Women who decide to get involved with married men are stupid, opportunistic, gold-digging whores. I would, however, like to think it takes some sort of calculated smarts to wind up in an $11 million mansion with two small dogs (bill footed by Charles E. Phillips, co-president of Oracle).

Maybe it takes being smart to wind up on Oprah after your affair with a Presidential candidate goes sour.

Maybe it takes absolutely no sense at all because who in their right mind would fuck this guy? He always seemed to have two chicks going at once.

Serial adultery? Ladies, it’s time to wise-up and once again put on your big girl britches instead of leaving them on some married guy’s floor. I’m straight-up exhausted with all of the media talk about who’s boning who and whether it’s in or out of wedlock. Guys have screwed around as long as they’ve had the twig-n-berries setup and women…well, they’ve been screwing around just about as long. It’s always “news” to air out the dirty laundry of others and, quite frankly, I can’t blame the leader for latching on to Tiger like a bucking bronco.

I’m blaming the women.

What the hell are you doing?

Hello…I don’t know if you noticed, but that’s a married man. That means, at home, he has a wife, children, obligations. He may be a horny fucktard and cry about how his wife never listens, but if he wants license to go get some strange, he needs to cowboy the fuck up and get unhitched. And you, missy – you need to put your legs together and stop thinking about fun long enough to realize he’s not yours to touch. If you need a zipless fuck, go hit on the obviously single guy at the end of the bar who’s been ogling you all night. Take him home, bone his brains out and give him a wrong number the next morning. Remember when you took your classmate’s favorite marble and the teacher found it in your desk? Same concept. These are not the marbles you’re looking for. Move along.

It’s NOT glamorous to be a mistress

If you truly think it’s exciting to be involved in a covert affair with a man who will never go out in public with you and never leave his wife for you, you’re stupid. Completely stupid. I understand that mistresses throughout the ages have reaped financial benefits untold, but you’re still a home wrecker. Eleanor Herman, author of Sex With Kings (HarperCollins, 2004), reports that some royal mistresses received financial compensation up to $200 million. It’s generally not so glamorous in this day and age. Let’s take a little slice-of-life glimpse at the life of a mistress:

Watch your boyfriend/married man/fuck buddy who’s never going to marry you roll out of bed at 4:30am so he can rush to the gym to shower before heading to work where he’ll call his wife on the way and blame everything on the Johnson case. You get dresses and head to the office. While on the subway, Cute Guy With Bike glances at you but you glance away since Mr. I’m Not Leaving My Wife/Boyfriend wouldn’t take kindly to you seeing another man even though he’s seeing another woman. His wife. Go through your workday. Girlfriend calls to ask you if you want to double with your Mr. Mystery Man and her new BF. You decline, claiming late hours at the office when it’s really that, well, you can’t have a double date. Ever. Text comes late in the day. Mr. I’m Not Leaving My Wife/Boyfriend can’t make it to your place tomorrow night – he’s sorry but he has to spend some time at home. Flowers arrive at your office thirty-five minutes later from HIM. You smile. He really does love you. Colleague walks by your desk and knocks flowers off the corner, vase shatters on the floor. You call the janitor to come clean up the mess and busily scramble to save every blossom from the man who loves you so much. You head home. After staring at a pile of haphazardly arranged flowers and downing about 1/3 bottle of vodka, you decide to sleep. Alone. He’ll call tomorrow.

I acknowledge completely that the home may already be wrecked, but if a man tells you he wants to be with you and won’t leave his wife, he’s an asshole. Move along.

Stop acting all self-righteous

I don’t know nor do I care to know what went down to end the 8 year-long affair between YaVaughnie Wilkins and Cisco co-president Charles Phillips. Except…he wasn’t going to leave his wife for her. For fuck sake, girl – you got to live in an $11M lily pad and probably paid for nothing for 8 years. Take that cash you stashed and what’s left of your pride and move on. Not only have you wrecked your career and credibility, you look like a jilted psycho hose beast for putting up billboards and setting up a website to expose photos of you and your ex-lover. You fell with your legs open into a married man’s bed. You sleep in the bed you made…and now it’s empty. You can be pissed all you want, but the only one who looks like an ass…is you.

If faced with the decision to tumble with a ring-wearin’ dude (and even if he’s “progressive” and doesn’t wear a ring), here’s a few things to take into consideration:

• He’s married.
• He’s NOT going to leave his wife for you. They rarely do.
• Nobody owes you anything for the stupid decision you made in the first place to climb into bed with him.
• Why would you ruin your life for a man?

YaVaughnie Wilkins was far from working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when she met Charles Phillips. She was interning for fame financial analyst Mary Meeker at Morgan Stanley, a gig that business school kids would give their left nut to score.

Here’s what you did: you met a powerful man who thought you were a hawt young thang. You are – I’ve seen the pictures all over the internet. You slept with him for 8 ½ years and now you’re pissed it’s over. Guess what, girly: he owes you nothing. Relationships end all the time (don’t I know it) and if you’re too stupid to get a cohabitation agreement…which you probably wouldn’t get because your relationship was on the down-low…then Mr. Phillips owes you zippitydoodah, getoutofthehouse. You put yourself in the position, now you’re out of it. Way to waste what’s estimated at $250,000 for the high-profile billboards and website.

You’re not famous. You’re notorious. And pretty much a psycho hose beast.

This isn’t going to fix anything

Serial adulterers like Tiger Woods, New Gingrich (ew), Charles Phillips, and more politicians than I can count will always be around. One may even be living next door to you – they’re not necessarily high-profile, big swingin’ dicks. If you’ve ever been on Match.com and seen the relationship status “currently separated” on a profile…

that means STILL MARRIED. Right? Am I right here?

Some people have affairs as a catalyst to end things. Others do it for the excitement. I know those who have done it because there’s nothing so sexy as to have someone actually listen. And then there are the very few people out there who have the capacity to have successful open relationships. I’m not wired that way, but hey…I see that it can work. I can’t dis it. But I can say that if you’re a stupid woman who gets involved with a married man in the hopes that he’ll leave his wife for you…oh, honey. I’ll hold you down and Miss Manners can bitch slap some sense into you.

Do you really believe, in all honesty, that any person in an unresolved relationship (ummm…like MARRIAGE) has the emotional capacity to sustain an additional emotional relationship? They already straight-up suck at the one they’ve got going on and you think you’re going to be the panacea to make everything right with the world? It’s like being in the path of a snowball rolling downhill: sure, you’ll get caught up in it for a while, but it’s going to leave you dumped at the bottom of the hill or crashed into a tree. You’re simply in the path. You’re not THE path.

Wise-up, ladies. Go get your own man.

Post from: Toy With Me

Serial Adultery = Serial Stupidity
A Woman Takes On Stupid Women

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Back when I rode a dinosaur to school and The Internet was brand-new and dial-up cost approximately six-thousand dollars a month, as young teenagers, we used to dick around in chat rooms. My girlfriends and I were morons, so what we’d do when we were looking to fuck around with people was to try and see if we could get anyone to cyber with us.

I don’t actually know if people have cyber sex anymore because I haven’t visited a chat room since 1996, but the way you’d start is to randomly go in and be all, “you wanna cyber?” Or if you were REALLY fancy, you’d say, “a/s/l?” That was for “age, sex, location.” The people on To Catch A Predator would have had a field day with us, except that none of us were serious and no one drank Zima.

Most of the time, people realized that we were probably about 14, so they ignored us, but occasionally we could flush out an Uncle Pervy to be stupid with and it was pretty fun. As a bonus, it taught me to talk really dirty, which is something you can really never learn too much about.

Also, I’m sure some of you who HAVE 14 year olds are probably flipping out right now, so let’s just pretend that I said that I was actually 24, okay? Or 34, if that makes you happier. As much as people were all “THE INTERNET IS SCARY” no one certainly ever showed up to our houses with a butcher knife OR a twelve-pack of condoms and lube.

Later, came internet dating, something I didn’t actually know much about. I’d never really had much of a problem getting dates (SHOCKING, I KNOW) so I’d never considered trying to find one online. Maybe I would have had I not been married young, I can’t be sure. Anyway. When internet dating first made it’s debut, I remember it being a big fucking deal.

Like, if you were going to meet someone From The Internet (always said as though they weren’t a real person), you had to have a twelve-step back-up plan and all sorts of check-in points along the way: “First, I’ll call when I get into the car, and then if he doesn’t have a knife or an axe in his back pocket, I’ll call again. Then YOU call and FAKE an emergency and I’ll tell you if he has a sadistic gleam in his eye and looks like he’s about to chop me up into a meat pie tonight. Dinner should take an hour at the VERY latest and after that, I’ll pretend to need to call my mom to check in on my dad and if I’m still alive after that, I’ll call you on the ride home.”

If you found someone off the NEWSPAPER Personal Ads, you were golden, but the very second that it was from The Internet, well, boy, it must be a SERIAL killer you’re meeting. Don’t get me wrong, I know The Internet can be creepy, but so can the newspaper. Luckily for all the online daters, it became more socially acceptable with time and people stopped acting like meeting someone from The Internet was akin to drinking formaldehyde.

The Internet has made parenting ‘tweens and teenagers tricky, I’m learning, because according to the FEAR MONGER segment in my local news, there are a lot of Uncle Pervy’s out there. I’m not denying it because, hell, I write a sex column and my own blog, and you should SEE some of the search terms I get. MySpace and Facebook have made many parents very nervous because, well, you can sort of pretend to be anyone, and the thought is that some older people can pretend to be younger people and then somehow trick them into revealing their locations. No doubt, it happens. Of course it does.

I can’t really get too up in arms about it because at some point I have to just teach my children how to handle these sorts of things and hope that I’ve taught them well. It’s not that I don’t -or won’t- worry, it’s just that I can’t really stick them in an airtight box for the next thirty or so years. Mostly because they’d die because I’d forget to water them and stuff. I get it, though. You don’t want your kids exposed to that sort of scary stuff unnecessarily and The Internet is rife with weirdos and horse porn and weirdos MAKING horse porn.

The first time that Your Aunt Becky has actually raised slightly concerned eyebrows at something on The Internet, though is when I found out about this new site called Chatroulette. It’s a video instant messaging site sort of like Skype, that hooks random people up to chat with each other via web cam. Either participant can leave the chat at any time by pressing a key. In theory, that sounds sort of fun, I guess, although by “sort of fun” I mean that I’d rather shove a fork in my eyeball than do that, but if I squint, I guess I could see why OTHER people might want to do that.

But my internal radar is going all “DANGER, DANGER, DANGER” because that just sounds…well, bad. I’m sure that this is a mark of me getting old and boring and (more) crotchety than normal, but damn if that doesn’t sound like a bad fucking idea. There is a “you must be 16 to use this site” disclaimer, but even then, who abides by that?

And what kid who really can prepare themselves for the onslaught of naked penises, men beating off and high school-like rejection at a click of a button? There are some SCARY penises out there. Certainly at 29 years old, I am pretty immune to people rejecting me, but I can’t imagine how that would have bothered me when I was younger.

But maybe it wouldn’t have bothered me at all. Maybe I’d have laughed off the Uncle Pervies who asked me to show them my tits. Maybe I’d have done it and laughed about it later. I’ve always liked how The Internet connects people from all over the world, and this is about as personal as it can get, so maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe this is the New Internet Frontier and I’m just an old fart who is scared of change.

Either way, I’ll be sitting at home, eating my pudding, watching Matlock and cursing at those damn kids on my lawn. OH WAIT, those are my damn kids.

I’m officially screwed.

Post from: Toy With Me

The Internet Scares Me

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I actually have a Queefie (that’s what I call my blog readers, just so you know) whose husband will not allow her to own a dildo.

I know, right?

Around these parts, that’s like pooping on Jesus!

And when I read that, I was like “he won’t let you what now?”

I didn’t even understand what she was saying, because it’s so totally out of the realm of my daily reality it about knocked my universe all into a kerfuffle. I always thought a chick who liked a little t-o-y action was a good thing, and I thought all men thought so too!  Isn’t a woman who enjoys her body and enjoys sex and has no hangups about getting herself worked up into a lather pretty much the hottest thing a guy could imagine?  I’ve seen an assload of a little porn in my day, and about 80% of it starts off with a girl treating her body like an amusement park before the guy gets there!

And here’s the new thing you’ll learn today: people have been dildo-ing it since back in the upper paleolithic day, (I had to put my glasses on to write that part.  They make me smarter.  I don’t know why) so masturbatory tools are hardly a new thing us modern people invented to get our rocks off (HA!) and our knickers in a twist.

Not only does my husband (modern-day caveman that he is) promote and condone dildo usage, he goes so far as to purchase them for me now and then.  A while back, he picked out a glass one that’s actually very nice: smooth, clean, and hard–what more do you need?

Lately we’ve been thinking of moving on to a stainless steel number because we’re all about being dishwasher safe around here (message to the Toy With Mes: please, please, please toss any stainless steel toy reviews my way! Even though the speculum my pimp gave me as a present may be stainless steel, I’m really looking for something a bit less gynecological).

The first time I went to an Athena party, my husband about peed his pants with delight and started jumping up and down, clapping his hands and squealing like a little girl. Then, he handed over a check with $1,000 written in the amount box.

Or maybe it was $100?  I can’t remember the exact amount, but it was a very enthusiastic check.  He also provided me with a list of suggestions.

So obviously, when my dear Queefie told me this problem she’s having with her husband, I was shocked and even a little bit angry. That’s probably because I had The PMS at the time, but I was pissed at him for telling her what she could stick in her hey-nanny-nanny because really?  Husband or no, it’s none of his beeswax.

Amiright?

I mean, is she allowed to use tampons or do we have a problem with that too?  How about a finger?  Is it ok if it’s HIS finger, but not if it’s HER’S?

Don’t get me wrong, Toy With Mes– I’m not trying to slam her husband here.  I’m sure he is a perfectly nice man.  Everyone is entitled to a little jackassery from time to time.  In the case of my dearest husband, the jackassery is pretty much a default position, but at least he never tells me what I can and cannot do.

To me, it sounds like this lady’s hubby might be suffering from jealousy and insecurity that he might be replaced by an object, but whatever.  I fell asleep pretty often during Freshman Psych so I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.  Don’t judge.  It was at 7:30 AM!!! Try doing that with a hangover!

Or maybe he’s got one of those Madonna-whore complexes and can’t stand to think of his wife as someone who would–GASP–masturbate!

Or maybe he’s scared she’s going to chase him around the house with it and try and use it on him?  Even worse–maybe he’ll enjoy that! THE SHAME OF IT!

Don’t worry dude.

A little bum play doesn’t make you gay.  You can scratch your balls and forget to brush your teeth from time to time and still enjoy a little assical action.  It don’t mean a thang, brotha.

Hey, I stick things in my bum, and I’m not gay!

(HI MOM! Please remember that I’m your least disappointing child! )

Anyway, being a gal with a big ol’ bottle of wine and a mind of her own, she went online one night and bought herself a new friend despite her husband’s objections, plus she got a bunch of other stuff that they could share just to smooth his feathers a little bit.  That was a very nice diplomatic move, so yay for her!

But!  She says she’s nervous about the package arriving in the mail.  How is she going to break it to him?  Should she hide it under the bed?  Should she fess up right away?  Should she take her new best friend and hide her love away in a hotel room somewhere? Should she give him the Tony Danza and show him who’s the boss?

I don’t know, but these are the only suggestions I can come up with because I’m not a sex advice columnist. I’m…I don’t even know what I am and that’s why I need you Toy With Mes today. I need your input because we have got to help this poor girl have a come to Jesus meeting with her hubby. There’s still hope!

Please feel free to put your suggestions and/or totally non sequitur dildo stories in the space provided below.

Post from: Toy With Me

My Friends Husband Is A Dildo Nazi

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Do you see the sacrifices I make for you Toy with Mes?

You’re welcome, but if I start looking like I have mange, it’s on your heads. Get it? See what I did there? Heads? Hair salon?

High five!

Anywho, a few weeks ago, my husband, daughters, and I went to the salon together. My husband needed a haircut, I needed my bangs trimmed, yada, yada, yada we went there. And everything was going nicely with my husband’s haircut, until the salon owner’s two twenty-something sisters walked in. They kind of took over the salon as if it was a bedroom rather than a place of business–tossing coats and bags wherever and grabbing styling equipment from stylist’s carts and so on.  One of the stylists asked the blond one if she had gone tanning recently, she answered in the affirmative, and proceeded to STAND RIGHT BEHIND MY HUSBAND AND TAKE HER SHIRT OFF.

Yes!

She did!

I can’t believe it either!

There she was, standing behind him in her bra, inspecting her tan lines and primping her bangs in the mirror where he was sitting.

Close your mouth.

There are two other mirrors in there. One of them didn’t even have anyone sitting in it, so clearly she chose the one he was in for a reason.

I searched the room for evidence that somebody else noticed this and that I wasn’t hallucinating because really? Who does that? It would have been weird even if the place had been full of women, right?

Eventually, Bra Girl put her shirt back on, but then she put her hands in her pants and pulled them down her hips to check the tan lines there, and then she lifted up the bottom of her shirt and postured in front of the mirror, showing her belly with her hips jutted out.

All of this was in my husband’s mirror.

And then she grabbed her blackberry and started loudly reading text messages from guys telling her how nice her body is, and then she went over and sat in another girl’s lap!

Call me Prudence McPrude, Mayoress of Prudytown if you want to, but wasn’t that a little bit…inappropriate? I felt like I was in the dressing room of a strip club.  And there I was in my big ol’ down coat (it was 23 degrees outside, y’all) with a baby on my lap, holding a wholesale club sized jar of peanuts my husband insisted on bringing in with him (?), and trying to keep my 4-year-old from climbing all over the other customers, while some skankasaurus got ready to give my husband a lap dance.

Maybe I just don’t understand what was happening there because we didn’t study sluttery at my school, but don’t you think that most women, if they were so inclined to do such a thing in the first place, would sort of refrain from doing it in front of a dude’s wife and children? Isn’t such behavior normally relegated to oh, I don’t know…private? Or something?

Don’t get me wrong Toy with Mes, I don’t think of myself as an insecure or jealous or prudish wife by any stretch. My husband looks at pictures of naked ladies all the time, he’s an avid consumer of all things porn, and he (jokingly)(I think)hits on my friends.  I’ve even caught him with binoculars in the back yard “birdwatching” in the dark.

None of that stuff particularly bothers me, but this incident at the hair salon really stuck in my craw, and it has nothing to do with him. He was just sitting there getting a haircut when hi-jinks ensued. Sadly for him though, and this is just his luck, he didn’t have his glasses on and he can’t see for shit without them, so he didn’t even get to enjoy the show. What a raw deal!

I really do feel sorry for the poor bastard because it’s been years since I’ve been a guy, but from what I remember, you almost never get see some chick’s goodies without having to tip her afterward, or slip out the door before she wakes up. (Just for the record, I’ve never been a dude.  Or have I? No, I haven’t.  OR HAVE I? You’ll never know.)

When we got to the car, and I could! not! wait! to get to the fucking car,  I was all “can you believe that girl was standing behind you in her bra?!?” and he was like “Is that what happened? I didn’t see anything! I didn’t have my glasses on! FUCKIN’ A!!”

The wife in me is completely satisfied at how things turned out, the friend part of me is totally bummed that he didn’t get to see some tits on an ordinary Saturday afternoon, and the mom part of me was horrified that my husband just taught my daughter to say “fuckin’ A!” That shit’s gonna come around at random playback at just the wrong moment.

I’ve been so confused about this incident that I’ve told the story to just about everyone (the guy at the gas station wanted the salon’s address, btw) to get their reaction.  I mean, is she really that comfortable at her sister’s salon that it seems cool to undress in front of customers, or is she that big of an ignorant pig or…or a slut or…what?

When I told this story to my neighbors, Roland and Bethany, their teenage son, Horatio, told me that all the sisters in that family are total sluts.

So, there ya go.

Question answered.

Slutbag.

So, anybody got the number of a good barber shop?

Post from: Toy With Me

Sluttery At The Salon

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Disclaimer:

The Las Vegas Review Journal just reported that Male prostitution is officially legal in Nye County, Nevada and the Shady Lady Brothel is leading the way. You’d think that in a state where vice rules and a state motto of “what happens here stays here” that the stud scenario would be a no-brainer. Not so for all Licensing Board members it seems.

Both  Nye County Sheriff Tony DeMeo and County Commissioner Butch Borasky Both take issue with the decision.

Their argument: the health implications of the male-for-hire scenario haven’t been adequately addressed.

My argument: these are two guys who look one step away from Phil Donahue and the creepy Colonel from Boogie Nights (after they throw him in the slammer). They’re two guys no one wants to fuck and they’re bitter about some random stud in their county getting paid to dole-out action.

To quote the article:

DeMeo is worried that female customers won’t — and maybe can’t — be subjected to the same sort of pre-sex examinations that men undergo in most of Nevada’s legal brothels.

As a practice, DeMeo said, prostitutes wash their customers and check them for signs of disease before getting down to business. Without some similar procedure for female customers, he said it could increase the chances of someone contracting a venereal disease, even with the use of a condom.

“I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t think anybody else does either,” he said.

Seriously? DeMeo obviously knows fuckall about women.

We love to be pampered. Taken care of. Nurtured, and especially in the sexual sense. After a day of being a type A personality, I’m ready for some TLC and submissive behavior. Let’s have a bath. Wash me. Touch every square inch of me (even if it’s under the guise of affection, we know it’s an examination). Chicks dig baths. Hot guy wants to give me a scrub-a-roo? Where do I fling my clothes?

While I appreciate what the Shady Lady’s doing, I’m not one for indulging in cash-for-cunnilingus. As open as my words are, I’m fiercely protective of my sexual play and require intimacy to feel open and expressive. I’m fairly sure that’s something money can’t buy – at least for me. While I won’t contend that I haven’t partaken in the occasional zipless fuck in my 37 years, I do know that it’s not what I’m looking for from here on out. While I’m supremely fortunate to be in a relationship that is –exquisitely permissive – with regards to my needs, wants and kinks, I figure there are some out there who need a little extra something (or someone) to get them through.

Me? I’ll stick with my Private Dick. I’ll also tell DeMeo and Borasky that they should look at the statistics regarding STDs and protected sex and give you guys the upside to studs coming to corral in Nevada:

Fantasy

Whether male or female, we all have fantasies. If we can pay to have our tits done, tummies tucked and teeth whitened, why can’t we pay for the fulfillment of thoughts that linger in the kinky crevasses of our minds? For women engaging in a male-for-hire scenario, there’s a lot to potentially fulfill. For the power broker gal, exploration of the submissive. For the timid, the opportunity to be in control. For the lesser-experienced, the chance to explore new territory with a “guide.” I won’t deny that I think the UPS man is sexy in his run around town browns…I have no doubt that it’d be entirely possible to live that one out with some advance notice, too.

The Forgiving Threesome

Some couple wonder what “a third” would add to their sex play. A brothel with studs offers up a multitude of possibilities. For a guy wondering what it would be like to watch his girl with another guy – the stud is safe. A no-strings, no phone number scenario where he remains king while his queen gets her just desserts.

For the woman, she can indulge without threatening her male partner’s role. She also has the opportunity to safely let him explore any male-male contact in his fantasies (should the stud be willing).

For both, it’s the chance to try a kink on for size with no strings attached. Pat for play and go on your way.

Acceptance

Prostitutes are a special breed. The good ones are likened to Geishas and courtesans, sought-after companions who are more than just sex, but thought, spirit and body combined. Why is it so foreign a thought to think that women would seek out a companion-du-jour? Some days just suck and it’s great to have someone there. Studs offer women what call girls and kept women have offered men for ages: a captive audience in exchange for a fee. And it doesn’t even have to be sexual. Sometimes we just want you there. To talk. Conversation is a fantasy in and of itself.

As I’m quite content with my bedroom door closed and mind open, I’m curious to hear your thoughts about the new livestock on the block at the Nye County Fair.   I’m really interested in your feelings on Nevada’s new boy toys.

Ladies: are they a service you would use? Why? Why not?

Men: how do you feel about prostitution? Have you partaken?

Post from: Toy With Me

Male Prosititution Comes To The Brothels OF Nevada

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I’d read the rest of the magazine, too, because it cost me four well-earned dollars (I was a waitress, and let me tell you, I worked hard for my money) and sometimes I found the articles worthwhile, especially the dating advice and celebrity gossip, but mostly, it irritated me. I wanted to like it, you see, because it was a magazine designed for my age bracket, but it managed to annoy me more than anything else. The magazine seemed to be the same stories repackaged with different covers every month, which made me wonder if they simply switched articles around every 18 or so months.

How To Please Your Man

But the magazine confused me, because while it was supposed to be a magazine written for women, really, it all appeared to be about how to please your man. While I was always always happy to learn new and exciting ways to titillate and thrill my man in the bedroom, I felt like at least SOME of the magazine should have been devoted to how to better please MYSELF in the bedroom as well. You know, how better to have an orgasm, maybe a frank discussion of how some women don’t achieve orgasm from penetration alone, and some tips on how to make the Big O last longer. That’s what I wanted to learn more about.

A Drop Kick To The Weenier

After I started dating my future husband, The Daver, I realized that most of the articles that I’d poured over when I was younger that translated what “he was really thinking” were kind of bullshit. Because most of the guys that I know weren’t that backhanded about how they felt. All of their secret guy decoder articles really didn’t mean much of anything. I mean do I really need an article about what his “kisses really mean?” Or maybe “what he thinks when he walks into a room?” Truthfully, I could care less if he thinks my gigantic bag of cotton balls or my love of pink stuff or Hello Kitty paraphernalia is annoying, because I think his habit of leaving his socks around the house is worthy of a drop kick to the weenier.

I was A Size Six, Not A Size “Zero”

The beauty articles I mostly skimmed over because even while I was the target age for the magazine, I was also (for awhile) a single mother with a special needs kid at home who went to nursing school full time and worked as a waitress 3-5 nights a week. I studied in between dropping off plates of food, so it’s pretty safe to say that I didn’t have a whole lot of time to devote to blowing out my hair into the perfect bob every morning before I blearily made my way to the hospital for clinicals. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it’s that I simply didn’t have it in me. So rather than give me pointers, it just made me feel kind of bad about myself. Plus the models were all a size zero and I was a size 6 with a flabby waistline and stretchmarks and they made me feel ugly. Really, why bother with that?

The beauty articles were also laden with ads for the products they were clearly being paid to promote, which always annoyed me because they usually cost a trillion and a half dollars. I’d bought a couple of them only to find that they didn’t even work the way the magazine promised they would. Which, I mean, let the buyer beware, right?

Maxim. Cosmo For Dudes?

Most of my male friends subscribed to men’s magazines, like Maxim, which, like Cosmo and other women’s magazines, featured hot chicks on the cover. The first time that I picked one of those up, I held out hope that it was kind of like Cosmo for dudes, because that’s how they’d described it to me. Maybe in those pages, it would give some tips to guys about how to please their ladies and be a better boyfriend, because Cosmo was always all about how to be a better girlfriend and not nag lest you get under his skin (assumably by painting your bedroom too bright a pink)(I am not kidding). Eagerly, I opened the pages, and while I enjoyed myself thoroughly, I didn’t see a single article about being a better lover, boyfriend, husband, or man. The articles were far more interesting, and I subscribed immediately, but it didn’t seem to be the male answer to Cosmo. I was a saddened. If women needed to learn to be better lovers, so did men. Lord knows I’ve bedded some men who could have used some pointers.

Some Of The Best Sex I’ve Ever Had has Been With Myself

Cosmo clearly needs to get with the times and become more balanced in it’s reporting. It could use a bit more focus on how we women can please ourselves and a little less focus on how we need to please our man. Because you know what? Some of the best sex I’ve ever had has been with myself. Not every woman wants a man and not every women DATES men. And any magazine that suggests that you need to change who you are or what you like in order to date someone else is clearly sending the wrong kind of message. Until they get their act together, I’ll skim the True Confessions and get my giggles at the expense of others. Because who doesn’t love a good story about being busted while having sex in a church? (answer: people with taste)

How do you feel about beauty magazines?

This week we are giving one of our lucky readers a gift courtesy of Astroglide! Tell us how you feel about beauty magazines in the comments below for a chance to win a gift baskest full to the brim of slippery goodness. We will choose a winner Monday January 11th at 5pm EST!

Post from: Toy With Me

Cosmopolitan Can Totally Suck It

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Tiger Woods, right?

Normally, I don’t really give two shits about four shits (I don’t know what that means either) when it comes to celebrity sex scandals ( I’ve got my own sex scandals to worry about, thanks for asking), but everyone is talking about how the Tiger is now a Cheetah or a Cheater or whatever that stupid joke is, and so I guess I will too. I’ll spare you the whole low-down on the show down with the ho down on the down low or whatever because holy crackers it’s a fucking circus! I’m just patiently waiting for the sex tape to come out.

You know there’s got to be a sex tape, right?

Everyone knows you cannot have a right and proper sex scandal without a tape. We can’t be having just a bunch of emails and “sexts.” I’ve read the excerpts and I’m not impressed. Tiger, please. I’ve sent dirtier messages to my mom. So far, you’re an amateur at being a low down dirty dog.

I’m getting sick of hearing about it, to be honest, and if Tiger winds up crying on Oprah, I’m gonna puke.

Or what if the wife does? I’m tired of everyone feeling super sorry for the wife. I was listening to the radio a few days ago and they were talking about her, and one of the disc jockeys, a guy, actually got all verklempt talking about how sad her situation is and I’m just like, OH CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER!

She’s tall.

She’s blond.

She’s beautiful.

She’s got Mr. Tiger Fucking Woods by the golf balls!

Who wouldn’t want to be her? There are three (certainly more) chicks out there just dying to be in her Jimmy Choos.

She’s being offered crazy-stupid money to stay with him. And if she leaves him, the divorce settlement will be unfuckingbelievable. So what if he broke her heart? Go cry in a bag of money. Blow your nose in a $50, and do a rail off the tight, tanned ass of your pool boy. You’ll feel better. Promise.

I think she owes Tiger a great big muffin basket for what he did to her because Girlfriend is gonna be just fine no matter what she chooses to do about her husband doing the bump and run with anything in a skirt. And by anything, I do mean anything. Isn’t one a proverbial cocktail waitress or something? Dude cheated on her with a cocktail waitress? Good fucking riddance, sister. (If you’re a cocktail waitress, I’m sorry but you need a new job. They have a bad reputation, those cocktail waitresses.)

Remember Hugh Grant? He cheated on ELIZABETH HURLEY with some old hooker. The hell was he thinking? Clearly, these indiscretions have nothing to do with the women they’re cheating on. It’s all about the guy being a jackass and thinking he can get away with it because he’s Mister Man.

Why did she even marry him in the first place? He’s always come off as an asexual jerk to me and he’s not even good looking! I guess millions and millions of dollars can turn a geek into a total stud muffin! Who knew?

You can’t tell me she didn’t know who she was marrying. Seriously, what did she expect? All these celebrity jocks have an entourage of sluts. It’s par for the course! (Oof. That was bad. Sorry)

What’s more is I don’t believe that fakakta story about her trying to smash out the window of the Escalade to save his life. That smells of shit to me.

Here’s what I think happened: one of his lady friends called in the middle of the night, wifey got pissed, and there was a fight. She chased his ass out of the house while swinging a golf club and Tiger tried to take off in his car. Hilarity ensues when he freaks the fuck out and hits something. Does anyone here really believe she used that club to try and smash out the window to save his life after he crashed into a fire hydrant or whatever? The dude was in a fucking Escalade! This was not an emergency situation, unless she was trying to beat his head in with a golf club. Then, I guess, it was an emergency.

What crossed Elin’s mind as she stood there with a golf club in her hand as she heard his lame excuses? “Just do it…”

Hahahahahahaha! I got that in an email.

But she wasn’t fast enough, and the po-po arrived. Too bad. It would have been a way better story if she’d have stuffed that club right up his hole in one.

So yeah. That’s what I think really happened. It’s just a hunch, but I can prove it because I just know things.

I kind of hope she doesn’t stay with him because if she does, what is she teaching the kids? I wouldn’t want my kids to know that mommy and daddy are together because daddy pays mommy a lot of money to put up with his philandering bullshit and that mommy and daddy only have Play Throughs once a month to keep up appearances. What is that teaching them about marriage, love, commitment and money? Nothing good, you guys. Nothing good. And I don’t believe all the crap about marriage counseling to try and fix it. There’s no working on your marriage after all this. It’s toast. You can’t take a Mulligan–it’s time to forfeit.

Anyway, I can’t wait for the sex tape to come out and I hope Tiger is secretly a very dirty birdie because then I would know there is a God and she’s just hooking my shit up.

So those are my random thoughts on the Tiger Woods circus. What are yours? Let’s talk some shit!

If I like your comment I may even send you a dildo. Yeah, you heard me me. A dildo. The fine sex toy retailer Eden Fantasys is generously offering a LELO ELLA to one of you lucky perverts. Based on what Toy With Me said when she took the LELO ELLA out for a test drive , you WANT this toy.  Winner will be announced Wednesday December 16th.

Post from: Toy With Me

Tiger Woods Is A Total Amateur

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