Archives For Blow jobs

n-SHOCKED-GIRL-ON-COMPUTER-large570 edited

This is the kind of stuff that just happens to me.

FML.

This is just like Saturday, when my Ex and the Cute Guy texted me at the EXACT same time. I have to be go under general anesthesia at the dentist this morning, and my Ex texted, asking “Do you need me to drive you to the dentist on Monday?” at the exact same time that the Cute Guy texted, “Are we gonna watch movies tonight?”

And I may or may not have texted my Ex, “As long as you bring that big cock over here for me to suck.”

While my Ex was no doubt jumping up and down because he had just won “Ex wife fellatio lottery,” I racked my brains to come up with the most clever plausible excuse. My gazelle-like reflexes came to the rescue with “Jk.”

I’m sure it would make an exceptional porno movie plot, though. En route to the dentist to have what will no doubt be the most excruciating oral surgery of my life, I just have to have my EX, of all people, put his penis in my mouth. Ooh baby.

But I digress.

 

I work HARD on my post images. I search for a long time for a photo, one that I’m not stealing from anyone. Then, I upload it to iPiccy which is Photoshop for the artistically challenged.

I then tinker with a gazillion effects until I get the one I want. I’m not a graphically inclined person, so It’s more of me just clicking on every effect going, “Whee! Look at THAT! Ooh, cool!”

Very much like when I was on hallucinogenics in college, holding a cigarette and waiting for the ash to turn green. And then waving it around so it would make all those cool trails in the sky.

And it was really hard to post that picture of myself in this blog, so there’s no WAY I’d use one for a post image! It’s a super cool bondage bra from Nasty Gal, and meant to be seen, but NOT IN THE WORDPRESS READER. (By the way, don’t EVER hashtag your outfit on Instagram with #NastyGal. You’re welcome)

Like most women, I am beseiged with body image issues. STOP – don’t tell me how I look to you. There are a million ways to make a photo look good before you post it online and I USED EVERYONE SINGLE ONE OF THEM. TWICE.

So I was pretty freaked out when I clicked into the WordPress reader to catch up on posts and HOLY HELL, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? I have no clue how that happened. I know if you post a video, it will automatically supersede any image you have as your post image and appear in the reader.

I also know that when you share to stupid Facebook, they just grab whatever image they want out of your post to accompany your story as the thumbnail. It’s damned annoying.

I’ve actually learned how to deal with that, by running the link through something called a “URL scrubber.” I giggle maniacally every time I use it, because “scrubber” is what we used to call slutty girls when I was in high school.That, and “hua.” Not “Hua,” a state in ancient China that was destroyed by the Qin Dynasty.

To fully understand how we used it, for your viewing pleasure, The Ralph Cifaretto Whore Tribute. 

And now, I actually know that because I added this video, it will APPEAR AS MY POST IMAGE! Take that, WordPress, you hua!

 

But other than that, I’m clueless about all things techie. Hence, the mystery of why the bra shot showed up in the Reader.

When people start saying stuff like,”To optimize your site’s PageRank flow, use special no-index code to tell search engines to not index these pages and add no-follow code for all links to them,”

I just hear “Blerghity blergh de blerghin blerrgh.”

I know, I KNOW! I should have been learning this stuff at BlogHer, but I was too busy flirting with bloggers, Minions, random guys in the elevator, and McHunks serving us the food at the closing party. I have no memory of that last one, but Gunmetal Geisha claims she has photographic evidence. Of course she does.

 

So, today I will be have to be to knocked out by the oral surgeon lady to carve out my impacted wisdom tooth. She tried for HOURS, but couldn’t extract it and I kept getting un-numb. That’s a redhead thing, by the way. We are resistant to anesthesia. And it’s right next to a very sensitive root canal tooth.

She may just take out both, which pisses me off! I’m the goddamn poster child for dental health! I was 21 years old before I had my first cavity, that’s right! 21!

She’s very mean, by the way. She is short tempered and curt and a sadist and I think she and the lady who wax my vag should go out on a date and bash each other in the mouth and rip each other’s pussy hairs out.

 

So, hopefully I’ll survive this procedure and if they give me really good drugs, I may even publish again.

Maybe WordPress will just magically make a picture of me in my panties appear in the goddamn reader this time.

 

 

Does your blog do glitchy stuff like that? Can you deal with it yourself?
Have you ever had to be put to sleep for dental surgery?  Did they at least give you good drugs afterwards? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Punk Rock MILF

July 14, 2015 — 112 Comments

CFB762OW0AAcaZu 2

 

He said, “Oh, my wife and I have very generic sex. She doesn’t really have any deep-seated issues.”

The implication being that I’m uninhibited and adventurous in bed because I’m meschugena (that’s street Jew for crazy bitch.)

I’m not buying that. If your wife is vanilla, don’t attribute it to her clean bill of mental health. She’s just a starfish fuck.

 

Psychological baggage may prevent women from getting close to men, or make them difficult and needy. It doesn’t make you a hot scromp.

 

I’m the first one to admit I have raving daddy issues. But it’s not like I’m a cliched “daddy issues girl” who ended up on a stripper pole or addicted to drugs. 

 

Woopsie.

 

At any rate, everyone has baggage. Here’s to life in all its fucked up glory. I still maintain that emotional issues won’t turn you into a nymphomaniac with lascivious tastes in bed. That’s just blind luck.

 

I recently stumbled across a Subreddit called Dead Bedrooms.

*Please note: Do not surf Reddit. You will see things you cannot unsee. There isn’t enough eye bleach in the world to cleanse what I have seen, while searching for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the dark and lonely night.

Apparently, this is a Thing – it’s when a couple, married or otherwise, doesn’t have sex because one of them is LL (low libido). And it’s not always the woman, although that is the more common scenario.

I’m in groups where married woman discuss sex as if it’s an unpleasant chore. Particularly stay-at-home moms, who have to spend a day taking care of squalling brats. Nothing drains a libido faster than exhaustion accompanied by puke, poop, and spit up. It’s ironic that the ultimate expression of womanhood, being a mother, can leave one feeling  sexless and decidedly unfeminine.

 

I usually keep quiet during these discussions, unless blow jobs are being discussed. I’m enthusiastically pro-blow and try to put in a good word for checking the mic ever since a friends marriage broke up, over blow jobs.

But I don’t join in the I-hate-having-to-fuck my-husband discussions, because I don’t want to disagree and feel like I’m gloating.

I should preface this by saying that I have always had a very strong libido. Even as a kid. I used to watch Star Trek and get little twinges over Mr. Spock (don’t you dare judge me and RIP Leonard Nimoy).  And later, over Charlie’s Angels – but that’s a whole other story.

I grew up in the New York City projects and had the hots for The Jackson Five. All of them. Individually, not some jungle-fever gang bang.

Before you send a marching band to my house to play “Me So Horny” this has not always been positive. There’s such a thing as incompatible sex drives. A relationship I had in my 20’s, the love of my life, the “one who got away” – died of sexual incompatibility.

If I’m in a relationship, I’m an “every day” girl. This man was more of the “once or twice a week” persuasion.  It was a source of constant frustration to me, and not just sexual. It’s emotionally frustrating to walk around all the time throbbing at the heart and the pussy.

I tried everything. I fed him tiger penis soup from China and horny goat weed from India. I dressed as Leela from Futurama.

I went unfucked.

While choosing an island in the Caribbean for our vacation, I said, “I really don’t care where we go. As long as we can have sex five times a day.”

He was visibly horrified.

We broke up soon after that.

 

I had a really strong sex life with my Ex, which is probably why he still stalks me.

We never had that post-baby “don’t touch me” thing happen. We had plenty of sex with that little bassinet right in our bedroom. When my doctor told us to wait six weeks after my son was born to have sex, my Ex said, “Wait a minute. Is that for anal, too?”

Even 14 years into our relationship our sex life really never dwindled or got stale. I don’t know exactly what to attribute that to. I wish I did, and could articulate it to couples who are experiencing Dead Bedroom.

I am adventurous, energetic and kinky as hell, but not because of my “deep seated issues.” Maybe it’s because I’m from New York, and have been exposed to a veritable cornucopia of kinky fuckery? Or because I started exploring my sexuality in college, in a hippie-ish, upstate New York “land that time forgot”? Is it because I grew up with five brothers, and there was so much sperm flung around our apartment it was like living in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo?

 

Sex is one of the most fun activities a couple can engage in. It costs nothing. It’s fantastic cardio. The hormones released are natural mood enhancers. Certain positions, like reverse cowgirl, are great for working out your hamstrings and quads.  Reverse cowgirl is also a fabulous position for hitting a woman’s G-spot.

Yes, a G-spot exists. We’re not talking Big Foot or Chupacabra. Although it is pretty fucked up that something which feels that amazing you have to go on a mystical quest to find, whereas everything you need to make a man orgasm is just protruding out there, waggling at you.

 

Women who think having sex with their husbands is like facing a long layover at a crowded airport during a snowstorm, think again.

 

Women are complicated creatures who need to feel safe, protected, and taken care of.  Men are generally far less complicated. They need to be fed and fucked. If you want him attending to your needs, attend to his.

Sex is a powerful stress reliever. It releases calming hormones in the brain, which is balm for the body. Sex correlates to healing faster, getting sick less often and living longer. A panacea for so much of what ails us- automatically installed in our own bodies!

It feels good. Stop denying yourself one of the worlds’ greatest pleasures. Most men are more than happy to give a woman an orgasm. A man I was involved with recently was a sexual gem, more invested in making me have an orgasm than in having one himself. Do both of you a favor, and accept this graciously, and repeatedly.

Reclaim your femininity; your essence. Particularly if you’re a woman who spends her day cleaning up poo and puke and spit and All The Things. You need to remember that you’re a goddess. There’s nothing more restorative than finding yourself through the touch of another.

 

I’m not some kind of sexual superstar. I just 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. It’s a life affirming expression of joy and trust.

 

 

The title of this post is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful Sisterwife Mandi, who referred to me in a conversation as “Punk MILF.”

Mandi is the author of Dear Stephanie, an intense, sizzling, roller coaster of a read. Because I love you all, and because

I’m a proud Book Pimp,

,CERTIFIED BOOK PIMP (1)

please leave a comment. We’ll do a drawing and one of you will win a copy!

 

 

Is your sex drive compatible with that of your Significant Other? 
Have you ever heard of Dead Bedroom? How about Tiger Penis Soup? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Sleepaway Camp Sucks

July 4, 2015 — 83 Comments

sleepaway-camp 5

My kid left for sleepaway camp Wednesday morning.

It’s the first time he’s going for the whole summer

It’s also the first time he didn’t want us to drive him. He wanted to take the bus. With his friends. 

 

I think I may be overly attached to my kid. We have that unique ‘mother-son’ bond.

I’m not saying the other filial bonds aren’t as strong. The mother-son connection is a very specific relationship, just as the others are. For me, it’s “I’d walk through fire for this kid” strong.

 

Sleepaway camp is a Thing. You either grew up with it, or you didn’t. And if you didn’t (like me) it’s hard to understand why people are such slavish devotees. It’s practically a cult, and I’m no stranger to cults.

My Ex grew up going to sleep away camp, so naturally he wanted our son to experience it. I knew Little Dude would either love it or hate it. There’s no in between.

The first year we were considering it, we were with a few other families at one of our houses.

I said,”Sleep away camp! That’s where kids learn every filthy thing they know! That’s where slutty little camper girls give boys BLOW JOBS!”

The dads all looked at one another.

“Where do we sign UP?!”

 

Little Dude was only 8 years old when he went for 2 weeks that first summer.

Do I even have to TELL you what a basket case I was? We don’t have family near by, so my kid had never slept out of the house before. I waited all of two hours before checking on him. I called the camp every hour until 9 pm when they politely but firmly informed me that my son was FINE, but maybe I should calm the fuck down?

When he returned home, my kid, for first and only time, said he hated me – hated US. The culture shock of returning to genteel society after two weeks of living in the woods like a wild hyena had disoriented and confused him.

And he wanted to stay longer.

And so, a sleepaway camper was born.

 

That summer, he got up the next morning and for the first time, picked out clothes himself and came downstairs dressed.

Hmmm.  Perhaps…there is good in this?

For Little Dude, it’s utter freedom. No one to bug him about table manners or picking up his socks. It’s a majestic camp ground in gorgeous woods with a spectacular lake and every activity a kid would want to do in the summer. It’s heaven on earth.

But OH MAH GOD he comes home filthy. I’m a germaphobe. I won’t even let him unpack his bags in my house. We unpack in the garage, and his mildewed musty laundry goes straight into the washing machine. Twice. While I douse all his bags with Lysol.

The first year, I wanted my kid to strip down in the driveway while I hosed him off, but my ex refused to let me, citing that as “cruel” because our hose only has cold water.

The second year, my kid went for a whole session, which is a month. He came home tan and fit and blissful.

And with impetigo. Ugh.

Last year when we went to see Little Dude on visiting day, he was in the infirmary with a virus. He was so ill we brought him home to see his pediatrician. She insisted we take him immediately to the ER. He was admitted to the hospital, and after a day, was transported by screeching ambulance to a bigger hospital with a pediatric oncology department.

You think I’ve survived some bad shit? It was all a cake walk compared to thinking my kid might have lymphoma. I spent 4 days in a pediatric oncology ward while they ran endless tests on my baby.

Lotta sick kids in that ward.

I’m just going to take a moment here to acknowledge how grateful I am that my son is healthy.

 

 

 

 

The doctors eventually diagnosed it as Mesenteric Lymphadenitis, a swelling of the lymph nodes in the intestines. It’s caused by a virus, but no one else from camp had gotten sick. It was mysterious and terrifying, as illness often is.

You think a scare like that might intimidate a kid, but mine has been chomping at the bit to get to camp since May.

 

This year, we decided my son would go for the whole summer. I have to pack up our house and move into a new place before school starts. It’ll be easier if he’s away.

Some parents do a crazy happy dance when their kids go off to camp. Not me.

Yes, I do get to go out and do All The Things. I travel, see friends. Write. But I miss my kid.

 

This year I’m really struggling.

The night before Little Dude left, I cooked his favorite meal – fajitas- and we watched a great documentary – Fresh Dressed. It’s about the evolution of hip hop culture in New York. I probably dug the fact that my kid was into this movie as much as I dug the movie itself.

He left on Wednesday morning and I didn’t speak to anyone, aside from Lizzi, for two days. I let phone calls go into voice mail. I took a break from Facebook and found out they had disabled my account for having a pseudonym. I didn’t care.

 

My house is usually so noisy. My kid talks constantly. Always has friends over. Blasts music. Plays XBox online so it sounds like there’s an army of psychopaths killing hookers in my basement.

It’s so quiet. I can hear the walls breathing.

My Ex stopped by this morning, to make sure I was eating (I was not) and not pining for my son (I was). I got my ass out of the house and bought some groceries. Sad little single-person groceries.

 

I didn’t speak to anyone because I wanted to lean into this sadness and explore it. I have never missed him like THIS before.

Yes, it’s the first time my kid will be away an entire summer.

It’s also the end of his childhood home. We’ll be in a new place. The last vestiges of our happy family will be wiped away forever. I know it’s a fresh start, and one I need – but it’s also tremendously sad. My kid will never be a toddler walking around this house again.

 

It’s the end of an era.

 

Eventually, I’ll embrace all that this means for the both of us.

But for now, I’m just going to feel how it feels to say goodbye to the little boy and the house he grew up in.

 

Little Dude

That face.

 

 

Do you have a kid who goes away during the summer?
Can you imagine missing your child like this?
I should be having debauched bacchanalian blowouts in my house all summer.  Are you available?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

Blow Job

May 26, 2015 — 97 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. 

banana (2)

My friend and her husband are ending their marriage over the most banal of issues – sex.

“But Samara, your marriage didn’t work out. Should you be passing judgement?”

Shut your pie hole! My marriage didn’t end because I wouldn’t blow my husband!

They’re ending their marriage because they are “sexually incompatible.” He wants her to do certain things that she hasn’t done since they were dating. He’s angry that she’s being “withholding.” She’s angry that he’s a “sex addict” (whatever THAT is).

Essentially, they are ending their marriage over blow jobs.

I do not profess to be a sexpert. However, If I were to write a manual on how to have a successful marriage, I would name it,

“Put Your Mouth On His Penis.”

Perhaps the ladies are not digging this. The guys probably are. Of course they want to read about how I’m ‘pro blow.’ But hear me out. This is not for them. It’s about keeping marriages alive.

For some reason, in the marital bed, blow jobs seems to go bye-bye. Not initially, but eventually. Life is stressful. The tub needs to be recaulked. The dog has gingivitis. You have to bail your kid out of jail.

Women work 24/7. Outside the home, inside the home – it never stops. The last thing some women feel like doing, during sex, is more work. And there’s a reason it’s called a “job.”

With intercourse, you can lay there and get intercoursed in a rather non participational way. And he’ll still be happy. What does he care? He just needed the valves cleaned out, even if you were reviewing the Christmas shopping list in your head. But a good blow job requires much more participation.

When you were first together, you used to bob some knob. Sex with him was new, and you were turned on enough to do just about anything. Now? Sex with him is predictable. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The one thing I liked about The Ex was that he always knew how to get me there.  Almost as good as I could myself (I said almost).

But old sex lacks the fire of new sex. There is a quality called New Relationship Energy (NRE) that makes women do things they stop doing, eventually. You CAN’T. You just can’t stop smoking the pole because you’ve been married forever.

Here’s an analogy. Let’s say, you adore shoe shopping. Putting on new pair of shoes makes you feel limitless. Sexy. Powerful. Now imagine, every time you want to shoe shop, your husband says, “No.”

But, you tell him, “I need that. It makes me feel good. Plus, I earn my own money so this is a moot point.”

And he says, “No.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“It’s not my thing.”

“I don’t enjoy picking pubic hairs out of my teeth.” (just go with it.)

Just accept the fact that even if you’ve been married forever, you have to slurp the gherkin once in a while. His birthday. New Year’s Eve. Columbus Day. Passover. Penguin Awareness Day.

Ladies, just suck it up. Pun intended.

Pretty much anything you do down there will work. But The Ex claimed I knew how to operate a joy stick – so, I will share.

This is not about oral as foreplay, but blow job as main event. An entire five paragraph persuasive essay – with an introduction, body paragraph, and a conclusion. The kind where you swallow.

FIRST:

MEN- CLEAN UP DOWN THERE!  We don’t need a big whiff of nasty undercarriage! If you want us to put our mouths on your penis, be hospitable!

Consider yourselves warned. Let us proceed:

 

1. A little eye contact goes a long way. Pull your hair back so he can watch. Put on a show. (Don’t roll your eyes and look aggravated. This is a mood breaker.)

2. Get your hands in on the action. The average mouth is 2-3 inches. The average penis is 5-6. Do the math, and call in for back up. And for Christ sake, wet your hands a little. Don’t dry rub the guy. You’re not at a Boy Scout Jamboree, trying to start a fire rubbing 2 sticks together.

3. It also helps to eliminate your gagging reflex completely. Of course, this is physically impossible. But a girl can try. Practice deep throating a cucumber.

4. NO TEETH. I know that some women do the whole “let me just graze it with my teeth” thing. HELL NO. Keep the chompers OFF. The perfect blow job would, in fact, be given by a gorgeous woman with removable dentures.

5. Have some idea of what kind of intensity your guy likes. Not everyone wants to be sucked like a Dyson upright (but a surprisingly large percentage do).

6. Don’t forget the twins. Cup them. Fondle them. Gently. Don’t throw them around like you’re rolling dice in a Vegas crap game.

7. Hum. Why do you think they call it a hummer? Hum a little tune while he’s in your mouth. Nothing complicated. I like “Ave Maria.” Go for seasonal. Maybe some Christmas carols.

8. Swirl your tongue around on the coronal ridge – the part where the shaft meets the head. It’s extremely sensitive. Covered in nerve endings. So, go lightly. Otherwise, it’s like clamping two jumper cables to his tender sack.

9. If you’re feeling really adventurous, go for the perineum. The taint. The little area just past the family jewels. This is dangerously close to Butt Stuff, so take it slow with your man.

 

I strongly advocate the Power of the Blow Job. When I was married, I could pretty much get The Ex to agree to do anything after I’d blown him.

Me: “Honey, would you mind replacing the roof and repainting every room in the house?”

Him: (post blow job) “Sure, babe.”

And the whole gift thing? Pfft. Forget that. Every other wife is running around, pushing through crowded department stores trying to find him the perfect birthday gift for the umpteenth time. I NEVER had to do that.

I just had to brush my teeth.

The Ex always tells our son he fell madly in love with me because of my cooking. I love to cook. I own tons of cookbooks. I’m very domestic. I know – totally incongruous with many aspects of my personality, but true, nevertheless. I actually own an amazing collection of Julia Child videos from her 1960’s television show “The French Chef,” which I got on Amazon.

The first time I cooked dinner for the EX, I agonized over the menu. It had to be perfect. For dessert, I made Julia Child’s internationally famous chocolate souffles. These exuberantly rich gravity-defying bites of chocolaty heaven are an ambitious endeavor. And painstakingly intense to time. I wenmaking sure the souffles would come out of the oven at the precise right moment.

And where do you think they ended up? In the bedroom, all over us. Him, specifically. I basically licked the damn souffle off Mr. Winky. All that work was WASTED.  I could just have easily bought a few Dunkin Donuts and played “Ring Toss the Boom Stick.”

Incidentally, I don’t really think he married me for my cooking. I think that’s something he tells Little Dude. Cause it’s not nice to tell a 12 year-old, “Son, Mama sure can suck the chrome off a tail pipe!”

But –  maybe it was my cooking. Either way, whether it was my cooking, or my blow jobs, as Julia would say:

Bon Appetit!

Do couples forget to please each other after they’ve been married a long time?  
Is Julia Child not the wackiest broad on television?
Talk to me. I’m listening.