Tag Archives: sex

Hows ‘Bout a Cup A Tea, Gub-ner?

28 Jul

Do you know what you get when you put a bunch of drunk adults who are on vacation, camping, after having spent the entire day at the lake, their stomachs full, and the kids asleep? 

Besides a few who refuse to quit (quitting is for losers), and end up passed out on their camping chair with their mouths open, you get a bunch of drunkies who’ve reverted backed to their 16-year-old selves, and who think that tea bagging those poor passed out souls is hilaaaaaaaaarious.

Pinkies up, ladies and gents

 But, you also get the deep thinkers, like myself, who watch these drunken shenanigans and think, how can we make this better

I leaned over to my friend and in my completely inebriated state said:

Me:  Why do the guys get to have all of the fun?  I say we start meat curtaining people.

Friend:  HAHAHAHAHAH!  Right?!  Let’s do it.

Me:  Yeah, we can get a chair, stand behind them and position ourselves so all you see is a nose.

Peek-a-boo
Friend:  GET OUT OF MY HEAD, YO!
My friend and I must have been talking and laughing a bit too obnoxiously, because when Hubby heard the words “meat curtains” come out of my mouth, he immediately stopped what he was doing, calmly walked over to me, gently grabbed my arm, and sternly told me it was definitely time for bed. 
 
That’s it.  Party over.
 
Geez.   You’d think that he thought I might actually go through with it or something. 

I Scream, You Scream We All…Back Dat Ass Up

25 Jul

On Friday night Hubby and I decided to meet Drama at his favorite bar for a few drinks after work before we went to dinner.  Drama’s been working some really long hours so we didn’t think we’d be there long.

Three hours, a bowl of peanuts, three staggering trips to the bathroom, and several drinks later, the three of us are loudly and obnoxiously discussing our favorite of Drama’s ex-girlfriends.  Hubby voted for the woman who used to scream into the phone when she would call, “IS DRAMA THERE?!!!”.  We used to joke that she must be deaf. Then, we found out she really was partially deaf.  Awkward.

My pick was the woman who used to drive the low rider ice cream truck complete with spinning rims, and a noise ordinance-breaking sound system:

She would drive around town in this pimped out ice cream truck while blasting songs such as “Back Dat Ass Up” and Kelis’s “Milkshake“.  But, wait.  It gets classier.  She used to have a penchant for thong underwear, and if some kid was lucky enough to order the Sponge Bob Square Pants popsicle, he would also receive a up close and personal view of most of her ass crack.  It was like two treats for the price of one.   

I digress.

Drama’s newest interest is a woman he works with.  According to him she is beautiful, nice, and funny.  The problem?  We’re not sure if she’s a man or a woman.  You see, the rumor at Drama’s work is that this woman is a cross dresser.  No problem. 

Using Drama’s experience with classy women and my experience with tranny’s we came up with the following comprehensive “Chick or Dick” checklist which we wrote out on a bar napkin.  Keep in mind that Drama can’t get a up close look at this woman because he heard in the last sexual harassment prevention class that getting too close can be “creepy”:

  1. Tell a funny (not dirty) joke.  Does she responded with a Geisha-like giggle or Santa Clause belly chuckle?
  2. Do her hands appear soft and delicate or are you looking at gnarly sausage  fingers?
  3. Is there ever any adjustment of a “package”?

That’s it.  That’s all we got.

I was going to call Drama this morning and tell him he should just follow her to the bathroom, but I decided against it.  I’m curious to see whether or not our Chick or Dick checklist works.  I’ll keep you posted.

P.S.  I missed you guys.

The Importance of a Safe Word

27 Jun

Someone found my blog by searching “spanking nipple twisting your girlfriend”. 

Interesting. 

First of all, although I don’t mind a firm smack to the ass in the right situation, I’m not a fan of rough sex.  Scratch that.  I’m not a fan of the nipple twist/pinch. 

My safe word is "Back the F&*K off, F*$&ER."

I’m reminded of an interesting story that happened to a “friend” 

*giggle*

Let me skip to the moral of the story:

Guys, when a woman says she likes it rough, always, always, always, start things off with a gentle nipple pinch.  She’ll let you know right away with either a coy laugh or a punch to the nuts what she means by “rough”.

There’s no need to thank me.

No, I Didn’t Get Raptured. Just Ripped.

1 Jun

What’s up Interweb?!

So, yeah.  I took an unexpected hiatus.  I basically took a hiatus from everything including, but not limited to, cleaning my house, yard work, and checking anything off of my To Do List.   Things I didn’t take a hiatus from include eating ice cream, reading some really good books, humpy time with the Hubby, and piña coladas.

Since my last post, I am now the mother to an adorable, but extremely a-hole-ish, new puppy!  I forgot how much work a puppy can be, especially when you end up with an a-hole like Kemba.  Obviously, I love him, but he’s sort of evile.  As a matter of fact, as I type this I can hear his evil puppy growls and snarls as Hubby sternly repeats, “Kemba!  No bite!!”.  This has been going on for about 20 minutes.  We better break that dog’s spirit soon or I’m afraid we’re going to end up with a complete dickhead of a dog.

I can’t wait to read what you guys have been up to.  I missed you.  Seriously.  I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk.  As my classy girl, Snooki, would say, “I love you so much, I want you to get it in”.

Jersey Shore, Bitches!

In Your Dreams

10 May

This part of my post should be read out loud in a voice and tone that sounds as though you are trying to keep the person behind you from hearing what you’re saying.

Hi:

I want to keep everyone in the loop of what’s been going on in my life lately. Basically, it’s finals time and I’m freaking out.  So, I want to apologize for neglecting the blogs I follow.  I can’t wait to dive in once things calm down a little. 

Also, as my OCD-tendencies will not permit me to not post even though I’m extremely busy and should be doing something else as I type this, posts will be light in content for the next few days.  I apologize in advance for any personal turmoil this may cause you.

That being said, here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with Hubby yesterday:

Hubby:  What’s wrong with you?  You’ve been crabby all day.

Me:  Oh, nothing.  Just stressed about finals, I guess.

Hubby:  No, you’ve been pissy towards me, in particular.  What’s the deal?

Me:  Noth—

Hubby:  Don’t say nothing.

Me:  Fine.  I had a dream last night in which you were a huge a-hole. 

Hubby:  Geeeeezussss!  Not again.  You realize it was just a dream, right?

Me:  I know.  It’s just that you were extremely a-hole-ish. 

Hubby:  It didn’t really happen. 

Me:  Fine.  Forget it.

Hubby:  Knock it off.

Me:  (Crazy person silence)

Hubby:  (Loudly shakes the newspaper he’s been reading and then slams it down).  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry I was mean to you in your dream even though it didn’t really happen and it’s all in your head.  Happy?

Me:  Thanks, love.  I forgive you.

Hubby:  You know…I had a dream last night that you really wanted to give me a BJ.

Me:  There it is.

Apparently, You Can’t Be Both?

5 May

Hubby, Son and I went out for burgers the other night.  During dinner Hubby mentioned that he wanted to stop at the nearby mall and walk around.  This never happens.  He hates shopping.  I didn’t want to get overly excited so I coolly responded, “That’s cool.”

Son, with an eye roll so exaggerated I thought for sure his eyeballs were gone forever, responded with a whiny, “Nooooooooooooo.  Pleeeeeeeeeease.  I don’t want to go to the mall with you guys.  No offense.”

I knew right then the mall wasn’t going to happen because I would rather go home than walk around with a mopey, disgusted, whiney, pouty, eye-rolling teenager.  We’d all be miserable.  But, being the extremely inappropriate and weird person I am I countered with:

Me:      Ok.  We don’t have to go the mall if you answer one question.

Son:    (Knowing apprehension)  What question?

Me:      First, the rules.  You have to answer the question or we’re going to mall.

Hubby:   And the bookstore.

Me:      Nice.

Son:    Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahg.  What?

Me:      Are you a boob guy or an ass guy?

Son:    No way!  I’m not answering that.

Hubby:     Cool.  I really need new pants.

Me:      We could stop by Victoria’s Secret, too.  I need panties.  (I hate that word.)

Son:    FINE!  Geez.  You guys are soooooo weird. 

Me:      Soooooooooo…..

Son:    (With his sweatshirt over his face)  Ask me and I’ll either nod or shake my head.  I can’t look at you.

The next day the three of us were driving Drama around on some errands:

Hubby:  So, last night we asked your grandson if he’s a boob guy or an ass guy.

Drama:  Really?!  So, what is he?!

Son:  Why are you guys so weird?

Drama:  Oh, Grandson!  You’re an ass guy like your grandpa, right?!  You gotta be!  (With a remembering and thoughtful gaze out the window) Asses are like magic.  They hypnotize you.  When I was younger, every time grandpa saw a woman all I saw was a round beautiful butt.  No face.  Just butt.  If a girl had the perfect butt, she could drive grandpa crazy.  They’re beautiful. (Heavy, sad sigh) Now, I’m too old. 

The next several minutes were filled with Drama’s detailed descriptions of the most beautiful asses he’s ever seen, and the women they belonged to.  This was followed by an explanation of ass categories (big and juicy, small but round, flat but still nice, wide, etc.).   

The car was silent as we took it all in.  After a few moments of reflection:

Drama: So you see, Grandson.  You have to be an ass guy just like your grandpa. 

Son:  Wait.  So, basically, when you see a woman, you see  a buttface?

Drama:  You’re a boob guy, aren’t you?

Pick Up the Needle, Press Pause, or Turn the Radio Off

25 Apr
 There is a huge double standard in Hispanic culture.  While my male cousins were allowed, and even encouraged, to go out and sow their wild oats, we girls were told horror stories of a young girl who got pregnant by writing a boy’s name on her notebook.  Wuelita would often warn us girls of the dangers of sex:

 Jo nooo, jo can half a baby if joo look at a pee pee.  Neber look at a pee pee.  If joo see juan, joo run away.

My dad (Papi) had three girls- his penance for his wild oats sowing days.  Papi’s biggest fear was that some day some hormone charged, sex on the brain, gets a boner when the wind blows, Latin Lothario was going to swoop in and devirginize one of his daughters. 

Papi, you have nothing to worry about with this guy. I promise.

When I was a Freshman in high school, after one particularly emotional cryfest of an argument with Papi about why he wasn’t allowing me to go to prom with a Senior, Papi decided it was time for us girls to understand where he was coming from.  Apparently, the sex talks given by Mami and Wuelita weren’t stern enough.  So, he sat my sisters and I down at the kitchen table for his own “talk”.

My sisters and I could tell what was coming, and we immediately started giggling.  This was going to be very painful…for Papi.  We were excited.

We pinched each other under the table to stifle our laughs as Papi paced back and forth, back and forth.  He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed it.  More pacing.  More giggles.  One more beer.  He was ready:

Girls, it doesn’t matter what boys say.  They just want one thing.  They want to get in your pants.

*Pinch, pinch, pinch*

A boy will tell you you’re beautiful, but what he’s really thinking is that he wants to see you naked.  If he tells you he loves you, it means he’s getting impatient.

*Hysterical giggle fit lasts long enough for Papi have another beer.*

LISTEN! 

Boys are always thinking about sex.  That’s all they want and they’ll say and do anything to get it.  They are liars and cheaters.

By my count, Papi was well on his way to finishing a six-pack.  His eyes were glassy, and he was talking more freely.

Basically, girls, what it comes down to is that I want you to be smarter than those boys.  I don’t want any boys to think of you as just……..p!$$y holes.

He said p!$$y holes.

What followed was a laughing fit so loud, so consuming, so out of control that the only thing I heard in the several minutes that followed was the sound of the screen door slamming shut.  It took us half an hour to realize Papi had left the room.  We had stomach cramps from laughing so hard.  Our faces hurt from the laughter.  Our poor dad.  He didn’t stand a chance. 

When I recounted this tale to my husband years later his only response was a knowing, “Your dad spoke the truth.” 

Huh.

Papi- 1/Devirginizing Sex-Crazed P-hole Lovers- 3 (Sorry, Dad)