All men secretly desire boundary-pushing action when they’re parking the pink bus in the fur garage! This holiday season, wake up that hibernating harlot within and shaboink him into oblivion.


Contort your facial expression so grotesquely that you look like you’ve warped the nerve endings in your face. With a little practice, you’ll resemble a mime choking on a large piece of steak. Alternate between sticking out your tongue and baring your teeth. Every time he looks at you, he should see another creature from The Twilight Zone having a stroke.


Substitute your garden variety moans and sighs with more enthusiastic calls of the wild. Squawk like a kangaroo high on PCP riding a rollercoaster.
For those of us who are well endowed, particularly if your breasts have a nice sag to them, try this: standing at the foot of the bed, put a hand under each breast, and start flapping them up and down while making silly cartoon noises.


The goal here is, when kissing, to actually try to eat his face OFF.  It should be horrifying, almost as if you’ve turned into a Headcrab from Half-Life. For added sensation, dehydrate yourself prior to a makeout session, so your tongue is as dry and abrasive as possible.  Deep kissing him will feel like a rough tongue Glove of Torture.


It’s the dirty dialogue that gives your bedroom romps an X-rating. Instead of the typical “I love the way your Baloney Baton feels in my Pish Flaps,” try some of these deliciously devilish suggestions:

-Replace the traditional “Oh God” with a lusty, “Hail, Satan!”

- Speak in a 30s style gangster voice. Think Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar, and say something wicked such as,
Supposin’ you put your penis in my tootie fruity, woulda-ya-say?”

Lean in close to his ear, and seductively whisper, “I wanna check you for ticks.”

- Scream aggressively, “DO ME, YOU RUBBER-DICKED FUCK GOD!” Accompany this with a forceful punch in the neck.

- Right before you go down on him, tantalize him by reciting the opening lines from Law and Order, with the words changed slightly:
“In the oral sex act, the participants are represented by two separate yet equally important body parts: the penis, who inserts the semen; and the mouth, who receives the semen. These are their stories.”

Follow this with a resounding, “Dun DUN!” the famous auditory sound effect, reminiscent of a jail cell door slamming.


Turn ordinary cunnilingus into his fight for life. This is particularly effective if your foo-foo bajingo reeks of a thousand cheeses. Actually mold as much flesh as you can over his mouth and nose like silly putty. You’ll know you’ve succeeded when he starts flailing his arms like a drowning man at sea.


Role-play and dressing up offer a unique fantasy aspect that can ignite passion, both visually and psychologically. Instead of the typical “sexy teenage enema nurse” or “underage cheerleader,” you should both dress up in Disney princess outfits. Have a tea party, and refer to him continuously as a “fancy lady.” While performing oral on him, make sure he asks your permission to have an orgasm. Tell him, ““So you want to cum? Well you’re going to have to ask politely, like a fancy lady.”


For full-on sex goddess status, consume an especially intestine-abusing meal, such as Mexican food. During 69, let a fart go, making sure your butthole is a scant one inch away from one of his nostrils. The fart will go directly into his brain. You’ve heard of a “Dutch Oven?” Well, mainlining a fart is known as the infinitely more powerful “Dutch Microwave.”

For extra sexy times, first insert a vibrating butt plug. Unclench those butt cheeks and let ‘er rip. No man can resist you after he sustains blunt force trauma from getting hit in the forehead by a high velocity, fart-propelled butt plug.


Arouse his inner Viking by urging him, “Hurt me, fucking hurt me!”
Hopefully he’ll get the idea. If he proceeds to the usual pulling of hair, light choking, and mild squeezing, scream, “Hurt me, you fucking pussy!”
If he turns it up only a notch, with a firmer choke and slapping your ass like you stole something from his Grandma, demonstrate by screaming:
HURT ME LIKE THIS, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” before full on head-butting the wall.


Have your man put a dog leash on you. Pretend his dick is a chew toy. Actually gnaw on his penis like a puppy chewing on a finger. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave teeth marks and bruises.


Play tigress and try some of these frisky positions:
The Alaskan Firedog: When switching to reverse cowgirl, kick him in the face.
The Cambodian Helicopter: In the missionary position, while bringing your legs up to wrap them around his torso, bring them all the way up and start slapping his face jowls with your feet.


When having on orgasm drop your voice down several octaves deeper than usual, and let out a manly war cry. Thrust your hips upward into a full bridge, arching your vagina to eye level. Scoot backwards in this position to the far edge of the bed. Then, in that deep booming voice yell, “DON’T TOUCH ME!” Twitch uncontrollably for 5-7 minutes.


Paint your face like a clown. Giggle like a mental patient and make the sound of “WHOOOP, WHOOOP!” As he makes passionate love to you, reach down behind the bed for your previously stored 2 liter bottle of Faygo soda. Shake this bottle like your life literally depends on it, then undo the cap so the shaken fizzy soda goes EVERYWHERE, especially all over him. Continue shaking it like you just won the NASCAR. When the bottle is completely empty, throw it to the side and let out another “WHOOOP, WHOOOP!” Throw up a pair of rock n roll devil horns, and proceed to slap him around like you’re meth-ed out trailer trash and he’s your 2-day late drug dealer.


Remember, it’s important to get aggressive when handling his penis. Squeeze his dick like a stress ball and treated his balls like play dough. He’ll have to cobble an erection together from his shattered dreams, and whatever porn he watched earlier that day. When he slides it in you with the gusto of someone plugging in their phone charger, you’ll know you’ve graduated to a Bad Girl!

Do you think it’s important to spice things up in bed? What are your sexytime favorites? Have you ever injured someone during sex? What’s your favorite episode of Law And Order?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

I love this.

I love this.


After I pulled my Achilles tendon masturbating exercising last week, I had to face facts: I am old.

Not grandma-take-your-false-teeth-out-to give a guy a blow jay old, but

Middle Aged.

Let’s see. Today, I got excited about half priced asparagus.
Last week, I found a grey hair in my eyebrow. I tweezed that bitch out, and I think I scared the others away.


A few months ago, I turned 45. And it made me think about some of the things I no longer do, now that I’m old.



Those carefree days of college drinking to the point of getting your stomach pumped are over.  At 21, it’s cool to coming home puking at 5 am, wondering where your underwear went.

The last time I drank heavily, my old college boyfriend poisoned me with Vodka and Red Bull. It took me three days to recover. I laid on the couch feeling like a swamp donkey, praying my eyeballs wouldn’t fall out.

At this age, I realize that nothing good has ever come out of waking up on a strange lawn covered in mysterious contusions. Ditto trekking through the snow in the wee hours in search of a drug dealer and a bar still open.  Do you really think when you get inside that the shitty, drug-thirsty patrons are going to get more pleasant rather than desperate and sad? NEVER.



It’s no secret that I dress like a teenager in a frantic attempt to beat back death. But last summer my BFF staged a fashion intervention when I tried to pull off short shorts and knee-high boots. Apparently, at 45, it doesn’t say “fashion forward” as much as “old hooker.” Ditto the sky-high plastic heels from Frederick’s of Hollywood, which paradoxically, turn a confident sexy stride into a penguin shuffle.

She also encouraged me to light a bonfire and throw some of my slogan tee shirts in it. I guess Jesus really isn’t my homeboy.

However, I adamantly refuse to stop shopping in the junior department. Especially for panties. I feel safer knowing Spiderman is guarding my crotch.



As a kid, I was REALLY GOOD at Double Dutch. Damn.

It was sublime to be a white girl working it on a black housing project playground, executing a perfect Double Dutch circle turn – which is all about turning speed, leg position, and listening to the ropes.

While visiting my cousin in Brooklyn, I happened upon a group of kids jumping rope and decided to join in, to see if I still had it.

I didn’t. I was way less a Double Dutch diva and waay more a hulking Quasimodo, getting publicly flogged.



As a kid I always imagined I could walk in mid-air after stepping off a cliff. Sadly, I know better now.

I also realize that:

I can’t have access to any item, i.e., a canoe, by simply reaching behind me,

Getting electrocuted will NOT turn me momentarily into a skeleton,

If someone points a rifle at me, I cannot tie the barrel into a knot,

If I’m really surprised by what I’m seeing, my eyes will NOT temporarily pop out of my head. Accompanied by an AAAAAOOOOOOGA sound.



I used to love running around on a playground when Little Dude was 3 or 4. But somehow, I went to sleep on the eve of my 40th birthday with a youthful, supple back, and awoke the next morning with the back of an 85-year-old potato farmer.

Remember when playgrounds were fun? Sure, there was a good chance you’d be scalded by a hot metal slide, or walk away with tetanus, but that’s what memories are made of.

The ground wasn’t coated with soft recycled rubber as most are today – they were asphalt. Remember being hurled from a spinning merry-go-round, praying you wouldn’t end up a flesh-colored stain on the asphalt? Good times.



This was perhaps one of the most bizarre song/videos to come out of the 80’s. Someone, probably Johnny Depp’s acting coach, directed a crazy Canadian band called ‘Men Without Hats’ on a bizarre romp through a medieval village. This reenactment of a Renaissance fair gone horribly awry starred a handsome lead singer, a dwarf, and a deranged blonde woman.

Picture Tywin Lannister’s children tripping balls, and you have the idea.

When I did the Safety Dance 20 years ago, people recognized what I was doing. Now? Nobody understands that I’m flinging my arms stiffly into an “S” position. They think I’m having a seizure.



No one wants a lap dance from a drunken, makeup-smeared middle-aged woman at the company holiday party.

But when I was 25? I INVENTED that shit.



I may write things like, “I’ll cut a bitch!” But I never would say it out loud. No 45-year-old suburban woman should.

You’re sitting behind the wheel of a Honda Odyssey with groceries from Costco melting in the back. You’re in the parent pick-up line at school, not a character in Orange is the New Black. Calm the fuck down.



As a girl, I was obsessed with the Jackson 5. My early masturbatory fantasies involved Jermaine and Marlon duking it out over who would get to deflower me.

Even as a 20-something, I unapologetically crushed on Color Me Badd. You remember them, don’t you? Their big hit, “I Wanna Sex You Up,” was notable for coining the douchiest come-on line ever, and is probably responsible for making their sole source of income residual checks from VH1’s “Where Are They Now” show.

But nowadays? Un-uh. After I described to a friend a sex dream I had about Kendall from Big Time Rush, I was accused of being “creepy.” People! He’s only in high school on the TV show! The lad is 24!

Still, my advice? Go into ‘private session’ mode on Spotify. Otherwise, everyone can see your “recently played” list and you look like a pedophile.



That’s the upside to middle age. You take the “fuck you” pill. Life is too short to take people’s bullshit.

If some wealthy, self-involved, yuppie/hipster, granola-eating broad at Whole Foods wants to wrongly accuse me of jumping the line, she’d better not get nasty with me. Cause I will cut a bitch!


Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to GET OFF MY LAWN!!



For your viewing pleasure: The Safety Dance
The power lines scattered throughout the Medieval village just add to the surreal, WTF? quality of it all.


What things do you no longer do, that you used to?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

How Well Do YOU Know Us?

November 25, 2014 — 5 Comments


Time for some much-needed FUN!!

Today, on the Sisterwives blog, we put together a matching game for you – a bunch of random facts about all of us. And we’d like YOU to try and match each fact to the correct Sisterwife.

So, it’s everything you ever wanted to know about us, and probably LOTS you never wanted to know.

There’s pole dancing, stalking, ear nibbling, “suk suk” and a pet chicken.

Intrigued? I know I am. I didn’t even know most of this stuff. WHAT is a “suk suk?” (Oh, crap! I guess I just gave away that the “suk suk” one isn’t mine!)

C’mon over, and join in the silliness!!




He took my Cyber Cherry.

I was on WordPress about a half hour when I started getting emails from complete strangers.

I suppose that’s to be expected, when you cruise around leaving comments that make you sound like Slut Bag McFucksticks  sassy.


Dear Samara:
I am currently incarcerated in the state of Kentucky for murders I did not commit. I would love to get to know you. Perhaps when I am released, I can take you to a White Supremacy meeting and then for a Starbucks Pumpkin Latte? In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would masturbate and send me your panties.

Guy Who Keeps Severed Heads in His Refrigerator


When an incredibly sweet, sincere man emailed me, politely asking if he could write me, I was thrilled.

Don’t roll your eyes. I was NEW here.

The politeness lasted about a day. It escalated quickly, into declarations of attraction and discussing the possibilities of what we would do if we actually were with one another.

It was my inauguration into the seamy and titillating underbelly of the online world. That’s what happened to a lot of us who got married before the Internet revolutionized communication and fundamentally changed the way we lead our lives.

We never sexted.


Did you know there are sexting acronyms?

GYPO – Get your pants off

GNRN – Get naked right now

FMH – Fuck me harder


And the lesser known:

MPICIMFP – My penis is caught in my flip phone

AMAMCF – Ask me about my cheese fetish

GERE – I have a thing for gerbils

BALL911 – Call 911, balls sliced badly while shaving

DANZA – I just had sex with Tony Danza


I was baffled by the logistics. What exactly is the objective? I only have two hands. Are we supposed to be masturbating? And then typing? And masturbating? And typing?

Even though women have been scientifically proven to be quite good at multi-tasking, I’m strongly right handed. I tend to rely a lot on that hand for both masturbating AND typing. So, simultaneously, neither of them are getting done efficiently.


My new online friend became my new best friend, emailing me all day, every day. Having someone who is that interested in you is a heady feeling.

Until they’re not.

With no warning, he suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. I was devastated, because I didn’t know back then how poorly people can treat one another in the cyber world.


I got over it. Obviously. And went on to form amazing friendships in the online world.



I actually healed my relationship with my very first online friend. We’ve moved past what happened between us; how insensitive he was, and how badly I acted towards him as a result. He was in the middle of a horrible time in his life, and disappearing like that was not something he meant personally towards me.

I love our online friendship now. It’s filled with genuine affection and admiration for one another. And I believe him to be, like many people, a good, though flawed, human being whose heart is in the right place.


Or…is it?


Recently, I’ve become close with a talented erotica writer. She’s had her share of online drama, and eventually, opened up to me about some of the specifics of her online dalliances.


At one point, she was very attracted to the same man who had pursued me online. And she sent him gorgeously written, very sexy erotica stories – via Facebook messenger. Stories about the two of them.

Basically, she was sexting the beejesus out of him, and he was loving it! Who wouldn’t?

The juicy part of this tale? She began pouring her sexual heart out to him exactly at the time when he abruptly withdrew from my life.


Oh, shit.



I’m sure his life did implode. But these dates are too exact to be coincidental.

Ugh. I suppose, on some level, I wanted to think I was “special” (Stop fucking rolling your eyes at me!)


He was one of the few honorable men I’ve met online. I know there are many; I just don’t attract them (jeez, I wonder why? Maybe it’s because I blog about blow jobs and dildos and sluts, oh my!)

And I guess, even the most honorable…are not so? I’m not certain. My bullshit radar doesn’t work well online.


The proliferation of technologies like social networks, instant and ephemeral messaging, and even basic stuff like e-mail, has made the online world a breeding ground for some unhealthy interactions. It’s a rogue’s paradise; a dystopian Mad-Max type of culture for which there are no repercussions for many kinds of sociopathic behavior.

Add to that the availability of sexual stimulation 24/7, and we have a major societal mess on our hands.


The sad thing for me is how unfazed I am by all this. A year ago, as a newbie, I would have been devastated to learn how easily someone can switch sexting partners. Now? It seems par for the course.



I may have lost a bit of my sparkle, but I’m not tarnished.

I believe in the power of online friendships. I have been supported online in ways that I never have in real life. I have too many loving, loyal online friends, male and female, NOT to believe in them.

I will say, though, that the best of my online friends – we’ve moved past “online only” and have texted, spoken or Skyped. If I’ve known you online a long time, and I absolutely have to log into Facebook to interact with you,

are we really friends?


If there’s anyone left out there who is new to these kinds of exchanges, please consider this:

If someone is willing to get sexual with you online, male or female, this is probably what that person does. In general. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong, or you’re wrong, or sexting is wrong.

It’s just not unique to YOU.


Technology has completely changed the notion of space and time, breaking down barriers in ways we never thought possible. And online sexual relationships have never been easier, thanks to cellphones, text messaging, social networks – and shifting ethics.

What hasn’t changed is the need to feel special. Behind the words on your screen, right now, is ME.

A living breathing person, whose heart beats real blood.

Think about that before you hit “send.”




Have you had some strange online encounters?  Or do you tend to keep away from that world?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 


Do you hear that?

Come closer.


That’s the sound of my heart breaking.


My son has always loved the ocean. His eyes are the color of the sea, changing from blue to green with the swell of the tide.  And my love for him is an ocean, an overwhelming force which is sometimes calm and steady, and other times full of conflict.


A mother’s love is like the continuous miracle of the sea. It begins in the ocean of your womb – but there is something unsettling about the way your baby kicks. So fiercely you feel bruised on the inside.

There is something willful and stubborn about his refusal to come out. He arrives weeks late, and even then – after almost 40 hours of labor.

Your baby is overwhelming and mysterious and brutal, like the ocean. He screams uncontrollably for hours a day, every day. And you bring him to one specialist after another, to be told it’s “colic.” You are advised that only a “tincture of time” will help.


Your toddler doesn’t hit milestones, and the pediatrician advises you to seek help. And they unravel the mystery of why your little one tantrums constantly, tears at his clothes, screams because the sound of the blender alarms him so.

You are told he has “Sensory Processing Disorder” – and you begin your quest to understand the crossed wires of his central nervous system.

You spend your days helping him to make sense of, and feel safer in, his world.

Brushing his body every 2 hours with a soft brush.

Doing joint compression exercises on his arms and legs.

Assuaging his need to sink his teeth into everything by giving him chewy tubes, and crunchy foods.

Letting him roll on a huge ball, and crash into a mountain of supersized pillows, and jump endlessly on a small trampoline.


And at 3, he is now diagnosed with ADHD. And the doctors offer you their prescription pads.

But no real answers.

And you refuse. Because, how much of this is ADHD, and how much of this is him being a three-year old boy?


And so consumed are you with his sensory needs, his behavioral issues, so absolutely drained, that he is 4 years old by the time you even think about having another child. And your body betrays you, and says, “No.”

You live with that guilt forever.



A few years go by, and the ocean of his psyche ebbs and flows, in ways you can’t predict or explain.

Sometimes smooth and peaceful, but often tumultous, and never something you can contain or control.

Your child fidgets incessantly. Talks constantly, or simply makes loud, disturbing noises. He’s always seeking “extreme” sensations – climbing, jumping and crashing constantly.

Sucks on clothing, fingers, crayons, anything.

The sun “hurts his head.” If he gets any part of his clothing wet, even slightly, he cries until he can change them.

He seems to have no body awareness, no sense of spatial relations to other kids. Crashes into other children constantly.

And when playing, gets excited to the point of biting. Never out of aggression.

But biting makes him the pariah of playground. You mourn that this gorgeous human being is being sabotaged by some internal trigger switch.



You research and find the best pediatric neurological clinic on the East coast, and get on a year-long waiting list.


And at 5, after a week of evaluations, it is confirmed.

ADHD, Hyperactivity-Impulsive type. In addition to Sensory Processing Disorder.

And they offer up their prescription pads, and once again – you say, “No.”

So fearful are you of altering his brain chemistry.


Because he is, undeniably BRILLIANT. Creative. Funny. And you are afraid that medication will dull that brilliance. He is the ocean, untamed and magnificent, sometimes raging and destructive.

He is your fierce little warrior.

And you are determined to help him flourish, despite his lettered labels.

Another quest begins.


Martial arts. Supplements. A very structured schedule. Lots of sleep. Cognitive behavioral therapy. Classification at school with an IEP. Proper nutrition, including a hellishly difficult diet known as the “Feingold Diet,” which requires you to make everything he eats from scratch. It appears to help, so you follow it.


You buy $10 socks for your child. Because he needs special “sensitivity socks,” entirely seamless – and even then, an invisible piece of lint will send him into tears.

You spend each morning in an exhausting battle to dress him in the clothes he can tolerate – because he cannot wear jeans, or cargo pants, or shirts with buttons or zippers, or jackets with elastic around the sleeves. And no shoes ever feel right.

And he can still feel the ghost of the tag you cut off of his shirt, the way an amputee still feels the ghost of a severed limb.

By the time he is dressed and on his way to school, you feel totally defeated.

At 8 am in the morning.


You advocate for him tirelessly, through classification and declassification and IEPs and 504s. And marvel at his intellectual abilities, so far beyond those of his peers.

But emotionally and psychologically – he fights to keep his head above the rip tides.


The years pass, and some things improve. And others  – worsen. New challenges emerge.


And when your marriage crumbles, and you are left on your own to deal with this beautiful child, you realize,


You are so depleted just surviving, running your home and your business, you simply no longer have the energy to deal with his needs – which have grown so pronounced.


The hour of homework, which takes four. Sending him upstairs to shower, only to find him unshowered an hour later, lost in an imaginary world of half Harry Potter, half Percy Jackson.

The morning dressing battles. His lack of spatial awareness, the constant clumsiness that causes him to drop and break everything he holds, the constant touching and fidgeting and noises.

His lack of social cue awareness, his inflexibility, his fixations.



You hear yourself tell your friend, “I can’t raise him. I just can’t.

Why can’t he just be normal?”


Not caring if she or anyone else judges you.

For no one could possibly judge you as harshly as you judge yourself.


And now, his therapist tells you it’s time to consider putting him on medication. And your blood turns to ice at the thought of him losing the uniqueness that flows through his mind.


And when she says, “We must have him evaluated again. I’m fairly certain he has…”

You say it with her.


Because you knew.


And you’re drowning now, in an ocean of pain and despair.

Unable to face yet another quest to unlock the mystery of this latest diagnosis.

Wondering how you can afford thousands of dollars of tests your insurance doesn’t cover; how you both will survive the nightmare trial and error of endless drugs and endless side effects.

How can you possibly keep him afloat, when you are sinking fast to the bottom of the briny deep?

You look up furiously and demand that God explain why he did this, when all you’ve ever wanted for your child was for him to have a better childhood than yours.


And then, you spend the perfect Saturday together. And you are reminded of his brilliance. His dazzling humor. You laugh together, all day.

That evening, you both snuggle on the couch. While you write this, his story, he reads.

Every so often, and for no reason at all, he looks up over his enormous library hard copy of War And Peace, just to say,

“I love you, mom.”


You may be drowning, but he is not. With his beautiful spirit, endless compassion, soulful heart, keen wit – he is simply adrift.

And you will fight for him, as always. You will figure this out.

Yes. The turbulent waves of your uncertainty sometimes rock with indomitable fury, pushing away, only to crash and break, but he is the shore that grounds you. Your love for him is like the ocean; endless, chaotic, fickle, and profoundly deep.

And there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean always returns to embrace the shore.


Do you have a special needs child? Or know of one?
As a parent, do you sometimes feel like you just can’t go on?
Talk to me. I’m listening.


This version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow is sublime.
This is not the official video, but it’s our favorite. Filled with the images of beautiful children.