Truthfully I wasn’t expecting anything. I lived in a mountainous community in Lake Arrowhead, California for two and a half years as a semi-recluse amongst a lot of retirees, a few hippies and possibly a couple of serial killers (I mean it’s the woods, an obvious place for a felon to hide). You don’t get a lot of attention in that type of environment.

Where sex in L.A. is concerned, you can pretty much apply the six degrees of separation theory. Chances are you know someone who knows someone who had sex with the someone who is trying to have sex with you now. Extreme Example: I was in a relationship with someone who has shared history with Anne Heche. (NOTE: Do I need to say ALLEGEDLY so I don’t get sued by a celebrity? Okay. ALLEGEDLY. Even though I know it’s true. Aaaagghhh! ALLEGEDLY. I can’t afford to get sued by celebrities). That relationship lasted awhile, so imagine how much common ground I would be sharing with this city if I volunteered myself for promiscuity and one night-stands.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not enjoying this sudden dry spell. I like sex. But the last thing I want to do is have sex with a friend or the same person that a friend of mine had sex with last weekend. I have dignity, Damn it! And I’ve observed men closely enough to know what they say about girls who give it up too easily.

Actors in particular appear to operate on a rotational roster. My latest night out with an actor reached its climactic point with his sex-count, or lack of, rather.  He confessed he had stuck it in more than 200 vaginas, but he doesn’t know the exact number because, well, I suppose a vagina is a vagina from his P.O.V. Seriously, how do you even find time for that? Get a part-time job or take up a new hobby. Get your pilot’s license, join a band.

Initially I was taking some of the advances towards me seriously because as always I learn the hard way. Last year, for instance, this man plopped himself at my table at the local coffee shop and somehow convinced me to have dinner with him the following night. Turns out he was trying to recruit me for midget porn. Yep, you read that correctly. MIDGET PORN. So I downed the rest of my martini and left. As I was waiting for the valet guy to get my car, he emerged from the elevator flustered, proclaiming no one had ever done that to him before. What?! Because most women have a natural tendency to participate in porn movies if the opportunity presents itself? My parting words: “You messed with the wrong bitch!”

One of my all time favorite stories is how I ended up at the “hooker hotel” on Hollywood Boulevard. My former lover slash the guy who hooked up with Heche (Allegedly) had a gig down in L.A. and I tagged along because I was going crazy in Lake Arrowhead like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” We had been snowed in several times and I couldn’t be left alone for fear that I would kill something, possibly myself. So we stayed at this hotel, which is part of a reputable chain. At some point I struck up a conversation with a couple in the lobby and as they were leaving, the guy said, “I’ll get you next time.” I was like, huh? The following morning we noticed a pimp counting out hundreds. Eww. So the guy must have assumed I was a prostitute because this particular motel hotel was a front for a hoar house. Awesome. I guess now all I have to do is develop a crack addiction and walk my mutilated heart down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams…all the way to hell.

In more recent news, a guy who I considered my friend (not even. More like an acquaintance) attempted to proposition me via text. References to my pussy and popsicles. Fuck off! Sex is the end result, not the intro. And I take my vagina seriously. My vagina is a Holy Grail, not a truck stop, ASSHOLE. Though random sex texts are probably not as bad as the time an anonymous source jerked off on the door knob to my apartment. What was that?! Was I to supposed to be flattered or offended?

BOTTOM LINE: I just can’t take sex seriously in this city. Unless Justin Timberlake brings sexy back alongside Urethra Franklin’s R.E.S.P.E.C.T. and something shifts or the planets realign, I’m remaining sexless and STD free.

UPDATE: A week after I wrote this post I ended up giving Rod Stewart’s godson a blow-job. I was beyond drunk…and feeling generous. He owns the local hipster bar on Melrose Ave and works very hard. He seemed like he needed one. Still. Save Me! I’m getting sucked into the vortex.

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex And The City, L.A Style

Because frankly, I’m kind of an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart (okay, really, I’m just kind of an idiot). Especially when it comes to the words that just seem to fall out of my whore mouth when it opens up. Let’s just say that there’s a reason I tried to nickname myself “Smoove B” instead of “Aunt Becky.” Maybe it’s not to late.

Anyway, here’s the things you should never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, even when you’re being kidnapped at knifepoint by a couple of foreign nationals to an exotic House of Cheese, say to your significant other. PROBABLY. As always, proceed with caution. Individual results may vary. Driver does not carry cash. Call your doctor for erections lasting for longer than four hours.

“Wow, your penis/vagina looks so weird. Is that normal?”
Even if it’s true, no one wants to hear that their junk looks like it fell into a blender. Most people are awkward enough about what their sex organs look like (I’m not saying that’s RIGHT, Toy-With-Me-ers. Mine happens to be BEAUTIFUL) and don’t need to hear that you’d rather turn off the lights than see them with their pants down ever again. Besides, as someone who has seen their penis (or vagina) up close and personal, it’s likely you’re seeing it from an entirely different angle than they are, so way to give them a complex that will require years of painful therapy to undo.

“Your mother is such a bitch.”
I have a secret to tell you that’s not REALLY a secret: most women don’t get along with their mother-in-laws. Most men don’t particularly care for their in-laws, either. If you’re wearing an I Heart My Mother-In-Law shirt than you’re probably in the minority and should consider yourself fortunate. Easy as it may be to bust out a “man, I hate your mother,” even if she’s bad-mouthing her, too, avoid it at all costs. Why? Family is still, well, family and most people feel some sense of loyalty to them, even if they’re not overly fond of them. Proceed with the UTMOST caution.

“I can’t live without you!”
I don’t care WHAT Hollywood says, that’s about the creepiest sentiment you can say to another human being. Unless they’re giving you plasma. Or a kidney. Because then it’s kinda true.

“I’m still in love with my ex.”
Okay, okay, so there’s the one that got away. Hopefully, not the same one that got his or her car filled up with mud, but it happens. Sometimes feelings persist after the relationship ends. Assuming you’re unlike me and actually have feelings, that is. But no good can come of telling your current flame that you’re still in love with your ex. Unless it’s part of a break-up speech, and then still, OUCH.

“My ex was better in bed than you.”
Some people are better than others between the sheets. Not all lovers are created equal but nothing will drive a wedge between two people like knowing that someone else your lover slept with is better than you. Except for murder. Probably.

“I want to be with a woman who is just like my mother/guy that’s just like my father.”
Nobody wants to date the Incredible Oedipal Freak unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case you probably do. Along the same lines, my advice to you is to never, never ever ask a girl to dress up like your sister. Just, you know, sayin.’

“Yeah, you know what? I do go bowling to avoid listening to you babble on and on about your coworkers.”
Everybody thinks that their stories about their annoying coworkers are endlessly fascinating. They’re not. Typically stories about coworkers are longwinded, confusing and boring, and unless they involve espionage, threesomes or murder, it’s probably not going to interest anyone.

“Is she/he more attractive than me?”
Talk about a loaded question. Since there are approximately three kajillion million people in the world (roughly), there are bound to be at least some people that are more attractive than you. It’s okay. Might as well accept that and move on. Your partner is with you.

“Let’s go watch Twilight!”
Okay, so that’s probably something you never want to say to me. Sparkly vampires make me want to barf.

“We need to talk..”
I’m not sure anything good ever came out of that phrase. Maybe I’m wrong, but in my world, that’s a set up for only very bad things. Like, “I love you,” or “I want my mother to move in with us,” or “can we NOT invite your roommate?”

So, Toy With Me-ers, what else should you never, ever say to your partner?

Post from: Toy With Me

Ten Things You Should Never Say

Oh, and this isn’t an entry, because really, that would be weird.

It may horrify you to know that in my past life, before I was Your Aunt Becky, I was Nurse Becky. Although, actually, perhaps whenever I write about medical things, you could picture me in a sexy nurses uniform, and that might make it all better. But alas, Pranksters or Toy With Me-ers, or whatever I will call you today, I retired from the nursing profession after a few measly months. I won’t bore you with the “what the fuck is wrong with you?” part of it, because it’s acutely dull, but I felt that had to assure you that you will not be treated by Nurse Becky if you were to go to your local hospital. I didn’t want any of you to avoid medical treatment in the fear that you’d find me accidentally hooking up a bag of vodka rather than a bag of normal saline.

Before I quit nursing, though, I rotated through the oncology ward. The oncology ward is where the cancer patients go when they have to be hospitalized for chemotherapy and other assorted cancer-related things. Oncology nursing is a highly specialized form of nursing that requires a fuckton of extra training and certification, which basically makes you a ninja nurse. Had I stuck with being Nurse Becky, I may have gone into oncology nursing because then I would have been NINJA Nurse Becky. But if I’d been NINJA Nurse Becky you wouldn’t have Your Aunt Becky and where would we be?

(shut up)

October is cancer awareness month, and that’s a cause I can totally get behind. Because you know what I think about cancer? Cancer is bullshit. I’m actually making shirts for my other, other site, Band Back Together, that say just that: “Cancer is bullshit,” and giving some portion of the proceeds to charity. I think that doing good makes your ass look hot, don’t you? I’d actually say, “Cancer is FUCKING Bullshit,” but I think that’s a little too profane for even me. So the rest of the world can stand up to cancer, and I’ll call Cancer BULLSHIT to it’s awful ugly face.

So what is cancer (besides bullshit)? Basically, cancer is an overgrowth of abnormal cells that have fucked up DNA. These asshole abnormal cells can infiltrate other tissues. Often, these asshole abnormal cancer cells create tumors, but, Pranksters, be warned that not all tumors are cancerous. Sometimes a tumor is just a tumor (a non-cancerous tumor is called a benign tumor). These asshole abnormal cancer cells can also travel to other parts of the body (this is called metastasis) through the blood or lymph nodes. No matter where the cancer spreads, it is named for the place that it began. When cancer is diagnosed, it is staged based upon how far the cancer has spread. Cancer staging criteria depends upon which type of cancer is diagnosed and the criteria will determine the cancer treatment plan.

I’ve lost two grandparents to cancer. I’ve known countless more people who have had cancer, who have watched loved ones struggle with cancer, and who have died from cancer. Cancer can kiss my ass. Cancer is bullshit.

For many cancers, early cancer screening and early detection of cancer can catch the cancer while it is still in the more treatable aspects of the disease. Breast cancer is one such type of cancer that can be detected early. We all love the boobs and we all want to save the boobs. The American Cancer society recommends that all women over the age of forty with normal risk for breast cancer receive yearly mammograms to screen for breast cancer. Women with higher risks for breast cancer should talk to their doctor about performing more routine mammograms. Mammograms are effective at catching breast cancer at earlier stages because mammograms can view the internal breast anatomy in great detail.

One of the charities that works tirelessly to fight against breast cancer (the research of which will hopefully help all cancers) is Susan G. Komen for the Cure. In 1982, Nancy G. Brinker vowed that she would do everything she could to end breast cancer as she watched her sister Susan G. Komen die of breast cancer. Nancy G. Brinker then launched Susan G. Komen for the Cure, a non-profit organization devoted to saving lives, empowering people, and searching for a cure for breast cancer. Since then, Susan G. Komen for the Cure has ensured that 75% of women receive regular mammograms to screen for early detection of breast cancer. Now, according to the Susan G. Komen for the Cure website, the five-year survival rate for breast cancer is up from 74% to 98%. Since Nancy G. Brinker launched her non-profit Susan G. Komen for the Cure, they have donated $1.5 billion dollars to community outreach and breast cancer research.

For the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Susan G Komen for the Cure, they have taken a look at how far they have managed to come. And the Susan G. Komen for the Cure have decided that they have so much further to go to find a cure for breast (and hopefully other) cancers. The Susan G. Komen for the Cure has redoubled their efforts, refocused their resources and planned to invest an additional one billion dollars over the next ten years. The Susan G. Komen for the Cure knows that without a cure for breast cancer, over the next ten years, twenty-five million women worldwide will be diagnosed with breast cancer. Ten million of those could die. Susan G. Komen for the Cure hopes that in the next ten years, they can get closer to a cure for breast cancer.

Susan G. Komen for the Cure, like Your Aunt Becky, knows that cancer is bullshit.

Post from: Toy With Me

Cancer Is Fucking Bullshit

When I confessed to my best friend, who, at the time, worked in the lingerie department at an upscale department store, that I never wore a matching bra and underwear set, she was aghast. I wasn’t. I mean, I was a single mother working part-time while I put myself through nursing school. I barely had time to shave my vagina, let alone imagine coordinating my undergarments. Besides, while I kinda wanted to date, I wasn’t actively seeking it out, and I figured that any guy that would be uninterested in me solely because I didn’t wear matching lingerie was probably not the kind of guy I wanted to be with. I mean, I had a toddler who routinely pooped in the bathtub, which is about as unglamorous as you can get. Wearing mismatching underwear was the least of my fucking concerns.

But I did let her talk me into coming to visit her at work so that she could set aside some nicer bras and underwear from the sale rack for me. I was cheap and I was broke, but with her discount, I could afford to buy some of the nicer stuff they carried. It worked out really well for me for quite a long time until, eventually, she quit working there, which left me back to where I started: buying cheaper underwear.

Every couple of months, Victoria’s Secret would run their X for $X underwear sale (I cannot bring myself to say “panties” because it’s a word that simply shouldn’t exist in nature. It offends me, which is weird because almost nothing else does.) and I’d hear about it, go in, blow about a hundred bucks stocking up, and then leave. Underwear shopping isn’t something I relish. Coat shopping, diamond tiara shopping, shoe shopping, clothes shopping, yes. Undergarments…not so much. It doesn’t so much make me feel badly about myself, because my ego knows no bounds, it’s mostly that I get pissed off by spending cash on stuff that only a certain subset of people will see.

Knowing I’m wearing something sassafrassy underneath my clothes has never made me swoon, even though all the beauty magazines tell me I’m supposed to. Mostly, they serve a purpose: to keep me propped up and/or tucked in. They’re great and all, and I’m totally pro-undergarments (GOOO BRAS!), but I’m just never able to get excited about spending forty bucks on a pair of undies. Or eighty on a bra. I guess, as I’ve told everyone, I’m just cheap.

A couple of months before I got pregnant with Alex, it was time to do the pilgrimage to Victoria’s Secret to replace my ratty undies. I should have known better. I really should have walked out and come back another time. But since I hate doing the deed and I wanted it over with, I just dove in with the hoards of people who were frantically digging through the sale bins. I’ve never seen Victoria’s Secret so packed with rabid women elbowing each other out of the way for a pair of boring undies, but there they were and there I was. Just looking for some boring Size Small undies. I wasn’t even being particular about the pattern on them like I normally am because I was so desperate to get out of there.

The estrogen level rose as the women clawed over the ugly undies and soon, I was sweating and ready to punch someone in the taco. Finally, I was done and headed to the cashier with my stash of undies in hand. She warned me that I couldn’t return anything with the tags off and we both laughed, talking about the things people had tried to return, because people are fucking freaks. I took my stash home where it was promptly packed into a box as we prepared to move from our condo to our new house.

That box wouldn’t be touched for many months.

When it was, probably a good four months later, I smiled at my good fortune, because finding a boxful of brand spankin’ new underwear is like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old pair of pants. It’s a fucking bonus from the Gods that you don’t expect and when you get it you’re all, BEST DAY EVER!

So I ripped the tags off and threw the lot of ‘em in the washing machine. A couple days later, when my ass got around to sorting laundry again, I saw my fresh underoos and did a happy dance all around my bedroom. New undies, FUCK YEAH! I even remembered to close the blinds so that the neighbors didn’t get an eyeful (I was getting used to the whole suburban thing again)! I was on cloud nine! Nothing could ruin my mood!

I stripped down and pulled the new undies on, relishing how the elastic wasn’t all old and tired and the underwear was just all new and shiny looking and I realized that I just kept on….pulling. Right up to my nipples. I looked like Motherfucking ERKEL from this angle.

Oh, FUCK NO, I didn’t! Horrified, I ran to my full length mirror to see if I had been stupid enough to do it, and my reflection didn’t lie. I had.

I’d bought GRANNY PANTIES. Whimsical granny panties with adorable hibiscus flowers splashed here and there! TROPICAL granny panties! They were the nicest granny panties I’d ever seen, but they were still fucking GRANNY PANTIES and there was no way in motherfucking hell that I could wear them. Sure, Granny is a nice person, but you don’t want to FUCK her!

Please, please, please, please, let this have been the one pair I’d bought by accident, I pleaded as I made a mad dash for the clean laundry. I pulled them all out and one by one lined them up. Each and every pair of underwear that I’d just bought, cut the tags off of and then washed, oh yeah. Every fucking one was a pair of granny panties. Oh hell no. I couldn’t wear these. Ever. I may never be the girl who coordinates her lingerie drawer, and I’ve accepted that years ago, but I also cannot be the girl that wears motherfucking GRANNY PANTIES.

Groaning, as I took them off and pulled on a pair of old undies, and prepared to go back to Victoria’s Secret to buy a new stash (this time I would be the one elbowing other bitches out of the way), I did have to note one thing.

Those granny panties were fucking comfortable.

Post from: Toy With Me

I BOUGHT “GRANNY PANTIES!”

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 instead of trolling sites like The Ashley Madison Agency. 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

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

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

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

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

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