Archives For Anal sex

I get it. I do. Just last year, your cherubic daughter was pleading for you to take her to American Girl. Who wants to think about her getting ass fucked by the basketball team?

But she is.

Maybe not your daughter – but her best friend. And maybe not the whole basketball team. Maybe just the point guards.

The fact is, our teens are having anal sex. Teen Vogue’s “A Guide to Anal Sex” isn’t encouraging them to experiment with it. They just are, because horny teenage bodies are a wonderland.

The article, a nonjudgmental guide to safe anal sex, fills in a much-needed gap for teens, particularly LGBTQ teens, whose questions typically go unanswered by sex education. Generation Z, kids born after 2000, are more connected to available information than any other generation – but googling “anal” and “sex” is going to give them less useful information and more of a magical mystery tour through Porn Hub.

All over the Internet, Teen Vogue’s tutorial on browning the sausage is being vilified as indoctrination into the seamy world of deviant sex; a permission slip for Caligulan behavior.

Elizabeth Johnson, “The Activist Mommy,” launched a national campaign to boycott Teen Vogue. To date, more than 11 million people have viewed a video of Johnston burning a copy of Teen Vogue in her backyard.

I love a bat-shit crazy, over-the-top Christian rant but since the article was an online exclusive, her backyard theatrics are as moronic as they are deplorable. Johnston is a home schooling mother of TEN KIDS.

What she’s really pissed off about is that if this tutorial had been published two decades earlier, she wouldn’t have used her vagina as a clown car.

In fact, in a recent psychological profiling of Johnston which I made up, a team of doctors concluded that Johnston could “really use a dick up her ass.”

Johnston has gained notoriety, and a massive following, for her hate-speech ridden rants against feminists and the LGBTQ community. She has nearly a quarter of a million Facebook followers and her anti-Teen Vogue campaign, which is now calling for the boycott of all products of Teen Vogue and Conde Nast sponsors, is gaining traction daily.

But this Wicked Witch of the Right is not just another sanctimommy.

She is Anne Coulter on steroids, and her Teen Vogue hate rant is a symbol of everything that we need to be frightened about in our country today.

I’ve worked with teens for 15 years. Yes, they’re having anal sex. Young gay males and trans teens experiment with anal sex regularly.  Heterosexual teen anal sex has become much more prevalent in recent years.

The plethora of available porn, and teenage natural curiosity and desire to emulate what they see, might partly account for this.  Some studies attribute the rise of anal sex among teens as a way for them to remain “technical virgins.”

Of course, there’s also the rise of everything Booty-related in pop culture.

By the time Kim K broke the Internet with her resplendent greazy a$$, popular musical artists had been touting the butt as the newest wave of sexual preference.

To name just two, female rappers Lil Kim and Nikki Minaj have proclaimed their love of receiving analingus in their lyrics, with Kim claiming, “He be looking kinda fruity, but he still could lick the booty,” and Minaj rapping in her hit song Anaconda, about a man who “[tosses] salad like his name Romaine.”

Much of the backlash against Teen Vogue stems from the belief that the magazine targets 12-17 year olds. To be clear, I am not in favor of 12 year olds having ANY kind of sex. Tweens are not emotionally ready to handle sexual intimacy.

Moreover, the average American tween, who is prone to stunts like riding a flaming couch through the neighbor’s backyard, cannot be counted on to practice safe sex.

Does Teen Vogue actually target tweens? No. Editor Elaine Welteroth describes the magazines “sweet spot” as age 18-24. I looked over Teen Vogue’s latest offerings. It featured a story on the best beauty buys at Nordstrom’s anniversary sale. The very first item is $92 Chanel lip gloss.

What 12-year-old is this being marketed to? The only tween who can afford $92 lip gloss is Baron Trump.

Indeed, the publication has undergone a radical shift in focus with its new team of editors. When it published the editorial that shook the world, a scorched earth denouncement of Trump, it firmly established itself as the woke voice of the resistance.

Teen Vogue is no longer a magazine for 6th graders who want to read about Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers. If you don’t feel comfortable exposing your 12-year-old to graphic details about sex then utilize parental controls on the computer.

While you’re at it, cancel the family night viewing of Game of Thrones.

This wouldn’t be nearly as big a deal if the article was about penis-in-vagina sex. That variety of sex has a longstanding cultural stamp of approval. Despite booty popularity, our society still has negative attitudes about anal sex that are rooted in homophobia.

And anal sex is probably one of the more stigmatized sex acts, because of our negative feelings about that part of our body. How often have you heard people discuss that the anus is only designed for one way traffic? Until you’ve had a discussion with someone responsible for designing our bodies, or seen the blueprints, that’s a value judgement, not a statement based in sound science or current medical data.

The bottom line (pun intended) is that we need to protect our kids. NOT from information. From harm. Sex ed has been shown to help prevent and reduce the risks of sexually transmitted infections, HIV and adolescent pregnancy.

Conservative activist moms are nothing new. In the 90’s it was music (remember Tipper Gore?). In the 2000’s it was video games. But this frenzied backlash against Teen Vogue is part of a larger, more frightening climate of oppression and ignorance that has found its poster boy in America’s Orange Overlord.

Chances are, it’s going to get much, much worse before it gets better.

Do you openly talk to your kids about sex? What do you think about Teen Vogue?
Who the fuck spends $92 on lip gloss?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Come hang out with me on Facebook and Instagram so I can have friends without leaving the house.


March 7, 2014 — 186 Comments

The number ONE search term for my blog:



Everyone has bizarre search terms for their blogs.

But why, every day, every week, is that always the NUMBER ONE search term?



I wrote one post using those words – in which I defended a fellow bloggers‘ First Amendment right to use the words “slutty whore” to describe herself.

And now I’m forever defined as “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


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, since this is the


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 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.

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 shit-ton 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).

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 enjoy giving blow jays, but 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.



What are we talking about here? Spanking? Handcuffs? This could be fun. Choking me to death? 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.

And please don’t rub on my vajizzle like you’re trying to get a stain out.



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 essay. Here are the rules.

1. You either get to have a huge penis 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 at first. Yes. It DOES. So no “oopsies.” And go slow, S

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’s 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.


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.



So, can a woman be a slut AND a mom?

YES. Just not at the same time.

How Did I Get Here?

November 21, 2013 — 58 Comments



“You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 
You may say to yourself, my GOD, what have I done!?”

-Talking Heads, Once In A Lifetime

I am trying to survive life in a particularly loathesome suburb – dominated by the wealthy and entitled; rich, money-mad, vulgar, materialistic and superficial clones, driven by pointless one-upmanship.


Most of my life I’ve not fit in.  I’ve developed the ability to no longer give a rat’s ass while desperately seeking a bastion of fellowship

I grew up in a welfare housing project, one of only three white families. The other two white families despised us –  we were Jewish. Damn Jews. We don’t pull off the “white trash” thing well.

In high school I was a strange mix of nerd and underground/insurgent. No one could make sense of me, least of all me. I dabbled in different groups but belonged to none.

I was also a virgin. Not exactly a candidate for Homecoming In My Mouth Queen. My girlfriends were taking on football players two at a time. I had my nose in a book and played with myself a lot.

And now, Suburbia. Where the American Dream goes to die.

Culture, spirituality, art and intellect does not exist.

Plastic surgery does.


An Excerpt From My First Trip to the Suburban Gym:

I look around, panicked. I call The Ex. (my then husband)

Me:  *In a hushed whisper* This is a fucking stripper gym!

Him:  What are you talking about?

Me:  Everyone here has gigantic fake tits, fake tans, long fake nails and hair extensions! There’s a rap video slut on every treadmill!

Him: Those are the housewives.

Maybe I should have titled my blog: WordPress: Just Another Place I Won’t Fit In.

I tried blogging before. It was a train wreck.

I had 5 followers. Two of them were my other personalities.

I was terrified of posting anything. Paralyzed. Writing and me- we have an ugly history.


A blogger emailed me enthusiastically out of the blue. Asked if he could email – encouraged me to keep writing.

What a relief to have a little support! I’d work up my courage, post, and he’d  email me raving about how “brilliant” I was.

That lasted a week. 4 days, maybe. He didn’t even hit read my last post. Apparently, I’d lost my “je ne sais quoi.” That’s French for “what a douchecanoe.”


I probably should have been chronicling the jaunty exploits of a gal searching for love in the online dating world.

Online dating? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going out for a chai latte and ending up chained to a bedpost in Connecticut, having a discussion about “hard limits” with a serial killer.

“After you decapitate me, I’d appreciate you not using my severed head for oral sex. That’s just offensive.”


Hard limits – have you noticed every BDSM writer on WordPress has the same hard limit? Anal sex?

Did they have a WordPress Hard Limits No Anal Meetup?

“Okay – so, he can bash a 2 x 4 over my head while his friend punches my tits, as long as there’s NO ANAL.”

Anal (I’ve heard) can be quite pleasurable.  Mix one can of Crisco with 50 shots of tequila. If you’ve ever borne a child – well, that’s like having an umbrella wedged up your asshole and OPENED. A penis in the butt is shoe shopping, comparatively speaking.

There goes my BDSM audience. Woops.


And I’m not inclined to chronicle my sexploits. Not current ones.

You want sex, watch porn. Don’t download it – it’ll give your computer a yeast infection. Buy it. It’s the safest thing for your hard drive, even though it gets old watching the same couples fuck all the time. Like being married –  “oh, these three again. Bor-ing.”

Yep – I dig porn. Now all the FemiNazis won’t like me. Another WP group I won’t fit in with. Well, I’m sorry, I enjoy smut. Porn, sex toys – love it.

Shopping for dildos completes me.

It’s all gone now – I trashed the “toy box” to spite The Ex.

My last blog was not about my life.

I was afraid. Of showing who I really am.

Then my life broke completely down. I had a true “dark night of the soul.” Everything that meant anything to me seemed to fall into question.

While in the darkest of moods, I stumbled upon the blog of WordPress leviathan Le Clown, who wrote:

“I’ll take your midnight black over someone else’s beige. That, to me, would be true death.”


He inspired me to start this blog. To show the “real me.”

I want followers, but at the same time, to protect myself, I can’t care.

And I’m not above admitting that I want what all the tarnished souls around here have. But at what price? If I could be me, exactly who I am, and still have all that, then fine.

But if having all that money modifies my consciousness, and I wake up one day –

a whole lot less smart, way less funny, no longer edgy, not in the slightest bit rebellious or biting or dark, and I hate blasting loud music and want to spend entire days picking out window treatments instead of going to the movies with my kid and laughing ourselves silly…

Forget it.

I live in a pretty, 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom home. I  cut open a vein saving for the down payment. I’ve never lived in a house before – only apartments.

It’s my first ever backyard. It’s like Christmas fucked July 4th and had tree babies.

At night, cicadas talk to me – and I’m not even high.

My kid has a trampoline in the backyard that he bounces on madly. I have to drink wine until it becomes safe for him.

It’s all such a gift – for this little housing project girl. Sometimes, I just have to pinch myself – but I have a low pain threshold. So I pinch someone else. Usually an elderly person.

Then one afternoon I’ll pick my kid up from his best friend’s house, and think, I’m not giving my child everything he deserves. Because this is what I drive up to:

Large House 2

partial view – couldn’t fit it all in the picture


Then I just get pissed. Is this really necessary? I left them a little love note:

Dear Dr. and Mrs. AssHat:

You redefine Ass Hatification. You are an anesthesiologist and a housewife, not Saudi Arabian royalty. You have 3 kids. You do not need an 8,000 square foot house. Calm the fuck down.

As soon as my son demands we buy him the XBox 1, I will light your house on fire. Enjoy it while you can.

Perhaps whining about the suburbs seems like “rich people problems.” It’s a literary cliché. Dates as far back as 1922 – Sinclair Lewis’s Babbitt. After all, aren’t there worse things? Like growing up poor?

I grew up poor. It sucked. But I grew up with what I believe are the CORRECT SET OF VALUES in life.

The real mission:


To be grounded, and genuine.

To understand that money, while undeniably wonderful, is not the most important thing in life.

To define success as happiness, not as a 10,000 square foot house.

To not expect a Lexus in the driveway on this 17th birthday. Cause that shit is not happening.

He’ll just have to be a Buick in the Land Of Lexus.

I will prevail.


Do you fit in? Did you, growing up? Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Enhanced by Zemanta