Tag Archives: Sex

Valentine’s Day – SPOILER ALERT From A Grumpy Non-Romantic

Valentine’s Day – SPOILER ALERT From A Grumpy Non-Romantic

I am not a Valentine’s Day type of gal. It’s never mattered what my relationship status has been. I just have never gotten into it.

I see it like I see New Year’s Eve – it’s amateur night.

But, in honor of St. Valentine (who most people think was made up by Geoffrey Chaucer who I love so maybe it all makes sense after all) I will throw a giant bucket of cold water on the event everyone is hoping will happen tonight.

Yep, I’m all sour grapes. Turn back now.

With the constant deluge of “leaked” celebrity sex tapes, I think we may all be under the misguided idea that we are looking pretty hot and sexy ourselves during “the sex.”

I hate to burst any bubbles, but most of the time these celebrities are fully aware they are being taped so they are adjusting their responses accordingly, able to look seductive and well-coiffed even at the peak of the experience.

They are THESPIANS after all, with many having completed the all-important Porn Method Acting 101 class.

The rest of us, however, look like we either stubbed our toe or ate a lemon when we reach the top of the mountain. But we don’t know it and we don’t particularly care because NO ONE IS LOOKING.

It’s in our DNA to close our eyes because otherwise the human race would cease to exist. It’s hard to get that picture out of one’s head once it’s there.

Let’s face it, real people sex, while lot’s of fun, can be kind of ugly to look at since, despite what may be happening in your head at the time, we are not professionals.

Exhibit A:

What we think we look like.

What we think we look like.

 

The terrible reality.

The terrible reality.

So, Godspeed, my romantic darlings. Buy those giant hearts full of chocolate and the red roses, wear that super tight dress to dinner and, for the sake of humankind, keep those eyes closed!

[Creative disclaimer: In reality, I am a hopeless romantic. Hell, Love Actually is my favorite movie! But hopeful and happy is just not as funny as bitter and grumpy.] 

The Gays Will Rule The World

The Gays Will Rule The World

The Revolution will be choreographed.

Even this soon in my “career” as a “blogger” I have already pissed off several factions in this, the United States of Lack of Sense of Humor and Sarcasm. I figure there is no point in my stopping now.

So, I’ve been thinking about this lately and have come to this conclusion: The Gays are taking over the world. And, I for one, am happy to follow as I do think the world could use a serious make over, a few throw pillows and a fake tan.

Let me just name a few of the biggest power brokers in the coup d’état we are currently embroiled in.

  • Anderson Cooper, who, shocked absolutely NO ONE when he came out.
  • Ryan Seacrest – He has GOT to be gay. I don’t care what anyone says. No straight guy is that pressed and thin.
  • Ellen AND Portia –  A two-headed, well-coiffed Gaystrom (Gaynado? Gayquake? Gaynomi?) to be reckoned with.
  • John Travolta – Yeah, whatever Kelly Preston. Your gig is up, John. The rest of us do not get massages the way you, apparently, think we do.
  • Tom Cruise – No comment necessary.
  • The dude who does Glee.

As an aside: I hate Glee. I do and I am not ashamed to say it out loud. I’ll yell it from the rooftops – Glee is like an annoying yeast infection. By the way, I know the dude’s name is Ryan Murphy but the fact that I know that just annoys me further.

Lord knows I don’t want to piss off my girls. But you all know that I am not a gay man, even though there are times when I wish I were, so just step off bitches!

See, I’d make an AWESOME Gay Man.

So, back to my point….if I actually have one, which is almost always in question on these things.

White heterosexual Protestant/Catholic/Episcopalians are in deep shit. I feel sorry for them, really. Their time as the ruling class may be in jeopardy.

Plain old white males gave way to white males of a Mormon persuasion, which led to bigwig Jewish movie moguls, which ended up with big wig (literally) Gays.

I made out with a whole bunch of you before you saw the light at the bottom of the closet door. And, I always knew you were picturing Ricky Martin. But, you guys have such soft lips I went along with it anyway. And, by the way, still up for a good mashing session if you want. You all smell like a mix of spa robes and coconut oil. Yum.

Recently, I noticed another area in which they are clearly superior.

We all know the Jewish goodbye and have been victims of it. There should be some hotline you can call to get them out of the house in a timely manner. I’ve gone for an hour trying to disengage but they keep remembering new and fascinating details about the story they had been telling you for the past hour. Like the color of shirt they were wearing at the time and that they chose the asparagus over the broccolini at dinner and that was a mistake because the asparagus had this cream sauce with too much pepper and…stab me in the head.

I can say this for a couple of reasons – one is that I know and love many of God’s chosen people who know how I feel about this and second, most people think I’m Jewish.

I also would make an AWESOME Jew.

By comparison, parting with a Gay Man means many air kisses, a promise for brunch and then they vaporize in a cloud of expensive cologne because there are other fabulous events they need to get to that you will NOT be invited to.

Won’t it be an amazing day when we no longer have sexual preference as an adjective to describe people? What ever will we do as a society? We seem to need something to tag people with. How about “The world is run by people with Big Ears.”

I hope so because me and my large lobes will freakin’ rule!!

Ode to a Brave Husband

Ode to a Brave Husband

Look Mama!
I bagged me a keeper!

This week’s blog is all about my lovely husband “Jim” (I still don’t believe that’s his real name). Today  we celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary.

And since I couldn’t find what the appropriate gift was on the list for a 17th, I’m going to give the gift of words.

For anyone who knows me, maintaining that level of consistency for that long without just wandering off is a rather large feat.

And, anyone who knows me will also agree to the super-human accomplishment by “Jim” for having lived with me every freakin’ day…for 6,205 days…148,920 hours…8,935,200 minutes. Not that the poor man is counting or anything.

I only hope the three goats, basket of root vegetables and the plot of dirt he got from my village elders was enough to make up for it all.

So, I thought, given his obvious insatiable thirst for pain and discomfort, maybe he deserved a little shout out on this, the anniversary of his decline into madness.

We’ve traveled the world together, had the mad rollercoaster that is twins, moved too many times to count, fart and pee in front of each other. What story would be a good one to really capture the essence that is “us”?

The one that comes to mind is the Incident of the Bee in the Bathtub. So that is the one I’ll tell, as a tribute.

(The knocking-himself-out-on-a-ceiling-fan story will have to wait for his birthday.)

By the way, this story does nothing but paint us both as complete morons.

Back before we went down the slippery slope (covered with rusty razor blades) of parenthood, we used to do monthly getaways to quaint bed and breakfasts all around the Puget Sound.

On this occasion we headed to Victoria for our romantic getaway, staying at a lovely Victorian B&B across from a bucolic, grassy park.

We checked in and, as childless people tend to do, we decided to take a bath in the middle of the day! We were that filthy.

The large Jacuzzi tub was positioned right next to the bed, in a large bay window that overlooked the park across the street.

Once you are sitting inside the tub, you could not be seen from outside. But, you sort of had to slide in on your stomach to avoid showing the world your kibbles and bits. And so we slid like Army grunts into our soapy haven without detection from the outside world.

Once in the tub, we noticed there was a lovely wedding happening in the park so we soaked and watched all the hazy loveliness of new love blossoming across the street as we sipped champagne.

As we relaxed, we both started to hear a loud buzzing noise and noticed we were beginning to be dive bombed by a very large and annoyed wasp. We swatted it away and thought for a minute he had found something else to occupy his time. But, it would seem he was just getting started.

Over the next hours (OK, it was probably 90 seconds) we were terrorized relentlessly by this little asshole. I don’t know what we did to piss him off so much, I believe wasps by their very nature are just pissed off, but he went after us with a vengeance as if we had killed his family and burned down his dry cleaning business.

(Cue The Benny Hill Show theme music….now!)

Our swatting and flailing grew to a fevered pitch. There was water splashing all over the place, we were slipping and sliding all over, hopping and dancing around trying to get the damned thing to stop terrorizing us.

Finally the water must have gotten it because we saw it floating in the suds as we stared at it, panting from the exertion.

As we high-fived each other on our exceptional wasp survival skills we realized that we were standing, buck naked (or is it butt naked…I’ve never known), in front of the window for all the gentle citizenry of Canada to see.

This of course, is humiliation enough. But we also realized that there were quite a few people at that wedding who were no longer paying attention to the exchanging of vows happening in front of them.

We both waved to them and slowly sank back into the tub, where, “Jim” was stung by the dead bee anyway.

So, Happy Anniversary, “Jim”! You are a brave fighter of bees, a tolerable scrabble player, fair armchair electrician, and a man with the cohones to be married to me. Well done!

And perhaps, some day you will reveal your true identity.

Sexual Delusions in Portland – Who Wouldn’t Want to Tap This?

Sexual Delusions in Portland – Who Wouldn’t Want to Tap This?

Back when I was super cool and lived in Portland, Oregon, Jim and I used to go out to tons of music venues to mix with the tattooed, pierced and alternative Portland element.

We were in a limbo of wanting to be those people and yet ensure our kids didn’t grow up to be them.

We would attempt to go undercover, hiding our suburban, parental underbelly but we missed the whole “ink” craze so our consistently flesh colored flesh made us stick out like Amish at a car show.

We began to compromise a bit because we couldn’t find babysitters who would stay until 3AM and, let’s face it, we were just too tired.

Enter Aimee Mann. I do love her. She has that mix of catchy tunes and pissed off lyrics that make you feel like you are retaining some sort of edge. She does say fuck so there is some street cred there.

So, we went to see her perform at one of the groovy, divey spots PDX is known for.

We took our seats and struck up a conversation with the nice couple next to us. He was all sorts of Portland middle-aged cool sporting a shaved head and a soul patch and she had a veritable kaleidoscope of colors streaked through her hair.

They were very chatty and we talked about all the liberal politics we wanted.

By the way, it is illegal to not be liberal in Portland. Go look it up. They put you in a re-training camp if they catch you at the city border.

This keeps the citizenry safe to have deep political conversations in line at the grocery store without fear of debate.

The night was off to a great start. Except for this one weird thing.

Jim and I both got this decidedly weird vibe. It was nothing anyone said but we both just had this feeling that they were a little too into us….in a kind of pervy way.

I have no idea where this came from. If you know us, you know we are not normally the types to go around with delusions of our sex appeal.

Maybe we’ve seen The Ice Storm too many times. Or maybe they were super high.

We were both oddly suspicious of this perfectly nice, if not overly friendly couple and assumed they were trolling for a wife swap/swinger situation.

Keep in mind that this has NEVER actually happened to us before.

Once the lights dimmed and Aimee was introduced, we settled into the concert and for 90 minutes or so forgot about our vortex of sexuality.

After the concert ended, our new friends/lovers said they would like to get together some time for a meal. Jim and I shot a nervous look to each other.

Is “meal” like a secret term similar to tapping your foot three times on an airport bathroom stall to indicate you are open to a BJ?

The man handed me his business card and said to give him a call to set up something. I took it and slid it into my pocket. We said our goodbyes and off into the rainy night we went.

They did seem a little dodgy about what they did for a living, as tends to be the case with Portlandians in general, and there was an odd symbol with very little explanation on the card.

We were intrigued so proceeded to Google stalk them.

A few searches later we came up with what the symbol was….

It turned out they were Freemasons.

See, we clearly get our information about how the world works from movies because all I could think of was The Da Vinci Code.

Why was it a “secret society” and what exactly were the “rituals”? Did they have a room in their split level suburban house that was dedicated to afore mentioned rituals?  Were they looking to take down the Catholic Church? Did they wear hooded robes and chant?

And, more importantly, were Freemasons swingers?

Sadly, we never found out. Day to day life swallowed us up and we never got to do a wife swap with the Freemasons (who has the time, really?) and to this day we are still sketchy on what Freemasons even are. Which I suppose is the point of it being a “secret” and all.

We also are relieved and yet a little disappointed that we are not, as suspected, utterly irresistible to anyone but ourselves. So rest easy, for you are all safe from our vortex of sexuality.

At least for now….

Movie Review: Magic Mike (The Power of The Pectoral)

Movie Review: Magic Mike (The Power of The Pectoral)

I am your patron saint of protection from horrible pop culture. Bow before me.

The number of crappy books and shitty movies I will put myself through just so you don’t have to! You should all buy me a trophy or a medal or a new blender.

Once again, the mighty power of the horny middle-aged woman has reared her shiny, dyed head. They could rule the world if they took a break from the bodice-rippers and put down their Chardonnay long enough to join forces.

Several of these horny middle-aged women (herein referred to as HMAW) happen to be friends of mine and wanted me to join them to see Magic Mike. You know, the one about the best friends just working for a living in a skanky male strip club. Kind of like a nasty Laverne and Shirley.

HMAW: “But, Roger Ebert gave it two thumbs up!”

Me: “Didn’t he have a stroke or something?”

HMAW: “And, it’s directed by Steven Soderbergh. He did Traffic and is an Oscar-winner!”

Me: “Does he have kids in private school then? Why would he do a movie about strippers?”

HMAW: “Really, Irene, why wouldn’t you want to watch hot, naked men? The question is what is wrong with you?”

Me: <long pause> “Fair enough. OK.”

Anyhoo, I went because the pull of being snarky about bad entertainment is just too strong.

First thing I noticed was the clientele. It was a sea of mom jeans with a smattering of long-suffering husbands. I have no idea what the argument may have been to get a husband to this movie but I would have liked to have been a fly on that wall. Or, of course, the husbands are gay. That would actually explain everything.

So, let’s start out with the good bits, shall we?

Hot. Naked. Young. Men. Well, most of them were. There was one Mickey Roarke look-alike (not 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Roarke but The Wrestler Mickey Roarke) that I found disturbing and uncomfortable. And, I think whoever that actor was also felt disturbed and uncomfortable. The rest, however, were young, tight and exceptionally well-oiled.

I did, however, find myself thinking that I’d kill my kids if they ever did something like this. So, while I may not wear mom jeans on the outside, I clearly have some on inside my head.

Ummmm, I think that was it for the good bits.

OK, now for the bad bits.

It was dumb.  You could have muted this entire movie and known exactly what was happening and how it would end. In fact, bring your noise cancelling headphones, eat your Dots and just watch.

The story is as old as the bible. Gorgeous single guy with lots of chutzpah who just wants to make it in the world who has multiple sexual encounters with multiple women but really cares and has a heart of gold that gets him in trouble until a nice grounded girl comes along who believes in him and clearly doesn’t seem to care about the multiple venereal diseases that she has now exposed herself to.

Pretty sure that is exactly what happened in the book of Job.

Matthew McConaughey.  I know I am inviting the wrath of all women out there with this one. I can feel the collective stink eye right now. Go ahead, start putting your hate mail together, I am expecting it. But, he does nothing for me. And, in this movie, he was so ridiculous and such an asshole that I had a hard time watching him.

If you have other-worldly abs hanging off a douchebag, is it still hot? Probably but I feel compelled to ask the question.

Men gyrating and groin-thrusting at lightning speed. I know what it’s supposed to simulate and I don’t know that it would be all that pleasant. Slow it down, Sparky. I am not a construction site and you are not a jackhammer.

It’s impressive how they don’t appear to throw out their backs when doing this, I totally give them that. And, actually, (SPOILER ALERT!) my favorite part of the movie is when one of them actually does throw out their back.

But, men are not built for this kind of movement. They are stiff and utilitarian and that’s how they should be.

Call me old fashioned but I don’t want my men prancing about with jazz hands.

I’ve been to a male strip club before and I never got dry humped.  Should I take that personally? Maybe I’m just all sour grapes on this because I feel slighted. In this movie the women in the crowd were being whipped around like rag dolls, getting felt up and ground upon. My mind ping ponged between “Law suit! Law suit!” and “Purell! Purell!” the entire time.

There you have it, good citizens of the blogosphere. I can’t necessarily say you should not see it. I just feel it is my public duty to make you aware of what you are seeing….which is a whole lot of shiny, pretty men.

And there ain’t nuthin’ bad about that.

50 Shades of WTF (or, The Use of a Thesaurus While Masturbating in Public)

50 Shades of WTF (or, The Use of a Thesaurus While Masturbating in Public)

(I was told that the use of sexy words in a title would get more hits. Evidently, lots of people search on the word “thesaurus.” Who knew?)

Listen, I get it. No one is having enough sex. Especially no one I know. I’m sure George Clooney gets laid constantly. It must get boring for him. But I’m no George Clooney.  I suspect Betty White gets more action than I do. I suspect Betty White gets more tail than George Clooney does.

So, given the state of our sexless existence, I felt compelled to dip my toe into the mommy porn cesspit and read 50 Shades of Grey. What a fucking weird book this is. Oh, you could say it’s weird because of the numerous references to anal plugs and spanking. But I mean weird because its level of suckiness can’t possibly match up to its popularity….or the obscene amount of coin the author is raking in.

I have a laundry list of rants to go with this book that could fill dozens of blogs, so I will focus on my top two issues today.

Issue Number 1: The enervating, encumbered, oppressive and exaggerated used of the thesaurus by the writer.

Who the hell talks like this? Especially whilst having a butt plug thrust into a poop hole? “Why, Mr. Grey, what a hedonistic endeavor you are embarking on.”  SHUT UP!

The use of inappropriate SAT-level vocabulary is more disturbing than the handcuffs and nipple clamps in this piece of shit.

I dare you to use “thesaurus” words in a normal sentence in daily life without looking like a complete asshole.

For your consideration:

“Dude, that wave was epic. I will never expunge it from my memory!” See, total asshole.  He will not be invited to the clambake later.

“I can’t wait to dig into this steak with my cutlery.” It’s a knife, douchebag!

“I smoked so much weed this weekend, I was afraid I would somnambulate.” Shut up or I will stab you in the head.

“That inconsiderate misanthrope absconded with my parking space.”  I hate you and I don’t know what you just said, you fucking tool.

I think “Thesaurus” is now my safe word.

Issue Number 2: Don’t read this book in front of people!! You are freaking them out.

For the love of God, if you have the physical book, stick a brown paper bag around it or something. We all think you are either a horny old lady or have terrible sense in your choice of reading material. Both can’t be good for you. Please, you live in a shame-based society. Act accordingly.

And this rule doesn’t only apply to public places like buses and park benches. Do you think your 20-year-old son wants to know his mother (or aunt or gay uncle) is a horny freak show? That could do some serious damage and take years for the visuals to be “expunged” from his memory.

I believe we only fly our freak flag at full mast within the confines of our S&M rooms…or in blogs where consenting adults gather willingly.

What I’m most intrigued about is the writer. Who the hell is this woman and what kind of private life does she have? No offense, E.L. James (not her real name….I wouldn’t use my real name either) but you just don’t look the type. You look like every woman in sweats in line at Trader Joe’s or picking their kindergartener up.

So, you have now made me look twice at everyone I know and have compromised my ability to compartmentalize them into tidy boxes. For all I know, that woman in front of me at the coffee shop who looks like she has not showered in days and has stains on her shirt has a vibrator up her lady garden RIGHT NOW!

She does seem suspiciously chipper about her venti frappuccino….

 

True Blood – My Unhealthy Obsession with the Undead

True Blood – My Unhealthy Obsession with the Undead

So, I got fantastic news this morning but it was followed by a disturbing realization.

The fantastic news came in the form of a very personal mail from iTunes letting me know that Season 4 of True Blood was now available for download.

My knees went weak and I started to perspire as I’ve been waiting a year for this day to come. I have sorely missed Sookie and her unexplainable pull on a town full of hot vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.

This, of course, is only the beginning of the suspension of disbelief as it turns out it’s her “fairy blood” that is the big draw. That and she’s a bit freaky in the bedroom (or on the ceiling or in a graveyard).

You can keep your lame-ass grandma porn with 50 Shades of Gray and give me some supernatural sex where you run the risk of becoming undead.

I may be wrong, but I don’t believe it’s possible to have an awkward sexual moment with a vampire. Except maybe for the smell. Seems like there’s got to be some odor issues with being dead and living underground during the day. Nothing a few hundred scented candles and a heavy dose of Febreze can’t fix especially if you are a ghoul who looks like Alexander Skarsgard. Hang one of those little tree car deodorizers on it and call it good!

The reality of this is, however, that all these blood-suckers would look more like Willem Defoe than Alexander Skarsgard. Not unlike the dream of most men that lesbians all look like Selma Hayak when in reality they are a closer match to Chaz Bono.

(I realize I’m talking about the reality of vampires – the absurdity of this is not lost on me.)

Which brings me to my disturbing realization – I have some weird thing for vampires. Allow me to dip my toe in the freaky pool for a moment here.

I know there is a whole sub-culture of Goth teenagers who are super into this stuff but I do not fall into this category at all. I would never have figured myself for a real vampire lover. But, I now must question this and potentially everything I thought I knew about myself.

Clearly, Dark Shadows had a much more lasting effect on my psyche than I would like to acknowledge. It molded me in ways I don’t know nor am prepared to dive into further. Plus, I’m not sure my health benefits cover this level of psycho-therapy. I need to read that Obama-care thing….

So, in the meantime, I intend to fully embrace and give in to my no-longer-secret obsession and hope for the day vampires become real and I get me some fairy blood.

And, that is a sentence I never would have thought I would write….