Why do they that call it THAT?

I have a cat. Most people know this. I refer to Piddy Pat at my "four-legged child," and am forever grateful I don't have to worry about paying for college.

I like my cat. Actually, I love her dearly, but I also like her. She's an odd little creature--unbelievably beautiful, independent, loyal, and highly entertaining. (There are two reasons people have cats: company and entertainment. Piddy by no means ever attains the level of pure feline showmanship that the Luckster does, but then, she's female. It's the whole Bast-groove that female cats get on.)

Anyway, cats have no concept of privacy. None what-so-freakin' ever. I have friends who, whenever they try to enjoy themselves, have to make sure the cats are NOT in the bedroom (or wherever they happen to be hoping to shag) because the cats will come and watch. One of them purrs in encouragement. The other... well...

I deal with a similar issue, although I am currently without a partner (sort of. Long story. Potential Paramour is heating up and may have to disappear from the blog; we shall see), my sex drive is that of a cat in perpetual heat.

*sigh* You know that whole "sexual peak" thing? Considering what a ridiculously horny kid I was in high school and early 20's, I had really hoped that the whole "sexual peak" thing would be a case of hit the peak and slide down into the oblivion of mentalpause.

No such fucking luck.

A woman's sexual peak is supposed to happen around 35. Now, maybe I'm just a late bloomer, but every time I think I've hit the peak and have started a lovely slide into the valley, I find myself on top of another mountain. Now, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Not necessarily. The problem comes when you can't find a partner who can match your desire levels. And your kink levels. Yeah. I mean, I don't need it to be a porn show--for fuckssake, I LIKE TO FUCK! Just good, plain, old-fashioned fucking--kiss, feel up, get hot, strip each other, go down on each other, explore a bit, and then, LET'S FUCK! Slide it in, go to town, both have a good hard cum, cuddle up, and sleep, wake up, suck, repeat.

That works for the daily routine (with the occasional blow job in the car, shag on the couch, anal in the shower... stuff like that, y'know?). It's the "healthy diet" part of the sexual relationship. The kink.. the kink is the hot fudge sundae, the prime rib, the lobster... the $100 bottle of tequila... it's the treat that reminds you how much fun life really is. It can't be the daily diet because your body and mind can't take that level of stimulation all the time--like a really fatty diet which will enlarge your waistline, liver and cause other horrible things, kink all the time isn't good for you.

MY OPINION.

Wanking is a necessity. I don't care if I'm in a relationship (I think I actually masturbate more when I'm with someone because I'm constanty aroused); I need to get off on a regular basis. I need for my body and brain to explode and not be able to anything but moan and shake for a few seconds that feel like eternity, and honestly, that rarely happens with a partner. This is not (necessarily--using that word a lot today) his fault. Sometimes it is--if you're fucking a selfish prick who doesn't give a shit, then yeah, it's his fault for being selfish and yours for putting up with him--but most of the time, it's just that you know your needs beterthan he does.

So I get myself off on a fairly regular basis. I don't need a man to make me late for work; I have toys to help there. I also have a cat who feels the vibrator is a competitor for Mom's attention and affection and feels she needs to remind me that she has a nicer purr.

Picture this: lying on the bed, vibe on the button, hands on the nips (or one hand on a nipple and the other holding relevant literature), the big build is coming, finally got just the right image to send me over... and I open my eyes to find myself nose-to-nose with a confused, slightly hurt kitty who wants to know why Mom has allowed something else that purrs in her bed.

Yeah. There is a reason I call her my four-legged child. And, like someone with kids, I have learned to compensate. I have found a way to balance the porn, play with the nipples, keep the vibe in place, keep the fantasy in place, and soothe the insecure kitty, while still managing a mind-blowing orgasm.

What can I say, I am multi-talented. I am.

Once the vibrator is turned off, Piddy fucks off and leaves me alone to enjoy the rest of my wank. I don't use a vibrating dildo, so she's OK with it. That part just confuses and annoys her, particularly the thrashing, so I get a little privacy there.

So this is my question: WHY THE FUCK DO THEY CALL A WOMAN'S VAGINA A "PUSSY"?

I don't get it.

I mean, I have a pussy--she weighs six and a half pounds, is covered in soft, silky fur, hates being wet, and purrs. Usually, she smells good. I have no clue what my cunt weighs, it has hair that will never be called silky unless it's been rubbed with a massage bar, and is only really happy when it's wet. About the only thing they have in common is that I try to keep it smelling good and the muscles toned.

There is no physical resemblance. Cats are beautiful creatures... cunts are... well... I think they're ugly I mean, I'm not a lesbian. The first time I was faced with the prospect of going down on a woman in my wilder, younger experimental days, my internal reaction was, "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. That thing is NASTY!"

A cock is a beautiful thing (especially a cut one)... lovely velvety skin at the tip, veins, ridge... lovely to taste and touch and play with. A cunt... I get why some guys don't like to give oral sex. Not all women are exacting in their hygeine. The smell... not always lovely and enticing. If you've eaten the wrong thing lately, it can definitely make a difference in the taste, and one should keep flossing in the bathroom, nuff said.

There is no mystery on how to operate a cock. (Well, no mystery for me. Every man has different likes and dislikes, every man has a different little spot that will make him go wild, but the basics are the same--lick, suck, swallow, repeat steps one and two, and spread.) Operating a cunt... every woman is different. I know this because of the techniques guys have tried on me that have made other women go insane, and just made me want to throw up and throw him out.

Little point, gents: nipples are for sucking, clits are for licking. Remember that, please, if ever you present yourself for Your Empress's pleasure.

The way I discovered that I am probably the straightest woman on the planet is, after the first cum happened during a two girl threesome, after she'd eaten me, my reaction was, "Was that all?" I mean, I was expected to be satisfied.

I wasn't.

I mean, it was nice--felt good, appreciated the effort and all--but I had three holes, two of which really needed filling. NEEDED. Not just wanted, NEEEEEEEEEEDED.

Made me a bit cranky, and was glad it was a threesome because he was hard and ready. I think I hurt her feelings a little (not that I cared at that point), but I made it clear I wanted him and wanted him NOW.

I'm a simple creature.

And there's the other reason I have a problem with the cunt being called a pussy--cat's have zero patience. Anyone who has a cat will tell you, a cat has NO CONCEPT of later--they're like kids that way. A cat does not say, "meow." A cat says, very clearly, "NOW!"

A cunt, however, must be patient. That's where we have the advantage over men--a cock shows when it's wanting, visible for the world. A cunt, tucked safely within its folds, does not (at least, if you're wearing clothes).

What a lot of people forget is that, when we're conceived, we have all the building blocks for both sets of sexual organs--it's why we get hermaphrodites. When the chromosomes sort it out and the sex is determined, you either get ovaries or testicles (which means we all have balls), both get holes (one is just actually useful for more things than fluids and marking territory).

What happens to the erectile tissue becomes the interesting part.

See, with men, it gets spread over the head of the cock, and depending on how a guy is shaped, that can be a lot of real estate. And, with no exceptions that I've encountered (although I'm willing to be educated), the head is the most sensitive part, and if you know what you're doing, it's the only acceptable, popular and desired head game in a relationship.

*insert rimshot here*
Wait, I thought we were talking about...
GET ON WITH IT!

For women... NOT so much real estate. Instead, all of that erectile tissue is concentrated into a little button, a tiny knob, that, like a uncircumcised cock, has some protection around it, and when excitement ensues, it becomes engorged.

Yes, guys, women get wood.

And it's annoying! I walk around most days, and if I was a guy, I'd have been locked up as a deviant by this point. Seriously! And it happens for no discernible reason that I can figure--I mean, the beat of the song is correct, and all of a sudden, *BING* Hello! Someone's awake!

It's annoying, dammit, because it's not like it's exactly easy to take care of it. Not like I can just casually reach down and rub it off for a bit--it takes me a while! And after a while it just starts to ache, and I get that glazed look... I swear, I'm not on drugs, I'M JUST FUCKING HORNY!

And I still don't get why they call it a pussy.

Oh, wait... yeah...

NOW!

Sluts & Studs - The Other Side

Anyone who's talked to me lately has heard that I've finally bitten the bullet and started doing stand-up after years of dreaming about it.
Yep, The Empress has returned to the stage, and this time, she ain't spoutin' Shakespeare. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.
I'm the first person to admit that I need a good swift kick in the arse sometimes to get the fuck out of my own way. The past year has been a fresh slice of hell in so many ways; in others, it's been amazing. Aside from a lot of hard work on my issues (/end pity party), the final inspiration--that "good swift kick in the arse"--came from seeing a stand-up show on HBO, and since seeing "I Swear to God," I've managed to turn more than a few people on to Jim Jefferies.
I'll post later in the week about his comedy and why you should check him out (especially those of us feeling the unfilled void left by the loss of George Carlin, that glorious, cranky old fuck). This post is about me (hey, it's my blog, fuck off if you don't like it) and my shit.
See, I don't find Jim's stuff offensive, or even particularly revolutionary. What I dig about it is that he's saying the same kind of crazy shit that I do--the same stuff I've been writing for a long time. If you've read One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, you know that I'm the Empress of Rage--so utterly fucking fed up with stupidity and idiocy that I don't allow myself a gun because there'd be a trail of corpses every time I'd get behind the wheel of the Blue Bomber, most of them in Cambridge. Obviously, it's not THE SAME, but it's in the same vein--reflections on the foibles and follies of our own lives and the stupidity of the world. Oh, yeah, and the utter lack of concern about offending anyone, including (and especially) family and exes.
Allow me to throw a quote at you:
"They are the abstract and brief chronicle of our time. 'Twere better to have a bad epitaph than ill repute in their mouth whilst you live."
Now, Hambone is talking about The Players--the traveling troupe of actors that arrive in Elsinore, temporarily lift his depression, and allow him to expose the guilt of his mother-fucking uncle. I've always used this quote to make it clear to anyone and everyone that my life is fair game for my art--good and bad--and that's the price of being a part of my life. I actually told the most recent ex that the relationship would not appear in the act, but once it was over, it was all fair game. Needless to say, the adventures of the past week--the meeting at the beach, the adventures in the sex shop, the shopping trip... yeah. It's going to make for a GREAT story. *insert evil laugh here*
Let this be a lesson to the gents in the audience: DO NOT be a cunt taunter. Women are far more vicious than men about sexual frustration.
I don't believe that guys don't realize that cock blocking goes both ways. For fuck's sake, do you think we don't want sex? You can deny us, too. (Case in point: this past weekend. *growl* It should be illegal to promise a woman her ultimate fantasy, go through all the work of assembling the gear, and wuss out. )
So, in response to the phrase "prick tease," I am introducing the phrase "cunt taunter" to the lexicon. It doesn't have the same flow, but it's the best I've been able to come up with, and I've been trying to find a female version of this for 25+ years.
Yeah, I'm old.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c110c75202/sluts-vs-studs

To go on... and the reason I invoke the title of one of Jim's regular bits as the title of this blog post... In his act, Jim Jefferies declares that, "It's easy to be a slut; it's hard to be a stud." (And as a Boston, I love how "hard" comes out as "hahhhd" in the Australian accent. Warms the cockles of my heart.) The bit goes on about the fact that he's been in the business too long to enjoy "nice girls," and how nice girls are shit in bed and why. All of it, honestly, truthful.
(There's a sadness in his face during this bit in "I Swear to God," a sadness that breaks my fucking heart. Probably because I know exactly how he feels from the other side. Another reason I am so seriously up about this guy--he's a fucking amazing storyteller. Funny, profane and brutally, viciously honest. At the end of both of his DVDs, I wanted to comfort him and fuck his brains out. Now that's talent!)
He also makes a lot of cracks in interviews and as a part of his act about his own promiscuity and encounters with STDs ("I may be the only man on the planet to high five a doctor after being told he had cancer.")
It doesn't detract from his sex appeal. Seriously--I'd do him in a second, and I have incredibly high standards (it's the laugh- and intelligence factor. Show me a man who can make me think AND laugh... insta-aphrodisiac).
Well, I'm going to disagree with Jim. Not on physical grounds--he's right there. It IS harder for a guy to be a stud in the sense of fucking a lot of women and fucking them well. In the physical sense, it IS easier for a woman to slut around. There's no guarantee of quality--you just have to be there and make the holes available. A little enthusiasm and good lubrication doesn't hurt, either.
Where it's harder for a woman to be a slut--in the conventional sense of having a lot of sexual partners and enjoying it--is in the price she pays in self esteem. Never mind the exposure to disease, the risk of violence and abuse, and the risk of losing fertility. The price you pay is in self esteem because honestly, men are fucking hypocrites.
Women are bitches--absolutely. Judgemental, evil, catty cunts, the lot of us. (Something else I have in common with Mr. J.--I do love that good, old fashioned Anglo-Saxon cuss.) Men, however, are even worse. Prissy, stupid and judgemental. Gods forbid you show a little enthusiasm in the bedroom (living room, kitchen, backseat, movie theatre...). Gods forbid you enjoy giving him pleasure because if you do, you instantly cease to be a "nice girl" and become a "dirty slut" in his eyes, and there's no love in the term.
I stopped dating "my own" (i.e. Boston Irish bogtrotters) because of this--because I couldn't relax and be myself with them. I stopped a lot of things for a long time because I was so fucking sick of being judged.
I'm tired, kids. Sick and fucking tired of hypocrisy. Tired of men who want the world and when they realize they could get it--or at least a goodly part of it--they run away because, hey, you can't be real.
I hid my profile on POF yesterday because after this weekend, I just don't have the heart for it. I'm done. Done with being honest and getting lied to and fucked around. As I held my baby cousin yesterday, it was all I could do not to weep because I know it's something I'm never going to have. Somewhere, somehow, that opportunity's been lost. There's a new guy who's flirting with me, but I really don't have any hope for it. He's a "nice guy"--and nice guys can't handle sluts.
And yeah, I embrace the label. I LIKE sex. Sod that, I LOVE sex. Sex is the happiest thing on the planet, the only time I forget how utterly stupid and hopeless life is. It's the only time I'm NOT pissed off at the world. And I like all kinds of sex (except the lesbian version. Sorry, girls, does NOTHING for me, and yes, I experimented when I was younger and made sure)--vanilla, rough, BD/SM, kinky, whatever! And I've never understood why anyone would judge someone for their sexual practices or preferences (except for pedophilia and beastiality--leave the kids and pets out of it, you scumbags). Whatever passes between two consenting adults passes between those two consenting adults. I don't understand the shame factor.
Because, honestly, I don't have any when I'm with a partner. I don't. If it doesn't feel good, I make adjustments until it does, or we try something else. Problem solved. Somehow, I missed out on the shame thing, probably because I educated myself about sex all those years ago and avoided all the Catholic bullshit. All these years later, the only regret I have is that I didn't have more of it (and that I ever allowed EdWad to suck me into his vortex of soul-sucking horror. Thank the merciful Gods for antidepressants).
And I'm willing to accept that there's something missing from my moral makeup. I don't have a problem with that assessment. There's nothing missing from my ethical makeup, and that's what really matters. I accept that if I play, there's a price to pay, and it's up to me to be sure that the price is minimal. I accept responsibility for myself and my actions--no excuses, no bullshit.
I also accept that I probably never will get married, probably never will have a family unless it's by accident or by some grace, there actually is a man out there who can accept me. It hurts... Christ on a crutch, it rips the heart out of my chest to think I'll never hold my own child and look up into the eyes of my partner and see the wonder and pride and love there for the miracle we've created together. There's always a chance, but I'm not holding my breath. I have my work and my art. Who knows? I may make a success of this writing and comedy shit. You can't have everything in this world.
I wish I had something profound or at least funny to end with, but this isn't a particularly funny post.
Time to sign off and get my shit together--dialysis run coming up and then off to open mic. Tequila, take me away.