Archives For Sex

woman-writing-erotica 2


Ever since the appearance of Fifty Shades of Grey, the worst book to have ever sold 100 million copies worldwide, everyone is writing erotica.

I don’t want to discuss this Idiot Book, the fact that Anastasia is a virgin who can orgasm 20 times an hour, never worries about getting a urinary tract infection or somehow made it through college without a working laptop.

Bad erotica is sprouting up everywhere. All of it hackneyed and formulaic.

The characters are always flawless. Or if they have flaws, they are so endearing they make the character even more adorable.

For women,”clumsy” is the most popular endearing flaw. For the record, I am clumsy. There’s nothing sexy about. I fall down, smack my head on things, injure myself frequently and am generally shocked to still be alive.

Last week, in a meeting with a group of men, I dropped my pen under the conference table. I reached down to get it, hit my head on the edge of the table, and sustained a near-concussion. No dicks got hard.

I would like to read about a female character with some really detracting flaws.

“Monique had a grotesque mutant butthole growing out of her face. Her ass stunk like Exit 13 on the New Jersey Turnpike and she cleared a room whenever she broke wind.”


And of course. every male character has a frighteningly enormous cock. Let’s go for some diversity:

“Her eyes widened as he slipped his sweatpants down his short stubby legs. His peeny seemed erect but it was so small, there was no way to tell. She gave it a swift headbutt, because men loved that.”


Another thing that really gets my hackles up is how all these beautiful women smell. They always smell like fresh-baked bread, or lemons.

Can’t we try something a little different?

“She jerked open her vest, radiating the scent of stale cigarettes and 3-day old crab legs.”

“Her pussy smelled like an elderly man he once knew who moved to Florida and did something with pit bulls.”


There are only so many ways to write a traditional sex scene, and they can become repetitive and boring. It’s important to be innovative and unique in your erotica. Here are a few little snippets I’d like to share with you.

You’re welcome.

 Blake and Thalia

Blake unzipped his pants quicker than a hooker running from cops. His tube sausage flopped out. She began jerking off his pork sword roughly, like it owed her money.

Thalia released her breasts like one would release the Kraken. They were long and heavy, as if she had loaded a shitload of change into a pair of old tube socks and taped them to her chest. Blake wandered around them like a hobo at a hydroelectric plant.

He crammed his meat flute into her greasy rat’s mouth. He moved as awkwardly as a 6’2″ guy trying to get a laid in a Honda Civic. Thalia breathed heavily, making sounds like a child caught in a dry cleaning bag.

“Your bajina feels like I’m jerking off into wet balloons,” Blake said, struggling to breathe, like a fat man digging into nachos. Thalia thrashed around like a Jawa getting gummed by a toothless Sarlaac.

Blake moved over Thalia’s body stiffly, like a disabled person trying to have intercourse with a mailbox. Thalia’s pubes were thick enough to star in their own episode of Duck Dynasty. Her hairy ham wallet was trembling as he bit into it, and then peed on her bed, marking his territory like an irate Doberman.

Blake’s eight inches of throbbing pink Jesus rammed into her vintage golf bag. He dove into her nappy lunch meat like Scrooge McDuck into a room full of gold. As his all-beef thermometer slammed into Thalia’s hot pocket she orgasmed so hard, she sweated like a gerbil in a gay bar.

They fell asleep entwined together in the afterglow.

Thalia woke up the next morning with a meat pie in her hand and her mouth tasting like an ashtray.


 Garth and Savannah

Garth gazed at Savannah like a gluttonous person would gaze at a cheap, all you can eat buffet. All the calories rushed to his penis.

The cameltoes created by her pudgy baby-fat labias made him want to plunge into them like a sex-crazed Mario the plumber. He longed to take a bite of her wobbly jello salad. Savannah’s bald, fat-lipped special place was so enticing, he longed to hump her like a blind baby kangaroo trying to body box.

Savannah breathed raggedly, like an asthma patient at indoor casino that allowed smoking.

“Garth, I’m gonna touch your weiner all over that yucky looking part at the top, the entire peeny.”

She ran her wet toilet-plunger tongue over her thick lips. Moans like belches escaped her lips.

Savannah reached down, sliding her hand under Garth’s clammy beer-gut. She let out a small choke of lust as her acrylic nails scraped the bald, encrusted dent of his urethral opening. He roared mightily as he shoved her off the bed, causing her to lustily smash her head on the nightstand.

Garth did a jiggling frantic nut-swing. He plowed his pink tractor beam inside her field of dreams. Savannah’s velvet clown hole was as tight as Uncle Fred’s hat band.

Her rosy walls of lust shrink-wrapped around his beef jerky with a grape-squashing force. They squeezed his shaft harshly, as one would squeeze  out the last morsel of toothpaste from the tube. Garth felt like mini feminist ninjas were attacking his nut sack.

He cupped Savannah’s buttocks like a couple of freshly baked loaves of gluten free bread and gave them a quality-approving squeeze.

Slowly, he tamed Savannah’s skittish sphincter like it was a nervous filly. Soon it was as relaxed as a psychiatric patient on Seroquel. He took turns violating Savanna’s brown balloon knot with matching Pilgrim Thanksgiving salt and pepper shakers his Aunt Tillie had given him for a housewarming present.

“I’m gonna tongue punch you in the fart box!” he bleated at her.


So, release your inner perv and give it a try!


Did you read 50 Shades of Grey? Do you have any interest in writing erotica?’
How did I do?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.

Yoga Class, Deconstructed

February 5, 2015 — 115 Comments

Yoga_at_a_Gym 9


It had been six weeks since I’d been able to breathe, six weeks since the blow to my chest had left my heart charleyhorsed with leftover ache and my lungs restricted. I was living the emotional equivalent of that hackneyed action movie scene, the one where the heroine has been underwater far too long. Just when you think she’s going to die she slashes through the surface and grabs air in big lusty gulps.

I was drowning in several different versions of the truth, all of them weighing me down like kettlebells tied to my ankles.

I had neglected my yoga practice for months. My once limber body had gone stiff, the way Skittle colored Play Doh starts out with the best intentions and gradually dries up, never living up to its full potential.

It dessicates, morphing into the humorless version of itself. Hard, but incredibly easy to crack.

I wished I was doing anything else except a practice whose apparel has become literally the butt of endless online stories. I resent seeing people everywhere refer to “leggings” as “yoga pants.” Those aren’t “driving gloves” unless you regularly wrap them around a steering wheel.

Yoga was not meant to be fashion and if you’ve never worn those pants while doing an inversion, just refer to them as leggings and I can end this paragraph a little less exasperated.

So I went to a Saturday afternoon yoga class; not just any yoga, but hot yoga, which, for the uninitiated, means doing advanced poses in a sauna. A room heated to 104 degrees, with humidity at 40%. I dread it. But I’m convinced it’s the only way to flush out the toxins that have been doing the Foxtrot through my bloodstream since those poison darts leapt off the computer screen and took aim at my heart.

And I’m clinging fiercely to the idea that I’ll have a yoga-induced spiritual epiphany that explains why I choose relationships which reinforce just how little I think I deserve.

Or at least lose a few pounds.

After the teacher chants and instructs us to leave all our earthly possessions at the door, we begin in downward dog, or in my case, sweaty dog panting from heat.

The teacher leads us in a series of sun salutations that get progressively faster and more complicated and I get in touch with why the phrase “hot as hell” was coined. I played yogi slip n slide in my own perspiration and I mull over the possibility that the organs of my body can actually become steamed.

I look at myself in the mirror, a vain counter-yogic move, and in triangle pose notice the cute guy behind me staring at my ass. I’ve noticed him noticing me before; I’ve heard people chat with him and his name is either Don or Jon; it’s hard to be certain in a room constantly waterlogged in sweaty acoustics.

Today, though, I obsess over the sweat droplets that have come together for an impromptu party in my ass crack and wonder if he can see them through the stretched-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life Lycra that covers my butt. And after I shower and dress and check my phone, he’s still lingering around the front of the yoga center. Which can only mean that he’s waiting for ME.

And he is. Don/Jon approaches me and suggests coffee at the Dunkin Donuts next door and I go. I go because it’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in January, and because my kid is with his father; and because I’m high from having pushed my body to its limits and from fresh blood flow;  I go because I like Don/Jon’s puppy doggish exuberance and his obvious pursuit of me – but mostly, I go because I love coffee.

I really love coffee.

My caffeine addiction is the only one I have that hasn’t pushed my dreams off a cliff. I’ve never risked my life for coffee. Not that I wouldn’t; it’s just that one doesn’t have to cruise questionable neighborhoods to procure coffee.

Up close and away from the curtain of steam that blurs everything in the room, Don/Jon is really cute. Lithe, sinewy yoga body aside, he has great hair, a sexy smile and  a killer sense of humor.

I’m not typically attracted to men who do yoga. Every downward douche I’ve ever seen in a yoga class has ended up hooking up with one of the women in the class. It’s why they GO. But I like the idea that I accepted his invitation; that I’m not so jaded that I can’t still occasionally surprise myself.

Coffee talk stretches into late afternoon and I’m surprised to see that its getting dark out. And surprised even more when Don/Jon asks if I’d like to try a Mexican restaurant near his house that he says makes the freshest Pico de gallo this side of Guadalajara. And killer Margaritas, although I don’t really drink.

But I did that evening.

Tequila augments my natural flirtiness and my insecurities are alcohol soluble. I feel attractive because I can feel that he feels attracted to ME. Which is less like an Escher painting than it sounds.

I get tipsy, which shuts off some of the noise in my brain but turns on other noise. We bond over our love for movies, and music, and Breaking Bad, which he talks me into watching at his house.

We end up back at his townhouse, where he makes us more Margaritas and now I am drunk. He has an enormous cozy plush grey couch which looks like a big blimpy manatee, and I sink into the Netflix imprint his butt left in the corner cushion.

Predictably, he starts to kiss me and I haven’t decided how attracted I am to him. But I’m drunk and cozy and sunk into his manatee couch, and at the moment I’d rather kiss him back then push my tequilla-drenched ass into the frosty night.

I hate the cold.

We have 20 minutes of nondescript sex and afterwards he winds around me like a broken slinky.  And I’m thinking I’d like to leave before the sweat dries. Which makes me sound like a sport-fucking man-eater, but it’s really just a way I avoid feeling anything for anyone, and has a high success rate.

I often fantasize about creating an actuarial model using statistics to determine the probability of various romantic risks based on the engagement or avoidance of certain behaviors, and the emotional consequences of those risks. Assign value to certain behaviors and develop mathematical models to evaluate the future romantic implications of, say, performing various sex acts. Or cuddling after. Leaving, or staying the night.

I stay. I don’t want to come off like bitch. I’m anything but a bitch.

I just play one on the Internet.

He falls asleep and I lay there with his arm draped across me, heavy as a fallen tree limb and I stare at the ceiling and write this blog post in my head.

Until about 6:00 am, when dawn’s first light streaks across the sky and I noiselessly hurry to leave, like a vampire in reverse. I get dressed and gather my things and tip toe out, leaving him asleep.

I feel like a ninja escaping into the bruise-colored dawn. I make a clean getaway

I think about him one more time as I pull into my driveway; just once more so I can leave him outside and that’s when it occurs to me, I never found out if his name is Don or Jon. Which bothers me less than the fact that I’m going to have to find a new yoga studio.


I don’t have any specific questions. I’m just glad you’re here.
Talk to me.   I’m listening.



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 delivers 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. 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 come? 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 sex, release your gas, 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?” Mainlining a fart is 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, “Smack my ass like I stole your Grandma’s Werthers!”

Hopefully he’ll get the idea. If he proceeds to the usual pulling of hair and light choking, yell, “Hurt me, Nancy Boy!” followed by you full-on head-butting the wall.


Have your man put a dog leash on you. Pretend his penis is a chew toy. Actually gnaw on it 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.


Remember, it’s important to get aggressive when handling his penis. Squeeze his penis like a stress ball and treat 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. 


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. 




I may incite the rage of many people, in this day of sexual harassment, objectification of women and rape culture. But I’m going to say it.


Jarring? Perhaps. If you don’t feel something when I write, then I’m doing it wrong.


Is it bad to be a slutty whore? When did that happen?

I thought that whole stifled sexuality thing went out in the 50’s. By 1969, wanton Woodstock nymphos were taking on bushy haired bohemians two at a time in the mud at Yasgur’s farm, urged on by Country Joe and the Fish.

He spelled out F-U-C-K to the crowd. They did it.

They just don't make rock festivals like they used to

They just don’t make rock festivals like they used to


They were slutty whores.

I love being a slutty whore.  Not being labeled one by others.


The words “slut” and “whore” are aggressive. But I will not let society control me with the use of these words.

Being labeled “slutty whore” by others is abhorrent. In a patriarchal society, there is an inherent danger in these words. Because these words support Rape Culture. Blaming the victim is the dark side of the American Way.

There are compelling reasons to support sensitivity around the use of these words; why feminists fight against the use of these words.

Sexual harassment is UGLY. Objectifying women is UGLY.



And simultaneously, a card carrying feminist.

I’m wholly independent, and always have been. I’ve supported myself since I was 16 years old, and support a child as well. On my own.

If that’s not female empowerment, in a world where not only are women competing against men for jobs, but where we are all competing in a global environment for gainful employment, than nothing is.


I’m not always a slutty whore. In this moment, I’m in a thick fluffy purple bathrobe and slippers.

I’ve just fed Little Dude homemade chocolate chip cookies and milk, and he’s doing his homework while I write. I’m in full-on Mom Mode.

bathrobe-cocktails 2

Homework really fucks with Mama’s cocktail hour


But later on, tonight maybe? Will I be a slutty whore?



There are many situations in which being a slutty whore is a positive thing.

1. In Bed with Your Man (or Woman)

Here is where you should be the sluttiest whore you can. This is a key component to sheet ripping sex.

If you love the person, all the better. Extra credit if you’re married. Triple extra credit if you’ve been married 10 years or more.

Can you imagine couples married for 20 years with enough fire in the relationship for the wife to want to be a slutty whore in bed? That’s extraordinary. It’s a 2-decade hot and heavy romance, and that is PURE GOLD.


2. Going Out/Escaping Real Life

When I was in my 20’s, I went out clubbing in New York all the time, and yes, I frequently dressed like a slutty whore. That’s what your 20’s are for.

These days, I’m a working mom. I’m in total denial about my age, which is somewhere between 30 and none of your business. I rarely go out, and when I do, Saturday nights at Applebee’s is not the forum for a slutty outfit.

BUT – don’t we all, even just once in a great while, need to put on a costume and play at being something we’re not? Don’t we all occasionally need that brief respite from being a Parent and a Grown Up and a Super Responsible Human Being?

Last December, I saw Patti Smith perform at a club in New York. I was meeting up with college friends I hadn’t seen in 22 years.

I went all out and dressed goddamned slutty to pay homage to my High Priestess of Rock.

I wore black, skin-tight, low-cut clothing and high-heeled, over the knee black boots.


These boots were NOT made for walking


Little Dude actually blocked the door.

“MOM! You can’t leave here LOOKING like that!”

It was the first time he’d ever seen Mama look like a rap video ho, and he did not like it one bit. He’s fine, now that I’m back in the fuzzy bathrobe. Hopefully, he hasn’t been scarred for life.


3. Shopping For Lingerie.

My college BFF fought a brutal battle against breast cancer. An entire year of pure torture. But she fought like an amazon warrior. She recently had her reconstruction done, and we went online and ordered a cornucopia of bras. A lot of them were super charged, high octane slutty bras that say,


Because if ever a woman needs to feel that way, it’s her after what she endured this past year.

Her boobs will damn sure be saying "Hello!"

Her boobs will damn sure be saying “Hello!”


4. Writing.

I’m not talking about writing erotica (although by all means, do. Whatever tickles your pickle.) I’m talking about using those words when you write.

“Slutty whore” is an incredibly evocative phrase. When you write, “I was such a slutty whore when I was in high school,” we know JUST the girl you were.

Words inform the mind.

They thrill and excite, kindle the flame, affect as powerfully as physical actions.

Wordplay is life. Handle with care, but USE them.


5. Out With the Girls

It’s like African Americans using the N-word. Outside the community, it’s a racial slur. Inside the community, it’s an expression of solidarity. My girlfriends and I have reclaimed those words, and if we want to banter with them, by God, we will.

They’re multiple meaning words. We can use them to express appreciation or dismay. For example:

“Ooh! Where did you get THOSE, you whore?” might be said to my girlfriend who has on the perfect pair of stiletto ankle boots.

“WHORE!” I might say to the same girlfriend, when she shows up 30 minutes late for coffee.

Any excuse to use a Regina George reference.


To use these terms pejoratively is one thing.

But to describe yourself that way in a celebration of your own uninhibited freedom;

to rejoice in the escape from your everyday world of work/mom/PTO drudgery;

to bond with friends in an exclusive language that allow you to metaphorically take back the night;

to be evocative with words; words – the lifeline that connects this cherished community online comrades;

Right now, I’m not a slutty whore.

I’m a writer.  And I want to know how you feel about those words. 
Talk to me. I’m listening.