The number ONE search term for my blog: SLUT MOM.
Everyone has bizarre search terms for their blogs.
But why, every day, every week, is that always the NUMBER ONE search term?
And now I’m forever defined as s “slut mom.”
I don’t FEEL like a slut mom.
Now, Cartman’s Mom is a Dirty Slut. She banged some rando at the 12th annual “Drunken Barn Dance” and has no clue who poor Cartman’s father is.
And when Mr. Garrison admits that he slept with Mrs. Cartman, he declares, “But who here didn’t!?” Now she might qualify as a Slut Mom.
Although I object to this word as a misogynistic slur used to oppress me because I choose to do whatever I want with my pussy, I will take back that word to embrace my own unabashed sexuality.
And since this is the
SLUT MOM BLOG,
let’s explore this.
Can I be a slut AND a mom?
While I think a warm chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven washed down with a cold glass of milk is a somewhat sensual experience, I can assure you – to my son and his friends, it is not. It’s a refueling pit stop before they eagerly asking me to smell their Jar of Farts.
But this is the
SLUT MOM BLOG
I’m a single mom living in an area I detest. The people are wealthy and entitled. The divorced men are bitter and horny.
I’m financially independent.
Which means I don’t have to tolerate some smug ass monkey to pay my bills.
The divorced women here are put out by having to lower their standards of living just a wee bit. Perhaps they can no longer afford to get their assholes bleached. Some of them actually have had to get part time court-mandated jobs – working as receptionists at nail salons 9 hours a week. What a grind.
But their real job? Is landing a man to support them. Quickly.
These thirsty bitches will do anything to nail a husband. I’m sorry; I’m not competing in that arena. I don’t have to.
I’m not gonna go all Cirque Du Soleil on your cock and hang from curtain rods on a first date. I don’t need to end up in the ER so someone can pay my mortgage. These suburban mavens are accumulating body counts faster than John Wayne Gacy.
And the men think because they just spent $200 on an overpriced steak house that they’re gonna get to pound my punani pavement, and that’s not happening.
“Yo, playa – here’s $100. A crisp new fake looking one at that. That’s my half of the bill. Now you can go to the Asian Massage place on Route 80 and get a Rub and Tug.
Cause quite frankly – you’re a douchecanoe. And since I never fucked my way to the top, I’m not likely to fuck my way to the bottom.”
But, since this is the
SLUT MOM BLOG,
If you happen to date me, and eventually make it onto my list of VIPs (Very Important Penises), let’s go over some basics.
We’re all older now; mostly divorced; we’ve got kids. Everyone has busy hectic lives. We can’t do the pootie tang all weekend like 20-year-old college kids. The game has changed, and you need to change yours, too.
A few little suggestions.
I’m here for sex, not lies.
I’m not saying that we can’t care about each other. Actually, there’s a lot of love involved. I love making you feel good physically, I love making you feel good about yourself. There’s always something about the experience that I love, or I wouldn’t be here.
But if you’re going to start making a bunch of promises you can’t deliver on, then I’m going to invoke the Twitter rule because I just lose interest after 140 characters.
I do not condone a “wham bam thank you ma’m” but I am paying an overpriced babysitter AND I probably have a ton of stuff to do the next day. So if you’re not pulling my hair and saying nasty shit to me by the second hour, there’s not gonna be a third. Tick Tock.
YES. As long as you don’t sound like a serial killer. Don’t tell me you’re going to “nail my stink tube.” I want you to call me your Dirty Cowgirl Slut (here is where it’s okay). Feedback, please. I’m riding you using my quadriceps and my hammies.
If you can’t dirty talk, then you need to moan, or yell, or something. I’m flying around up here like a fucked-out Tinkerbelle, and I need you to start clapping for me or I’m gonna DIE up here.
Yes. All of them.
Just don’t jam it in and bangarang until you finish.
Speaking of which, if we’re doing it doggie, then:
I’m a little older than I was when I was dating before; I’ve pushed out a kid. When I was pregnant my legs blew up like the Hindenburg. And leg curls do not repair connective tissue. There’s only so much moonlight can camouflage, you know?
So if you’re behind me, help a girl out. Use your knees and do the old “nudge-nudge” to my right leg, and then my left leg, and widen my legs apart.
Bang! Smooth as hospital corners!
Actually you can add the POP! to the “nudge-nudge” and push my face down and my butt automatically comes up and DAMN! We got ourselves a Penthouse centerfold! THANK you!
No, it’s not okay if I don’t cum. I’m not that self-actualized. You’re a grown-ass man; you should have skillz by now!
Yes, you’ll know. A woman having a legit orgasm is like the price tag on a pair of Gucci stiletto heels. If you have to ask, back your ass out of the store, Bozo.
I already covered blow jays . And even if I enjoy giving them, it is a job to make sure that you get to feel like Christmas morning in my mouth.
So, you need to learn how to deliver a box lunch. Pussies are more confusing than penises. And every woman likes it differently. But here are a few starter ideas:
1. Don’t be skittish about it. Dig in like it’s Thanksgiving dinner.
2. Shave. I wouldn’t rub sandpaper on your taint while slurpin’ the gherkin.
3. No teeth during an Egg McMuff. If I have to explain that, then go back to masturbating.
4. The “St. Bernard lick” is okay for a warm up, but you’re going to have to vary things up a little. And don’t come at me with your tongue all pointy-like. No stalagmites up in this cave.
5. It’s a clitoris, not the Second Congo War, so don’t attack, okay, killer? Work up to that. You wouldn’t want me to stick the tip of your dick in a vacuum, would you?
6. Yeah, sure, do the alphabet on me, whatever, write your whole fucking blog down there.
7. Women over 30 are multiorgasmic. So be prepared to get a little Tongue Tendinitis. Pack a lunch; stay a while. We’re a nation of women running around with TMJ; you’re just going to have to cope.
What are we talking about here? Spanking? Handcuffs? This could be fun. Choking – not so much. Then again, I didn’t enjoy getting a salmon bone stuck in my esophagus and almost blacking out. But hey – no judgment. To each her own.
Please don’t rub on my vajizzle like you’re trying to get a stain out. And you don’t need to finger bang me in the middle of a restaurant to prove you’re a he-man.
Although if some of you ladies are into exhibitionism, all I can say is, hay gurl hay.
Well since we Crossed the Rubicon, let’s just continue our journey the back way, shall we?
I can’t speak for everyone. Yes I can. It’s my blog. Here are the rules.
1. You either get to have a huge dick OR anal. Sorry.
2. Unlike the vag, the butt hole is NOT a self lubricating organ. And SPIT is not a lube.
3. A woman needs to be incredibly turned on for this to work, like feverish fuckfest porno turned on.
4. The height of douchewafflery is to “accidentally” let it slip in there. It fucking hurts. Yes. It DOES. And then it feels good. So no “oopsies.” And go slow at first.
5. Nothing teaches you more about teamwork, persistence, and humility than doing the Milli Buttfilli. It should be a part of all high school sports training seasons. It probably is.
6. Be prepared for sounds both of us never knew existed to be coming out of my mouth during butt sex.
7. It is, after all, an exit. Not an entrance. Nothing so wrong ever felt so right. It’s Planet Bizarro sex, crazy hot and primal, and saved for special occasions. Or until they start manufacturing Methaqualone again.
So, since this is the
SLUT MOM BLOG
stayed tuned for the next installment. I’ll be discussing some of the more advanced moves, like the “Triple Crown”: Middle finger in the butt, index finger on the G-spot, and tongue on the clit, simultaneously. I’ll leave you with that image.
At this point in my life, I’ve transcended societal misogyny. I feel empowered because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly.
The physical pleasure of sex, the freedom of it, connects two human beings in a way that lets them endure the pains and losses of being human.
I’ll live free. I’ll write free.
So, can a woman be a slut and a mom?
YES. Just not at the same time.
Can a woman embrace being a “slut” or is this a misogynistic slur? Is it hard for you to combine the different elements of your life?
What are some of the weird search terms that come up for your blog?
Talk to me. I’m listening.
(thanks to Chowderhead \m/ for “Write Free”)