So Grayce is pretty pleased with herself for her newfound Internet fame, having been mentioned what? Like, twice? In what is essentially one of the least-read blogs on the planet. Move over, Kim Kardashian, Grayce is stealing yo’ paparazzi, bitch.
This also means that Grayce, who doesn’t want to have her own smutty sex blog but does like reading and being featured in mine, has decided to chime in regularly with texts and IMs about what I should write about next. The other night, I was packing my kids’ school lunches for the next day — not because I’m all June Cleaver the Super Mom but because it means I get to sleep in an extra five minutes, and, let’s face it, at 6 a.m., that’s fucking important, people — and I got this text from Grayce: “New blog post: Swingers.”
Swingers? What the fuck do I know about swingers? The closest I get to swinging is when I take my minions to the park. Swingers. Please. I’m not even getting laid, let alone laid so much I can trade partners periodically for funsies. I hardly have time to shave my legs once a week. As if I have time to have a boyfriend I’m so sexually active with that I feel the need to tag out, call up a friend from work, arrange to swap dudes for a night, and then get myself into a third-date panties/hairless state for new sex with someone I don’t even like? Oh, yes, that sounds like a fucking great idea. Haven’t we discussed this, people? I. Do. Not. Share. Men. I will not fuck your husband, and I will not fuck your boyfriend, and I would really, really appreciate it if you didn’t fuck mine. If I had one. Which I don’t. So swinging? No. I don’t pass judgement on those who get their kicks this way if they’re all consenting adults. I mean, shit. God bless, you know? Rock the fuck on, people. Or fuck the fuck on. Whatever. But it’s not for me.
So this is what ran through my weird-ass, sex-deprived brain when Grayce texted that I should write about swingers while I was cutting Minion #2’s cheese into dinosaur shapes with a mini-cookie-cutter and then bagging the random pieces for Minion #1 who likes to make up stories about what the random shapes are. Whatever. As long as you eat your fucking cheese. It’s organic. Mama overpaid by $3 a pound for those cows to get non-toxic pedicures or whatever it is they do to make cows pee organic milk for that pricey cheese.
But I digress. As usual. Swinging. How is swinging even a thing? People really do this? What the fuck, web dwellers? What’s the point of getting married if you’re going to be fucking other people? Isn’t that kind of the point of marriage? That you don’t have to have awkward, non-orgasming, first-time sex with some new dude who doesn’t know about that weird mole on your back that is TOTALLY NOT shaped like Gorbachev’s weird face thingie? That you don’t have to explain to some new guy exactly why it’s not unusual for a woman to say shit like, “Tell me you’ll clean the oven!!” when you need that little extra sumpinsumpin to get over the edge? Why we have to explain that shit at all is still a mystery to me, but I always thought getting married meant explaining it for the last time. I mean, otherwise, what’s the point?
Anyway, I wasn’t sure I wanted to write about this, particularly given I have no fucking clue what it really is, so I asked Penny for a neutral opinion, and the conversation went something like this:
Me: So Grayce thinks I need to blog about swingers.
Penny: You mean that Vegas, Baby movie with that dude from The Wedding Crasher movie?
Penny: No, I’m wrong, or no, he wasn’t in that Wedding Crasher movie? I thought that was the same dude.
Me: No, you’re wrong, and yes, Vince Vaughn was in both movies.
Penny: Vince Vaughn! That’s his name. Why does everyone think he’s so hot? I think he looks like an owl.
So, yeah, that was no help whatsoever. But that’s also why I love Penny. Her mind does not automatically go to sex, which, come on, it really should when I’m talking about blog topics, and she lives in this beautiful mental utopia where no man other than her husband will ever have to know about her weird mismatched nipples. Unless I blog about them.