Tag Archives: vajazzling

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.

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?

The 12 Hours of Christmas: Because I don’t have time to journal for 12 days, people. You get what you pay for, and this shit is free.


So I’m baking holiday cookies before all the blue-hairs descend on us. I’ve got my hands covered in raw-egg-infested dough (which just gives me the boo-hoo-jeebies), I just realized I’m out of powdered sugar, the oven is beeping incessantly, and I burned the shit out of my favorite kitchen towel with the little chickens on it. As I’m opening the oven to put in the next batch of job security for my aerobics instructor, my five-year-old comes tearing ass through the kitchen on a tricycle, buck naked, using one hand to drag along a broken doll stroller with a football strapped into it, singing “Snape, Snape, Seeeeeberus Snape, DUNGLEDORB!It’s 8 a.m.

Puppets rule.

I don’t even know why I bother with the whole cookie-making deal, and I said as much to the checker at the grocery store while I was getting powdered sugar and a bottle of Patron. Both of these purchases have to do with the cookies, but only one is strictly called for in the recipe my girlfriend put on Facebook to shame me into baking. “Oh,” said the perky checker, “It’s not about making cookies. It’s about making memories with your children!” Really? Which part? The part where I say, “That’s hot! Don’t touch!” sixty times a minute? Or maybe the part where my kids lose interest four minutes into the prep work and take off on me to play Super Mario so I drip egg goo all over the floor and yell at them to, “GET BACK IN HERE AND MAKE SOME FREAKING MEMORIES WITH YOUR MOTHER!”? Or the part where I give up on cookies and decide to make rum balls because then I can drink while I bake and it’s totally a necessary part of making sure I have the right ingredients? Fuck. It’s only 10 a.m.

So, the kids are off at playdates, and I can get some work done. And by work, I mean, I can sit here and type random crap for you people (you’re welcome) while procrastinating and trying to ignore the scent of the demise of my favorite jeans wafting from the oven. Why can’t cookies be thin-ening instead of fattening? Why can’t we get caloric credits for what we DON’T eat? Considering how much effort it takes not to eat a dozen snowman cookies an hour, you’d think it would at least count for something. If I got credited 10 calories for every 100 calories of ChrismaKwanziHanukkah treats I don’t eat, I’d be in my really-really favorite jeans by now, and it’s been so long since I wore those that they’re actually acid washed with ankle zippers, but if I could get into them I’d wear the shit out of those skinny fuckers. And you would too. It’s noon, and now I’m hungry.

Before I pick up my kids, I have to run to Target. Again. Last week the manager told me that if I increase my monthly average shopping time by just another 37 minutes, I’ll get my own designated parking spot and a pimped-out cart with my name vajazzled on the handle. Or that could have been a dream. But probably not. Anyway, I make the rounds through Target and get a good look at Middle America while I do so. If what I see at Target is any indication of where we’re going as a society, we are fucking doomed, people. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 2 p.m. and I really need to pee, but it will have to wait because I’m afraid to pee in Target in case my cell phone rings while I’m on the toilet and I have to answer it because it’s important but then the person in the next stall starts answering me like in a bad SNL skit and then I’d have to tell her to shut up and then I’d have to explain to my client/friend/grandma/lawyer that I’m peeing in public while talking on my cell. No thanks. I’ll hold it.

Back at home, my kids are quiet. Too quiet. I wash more heebie jeebie egg plasma off my hands. Twice. And then I go in search of mischief. It doesn’t take long to find it. Kid #1 has built a fort by completely disassembling the bed and is playing under the mattress. Kid #2 is naked. Again. And now the oven is beeping. Again. It’s 4 p.m., people. And I am fucking tired.

I spent some time reading in the mattress fort, which was actually pretty damn cool, and later I draped my naked kid in a big tee-shirt for finger painting. We cleaned up all our messes (and by “we” I mean “mostly I”), then bagged and boxed up dozens of cookies and brownies and all sorts of other crap “we” made today, and then started the evening routine: Wash hands. Eat dinner. Wash bodies. Eat cookies. Go potty. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Read a story. Read another story. Go to bed. Come out. Drink water. Go back to bed. Come out. Go potty. Wash hands. Go back to bed. Come out. Beg for snack like a stoner at Burning Man begs for special brownies. Go back to bed. Come out. Get told to go back to bed. Claim to just be coming out for a hug (they learn early). Get hug. And get kiss. And get another hug and kiss. And some Eskimo kisses and tummy raspberries. And some tickles. And another tucking in. Go to bed. Snore. It’s 8 p.m.

Bonus Hour 8-9 p.m. (Don’t say I never do anything nice for you people.)

Fuck you, Sue. You stole my Northman glee.

I texted Mr. Northman to see what he was up to, mostly because the only adult conversation I’d had all day was with the damn grocery checker, and anyone that cheerily stupid doesn’t count as an adult. He texted me that he was getting in the car, and I really love to fuck with him, so I started texting him this really fucking sexy story about what I’d do if I were sitting there in the front seat with him. I mean, I know he can’t read it while he’s driving, but he can hear the little “bloop!” every 20 seconds, and he knows exactly what that means. So, yeah, I’m fucking with him a little, but that’s only because I’m not actually fucking him, seeing as he lives so damn far away. Plus, he really likes it. So, I finished the story and laid down on the couch watching Glee. But it was mostly about Sue, and I can’t fucking stand her, so I fell asleep before Mr. Northman got home and responded (enthusiastically) to my sext-y story. Yeah. Nice for him and all, but all I got out of it was sore texting thumbs and a crick in my neck from sleeping on the damn couch.

Merry Christmas, web dwellers. I’m off to Target.

Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies (a non-PMS-driven rant)


I got divorced last year and slowly (really, really, slowly) started working my way into dating. And by slowly, I mean I started messing around online because I couldn’t justify spending $60 on a sitter for my two kids so I could go meet losers at a bar.

Interestingly enough, my Facebook email inbox started filling up quite a bit when I changed my status to “separated” after my ex and I decided to go our separate ways. So I’ve had some fairly safe territory to traverse in dipping my toes in the dating waters, because some of the guys I’ve been flirting with are guys who had crushes on me 20 years ago and are hoping for a second shot. Gotta say, for a mom who hasn’t had sex in oh, say, four years, that feels fucking great.

So, after 10+ years of marriage, a couple years together before that, and now another initial year of single-ness, it’s been a good 15 years since I’ve dated. And you know what I noticed right off? All these guys seem to want to know what my pussy looks like, and they all pretty much assume it’s shaved or waxed. What the fuck?

Ok, backing up. It’s not like I got a bunch of Facebook emails that read, “Hi. I see you’re single again. So, how’s your pussy?” Ah, no. But the few guys I’ve gotten reacquainted with enough to have any kind of sexy conversations have all ultimately asked the pussy question: Shaved? Waxed? Landing strip? And to that I say, “Shaved pussies are for pussies.” And here’s why.

If men can’t handle that women aren’t life-size, naturally hairless, anatomically correct Barbies designed solely for them to fuck, then I say, fuck them. And not in the good way. Women have hair. Now, am I some kind of Amazonian Pussy Bushwoman? No. But I also don’t see a need to try to make my vagina look like it did when I was 12. I don’t want to fuck anyone who wants all my girl parts to look like girl parts. These are WOMAN parts, and they’ve got fuzz.

WTF, people? And in a recession, no less?

Maybe it’s the Internet. Porn is so damn, uh, handy, these days, it’s gotten a little homogenized, and it seems like every porn star waxes her vajayjay and/or emblazons it with piercings and Swarovski crystals. Well, you know what? That’s fucking disgusting. Sure, it makes for better filming when people aren’t getting pubes in their teeth, but you know what? That’s what’s better for make-believe. In real life, sex works better when the people having it actually know one another’s names and addresses too, so there’s one point for reality.

I am not a porn star. I’m a strong woman, a busy professional, and one seriously devoted mom. I don’t have a personal assistant, a maid, a trainer, a chef, a driver, or a nanny. I don’t have time for weekly manicures, electrolysis, root touch-ups, extensions, highlights, anal bleaching (how is that even a thing?), or bush-scaping. You know why? Because I’m a normal fucking person who works her ass off taking care of herself and her kids. So, that’s it: If you want to fuck me, you better be pretty damn happy I have enough time to shave my freaking legs, let alone keep Muff City in decently trimmed condition.

Here’s the other thing: I know men are pretty visual creatures, so asking for some imagery isn’t too bizarre a request, but it’s really impractical and kind of stupid. A bush can always be whacked. But stretch marks, c-section scars, and post-nursing boobs require a hell of a lot more effort (and money) to change. So, yeah, I get that guys want to envision this porned-up little haven for their dicks, but the truth is, whether a woman waxes her lady bits is probably the last concern they should have. I’d make it a rule that I’ll never have sex with someone who asks the pussy question before having a pretty decent chance at actually finding out for himself, but I’ve been celibate long enough and making that vow would pretty much mean I have to start ordering Energizers for my Jackrabbit in bulk.

So that’s it. There’s my first rant. You’re welcome. You’re also welcome to post your own rants and questions. Let me know what you want to talk about. The floor is yours.