Category Archives: Blogging

Swing Away

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I still don’t really get who this bitch is. Why is she famous? For being famous? How does THAT happen?

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.” Read the rest of this entry

Angry (Sex) Birds

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My girlfriend, Grayce — yes, I realize I’ve been writing about her a lot, but she doesn’t mind being blog fodder, and I’m not one to turn down free material — decided to have angry sex with her husband. Let me back up a sex here. Sec here. Grayce is married with kids. Those of you who are also married with kids know that, to put it in the most absurdly general terms possible, the amount of sex you have is inversely proportional to how many kids you have, despite all evidence being to the contrary. That is, the more kids you have, the less sex you have, even though you’d think if you have all those kids you’re a fuck bunny. There are exceptions to this rule, but I don’t hang out with those women because they’re too busy going to pilates while managing Fortune 500 mergers on their iPhones as Baby #47 nurses in an ergonomically correct sling made of organic fairy hair.

Maybe if Grayce wore this to bed…

At the moment, Grayce’s sex life is vacillating somewhere between Carole Brady and Michelle Duggar, even though she only has two kids. So that blows monkey chunks if you ask me. And if you ask her. Which you can’t, so trust me when I say Grayce  is not nearly as perky about her marital non-relations as those two Xanax Zombies, so mama needs to get some. I offered to give it up for her, but she doesn’t swing that way, and I’m still not so sure my stem-cell-research-based lesbian scheme is going to work out, so it was really just an “I’m here for you, dude,” offer, although she is pretty hot, so maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because Grayce doesn’t want to fuck me. She wants to fuck her husband. But the less they do the dance with no pants, the less she wants to do it because the more she resents her husband for choosing Angry Birds over what would, at this point, be very  angry sex. Read the rest of this entry

Lez-Be Friends

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I’m seriously considering becoming a lesbian. Why the hell not? Women seem to be an infinitely better option right now than men. I’ve already got my minions and, even if I don’t like it, I’m pretty good at killing my own bugs, so men are of limited usefulness to me at this point. Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I am just not gay, as much as I wish I were, and that being gay is not a choice, so I really have no say in this matter. Aside from that, why the hell not?

Let’s take this from a practical, if ludicrously generalizing, perspective (haters, start taking notes here):

  • Women are better at multitasking, so they can, oh, you know, hold babies and text, take phone calls, or poop at the same time.
  • At least real kiwis ALWAYS taste good.

    Women are sexy most of the time, even when we don’t feel sexy, if only because society and marketing have programmed us to see women as sexual objects by barraging us with sexualized images of women 24/7, because “pretty is as pretty does.” Men, on the other hand, look like deflated kiwis that need to go down the disposal when they bend over naked in the bathroom. They can’t all be Northman or Tyler Durden. We can’t all be Cindy Crawford either, but somehow we’re still generally more attractive than they are. Maybe it’s because we aren’t likely to fart, pick our noses, grab our crotches, or be otherwise generally disgusting outside the aforementioned bathroom.

  • Women aren’t as afraid of their feelings as men. They like you or they don’t. They love you or they don’t. None of this, “Well, I really like you, and I want to fuck you, but let’s just keep it casual, k?” crap. The flip side of this has a lot to do with the third-date U-Haul jokes my gay girlfriends tell me. I used to think it meant lesbians do it in trucks on the third date, but apparently I was wrong.  Read the rest of this entry

Shakespeare in Leather

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So last night, I was talking to Grayce about my return to blogginess, which she really enjoyed, even if I did totally print a private conversation we had without her permission. She told me she shared yesterday’s post on her Facebook page and was completely gobsmacked (Like that one? I’m all intercontinental today.) when her friend, Mica, “liked” the post. She called me up:

Gray: I’m shocked Mica liked it. You know her husband’s a pastor and she runs that charity for wayward, pregnant schnauzers or something.

Me: Oh, yeah. The seemingly uptight ones are always the duuuuuurty guuuuurrrrlllls. They love the blog. Church ladies are all sorts of nasty under their double-knit sweater sets and sensible pumps. 

Those church ladies are all sorts of duuur-taaay.

Gray: You think? I just can’t believe she “liked” it on Facebook. Her husband probably has her down on her knees praying for forgiveness as we speak.

Me: He probably has her down on her knees, but I doubt there’s much praying going on.

Gray: You did not just say that.

Me: Oh please. If church is your thing, more higher power to ya. But you know as well as I do, the loudest preachers are like Queen Gertrude.

Gray: You lost me. 

Me: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 

Gray: English. Speak English.

Me: Girl, that’s Shakespeare. It doesn’t GET more English.

Gray: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: I gotta get nerdier friends.

Gray: Your point?

Me: Ok. Backing up. In Hamlet, Queen Gertrude is a raging slut who marries her dead husband’s murderous brother before the leftovers from her husband’s funeral feast are gone.

Gray: That’s cold, dude. 

Me: No shit. But then again, maybe they were Jewish. That Shiva thing they do lasts like a fucking month. So cut a girl some slack. That could be a lot of leftovers.

Gray: You are so going to hell.

Me: Anyway, so these traveling actors come do a play at the court, and Hamlet is giving his mom attitude, being all, “What do you think of this play?” And his mom, Gertrude, who sees that the play is basically about a woman just like her, says, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Gray: So what does that mean? 

Me: It means like, say someone goes, “I like butt fucking,” and you go, “Oh my GOD! I would NEVER! Oh my God! Who does such a thing?!?!” The more you “protest,” the more obvious it is that you’re trying to cover something up. It’s like the conservative male Republican Congressman who goes on this nationwide anti-gay crusade only to get caught fucking some underage male Haitian prostitute. The louder they preach, the more likely it’s bullshit. It’s more complicated in the play, but then again, it’s Shakespeare.

Gray: How the hell did we get on this topic?

Me: I was saying, rock on for Mica, “liking” the post, because most church ladies I know wouldn’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.

Gray: Because they’d be protesting too much.

Me: My work here is done.

Gray: You really think Mica’s a slut?

Me: Girl, she’s a pastor’s wife. They’re all “Rah, Rah, Jesus,” until they’re taking it up the ass in a leather harness, you know?

Gray: <odd strangled noise and spluttering>

Me: Ohhh. What do you know? The lady doth protest too much.

Mo Dick, Mo Problems

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So I’m Skype texting with my girlfriend, Grayce, whom we girls call, “Gray,” because her life is all sorts of 50 Shades, and I’m telling her how the latest guy to catch my attention, Joe, is, predictably, an asshat.

Me: Girl, WTF? Why are men such douche canoes?

Gray: Because they have fool tools.

I added a flower, so it’s not crass. Yes, you can buy this at The Pink Moustachery. I’m all about customer service, web dwellers.

Me: The bigger the fool tool, the bigger the douche canoe.

Gray: Sounds like my ex. Total fool, but what a great fucking tool.

Me: Seriously. Your ex should come with a warning label: Mo dick, mo problems.

Gray: LOL!! OMG, girl, that is the TRUTH!

Me: At least a big dick is a good distraction, if you don’t let it distract you from how big a dick its owner is.

Gray: OMG! We need to put that shit on an e-Card.

Me: Too much work. I’ll just blog it. And I’ll call your ex “Moe” on the blog just because that shit’s funny.

Gray: I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna wake up my kids.

Me: Men are good for killing bugs, lifting heavy shit, and sex. In that priority order.

Gray: Truth.

Me: It’s all shit I can do myself, but I’d rather have it done for me.

Gray: E-card. E-card. E-card.

Me: If prostitution were legal, I would buy a man whore to kill my bugs naked.

Gray: That is a GREAT idea.

Me: The guy would be naked, not the bugs. I mean, the bugs are naked too, but that’s not the point.

Gray: Are you drunk?

Me: And then, after he killed the bug on my wall, I’d be all, “Bitch, go get a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Mama can’t cum with bug guts on the wall!”

Gray: Must. Document. On. E-cards.

Me: If I ran shit, I would make it mandatory for sex ed teachers to explain to guys WHY a woman should cum first. Divorce rates would plummet. You’re welcome, Entire Fucking Planet.

Gray: So true!!

Me: You want her to do that thing? With the thing? Like you saw on YouPorn? Make sure she cums first.

Gray: LOL!!

Me: And yes, YouPorn is a thing. Thank you, Northman.

Gray: OMG. I can see you lecturing teenagers. You’ll write books.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be “researching” for my book and going, “Not now, baby, Mama’s browsing YouPorn.”

There is so much wrong with this.

Me: Seriously, if they spent half as much time explaining to teenage boys why it’s better for a woman to cum first as they do telling teenage girls not to have sex at all, all would be right with the world. Because you know, when mama’s not happy, nooooobody’s happy.

Gray: So fucking true. Luckily, I’ve never had a selfish lover. They all love making me cum.

Me: Fuck you.

Pause with no response from Gray.

Me: You’re googling YouPorn aren’t you? Admit it!

Gray: Me? No.

Me: No, you’re just on Zazzle or something ordering tee-shirts with “Mo dick mo problems.”

Gray: I was not! I wasn’t!

Me: ….

Gray: I was gonna do it tomorrow.

Me: There it is.

Gray: Well, it’s true! Mo dick, mo problems! Moe was so big, I couldn’t fit that shit in my mouth.

Me: That’s too much dick. That’s like having GGG tits. More than a mouthful is wasteful.

Gray: He is huge. The sex was awesome. Too bad by the time things ended I didn’t want anything to do with his thang.

Me: Dude. If you divorce a man that big, vaginal rejuvenation surgery should be part of the divorce settlement. Be like, “You broke my heart. Fine. But my pussy you have to fix.”

Gray: That could pass here in California. You may be onto something.

Me: Damn straight. Shit. They ruin our tits with pregnancy and nursing. You don’t wanna pay alimony forever? Tack the girls back up where they belong and turn this hallway of a pussy back into a straw. Level the damn playing field a LITTLE.

Gray: That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Ever.

Me: My brain is all sorts of fucked up, girl. And I know what you find funny, so it’s easy. Mostly it’s the same shit I find funny, because you’re awesome. Obviously. I don’t hang with non-awesome women. They’re intimidated my awesomeness, and they get all clingy and offended by my cursing. I’m like, “You have given birth, woman. And you think some f-bombs are going to scar you?”

Gray: Omg! You are seriously awesome and so fucking funny.

For Gray. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, you e-card demanding bitch who’s never had a man not help her finish first.

Me: Please. Come see my vagina if you want to see scars. C-sections do not make for good vajazzling canvases. As if it’s not enough to wax it, now it has to fucking sparkle?!? I’m not a vampire.

Gray: Dying. I’m dying.

Me: If a man needs your pussy to sparkle to be into it, he’s gay. Duh.

Gray: Where do you get this shit?

Me: This is my stream of consciousness. Something is fundamentally wrong with me.

Gray: Yeah, but we’ll make BANK on the tee-shirts.

Me: What’s this “we” business?

 

Well, that sucks.

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Hey, y’all. I know, I know. WTF have I been up to that I haven’t written. Well, the truth is, I have a pretty fucking crazy life at the moment, and it’s even crazier than usual, and not in a good way. Not in the “I’m too busy having crazyass sex every night to sit up and blog for you people,” way. More like the, “I’m too busy working my ass off and taking care of my minions while moving and dealing with a bunch of family crap,” way. So, you know, fun.

And now it’s summer vacation, and with the minions off school for the next year and a half (well, it FEELS like summer lasts that long!), I just don’t know how much blogging I’ll be doing. But, you awesome web dwellers, you deserve more than to have me vanish into the ether, so here’s an little snapshot of Cathy’s World at the moment.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Coffee. Praised Be.

I’m still “seeing” Northman virtually. Things have cooled off between us a bit. I think the novelty has kind of worn off. We’re close. We’re good friends. We have rockin’ Skype sex. He’s funny (not as funny as I am, but you know, nobody’s perfect). We have a solid connection and good chemistry. But the fact is, he’s there and I’m here, and even though we still plan to get together later this year, I’m not so sure it’ll be the fuckfest we had initially planned. Above and beyond all else, we want each other to be happy, and so I’m happy for him that he’s been dating someone who actually lives a car ride (and not a plane ride) away. I’m not even jealous or envious. I love him. I want him to find happiness, even if that means I never get to sleep with him. Although sleeping with him — and let me be clear, I mean fucking him — would be awesome. 

Jerry is still around here and there. He’s still kind of a douche canoe sometimes — so cocky — but he’s also a good guy who’s fun to hang out with. Work is busy with clients both interesting and boring as dirt. My minions are little Fonzies. Coolest fucking people you’ll ever meet, but without the leather jackets. Mr. Coffee died and was reincarnated at Target in a stainless steel body. Penny is up to her usual chicanery, always calling because she’s stunned at the idiocy and inefficiency of the average American only to have me remind her that she’s just so much smarter than average that what seems like common sense to her is Advanced Calculus to a person with a 100-point IQ. She hasn’t made me laugh into tears lately, or you’d have heard about it. But it won’t be long.

Oh, and I did read the new Sookie book, and I thought it fucking sucked. But I’ll live because the new season of True Blood starts in four days. Sookie better get some Northman sex. I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks. At least one of us should.

There’s an App For That.

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So, I’m sitting on the back porch, sans big, heavy blanket, worshipping Mr. Coffee, when Penny calls. As usual, she doesn’t even say “hello,” but just launches into some random story:

Penny: Dude. Last night, Billy and I had the Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: Hi. Good morning. How are you? Oh, fine, thanks, how are you?

Penny: Dude. You’re not listening. Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: I’m listening. There are just some social niceties that one cannot ignore or the entire fabric of our society will collapse into anarchy, and we’ll be ruled by Emo teenagers wearing Nina Simone tee shirts.

Penny: Who’s Nina Simone?

Me: Someone Emo teenagers don’t listen to either. But they SHOULD.

Penny: What?

Me: Exactly.

Penny: Dude! You’re not flippin’ listening to me! Best sex!! Ever!

Me: I hear a blog post coming on.

Penny: Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Oh. Ohmygosh.

Me: Yeah, see, if you said that to me during sex, I’d be kind of underwhelmed.

Penny: Shut up.

Me: I hope this story gets better.

Penny: We tried about 15 new positions in one night. When you’ve been married for flippin’ ever, that’s a LOT.

Me: Ok, I was lying before. Now I’m listening.

Penny: It was unbelievable.

Me: What did you do? Get a Cosmo and take notes or something?

Penny: No! Dude!

Me: Have you been watching Cinemax again? I told you some of that shit is dangerous.

Penny: No! DUDE!

Me: Oh, no. Tell me you weren’t watching True Blood before bed. You’re not a vampire, honey. You can’t bend like that.

Penny: Shut up! I downloaded some free sex apps on my iPhone! Did you know there was such a thing? I mean, seriously, sex positions. There’s an app for that!

Me (almost shooting coffee through my nose): “There’s an app for that.” Awesome. Yes. I did know that, but hearing you say it has me picturing you studying and taking notes before bed.

Penny (proudly): Oh, no, dude. I took the phone with me to bed, and we held it up and followed the instructions.

Me: Ok, that’s a fucked up visual.

Penny: It was freaking awesome! We had to read the instructions for each one and then follow the diagrams; some of that stuff is complicated!

Me (biting lip to not laugh): Uh huh. And how did that work out for you?

Penny: Aside from when I dropped the phone on Billy’s head, it was pretty great!

Me (too late, laughing my ass off): On his head? Which one!?

Penny: Oh my gosh. You did not just say that!

Me: Oh, yes. I did. It’s fine. If you gave him a concussion, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Note to sex app people: If you’re going to have an illustrated sex app, 1) Don’t use the same artist who does bathroom signs, and 2) Don’t let PAMPERS advertise on your app.

Penny: The sex apps were free. They had these little ads on them, but I just ex’d out of them.

Me: After you read them.

Penny: Well, yeah.

Me: You’re a riot.

Penny: Oh, and then? And then? This morning? At breakfast, my seven-year-old is playing with his iPod and goes, “Oh! You got me some new apps, Mommy?”

Me: Ohmygod.

Penny: Right? I grabbed his iPod so damn fast I about ripped his hand off. Apparently, there’s a setting for “automatically download all new apps to all devices using this iTunes account.”

Me: I’m going to call Northman and tell him all about this, and then I’m going to blog it. You know that, right?

Penny: Whatever flips your noodle, poodle.

Me: What?

Penny: Ohmygosh. I can’t wait for you to see Northman so you can try this one thing. I’m not sure we did it right, but it was awesome.

Me: I’m pretty damn sure any position with Northman will be fucking awesome. And I won’t need a diagram or a damn flow chart either.

Penny: No, you won’t. The chemistry between you two is crazy.

Me (insert stupid grin): I know. I can’t quite explain it.

Penny: Yup. He’s cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. Who the hell knows why, but it just works.

Me (laughing my damn ass off): You did not just say that.

Penny: Oh, yes. I did.

French sayings are weird, but everything in French sounds either romantic or dirty, so it works out.

+++Ten Minutes Later+++

Me: And then, ok, I’m still getting over her hitting him with the phone and almost giving her kid some seriously fucked up sex education with his Corn Flakes, and Penny goes, “Northman is cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. It doesn’t make sense but it just works.”

Northman (laughing): I’m cabbage?

Me: No, you’re cabbage leaves on engorged breasts. Don’t men know about that?

Northman: All I know about cabbage is that I just made cole slaw today. It was pretty fucking good! I’ll send you the recipe if you want.

Me: No thanks, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Northman: Have fun blogging, mon petit choux.