Posts Tagged ‘sex’

I should let you know that this is going to be a completely self serving post.
In fact, it’s going to  be so self-serving, you could probably call it masturbatory.

You could probably call it masturbatory because it’s about vibrators.

And the quest for the One Bling to Rule Them All.

(Go ahead, try to stop reading now. I dare you.)

I have a serious collection of sex toys. You might even call me a sex toy geek. I collect sex toys much in the way that I collect geek gadgets. It’s just that my collection of sex toys is such that it required me to buy a miniature trunk to put them in. Which is interesting because I don’t have enough of any other geekery to require they have their own storage space.

Rabbits, dildos, plain, fancy, remote, rechargeable; lotions, potions, loud, quiet. I’ve tried them all.

Some I tried because I heard great reviews. Like my first rabbit. I loved my first rabbit. My first rabbit and I spent a lot of quality time together. Until it died. Oh, stop looking at me like that. Yeah, I killed my rabbit. It wasn’t waterproof. I didn’t realize it would need to be waterproof until after my rabbit was introduced to my g-spot. Sue me.

I have a waterproof rabbit now, in case you were wondering.

I also have a We-Vibe. Trust me, you do not have to be a ‘we’ to appreciate that little gizmo.

I’m not going to show you my collection, you pervs.
I’m not that kind of vibe-geek.

I’m also not going to review them.
I don’t have to.

The terrific ladies over at Toy With Me have already done sex toy reviews.  In a very stellar manner.

So what, you may ask, is this fucking blog post about?  It’s about fucking.  Myself.
See? Masturbatory.

Toy With Me is holding a contest, you see.  A contest… to win…

The One Bling to Rule Them ALL.

What is this Bling, you may ask?  It is the Jimmyjane Little Gold vibe.  And this self-serving post that you’re reading right now, well it gets me ten chances to win the One Bling.

Why would I want to win a 24K Gold vibe, you might ask?  Why the hell not, is my question.  I have pretty much every other vibe out there.  It’s not like I wear jewelry, so gold generally isn’t something that I’m interested in.  But vibrators?  I told you.  I’m a sex toy geek.  And as such, I would be remiss in not getting myself a few more chances to win…  The One Bling.

It’s a gold vibrator people.

Yeah.

It’s my blog, and I’ll masturbate all over it if I want to.

Wait, what?

You’re all pervs.

I have a vagina, and I'm not afraid to use it.

If you would like your own chances to win this little golden flick-it, click on one of the links and check out the contest.  Go forth and comment, like, tweet and blog.  Their post, not mine.  Sheesh.  If you enter, you will cum.  Or something like that…

I don’t personally suffer from writer’s block. ~ David Weedmark

I read this sentence in a post this morning.  The first thing I wanted to do when I read it was to call up the smug bastard that wrote it, and give him a piece of my mind.  However, after careful consideration, I realized that I have precious little of said mind left, and it would probably be for the best if I selfishly hung on to it.

I do suffer from writer’s block.  There are times when I’m not writing, and I’m perfectly comfortable doing so.  Ideas float in and out of my mind, and when they float out, I let them.  I’m sure that they’ll eventually come back around again, and I am content to let them stew until they become something more palatable.

But the times when I feel compelled to write, about anything… and then all that happens is I wear a hole in my backspace key?  Yeah, those can be a little frustrating.

And besides, I already have holes in my ‘a’, ‘e’, ‘s’ and ‘n’ keys.  I really don’t need any more.  And before you go off thinking that there is a reason that those keys are all busted, there isn’t.  If it were any more than a coincidence, there would also be holes in my ‘i’ and my ‘m’ keys from all of the times that I randomly practice my affirmations.

I am sane…
I am sane…
I am sane…

By the way, all the people that tell you that affirmation shit works?
Based on my example, they are clearly liars.

Where was I? Oh, right. Writer’s block.

The thing is, I have ideas about what I want to write.
I have loads of ideas.
I’ve got ideas coming out my ‘a’ hole.
On the keyboard, people.

It’s just the ideas are all sleepy and soft. It’s been hard to flesh them out. Getting a firm grasp on what’s been caressing the recesses of my mind has been something of a job.

Was that subtle enough for you? Did you like that?
You’re all pervs.

Welcome to my world.

However, I must admit this:  In the writing of this pathetic excuse for a post, I have come up with ideas for three real ones.  I even wrote them down so that I wouldn’t forget them.  I guess this whole “just write” thing does have it’s advantages.

Then again, so does this particular case of writer’s block.
Just sayin’.

You know this is a book, right?

Last week, the BBC (among others… many, many others) reported that the Journal of Sexual Medicine has released a study saying that the G-Spot doesn’t appear to exist.

As it was reported by the BBfuckingC, I don’t really feel that I have any other choice but to address it.

Because we all know that the news never lies.

And we also all know that researchers are always right.

I’m just not sure how to go about telling my g-spot that.

Alas, the BBC and the Journal of Sexual Medicine tells me that I must try.

So here goes…

Dear G-Spot;

This is going to be a hard letter for you to read.

Mainly, because I’m not sure you even can read, and because the whole delivering it to you thing seems like a pretty uncomfortable notion to me. However, it would bring a whole new meaning to G-Mail, wouldn’t it?

Anyhow.

Apparently, you are a figment of my imagination.

Apparently, you don’t exist.

Apparently, the great relationship you and I have had was nothing more than a dream. You know, like when Pamela Ewing woke up to find that whole season of Dallas was just a big fucking fake-out?

Yeah, that.

Only the dream was way wetter. Wait, did I say wetter? I meant better.

All that time it took to find each other was for nothing. All that hard work to get to a point where our relationship was close and loving? Out the fucking window. It wasn’t real.

Just like Rob Pattinson’s painted on six-pack.

It seems that all the time we spent figuring you out just doesn’t matter. It seems that because some women don’t want to go to the lengths we did to figure themselves out, that you and I can no longer be friends.

That’s really too bad, because I’ve enjoyed knowing you.

The time we’ve spent together has been pretty fucking memorable, and I’ll miss it. That is, if I can even miss something that was all in my head.

So, dear g-spot, I guess this is it.

So long.

Farewell.

Remember the good times, all that.

With fondest regards;
Lori.

PS ~ Once more, for old time’s sake?

*ahem*

After further consideration, I have decided on a new letter:

Dear Journal of Sexual Medicine;

Shut the fuck up.

That is all.

Lori and her VERY REAL G-Spot.