A Special Anniversary

Sep 30, 2011

My first love.

This month marks a special milestone for me, for us.
It will be officially 20 years that you and I have been together.
Through it all.

I have changed and grown.
You have changed as well.
You took that journey with me, as my tastes matured.

Yes, you have made me bleed in the past.
But I forgave you for that.
We worked through it and you became softer.

There were times you became worn out.
I still loved you no matter how rough you looked.
And then, miraculously, you grew a new pair.

When other guys turned me down, ignored me or rejected me,
You were always there, comforting me;
You never judged.

No matter what I wore, you looked great with me.
We were a match like none other;
My coordinated life partner.

My mother never approved of you.
Even when you were clean and shiny.
She just didn't understand what we had.

On my wedding day, she held her tongue.
She realized how strong my love was for you.
And we looked fabulous together!

Now, 20 years later, you still turn me on.
Your style still excites me,
And I still want to feel you every day.

So here's to you, my first love,
Doc Marten.
You fucking rock my world!

{source: Volksrat}


Think of me... think of me fondly.

Sep 28, 2011

Last week was Jill's birthday. Yeah. Good Times. I thought I should have made her something since she went through all the trouble of helping me illustrate my lovely Cock-A-Doodle... Purple story, but I wasn't sure what. Then, my wonderful friend, Sweaty was doing her best to whore my posts (lord only knows why, but it's totally fucking appreciated) and she asked Jill if she had read my post about my new toy and how masturbation has exponentially improved my life these days. She had. She hinted that she had partook in some birthday self-love and thus is what followed:


Fucking loved it! I felt inspired after this conversation and then knew exactly what I needed to make for her birthday present, which I would make with my own two hands... and stolen borrowed images off the internet. Ta-da!

Milking the Moo Cards

Sep 26, 2011

Thanks to Klout (under my breath... fucking Klout), I got 100 free cards from Moo. I guess I can't be too hard on Klout these days, as much as I'd like to. I mean, come on, free cards! To a design nerd such as myself, this is more exciting than I should really admit. Way fucking exciting! I had a bit too much fun thinking of slogans to put on the back. It was tough because in as few words as possible, I wanted to sum up what someone would expect when they come to this site. After a long and strenuousness process, here is what I decided.
What do you think?


OK, I can't just let the others fizzle and die in my hard drive, so I'll post them too -- 
kind of like a few honorary mentions. 


And this one came about after a brief comment exchange with Avitable...


Thanks to Brandon (at Lost in Idaho) gracing me with this title, I tried this out...


And this one I just felt like trying out...


Finally, my info-graphics. I liked this one, but thought it would need translation.
Translation: Woman. Whore. Mother.


Have any more that I should try out? Let me know.
Have any you want me to try for you? I'll give it a whirl if you ask nicely.
I come cheap, and these days? Easily.

Unfastened Friday 4.0

Sep 23, 2011


College is supposed to be a time to experiment right? Well, I certainly experimented. I was 22 and I put myself out on every dating website I could find. There were no real men at my mostly female university – a private Catholic one at that. So, instead of trolling the local bars bringing home a hillbilly boy, I ventured into online dating.

God, lucky to come out alive? Probably.

Any close calls with dangerous situations? No.

Still, I could have easily met some freak and wound up dead in a field somewhere. I was desperate, fearless, and so lonely… I’ve met many men online. My first and only “offline” boyfriend last 3 weeks, a record compared to many of the others.

I’ll tell you about one of my encounters now. Mark. I met him online – we got together twice. The first time was in the middle of the night, at your average hotel off the interstate. The man didn’t even come down from the room to meet me. Classy. I pretended to be his fiancé when I asked for his room number at the counter.

An average looking late 20s or early 30-something guy answered the door. He was clean-cut and dressed in Abercrombie clothes. Looking back now, I can’t even remember if I saw his picture before we met up. I’m glad he wasn’t ugly.

We had that uncomfortable silence before awkward conversation. I was sitting on the bed. He was sitting on the chair next to the bed. He was shy!! Unbelievable! I was surprisingly not. Although, since then I have hear Catholic girls are pent up sex kittens. I believe it now.

I don’t remember what happened between sitting there in silence, to me being fingered and fucked on the bed, but I can remember he felt so good in that 60 seconds. Straddling his hips I barely got started when he shoved me off and bolted to the bathroom!

I think a) he came too early and was embarrassed or b) he was just plain regretful.

I tend to think he shot off too fast and was embarrassed. Five minutes later, I’m still waiting, dumbfounded. I wonder if we’re going to finish what we started. He comes out of the bathroom and sits on the bed. More uncomfortable silence.

He asks, “Do you want the room for the night?” I decline. I need to get home. I live with my parents, after all, and they’d freak if I wasn’t there in the morning.

I dress and leave. I can’t even remember if he kisses me goodnight. I felt like a hooker without getting paid.

On top of the disappointment, I manage to come away with a chuckle. I finally understood the jokes of women when they laugh about their “minute man.” So disappointing. I drive home in the dark, in silence, wondering if he’ll call again.

Three weeks later my phone rings.

Jill



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This one is usually longer, but if you have a story or a 'quickie', then please send it to me here! It can be 100% anonymous if you like - just don't fill out the name or email field - it will STILL send if those aren't filled, yo!

Second Place is Fucking Awesome

Sep 21, 2011


OK. It's a whole new fucking ballgame.
Heather, my love? There's a new sherrif in town.
I'm like a kid with a new toy.
It's a brand new day.
All that and a bag of chips.

OK, that's enough. I'm just a little excited, can you tell?

Here's the thing. Yes, women discuss masturbation, however, with the volume turned down low and hoping no one is listening too closely. When a woman says it loud and proud, there are always a few jaws that drop. Even with close friends, we never just causally weave into a conversation, "Wow, I totally got myself off last night; it was awesome." Of course not... until now.

I totally said that. And I'll say it again.

Why? Because all these years, when we were whispering to each other about female masturbation, we were asking the WRONG question. It shouldn't have been "Do you?" It should have been "Do you... finish?"

Because the answer for many would be a big fat "NO" including me. Sure, I had Mr. Purple for a few years and various toys and miniature baseball bats named Ricky before that, and although they were pleasurable, I never climaxed on my own. I could only orgasm with a man (or woman), how about 'person'. Yeah, I'll use 'person'. I would just play around until I had had enough and then I'd stop. This might also better explain my horrific 18 month dry spell I had last year. What a fucking catastrophe that was -- and would NEVER have had to have happened if I knew then what I know now.

If we had a nickel for every time we said that to ourselves, right? *Big sigh*

So, enough beating around the bush, so to speak. I got the aesthetically breath-taking nJoy Fun Wand a couple months ago; it had come highly recommended. It was definitely not the usual shape I would normally look for in a 'dildo-like' toy but I was willing to give it a whirl. Besides, what the fuck do I know?

It is designed for both ends to be used, and to be used for both ends. Ahem. Well, if you're a regular reader, you would know
I DO NOT DO THAT, but I thought I'd at least mention its possibilities.

I should add that I often add a motorized element (like a mini bullet) to speed up the external clitoral stimulation process - but I'm still working on my A game, adjusting and fine-tuning, if you will. This is made specifically for a G-spot simulator and the blend of the curved shape, the steel, and the contour bulbs is a fucking winning combination.

I actually scared myself the first time I climaxed with it. It was like, hang on, I know this feeling... what the heck is going on?
It's starting! Oh yeah, wow, uh huh, really? Yes, holy fuck. WHOA! YIPPIEE!

Now? I don't stop until I've had at least 2, but 4 on average. I've seen the light and I want to show this light to all my friends that are currently in the darkness.

Hubs glumly asked me if he was now redundant. Awe, of course not! (Although I think he was actually hoping for a 'yes' to that question.) At the end of the day, nothing tops the feeling of being with another person. The warmth, emotions and intimacy is irreplaceable, but by gawd, I've never been so fucking impressed with second place. It truly is a brand new day!

And in case you're wondering?
No, I don't leave the house much these days.


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This is not sponsored post, I just HAD to spread the love.

She Once Believed

Sep 19, 2011

During my February is Music Month, I had reminisced on how Pearl Jam have been and will always be my favorite band of all time. I'll admit that I don't necessarily listen to them a lot these days, but when a goodie comes on the radio, I always have to crank it.

Such good music; 
such great memories forever intertwined with that music.

I had explained how seeing them perform live had me experiencing an uncontrollable reaction of breaking down into tears from a song. Black, to be more precise. A reaction I had previously thought was only experienced by crazed girls chasing after boy bands. I was wrong. I got it then -- I get it now.

So now it's come that time again that they are touring, but it's not just any tour - it's the 20th Anniversary of Ten. How fucking old do I feel? Well... as it turned out, about as old as everyone else at the concert! Not a single hormonal pre-teen in sight! It was bliss. (Especially after attempting to recover from the horrors experienced at the Katy Perry concert.)

I was looking forward to hearing all  the songs that make my lady bits reverberate, but once again, I was taken by surprise. The opening cords of Nothingman began to play. Out of nowhere, all the little hairs at the back of my neck prickled. Next, there was the pause... wait for it... and then he cried out...
She once believed...in every story he had to tell...
One day she stiffened...took the other side...

And I was done. Tears. Like a baby. Happy tears. Streaming down my face.
I was even doing bottom-of-the-lip quivers. What the hell, dammit!

What more can I say - except for that even after twenty years, that man's voice and words can touch me in places like no one else. I'd easily consider me and Eddie's relationship the best I've ever had :)

My Peacock-cock-cock

Sep 16, 2011

If you follow me on The Twitter, you'll likely know that I was at the Katy Perry concert in Indianapolis last night. It was part of the conference I was attending, so I wasn't exactly a paying customer, but I went anyway -- if for curiosity than anything else. I'll admit that I've tapped to the beat of her catchy tunes in my car, but I wouldn't consider myself a Katy Perry fan by any stretch.

Was it entertaining? 
Of course. There were colors and lights and glowing cotton candy -- all the bells and whistles of a pop concert.

Was I uncomfortable?
Fuck yes, I was! And I will tell you why because I'm sure you're all dying to know.
Katy Perry (or rather her marketing team, but whatever) has based her entire brand around the juxtapositioning of cutesy, childish imagery with shameless over-tones of sex. Of course, this is not a news breaking analogy, nor am I the first or will I be the last to say it, but it is what it is.

Since I do not have her albums, I really only know about 6 of her songs - even that number surprised me, actually. Some lyrics of the lesser known songs really shocked me, but not from a personal perspective.I was shocked because I quickly became painfully aware of how many young girls were there, listening and absorbing it all.

When the Peacock song came on, one of which I had never heard before, I actually dropped my jaw. And it stayed open long after it finished. Again, it wasn't the song I took offense to - I'm a pervert - I thought it was fucking hysterical, but the children - oh, the children in the audience. Why were they there?! Why were parents taking their 7-8-9-10 year old girls to a concert where a woman sings about cocks and performs suggested fellatio on the microphone. (Oh, yes she did) They don't need to see that! NO. No, they really don't.

It bothered me. A lot.

I was still bothered by it when I stumbled back to my hotel room. I went online to further research that particular song. Yeah, I downloaded it because, again, it's priceless, but I was still annoyed, nevertheless. I was checking out videos and I came across a parody version that I found seriously fucking entertaining. I think it trumped the concert, for real. It lifted my mood from annoyed to elated.

Here are some of my favorite parts: 


And this one:


And finally?


SQUAWK! You're welcome.

So, I might have digressed quite a bit from my original point, but oh my gawd, it's hysterical - and it has close to 7 million hits, so I'm not alone in that sentiment. And why can I enjoy this? Because I'm a fucking adult! It's not for kids, yo! Just like the Katy Perry concert. See how I've come full circle there? Yeah, that.

At the end of the day, am I criticizing Katy Perry? No. 
She's an adult (that apparently thinks she's 15) but regardless... an adult. She can do and sing and dance perform whatever the hell she wants to. I'm criticizing the parents that thought it was acceptable to expose their extremely young girls to this spectacle. I don't want to hear the argument "Oh, she's too young to get that!" because I call that bullshit.

Let children be children. 
They have the rest of their lives to become screwed-up sexual deviants, just take me for example. I was only listening to Tiffany and Jem and The Holograms and my 'deviance' started when I was 12. Think about it.


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If you want to see the full video, check it out on YouTube.


A Mother Life

Locked Out

Sep 14, 2011

I was never good with keys, or mainly remembering keys. Of course, this changed once I began driving, but before that, I never really had a key for anything. My house has a push pad entry on the garage.

I never had a key.

This changed when I moved to Australia and lived with host families. The second family, to be more precise. The McFucks.

The war between myself and this family, or rather, their war against me, was well under way, but had not yet reached the vortex. It was brewing. Just under the surface. I was coming home from somewherethefuck. I cannot remember, nor is it particularly relevant, but it was around 9 o'clock at night. Not late.

It was pouring rain, as in, it was a Melbournian down pour of excessive force and volume, and I had forgotten my key. Where were the family McFuck, you ask? They were all sitting in the family room watching television together. The Mrs, the Mister, and THREE of their four adult children that still lived at home. Yes, THAT family.

I didn't feel it was nessessary to ring the doorbell, as their family room was right off the front door. They could see me, just as I could see them. Instead, I just lightly rattled my knuckles against the metal screen door. "Hello! Sorry, I forgot my key."

There was a paused silence and no one seemed to turn their head towards me. Then I heard Mr. McFuck yell from his recliner, "Well then, yew'd best rememba' it next time, now won'tcha? You, missy, need to learn ya lesson!"

What. The. Fuck?

They weren't getting up to let me in? No. No one.

It was raining. Hard. I was wearing a "water resistant" hooded jacket that was proving to be useless under these extreme circumstances. I was soaking. I didn't know what to say or what to do. I should have left; gone to a friend's house, but I was stunned. Frozen.

I turned around like a rusted tin man and sat on the wet cement porch. I could see the water flowing over the steps like a waterfall, but I didn't care. I could feel the cold water seep through my jeans and my underwear. I sat there and cried. It was an angry cry. Tears of hatred burned down my face and then crashed against the running rain water below like hot and cold cymbals.

I was there for over an hour before they let me in.

I don't know if I "learned my lesson" about remembering my keys, but I never again left the house without my fucking umbrella.


Mama's Losin' It

Because of All of You

Sep 12, 2011

Upon my arrival in Indianapolis, there was a tribute to the lost and the heroes of 9/11.

I stopped.
I prayed; I don't do that very often, but I did.
I took this photo.


I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you that left so many amazing comments on my last post. It definitely took me aback in the very best way possible. 

I promise I'll be back to my usual deviant self on Wednesday, but today? 
I thank all of you.





comments are closed today


I'm Not Special

Sep 9, 2011

I've known for a while now that I would have to write this post, but I have been prolonging it as much as possible. Why? Apart from the obvious subject, it has stemmed from a recent conversation that made me feel like a completely selfish and ignorant twat.

I will be flying this Sunday, September 11th, 2011.

I was sharing this fact with a friend of mine, expressing my reservations and anxieties about how I will be travelling on the 10th anniversary of 9/11. I then continued to explain how I was at College when "it" happened and how they evacuated the school because it was so close to the Toronto Airport. Going home, stuck in 12 lanes of stopped traffic and realizing I was utterly helpless in that situation if anything were to happen; my heart was racing and I was crying.

Was this the beginning of World War III?
Will we all die today?
Is this the beginning of the end?
IS THIS IT?

My friend was quiet while I was going off on a tangent. Then, he replied:
I was there.
I sucked that crap into my lungs.
I pulled injured people out from under metal buildings.
I pulled on someone's arm to help them out of rubble only to realize that it was just an arm without a body.
I gave water to fire fighters.
I was supposed to be in Tower 1 but I was late and stuck in traffic.
I went to 16 funerals.


Fuck.

I didn't know. If I did, I would never have opened my damn mouth. All of a sudden, I felt fucking ridiculous and all I had thought and my entire perception of that day, on that day, and for every day since, was nothing but selfish panic.

I'm not special.

Everyone panicked. From the wise words of Agent Kay, "A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky dangerous animals."
And yet, we were 500 miles away, in another country. Safe.

There was a news segment on television last night that featured a young woman. She is going to make the trip to Ground Zero this weekend because of how it "profoundly affected her life". She was 16 when it happened... in a Canadian high school. She had no relation to anyone that lost their life that day, but still... profound nevertheless. The segment had a talk-track on top of scenes of her looking sad, pondering off into the distance. The footage was enhanced with a cheesy glow for heightened dramatics. I think a lot of people confuse the phrase 'profoundly affected' with the word 'fascination', including this woman, and that television station.

Maybe I'm just being a bitch, but I found it hard to stomach her... ahem... story. Was I meant to feel sympathy for this woman? And if so, why? I wasn't sure. I would like to see her tell her "story" to my friend and see how news-worthy he thinks it is. If I were him, I'd want to slap her. Yesterday must have been a slow news day, seriously.

I know that people often tend to gravitate to huge tragedies and events and when possible, become a part of them, even if it's via 3-times removed someone-knowing-someone who's relative's neighbor that died.
Where were you when JFK died?
D-day?
Hiroshima?

But enough is enough.

After having written these words, I don't think I will ever attempt to gain shared sympathy from anyone about how I felt on 9/11. How I felt is now (and has always been) irrelevant, apart from expressing that I was very, very lucky that I wasn't there. I pray that no one I know and/or love will ever have to experience something like that in their lifetime.

So, I will be flying to the United States on September 11, 2011. And coincidentally, two other immediate family members of mine will be flying in from Europe on the same day. Am I nervous? A little bit. (OK, maybe a lot.) But I don't think there will be a single person, flying or not, that won't be thinking about all the lives that were lost and families that were torn apart forever on that day. Whether directly or indirectly, it affected the entire world.

I'm not special.


Hoarding Is As Hoarding Does

Sep 7, 2011

I've been meaning to expose this dirty little secret for a while, so I thought I'd take Mama Kat's Writing Prompt to help me get it going. Here it is... I'm a hoarder. But not in the A&E television show kind of way, that's for damn sure. I can't even watch that show; it's repulsive. I have limited myself to manageable Tupperware boxes that either reside in the basement, garage... or still at my parent's house. I'm sure I'll be acquiring those boxes in the not-so-distant future as well, but I'm prolonging it as much as possible. It's not that I necessarily have to have the boxes close to me, but I can't part with them either.

I have trouble letting go...
Of everything.
Of everyone.

I would consider myself a sentimental hoarder. I know, I know... all hoarders impose some kind of sentimental value on every item they acquire, but I *think* mine is slightly different because they are items that are specifically connected to times or events in my life.

Here are the top 5 things that I currently possess and will NEVER throw away... not ever.
So, fuck off, Dr. Tompkins, I don't need your fixin'!

1. In grade 1, Paul gave me a perfectly heart-shaped rock. I keep this in my jewelry box.

2. In grade 5, Kevin bought me a can of pink Cream Soda at Friday night skating (which was a huge deal at the time, by the way). I kept the can - it's in one of the Tupperware boxes.

3. I have every single letter from Paul, Jason and Luke - who were my main correspondents during my teen years. The letters vary between friendship and grand expressions of love and longing. They are all in a series of Doc Marten boxes at my parent's place. I just saw them last week and was reminded that I'll have to read through and share some of the best ones... but of course.

4. The more I think about it (and knowing myself as well as I do), I'm fairly certain that the condom wrapper that I taped to my school diary was likely from the day I lost my virginity. Yes, almost positive. Ewww.

5. This final item that I'm sharing today is extremely important to me. I had a lot of t-shirts in high school and even now, I am a self-proclaimed t-shirt whore, but THIS one... this one is special. I found it at a Value Village and it still had the original vendor's price tag on it. Now, if you've ever thrift store shopped, you know that's a golden find... and it was INDIANA JONES... HELLO! I'd never seen anything like it, anywhere. This wasn't a cheesy movie t-shirt; this was retro perfection.

This shirt has been all over the world with me. It's been through everything I have been through. I'm going to be super fucking lame and go so far as saying that it's like one of my Horcruxes. Yeah, I said it. Whatever.

It represents over a decade of my life and yet, it's never faded and there are no holes in it. A decade of falling in and out of love
(and back in it again, sometimes).
Of moving and travelling.
Of learning, losing, gaining and settling.
Of growing up and becoming who I am at this very moment, whomever that may be.

And throughout all my adventures, I've always had Indy.


Mama's Losin' It

Little Green Bag

Sep 5, 2011

Ahhh, the 70s. It's time to harken back to a time when things were simpler. OK, scratch that, they were pretty damn complicated, but nevertheless, whenever I hear George Baker Selection's Little Green Bag two things happen.

1. The heavy bass sets my dog into a complete fucking frenzie, which is equally annoying and entertaining.

And

2. I remember Jim. Yes, yes. I could easily make an entire compliation playlist of songs that remind me of him, by my gawd, this is one of the top. Whether it was the soundtrack to Reservoir Dogs, or the actual movie playing in the background, there was a lot of fun going on in the, umm, foreground. Tarantino? You rocked the early 90s!

"K-BILLY's Super Sounds Of The Seventies Weekend just keeps on coming with this little ditty,
that reached up to 21 in May, of 1970, The George Baker Selection, Little Green Bag..."



Upon further reseaching for this song, I discovered that Tom Jones covered this with The Barenaked Ladies.
How friggin' cool is that?! It's true that it lacks the bass that the GBS version has which vibrates my lady bits,
but it's still a not too shabby of a renditon. Plus, I love my 'Naked Ladies, so I'll show my support.



And to those who get today off, happy friggin' Labor Day party people!
I never experienced labor and I sit on my arse all day at my job, so the jokes on today, I think. Suck it!
Have a drink for me and take off those white slacks, not because it's Labor Day...
because they are white slacks. Eww.

Photobucket

Cock-A-Doodle...Purple

Sep 2, 2011

I recently made a 'special' purchase at the sex store.

When I walked in, I wasn't quite sure where do go. It's not like I'd never been before, but this was for something new.
Something different.

I walked around for a little while. Browsing.

Finally, I found what I was looking for... in the "Fetish" section. Whoa! Never thought I'd consider myself one of those people, but okay. My visual senses were on over-drive. I was surrounded by colourful packaging (although primarily pink and black) all with naked women staring at me with their 'come fuck me' eyes. I could almost feel them breathing on my neck, but not in a sexy way. They were more like wild predators and I was the newbie prey that would soon be devoured.

There they were... all different materials, shapes, number of 'access portals', sizes and of course, price ranges. Holy crap! I might be curious for a little kinky fun but I have my financial limitations, that's for damn sure. I took photos with my phone and texted them to my "expert" friend.

(Click) This one?
No.
(Click) This one?
Probably not.
Ooooh... (Click) How about this one?
Yes. Excellent.
Awesome. Sold.

Fuck, I love technology.

I made my purchase while partaking in some small talk with the sales woman, making sure I had indeed found the right fit for my needs. I really don't think they do returns.

Time went slowly that evening.
The little black bag was calling my name, but it would be hours before I could have a little test fitting.
10pm finally rolled around. Sweet. Time to try on my fancy purchase. Yes, I said "try on". I had purchased my very first strap-on.

Giddy'up mutha fuckers! And it fit like a glove... or rather, like a cock.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel as "masculine" as I was afraid I would feel. It's always been a sensation that I have never been entirely comfortable with; about my own feminine identity and sexuality... ya know... the fact that under my stunningly giant knockers is, in fact, Guillermo Díaz. Yeah, that.

Regardless of how I did or did not feel about the addition of a giant purple cock that now hung between my legs, one thing was certain... it was bloody hysterical.

I'm in the bathroom laughing my fucking ass off, naked, jumping around and watching the silicone cock flail up and down and side to side. Strap-on gymnastics, I tell ya! I needed to share my amusement with my husband, but he was fast asleep.

FUCK IT. 
How often does this shit happen, seriously!?

I walked over to his side of the bed. He was facing inward and his back was exposed. I was trying incredibly hard not to wake him with my snorting laughter. I would have much rathered that I woke him up with what I was about to do. I crept over...

Then, I began poking him in the back with the dildo, repeatedly. 
I got a few grunts and annoyed shrugs. Of course, he had no idea what object I was actually using to poke him with. 
I start laughing louder; I'm practically in tears by this point.

He rolled over to discover what it was that I was doing, and what I was wearing.
If you can imagine the sound a human can make that is annoyed, pissed off, furious, shocked, confused, repulsed and drowsy all at the same time, it kinda sounded like this:

And for the record, Jill's interpretation of my face is practically uncanny, since I had taken off my make-up by this point. 
Aren't I fucking beautiful when I'm laughing THAT hard? I think the ribbed purple strap-on is nothing but icing, really.

So, needless to say, he wasn't amused. At. Fucking. All.
But it sure as hell made my whole damn week.

Besides, I didn't buy it for him anyway... 
SO THERE!


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A HUGE thank you to Jill from Yeah.Good Times. for graciously offering up her fine artistic skills
to help me illustrate this story. It just wouldn't have been the same without them. Love ya :)
I'm sure everyone knows her by now, but if not, WHY? Go... right now!

 
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