It’s that time of year again when single people all band together to bitch and moan about this mushy, hallmark forced, fuck you if you’re not in a relationship holiday we call Valentine’s Day. Just to set the record straight this holiday is no picnic for us couples either.

Our levels of romance, the possible longevity of our relationship and whether or not we still have that spark seems to all be on the line here. People judge you on your Valentine’s activities. Does your boyfriend love you enough to buy you roses? Is he original enough to not buy you roses? Are you the kind of couple that is able to muster up some old Hollywood romance at least once a year? Are you a “present giving” girlfriend or a high maintenance woman that would never dream of buying something for your other half but would gladly eat his balls for dinner if he did anything less than fork out a couple hundred on jewellery, dinner and chocolates? Does your relationship still have enough passion that you’ll jump at any excuse to buy a new pair of crotchless panties and act the V-Day slut, or are you now in the constant granny panty phase?

And of course whenever you hear a woman say, “Valentine’s Day is a cheesy greeting card invented holiday, we’d never buy into that, and besides, we don’t need an excuse to be romantic” everyone around her is thinking: Poor girl can’t train her man to come home with some candy and give her a foot rub every once in awhile, so she’s convinced herself “they’re not that kind of couple”. If a guy says the same thing, most men are thinking: You lucky bastard, how did you dodge that land mine?

Then there’s that dreaded “special occasion” sex. Like “Birthday” Sex, or “I Just Got a Promotion” Sex. Sex that is supposed to be handcuff and whipped cream special because that is what is expected of you almost always falls below expectations. I much prefer the spontaneous “I’ve been away for two weeks on business and suddenly your tongue is inside my panties before the cab even has a chance to pull out of the driveway” Sex.

So you see, Valentine’s sucks for everyone (and not always the good kind of sucking). But naturally I’m just saying that because my boyfriend only buys me flowers when he’s three sheets to the wind in a seedy bar and some illegal immigrant gives him a good deal on a wilted Rose.

I am aware that you are all busy, busy people and certainly have no time to spend on attempting new found heights of orgasmic bliss with some foreign motorized object between your legs unless someone you all love and trust has given you the go ahead. Thus I have taken upon myself the gruelling task of testing out free sex toys courtesy of lovehoney.co.uk so that you dear reader do not waste your time on sub par orgasms. And although I am still in mourning over my dearly departed tigger, I thought it was high time I moved on – for your sake, of course.

I’ve started myself off with Ben Wa Smart Balls or “Geisha Balls” from Fun Factory. Described as “Top-quality silicone-coated balls with a smaller set of internal balls that rotate silently as they move, creating incredible vaginal sensations.” A friend of mine raved about them, saying she keeps them in all day getting hornier and hornier as the gentle rolling sensation follows her every movement at the office until she rushes home to vigorously pounce on her boyfriend for some sweet, sweet release. Naturally my interest was peaked.

Now before I get into any juicy details about my own experience I have to take a minute and talk about the packaging of these Fun Factory Smart Balls. So many sex toys come in horrible boxes covered in pictures of vapid women with hair styles circa Dynasty and with the melodramatic fake orgasmic face that go right along with the bouffant ‘do. Those German geniuses over at Fun Factory use no such woman to adorn their packaging. The box is 70’s plastic orange, with miniature magnets holding cardboard flaps in place, which open to reveal sensual, honest and unassuming instructions. Swedish design meets Tokyo technology. And as the product comes from Germany there’s a fabulous Euro feel about the whole thing. All instructions, descriptions etc. are given in multiple languages, which are often jumbled up to create a fabulous glimpse of what Esperanto could have been.

I decided not to be as daring as my friend and chose not to wear them to work. Instead I experienced my first Smart Ball sensation in the comfort of my own home. Fun factory suggests lubricating the balls before insertion and despite already being wet at the mere idea of new sexual stimulation I decided to grease the spheres up with the supplied sachet of lubricant courtesy of Fun Factory.

My first indication that this was not going to be all it was cracked up to be was the awkward squatting and unsexiness of shoving two latex balls up my twat. It reminded me of the first time you’re taught to use a tampon – you want me to put what where? And the tampon parallel still continued as once they were finally inserted I find myself walking around with small white string hanging out of me (This string however is latex coated so not nearly as gross as the cotton ones – Tampax take note, there is room for improvement).

I put my panties back on and proceeded to walk around the house. The rolling sensations are certainly there. They felt strange yet nice. I was certainly very aware of inner parts of my pussy that I hadn’t noticed up until now. I liked it, but more in a curious way than a sexy way. I had to walk around with my thighs pressed together as I had this strange sensation that I was going to give birth to two turquoise Smart Balls at any minute.

Instead I tried lying down on my stomach and jiggling my ass to get the balls rolling. The rolling sensation started to feel more like gurgling in my crotch. Like the moment before you are about to have explosive diarrhoea due to Sushi you knew didn’t taste right but ate anyways and things are starting to churn down there, only this diarrhoea feels like it’s going to come out of your twat. I wasn’t impressed. And I sure as hell wasn’t feeling sexy. In fact I was feeling slightly nauseated.

The BF comes into the bedroom in hopes of reaping the benefits of the Smart ball effect. His first reaction was, “how is it making your butt do that?”

I decided that enough was enough and that it was time for something a little more substantial and less spherical to take the Smart ball’s place. I had to tell the BF to look away as I awkwardly popped a squat in the middle of the bedroom to yank out the soon to be discarded toy.

If any one else has tried them, I’d love to hear what you thought.

Betty’s Bottom Line: I Wish I could be reporting to you about intense Geisha Ball induced orgasms like my friend experienced. Alas I found these balls awkward and slightly uncomfortable. The idea of them turned me on more than anything else. Instead of actually using them I think I’ll just put them back in their pretty packaging and be content with the simple fact that I now have balls.

They say you haven’t truly lived until you’ve broken a bone in your body. Ok, they don’t say that, but they should. For the first time in my life I find myself gimping along in pain due to a badly sprained ankle (the “badly” is added by me, not my doctor. I have no idea if it is “bad” in comparison to your typical ankle sprain, all I know is that it fucking hurts. Although I’ve never been a sucker for pain, unless of course the pain is caused by a sharp smack against my bare buttocks in the throws of passion – hmmm, where was I? Right. This fat, ugly mass of a thing that has taken over what used to be my dainty lickable foot) A word advice: Do not throw the ole pigskin around in your backyard when your backyard is in fact a desecrated forest covered in abandoned fox holes.

I am not a graceful invalid. Crawling on all fours into my front door at midnight in pouring rain, crutches in tow, with the entire neighborhood peering out of their windows does NOT a happy Betty make. I have “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” style tantrums. My favorite being when looking for a box of painkillers, all I found was a box of condoms and throwing the condoms all over the bedroom screaming “I don’t want sex, I want fucking drugs!”

Betty doesn’t do helpless. I get frustrated that I can’t move quickly on crutches. Frustrated that I have to go up and down stairs on my ass like some pathetic child. Frustrated that I can’t take a shower by myself. No. That part actually isn’t so bad…

But slowly I am beginning to get better. Slowly I start gaining control over the crutches as opposed to the crutches having control over me. I delight in small victories like my first step on my bad foot. And even better, I’m even starting to give in to the loss of control and give in to the fact that I am helpless. Being cooked for and cleaned up after certainly has its perks.

In fact this helpless damsel in distress role I’ve unwillingly found myself in has even got some new fantasies brewing.

Me sitting at home, leg propped up in a cast, crutches just outside of reach. I’m wearing a flimsy skirt and bra, as it is so damn hot. In he comes. He takes one look at my sorry state and knows that I am powerless. Up goes my skirt and down come my panties as his rough hands puts me in the position he wants me in. Pathetic pleas of no quickly turn into yes as he sweatily fucks me bringing us both to orgasm.

Who knew having a sprained ankle could be so much fucking fun?

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.

World Cup mania is now in full force over here in Europe. Cars are covered in England flags, cheesy football* songs play on the radio, and every man, woman and child is walking around with a glint in their eye and knots in their stomach.

After witnessing a few incredible games, seeing grown men cry and noticing a certain stir this sight caused between my legs as opposed to the usual repulsion I became a fan of what we Americans stubbornly call Soccer.

One of the best parts of being a newly made football fan is that I get to spend my time in pubs packed with tons of guys, drinking good beer and coyly asking silly questions which makes them feel more manly and lets me stroke their thigh while I lean in closer to hear for the 17th time what the offside rule is really all about.

I don’t know the sport well enough to convince you all to drop your baseball bats and get behind Team USA for this year’s World Cup by describing the beauty that is a perfect goal at the last second, or the thrill of being able to support your country in a sport that is loved the world over. You are Girlspoke readers.

If there is one thing that you understand it is fuckable eye candy.

So I give you the top 10 reasons to start becoming a Football, Soccer, Futbol… whatever you want to call it - fan.

1. Joe Cole

2. David Beckham

3. Landon Donovan

4. Zinedine Zidane

5. Thierry Henry

6. Fabio Cannavaro

7. Michael Owen

8. Andriy Shevchenko

And guys, just so you know what you’re missing out on by not following the World Cup…

9.

10.

*_{If I actually call it soccer, my English friends will shove boiled meat down my throat until I gag.}

Springtime is making Betty a horny little bunny. While my boyfriend is reaping all the benefits of my spring lust so is every other guy (and let’s face it - hot girl) that comes across my path. One of the grey haired old bosses at my work winked at me and despite the gesture being in a “hey, how’s this crazy work of yours going” and not an “ I’d like to ravish you in the back closet” kind of a way – I still practically had to go to the bathroom and change my panties.

I’ve also found myself becoming nostalgic on previous conquests. I assumed it was just due to the fact that my 4-year relationship was entering a comfort zone that felt occasionally like a warm security blanket wrapped around my neck like a noose. But again, could just be the spring.

At one point while having a nice Saturday morning in bed, my boyfriend asked me what I was thinking as my elbows lay propped on the pillow all pensive like. Unfortunately being the brutally honest girl that I am I answered the truth. “Oh, I was just thinking about the foursome I had with those two South African guys and my girl friend from Chicago.”

Somehow I don’t think he’s going to be asking me what’s on my mind any time soon, unless he wants another bad ego blow.

But I digress. I had been thinking of previous conquests, and started thinking of all the professions the men I have bedded have held. In no particular order:

The Oil Rigger - I would have had his babies based on his Scottish accent alone, unfortunately he was out of the country 2 weeks out of the month – and I require a lot more attention than what 2 weeks can provide.

The Geeky IT guy who had a surprisingly nice ass.

The Door to Door Salesman – he was in and out in a flash.

The Volunteer Fireman – who never volunteered during the 6 months we were together, so I think we can just call him unemployed.

The Bartender(s) – lets just call this my early twenties – a bit of a blur, but a hell of a lot of fun.

The Advertising Executive for some big music corporation - he had a massively expensive apartment on the right bank of Paris, but was a bit of a bore.

Writer/Musician/Stand-up comic/Night guard at a psych ward - the quintessential artist still holds a place in my heart.

Ex-Military Banker – this boy was a tank, in every sense of the word.

Scientist – gotta love a man in a lab coat.

If I put them all on a desert island I think we could make a very productive society, I being of course queen of the land of Betty’s Former Beaus. All I’m missing is a lawyer and a doctor- although now that I think about it one of the South Africans in the foursome was a paediatrician, which makes you wonder what your kids doctor gets up to on a Friday night

I don’t drive. I guess I technically know how to drive since some sicko made up a law that you can’t get your high school diploma without passing driver’s ED. But I never actually got my licence. I have a bit of a “phobia” if you will (Let’s just say it’s hard to drive when every time you get behind the steering wheel you start balling like a little girl). So I am a very savvy public transportation expert. I also walk distances to get to grocery stores that my car toting friends wouldn’t dream of attempting, but that’s neither here nor there.

In my twenty-some odd years of being part of the public transportation horde, from buses in Chicago, to Subways in New York to ferry boats in Paris, I have amassed a large knowledge of public transportation etiquette.

I’ve decided to impart this information onto you, lest we meet on a crowded subway train, you unwittingly commit one of these faux pas and I then proceed to rip you a new asshole because of it. Which I’m sure is an out come we’d all like avoid.

Faux Pas #1 Wearing a real fur coat and then shoving the dead carcass all over me for the entire metro ride.

The worst thing about when this happened to me (May that nouveaux-riche French bitch die a gruesome death) was that the metro car wasn’t even crowded. We all had plenty of space, I was standing up, while holding one of the poles and this woman comes on, leans against my hand with this hideous fur coat. Now I’m not some lettuce wearing PETA nut, but I don’t like fur, and while I won’t pour red paint on a complete stranger, I don’t think I should be forced to touch dead animal when I’m trying to get home from work.

Which brings me to Faux Pas #2 Don’t hog the poles! If the subway/tube/metro what have you is crowded, causing an unpleasant sardine effect and forcing many to stand and hold onto one of the poles in the middle of the train you DO NOT lean against the pole as if you own it, as if you’re some cheap 2 buck stripper taking a break between sets. The last thing I want is my hand stuck in your back fat just because you’re a lazy greedy fuck.

And now for my Faux Pas #3. Guys, listen up because this one is for you. While sitting on the bus DO NOT spread your legs as wide as possible. Those plastic lines separating once seat from another are there for a reason. What are you guys trying to do with this one? Try to force me to sit cross-legged so you can catch a glimpse of more thigh? Are you trying to give off the impression that your dick is so big you have to “give my big boy some breathing room,”. Or perhaps you’re sitting spread eagle in the hopes that some big-breasted bimbo will mistake that metal rod in front of you as a strippers’ pole and proceed to give you a lap dance. Either way the only effect it is having on me is creating a strong desire to dig my nails into your crotch and throw your balls out the window.

Hope to see you on the 6!

Kisses,

Betty

It takes me at least a year living in a new country before I go in for a bikini wax. Once you get used to a familiar gentle touch by your regular waxist, it is quite daunting to blindly leave your nether regions in the hands of yet another stranger.

My first bikini wax was by Bella, a Russian woman in Chicago. My mother made the appointment for my little sister and I (while this may seem odd, bare in mind that for a long time my family consisted of only my sister my mother and I, where roaming around the house in various states of undress and discussing period pains became the norm).

Bella was a fan of the “tough love” approach. There was no small talk, no gentle patting of raw skin with a talcum powdered hand, only the sound of ripping hair and skin filled the tiny wax room. Bella started the waxing procedure with the same expression she ended it with: You have no idea what real pain is until you have lived in communist Russia you rich Yankee capitalist bitch.

My sister only completed one side before almost passing out at the sight of her own blood and telling Bella to stop. She uses Nair now and Nair only.

I’ve had various other white bread American girls as waxists and although sweet, full of small talk and equipped with a more caring touch than Bella, they also made it perfectly clear that this is a painful procedure that they themselves would have never partake in. And while I’m sure their intent was more of a “you’re a strong woman and your boyfriend is very lucky to have a girl that is willing to go through such pain and sacrifice for him” it actually felt more like “you’re a sorry excuse for a woman and a step back for feminism everywhere”.

And then there was the Hispanic woman I had in New York state who when I told her I didn’t just want a bikini wax (read: panties on) but a brazillian (read: full frontal) she looked at me in disgust and said she doesn’t do “underwear off”. Like I’m some closet case dirty lesbian that likes to flash my waxable privates to strange women wearing latex gloves. So she had to get her less prudish colleague to her dirty work for her while I was left spread eagle on the slab with my panties hanging off one ankle.

Then I moved to Paris and after a long fearful wait I finally made the horrific plunge of yet another new waxist (epillatrice). I found a very kind Vietnamese woman whose French was worse than my own. Unfortunately she accidentally cut me ( - yeah, down there) while doing a finishing trim. Her kind demeanour wasn’t enough to make me go back. As they say: Cut my vagina once, shame on you. Cut my vagina twice, shame on me.

My second waxist in Paris stuck. Quick, easy, and they used this silly putty-esque wax that hurt half as less as the others. Once I broke the ice with a simple “Desolee madame, mais il y a du boulot” everything was smooth sailing. Clean, fast, and practically pain free with no one making you feel ashamed or gay.

So now I again feel the familiar fear of putting myself in the hands of the unknown. In fact, I have yet to even see a spa or beauty parlour that advertises bikini waxes over in England and I have a hard time believing that every English chick over here goes au naturale. So if anyone knows of a good bikini waxer in England – hook me up. My boyfriend will thank you.

Occasionally I feel the big green monster sneaking up on me when I hear some of the single Girlspokers discuss their hot new dates for the weekend or the anonymous sex they had the other night. Although I am very satisfied and happy with my boyfriend (we’re coming up to our three year sentence anniversary) I do miss that fiery, spunky, independence that can only come from a single woman fending for herself and loving it. So without further ado, I give you why I wish I was single again, and why I love having a boyfriend.

Top five things I miss about being single:

1. First kisses
2. First kisses in the back alleyway of a bar with your skirt pulled up around your thighs and not even bothering to take his number afterwards
3. Boozy girl’s nights out on the prowl
4. Flirting with intent (because lord knows I still flirt now – I just shut them down with the “Sorry, I’ve got a boyfriend” line at the last minute)

And the top reason I miss being single…

5. Putting more notches on my bed post (AKA the joy of “new” cock)

Top five things I love about being in a relationship:

1. Always having a date for office Christmas parties and friend’s weddings
2. Never having to hear “I can’t believe you’re still single” from tactless relatives
3. Having someone who is willing to support you financially once you get fired during the fucking Christmas season by your lying boss
4. Having someone around to fix light bulbs/kill bugs/hold your hair back when you’re puking-up that nights 3 bottles of wine

And the top reason I love being in a relationship…

5. Always knowing where my next fuck is coming from

Now I know it’s been said here before, but I’ll say it again; Goddamn you daylight saving! A curse on you and your bleak mole eyed loved ones.

All dark and no sun make Betty a right Bitch. I can just about hear the feeble cries of my bodily cells screaming, “Vitamin D, Vitamin D… must have sunlight to live”…and they’re keeping me up at night. I’ve had a permanent cough and cold for the past two weeks (the pounding of screwdrivers and inhaling of cigarettes on a near nightly basis is of course no factor in my medical demise). I snap at everyone, I’m rude to colleagues I haven’t even met yet. As they say over here, I am in a right nark, and I blame it all on the fucking sun being a pussy and deciding it can just fuck off at 4:30 every afternoon leaving me crying in front of my computer screen, dreading my darkened commute home.

And the poor boyfriend is taking the brunt of it. Since the sun has abandoned me he can do no right in my eyes. His cough is too loud, his French accent too thick, his kisses too soft.

In fact last night I told him if he continued to try to give me these soft little fairy kisses on my neck (and by fairy I mean really fucking gay) then I would have to punch him in the mouth and would be in no way responsible for any dental damage needed as I had given him fair warning.

Thankfully he took the hint, grew some balls and manhandled me to perfection. Can we just have a respectful moment of silence to the coquettish beauty of being lightly spanked by a man or woman you truly love and respect?

Mmmm, where was I? Right the sun. Or lack there of. My bitchiness…. come to think of it I feel much better. Perhaps a repeated helping of last night’s romp with the beau and I’ll get through this winter just fine.