Blow Job

May 26, 2015 — 81 Comments

Blow job

 

My public (all four of them) demanded more Spoken Word. 

So here it is. 

CLICK HERE and listen to me on SoundCloud.

And thank you for listening, and continuing to break the the “4th wall” of blogging!

You are awesome!

( for those of you who prefer the written word, below is the text.)

signature

—————–

 

So, he says to me, “We don’t have to have sex. Can you just give me a blow job?”

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to,” I reply.

“But baby, why don’t you want to?”

 

I don’t know. Maybe the sight of you whining like a petulant 8 year old who got slapped in the face at his own birthday party is a turn off.

Maybe it’s because you threw up a gang sign and talked about black music that black people don’t even listen to

Maybe I’m just not turned on by your pretentious microbrewery obsession, the cruelty free almond butter and artisanal dark roast you had for breakfast this morning,

And I’m completely underwhelmed by your overpriced John Varvatos sneakers, now you know you paid $250 for a pair of Converse, right?

I just don’t want to, do I have to have a reason?

Excuse me, did I miss something?

Was there a part of the sexual revolution I was married through? Is oral sex no longer considered sex, and is in fact some cretinous extension of afterdate etiquette?  You take me to the Olive Garden and and I suck your dick?

I don’t owe you anything. And even if I did, I don’t deal in oral currency.

 

Ohhh, he said. You women. You’re all alike. It’s not like I asked to fuck you. It’s just your mouth.

Really.

Well, if you must know, I consider oral sex more intimate than intercourse.

When you’re fucking me, I can go away somewhere.

I’m on all fours, you’re behind me, and I’m checking my polish for chips.

You’re on top of me, sweating and groaning, and I’m making a few moans and a shopping list.

Now I’m on top, squirming ecstatically, AND writing this blog post at the same time.

 

BUT

When I get on my knees in front of you

You thrusting, me gagging,

When I’m giving you “come to Jesus” upper tier fellatio,

When I choke on a pube like a cat with a hair ball,

when I’m going at it like a fat kid trying to suck the last bit of Slurpee out of a cup while riding a jackhammer,

 

When I’ve been down there so long I’m gonna need a tetanus shot and a muscle relaxant so I can chew my food the next day,

When I am sucking your dick,

I AM IN THE EXPERIENCE.

There is no escape.

 

And I SAY NO.

For every time I did it when I didn’t want to

For every friend of mine who ever did when she didn’t want to

For every women on the motherfucking planet who EVER did when she didn’t want to
I SAY NO.

Just because we’re women in a high-supply sexual economy doesn’t mean we can’t turn down a low return investment

 

We have the power to say NO.

We are coherent, intelligent and mature women and as we navigate the sexual landscape of the new millennium we are reclaiming our bodies and we are TAKING BACK THE NIGHT!

 

“Oh,”he says.

“Okay.

Well, can I get a hand job?”

 

 

Has anyone ever just assumed you were going to have sex with them?
When did suburban dads become hipster douchebags?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Obligatory Post

May 22, 2015 — 71 Comments

obligatory post

 

The saying “still waters run deep”

implies that the act of being still connotes depth. Of thought, of feeling

 

Sometimes I’m still because there’s nothing to say that will amuse or challenge you.

Or I just don’t have the energy to navigate the dashboard.

Sometimes there’s so much going through my head at once, it bottlenecks at the opening and nothing flows.

Some things, I just won’t share.

 

 

The only in-real-life person I allow to be friends with Samara Speaks on Facebook is Owen, my IT guy.

When I tried to post my education rant in all my Facebook groups, social media went absolutist on me and none of the links worked. I wondered if it was a conspiracy against me.

Give me some drugs, a friend to do them with and a good conspiracy theory, and I can keep myself entertained for hours.

 

My 3 home office computers are all connected. Bitch with Wifi.

Things go wrong. Owen fixes them.

He’s seen everything on my computers, so it’s safe to say, Owen is a trusted confidante.

I turned to him when Facebook was censoring my post, and real world and blog world collided.

 

I dematerialized for a few days. Sometimes even I need a break from myself.

Is it funny, sad, sweet, ironic – that Owen was the only one on Facebook who noticed I wasn’t around?

The Great Cosmic Joke: While we obsess over what others think of us, the reality is that everyone is so busy wading through the muck and mire of their own lives, no one really gives a fuck about what you do.

It’s supremely liberating, and why I get to drive my kid to school in footy pajamas.

 

I wonder if I died while my son was away at sleep away camp, how long would I lay there before anyone knew? Probably days. That’s the one thing about being single. When you die, you die and no one knows.

Although it’s still not compelling enough of a reason to get into a relationship.

 

 

I wrote a story about getting arrested for disciplining my son and It was picked up by another publication and shared on Facebook over 60,000 times in a day.

Between the blog and its Facebook page, there were over 1100 comments, half of them dripping with the kind of vitriol that burns your face off. You need a White Light Psychic Protection Shield to block the negative energy.

Or a sense of humor.

 

SM comment.jpg 2

 

It was fun being The Worst Mother On the Internet for a few days.

The best part of the experience was my online friends storming the battlefield. My Sisterwives and my fellow Bunker Punks fought valiantly against the trolls hungry to Dahmer me.

I laughed a lot at the comments, and cried when my friends stood up for me, and maybe was exhausted at the end of it.

I mentioned to someone that writers really need thick skin, and he reminded me that once you publish on the Internet, you leave yourself open to judgement.

True. But I only invited a hundred people to my party.

You know what happens when you invite a hundred people to a party, and 100,000 show up?

WOODSTOCK.

And people died there.

But people were born there, too.

 

 

My kid has a social niche carved out for himself. He and his friends are  “cool nerds.” Kind of that in-between group. Not super popular, but not outcasts.

I get it. He’s a quirky kid.

I told him, “you’re a quirky kid. Know when you’re REALLY gonna hit your stride? College.”

I’m nothing if not honest.

 

He’s on his skateboard a lot, and he wanted skater clothes. Hurley. Volcrom. That crap.

So, we got him set up. He looks cool as fuck.

One of the popular jock kids at school dresses like this. I’ve known this obnoxious crotchfruit for years. He’s the kind of kid you want to take to a playground with a quart of beer and beat the shit out of.

He accused my kid of copying him, as if the malls weren’t full of stores like Tillys that sell nothing BUT this look.

So what if my kid did copy him, anyway? Who on this planet is original?

Some days I like to think I’m copying a pale Goth hobo at a Marilyn Manson concert. We all get to channel whatever inner vision we have of ourselves, and copying others is another name for survival.

 

Even as it gets warmer, I’m still missing the extra layer. The one that keeps me from feeling things 10 times more than everyone.

I think about vacations at the beach, or what it might feel like to have electroshock current waking up my body.

I remember that sometimes, the people we love most tell us to we need to find other people who can deal with us, because they cannot.

And that Brutal Truth is better than Sugarcoated Fantasy.

Although the latter would make a much better porn name.

 

 

So, it’s the little things.

The right weather at night for a leather jacket.

A new person to make me tingle.

A new rock tee that fits perfectly.

WIN_20150522_111714 (2)

 

Watching Richard Linklater’s  magnum opus Boyhood with Little Dude and feeling pretty smug that I’ve turned my kid into a fan of my favorite director.

Letting the sink’s dishes be the sink’s problem.

The frightening glory of being showcased in a blog post by the Gangsta of Love, my friend Brenda Keesal, along with women whose writing frankly intimidates the shit out of me.

The quiet victory of watching my son view an entire Nirvana concert on YouTube.

Is it ridiculous that it was a Proud Mama moment, one I videoed? Probably.

I did it anyway. Some things are pivotal to me, and me only.

And that’s all right.

 

This blog post brought to you by the need to feel my fingers tap the keys.
Talk to me. I’m listening.

6131770543_3ab4f7d34d_o.jpg 2

As parents, we hope for the best for our children, and fear the worst.

I never expected to be arrested for disciplining my own child – but it happened.

 

I’m over at Original Bunker Punks today, telling my story. It was not an easy one to tell. I’d love it if you would join me there, and let me know your thoughts on what happened.

I’m closing comments here, but as always, I’m listening. Click here to read the full story.

signature

Sad News

May 9, 2015 — 5 Comments

Originally posted on The Matticus Kingdom:

I have terrible news to share with the blogosphere today.

Horrible, no good, awful news.

Many of you knew him as Grayson Queen, author and artist extraordinaire.  Perhaps you’ve read one of his novels.  Perhaps you’ve purchased, or at least enjoyed, some of his paintings or sculptures…  Perhaps you knew that he was also Rara‘s husband, Dave.

I don’t have a lot of details, but I can confirm that Dave passed away earlier this week.

Please share this post wide and far.  Please say a prayer for Dave and Rara.  Please send her every ounce of spare energy you can muster.  She needs us.  Dave’s family and friends need us.

And send her mail to show her your love, your RawrLove:

Radhika Jaini WF0124
CIW LA 249 UP
16756 Chino-Corona Road
Corona, CA  92880

You don’t need to know what to say.  You don’t need to say anything…

View original 10 more words

PenisFountain

 

I blew my wad early.

Get your minds out of the gutter! I’m talking about the Indie Chicks Badass Blogger awards!

 

So, it turns out that the actual voting IS NEXT WEEK.

These were the nominations.

It could be worse. It could be last fall, when I sent my kid back to school two days early.
(school calendar, schmalendar. I sent him back the day after Labor Day for fuck’s sake!)

Jesus Christ on a coke binge, I am the world’s most clueless and disorganized blogger. It’s a good thing this award is for content, and not for organization, or I’d be well and truly fucked.

 

I’m completely OCD about my house. My goddamn spices are alphabetized.

It’s an anxiety thing. I have a lot of nervous energy, which I quell by cleaning.

That’s how I ended up cleaning my oven at 1 am last Saturday night WHOA, WILD WEEKEND AT MY HOUSE!

 

But as far as blogging is concerned? It’s a miracle I even HAVE a blog.

I’m in several blogging groups on Facebook (a black-hole time-suck where productivity goes to die).

I’m still trying to figure out the difference between visual and text mode and what “&nbsp” is and why does it keep happening?

And real bloggers discuss “Google Analytics” and “Search Engine Optimization” while I just twitch and get sweaty.

That happens to me when people around me speak Klingon.
qaqIHneS >sup, qaqIHmo’ jIQuch?

 

Or they discuss “blog organization” and I go into my full-on blank stare.

How do I organize my blog posts that have appeared in other publications? You’ve got to be fist fucking me. I’m lucky if I can find a clean bra. 

I’m a “fly by the seat of my pants” kind of girl (what the HELL does that even mean? That I have a spring-loaded tampon in?)

It’s commonly known, in the Sisterwives for example, that I’m of the “last minute” persuasion.

Others have their blog posts written and, oh my God, scheduled, in advance. I, on the other hand, come flying in with a blog post 2 minutes before it’s supposed to go live, still praying to the Dashboard Gods that it doesn’t do that thing where all the formatting goes wonky.

 

So, thank all of you for nominating me. You’re the most awesome and loyal blog friends evah.

Briton of Punk Rock Papa fame had a good laugh about this one. He’s been blogging about a half hour, and even he knew the actual voting for the Indie Chick Badass Blogging awards opens next Monday, May 11th and closes on Friday, May 15.

 

I’ll post again with the link to remind you to vote next week, if you aren’t completely over this by now.

 

Okay. I have to go get Little Dude up and ready for school. Mama forgot to buy cold cuts again, which means he has to buy lunch.

Mama also has no cash in the house, which means he has to go to school carrying a little baggie of change, like a homeless street urchin in Calcutta.

 

BUT

If you happen to be at my house and need bay leaves, it’s right on the shelf in between the basil and the cinnamon.

So there.

signature

 

Are you an organized blogger? Do you use calendars and spreadsheets and files, oh my!
Talk to me. I’m listening.