girls who love cock and lick pussy

Posted on December 31, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

years ago, i went to a small liberal arts college, inhabited by “free thinkers,” where atheism, communism and free love reigned. everyone knew everyone, there was no police presence, calls for help were routine because there were no real consequences for your actions, and nothing really bad ever happened to good people. if you got a facebook message from a stranger, you could at least check references. after the fact, this girl’s references told me that she did heroin and dropped out of school. 

on my facebook profile, under “interests,” one of many things i listed was, “girls who love cock and lick pussy.” another of many things i listed was, “drunken facebook messages.” i wasn’t soliciting attention, but i guess i shouldn’t have been surprised when i got it. 

from “ivory” at 4:32 am, subject “respect discretion”: 

speaking of drunken facebook messages, i was perusing the facebook like the good dork that i am but i was intrigued by your interestss…and was wondering..are you interested in maybe having a threesome with me and my friend that is a boy, he is not a [someone from our school] hes actually 31, but hes hot and clean and yeah i have never hooked up with a girl but i am interested in trying it out…let me know…oh and if you could keep this between you and me that would rock…have a good night

from “ivory” at 4:50 am:

it just occured to me that that may have come off as a little forward, basically you sound like a cool chick, you don’t have to be interested to write back, i’m just horny and you seem like a decent chick to talk to about this sort of shit , it is hard for me to find chicks i’m attracted to cause its purely a psychological thing for me, i hate dumb bitches…

response from me:

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find your messages intriguing. I’m not quite sure who you are, but you look cute from your facebook/yearbook pics. I don’t want to commit to anything, but I’d definitely be interested in meeting you and possibly the boy. Although, I have to say, I wonder about any 31 year old who is hooking up with a 19 year old. Are you interested in hooking up with girls alone or just with guys? I’m not exactly the most experienced with girls either. I’ve only hooked up with two girls for a grand total of four times. And hooking up with girls still makes me a little nervous. Don’t worry about sounding too forward. Forward is good and anyone who can manage to surprise me is worth exploring further. I like that you think I’m the right kinda girl to talk to about how horny you are. I don’t exactly have the world’s most active sex life at the moment so I definitely understand. As for psychological shit, there are some girls I like for psychological reasons and some girls I like for physical reasons, but, when it comes down to it, on a purely physical level I’m more attracted to guys. What can I say, I love cock. But I’d rather hook up with a girl who I connect to on a mental/emotional level than a guy who I just want to bone. In any event, I’m glad you messaged me even if it’s a bit crazy. It’s exciting to find a chick who is just as crazy as I am. Maybe we can hang out sometime later this week. I’m sure there are plenty of [from our school] boys who would love to have a 3some too. Some might even be willing to keep it on the DL. Where do you know this 31 year old from and why are you so convinced that he’s clean?

 

I thought my response was extremely receptive especially considering the craziness of her message. A little foward, really? I do like that some stranger thinks I am the right kind of girl to discuss her horniness with. I can picture the conversation now: “I’m not really interested, but I know you are really horny, and I just wanted to let you know that I understand.” Ha, as if that would ever happen. Obviously I’m interested. But I don’t hear back from her for weeks. I am a little disappointed. I thought I said I was in and the dubiousness about the guy was a small detail . 

 

Weeks later, at our college festival, where everyone gets wasted, gets fucked, and does ‘shrooms (except for me), I spot her in a crowd, or should I say “in a circle of people” (because hippies gather in circles, like drum circles). She is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. Bleached blonde dreads, vibrant. I walk past her with a friend (who didn’t go to school with us, so I was respecting discretion), informed him that we were, in fact, walking back in the same direction, told him to look to his right, and checked her out once more. He agreed. She was stunning.

 

I get home the next night and there is a message on my door. Have no mistake: When I say there is a message “on my door,” I don’t mean there is a message affixed to my door. I mean there is a message written directly on my door, with white board markers that were still attached despite the lack of white board, sprawled out for all of my dormies and innocent bystanders to see. It read: “I love cock, I love pussy, I love you. Love, Ivory.” The ‘loves’ were hearts; visualize artistic license. It was crazy and a little embarrassing, even though I was not the one who requested discretion. I wanted her more now than ever. I never heard from her again. 

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say hello to hector for me, part three

Posted on December 29, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

After getting off, I spent the next hour or so researching this fictitious Hector character. I googled the line, googled things like the more specific “Hector Bang Bus” and more general “Hector porn,” searched my porno folder for ideas, and popped a bang bus vid into my computer (the reason why I have it is a story for another post, but let’s just say that I refuse to get rid of it because it reminds me of a certain person and era of my life), all to no avail. I figured it must have been something I had on my computer long, long ago before the porn triage process, which was something motivated more by my desire to streamline the masturbatory process than to sanitize my computer. I rued the day when I rid myself of things that were funny, horrifying, etc., but lacked sexual utility.

At 5:16 am, out of options and full of questions, I e-mailed a male friend who is a bona fide porn connoisseur. To spare you from deciphering my illiterate, drunken e-mail, I have prepared a sobered-up version, which preserves the original meaning:

This might not be a work-appropriate q, so close it if you are at work. Tonight i might have had the most fratty, sexually repulsive experience i have had in a while. The guy told me that i made him feel like i was Michael J Fox hooked up to all of his machines. I cannot think of anything more distasteful to Michael J or myself. But i employ you out of curiosity, not sympathy. As he left, the parting sequence included: my wrapping myself in my covers saying i was ready to go to sleep (implying that i wanted to get rid of him), his taking way too long to find his clothing as if he was trying to prolong the situation, his lying next to me in bed and asking/offering “are you mad at me? let’s spoon. you can be big spoon,” and my dismissing him by saying, “No, I just want to get off an go to sleep and you are not being conducive to that.” Needless to say, he got the message and quickly got his shit together to leave, realizing I was not amused and wanted him to get his shit out of my place asap–like ten minutes before he accosted me with his loser-make-good bullshit. So, where you come into the picture is, i have this painstaking question. His parting line, following my ultimate ‘you have been rendered obsolete’-style parting line, was: “Say hello to Hector for me.” Was this some kind of porn thing that was introduced at the end of every College Fuck Fest or Bang Bus video? I feel like it was referencing some kind of collegiate, fratty porn series about which I have long forgotten. Mr. R, porn connoisseur, please refresh my memory as to this frat boy’s porno reference involving Hector. Cum fiesta, perhaps? Regardless of the specific reference, am I correct in assuming it is something equally insulting and vile?

line of the night: “i feel like i am fucking a cripple.”

When I received no immediate response, I googled some more then frantically g chatted every guy I know explaining, “This isn’t a let’s test ___’s porn knowledge question; this is a for Genie’s edification question.” No one got it. One person asked if it was a riddle. My gay ex boyfriend claimed that even he didn’t know and he watches a lot of porn. A) This is a blatant lie; I’ve seen all the porn on his computer and it in no way constitutes a lot. B) That is the gayest thing I’ve heard besides that he likes doing people up the butt; straight guys do not need to brag about the quantity of porn they watch.

Finally, the answer I had been waiting for:

OK, so first of all, WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE.

Where did you FIND this douche?

Second…to answer your question, the only reference I could think of would be that dude “Dongzilla” or something.  I think his name is Hector and his claim to fame is that he has a monster cock.  That’s about all that I know…I think he’s from the site “monstersofcock.com“.  Either way, it’s definitely fucking offensive and that guy is a shitbag.

What happened?

Oh, and also, what a totally random diss.  Let’s just assume for a second that he meant that as an insult, what does it mean?  “Say hello to Hector for me”?  That’s kind of like saying “say hi to guys with bigger dicks that you’re sleeping with” which isn’t really an insult to you as much as an insult towards himself.

Whatever.

Lameeeee

My response:

You are my hero. First of all, for understanding my 5:16 am illiterate e-mail. Second, for solving my mystery. I was so close with Bang Bus. It is Hector from Bang Bros: Hector Strikes Again! Apparently, Bang Bus is part of the Bang Bros conglomerate. So is Monsters of Cock. Vile, fratty porn. I can’t believe I understood this reference in my state, but I suppose I matched the detestable experience to the inspiration. This guy actually did have a huge dick, so I’m not sure if he was insulting himself or not. Not that people shouldn’t be decent anyway, but I gave him amazing head, so I feel like he should have been way nicer. Yeah, um, fucking a cripple. I’m really not sure who says that. Not to mention the Michael J. Fox thing. Do cripples give amazing head? Gee, I sure hope so.

This guy, by the way, was the flabbiest guy I’ve ever been with. He wasn’t fat. Perhaps he was fat in the past? His skin like wasn’t attached to his body. Also, his eyebrows were way too far apart. I’m sure he had them professionally done.

The next morning he sent me an apology text saying he was sorry for leaving and hoped I wasn’t mad. Duh, I wanted him to leave! I hadn’t even given him my number, so he had to go out of his way to get it from our mutual friend. I am obviously texting him back inquiring about the Bang Bros reference. Let him be shocked at my porn literacy, i.e., yours. I’m pretty sure what he meant was that I’m obv a huge ho if I have to play with toys to get off (if his huge cock can’t do it for me) and I have probably been stretched out by guys like Hector. Convoluted, but plausible, no? I will leave you with a definition from Urban Dictionary:

“Dongzilla: A penis that is so fearsome that it reaks terror on all that may cross its path. You’ve been a bad girl, now I must unleash Dongzilla.”

Oh, also, do you know how to attain a copy of this “Hector Strikes Again” video? If so, can you send it to me. I am truly curious. Since when do you have to be 21 to enter porno websites? Aren’t you of age of consent at 18? I am confused. Is this like how some bars require you to be 24? No, that is so they get more upscale, expensive clientele, hardly what Monsters of Cock is looking for. Their terms of usage are a little dramatic: “I believe that as an adult it is my inalienable right to receive/view sexually explicit material.” Granted, I like porn, but is this really part of my life, liberty and pursuit of happiness? I mean, I thought I had it good with the no female genital mutilation and no getting stoned upon leaving my apartment alone thing. I Like how Florida has jurisdiction in their legal matters. Does this mean all scenes were filmed in Florida, or is the company just incorporated in Florida? My favorite part of their terms of usage: ” The videos and images in this site are intended to be used by responsible adults as sexual aids, to provide sexual education and to provide sexual entertainment.” Sexual aids? For cripples?

I get the feeling that this boy uses sexual aids. Hypocrite. Lame.

Upon disclosing the answer to the riddle, I got mixed responses from my friends:

My best friend said she hoped that my interpretation was right and agreed that it was a befitting story for my blog. We wondered if he meant for me to get the reference (How could he have expected that? He, for sure, isn’t perceptive enough to read that I am the right kind of girl.) Or if he meant for me to get that it was a reference at all. Why would someone say something undecipherable? What could he possibly get out of it? A story to tell his guy friends? Is this the proverbial donkey punch? Like he expected to go home, slap his frat boys five, and tell them that he quoted porn to some unsuspecting ho bag? What a fucking tool.

Another friend restated my interpretation more succinctly, “So, only guys like Hector can get you off,” and followed with the situation from a guy’s perspective, “He fucked you, came, kept fucking you, peed, kept fucking you. You made him feel inadequate.” He stated it as if the fucking sequence was an unheard-of feat, which is how I felt about it at the time, confused as to how Chaz could continue to be so incredibly hard. I informed him that this guy was huge, how could he possibly feel emasculated? My friend replied, “He doesn’t know.”

I explained to him that when Chaz said, “I feel like I’m fucking a cripple,” I stopped fucking him and started getting myself off, instead, “because I have some dignity,” too much to continue fucking someone like a cripple. My friend interrupted me, incredulous; “What! Genie, this is what you consider dignity? Masturbating in front of him! You should have kicked him out!” Of course, as a matter of principle, I should have. Except there existed two small, preventative details: A) I am too timid to be that confrontational and aggressive, even though I deserved to stand up for myself and he deserved to be kicked out. It seemed so extreme, like, how did it get this bad this quickly, and, wait, I am still not done! B) It was a time-sensitive manner. I figured I was already a good thirty seconds into something that would have only taken two minutes total had he not interrupted. Kicking him out would have been a laborious process, eating away at my time and energy, detracting from my arousal. God forbid, I have to start from scratch! A pragmatic and an efficient person, I wanted to take advantage of the progression in my arousal. This entailed minimal confrontation and negotiation with him until things were taken care of from my end of the deal. I needed to speed through the last two and a half minutes pre-orgasm, before anything else derailed my imperative. Then I could worry about disposing of him, although post-orgasm it might have proved more difficult to hold a grudge, even if he had been uncooperative and only served to hinder my orgasm attainment. He had already set me back a full minute with his nonsense!

Someone else urged me not to text the boy to verify my discovery, because “he’s crazy.” I wondered why the boy would be deemed “crazy,” not just a grade-A douche bag, and I came up with a couple of reasons: It is crazy to act like it is an imposition to watch someone get off. It is crazy to be so insecure that you are threatened by sex toys. It is crazy to think you have a right to be that blatantly offensive. It is crazy to think you can get away with treating a girl like she is some girl out of Bang Bus (it is bad enough that people are paid to be degraded).

It really isn’t that hard to be sexually polite. If something makes you uncomfortable, all you have to do is leave. No questions asked. It is like that middle school girl/guy party where your mom told you you could call if anything happened. Except no one has to know. I think he could have sucked it up and fucked me for a minute and a half longer; that’s all it would have taken. I fucked him for longer than I wanted to.

I did end up texting him, partially out of pride and partially out of an undying curiosity; “I suppose I’ll forgive you if you answer the following question: What does ‘Say Hello to Hector for me.’ mean? Is this a line from Bang Bus or equally vile porn?” His response couldn’t have been more disappointing; “Is that what I said when I left? I have no idea who Hector is–I kind of want to though.” It is impossible that he doesn’t know, right? He remembered that it was something he said as he was leaving. It could have been one of any number of the repulsive things he said throughout the course of the evening.

I would just like to note how fucking pathetic I find guys like Chaz. First of all, I don’t think guys like Chaz really enjoy pussy; they are only in it for the ego and penis inflation, and how inflated can your penis be without enjoying pussy. I thought I was being generous by taking the responsibility off of him and letting him kick back and enjoy watching, but apparently I was only making him feel inadequate. Not only are you pathetic if you are made to feel inadequate by a piece of plastic, but you are also engaging in a self-fulfilling prophesy. You know what my sexual preference is: guys who like watching girls get off. Actually, my sexual preference is getting off and I like anyone who is conducive to or affirming in that regard. He made it clear that he had no interest in my getting off and was only interested in me sexually insofar as he was implicated in the results. I do not perform sexually for men. I take no pleasure in getting off in front of men unless they take pleasure in watching me get off. It isn’t about giving a guy my orgasm, just like virginity isn’t something for taking. Maybe he feels like I rendered him useless, but he rendered himself his worst nightmare: I’d rather masturbate than hook up with him! In fact, fuck this fucking sexual experience that I can’t even get off too. And fuck insulting people, making them feel inadequate, to assuage your own insecurities. I daresay I call that projection. I love masturbatory company. I love boys. And I even love cock more than I love plastic, regardless of what technically makes me orgasm. Does he really think he is useless to me? I mean, why even bother with guys when I can go home every night, fuck dildos, and cuddle with my kitty.

Is it possible that guys with huge cocks are even more egomaniacal when it comes to pleasing women? Or is there some kind of interaction between having a huge cock and having a deflated ego? Oh, too many two-way ANOVAS.

I will leave you with one of Urban Dictionary’s definitions of one of the alternate spellings of ho bag: “Hoebag: A person {preferrably a woman} who ‘gets around.’ Some one who is such a hoe that their vagina has been stretched to such an extent that it can be used as a bag to carry things such as: mail, yoga balls, ipods, crayons, ect. ect.”

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say hello to hector for me, part two

Posted on December 29, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

The cab ride home was disappointing. As we waited for the cab, I had to go out of my way to to lean on him so he would take the hint and wrap his arm around me. It wasn’t that I cared about the cold–it was too cold for that to make any difference–it’s just that if we’re going to go home and fuck we should make some physical contact first and maybe even pretend that we’re interested. The actual cab ride was the same. He was virtually unresponsive to my hand groping, which tentatively progressed into leg groping, as he explained the virtues of Conan or the cons of Jay or the segments in Jimmy or whatever poignant and insightful things he had to say about whatever heady late-night shows he is an expert on (he was tactful or tactical enough to avoid the topic of Bill Maher entirely). He should have shut up and let me grope him, but I guess if I had already suffered through an hour or so of conversation, what was another fifteen minutes. On the way out, he got into some dispute with the cabdriver about how he wanted to pay with a credit card but the cabdriver switched it to the cash screen too quickly. I wanted to be like, “Shut up and let me pay with cash before I lose interest in fucking you,” but I refrained.

I straddled him on my lawn furniture–seriously, that’s what my apartment is furnished with–and, as I inhaled his face, I became cognizant of the fact that his cologne and cigarette fragrance now had undertones of mint! Top five signs of a d-bag: 1) cologne, 2) mint, 3) hair gel, 4) puffy jacket, 5) acid-washed, designer jeans. He was four for five. Oh Chaz, how it turns me on to run my hands through your plasticy hair, like I am groping a doll with whom I am playing. Well, the experience was a game of sorts; I was just going through the motions. The thing about going through the motions is, no matter how detestable the guy and no matter how slight your ability or motivation to take him seriously, once your bodies start rubbing, you will get turned on. It’s, um, science!

He suggests that we take it to my bedroom. Before I even get his clothes off, I realize that there is something weird about his body. His skin moves around with his clothes. It isn’t attached like most people’s skin is attached. It is like the first time you play with a penis, how you are weirded-out by how far you can pull the skin and that it isn’t affixed like arm skin or whatever. He was doughy, but not fat. Perhaps he had been fat in the past. I wasn’t sure how it would feel against my body. His face–his eyebrows, I mean–I could get over. All I had to do was close my eyes. But close my eyes and I could feel his weird, doughy, girl body rubbing up against me, stretching with the friction. I’m just being mean. But, seriously, I was confused by the detached-skin thing.

His cock is nice, the only thing I like about him, really, besides the fact that he is easy and willing to play along with my game. He believes that I am just a dumb slut and, therefore, I own him a little more. The sex is pretty good for drunken sex except it lasts too long, which is probably how all drunken sex goes. He is maybe even a little too big for me and it starts to hurt. I am plenty wet; he is just too big. I was ready to ask if I could finish him off with my mouth, but he gets up and says he has to pee and on his way to the bathroom he says something about disposing of his cummy condom. I didn’t think he had cum, but why would he make this up and then continue fucking me when he got back? I heard him pee and I was shocked at how immediately and solidly hard he was again upon reentering my room. At this point I was kind of done with the sex, but put the effort in a little longer. The thing about sex is, once you start losing interest, your vagina starts shrinking; his oversized cock was hurting me more and more as time went on. Since he had already gotten off, I figured he was mostly fucking me for my benefit, and why continue if it is becoming tortuous? Either way, it hurts and we need to change what we are doing, not just our positions. In situations like this I feel like half of the torture is perpetuated by lack of communication or lack of willingness to communicate with a partner you don’t really know. People are embarrassed and want to be seen as good and cooperative partners. Pluralistic ignorance is fostered and that is detrimental to everyone.

I’m still aroused enough so that the situation is salvageable. But I need help. I timidly ask him if it is okay if I use my vibrator while he fucks me. I make it sound like I am a little uncomfortable even asking. I am too drunk to be uncomfortable and care too little what he thinks about me. He says, yeah, whatever. Seems relatively unfazed, or maybe I just care too little about the situation to sense a reaction. I lean over, under my bed, to pull out my sex toy drawer and he does seem a little surprised that I am going through with it, even though why would I suffer the purported embarrassment of asking if I didn’t actually intend to play with my vibrator. The situation was only exacerbated with a drunken blooper–caused by lack-of-coordination in combination with night-vision–in which I had to dump out (“empty out” carries too graceful of a connotation to be descriptive of the action) the entire contents of my sex toy drawer, one-by-one, before locating my miniscule vibrator. He’s already seen me naked; he might as well see the things I put inside myself. I think it is the number of dildos more than the dildos themselves that is notable. Besides, his dick is big, too big, and my dildos are small.

I reposition myself doggy style and thrust a few times to get back into the swing of things. When I turn my vibrator on, the volume alarms even me. Partially because I am drunk, so everything loud is a little louder (your reaction time is down, and when a stimulus kicks in, it really kicks in). Partially because I just put new batteries in it and I’m not sure what is up with these batteries, but they rattle around a lot inside it, while somehow failing to make it vibrate any more. Partially because I am too drunk or too lazy to take my clit ring out, despite the fact that it is impossible to do a good job with the combination, and vibrator+metal=noise, lots of it. That sounds like some kind of music formula. Chaz moves suddenly and lets out a vocal noise signaling distress, disapproval, or general disarray. I look back at him and to inquire about what is up, not letting up, as things are picking up for me again, and he blurts out, “I feel like I am fucking a cripple.” Who says that?!? I pull him out of me immediately, flip over, and stare straight at him. I am disgusted! Even more so then when we started. At this point I don’t even care. I am done with this shit. Unfortunately, I got reinterested during the few reintroduction thrusts. Whereas it would have only taken two minutes before, I’m now down to a minute and half.

I reason with him. I don’t waste time. I say, “If you really can’t handle the noise, you don’t have to be involved. This won’t take long.” Something to that effect. I think I am doing him a favor. And I continue getting myself off before the situations worsens. Too late. Thirty seconds in, he hems and haws then goes in for the kill; “Okay, well, you can keep doing that, you know, if you want, and finish yourself off, or whatever, I guess. But I feel like you are Michael J Fox hooked up to all of his machines.” Wtf!?! The situation is officially fucking over. I turn my vibrator off. Silence. Stare of death. Directness. “Look, this isn’t fun for me. I think I am just going to go to sleep.” Read: Please leave so I can get myself off. I hid under my covers and refused to look up at him. That, in combination with what I had said, was his cue to leave.

He got the point and got dressed, outerwear included, but it was taking too long and I was getting annoyed. He tried to make conversation about underwear. If you are going to be unhelpful about getting someone off, obviously the courteous thing to do is leave promptly. The underwear conversation would have been cute as foreplay, maybe even in the cab ride over, but he was using it to stall and I wanted him to fucking leave me alone so I could masturbate in peace. He asked why girls even bother with underwear, after all, “They have nothing down there.” Our fundamental difference in opinion, indicative of our fundamental incompatibility.

I acted dismissive and disgusted; I wasn’t acting. In his final, feeble attempt to make good, he lies in bed next to my naked-and-ready body and is like, “Genie, will you spoon me?” Ew, gross. I don’t want to cuddle with him; I want to get off! What part of this doesn’t he understand? Does he think that because I’m a girl I don’t know the difference? I do, and it lies in the difference between oxytocin and testosterone. Oxytocin is released during orgasm and makes you want to cuddle afterwards. Testosterone is released throughout sex and makes you want to fuck, fuck until you get off, or FUCKING PUNCH THINGS. His stalling was making me lean toward the latter. So I say, “No.” Instead of heeding my rejection and making a mental note that I fucking despise him, he ups it a notch and tries to be even cuter; “Why not? You can be big spoon.” Vomit. He was missing something with his pea-sized brain and deflated penis, and I was in no mood to play. I had no choice but to be abundantly clear; “Look, I really just want to get off and go to sleep and you aren’t being conducive to that.” INDEFENSEOFGETTINGOFF. It was the most impertinent and methodical way in which I could state the obvious. Moreover, it proved to be extremely effectual; it got rid of him–finally! I couldn’t have stood to spend a night with him.

On his way out, he said two things, one which left me confused. The first one was, “Great organizational skills,” which I’m pretty sure was in reference to my inability to use a hamper. The second one was, “Say hello to Hector for me.” Who is Hector? I don’t know anyone named Hector. We don’t know anyone named Hector. Is this a reference to some fratty and vile series of porn like Bang Bus?

Thank god the worst sexual experiences make the best stories. I was pleased to get a good line out of the night, a Genie classic, as in no other girl would have the gall to say that. And what could be more in the spirit of indefenseofgettingoff than, “Look, I really just want to get off and go to sleep and you aren’t being conducive to that.” I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. I hope I made him feel like a penis attached to a set of legs.

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say hello to hector for me, part one

Posted on December 29, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

I wish I could explain this away with a simple and exhaustive explanation like, “I was horny and he was there,” or even, “I liked him.” But, no.

I was not horny. In fact, I was especially unhorny. The previous night I had tortured myself to the point where I was like, “I NEVER WANT TO GET OFF AGAIN!!!” Unfortunately, such sentiments never last more than 24 hours.

I did not like him. Upon meeting him I thought, “I would never touch someone whose eyebrows are so far apart, someone who gets his eyebrows done and has such a shitty job done on them.” Minutes later, I learned of his distaste for Bill Maher, which I find personally offensive, and of his propensity for tivo-ing The Hills and football, which I find baffling along the same lines as W’s reelection.

I met up with friends at a bar and had a little drink in me already. I just came from a show, had a good conversation, and was feeling pretty elated. Many of my friends had already paired-up in conversation for the night. When the boy arrived–let’s call him Chaz, because the fake name matches his overdone eyebrows, cheesy smile, and cheap cologne–I had little intention of wasting my vigor and charm on him. After his friend bought me a drink, I smiled a lot and obliged him. I considered Chaz a warm-up, if anything.

The way my best friend describes the progression–what happened in those next twenty minutes, how I got inadvertently hooked–is I felt like I was winning the conversation. I realized how much more beautiful, intelligent, and enchanting I was than he, and I was roped in by the power of my own charisma. I schooled him, and the fact  that he was making me look good, could take it, and was even into, made me want him–want myself to be elevated by him. I can’t tell you what I won, exactly. We were not having a debate. Perhaps the topic was slightly more intellectual than our previous one about reality TV, but to give you an impression of the level of discourse, on our cab ride home we discussed which late-night show host is the funniest (isn’t the obviously conclusion that none of them are funny and, therefore, it is a moot point?). All I remember is flirting incessantly and shamelessly and thinking how bold and clever I was. I got him exactly where I wanted him; he was shocked at my forwardness and flattered that I would direct it at him. I was ready to laugh off his suggestion that we continue our “conversation” elsewhere. Prepared so say, “Oh Chaz, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. Tomorrow I absolutely must wake up to study for my biopsych final.” But I get into my zone of sexual bravado and I’m gone; I buy into my own bullshit–my fake life of being self-assured, carefree, and relentless. In my real life I’m shy, awkward, and reserved, but with sex I own guys and since it’s all a game of egos, no one gets hurt. I feel like I’m not actually being judged because it’s my fake, game self. No self-consciousness necessary. It’s all about hooking the guy and falling so deeply in love with my careless and carefree self, at least, for long enough so I don’t break character and start laughing.

I’m sick of being cerebral and physically grounded, deliberate, the brain-in-a-vat friend. Dumb slutiness, here I come–Whee!

I’m not sure what happened in between leaving the bar and getting a cab together. He suggested that I follow him and his friends to another bar, and I told him that I would follow them out, but I planned to direct myself toward the subway to go home. I assumed he would try to take a detour with me, on the way to the other bar, but I was unaware that I would agree to it. I remember not being interested upon leaving the bar. Then half an hour later, by the time we actually got a cab after standing outside in the freezing cold, I was once again not interested, but it was too late. Not that I feel like I am physically obligated to guys, but I had emotionally committed to myself, allowed myself to do a dumb thing. In case you wonder about the decision-making factors that go into Genie’s dumb ideas, I will let you in on two:

I am at this critical juncture in my sexual development. Okay, I will drop the bullshit. There is this thing called a sexual number, and mine happens to be quite high. I thought I reduced it, when I was in a year- to two-year-long relationship, in terms of number of partners per time span. As in, my proportion of partners had gone down. But apparently I am a huge fucking whore and my number is still exorbitantly high for a girl my age (who lost her virginity so late), and it’s so easy to rack up numbers quickly (childhood friends visiting, one-night stands who unexpectedly move to the city, things that you think will become something but don’t). I’m seriously more mature than this, at least, that is what my friends try to convince me. And I know I’m too good to buy into this and to think that I would ever seriously want to be with someone who would judge me according to something as petty, one-dimensional, and ultimately unrevealing as numbers. But I’m worried. At this juncture, I was nearing one of those critical numbers, if we live in a society where we count things by tens. In terms of age, 18, 21, and 25 are critical. But in terms of sex numbers, it’s all about the tens. This guy would complete a set for me, an era. And not to sound like I’m getting soft, but I remember who each mark of ten was–that’s almost how I punctuate my sexual portfolio–and I’d like to at least, well, like the men who fill those spots, rather than see them as page-fillers. I convinced myself at 2:30 in the morning, while waiting in the freezing cold for a cab with a guy who emanated cigarettes and cologne, that numbers don’t matter. It was arbitrary which number he was to become, and just like it doesn’t matter who the first person you slept with is, it doesn’t matter who the _0th person you slept with is. The position has no special meaning nor does the experience have any bearing on the potential of future sexual encounters, i.e., meaningless experiences don’t preclude you from having meaningful encounters in the future. I believe my logic. But it doesn’t justify fucking him, regardless of which serial position he was about to acquire in my portfolio.

The second factor in my decision making was more detail-specific, and relates to the later part of this story. He “convinced” me that I should go home with him, after I explained that I needed to study for my biopsych test the next day and he “impressed” me with the fact that he was some kind of neurobio major and knows what cyclic GMP is and how it plays a role in both gustation and vision. His apartment was halfway in between the bar and my apartment, and it wasn’t like I was going to bed immediately, so it made sense to make a stop of sorts. But then I pulled the old bait-and-switch and told him that I would feel more comfortable waking up next to my biopsych book, so, being the diligent student that I am, I could commence studying first thing in the morning after waking up next to his stale-cologne-and-cigarette-scented self and presumably some drippy, used condoms. Little did Chaz know, I go out of my way to locate sexual encounters at my place, so, if all else fails, and it is bound to, I am conveniently within reaching distance of my box of sex toys. Not to mention, a lot comes out of me, like a lot, and I like to have no inhibitions about cumming all over the place; this is most easily achieved in my own apartment with my own adult collection of towels (according to my friends, you are not a real adult until you have your own linen closet). Chaz was confused as to why we would go out of our way to go to my place, but he saw past my selfishness and right into my vagina.

Posted in say hello to hector for me: part 1 | Leave a comment

anything fuckable, part three

Posted on December 27, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

G: ryan!

R: Hey.

G: how is ryan?

R: I’m good. You? Back at school?

G: i am

R: Nice. Loving it?

G: sitting in my double single where my hands are so cold that i can’t get off without seriously torturing myself

G: i’m actually really happy here

G: had my first thesis meeting today, a little scary

R: Good to hear. How’s my boy S.

R: Oh nice.

G: s’s good, he sat with me at dinner the other night but i’ve been sick and i had no voice so i was like whispering to him

G: he’s really busy, and he has to dress up now

G: the reading for his class is really good but his class kinda sucks cause it’s all lowerclassmen

G: so how is your life as the busiest boy in the world

R: I am officially too busy.

G: like too busy to talk to me online

R: It’s reached a pinnacle where sleeping actually takes away from time where I should be doing other things.

G: yeah, i know how it is, my life has reached a pinnacle where thinking about getting off actually takes away from time where i should be doing other things

R: I think you have a serious problem.

R: How many 15 year old have you raped since you’ve been there?

G: zero, but i’m considering fucking nico who i haven’t even seen yet

G: my problem is that it’s too fucking cold to get off

R: Get in the shower man.

G: so cold that all i’ve thought about for the past two days is how i’m going to get off when i go home tomorrow

G: the shower sucks, man

G: and there is no way to keep your whole body warm in that shower at once

G: except the detachable shower head which doens’t work well to get off with, and could you imagine holding a shower head, a dildo, and a vibrator, it’s tough work, man

R: Wow…you’re a tough customer.

G: is it weird that two of the guys i’ve hooked up with have been in comas

R: Yes. Very.

G: yeah, i mean i’ve schemed about warming my hands with the comp, i try to warm my hands in my pants outside of my underwear first, it’s just fucking torture

G: oh the inhumanity

R: can’t you like, microwave a dildo or some shit?

G: um, if i wanted a seriously misshapen 85 dollar device

G: i mean, would you microwave your dick if it was too cold for me

R: I’d soak it in some warm water. Because I’m a considerate guy.

G: ha ha

G: too bad considerate doesn’t trump asshole

G: oh, so did i tell you about one of my awesomest recent college moments

G:  JP was here, and she was like, “ryan told me you were coming back,” and i was like, “who’s ryan,” and she was like, “from the city,” and i was like, “do i know him?” and she was like, “yeah, he went to school here”

G: i still didn’t know who you were

R: Fuck you, you love me and you know it because on the grand scheme of things, all I did was not call you. I didn’t dump you, give you a disease, a child, or a black eye. I just left you alone. I’m not too much of an asshole.

G: it’s amazing the uncanny ability i have to wipe guys outta my mind

R: What’s she doing there?

G: visiting

R: Way to go.

R: Visiting who?

G: yeah, but not calling me is worse cause it was inexplicable and i didn’t do anything to deserve it, if you gave me a black eye i prob woulda deserved it and if you gave me a child at least i woulda gotten fucked

G: L

R: oh right

R: well, you didn’t like me, so no hard feelings, right?

G: i just don’t think it’s fair that somebody uglier than me could get rid of me, you should have been kissing my ass, you should have been grateful

G: yeah, cause sluts don’t really like guys

G: sluts have no feelings

R: No, because you don’t really like guys.

G: hey, this sounds suspiciously like what i’m writing my thesis on

G: well it’s funny that i hate you then, cause why would i hate you if i didn’t really like you

R: What, you’re psychosexual psychosis and dysfunction?

G: um, what exactly is my psychosexual psychosis and dysfunction

G: that i find guys who treat me like shit

R: You’re just a sexual carnivore. Overstimulated to the point where you can only get off when you have an overabundance of stimulation, both visual and physical.

G: so are you freaked out by the fact that your porn wasn’t sufficient for me

G: and do you think it was necessary but not sufficient

R: I think you leave yourself open to it. I would have been so into you if you’d just seemed 10% less detached.

G: ouch

G: on a serious note, were you actually freaked out at the fact that i didn’t find your porn collection sufficient

G: and, by the way, i did mean that ouch, that did hurt

G: isn’t it a little weird that you are claiming that i’m detached when you are the one who didn’t call and who gave me mixed messages

R: I think it was an emotional thing. I’ve told you before. When we hung out you always seemed like you would be equally as happy sitting at home, or banging the guy next door, or reading a book on a park bench. I never got the sense you were enjoying yourself. It all just seemed so routine.

G: i don’t know, i felt like we had a pretty good time together until you stopped calling

G: do it ever occur to you that maybe you jsut came upon me at a time in my life when i wasn’t my happiest and it had nothing to do with you or other guys

G: and, for the record, i wasn’t happy banging the guy next door, in fact, you are the only person i’ve slept with all semester

G: so the porn thing really didn’t freak you out

G: i was just really drunk

G: and i really like cum

G: is that so bad

G: it doesn’t mean i’m overstimulated to the point where i can’t enjoy sex except in excess

G: and your porn collection is kind of unexciting, to be fair

R: No. The porn thing didn’t freak me out, I suppose it annoyed me more that I couldn’t do anything, you know? I felt pretty useless. I was not turned on at all during that whole thing because it felt less like a fun, sexy night a more like a chore.

G: well, you did owe me

G: and sorry guys can’t get me off, you don’t have to be a dick about it

G: it sucks enough that it can’t happen

R: I did. But you might as well have been at your house with all your equipment.

G: ha ha, you are wrong

G: do you think guys do nothing for me

G: like do you think i’m a real lesbian

G: nothing compares to being with a guy you are attracted to, the best porn and sex toys in the world can’t compare to that

G: i don’t understand why you think it’s all about getting off for me and not the experience

G: clearly if i can’t even get off with guys i don’t care about that that much

G: so are you just really insecure, because i feel like 90% of the claims you’ve made about me in relation to you are totally in your head

G: do you like getting rid of girls before you get rejected

G: cause if so, that isn’t very nice

R: I guess you just seem so focused on getting off. You pretty much ignored me for the hour or so you were knocking my porn (okay, boring I know…) and trying to get off. Not that it’s about ego, but when you’re fooling around with a girl, that usually involves, you know, fooling around with a girl, not jacking off while she insults your porn.

G: ha ha ha, well you said you wanted to go to sleep, in fact, you were getting in bed in the first place to go to sleep, and you were drifting off so i was like this is going to take me forever, you don’t have to stay up to watch me get off

G: is that so weird

G: i thought i was being considerate

G: so would you prefer that since guys can’t get me off i just don’t get off

R: I suppose…miscommunication.

G: so you feel like you aren’t useless

G: well what specifically do you think was miscommunicated

R: I have no real clue. I didn’t think it though that far. I was just telling you how I felt about it.

G: and, i still don’t think you realize that you did owe me so it wasn’t so much about fooling around with you as it was about getting me off

G: it’s not liek that’s why i came over

G: but once i was there

R: I know…but I guess I felt like if you knew I couldn’t get you off…what did I owe you? Shitty porn and awkward conversation for an hour? I guess you turn me on a whole lot, and it just sucks knowing you don’t really have the same effect on another person.

R: I mean I love going down on you, could do it for hours, but you waved me off after like…5 minutes and then took matters into your own hands.

G: um, so you infer for P1 no guy can get genie off P2 i can’t get genie off P3 guys turn genie on, that C i don’t turn genie on

G: and i don’t think our conversations are awkward, but if that’s the way you feel

R: Well they were awkward for me. I guess I’m still a little behind you in my openness about sex.

G: look, i think you’re really good, i’m totally turned on by you, but guys can’t get me off, do you have to make me feel guilty about that, this isn’t about you, this is about me getting off, about me enjoying myself, not about me reaffirming that you are god

R: But only a little.

G: so what convos do you mean, you mean dialogue in bed or you mean when we talk in general

R: I don’t want to be god. I just want you to feel about me the way I feel about you. Plain and simple. And I don’t think thats too unreasonable or infantile.

R: And I guess I just didn’t get that sense.

R: No matter what the case may have been.

R: And I didn’t think to ask because the question seemed ridiculous.

G: you have to understand that when guys are all about reaffirming themselves through sex, i can’t even enjoy it, it’s like there is pressure for me to get off and the whole time i’m thnking about getting off to please the guy and not about how good it feels, it shouldn’t be your mission to get me off, that is no fun for me, cause, quite frankly i don’t care if you can get me off, i don’t care if you think you can get me off, i jsut care about getting off, and, above and beyond that, enjoying it while it’s happening

G: welll it seems ridiculous to me that you would make a girl feel the way you feel about yourself just because you are insecure

G: how was i supposed to invest in something and show you that i liked you if you didn’t give me a chance, if you jsut cut me off

G: you cut me off before you even told me you liked me, then you told me online, we hung out once after that, it was good, or at least i enjoyed it, i contacted you many times, and you ignored me, what kind of message is that supposed to send me

R: Well I’m sure, as usual, this can’t come to a close until I’m the one who admits malfunction, insecurity, inferiority, and guilt.

G: oh ryan, stop being a guy and talking about blame

G: point blank, you are the one who got rid of me, does that seem compatible with your complaints about liking me more than i liked you

R: Nope. I’m full of shit.

G: do you really think that or are you just agreeing to placate me or to be sarcastic

R: Does it matter? I think you just fuck with me for sport somtimes, and right now is one of those times.

G: whatever, dude, i don’t have time for this

G: i have been nothing but sincere

G: and there is nothing i can really do beyond that

R: This is fun and all, but this is a load of shit. I never cut you off. I explained to you a million fucking times I was busy as hell. So, my bad for not spelling out that busy as hell meant “too busy for having genie come over so I can jack off and feel weird”

R: wow…that was way meaner than I wanted to be

R: Sorry. Seriously.

G: i have nothing to say

G: except maybe sometime you should read a transcript of our conversations

G: so you can listen to yourself

G: i have an archive, if you’d like

G: i can send you some better porn with it

R: Sounds great. I’ll do that right before i shove needles under my fingernails and then pour acid in the holes.

G: i don’t understand why you are being so mean to me

G: but i’m going to go

_______________________________________________________________________________

R: Hi.

G: yo

R: how goes it?

G: only two more days of hell

G: how be your life?

R: good good

R: My life is fine.

R: Finished school today.

G: word

R: You back in the city for summer?

G: yeah

G: of course

G: i’m as city as they come

R: Wanna get together for a drink? Purely platonic, of course. I’m buyin. I owe you something.

G: so i might be fucking this guy who is three years younger than me

R: oh well

G: ha, and why would i do that

R: It’s something to do.

R: Good company.

G: i mean, not that i don’t like free alcohol, but i don’t like free alcohol and assholes unless they come with free sexual favors

R: Well that can be arranged if you like.

G: hmm, that sounds tempting

G: but i do have this 19 year old lined up who is hotter and nicer than you

R: Well go for it then. I’m not gettin any younger.

G: ha, are you saying you are past your prime

R: well I’m out of your demographic, pedophile

G: word

R: hah

G: 19 year old cock just so fresh

R: Well, offer’s on the table.

G: well i’ll consider

G: to bad you don’t smoke weed, because i’d prefer free weed to alcohol, although i guess that doens’t facilitate any free sexual favoring

G: i started actually really liking coke

G: i think getting into coke is imperative to my new yorkerness

R: Ummm gross.

R: If you’re thinking of doing coke you can f off.

R: Around me that is.

G: so i can’t do coke off you

R: not unless youi’re seriously considering blowing me

R: I don’t mind telling ya.

G: so you are saying that i can blow coke off of your dick if i blow you afterwards

G: which would be a weird exp cause then my mouth would be fucking numb

G: but coke and penis does sound like a winning combination

R: Well then lets just stick with the one’s that not illegal, hmmm?

G: i don’t know man, you know i like breaking the law, i’m as gangsta as it comes

G: i have the urban outfitters shirt to prove it

R: Lame.

R: Stick with the youngin. You can do coke off his hairless ass.

G: ha ha, eww

R: Youd love it.

R: You know it.

G: i wish i had an std to give you

G: that would make my life complete

R: That’s fucked up.

R: Seriously.

R: I don’t wanna do anything bad to you.

G: yeah

G: well you know i’m an honest girl

G: just letting you know what you’re in for

G: maybe i should try to acquire a minor and curable std before we hang out

R: Okay well I’m an asshole, but you’re just plain deranged.

R: Because that’s really, really fucked.

G: and then insist that you pay the 1000 bill to get us treated

R: nassssssty

R: You get off on this shit.

G: not get off in a sexual way

R: psychosexual

G: yes, psychosexuals are awesome

G: i just like giving guys what they deserve

G: karma, ya know, i am at a hippie school

R: I know. What the fuck did you do to your gorgeous hair?

R: Now you look like Chrissy Hynde.

R: I mean, she’s hot, but you looked better before.

G: hmm, well i do like the pretenders

G: well, you can’t get everything you want, ryan

G: does this break our free sexual favors deal

R: What your haircut or the promise of an STD?

G: like you only like envisioning me giving you head if you can picture me pulling my hair back and getting spit in it

R: Nah that’s gross.

G: my haircut

G: i don’t have an std to give you, it’s unfortunate

G: i actually just got tested like two weeks ago

R: No chrissy hynde is hot and you are.

G: i’m so clean you could eat off of my vagina

R: How about I just plain eat it .

G: clever, i put that one right in your lap

R: You did.

G: so i’m considering doing this project where i take my std results, scan them, shrink them, and put them on the back of a business card that says, “Genie ______, safe slut, names of lots of random degrees”

R: That’s actually kind of hilarious.

G: i’m a funny girl

R: You tell no lies.

R: So 19?

R: Does he even have pubes?

G: yeah, i mean, i haven’t seen them, but i assume he does

G: he’s beautiful

G: and skinny

G: v heroin sheik without having to do the heroin

R: You are a strange girl.

G: i think he has a sweet cock

G: from just feeling it through his pants

R: like descriptively or it actually tastes sweet?

G: and since he’s so skinny it will look even bigger

R: Oh, right.

G: it will taste like uncircumsized, you know i like them goys

R: Oh gross.

R: Anteater.

G: sharpei, don’t you watch sex and the city

R: I don’t.

R: Listen, are you in or out.

G: ?

R: A drink?

R: When you’re back in town.

R: Maybe more if you promise you’re clean. You don’t even have to reciprocate because I owe you.

G: well, i don’t like making commitments

G: but i’ll consider

R: Sounds good.

Posted in anything fuckable: part 3 | Leave a comment

anything fuckable, part two

Posted on December 26, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

Everyone gets desperate sometimes. And who am I to be ashamed. After all, he should be the one to be embarrassed, skipping out on his manly duties. Maybe it is manly to smack a girl with your cock, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t manly to leave. 

 

I call him to arrange a get-together, but express no forgiveness–or, should I say, “willingness.” I get to his place and he asks if I want anything to drink. Yes, PLEASE. His mother is an alcoholic and left a bottle of vodka at his place, but he hates vodka. Perfect! I drink and impressive amount of vodka for a small girl. We chat. How precious. Eventually the subject of hooking up comes up. Shocking. And I pretended to be an uninterested, vodka chugging whore all night. I say, But Ryan, obviously I would never do such a thing again. I remind him of his transgressions and make him feel redundant, as if he has already been replaced. He is a mere trifle to me. Another notch in my belt. So much so that I don’t even remember what he did to me; it was that insignificant. He he, remember when we did such-and-such thing at such-and-such time oh so long ago; oh, us crazy college kids. He sees through my shit: He knows there is one and only one reason why I called, and it is not the free vodka. He reminds me that he is abundantly aware of his debt to me and that is why he is going to make it up to me. I don’t have to do anything to him. It’s all about me. This guy must really want to get fucked. Again. Eventually. This sounds too good to be true, and it is. Unfortunately, I really fucking love cock. Playing with it is half the fun. I inform him of my dilemma and he is the paragon of empathy. I can play with his cock as much as I want, tease him, and I don’t have to get him off. He won’t get himself off. He is completely at my disposal–my sexual plaything for the night. What did I deserve to do this? Oh, yeah. I play coy with him for a little longer, he reassures my reluctance, and I “give in.” Oops! 

 

Clothes come off, he eats me out, fingers me a little, I play with his cock. It is marvelous, of course. All I could have hoped for and more! Guys can’t get me off, so I didn’t expect this, but I can finish myself off in front of guys and I am completely comfortable around him especially after what he did to me, so this is no big deal. I alternate between him and myself and eventually it is time. Except I am too drunk from all of that vodka I insisted on chugging in order to tolerate him and put on the air of being non-chalant and indifferent to the whole proposition of hooking up with him again. I try sooo hard. I am determined. I am too drunk–shit! The thing about getting me off is, I really need something inside me. Fingers are okay, but I want more. I think it is God’s sick joke that girls have fingers that are not long enough, not fat enough, at the wrong angle. Ryan’s fingers are okay, but they are no match for vodka. 

 

So I do what any self-respecting girl would do: I ask, “Is there anything fuckable in your apartment?” Seriously, I am determined not to have sex with him. I am resolute, not stupid–I told you. I deserve this orgasm more than he does. He furrows his brow, looks bewildered for a second, and says, “I don’t think so.” I explain that I can’t get off without something inside me, I need something inside me, I need to get off!!! Finally he offers, “I hate to say this, but you could use my penis.” Once again, he is the paragon of empathy. I almost like him. I press the issue at hand, “Are you sure there is nothing fuckable in your apartment? I just need something inside me.” I might have even listed things that are potentially fuckable–well, things that are veritably fuckable and potentially in his apartment. A hairbrush, a candlestick. The list goes on. He owns no such things. Even his closeted homo roomate owns no such things. Unbe-fucking-lievable!

 

I concede; I take his penis. As a consolation prize and nothing else. I knew this would happen. I really fucking want his cock. I am a sexual pragmatist and who would I be to deprive myself of his cock in the service of spiting him? I would be a fool. It would be like cutting off my nose to spite my face.

 

I fuck the shit out of him. Once again, it was all I could have hoped for and more! I alternated between my hands and his cock. I used his body like my personal plaything. He came. I didn’t. Still determined, I keep going at myself, but now I am lacking anything fuckable, I am still drunk, and, even worse, since his penis was been withdrawn, I feel suddenly empty and need more. I keep at it, keep at it, and it is apparent that it is never going to happen. I’ve exhausted all immediate possibilities–my hand, his hand, his mouth, his penis, our hands in combination–and this obviates my next course of action.

 

I get this inkling that I know what I need, that thing that helps out when all else fails, that gets you going when the going gets tough, that puts you over the hump when you are so close to the finish line and fall short. And it is perfect, because he has already perused my porn collection in its entirety. No reservations necessary. 

 

I ask him, “Do you have any porn on your computer.” He says yes. Great, so this guy doesn’t have “anything fuckable” in his apartment, but he has porn on his computer. That’s a first step. I ask, “Can I watch it?” And he obliges. 

 

This guy has a smaller porn collection than I do in terms of number of videos and that isn’t even accounting for length of videos. There are maybe twenty thirty-seconds clips. Perhaps one two-minute video. To save you from the math, that is about twelve minutes total of wanking time. I am a girl so it could very well take me twelve minutes to get off, and I don’t like most of the clips, nor do I like the inconvenience of needing to shuffle around or replay videos after a mere thirty seconds of hands-on time. I need both hands to masturbate. Oh, the inhumanity! I make Ryan be my tech guy. I tell him when to click the play button and he does, so there is no break in my action. After all, it is hard to operate a computer with cummy hands. I make guys feel useful, what can I say? 

 

After a while, it is clear that this isn’t working either. It’s not me; it’s just that with all these thirty-second clips I can’t assemble a proper “sesh.” I watch the same thirty-second clip–the only one I like–over and over again. Maybe if this was the last thirty seconds of my “sesh” I could have gotten off already, but this one good clip comprises all twenty minutes of my sesh and it isn’t getting any better.

 

The deets of the rest of the evening are unimportant. I take a few five-minute breaks thinking I just need to recoup and regroup–when I come back I’ll be invigorated. I think I am way past my prime in orgasming time. I should have made this decision like half an hour ago. Still determined but drawn, I tell Ryan that maybe he ought to go to sleep. He has work tomorrow. I tell him not to worry about me, that I will keep attempting to get off as he attempts to be prepared for office life at 9am. I hope my getting off, or lack thereof, won’t disturb his slumber. He appears nonplussed, but it is getting on 3am and he’s put his time in. He retires for the evening. Eventually I get off. I considered waking him to impart the news, as if an orgasm like that deserves recognition. Hard-fought, no doubt. But was it worth it? Obviously not. Except, I DESERVED THAT ORGASM. Let it be known. Hear ye, hear ye. 

 

In the morning, there was acknowledgment. And exhaustion. And hustling to make it to work on time.

 

The best line of the night, and I quote: “I love eating you out, because you don’t play dead.” 

 

Yes! And how could I play dead–he is sooo good!

 

Except over the next month or so he turned into an asshole, even a bigger asshole. He gave me specific times at which he would call, and failed to call, and made up all these excuses about how I was going back to school the next semester and he was scared to lose me. The worst of it was when he told me, “You really know how to make a guy feel like a penis attached to a set of legs.” Well, he really knows how to make a girl feel like a girl without a vagina. He walks out on me and he expects me to make him feel special? Come on. He also told me that he could never really please me, because I am so desensitized from porn and all my equipment that I don’t even need men. Nice excuse for not calling me, d bag. He is doing me a favor, for sure–giving me more time to sit around by myself and fuck my equipment and cuddle with my kitty. Awesome. 

 

Let is be noted that there is a huge inconsistency between telling me that he loves eating me out because I don’t play dead and telling me that I am so desensitized from porn and toys that I couldn’t possibly enjoy being with a man. Obviously he is full of shit and just trying to hurt me. He said the “you don’t play dead” line directly succeeding our encounter, and he said the other line months later after he had been really flakey about calling me and needed to make up excuses to try to cover his ass. In probably my best line to him, I asked if it was customary for him to fuck over chicks who are hotter than he is. My reaction to this situation was absolute outrage and indignation, not because I think I am too good to be fucked over, but because I think I am too good to be fucked over by an ugly guy. I was doing him a favor. Who does he think he is? He should be grateful like as expressed in that line from 30 Rock: “You know, I thought you made love like and ugly girl. So present, so grateful.” There is nothing more insulting than being fucked over by an ugly, 5’5” guy, who is shaped like a square. I mean, what does that say about me? 

 

I have included some of our conversations in “anything fuckable, part three” to illuminate what a douche bag he is.

Posted in anything fuckable: part 2 | Leave a comment

anything fuckable, part one

Posted on December 13, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

Second semester freshman year suddenly I had no friends, a single room, and I discovered internet porn. This was back in the day when you actually had to download your porn, and download a lot because there were no thumbnails and previews. My school had some lame duck policy whereby there was a downloading limit to avoid clogging the server, and if you exceeded the downloading limit you would temporarily get kicked off the server. It was somewhat unclear what the downloading limit meant in terms of songs or videos and whether over-downloading was calculated per instant or over a frame of time. It seemed reasonable enough that if you were clogging the server with excessive downloads, you would be kicked off the server to avoid taxing the system. A punishment directly addressing the crime, but not addressing the criminal. Anyone who spent enough time downloading figured out how to game the system. You were allowed back on the server at certain points in time: 8pm, 12am, etc. I would begin downloading, go to class, and by the time I got back, I was allowed back on the server. I became a pro at downloading just under the limit, or going slightly over the limit at a time that was close enough to the reinstatement time, so that by the time I was allowed back on the server those with whom I was sharing hadn’t signed off yet. Downloading became a game, and an around-the-clock one at that. It was an activity that necessitated constant monitoring because of their unenforceable restrictions. I measured the progress of my day according to number of videos downloaded to successful completion. It’s not that I’m a really huge pervert; it’s just that I’m picky, so there was a heavy sifting process. Porn triage, as my friend calls it. Most of my videos didn’t even make it to downloading completion and it isn’t because I was constantly kicked of the school server.

The problem with their downloading policy was obviously that there were no repercussions. I got the occasional notice in my mailbox and tossed it in the recycle bin along with invitations to events I was too cool to attend because I was busy downloading porn. A mere annoyance, a trifle, more rubbish to sift through along with my ever-increasing collection of internet files. I did not heed the notices because I took them as guidelines, rather than warnings. They were written in a non-accusatory and naive manner assuming that the student was unaware of his/her over-downloading. A clever and coercive tactic, in my opinion. It seemed as if they were trying to garner our sympathy; “You may be unaware of your situation. We are sorry to have to bring this to your attention. It can be easily fixed, if you just work with us.” My download settings were intentional. The way file sharing programs work is, if you don’t share your files, other users don’t share with you. Sharing your files doubles the server traffic coming from your computer at any given point when you yourself are downloading. This does not even take into account the uploading when you are inactive. Notice number one went something like, “You have been kicked off the school server 346 times. Please come to CMS to inquire about your internet settings.” Notice number two went something like, “You have been kicked off the school server 758 times. Please come to CMS to inquire about your internet settings.” I’m not sure if the notices were numbered, but they never included anything to the effect of, “This is your final notice.” I was unmoved.

Until one day there was a knock knock knock at my door. I was surprised that anyone would knock on my door because I had no friends. I wasn’t playing my music too loudly. Enter boy. Let’s call him Ryan. My school was only about 400 students, and about a third of them were upperclassmen who lived off-campus, so I instantly recognized him as someone whom I had seen around. He introduced himself and told me that he was sent by CMS (computer maintenance services) to check on my internet settings. At my school we had CAs (computer assistants) who were made available, by way of a pager, to students who had late-night printer emergencies. Up until then, I had assumed that any type of repair service was on a per-request basis. I thought they were on-call only; I didn’t know they were given agendas of their own. He was on official business and I couldn’t say no. What did I have to conceal? What could possibly be my excuse? It was an inconvenient time? As if I could get rid of all that porn if he just came back later.

I passed Ryan my computer and he sat on one side of my bed in my closet single, as I sat on the other side pretending to be read a book, feigning disinterest. He gave me a step-by-step play of what he was doing to my computer, as if I was at a gynecologist’s office; “Closer, closer, touching.” Until he opened up my Kazaa. Bingo. The culprit. Never have I ever seen, out of the corner of my eye, over my book, someone trying so hard to look professional. Porn-aplenty. Not exactly what you would expect to find on a girl’s computer. Especially since it wasn’t just any ol’ porn, not something I could have “accidentally” downloaded; it was gay porn! As in, men fucking, men sucking. Cock. So much of it. Cum. Everything. Well, not everything. No rimming, please. No fisting either. I’m not sure why this is–unfortunately, I don’t have any creative input in the porn I watch–but for some reason, it seems as if the names of gay pornos are more ridiculous than those of straight ones. Like gay anything has to be more over-the-top, glitzy, and glam. Videos of men at dinner banquets that devolve into daisy-chaining orgies are entitled “You got served… up the ass.” I mean, not really, but you get the point. Okay, so as we speak I am looking through my porno folder and here are some of my favorites: “Inch By Inch,” “Winner Takes All,” “Hung Bunch.” Some are dramatic: “Hazed,” “Deception,” “Convictions.” I’m pretty sure he got that it was gay porno. He “fixed” my settings,” humiliation over. We saw each other in the dining hall daily and pretended it never happend. We averted our eyes over the pasta sauce. I might as well have gotten sex out of it.

Ryan graduates and I forget about his existence. Two and a half years later–yes, two and a half years later–I am wandering around the East Village with my mother and I bump into Ryan unavoidably. Finally there is acknowledgment, and, to tell you the truth, when you go to a school with only four hundred students, spotting someone in public is an exciting and unexpected event. My mom disappears to allow me to talk to him more privately, as if that is what I want. He just moved to New York for grad school; he is living with two guy whom of course I know because when you go to school with four hundred people, you know everyone. See: reasons to never have sex, ever. I was so bored with my life at the time that I gave him my number so he could invite me to their impending house warming party. I was insulted when he didn’t call. I called him.

We scheduled a time to get drinks. This was an event within itself because most of the people I went to school with were still too young to drink. Think sixteen. When I got to his house, he was in a wife-beater and mesh shorts. Did he just come from a basketball game? Post-collegiate intramurals? Needless to say, I was not amused by his lack of appropriate attire. I thought he must have been giving me some sort of message. Perhaps in response to whatever message I sent unintentionally by surrendering the contents of my computer to his virgin eyes. I’m not sure exactly he thought would happen. After all, my computer was fraught with gay porn. Did he expect to end the night (or to begin it), with my fingers up his ass!?!

He told me he wasn’t really in a “going out” mood. I told him too bad. I made him get dressed. He told me he wasn’t modest and asked if it was okay if he changed in front of me. He didn’t ask me if it was okay to be in a wife beater in my presence. As long as we were being so open, I thought we might as well clear the air, get the awkward out of the way before we got wasted. In true Genie confessional style, I asked him what he remembered about me. I told him to be entirely honest. His response was not what I expected. I could have handled the porn mention. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was on my computer. But instead he went into some story about how he was sitting at a lunch table with a bunch of his male friends, including the heroin-addict rock star with whom I and every other girl with any taste was in love, and I asked him if he thought it would be a manly thing to smack a girl with his cock. Cock smacking, obviously. I didn’t recall this precise instance, but I’m sure he wasn’t making it up. After all, it is something I would ask, especially to an unsuspecting table of boys. Just derisive and emasculating enough, yet just absurd enough.

I asked Ryan, “Don’t you remember the porn?” He said unfazed, as if it was really his profession to meddle with sketchy girls’ internet settings, “Yeah, I remember it.” That’s it? According to him, he has an ex-girlfriend, now a lesbian, who watches gay porn. And besides, he doesn’t care what I get off to–that’s my prerogative. I love this guy already. This almost makes me want to tell him what I get off to. I mean, he already knows. I vow not to hook up with him. I am only getting drinks with him because I have nothing better to do with my life. He is short and squat, he used to be fat, he is shaped like a square. He is Sponge Bob Square Pants only not yellow and porous, and I suppose he does not live in the sea. He is great in bed.

After a night of conversation and reminiscence we go back to his place to “talk.” This is seriously my intention at this point. I am not stupid, but resolute. He asks if I will kiss him. I tell him I do not kiss. I give blow jobs, magical ones. Okay, so maybe I left the second part out until I did it. But I let him know that I hated his stupid guy line and wasn’t falling for it, and when he replied that kissing was seriously all he was looking for, I made it clear that I wanted more. We made out and I gave him the best blow job a drunk girl could give. I was getting my period, so he could only finger me, but I knew right then that he was a gem.

Our second date was to see Deep Throat on the big screen. Not in a sleazy way; in a hipster-theatre way. I didn’t hook up with him. He made a fuss. Our third date, well I don’t remember it. I remember only that we went down on each other and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I wrote-off normally-shaped guys. I exclusively blow squares, and not the kind that wear glasses!

One day I invite myself over to his place because I am horny. I make it seem like this ‘I just happen to be in your area, should I stop by?’ kind of thing. And I did sort of believe it; to us East Siders the West Side is this remote and amorphous place like Brooklyn, and once you are there you think you are “in the neighborhood.” But let’s just say I had to go out of my way to get there. I don’t even know how to ride a bus crosstown. Ryan explains he has this grad school lecture he is going to with a friend. I can stick around until his friend calls. If his friend doesn’t call by a certain time, he isn’t going and I can stay. He puts on Eternal Sunshine and I try to watch but I can’t because I’m too horny. I don’t have the capacity for focus in my current state and once you lose the plot, all you have left is Jim Carrey being obnoxious and Kate Winslet trying to look like I did when I was sixteen. I count down the minutes until it is the time at which it is too late for him to go to his trivial grad school lecture. I manage to suffer through half of the movie. His friend never calls, 9:00, 9:02–I mount him on his couch. I make out with his stupid square face, unzip him, get on my knees, he stands up, his five-foot-five commanding presence towering over me. His dick is small, but perfectly crafted; it is made for my throat. I slide it down my throat over and over and swallow around him as he contracts. I pull him out just in time, make a split-second decision as to what to do with his cum, and collect every last drop in a sheet of loose leaf inscribed with a state senator’s phone number (he is an aspiring politician).

He zips up and walks into the next room to regain composure. Okay, I would need to regain composure after a blow job like that. I mean, I am discombobulated and I am only the giver. But things are taking too long and it appears that he is dressing for outside. He lurks over me as if he is waiting for something, and I inquire as to what is going on. He states plainly that it is time for his lecture. Clearly it is too late for his lecture. I ask, what about me? He says he doesn’t have time. I ask how he could have possibly had time to get blown but not have time for me. The blow job commenced after his pre-stated leaving time, that time by which he said if he didn’t receive a phone call, he was staying in with me. I can tell time. I waited painfully for this particular time. I suffered through a movie to have his dick bestowed upon me. If the lecture started at 9:30 and it is already 10:00, he has already missed it–what is fifteen minutes? He is beyond reason but I am not beyond begging. I plead with him. I explain that I am already so far along that it will only take five minutes; surely we will argue for longer than five minutes. He says he is sorry; he will get me back. Two minutes! If I don’t get off within two minutes, you can leave! In one last desperate attempt, I ask if I can just stay at his place and get myself off. Denied. I am in a state of utter disbelief and discomposure. I dress and he ushers me out.

He apologizes. As if that could ever repair the situation. I call another guy.

For a month or so he tries to make good. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want to be repaid later. Why would I ever let myself get that aroused in his presence again? I wanted to get off then. End of story.

Posted in anything fuckable: part 1 | 2 Comments

batteries and bong water

Posted on December 12, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

When I was in college, the gay guy whom I was dating broke my bowl and never repaid me so I constructed this really ghetto bowl out of a water bottle. It was filled with water to make the chamber smaller. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to buy a real bowl, but it was a matter of principle. And, besides, I assumed that if I made him smoke out of my elementary school art project, he would buy a new bowl out of protest (obviously not niceness or a sense of obligation.) I’m not sure if you guys remember that scene in Chasing Amy where they talk about permanent injury, i.e., sexually incurred injuries. One of the characters gives this play-by-play about how he went down on this girl regularly and nothing happened, then all of the sudden one time it was good. He couldn’t even figure out what he was doing differently, but she flailed around wildly, constricting him with her legs. I can’t remember exactly what the resulting injury was; I think she deafened him in one ear by wrapping her legs around his head so tightly. Something like that. And so my story goes, one time I was hooking up with my gay boyfriend and it was good for the first time ever. I flailed and knocked over the water bottle contraption, which was sitting on my bedside table. I thought I cleaned up all the water, but I didn’t notice that some had spilled into my sex toy drawer.

 

Days later I decided to get off and when I opened my drawer, it was filled with water. Apparently one of my dildos absorbs water and it looked like one of those grow dinosaurs. I decided that it was probably a bad idea to use–who knows what else it had sucked up?–but that it was probably okay to use my vibrator, which I picked out especially because of its water resistance. The problem was that the batteries were sort of dead and I had to get off soon. I had this one hour battery recharger–which I got exclusively for that purpose–and it was wet, but not that wet, so I figured if I charged the batteries for only 15 minutes it would be fine. Right. This is my logic when I need to get off.

 

After like 10-15 minutes, I took the batteries out and one was fine, but the other was really hot and bubbling. I figured the water must have been boiling, but when I wiped the battery off, it continued to bubble like something was oozing out. I kind of freaked out and didn’t know what to do, because what if it explodes!?! I did what any logical and conscientious person would do: I threw it out of my window.

 

I proceeded to get off,  because that seemed like the most important thing at the time. When I regained like half of my brain, I realized that throwing a potentially explosive battery in front of my dorm–the exterior of which was primarily glass–might not have been the best thing to do. I went outside to check on the battery (see, I am responsible!) and it was still hot and bubbling. I ran back into the dorm, as if the battery hadn’t been a disaster waiting to happen for ten minutes already, and I knocked on my RA’s door frantically. Let’s review my relationship with my RA: I lived in between my RA and the bathroom. I could hear people flushing toilets, talking, etc. in the bathroom, so I assumed they could hear me masturbate. I assumed the same of my RA. Vibrators are so loud. It’s not like you can even pay to get a more expensive, discreet vibrator. They are one volume only; it’s part of the package. And so, being the proprietous person that I am or, at least, the self-conscious person, I legitimately sometimes waited to masturbate until I thought people weren’t around. It’s not like they didn’t know it was happening at some point in time, I just thought they didn’t need to be made acutely aware of when it was happening. It was bad enough that when one of my neighbors knocked on my door and I said something to the effect of “Come back later,” she would take that as a cue to loudly announce, “Are you masturbating?” Yes, yes I am.

 

I knocked on my RA’s door, rashly and inarticulately blurting out the battery situation, omitting why I found it urgent to recharge batteries in a soaking recharger, or why I needed to recharge batteries at all. Except, I did it so non-sequentially that before I mustered up anything about batteries or potential explosions, all I managed was: “Justin, I just did something and i’m not sure if it’s okay.” He must have thought I killed someone.

 

I’m not sure if he was the voice of reason because it was part of his RA training or whether he was merely a punk–who was part of this campus-funded club where they build shit and then lit it on fire–and could hardly conceal his anticipation for a scene straight out of Heather’s. His advice to me was that if it had already been ten minutes and nothing had happened, the shit probably wouldn’t explode. This is the guy who, during orientation, told us not to swing on the pipes because “that shit is nastier than Bob Marley’s bong water.” He also advised us, before winter break, not to loiter in the dorm past the time we were supposed to leave because we would be “billed like hookers in a fancy hotel.” I trusted him. I just needed a little reassurance, that’s all.

 

It never exploded.

 

In retrospect, it woulda been kinda rad if I had put the battery in a dildo and the dildo exploded inside of me! I’m pretty sure that would have been a superior way to die. And so predictable.

Posted in batteries and bong water | Leave a comment

Gossip Girl Blue Balls

Posted on December 12, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

That Gossip Girl episode with Blair masturbating, as in, the best episode ever of the greatest show of our time.

http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2008/10/gossip_girl_leaves_us_waiting.html

Here is a compiled list of that which nymag’s gossip girl recap commented on regarding the Chuck and Blair blue balls situation:

• Gossip Girl narrates Blair’s sleepy fantasy about Chuck: “Every girl dreams about finding her Prince Charming. But if that prince refuses to come?” Plus 5 for the Chuck impotence double entendre, but showing him going down on her in the limo was a little gross, we must say. 

• Weirdly, what happened with Blair and Chuck rang true to us. They panicked, they were scared, and they came a little too close to having their bravados burst. Plus, they are both such drama queens that they’d choose to stay in misery rather than turn to banal courtship. Plus 5.

• Also, it’s so teenage for them to say they’ll “wait” for one another. Plus 2. In reality they will get total Sudden Revulsion Syndrome in a matter of months, shuddering in embarrassment every time they remember baring their souls in such a dramatic way, and eventually move on, completely forgetting about the whole thing. 

• Blair would have never referenced having to “finish something” to Dorota after her interrupted sex dream. That’s way too embarrassing. Minus 2. An additional minus 2 for Dorota reminding her that “God is always watching.” Dorota would never be that judgy — or perceptive. She’s a nun, isn’t she?

• “The nape of the neck is Chuck’s Kryptonite.” Honestly. We’ve allowed ourselves to suspend some disbelief about Chuck and Blair’s supposedly mind-blowing sex life, but this is too much. Teenage boys are interested in two things, and neither of them is the “nape of the neck.” Minus 2.

It seems unbelievable that nymag could be so on-target with everything surrounding the Chuck-Blair saga–and even referenced MTV’s Undressed (“Once again, Gossip Girl cycled through plotlines like a week’s worth of episodes on MTV’s Undressed. “), which was clearly the greatest show of our time pre-gossip girl–yet they got it SO wrong with the masturbation scene. 

Plus a hundred points for a girl masturbating scene. Plus two hundred points for a parental figure walking in. What could be more realistic? I still fear my mom walking in everyday. More on that later. Plus five billion points for an anyone masturbating scene. There is so much sex on TV and, yet, in real life people spend all day masturbating. Granted, the plot lines surrounding masturbation aren’t very interesting, but it seems somehow unrealistic that on TV people’s sex lives are entirely consumed with actual sex, whereas in real life, people get off to the people they want to have sex with and then once they have sex with them, they get off to it even more. And it’s still at least sort of hot to think that TV characters prolong the utility of actual sexual situations by continuing to get off to them. Although, in Gossip Girl, it is used as a crutch, as substitute, for sex that can’t be consummated. 

That part about how Blair would never mention it to Dorota because it would be way too embarrassing, well, true enough. The “God is always watching” line is just comic relief, so I will take it at face value. The part of the nymag analysis that is true, but not especially perceptive is: “Dorota would never be that judgy — or perceptive. She’s a nun, isn’t she?” No one is really that judgy about masturbating, because who cares. Parents/parental figures have better things to worry about–like boys. But the reason why Dorota wouldn’t be that perceptive isn’t because she’s a nun and therefore not conscious about sex; it is because no one thinks that girls masturbate. I mean, everybody knows that girls masturbate, but no one ever knows when girls are masturbating. This is both a perk and a drawback of being a girl.

My parents have nearly walked in on me masturbating hundreds of times. Of course, this never happens because there would be nothing more embarrassing than your parents–or anyone–walking in on you masturbating, so you always manage to pull up your pants, look somewhat composed, and prepare for alternate courses of action in time. It is never too late. You will go to any end to conceal. But the reason I’ve never been walked in on masturbating isn’t because I am an expert a buttoning my pants and wiping off my hand; it is because no one ever knows what I am doing! People don’t even know what it looks like for girls to masturbate–what it would entail to regain composure and clean up.

There is no recognition, upon a parent entering, as to what is going on. And it isn’t just because if you acknowledge what is happening, it is embarrassing for both of you. People don’t have enough time when they walk in on embarrassing things to calculate their reactions. If you pretend to not notice exactly what is going on, at least you acknowledge that you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have. You apologize for barging in. With my parents, there is nothing like this. If my mom expects me to follow her to do something, she demands that it is at that moment. It doesn’t occur to her that I am under a blanket because I have no pants on. Parents don’t understand the good ol’ blanket trick. Like in Basketball Diaries how they joke about how their moms must think they have colds, my mom must have thought I was constantly cold! But, no, nymag is right, Blair would never have said she needed to finish something–that would have been way too embarrassing–she would be as dutiful as possible so it looked as if nothing was being interrupted and she was just going about her mundane, daily activities. 

Minus five to Gossip Girl and minus five to nymag. In another nymag reality tally, they explained how it would be unrealistic to have brunch during a school week, because students have to wake up godawfully early. Likewise, there would be no girly maturbating before school. To wake me up for school, my mother had to dump water on me and drag me out of bed. Maybe a Chuck sex dream would illicit some sort of hand response, at least my rolling over my hand, but when I realized how fucking early it was, I would demand “five more minutes” and not because I had something that I needed to finish. 

The ultimate failure of the nymag recap is that they give points for the corny double entendre–the classic Gossip Girl narration that made me cringe until I realized that Gossip Girl isn’t just good because it is bad–but they claim showing Chuck going down on Blair in the limo was kind of gross. Kind of gross!?! What could possibly be hotter? Oh yeah, having him turn her down, up the stakes. Even more masturbatory material. For Blair, not me. I only get off to Degrassi. 

Also, nymag purports that their list is of reality points, but all too often what they seem to be rewarding is awesomeness points. If we are talking reality, then I am pretty sure that when I get off to people, I actually envision them. Minus five billion hundred for nymag.

I have to say that by now I am getting a little sick of the Chuck-Blair blue balls. It was hot for a while and an ingenious way to keep us interested since no one cares about that new couple who is too vomit-provoking for words. Yes, it is even realistic that two enormous egos panicked at the first sight of vulnerability. But that doppelganger thing in last week’s episode was just weird. Fuck already. There are plenty of interesting outcomes that spawn from sex, especially long-awaited sex. Some involve masturbation. Others involves jealousy. This Chuck-Blair lovey-dovey, responsibility stuff is just sickening. Chuck should have driven off in the funeral episode, when Blair finally tells him she loves him, because her speech is so fucking sickening. Who cares that she will be there for him. We know that. He knows that. The only hot thing about that episode was him crying to her. Hottest thing ever. Even hotter than not hooking up. Now go fuck.

Not being able to fuck someone because you actually love them? So realistic. So adolescent. So… me.

Posted in gossip girl blue balls | 1 Comment

I get down on my knees, I’d do anything for you

Posted on November 30, 2008 by indefenseofgettingoff

http://jezebel.com/5098965/10-pop-songs-about-female-masturbation

I read this hideous top-ten list of songs about female masturbation. Clearly, Divinyls has the only popular song featuring female masturbation. Such a classic that in the My-So-Called life episode where Angela sneaks out and goes to an early ’90s Buffalo Tom party to see Jordan, the Divinyls music video is playing in the background. Music videos playing in the background at parties: so antiquated.

What makes this top-ten list truly hideous isn’t the lack of songs fitting the criteria (I will comment on Janet Jackson’s If, another classic, in a later post); it is the inane comments. Who invented this media format with an instant response option, anyway? Don’t you know that only intelligent and creative people should have a forum in which to express themselves?

Also, can’t someone make an article listing the top-ten videos to get off to? Utility, anyone, anyone?

Janet Jackson’s If would make the cut on that one too.

Comment that I hate #1: “Hey, so interestingly enough, I was masturbating while reading this page – but it was coincidental. Also, this is making me wonder if I am the only one who uses the computer to non pornographic ends while masturbating..” -Philosophress

Dear Philosophress,

You are not special. That is not interesting. You probably masturbate while reading articles about masturbation because people masturbate all the time, especially while they are doing a whole lot of nothing like pretending to do their homework and/or wasting time online reading top-ten lists. Stop noting coincidences in order to feel significant. This is not like when I was in middle school and cut myself to Nine Inch Nail’s Hurt. That was way more hardcore and intentional. Your situation is tantamount to the ex Jew for Jesus in Bill Maher’s Religulous explaining how he believes in God because God grants miracles like when he prayed for it to rain and it did. I bet you also wonder why your mom only walks in at inconvenient times. This is because a) people only note notable situations and ignore ones that are insignificant or don’t confirm their pre-existing belief systems, and b) people masturbate all the time! Go philosophize about something else, Carry Bradshaw.

Love,

Genie

I thought this person aimed to make an announcement that she masturbates (like, “I’m here, I’m Queer!”) like how when a guy calls up Lovelines and asks a questions about hurting his girlfriend with his enormous penis, Adam knows he is calling to announce that he has a huge cock. Except, then I read someone’s empathetic response, “Yup, I’ve done this too. Many activities can be combined with self-pleasure when you’re a busy person. :).”-FrannyG Really, people have the ability to multitask? All the time I have waste–I could have actually enjoyed doing my homework! Earth-shattering!

I could not take these inane comments, especially the ones that purported to be insightful or, at least, revelatory: Let’s compare our notes. Thank God I’m normal.

But then a legitimate cultural analysis emerged.

“In contrast to how these tunes try hard to be Sensual and Intimate, it seems like songs about male masturbation tend to be corny, dance party songs (i.e. The Vapors’ “Turning Japanese,” Violent Femmes’s “Blister in the Sun”).”-Camron

Re:”Not just songs about masturbation, all songs about sex seem to be more believable coming from women.”-whats_in_a_name

Re:Now that I think about it, most songs about male masturbation seem to be self-mocking: Longview by Green Day, Orgasm Addict by the Buzzcocks…whereas the female masturbation songs are definitely about sexual empowerment.”-Eilonwy (of the brunette hair)

First, let’s take a minute to recognize the second commenter’s wankeriffic name: I refuse to define myself, wah wah.

Must women be taken seriously sexually? Sensual and Intimate? Barf. Masturbating is perhaps the least sensual and intimate thing ever. I am sick of sexual empowerment! Must we send a message in everything we do sexually or can we simply get off? I demand self-mocking! Masturbating is fucking ridiculous. People are ridiculous. Embrace that. I can relate to Billy Joe’s lyrics more than anything. “When masturbation’s lost it’s fun, you’re fucking breaking.” Let’s not dignify that. Seriously, guys, we need to get over ourselves. It’s masturbating we are talking about here. No message necessary.

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