enjoying a fancy-schmancy dinner Friday night, something we like to do every few months or so. We even got all dressed up in grown-up clothes. The restaurant had a great view of the Hudson and we caught a glimpse of some flurries beyond the massive windows as we dined. The waitress was young and cute, but not too cute, and she wore one of those aprons that stretches all the way to the floor. I mean, that in itself is enough to tell you you’re going to drop a couple of Benjamins by the time the night is through.

Did I digress again?

Ok, so we’re eating, right? There were a few other parties enjoying their meal, and we entertained ourselves by eavesdropping on our neighbor’s conversation about some young relative with a ticking biological clock. Thankfully, by the time our appetizer arrived, a couple came in and sat behind us. My boy had a perfect view and proceeded with a play-by-play. I poured myself some more wine.

We spent some time giggling at their lack of fine breeding, but that was cut short when my salad arrived and I made a terrible error. After digging around the mesulun mix with my fork, I realized the prepared mouthful would be too large. What’s a girl to do? Well, push some of it off, of course….with her finger! Well, not one to miss a beat, my boy chimed in on my behavior, citing it as uncouth, an observation I heard as “you might as well go sit with the degenerates at table 14.” Dismayed, I blamed it on the wine and proceeded eating. Now my boy took up his fork and dove into his Caesar salad. As he looked over my shoulder at the degenerates, he suddenly realized that they were doing shots at the table. Shots! At our posh eating establishment! At the table! And he’s pretty sure it was tequila! As he formed his lips to share this newsflash, a single crouton found the opening in his mouth and launched itself, with a perfect arched trajectory, onto the table.

I spent several moments laughing the mascara off my face and wiping it onto my white cotton napkin. Then it dawned on me how well WE would serve as a specimen for people-watching. In fact, the degenerates could be laughing about our lack of fine breeding at this very moment! So I began to make a mental tally. Here’s what I came up with:

Incident #1

Degenerates: Female degenerate’s forearm decorated with tasteless, Disney-inspired tattoos. Her attire for the evening seemed to accentuate them rather than disguise.

Team Jenna: Jenna’s new haircut kind of looks like a mullet from certain angles, and her attempts at styling it for the fancy-schmancy dinner failed miserably and possibly served to accentuate, not hide, the feathering.

Winner: DEGENERATES

Incident #2

Degenerates: Male degenerate is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, possibly and probably picked up as a two-for combo at Wal-Mart or Target. I believe there may have been a size sticker still attached to the back of his thigh.

Team Jenna: Boy arrives at the restaurant looking studly in a suit and no tie, but wearing his distressed Miller High Life ball cap, also purchased as a combo with matching t-shirt at the local Wal-Mart.

Winner: TEAM JENNA

Incident #3

Degenerates: Female degenerate is twice the size, height and width, of her male companion…so much so that Team Jenna deduces its impact on their sex life.

Team Jenna: Jenna, prior to leaving the house, realizes she has very little to wear. She decides upon an out-of-season top paired with too-large slacks and too-short heels, resulting in a look that is quite Romper Room, if you ask her.

Winner: DEGENERATES

Incident #4

Degenerates: Um, did I mention the shots of Tequila?

Team Jenna: When ordering a $43 bottle of wine, Team Jenna misreads the menu and asks for something that does not exist, sennding the waitress and her small impromtu search party on a 20 minute mission impossible in the wine cellar.

Winner: Draw. (Depends on the type of tequila…)

So there you have it. I’m not sure who got the better end of the deal for that evening’s people-watching, but my money’s on whoever had the best view of both our tables.

PS. Live in NYC?? Don’t forget to go watch the sexy ladies of Girlspoke at SMUT, tonight!! (And it’s not often that I double up on my end-sentence punctuation.)

Check it out…you can design your own L Word t-shirt and maybe win a prize. And the prizes are HUGE. Grand Prize: A 3 day / 2 night trip for 2 to L.A., A $500 shopping experience with professional model/designer Honey Labrador, The winning design will be printed on a T-shirt, sold in the Showtime Store and offered with purchase of The L Word® Season 4 DVD set. Finalists: The L Word Perfume: APOTHIA L EAU DE PARFUM, Necklace from the Love and Pride collection, The L Word DVD box set. Semi-finalists: The semi-finalists’ name and T-shirt design will be included in the ‘Extras’ section of The L Word Season 4 DVD, The L Word book – The L Word: Welcome to Our Planet.

Give it a try. You never know.

I’m always coming across interesting news stories and copying the link into my bookmarks. I thought today I’d share some of them with you.

I’m all for exercise. But this is fucking ridiculous…

“Children are taught pole dancing”

A Northumberland fitness instructor has defended plans to teach children as young as 12 how to pole dance.

Laraine Riddell will start classes in the New Year at a gym in Choppington, in which boys and girls will be taught to spin up and down on a pole.

[...]“To teach 12-year-old girls pole dancing is out of order. I am sure pole dancing is good exercise - but so is stripping. After all, strippers have great bodies.

“By all means give the kids exercise, but just skip the poles.” [via: BBC News]

For me this is up there children’s beauty pageants (think Jon Benet) or those exercise classes for high heels, just plain stupid.

You do what you can with the tools that you have…

“Naked Man Arrested for Concealed Weapon”

A man was arrested on suspicion of carrying a concealed weapon after police found him outdoors — naked — and he told them he had a tool in his rectum, authorities said.

[...]John Sheehan, 33, of Pittsburg, was initially arrested on suspicion of indecent exposure. But when asked whether he was carrying anything police should know about, Sheehan mentioned the tool, said El Cerrito Detective Cpl. Don Horgan.

“You can’t get much more concealed than that,” Horgan said. [via: Newsday]

I sincerely hope he went handle first.

And last but not least…

“First Uterus Transplant in US Being Planned”

Surgeons would transplant a donated uterus into the recipient through an incision just below the navel.

[...]New York Downtown Hospital says doctors will first attempt the procedure on primates in the next three months before any attempt is made on women.

Dr. Giuseppe Del Priore is interviewing possible candidates. “We’ve spent ten years and thousands and thousands of hours trying to make this as safe as possible. We take it very seriously. And the person who is eventually going to be the first candidate has to have a tremendous understanding of that risk.” [via: VOA]

Where do I sign up? Take my uterus, please! (I LOVE that picture.)

*And don’t forget Heather, Brandy and I are performing Monday night (and it’s FREE!)…click HERE for info.