Lesbian Erotica is not that hot.
Jason finds it quite repetitive: "You just can't be original in 6 pages" he says.
"Six pages!" I yell. "To write about good sex, you need 2 paragraphs at most. Everything else is just cuddling."
Porn is porn, as it turns out, only in this case, there are 2 pairs of wet panties. Big freakin deal.
Also, is it really considered "lesbian erotica" if a woman fucks a wolf? When I was a kid, we called that beastiality (zoophilia at best). I guess times have changed. I was also surprised to read a story of a sexual encounter between a "femme" and Monica Lewinsky, which, quite frankly, we also used to call Beastiality. I mean really, is Monica hot now? Have I missed something?
Remind me not to read my husband's hot lesbian porn anymore. It just upsets me. I mean, last night I learned that my new hair cut qualifies me as a "butch", whatever that means, and that despite the number of google hits I get per month for goat sex, I may not be the foremost expert on the subject.
Oooh baby, oooh baby.
Anyway, it really makes me miss big, hard, pulsating cocks, as cliched as it is. Gawd I hate myself for saying that.
Jason loves when I don't sleep at night, because not only does he get the bed to himself, he gets extra hours of productivity out of me too.
For example, he thinks it's the perfect time for me to load his ipod with really jazzy play lists. This is a major tactical error on his part because obviously I am doubly cranky when I'm Sleepless in Toronto.
So I give him a little Weezer, a little Foo...but gawd do I ever want to sneak in some Cher or something so that in the middle of shipment, his whole crew will pause and rethink Jason's sexuality.
This past week, both Sting and Garth Brooks have approached me with exciting offers to save up to 20% on adobe software and promising new pharmaceuticals, respectively.
Obviously I am flattered that they would think of me. I didn't know I had such a savvy reputation as an investor. I mean, here I am, whoring out my written words, writing greeting card shit just to make my student loan payments, and apparently building myself a reputation as someone who knows a good deal when she sees it.
However, according to that same junk mail folder, I must admit that my reputation has also suffered this little ditty:
too shy to fuck with your tiny gun...
I hate Best Buy. Like, really, really hate it, and its creepy little employees.
Apparently when they screen employees, they rate them according to their answer to these all-important questions:
Do you hate women? Are you afraid of vaginas? Do you think females and electronics should be allowed to mix?
Acceptable answers: yes, yes, and god no.
And then the training consists of these easy-to-follow rules:
1. Never approach a female customer.
2. Turn your back and/or pretend not to notice a female customer, even if she hovers around you plainly looking for service for upwards of 45 minutes.
3. If a female corners you and asks you a question about a product in the store, scowl at her, and then proceed to give her short, and not particularly accurate, answers until you can run away.
4. Do what you can to discourage her from returning to Best Buy ever, ever again.
If you have a vagina, your money is no good at Best Buy.
Okay, so I know when I'm not wanted. If it was up to me, all the little fuckers at Best Buy could circle-jerk themselves into oblivion, and I would bring my business elsewhere.
But. But my husband is a nerd.
Well, okay, he's not a nerd. But he likes crappy things like absurdly big-ass TVs (which I have thus far outlawed) and "gaming consoles" (which I have been less successful at shaming him into avoiding...but trust me, I'm working on it). And since he follows me into stores so I can check out napkin rings and slutty shoes, I cut him a little slack.
So we go into Best Buy, a regular joe and a bald chick wearing a rude button collection and big pink rubber boots, and every single employee smells Jason a mile off, pants in his direction, licking their lips in commission anticipation....and yet, they cannot see me. I am completely invisible. I don't exist.
So when I wanted to buy Jason an ipod for Christmas (christ I hate ipods), I said fuck you to Best Buy and walked in a blizzard to Future Shop.
And you know what?
Same damn thing.