too smart and too horny for her own good
I’m not really a church/god kind of person. Thanks to the many open-minded people in my life, it is rarely an issue. Today one of my favorite coworkers (to be known as Bible Boy) accidentally let it slip that he thinks anyone who doesn’t believe in Jesus is wrong.
Wrong? Did he really just say WRONG? Didn’t his mother ever teach him “to each his own”? WHAT BLOODY BOLLOCKS, BIBLE BOY.
Today I mingled with one of my favorite pieces of man-meat, who happens to be the cockiest son-of-a-bitch at the office.
I found him irresistibly fuckable.
Why the hell is that? Why do girls like me (i.e. who know better) get wet over cocky SOBs like him? As someone who has been there/done him, I can explain–and in NSFW detail.
The other night I watched the movie Knocked Up. After the lovely Katherine Heigl sleeps with Fugly Dude, she wakes up in the morning to his pale fat ass in her bed. [See video clip here, bare ass at 0:30.]
Yeah. I know that hairy man-ass moment all too well.
There have been many hairy man-asses in my day. This was why I stopped bringing guys back to my place. Nothing sighs casual sex like finding a freakishly long pubic hair on the bar of soap in your shower. I trim. Ain’t no way that shit is mine. Who does it belong to? Mr. Harry Man-Ass.
The last few weeks it seems like all I do is work, work, and then work some more. How intellectually titillating. Rub my brain harder, oooh, just like that! Stimulate me! Yes, yes, keep going!!
My brain is going on over-drive, which is not wise when The Pussy is running on empty. When I work all day, work all evening, then dream about work all night–I start to feel unappreciated as a piece of ass.
No girl should ever have to feel that way.
While out jogging last night I crossed paths with Doggie-Style Guy, the hottie I met the night before. I was completely surprised when I saw him because in a large apartment complex you can easily go a month without seeing your next door neighbor, let alone some random guy on the other side of the building. Of course the surprise didn’t end there, because then there wouldn’t be enough of that goddamn drama which has been so prevalent lately.
Since it seems that nothing is going my way with guys lately (including being on the wrong end of phone tag), I’m going to write this post about Doggie-Style Guy two ways: the way it actually happened and the way it should have happened, which would be with me sweating from multiple orgasms, not just multiple laps around the complex.
Here’s what really happened:
Having dogs is a great way to meet guys. Of course these guys are often married, but you can pretend in your head that he’s checking you out (sometimes they actually do) and is trying to muster the balls to ask for your number (sometimes they actually do, ick).
Then every once in a while, life throws you a boner.
Before you shriek in terror at C-U-Next-Tuesday and minimize your browser window, hear me out.
I dig cunt. The word, the sisterhood of fuck-me feminism, slipping my fingers inside, and all those other things cunt embodies–I feel it inside and out.
Cunt is not something I will ever be ashamed of. Many people try to take it away from me with disapproving finger-shaking or a snarl of contempt, but fuck that shit. It’s not about what they think. It’s about me, and let me tell you sweetie, I love my cunt.
This is the third iteration in my Nympho Statement. They are different every time. Long. Just because you’re born a nympho it doesn’t mean you naturally know how to wear it. But now? Now I wear it with ease. Which is why my latest Nympho Statement is one of the shortest posts I’ve ever published.
I am a nympho. I always have been, and always will be. A lot of people don’t get that.
This is about me and my sexuality, my sensuality, the fucking essence of who I am. This is not a “slut” thing or an identity issue or an intellectual matter. It’s just me, pure and raw.
[Take your hand out of your pants. This is not another steamy post. This is about what went through my head after all the sex.]
We lay panting next to each other. I closed my eyes. My hand lay palm-up on his sweaty chest. His hand rested on my leg. We stayed like that for ages, taking it all in. Our breathing slowed to normal. The music was sexy-slow, perfect. Neither of us spoke. I savored the faint scent of his cologne clinging to my skin, the delicious taste of sugar-coated sex on my lips. The sensuality of it all saturated my senses in a way I hadn’t felt since I was experiencing a guy for the first time.
At that moment I felt the sea-change from down deep. It washed over me and cleared away all the muck that had been collecting for so long.
I was in quite the sexually objectifying mood today. Every attractive male specimen who walked past me, whether a co-worker, boss, client, or messenger, was an unknowing victim of my dirty dirty mind.
See, there’s this little secret about women from the South. Sure, we like our men to hold open the door and say gentlemanly things, we act all lady-like and shit, but hidden just below the surface we say some things that are so improper and downright foul that we can make sailors blush.* And then beg for more.
We look at men as sex objects. In fact, we’re probably worse than men. We’re a bunch of fucking pigs. It’s just that we don’t get caught. At least not until we want to be caught, preferably with our panties down around our ankles.
A few examples from my very busy day of sexually objectifying men while I was at work:
One of the happy things associated with Valentine’s Day is The Vagina Monologues.* [see an excerpt here] At universities all across the country at this time of year, girls put on this performance written by Eve Ensler. It’s fun, enlightening, sad, and funny as hell. I saw it nearly every year I was at college because it was so different, so electrifying from year to year, even though the monologues stayed the same. Years ago I had the honor of meeting Eve Ensler, and I was delighted to see that she was very much the sparkplug I had imagined.
So instead of harping on Valentine’s Day or going on about the glory of National Singles Awareness Day, I’m going to pay tribute to The Vagina Monologues with my very own Pussy Monologue.** My pussy definitely has a voice, and she speaketh with great authority and ferocity.
He called me the next day.
That, like, never happens. I’ve heard about it, but I thought it was one of those urban myths like female ejaculation (oh haha silly me! ok I just wanted to brag. I know that one’s not true. Twice).
I’ve never cared that much about the guy calling the next day. The way I normally do it, I get his number so I can be the one calling the shots. And that starts by never calling the next day. (See that, guys? We know how to play the game too.)
*18+ Only Please*
I'm Vix, a 27 year-old Texan. After 18 years of private education and 3 degrees, I'm trying to leave the corporate world behind to become a sex/humor writer and novelist. I'm sexy, funny, ugly, raw, and entirely real-- because there's more to me than being a blowjob queen.
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