The Over-Educated Nympho

I’ve met many guys who have named their cocks. Sometimes the name is normal, or at least not weird, and sometimes the name is very very weird. I shared one of my favorite WTF stories as the Friday Fellatrix on The Fellatrices blog, a site dedicated to all things blowjob. I figured I’d mix it up by throwing in something funny among all the hot and sexy.

Check out my latest post, Marco? Polo!

For those of you have encountered many a strange wang name (or named yours something special), please share it with us in the comments over at the Fellatrix site.

This evening I went over to The Marine’s apartment to “not watch a movie.” Without being cramped into the front seat of a car, we were able to have a lot more fun. Now let me just say–

Wow. The Marine has the biggest cock I have ever seen in my life. When he pulled down his boxers my jaw dropped to the floor.

Continue Reading »

Since I feel guilty for not providing any giggles lately, here are links to some old posts:

Keep Your Happy Memories Away From My Soft Drink
Three-Quarters Out The Office Door
Look At Me Look At Me oh shit THEY’RE LOOKING AT ME!
and one of my all-time favorite posts

*if you want to know what inspired the random title of this post: for whatever bizarre reason, this song has been stuck in my head for the last hour. Hmph. I don’t need to be an Oscar Mayer wiener for everyone to be in love with me, silly boy. I can just take off my clothes instead.

Some days I’m feeling sexy and so I write about blowjobs or threesomes. Other days I’m feeling funny so I write about dating or the skeeze-bags who want to buy my underwear. On a really good day I hit the snark just right and out comes pure bitch-gold. Then there are the times like tonight when I find myself ankle-deep in shit water in my bathroom.

As if standing in shit weren’t bad enough, it was my own shit. MY SHIT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO TURN ON ME.

Continue Reading »

One of my favorite silly indulgences is Bridget Jones’s Diary, in both book and video format. Hey don’t judge. I know one of you jackasses out there has Varsity Blues in VHS, DVD, .avi, and mini-disc format, so shove it up your bum-hole. Any-sodding-hoo. This post is written in the style of Bridget, the proud queen of singledom herself (um, if you ignore the crying).

8:05 a.m. Wake up late. Way late.
8:06 a.m. Don’t care.
8:20 a.m. Drag ass of bed, pretend to care about making self presentable for a bunch of corporate fuckwits.
8:32 a.m. Eat chocolate cake for breakfast while get daily dose of snark and consider calling in sick on grounds that I’m really fucking sick of work.
8:52 a.m. V. late. Leave for office. Drive bare-foot until find spare set of shoes in back seat. Think about inner poise. Oh bollocks, shirt buttoned wrong.

Continue Reading »

As a single person in my upper twenties, it royally pisses me off when some snot-nosed coworker or relative asks me the dreaded question:

“If you are so [choose all that apply:] ____great ____funny ____sweet ____charming ____good-looking ____successful, then why are you still single?”

I’m guessing that the first thing that comes to mind is “so annoying assholes like you can ask me this question and I have reason to verbally if not physically bitchslap you back to your good sense.”

But that’s not very nice. Shame on you. Your answer should also be snarky:

Continue Reading »

For the last several months I’ve had my eye on a certain guy who frequently comes into the office. He’s cute in that dorky-but-grew-out-of-it way. And he wears glasses. Sigh. I’m a total sucker for a guy in a good pair of glasses [see? girls do make passes at boys who wear glasses]. He also looks like a corporate version of The Russian, which is enough to get me so fired up I forget how to do math.

He had been coming around the office for a while before I found out he was a client. Dude. Our clients are never that young or hot. All this time I had been letting my sex eyes peek through and then it turns out he’s one of our biggest clients. Great. Way to be professional, you dumbass. Oh well, it’s not like we’ll ever actually speak to each other. Eye candy is eye candy and boy oh-oh-OH boy is he perrrrty.

Continue Reading »

Years ago I had a group of guy friends I regularly went out drinking with. I was the token girl among a group of guys, which meant I was the ultimate secret weapon: the wing woman. No girl ever suspected what I was up to when I came over to ask her where she bought her shoes (they are sooo cute!) and a minute later I pulled one of my guy friends over to talk with us.

It was a great arrangement because they did the same for me, although the ratio of douchebags to fuckables in a bar is frightening. My guy friends were more likely to come to my rescue after two minutes of conversation with a missed target and some very noticeable signalling.

Being wing woman was extra awesome for me because if I didn’t meet anyone, I could go home with one of them.

Continue Reading »

Yesterday I was chatting with a new coworker while we were at the copier. He said something about midgets, I said something about midgets, he laughed so I kept talking about midgets, yada yada he thinks I’m obsessed with midget porn. Since then he avoids eye contact when he walks by.

I knew I should have stopped at midget rodeo.

For the nightly dose of funny, I have revised and expanded an old post called The Fine Nuances in Name-Calling. This is a great guide to use when you can’t decide whether to call someone a dipshit, a fuckwit, or a mindfucker.

I do what I can to help people ridicule others.

The other day I went out for lunch with coworkers to one of those cheap fantastic Chinese restaurants where everything that comes out of the kitchen is totally sketchy and yet so so yummy you don’t care.

At the end of the meal we each took our fortune cookies and read them aloud. Sadly these are conservative coworkers so we couldn’t play the “… in bed” version. My fortune read It doesn’t take guts to quit.

OH MY GOD. HOW DOES MY MOTHER SUMMON THE POWERS OF “I ONLY SAY THIS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU” INTO MY FUCKING FORTUNE COOKIE?!

Continue Reading »

I have a really embarrassing confession to make. Some of you may have already figured this out on your own, and I must thank you for keeping it quiet. I love reality tv. Tonight was the finale of The Seach for the Next Pussycat Doll (BOOO TO ASIA!! CHELSEA SHOULD HAVE WON, YOU BIG MEANIE. LEARN TO FUCKING SMILE.). I’ve been looking forward to this all day week. I even ordered pizza and drank a beer (beer #5 of the six-pack that has been in my fridge since October). Nothing is more delightful than watching beautiful girls get judged while I’m stuffing my face.

[Okay, DO NOT LEAVE YET. I APOLOGIZE SOMEWHAT SINCERELY FOR THE BABBLING. DO NOT NAVIGATE AWAY FROM MY PAGE. (you see the bold font? RESPECT THE BOLD.) I have a point that goes much deeper than my extremely lame adoration for catty crap-tv like The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll and America’s Next Top Model. And since I’m already knee-deep in confessions: I used to watch The Apprentice. Back when it was still good. Now they’re camping in tents or some shit? Even my extreme lameness has limits, yo.]

One of the redeeming and rewarding moments of watching shows of this sort is that you see people going after their dream with with so much heart and determination. It’s admirable. Even if their dream is to strut around in a sequin mini-dress and wear false eyelashes that sparkle under the disco ball (and who doesn’t want to be a drag queen on some level?)–they’re putting themselves out there and trying so hard that my heart aches for them. What’s most inspiring is how some people get so far by sheer determination alone. I watch in awe and wonder if my persistence is remotely close.

Continue Reading »