the viewership, part two

gchat status: genie might give you the link to her blog, if you ask really nicely

 

jordan: oh pretty please! i don’t have enough blogs to read!!

me: ha ha, i’m not sure if i am supposed to take that as sarcasm

or if you are truly begging me

but i like when guys beg

jordan: lol

well, i guess i found the whole thing kind of amusing

me: the thing?

jordan: i mean, the point of broadcasting your life is… for other people to see it

me: yeah, but not my brother

jordan: funny, just who i was going to share it with

me: or god forbid my father learn how to use the computer

elle, maybe? but she’s already read it.

the link is: indefenseofgettingoff.wordpress.com

jordan: LOL

me: the viewership mostly consists of 14-year-old girls

who google stuff about gossip girl and stuff about parents walking in on them masturbating

by the way, i am in the middle of writing this article about anal hpv

because this is my life

jordan: having anal hpv?

me: ha, no

jordan: or entertaining 14 year old girls

me: i wish i were a gay man, but apparently, according to elle, i am “v straight”

hmm, well my friends suggested that to please my viewership i make a post entitled “screwable objects that your mommy won’t find out about”

i could incorporate gossip girl into it, if i wanted more hits: “objects to screw while fantasizing about chuck-blair limo sex”

i’m sure, as someone with a younger sister, you are familiar with such topics

jordan: maybe i’m naive

but i don’t think my younger sister ventured into such territory with such gusto

me: hmm, well dildos are hard to conceal, so occasionally on family vacations, or other such stressful and inconvenient retreats, i pack rather pragmatically

i used to buy hairbrushes according to which ones i thought had the most screwable handles

hairbrushes are perfect, because as a 13-year-old girl, if you sleep with them, your mom just thinks you are excessively vain, which conveniently most 13-year-old girls are anyway

but naive, maybe

you are

that is

To placate my target audience and in honor of those who have been friends with me since the days of Lovephones:

I’m not going to do a top-ten list of screwable objects, because i am bad at ranking things and that could be an endless endeavor like organizing my CDs, but I’ll list the best and most notable:

Hairbrushes will always rank up there with detachable showerheads as multi-purpose, unintentionally sexual objects, although you can discover showerheads accidentally and even pretend to masturbate accidentally with showerheads, but never have I ever found a hairbrush in my vagina accidentally. When I was in high school my life goal was falling asleep with fingers inside myself. This was misguided. Of course the fingering to sleep transition would be marvelous, but you can’t get fingers inside yourself without contorting and I can’t sleep in weird positions. I am jealous of my best friend because my current life goal is becoming a parody of myself and instead she managed to surpass my aspirations and become a parody of me. She recently accidentally fell asleep with a hairbrush in herself. Ingenious! No contortion necessary. So, yes, I suppose you can accidentally find a hairbrush inside yourself, but you can’t accidentally put it there. If only I were a narcoleptic instead of an insomniac.

Starbursts were the first thing I ever put in my vagina other than a finger. And maybe a tampon. A strawberry-flavored Starburst, for the curious. It’s not that I wanted my vag to taste like artificial strawberry!  I guess I happened to be eating Starbursts and thought, “I wonder what this would feel like in my vagina?” A natural question. I was sort of fascinated by its lubricating properties—it lubricates you as you lubricate it. Also, it molds to the shape of your vagina. Incidentally, it also causes the growth of mold. No, I’m kidding, but it is a sticky mess. At the age at which you are still worried about what your mom thinks of your crusty underwear, adding confections is a dangerous prospect. At some point candy companies failed to run their slogans by panels of twelve-year-old girls, because within the next year Skittle’s slogan was “taste the rainbow” and I forget what Starburst’s slogan was but it involved wetness. Or maybe gushing. Or juice. Hilarity ensued. And I suppose twelve-year-old girls everywhere felt entrapped into fucking candy that they wouldn’t otherwise fuck. Oh, I think it was “Starbursts: Get your juices flowing.” Gross.

In other candy news, pop rocks don’t detonate in vagina juice! Disappointment of all disappointments! And here I spent all the time worrying about stinging. They don’t hurt; they’re just inert. I suppose I tried pop rocks after working my way up from medicated Blistex. I see all these fancy tingling products now that are sold exclusively for sex use and I wonder if Blistex has lost their market.

Among the other food products I tested as a teenager were lollipops. Obvious enough. But surprisingly not satisfying. I’m not sure how I feel about inserting roundish objects. I think I feel the way about lollipops that one of my acquaintances feels about anal beads; although, to be fair, she said she felt like her boyfriend was pulling the shit out of her and there is no comparable sensation for pulling round things out of your vagina. Conveniently, lollipops have sticks like tampons have strings. This just in: only a complete idiot could lose a lollipop in her vagina! The problem with lollipops, however, besides the lack of pleasurable sensation, is that they have airholes and when they burst they’re sharp! You could be mindlessly fucking a lollipop for a few minutes, wearing it down, when all the sudden, unexpectedly, ouch!

I find it hilarious that Larry Clark (of “KIDS” fame) uses candy as a trope for sex in his movie “Wassup Rockers,” because private school kids, who are too young for sex (just like private school kids are too young to get married at twenty-five, don’t begin having babies until thirty-five, and don’t stop having babies until forty-five at which time they have to spend tens of thousands on fertility treatment) actually fuck candy.

http://www.brightlightsfilm.com/61/61larryclarkiv.html

When I came of age, the material world divided into two entities: screwable objects and non-screwable objects.

Pretty much anything lying around that seemed like it would fit ended up in my vagina. Most often this included writing implements, lip gloss, etc. The trick is obviously that caps and anything else “edgy” hurt, so you want something that is of maximal length without the cap. Lip gloss with a wand seems to work well for this, and pubescent girls have an endless supply of sparkly and shimmery substances with wand applicators. Items can also be combined, so while fucking one Sharpie might be too mild for your taste, fucking multiple sharpies then sniffing them afterwards (that’s soo not what I meant) is uber hardcore! The thing about writing implements is oftentimes they are so skinny that they can be used in combination, in a chopstick-like formation, to spread open your vagina for full-length mirror examination. If only clear speculums were available to the general public, many a pencil could have been spared emersion in my vagina. I find vagina inspection extremely educational and once in health class in school we even had a guest speaker explain that you can touch your cervix if you reach in far enough and it feels like the tip of your nose—a mucusy version. So it does.

Let me tell you a beautiful little anecdote. Once upon a time when I was twelve, I fucked a highlighter and put it in my drawer for safekeeping, I mean, subsequent washing when my parents weren’t around. The cap was ribbed, making it extra prone to encrustation. You can only transport so many crusty highlighters to the bathroom before your parents get suspicious. A group of friends were over and one needed a writing implement so she reached into my drawer and pulled out the crusty highlighter. It would have been so awkward to say anything. The end.

Candles. The 12-year-old ultimate. When lighting candles and incense was so badass. The only problem is you can’t put the tapered, wick end in you unless you want to ruin prospects for lighting it and the other end can be sort of edgy. Also, I was always scared of breaking candles inside me.

I can’t really think of anything else that found its way into my vagina as an adolescent, but accompanying success is always failure. What failed to enter my vagina was flashlights. Too big. But not for lack of trying. This was of special significance because for years I fooled my mom, staying up way beyond my bedtime, reading, writing in my diary, listening to Lovephones, and cutting myself—all by light of flashlight. The Everready kind, if you must know. Requiring two D batteries. Double D’s. Ha. I also used to consider battery-fucking, but it seemed too dangerous. I am an extremely cautious and conscientious person.

The last genre of objects, and perhaps the most ridiculous, is that which I contemplated fucking but turned down. Even I have standards. The obvious no-no’s are things that have sharps edges, seams, or the ability to break. My little brother had some toys, some mine, that I considered fucking but there is that grossness factor of 4-year-old grubby hands. Forgetting that I didn’t want my brother to have to touch something after it was inside me, my brother drooled on his toys and put them god knows where. Could even the most thorough washing disinfect them? There was this particular toy—originally mine—which I’ve always lusted after but never ventured to conquer. It is this rainbow ring toss, with a yellow shaft, that I think everyone had as a kid. The ultimate deterrence was not the grossness factor, but that it had a manufacturing seam down the middle—a raphe, for those of you who are versed in anatomical vocabulary.

Then there was the Harry Potter broom, the Quidditch stick. One day my mom came home reporting the “scandal” of the vibrating broom they were selling and how some parents were protesting, requesting they take it off the market. I feigned lack of interest, indifference. Weeks later my mom came home with one! I asked about the change of heart and she replied, flatly, “Sale.” To which I replied, “Jew.” Not really, but not kidding. I never fucked it. Too obvious. And, to be fair, it was a little big. I’ll put that on my to-do list along with Everready flashlights. For when I am a loose, aged ho.

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2 Responses to the viewership, part two

  1. BF says:

    Huh. For some reason I remember it being an orange starburst.

  2. indefenseofgettingoff says:

    me: well you are probably right, it’s just that strawberry seems so much more appealing, i don’t like orange flavored anything nevertheless orange flavored vagina

    BF: yeah true, I hate oranges myself

    me: i just hate fake orange flavor

    BF : kind of funny when you think about it though, considering how much you like certain other orange things

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