Tag Archives: shaving

Lez-Be Friends


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

Mo Dick, Mo Problems


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?


The Pink Moustache Movement


I found this bit of awesomeness on Etsy and you can see the whole image if you click above. Kudos to Karolin Felix for being awesome enough to create this. If you hadn't already sold this, I'd buy one for every woman I know over 35.

So, this sucks. I have a lady ‘stache. And if someone is reading this to you and you can’t see the spelling of that, I don’t mean I have a stash of ladies ready and waiting for awesome girls’ nights out. I mean I have a little mini moustache that would make a 14-year-old boy jealous, complete with chin hairs, or, as I think of them, upper lip fuzzies with poor senses of direction. Because otherwise, they’re beard hairs, and while I will admit to requiring upper lip waxing, I fucking refuse to be the bearded lady. 

I know I’m not alone in this, or there wouldn’t be an entire shelf in every market dedicated to facial hair removal for women. Nor would there be a listing for “upper lip waxing” on the price sheet for every single decent salon, plus some of those places where the ladies only speak Vietnamese and you spend the whole time wondering if they’re talking about how out of control your lady ‘stache is or discussing the socioeconomic environment in Greece. On the plus side, from what I’ve read, and it’s on the internet so it must be true, having a little excess facial hair, for a woman, means you have a decent level of testosterone, and that contributes to an overall rockin’ sex drive, making the whole waxing routine seem like a fair price of admission.

So, while it sucks that I have lady ‘stache in that I fucking hate it (and why do those little dark hairs grow so much faster than all the others???), it’s actually a good thing in the long run. The trick is to make sure that I stay on top of the fuzz phenomenon so I can have the sex drive it implies without driving away potential partners by looking like a dude. You know, as in, “Dude looks like a lay-daaay…” Ok, wait, that doesn’t work because I’m not a dude. That would be, “Lady looks like a dude,” unless, well, no, go with me here a sec. Yeah. See, if a dude looked like a lady, maybe he’s not a dude, maybe he’s a lady with a crazy lady ‘stache, so he looks like a lady because he is a lady, but he’s such a hairy lady that he looks like a feminine dude. Wait. Whatever. That makes no sense but I’m leaving it in because that Aerosmith line is a mondegreen, and any time I have a chance to throw in some word nerdiness, I’m all for it.

I'm a nerd, so that's freaking funny.

Right. Back to the ‘stache at hand. So, the closer to 40 I get, the more often I find I have to deal with my lady ‘stache, and I also find that my girl curls are getting harder and harder to remove by conventional means. Those are some stubborn bitches. On a not-unrelated-note, while I did shave the vertical smile a while back to surprise Northman, I still refuse to shave the horizontal one, which really doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense if you think about it, because putting a razor against your face where you can see it is a lot smarter than putting one against the Notorious V.A.G. Especially if you’re vagazzled, in which case I’d think you just have to do laser. How does that work with the crystals and the glue…? Anyway…

So then a couple of weeks ago, one of you web dwellers emailed me a blog after reading my rant about shaved pussies. I apparently deleted the email and I can’t remember the name of the blogger, so if you know what I’m talking about here, leave a comment and give credit where it’s due, web dwellers. Anyway, this blogger went all sorts of fucking hilarious on this exact topic of being a less-than-hairless lady. She went on to say that her girlfriend, when approached about her own hair-removal routines, proudly professed to using a razorless head-shaving cream for black men on her nether bits. Well, shit. You can’t use Nair there, it says so on the bottle, and if you’ve tried Nair, you know that just holding the bottle will make your skin sting, so why anyone would even think of putting it near their bearded clam is way the heck beyond me.

This was the best damn news I’d heard in ages. I told Penny about it, and she said, “Hell no, I tweeze,” to which I said something appropriately adolescent, like, “Oh, hell to the no the hell you don’t.” But she does. I’m not going there. I’m just not. But she did think the bald black man cream was probably a good idea for me if I want to razorlessly maintain my “lady parts,” as she says. So then I said, “I wonder if I can use it on my face. I mean, the face is not nearly as sensitive…” And Penny, always so matter-of-fact, said, “Good rule of thumb here. If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.”

Well that’s good to know.

Mr. Coffee, please rain down your blessings on the crafty bitches at Etsy for making a PINK MOUSTACHE MUG!! For now and forever more, let it be known that the pink moustache is the obscure reference point for letting people know you read this blog without having to fit "Confessions Of A Sexy Mom" across your tits on an overpriced tee. Plus, this shit's way funnier.

So I went to SuperTarget last week, because they have everything. And I was wandering around the hair care section, looking for the depilatories, and the cream wasn’t there. And then I thought, duh, it’s probably in the section with the special shampoos and creams and whatnot for black people’s haircare, because it’s for black men. Not being a black man myself, I had no freaking idea where this was, but it couldn’t be far, so I walked around and sure enough, I found it. And that’s where I was when this overly helpful stockboy stopped to ask me if I needed help finding anything, probably not because he wanted to help but because he wanted to admire my lady ‘stache which was, sorry kid, much more impressive than his because I’d given it free reign for a few days in preparation for this experiment.

“Yeah,” I said, “Do you have any of that cream for bald black men who aren’t naturally bald but want to be bald so they use cream to remove their head hair?”

I’m not really sure what was going through his head right then, but I’m pretty sure I managed to distract him from my upper lip haven for wayward chin hairs, as he just kind of stood there for a moment before saying, “Let me go ask the manager,” and walking away so fast that he was either holding in diarrhea or he was trying really hard not to actively run from the crazy lady. Either way, tough day for him.

So I found the cream, and I bought it. The checker was a grown woman, so she didn’t ask, but I bet you she Googled it when she got home. I would have.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to try out my ethno-, gender-, and body-part-inappropriate hair removal cream for a few days because seriously, it’s not easy for a single mom to find time to lay on a towel in the OB/GYN position for 10 minutes without any risk of minions walking in and asking why I’m painting my vagina and my tushy button white. And don’t say, “Why not do it at night?” Those little buggers wake up. You think I want to have to wrap a towel around myself to check on them while I exceed the recommended application time on my razorless bald dude cream only to find I have some sort of vomit emergency to deal with? No, thanks. I waited until they were in school last week, and then I painted my vagina and my tushy button. And my lady ‘stache. And you know what, web dwellers? Penny’s right: If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.

Back To Basics


Animal fucking rocks.

So, once again, web dwellers, I’m sitting outside this freezing morning with my big, heavy blanket and my oversized Muppet mug filled with Mr. Coffee’s goodness, feeling rather contemplative and a bit free spirited because I didn’t put on a bra the second I dragged my sleep-deprived ass out of bed. Yeah, you heard me: contemplative. Great fucking word. It’s mellifluous, don’t you think?

Anyway, now that our vocab moment is over, we can get down to business. Very formal business. I even have an agenda for this post. 

Item Number 1:

Shaved head and men still want to fuck her

Today, we’re getting as back to basics as possible, which means I’m going back to my very first post ever, Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies. Well, y’all, I have a confession to make. This being Confessions of A Sexy Momand not “Bits and Pieces of A Mom’s Life But Only The Parts That Don’t Make Me Look Bad,” I have to tell you, I decided to surprise Northman and go all Mr. Magoo on my lady bits. Wait, that’s not sexy. Maybe more like, “I went all Demi Moore on my flaming lips.” Better. Anyway, whatever, I spent a half an hour in the shower shaving off every hair south of my equator, just to shake things up a bit with Northman.

Hats off to Victoria. Damn.


To say that Northman liked this would be a gargantuan understatement. He gave me this look that said something like … I’m going to claw my way through this screen right now so I can fuck you until you faint or your head spins around. Kind of like that look on David Beckham’s face in that H&M Super Bowl ad. Or the look on every straight woman’s face in America when we saw that. Damn. So, overall, yeah, worth the third-day stubble I’m debating what to do about today. Especially considering what we did via Skype after he saw that.

Anyhoooo… so yeah. I freely confess to shaving my snake charmer, but I don’t think I’ll do it all the time, and I still maintain that men shouldn’t expect that, as it’s a hell of a lot more work than you might think. Plus, it’s kinda itchy after a couple of days. And no one likes an itchy rocket pocket. Ya like that one? I found a whole list!!

Seriously. A whole list. Look:

 Moving on….

Item Number 2:

A couple of readers wrote in asking how Northman responded to my last post. This, after a couple of other readers, and some of my girlfriends (which is odd, because my girlfriends usually just live vicariously through my pseudo sex life and don’t comment much) wrote in to tell me that they’re certain I’m in love with Northman. So let’s lay it all on the table, shall we?

First, Northman liked the Dirty Dancing post. He actually read it while I waited, and as we were video Skyping at the time, I saw his reactions as he read. He laughed in all the right spots, some of which were little inside jokes for him that no one else would notice, which was fun. And I told him I’d already received reader comments from some of you who are sure I’m in love with him. We talked about it for quite a while, and he took from the post what I intended: I love him as a friend. I love him as more than a friend. I can see myself being in love with him, but I’d really have to spend some time with him, in person, getting to know him and his current life more before that could really happen.

So the upshot is, we’re talking about getting together for a visit. Obviously, it’s complicated as we both have kids and all of our daily adult obligations to consider. And then it’s expensive to do anything on short notice, so we need to plan for a little way down the road. I need to learn how to sell ads for my blog, web dwellers. Seriously.

So that’s the haps, people. Nothing all that thrilling today. Just keeping y’all in the loop, so to speak. But I will leave you with this. I may not be in love with Northman right this second. But I’m completely in lust with him, and I do love him. And I cannot wait to see him.

 Meeting adjourned.

As usual, please remember to “like” me on Facebook (see link on the right) and “follow” COASM by clicking “follow” where you see “Get Email Updates From The Sexy Mom!” But most of all, please consider posting your favorite article on your preferred social media stream. Thanks!



Behind The Scenes At COASM


Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.

And again…


Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

The Monthly Wrap Up: Because I’m too tired to come up with anything that original.


So, ok, end of our first month here at Confessions of a Sexy Mom, and I gotta tell you, web dwellers, you people are fucking awesome. I just love the heck out of you, and I’m in touch with my emotions enough to say so without having to go bench press or deep fry anything. Damn, I just love being a woman.

So, I figured I’d do a little monthly retrospective. A “confession-all” if you will (see how much lamer the jokes and puns are when I’m tired?), and I’ll toss in some random stuff I laughed at this month but, for whatever reason, didn’t post here earlier.

Heeeere we go.

Northman loves my drunken texts. Which is good, because with the blue-hairs around last month, there were plenty.

First, I saw this ( ←) yesterday and laughed my ass off. This is 100% a GREAT idea, and if you can keep your sense-of-humor hat on instead of going all, “Ooooh, that’s too ‘Big Brother’ if my phone knows I’m wasted,” then it’s pretty fucking funny.

Second, take a gander over yonder at the site hit numbers →. Oh, yeah. That’s more than 2,000 hits in a month. THAT is a blog-gasm. I’m super excited. Now let’s just get some more fans on the Facebook page so people will know when there’s something new here.

Numero Tres: Did you know if you go to the WordPress home page and select “topics” and then type in “fucking” that you’ll find some really freaky crap? Well, shit, searching for “sexy” or “Northman” wasn’t yielding great results, so I went the other direction. I thought maybe I’d find some blogs like mine with some random sexiness in there. Uh, no. Warning! If you don’t want to know what “fisting” is, DO NOT TRY THIS SEARCH. Wow. A lot has changed since I was last out there, people. A fucking lot has changed.

And Four: I found this neat site that lets you make graphic representations of relevant words on your site. I don’t know what people really use this for, but I thought it was neat, and here’s what I made. Didn’t even need to paint any macaroni!

Cinco de Awesome-o: Damn, that would have pissed my high school Spanish teacher off big time. No sense of humor. Anyway, this ↓ is what I posted this month in no particular order (and in kind of a mess because I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over the formatting here), not counting just little crap like a poll and letting y’all know I’m on Facebook. Which I am. And you should be too.

Six…more months until True Blood Season Five, so here’s one of my favorite scenes from Season Four, which I just rewatched because there’s so much Northman sex. Oh, Pam. I thank Mr. Coffee for whomever cast you and made your role so much bigger in the show than the books.

Also… A shout out to Karen B., Liesel B., Rebecca Z., Nicole S., and Tara C. for all your super funny posts on the Facebook wall!! Y’all are hilarious, ladies!! Keep it up, gals!!

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman

Taking One For The Team

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and MartinisThe 12 Hours of Christmas


The Versatile Blogger Award.

You People Need Help.

This Is Why Republicans Fear Me

I Sound My Barbaric Yawp Over The Roofs Of The World.

It's Always The Guy With The Panel Van

Did I Miss Something Here?


Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies

There Isn't Enough Purrell On The Planet For This Shit.

You're Just Coitusing With Me, Aren't You?

There Isn’t Enough Purell on The Planet For This Shit.


So, I’m sitting outside this morning with my big, heavy blanket and Mr. Coffee’s latest offerings (Praised Be!), freezing my ass off again but liking it because, as you may have noticed, something is fundamentally wrong with me. And I was thinking about how unfair it is that Mr. Northman has gotten all the hot press here on my blog while Jerry’s gotten none. Yes, there are two of them, web dwellers, and they couldn’t be more different.

Jim Morrison. For those of you under 30, it's like having an Eddie Vedder fixation if Pearl Jam were just a little bit more awesome. Mmmmm. Eddie Vedder....

Jerry, as my friends call him, lives far away, just like Mr. Northman. And he has a fairly healthy love of sexting and naked Skyping, just like Mr. Northman. But that’s where the similarity ends. Where Mr. Northman is the embodiment of sex, music, and poetry – kind of my personal Jim Morrison fantasy but without all the hard drugs, massive personality disorders, or leather pants – Jerry is the brooding romance novel hero if that guy were a CEO. He’s a full-on alpha male of the confirmed bachelor variety (but, luckily for me, not the gay kind). He’s completely career-oriented, vehemently single, remarkably confident, and one of the sexiest men I know.

The flip side with Jerry is that he wants what he wants and always expects to get what he wants. Part of me really digs this. He’s demanding and never doubts that he’ll get his way, yet he’s calm about it and quietly powerful. He’s actually quite a lot to handle, but I get off on it because, as I said, something is most definitely wrong with me.  

This is the REAL Jerry Rice, and he is in no way affiliated with my blog, so there. Now he can't sue me, right?

The girls call this anti-Northman “Jerry” because he lives in San Francisco, and so they started referring to him as “Cathy’s San Francisco Treat.” This morphed into Mr. Rice-A-Roni, and then Mr. Rice, and then to the most famous Mr. Rice: Jerry Rice. So, now he’s Jerry. When he’s being a fuckwad, which happens (told you, he’s broody), they call him Schmuck-A-Roni, which makes me laugh so hard I usually forget why I’m mad at him in the first place. Or that may have to do with the fact that when I’m with my girlfriends, we’re usually drinking martinis or mojitos, and that doesn’t hurt either.

Jerry asked the pussy question during our very first phone conversation (this, after many, many instant messaging chats that had gotten increasingly heated). He was the first guy to ask me this, so I was caught a bit off-guard when it came up. My immediate response was fairly unsexy. It was something like, “Really? That’s what you want to know? Huh.”

Ok for tattoos. Not for nether bits.

Maybe I’m just not with the times, but I honestly don’t spend much time thinking about how my pussy looks or wondering whether I have enough of a bush to shave a 49ers logo into it, so long as it’s not so out of control that you could braid one into it. And I’ve never worried about whether I need a Brazilian wax so there wouldn’t be a single hair south of my equator. Maybe it’s because when I last dated, I never met a guy who wanted to spend time with his mouth any further south than the Promised Land, never knew anyone who wanted to let his lips venture further back to my … well, to my ass. I’m out of metaphors, people. Sorry. I mean, what the fuck? When did ass-crack-licking become a thing? Am I the only person who finds this completely not sexy at all?

If I were a porn star, I’d buy stock in Pfizer.

I don’t know about y’all, but that shit just does not fly with me. No pun intended. Ok. Maybe a little intended. And I’m not even talking about anal sex here, gang. If that’s your thing, rock on with the butt fucking. Whatever floats your boat, you know? But having someone’s tongue up where the sun don’t shine just seems really fucking disgusting to me. Case in point, Mr. Northman sent me a link to a porn video he likes, and I watched about three minutes before this naked Barbie Doll stuck her own fingers in her own butt and then sucked on THE SAME FINGERS like it was remotely sexy. I turned off the video and said something to Northman along the lines of, “Does this video come with a Z-Pac? Because I feel like I’m going to catch some sort of bacterial infection just watching it.”

There is not enough Purell on the damn planet to make me ok with this.

Northman assured me that the video got better at about 7 minutes in (It did, but I fast-forwarded the hell out of that thing to get to the “good part,” and it was a loss anyway because I was so grossed out already) but in the moment, I was kind of thinking, “How could it NOT get better? How could it be worse?” I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birkenstocks, people, I’m all for sexual experimentation. But I’m more for the kind that doesn’t ensure I’ll wind up with a staph infection. Ugh. I need to go rinse my brain with Purell and maybe get a new laptop because, all of a sudden, this one feels really dirty.  

Leave your comments here ↓, “follow” me over there →, and remember to “like” Confessions of a Sexy Mom on Facebook so you never miss any of this crazy shit ever again. Oh, and tell your friends! You might win a new iPad 7 if you do! And you’ll have 159 years of bad luck if you don’t! Sarcasm, web dwellers. It’s how I get shit done.