Fuck Jennifer Aniston: Yawn! I'm bored.

It's been like 5 fricking years now and we're still hearing about Jennifer Aniston.  Go away.  Nobody cares that you and Brad Pitt broke up.  You guys were always fighting in public toward the end anyway, and this is way before he even MET Angelina Jolie.  Sure she's a man stealing whore, we all know that, but that's why we love her.  She professes to be nothing else.  But they have kids now, like a million of them buggers and they show no sign of slowing down, and you will always be the one that snagged Brad (and rather quickly too I might add, bravo), but lost him.  The chick that couldn't hold on to him, couldn't keep him on his toes and really isn't as good or as versatile an actor.  Anjie's on his level.  Deal with it, and no amount of John Mayer fucking can change that.  You need an upgrade.  Someone that's hot and young and utterly successful ACTOR like .... for example .... frick ... its kinda hard to top your ex. That's your fucking problem.  And isn't it a little more than weird that you started dating Vince Vaughn, the very man who was there when your husband fell in love with his new woman.  Or is Vince just biggest swinging dick of a stud around.  Sure, Brad, I'll pick up the pieces and fuck your wife, crack a few jokes while you fall in love making a an action movie.  Jennifer Aniston will always be famous for marrying Brad Pitt, which kinda sucks in the women's lib sort of way, and oh yeah, I think she was on some show once that was kinda funny ...

Discovering the Dildo

Have you seen that old Sex in the City episode (and I do mean, old.  Why is that some shows look like they have been recorded on melted VHS tape? They are not aging well) where Charlotte discovers the vibrator and doesn't leave the house for days and Carrie has to liberate her from the house.  I have officially become Charlotte.  Well, not exactly.  It's like this.  I always kind of scoffed at sex toys.  Like they were something that other people did.  Much like to every black girl growing up, blowjobs were something that white chicks did.  Sex toys were for porn stars and shut ins, and though technically, I am neither, I have officially changed my mind.  It was never a shame issue for me, I just wasn't interested.  I used to buy toys for my friends for their bridal showers as sort of an asshole prank gift or the odd birthday, but I never once considered getting one for myself until yesterday.  

Nothing groundbreaking happened yesterday.  I embarked on this dildo quest more out of boredom, a lark, really.  The Adult Boutique beckoning from across the street of my "mountain view" townhouse boasted to have the selection the women wanted.  Yeah right.  I've been to my share of sex shops and truly the best is on Melrose in L.A.  They have some of the weirdest shit in there.  The stuff you can't find anywhere else.  The large sized brushed nickel fist complete with forearm.  That thing is like $300.   That store is in the heart of West Hollywood, aka homoville.  It's bound to have the top of the line in freakery.  The Adult Boutique I speak of is in the heart of the valley, aka pornoville.   This store seemingly legit, clean and tidy catered not to the woman and her needs, but to the heterosexual male.   Nothing could be more boring in a sex shop than a straight frat dude.  To say their selection of faux male genitalia wasn't up to par is an understatement, but they did have some sort of penis chest harnest.  

What is that contraption you say?  Well, it's a strap on penis, but instead of strapping it to your crotch ala girl on girl style or transgendered style, you strap it to your chest.  Why on earth would you strap a fake penis to your chest?  Exactly my query.   It's so you can penetrate the person that you are pleasuring orally.  I know.  I was so confused.  I had to look up the stenciled drawing on the back.  This was a gay man toy and I still didn't understand.  I should have been tipped off by the big naked bear in the chain leather, but no, I had to get the visual.  Oh!  He sits on your chest and you blow him.  It's a menage trois without the trois, it's a menage a deux with 3 cocks.  I'm up to speed now.  Well, that's the only exciting thing I found in the Adult Boutique if you don't count the hooker/stripper combo at the front desk trying to look like a customer and not an employee.  I also noticed that in a red lit doorway they had a dry erase board numbered 1. 2. 3.  with names next to numbers like Cinnamon and Liza.  I imagined a peepshow somewhere between the sanitary version of a LL Cool J music video and those splooge stained booths of Minnesota ala Candy Girl.  I high tailed it out of there.  The counter dude didn't even greet me upon my entrance or exit.  Fuck you whitey.  You're not getting my money.  

Still on my dildo quest, I went to the Romantix up the block.  Hey, I live in the valley.  There are sex shops everywhere.  Actually, all of LA is like that.  Anyway, Romantix is a chain of sex shops.  Legit if you will.  It's like the Hustler Club except its not attached to a strip club.  I walked in the two clerks were like HEY! I'm like wassup!  Now, that's service.  They didn't hover me like a security guard shadowing black youths in Macy's.   They were just like what's up, we like sex too, top of the morning to ya.  I felt like I was in Cheers.  Now, there are variety of dildos, but what I was really after was a vibrator but the step up.  Let me explain.  Dildos are big rubber cocks that do nothing.  You have to do all the work.  It's like a lazy man.  A vibrator is either shaped like a cock or a tampon and it vibrates like a sonic toothbrush or an electric razor.  I don't get it.  The next tier looks like a power drill.  This is where you need to be.  They look intimidating because they're a good foot plus long, but only half of that is penetrable penis.  4 inches of that is batteries and control settings.  The gem of this monstronsity is that the head of the penis rotates perfect for those of us who have a phantom g-spot, the middle rotates a bunch of beads that stimulate the vaginal entrance where most of your nerves are and there's usually some girly animal ala dolphin or bunny or butterfly welded to the front to that vibrates on its own setting for clitoral stimulation.  You can set that thing on blender or hurricane.  

Basically its fool proof climax.  You don't have do anything.  You don't have to think sexy thoughts, watch porn, read romance novels, be in the mood.  You'll come in 3 minutes flat.  It's like a quick and dirty pop song. In and out and on with your day.  Do it when you're stressed, horny, can't sleep or just bored.  The problem is, its so quick and satisfying, you'll want to it again, and again and again.  It's like crack.  Or if you're not a drug addict, it's like fresh baked cookies, new shoes, a new car.  You just want to eat the whole batch, buy one more pair, count down the minutes until you can drive it again.  Just like chronic porn ruins sex for guys; chronic dildo use must do the same for women.  

But don't fear, I'll never give up my love affair with the real thing.  I love the way men smell and feel and they weight of them on top of you.  Occasionally, I like my sex to talk back to me and not just hum like an appliance.  I like to cuddle and giggle and sleep and fuck again.  Things you can't do with something that you can stick in a sock drawer.  Besides, its not the destination, its the journey.

But for right now, I'll settle for the destination.  Oh, yeah, don't get that shit lost up there. 

30 doesn't suck, life does ... well, okay not really

I've been a bad, bad girl.  I haven't been on here in ages.  There is a lot to catch up on.  First of all, I turned fucking 30.  Thirty!  Thirty means never having to say you're sorry. What do I have to show for it?  Not a kid, not a boyfriend or a husband.  Not a career.  All I have is a fucking fake ex-boyfriend with a history of pain, nostalgia, diseased love and what could have been.  Well, its time to shit or get off the pot.  2009 is the year of making dreams a reality.  Jeezus, this is redic.

5 Red Flags that Your Roommate has No Taste

I have the worst luck in roommates ever. I think I am cursed. I am always stuck with someone who either has the personality of a junior highschooler or the party aptitude of the frat boy. Learn from my mistakes and watch out for these warning signs.

1. They hang towels or tapestries on the wall (same as sheets for curtains)

2. Their significant other has no life, no job, no other friends

3. They think neon beer lamps are cool

4. Ditto on lazy susan liquor dispensors

5. They think art is hanging head shots of famous on the living room wall.

Happy House Hunting and Happy Halloween.

September

How on earth did I miss the whole month of September? Here's a recap. I went to Chicago for 2 weeks where upon I "kidnapped" my nephew and whisked him away from the suburbs to downtown Chicago for an urban education. Look Jaylen, here is the apple store, isn't this a wonderful and enchanting place? Doooo they have one of these in Oakpark, you don't say. Here are the lake streets, Ontario, Huron, Erie ... here are the tree streets Chestnut ... You get the picture. Shout out to the guy from the West burbs looking for the Metra on Michigan. I just remembered Randolph is a president street and I should have sent you back a mile in the other direction. My bad. Hope you're not still wandering down Lake Shore. I also went to a wedding in Atlanta where my godsister Arisha flashed my sister with polka dot underwear during the garter toss. Well, at least she had on underwear. And how was your month?