Porn, Power, Pain and Feminism

I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

Punk Rock MILF

 

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,

,

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. 

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.)

—————–

 

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. 

The Way to a Man’s Heart is Through Oral Sex

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. 

 

The SLUT MOM BLOG

The number ONE search term for my blog:

SLUT MOM.

 

Everyone has bizarre search terms for their blogs.

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

SLUT MOM.

 

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

SLUT MOM BLOG,

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

SLUT MOM BLOG,

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.

 

DON’T LIE

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.

 

GET BUSY

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.

 

TALK?

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.

POSITIONS

 

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:

 

VISUALS

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!

 

ORGASM

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.

 

ORAL SEX

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.

 

ROUGH SEX

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.

 

ANAL

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 LIVE FREE!

 

So, can a woman be a slut AND a mom?

YES. Just not at the same time.