It’s my birthday this weekend and I couldn’t be more peeved about it. Not only am I turning an age that officially sounds old, but I am also working which means that I may have to cancel on my own soiree at my favorite Tranny bar! Did I mention I’m going to be old?

What happened to the days when birthdays were fun? Cake with icing, lots of presents and the time to enjoy them? I suppose I shouldn’t complain and instead be grateful that I am here—alive and well—for yet another birthday, cuz the truth is that I hope to be around for about a hundred more of them much like my cute and feisty grandmother who is still rockin’ high heels at 91.

Since I have to miss out on Drag Queens and delicious Cosmos the night of my birthday, I feel that it gives me the right to pout and sulk a bit AND ask for stuff, so, I present to you all my greatest wish list ever:

I wish for:

-Long and healthy lives for all of my loved ones and their loved ones, and so on and so on (pets and exes included)

-For people to consider adopting a senior dog since shelters are full of them and they make great pets whose appreciation for your love actually shows in their cataract covered eyes

-Chillier fall weather so I can start enjoying sweaters and boots without sweat running down to my tuchas

-A white Christmas (as in snow—not the movie or song as I own both)

-A fuck buddy who won’t let me down and will do me right at least a couple times a week or be available for my drunk-dials

-To have a lick session with a man who is as orally gifted as my last lover. I need it bad. So bad.

-For all candy stores to bring back Big League Chew gum cuz I don’t like to fly without it thanks to a self-made childhood superstition

-Shoes and boots or the money to buy em’… LOTS of em’!

-The uncut UK version of the movie ‘9 Songs’ simply because I am a perv who is all about REAL SEX in films—all films

-A new laptop. Preferably a teeny one so it fits nicely in my LV Mary Kate bag. (Attention Apple: please feel free to send me one to review)

-A Sybian

-Exotic coffees from places a writer can’t afford to go

-For Bath and Bodyworks to open in Canada so I don’t have to drive so fucking far just to smell like Warm Vanilla Sugar

-For Playboy to accept at least one of my submissions – PLEASE???

-For this guy who posted this ad on Craigslistto finally find someone—anyone—to ride his “fuck pole” and like it (WARNING: following the red font leads to some hilariously icky nudity)

I think that’s it for my wish list–at least for now.

For those of you who do get to be out enjoying Saturday; have a fruity alcoholic beverage for me and feel free to send gifts or at least your warm wishes. Even better would be the digits of an oral superstar to lick me until I forget how old I am turning.

Happy friggen birthday to me.

It’s September and the chill in the air makes me think of college and football. And the first boy I ever made out with my freshman year at the University of Georgia.

I won’t use real names but the ones I use will be close enough so that anyone who knows me will know who I’m talking about.

I was a freshman in college. For the first time in my life I didn’t have my parents watching over me. Suddenly I went from never making lower than a 95 on anything to never going to class because they were all at 8am. I started drinking and never looked back.

Randy lived in my dorm. We met one Friday night when a group of us were going to a club in downtown Athens (UGA alums may remember a certain “hotspot” called AMF?) He was a part of the big group of us and the first thing we ever talked about was the shirt he was wearing. It was a tight white ribbed t-shirt made out of some kind of cheap silk spandex. He was raving about how he got it for $25 at this store called Jay Jacobs. For those of you who DON’T know, Jay Jacobs is one of those mall stores along lines of 579 and Merry-Go-Round and I was under the impression that it only sold girl clothes. I am still under that impression.

This was my first time at this downtown club. In fact it was my first time in a club ever. I walked in (fake ID not needed–who loves 18+ party places!) I was already a little drunk having indulged in an exhilarating game of beer pong on the 9th floor of Creswell Hall (represent UGA). I remember that as soon as I stepped on the dance floor, The Vengaboys “We Like To Party” started playing and a smoke machine blew that chalky mist right into my face. Randy came up to me holding two drinks–Sex on the Beach for the both of us.

So, long story short, we start drinking and dancing and I’m having a fabulous time. Then I realize I’m really drunk and then he’s kissing me on the dancefloor. Ten minutes later he’s leading me out of the bar. Ten minutes after that we’re walking back to the dorm and at one point I stopped in front of a fraternity house and puked.

As we’re walking back, in my drunken state, I was kind of freaking out. My sexual experience extended to a blow job I gave at Christian camp when I was 14 and a handful of second base excursions in high school. This guy is holding my hand and rubbing my back and leading me to his room, and finally to his bed, the bottom bunk. His roommate wasn’t home.

I’ll gloss over the high points–lots of drunken fumbling, then finally getting into the rhythm only to find that he thought that I was going to mistake a penis for a finger (we know the difference fellas). After that awkward little realization, we went to sleep. He got my number and we hung out for another two weeks, making out but not having sex a couple times more and then I decided that I really didn’t want to spend any more of my freshman year of college with a man whose last name I kept forgetting. So we kind of faded away. Two weeks after that I had an awkward dinner in the dining hall with my roommate since she chose the very moment I was putting a cheese covered french fry into my mouth to tell me that she really liked Randy and that he wanted her to be his girlfriend. I told her it was fine with me and secretly wondered if maybe I’d just never noticed she was blind before.

So they started dating and I started making my way through the boys floors at my dorm, one awkward bunk bed after another.

Thoughts on Randy now:

Truthfully? I’m not sure I’d know him if I saw him on the street. But looking back I have no regrets. But he should for buying that girly-ass shirt.

So you have a relationship that’s all about fun and all about sex. You don’t share problems. You don’t share morning coffee. And you especially don’t share distressing life information. Weighty words like ‘girlfriend,’ ‘boyfriend,’ and ‘commitment’ don’t exist in the stratosphere of this non-relationship. It’s that fake grey relationship that I’m perpetually harping on about, primarily because I’ve so many times been a willing victim of it. The only requirement in this self-indulgent love affair is to revel in each other while partying like rock stars. It’s childlike. It’s sexy. It’s simple. And by not adhering to the rules of a real relationship, you still have tons of free ‘single’ time to be an ambitious workaholic, get your laundry done, and watch tons of bad TV while giving yourself at home facial treatments. Life is near perfect.

And then something terrible happens.

A teeny tiny section of your sternum (yes, I truly believe this particular sentiment originates in the sternum) begins to wonder: ‘What if?’

What if this person (who I don’t even really know), who I always have so much fun with (mainly because there’s a lot of alcohol involved) is actually boyfriend (What? Who said that?) material? What if this grey relationship was just a romantic detour and our lifelines are actually leisurely converging? The slow but steady blossoming of something wonderful. Wonderful in the sense that we massage each other’s feet while commiserating on our taxing work-party schedule, not so much wonderful in the sense of kids and a white picket fence (come on, I’m delusional not insane).

All the questions and comments above exist in a realm I like to call ‘Wow That Girl’s Totally Deluded’ or charmingly abbreviated, WTGTD. I can be aware of my mind creeping over into WTGTD territory, yet somehow still slip into this not-so-even-appealing fantasy until I feel like a woman possessed by the object of my affection. What spurs this dreadful sickness nastier than a full-on flue? What upset the ‘no strings attached’ equilibrium my grey relationship existed in so healthy before?

In my case, it happened over early morning / late night (think 4:30 am) breakfast with me, M. Grey, and two friends. Why we were even having breakfast together was inappropriate to the nature of our dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Thank God we had other people with us so we couldn’t be mistaken for an actual couple. I guess we let the intimacy of the situation slide since the sun wasn’t up and we still both had house music echo ringing through our ears. Club? Restaurant? What’s the difference.

The four of us were laughing and drinking. My emotions were intact and everything was going swimmingly until my pizza arrived, which had been mistakenly covered with anchovies. I hate anchovies. And I didn’t order them. But I guess waitresses who work at five in the morning think an error on an order here and there won’t come back to haunt them since the majority of patrons in the restaurant are too drunk to form sentences. Yet before I could politely bitch about the mix-up, our uniformed server had spun on her heel to attend to some gorilla-like men by the bar. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the problem. The problem is what happened next.

In a quick moment, Mr. Grey somehow understood my anchovy predicament, even though I hadn’t the time to fully voice my complaint to our waitress. He slid the pizza toward him, and painstakingly embarked on the mission of removing each anchovy from its bed of cheese. All this without a word. And when he finished, he sprinkled some Parmesan on the pie to kill the anchovy flavor. He proceeded to methodically cut the first few slices for me as if I were an incapable little girl. He then returned the pizza to me with a smile.

Now don’t get me wrong, time did not stand still and romantic music didn’t suddenly swell. During this surprisingly affectionate moment, conversation continued between us and our friends as usual. But as I started eating, I knew something had changed. It’s not just that Mr. Grey and I aren’t tender with one another; I don’t think he’s tender in general. I’d never seen him do something so simple and yet so caring with anyone. Ever. And it got to me. It got under my skin just like that whole pizza got into my stomach. And from then on I knew I was screwed.

Why did he have to be nice, and by consequence, three-dimensional and attractive? When our relationship functioned so splendidly on uncomplicated bouts of random fun? The whole thing got me thinking about him in sappy WTGTD language. And I really wish that acronym had vowels so I could effectively chant it to myself on a day-to-day basis as a reminder not to act like a total douche. Because it’s in those moments that you realize you’re not in a super part-time relationship that leaves you oodles of “you time.” You’re in a truly real grey relationship: despite how much your psyche may protest, emotions are involved.

For the ladies and gents who can keep this stuff super straight all the time, my hat’s off to you. But I have a hunch that for most of us, it’s never than simple. At the end of the day, if you’re lucky, you can console yourself with the fact that your partner’s probably just as confused as you are.

To the reader who is pissed that I have written about my new Diesel fragrance:

I am so grateful that you had us bookmarked and that you took the time check out my work. I even appreciate your cranky comment about my Diesel posts and can see how it can be irritating, which is why I’m not gonna get all cunty about it. I do however want to have my say on the matter—as always.

Here’s the thing; if you had us bookmarked up until now then you must have been enjoying our site, yes? I won’t even get into the whole spiel about how this is a hot site that offers some very amusing reads by some very sexy and talented ladies—FOR FREE. I would like to think that you may have even had a chuckle (or a masturbation-fest) thanks to one or two of my posts. Well, my posts about my perfume are not that much different from my others–which from what I understand–have been pretty popular among the peeps.

You had nothing to say when I wrote about sliding a slick glass dildo in and out of my pussy after it was given to me by an adult toy company, nor did you bother to poo-poo on any of my little ditties where I gushed about my mind blowing fuck/suck/lick-fests with my most recent lover. Did you ever get upset that I would want to write about those things?? NO! So why get your panties or briefs in a twist because I opt to show my appreciation for a company that was generous enough to send me some free perfume??

Just as I truly value a good oral sex session or pounding from a talented guy or a night spent fucking myself with a sex toy courtesy of a company that was kind enough to send me an expensive toy, (one that I would never be able to afford thanks to writing here for free) I am glad to show some love to Diesel for sending me a fragrance that I love.

As glamorous as this whole writing thing may seem; it ain’t all Manolos and Cosmos! Most writers start writing for love and not money, but sadly, love doesn’t pay my rent. So, when someone wants to give me something because they think my writing is great—I want it, appreciate it and yes, write about it!

If you really want to get your point across and stop me from writing these occasional posts that you refer to as “commercials”; then feel free to compensate me for my time and talent.

Thanks

After calling it quits with my amant du jour yesterday, I decided the only way to make myself feel better was to vamp myself up and head out for a much needed night of sheer debauchery.

First, a long, scorching shower (there was no need for a cold one as the tragic demise of my complicated NSA partnership was plenty sobering). After the shower I sprayed on my latest obsession: Fuel For Life. It smells amazing as is, but when you spray it on fresh out of the shower; a little goes a long way and the heat from your skin really brings out all of the luscious notes and undertones of the scent—très sexy.

I admit that standing naked, flushed from the hot shower and smelling foxy did lead to a momentary lapse of judgment which made me contemplate dropping to my knees and begging him to do me even if it meant tolerating the games; but I took a deep breath, regrouped and returned to my senses.

When you’re naked and smelling like the lovely sexual being that you are; you can’t help but wanna spend the rest of the night that way and revelling in your own hotness, but doing so with only your vibrator to keep you company won’t cut it, so I continued whoring myself up for the night. On came the barely-there panties (not too hard when baby’s got back!), followed by my lucky jeans and one of the sluttiest tops I could stretch over my pushed up-and-out bosom. Perfect.

I slinked through my lobby with no particular destination in mind, as the scent of aphrodisia trailed behind. Then, as I reached for the door—painfully aware of the fact that I am not really the go out and pick up sorta gal—out called a voice from behind me, “Wow, you smell great” it said.

I turned to find the most delicious diversion smiling wickedly at me.

Thank you again Diesel; Fuel For Life is also a love potion.

Since I was young I have been known for my ability to lose interest in things quickly—people being no different. If something in a person peaks my curiosity or intrigues me at all; I’m right in there. The moment a person or thing has lost its luster; I begin to fade away… far away… onto something new.

I recently discussed this with someone who had already made the same observation all on his own. He seemed to feel a certain justification from it for the way he flies in and out of my life on a whim—one that suits him only. He went as far as to say that he believes the only reason that I am still even remotely interested in him is because he comes and goes as he pleases and leaves me little choice as to when or if we hook up. Hmmm…

I thought about it after he left here the other day and wondered if that was the case. Could it be that the only reason I was so drawn to him was because he was such a mystery and not readily available? I realized that it must have played a small part in things—at least at first. After more analyzing though, (we women do it so well) I have come to the conclusion that it takes a lot more than that to keep me from going limp.

Granted, the ability to make me climax like no one else does add to the charm, as does being someone who is interesting to talk to. The fact that I could lie there naked and sweaty and listen to him intently for hours on end is also a major factor in my not yet wanting to avoid him like the plague or all of my other past boyfriends/conquests. But alas, if he thinks that disappearing from my life with no regard for my needs is the way to go; then our toe-curling orgasms are numbered.

I admit the severe commitment phobia is somewhat amusing as it mirrors so many of the parts of me that I like to deny. If I was still under the silly assumption that we could be more than lovers, then I would find his fear of true intimacy tragic. This is not to say that I don’t still on some level wish that there could be more, but rather that I know better. Maybe that’s what’s got him running scared? Whatever it is; it is neither cute nor endearing or even remotely intriguing anymore. I’d say ‘frustrating’ sums it up just right.

Frustration does not equal intrigued or fascinated by any means. In fact; when I get frustrated, my first reaction is to sprint away from the cause of my frustration. It doesn’t make me wet with anticipation and contrary to his belief; it doesn’t make me yearn for him more. In fact, it begins to take over and make it difficult to remember all of the other things that did make me hotter for him than anyone else—ever.

Maybe he’s actually trying to turn me off in fear of getting too close? Maybe he’s just bored of the sex—though I highly doubt that! Whatever the method to his madness; I am beginning to lose my hard-on. One can only be toyed with for so long before it stops feeling as if you’re a sexy pawn in a naughty game that you both want to play and instead begins to feel like an obvious and undeserved lack of respect. Not sexy.

Because I never argue.

I’ve been away but I’m back now to posting on the regular.

Chances are, if I’m having a break-up conversation with a guy, I already knew it was coming and my biggest priority is getting him off the phone or out of my living room so that I can close that chapter right on up. I listen to him air his list of concerns which usually include, “I think you’re so fun, but…” and “I just think that we would be good friends,” and almost always I get, “I mean, I think you’re really hot but….”

My replies? “Oh yeah?” and “I totally agree,” all the while I’m usually doing two or three other things if it’s a phone conversation like combing my hair, packing a bowl, and/or trying on my roommate’s new lip plumper. Then he says how he can’t believe that I’m so understanding and that he hopes we can still be friends. I smile and say, “It’s how I roll. Talk to you soon.”

And we hang up/he leaves.

I’m always okay after he leaves. For a minute, I might be a little sad, but it’s never a “Man I wish he liked me” sad. It’s a “I wish we had made out once more before that conversation. It’s 11pm on a Sunday, who am I supposed to call now?” kind of sad.

But being okay with it doesn’t mean I don’t get annoyed and have things that I would like to say but would serve no purpose except to make a new enemy. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, the less enemies a lady makes, the less stress she has in her life.

But I’m not all good and I get pissed just like everyone else and this is what I always want to say during these “I just want to get this out there conversations.” So maybe you’re a guy I’ve had this conversation with. Well here’s what I didn’t say to you but should have.

“What on God’s green fucking earth made you think that I wanted you to be my boyfriend? I brought you back to my apartment on the first date–what else could I have in mind besides DEEP DICKING? Did you think that you were special? Did you think you were amazing in bed? Because, pal, I am the reason the sex was so good. Boys like you are a dime a dozen and you just happened to be at the right place at the right time, and I just happen to lower my standards on occasion. Understanding? You think I’m understanding? No, this is not understanding, this is not caring. I am a girl who likes to have a good time. I might see you tonight but rest assured, I was seeing someone else last night and there will be someone to take your place tomorrow. Slut? No–I call it, “I’m a hot 25-year-old and I do what I want.” So don’t feel special. I am the hottest girl you will ever hook up with but I will always get guys who are hotter than you. So you’re not feeling this right now–fabulous. I’m so glad you had the foresight to assume that I wanted something more. Apparently because I have a vagina, I automatically get attached and clingy to whatever dick is currently in it. You want to be friends? Why? Why would I want to be friends when I only started talking to you because I wanted to get you in bed? No, we can’t be friends. I thought you were cool but now I see that you’re not. After this conversation, I will forget about you.

Good night and good luck. You’ll need it with that teeny penis. You should be glad I’m such a nice girl and that I really needed to get laid because otherwise I would have laughed you right out of my bed.”

Feels nice to not be so passive aggressive sometimes.

Saturday night something magical happened. I walked to Via Della Pace for dinner (an Italian restaurant I highly recommend, the lobster ravioli’s sinful and affordable – just be prepared to pay in cash) and then danced the night away at a cheesy club. At the beginning of the night, I strolled to the east village along with a warm breeze. My body was comfortable sans jacket. Some people were enjoying pasta and red wine outside. This was around 10 pm.

A mere six hours later when I left the anonymous cheesy club at four in the morning, New York had been possessed by a different spirit. That formerly calming breeze had turned cold. The temperature had plummeted. Skimpily dressed partygoers were forced to cling to one another not just out of drunken horniness, but out of a genuine need for body warmth. I’ll admit I both hid in a phone booth and later hugged a pudgy man I didn’t even know while waiting for the arguing members of our group to disperse into cabs. The wind was that frigid. Those of us still standing at the end of the night proceeded to go have breakfast, but I didn’t really enjoy my meal. Summer was officially over. And we all know since global warming, fall and spring have practically disappeared as concepts. It’s either humid or freezing here in the city. So I don’t feel I can really console myself with the fact that a lovely autumn is in store and going to make this traumatic transition much easier. To cope with this revelation, I’ve compiled a list of why we should be excited, not suicidal, about the fact that winter is just around the corner.

1. Hot chocolate: Dark chocolate perks me up when I’m feeling depressed. It suppresses my hunger when my stomach’s growling. Melted and applied to the skin, it makes all my clubbing-incurred bruises fade in twenty-four hours. It wakes me up when I’m ready to crawl back into bed. Dark chocolate is my cure-all product. Did I also mention it’s yummy as Hell? I also compulsively consume tea like some people down Starbucks coffee. Now put the two elements of choclately goodness and steamy liquid together, and you’ve just created my own personal version of heroin. Winter means I can consume vats of hot chocolate without looking like a weirdo. And I’m totally fine with admitting that the hot cocoa with mini marshmallows is my personal favorite.

2. New wardrobe: I had so much fun getting dressed yesterday because I got to open my sweater drawer for the first time in months. At this point, I’ve recycled my warm weather closet more than twice. If I have to wear another tank top I might spit at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The best part about getting to utilize all your stored away winter clothes (and rediscovering the discount Cavalli turtlenecks from Century 21 you forgot you had) is that you also get to incorporate your summer wardrobe as layering pieces. So the amount of clothing you have to work with doubles overnight!

3. Jackets: Every girl is a sucker for something. Some do the shoe obsession thing ala Carrie Bradshaw. Other stock up on cocktail dresses. Others have a compulsive buying problem with lingerie. For me, it’s always been jackets. I love jackets, mainly because I’m always cold. Also because when I lack the energy to get properly dressed (or decide to wear yesterday’s clothes) I just throw one of my many jackets on top of my messy self and no one can tell the difference. The fact that I’m wearing a sweater my cat chewed without a bra becomes my dirty secret. My jacket collection takes up half of my ridiculously tiny Manhattan closet. I have long, short, sport, peacoat, down, elegant, jean, suede, leather (oh my god the leather)…I’m getting too excited I better stop.

4. Cuddling: Who wants to cling to their partner post-coital when its ninety-five degrees outside and humid. Usually you just lie on opposite sides of the bed, both trying to convince your bodies to stop producing sweat. Showers are mandatory and your sheets are gross. Yet in the colder months, snuggling under feathered comforters together is actually a turn on. There are all sorts of new reasons to touch each other with the excuse of ‘warming up.’ Plus you don’t want kick your partner toward a soapy shower the minute they’ve crawled off you. Instead you can relax and pass out in each other’s arms.

5. No more air-conditioning: America over air-conditions as if it were a matter of life and death. Recycled freezing air makes you sick! Plus it’s damn expensive. In the winter my ConEd bill doesn’t only lower dramatically, I no longer have to organize where I sit in an indoor restaurant based on how far away I can get from the industrial strength air vent that’s blasting virtual snow on people. A friend told me about a colleague of hers at Bear Sterns who brought a space heater to work in the summer months to warm up her office. I understand companies wanting to keep employees alert, but think of the money they’d save if they just air-conditioned down to 75 instead of 60. In the winter we just have to bundle up, and heat is always welcome.

6. Fur: I love fur. I love the way it looks, I love the way it feels against my skin, I love the way it keeps me warm. Now don’t load your water guns with red paint and spray me just yet. I don’t wear real fur. Who can afford it? And who wants to have the guilt of having killed an innocent Bambi-like creature on their hat or earmuffs? Some synthetic fur looks great. An example: One of my favorite leather jackets has a tasteful browny-black fur collar. One afternoon at Astor Place, I actually had an executive women take her snarly lips away from her cell phone for two seconds to bark at me, “You should be ashamed!” before returning to her phone call. As we crossed the street, I racked my brain for what on earth she could be referring to. Had I stepped on her foot? Accidentally pushed her? Then it hit me, my fur looked that real. I watched the woman click away from me in her high-heel genuine leather boots (hypocrite) and smiled at the compliment.

See, even when in the midst of unjustified verbal abuse winter can be a fun season. Bring it on.

I have to send a big wet and delicious thanks out to the peeps at Diesel for sending me the new fragrance to try out. So to you: muuuuwaaaah! It’s so awesome to know that people do hear my pleas.

I am not just ecstatic at having received what is now my new favorite perfume, but also for what it has done for me since I got it a couple of days ago. My life has been instantly sexed up! Coincidence? I think not.

Since starting to wear Fuel For Life, I have:

- Written one of my most erotic stories yet (while wearing nothing but the perfume for inspiration)

- Had 3 compliments on my scent—2 from men and the other from a woman—in the same outing.

- Been told: “you smell so good I could eat you”

- Been eaten

- And reminded later on that my scent drove him wild and that he can’t stop thinking about me because he can smell it on his shirt… and me on his face.

See, Fuel For Life really is the sexiest scent around! It brought out my inner vixen and sexed-up my week big time! God knows I needed it.

I am so in love with this stuff that I may just have to document what else it does for me, my libido and my love/sex life.

Remember those old Impulse body spray ads from the 80’s where a girl would pass wearing the scent and a guy would run after her and give her flowers? This works the same way except instead of a bouquet of flowers, the guy wants to ravage you naughty romance-novel style! The ad wasn’t exaggerating when it said “use with caution”!

Thanks again Diesel! Feel free to send along anything else that may get me some lovin’!

I have potty mouth and when amongst friends, when my comfort level is at its highest; I tend to channel a drunken sailor on shore leave and say some things that are inappropriate to say the least, like: ‘Oh, suck my cock!’ It causes the odd mouth to drop, but most of the time it just makes the room erupt in laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all as I am quite obviously a female — one who makes no secret of being proud of her pretty pussy.

After shouting it out earlier, it got me to wondering what it would be like if I did have a penis. I don’t mean that I thought about it in the serious and tragic way that a hermaphrodite might have to, but more in the same perverted manner that I do everything else.

Boy oh boy! What I would do if I had a dick! Let’s discuss, shall we?

If I had penis:

- I’m not sure I’d ever leave home or get much done!

- My carpal tunnel syndrome would become aggravated to the point of debilitation. Yes, from wanking off.

- I would invest the time and energy into advanced Pilates and yoga classes in order to become so flexible that I could suck it myself—something I am stunned more men don’t do.

- I’d most definitely be one of ‘those’ guys, you know the ones; a little creepy and always a little flushed and sweaty, constantly “adjusting” their crotch. The kind of guy whose hand is always kinda damp when you shake it.

- I would save on birthday and Christmas gifts for my female friends and just fuck em’ all properly instead. The keyword being “properly”. Lord knows that I would know what a woman wants a cock to do.

- I’d surely be arrested for indecent exposure and lewd acts, because lets face it: as a sex writer, I am aroused about 20 hours out of my day. Hiding a warm puddle in your panties is a lot easier than trying to hide a permanent boner—especially the mammoth one that I would have. (I’m guessin’ if my tits are this big, then certainly my dick would be too)

- I’d also probably end up in the ER on more than one occasion having tried to twist and bend it in hopes of finding a way to fuck myself. (This could explain the long waits in ER’s across the country)

I think penises are wasted on the wrong people. I’m not talking about all men of course—I love men waaaay too much to bash em’ all. I’m just talking about the ones who don’t do them any justice. What’s the point in having it if you have no clue how to use it properly?

I’d be a proper-sex philanthropist; traveling the world over and fucking women the way we deserve to be fucked: long, hard and delicious.

Oh! I’d also return calls… maybe.