The Beautiful Kind

Don’t you hate when you go on one date with a person and all of a sudden they’re calling and leaving messages that begin with, “Hi, it’s me…”

Don’t they realize you’re a SLUT and that there are a LOT of ME’s?!?!

GOD.

(I know, I know, the official term is Madonna-whore complex, but that’s too bible-centric for me. Even though I like this racy image.)

There’s a mainstream movie where a married guy tells another guy he goes to a prostitute to get blow jobs. The other guys asks, “Why don’t you just have your wife do that?” And the married guy says, “Are you kidding? She kisses our kids with that mouth.”

Um, so? I could see it being weird if she just swallowed his load and then went right over and kissed the kids, with TONGUE, but give me a freakin’ break. How in the hell did the kids get there? Didn’t that dirty cock play a part?

It pisses me off when a guy has trouble getting down and dirty with his wife and/or the mother of his children. One time I was having sex with my ex-husband, and I asked him to fuck me harder. He had trouble obliging me, so I asked him again. That’s when he stopped what he was doing and said, game over, I can’t do that. How embarrassing.

But not as bad as Elvis. According to Priscilla Presley, he couldn’t bear to have sex with her after she gave birth, opting instead to have flings with childless young women (OK, maybe teenage girls).

But at least we have MILF (Moms I’d Like to Fuck) porn, which fulfills the teenage fantasy of wanting to fuck your best friend’s hot mom. Maybe the hot moms are fucking the teenage boys while their husbands are going to prostitutes. Hey, whatever works. Um, right.

As a proud and upstanding (and sometimes doggy style) MILF, I’d like to tell all the men who need this lesson that a woman can be a wonderful mother AND a total pervert. There’s a time and a place for both. So fuck me harder already.

All right, boys and girls, which do you like better - cut or uncut cock?

I’m more used to cut (mainly due to being American, but my fondness for Jews also plays a part), so I was glad to hear of the study announced last month that suggested circumsized penises were less susceptible to STDs. I admit, I favor the look and smell of cut (unwashed uncut can have a musky odor.)

But I recently read an essay by Diane Petryk-Bloom on the matter, and it gave me pause. I mean, there’s something to be said about natural, and ponder this: the head is the most sensitive part, so how many nerve endings are getting damaged when skin gets sliced? The most intriguing idea Petryk-Bloom suggested was this: uncut men pleasure women better. They fit better, they’re more in sync with what a woman wants when it comes to intercourse.

Petryk-Bloom pointed out that lots of cut men resort to a “jackhammer style” of sex, driving hard and fast into the woman in order to get the feeling he needs to achieve orgasm. This is OK at times, but I think all women will roll their eyes along with me at the thought of this being a regular thing.

From a book called Sex As Nature Intended It, by Kristen and Jeff O’Hara:

The design of the natural penis indicates that nature intended for pleasure and orgasm to be induced by actions taking place mostly in the upper area of the penis. However, for the circumsized penis, the upper penis mechanisms and responses have been drastically altered and do not function the way nature intended.

Consequently, the circumsized male is left to improvise alternative and supplementary means to attain orgasm. It is use of these odd varieties or orgasm-building (pleasure seeking) techniques that causes him to thrust much differently from the intact man, and which his female partner finds frustrating and disrupting to her pleasuring needs.

Is it true - do uncut men fuck more stylishly? I’ve been with uncut men, but I can’t really say I noticed a difference, but now I want to explore this. Wouldn’t it be fun to set up a night to test this idea out? Invite two friends over - one circumsized, and one not - and have sex with both of them and see who you like better…see who makes the cut, so to speak.

Like Dan Savage and his “Dear Faggot” column, I’m going to start posting questions I receive, paired with my questionable answers. Go ahead, Ask a Slut! ~ love [at] thebeautifulkind . com

Dear Slut,
I was reading your old posts and there was one titled “Endless Possibilities” I was intrigued by #6. Have you ever had anyone do this? Did you enjoy it? I have been looking to have a woman do this to me but it’s kinda hard to bring up on a first date - “Hey would you piss on me?” So I didn’t know if someone brought it up to you or if it was a fantasy for you too?
- P.

Dear P.,
I’ve dabbled in watersports, but not much. I think it’s fine, fun, sexy. I’ve had a couple guys wipe me and I’ve peed on a couple, and one guy wanted me to pee in his mouth. I was willing to give it a try but he chickened out, which was rather annoying, as I thoughtfully prepared that day by drinking lots of water and avoiding asparagus. It felt wasteful to just flush that “golden juice” (his words, not mine) down the toilet…

I’ll admit I’m pretty clueless when it comes to traditional dating, but I’d hazard to guess that it’s better to come right out with something like that early on than to wait a few months later to bring it up. Usually by then it’s kinda too late, you know what I mean? You’d think it’d be easier to talk about a private thing like that with someone you know even better, but instead it can be even harder. And maybe if you speak up, she’ll feel comfortable enough to tell you about her rape fantasy! GOSH just imagine that fun-filled night: “Hey I’ll piss on you if you rape me - whaddya say?”

Sounds like a bloggable evening to me…

“As long as we equate sex with dirt, weakness, and guilt, a powerful weapon exists for demagogues.”

- Jay Gertzman

I don’t really like Florida very much, even though it’s shaped like a penis/gun. I gaze disdainfully at the families who are sitting around in their Disneyfied sports jerseys (G R U M P Y and D O N A L D) waiting for their departing plane with bags overflowing with Disney merchandise. I wonder what the hell they’re going to do with all that crap once they get home - display it on the mantle? You can’t escape the smoke hanging over the city from surrounding wildlife fires. But there is one thing better than cartoon theme parks, Universal Studio, and rotting orange trees.

All the LIZARDS.

If you walk down the street you’ll see little lizards skibbling across the sidewalk, darting up drainpipes, and rustling in the bushes. It’s like a god-induced plague, only a really cute one. They are so stylish, with outfits matching the leaves, the cement, the wood chips. I like the ones with the racing stripes best.

The Beautiful Kind was down in Orlando yesterday having delusions of grandeur.

It was a clear, idyllic day, and I took a walk on Edgewater. I sat down on a bench right outside a barber shop and read my book (Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris - is “The Girl Next Door” the best story in that book or what?! I will read it out loud to whoever will indulge me.)

I chose the bench strategically, as I am fond of barber shops and the old men who patronize them. Every time one would emerge from the shop in a waft of shaving cream and aftershave, their neck clean and their hair cute as a button, I wanted to leer, “Loookin’ goood.” But I resisted.

I finally got up and joined one of them as he walked down the street - he had the cutest Southern accent. I wanted to follow him across the street, but the vintage resale shop had opened, and I wanted to score more with them than with him. And I did. It’s impossible for me to find a pair of jeans that fit, but I did get three tops and skirt (I have this fascination for polka dots lately - I have this polka dot bra and whenever I wear it I can’t keep from peeking down the front of my shirt and grinning like an idiot.)

Then I went to Jade Bistro, a sushi bar. The host, Russ, seated me in a booth, and I announced, “I’m on vacation. I’d like alcohol.” Ha, I don’t need the excuse of a vacation to drink alcohol at lunch, but he played along.

“How about a chilled pear sake?” he suggested.

“Bring it on! I mean, yes, please.”

It was light, floral, and hit the spot. I ordered sushi with names you don’t get in St. Louis, like The Manhattan, and The Mexican (each piece had a little jalapeno and spicy mayo on top like a hat.) The woman in the next booth saw my cute little spread and exclaimed, “That looks like the perfect lunch!” I assured her it was.

Russ came over to ask how the sake was, and I asked, “What should I get next - the Ruby or the Diamond?” He brought out both for me to sample, and I went with the Ruby, which was lush and fruity.

I was feeling pretty damn happy sitting there eating with my wood chopsticks when another waiter came up and presented me with a silver pair. He probably offered them because he felt like I was struggling with the wood pair, but I decided it was because he recognized me as the celebrity that I am.

When I finished Russ came over and said, “Here is dessert,” and presented me with a milky Pearl sake, which tasted like sour rice pudding. Oh god.

By the time I toddled out of there I was lit like a Japanese businessman celebrating the end of a 12-hour workday. I waved goodbye to Russ, assuring him that I was walking home.

When I got home to my friend’s house, I spent the afternoon recuperating from my hedonistic lunch, lounging about on her couch and petting her Chihuahua, who treated me like a rock star. By the time my friend got home I was ready to drink red wine with her, which we did out on the porch as we talked about boys and other lofty aspirations.

Then we walked to a vegetarian tea house and got punchy tea and cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles. I finished the meal with a strawberry cupcake that had the most perfect swirl of fat pink icing (since I was famous I wouldn’t allow the cute boy behind the counter to just grab one from the case - I had to hand pick it. )

By then it was dusk and we went to a playground and swung on the swings until we felt like throwing up.

* The one thing that made the day imperfect was that due to pursuing other earthly delights, I didn’t have an orgasm all day. I have some catching up to do.

Usually you see a movie and you either love it or hate it. Like Requiem for a Dream for example. I actually liked that movie. I’m sure many people were disturbed by the “Ass to ass!” scene with Jennifer Connelly, but that’s my idea of a good time. But man that infected brachial artery - that was all kinds of gross! Not sure if I can give blood this month…OK, back on topic.

I saw this movie called Sleeping Dogs Lie and loved it and hated it. But mostly hated it. Here’s why:

I loved it because:
- It broached a taboo topic for a romantic comedy - bestiality. It’s about a woman who blows a dog once, years ago, and this gets leaked to her fiance and family and all hell breaks lose. No one can look at her the same, she’s called a dirty whore, etc.
- It pointed out that we all have at least one deep dark secret we’re ashamed to reveal.
- It had some unexpected twists and turns - these days I definitely admire a movie that isn’t fucking predictable.

I hated it because
- This annoying French music played throughout the movie.
- The acting was lame at times.
- I hate romantic comedies even when they deal with taboo sex.
- A guy felt compelled to throw away all his porn because the woman he wanted to be with thought it was “gross.”
- The moral of the story was that we should keep our sex secrets secret in order to have successful close relationships. UGH!

That goes against my big mission to be open and honest and ‘fess up our fantasies! Cuz if everyone comes clean, then no one should feel ashamed. Though I do understand the stignma of being different…and how stupid people can be.

One time I told a guy friend about another guy friend who had a foot fetish, and the “normal” guy friend had this reaction: “YUCK toe sucking freak!”

So then I responded with, “Well, I love to suck cock, do you have a problem with that?” And of course he said no, I could suck his cock anytime.

But c’mon now, what’s the difference?! One body part even has a pisshole and it’s totally cool to put your mouth on that, but not toes? Regardless, it ain’t gonna happen.

Dharma makes beautiful music with the harp. I knew she had it in her.

I’ve been thinking about getting into the webcam business. As an exhibitionist and nympho, it’s appealing to think it’s possible to lie around in bed masturbating AND getting watched AND paid for it. You can set your own hours, work from home, sounds good to me.

BUT I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of being chained to my bed. It seemed like it might be isolating and could get boring. And also possibly a sexist setup, implying that a woman’s place is in the bedroom (or is that the kitchen? Maybe I could make vegan cupcakes for a living! Whoah off subject~ back to webcam idea.)

Still, I looked into it. I mean, I already masturbate like five times a day, might as well make a career out of it, you know, do what you love and all that. A friend directed me to this professional site based out of Las Vegas you can partner with and they will host your site. All you need is a computer, high speed internet, and web cam. Got it.

But then I printed out the contract to review and sign, and it contained clauses such as

You MUST keep your panties on in Free Chat
NO pussy wedgies…

Have you EVER signed a contract that specified “NO pussy wedgies” ? Dear lord!

And get this part:

NO OBSCENITY ALLOWED. OBSCENITY INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO: penetration with inappropriate objects, e.g., fists, bottles, vegetables, tools, implements (e.g., plungers, light bulbs), animals (e.g., gerbils), etc…

OK so I don’t really want to stick a toilet plunger up my cunt, but what’s so obscene about a cucumber compared to a dildo?

And what’s so obscene about a fist that it deserves bolding? Are you allowed one finger inserted? Two? Three? Four? Then oh shit it’s OBSCENE! Sheesh, no it’s not - it’s talented. I mean, come on, can you do that to yourself?

It’s true, I like the idea of people watching me get my kink on (I use the word “people” instead of “men” since maybe women spend time and money on this kind of thing - YEAH RIGHT), and I don’t mind an incest fantasy now and again, but I seriously don’t like the idea of Big Brother watching me in the bedroom. Geez, wouldn’t it be embarrassing to get busted for rubbing a stuffed animal toy on your crotch? (that’s also not allowed.)

The phone rang.
“Wolfy! I knew you would call.”
“Oh yeah, how come?”
“Because it’s the full moon.”
“It is?”
“Mm hm. We met on the full moon, you know. You had your way with me…” I trailed off, remembering the wild evening a month ago. I wanted to turn the tables. “So, are you coming over?”
“You want me to?”
“Of course I do. But. Last time we fucked, afterwards you told me you did it in a moment of weakness. What a thing to say! I’m not interested in inspiring moments of weakness. I’m interested in inspiring moments of strength. So you can only come over if you are strong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh get over here already.”

He arrived, awash with nervous tension. I led him to the couch in the dimly lit living room and told him to sit down.
I stood in front of him. “You aren’t to do a thing, got it?”
He just stared at me, but closed his eyes when I leaned down to kiss his rough cheek, his ear, his neck. I nuzzled on him and he reached for me. “No,” I said, and gently pushed his hands back down to his sides.
In the shadows he could peek down my tank top and inhale my sweet scent.
I rubbed my hands and body against his chest. I sank to my knees in front of him and and worked my way down to the hard bulge in his pants. I grabbed hold of his belt and slowly undid it. I unbuttoned his fly and reached in to unleash his glorious cock.
“Do you want me to kiss it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
I did, then asked, “Are you weak or are you strong?”
He blinked, swallowed. “Strong.”
“Good.” I took him in my mouth, swirled my tongue around his head, worked my way up and down his shaft, sucked him until he could barely fit in my mouth. He groaned and muttered, reached for my head, then stopped himself.
I pulled away and stood up.
I gazed into his eyes as I stepped out of my panties. “Are you still strong?”
He nodded, growling with desire.
I straddled him, hovering over him, my thigh muscles tight. I knew he wanted nothing more at that moment than to feel my wet heat envelope him. I slowly pushed myself down on him. It took my breath away. I rocked into him.
He moved his hands to grab onto my hips, and I once again moved them back down to his sides, and this time held them there, our fingers entwined.
“You are strong,” I whispered in his ear.

Did I lie to him? Or did I tell the truth?

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting sick of seeing the ads for the dating site called True. Their big selling point is that they screen for married people and felons, which I think is awesome funny - lumping the two groups together seems to put them both in the “imprisoned and bad news” category. And geez, married people need love, too!

And c’mon, what fun is it to take away the chance that you might be dating a serial killer? Where’s the adventure in that? Spoil sports. And how are you supposed to follow their motto (Live. Love. Learn.) if they officiously steer you in the right direction? Their site is chockful of dating advice and tips, movie suggestions (can you say MAINSTREAM?) - they even have a Coaching Center. OY, it’s like the Jewish Mother of dating sites.

Anyway, the models in the ads all have these radioactive creepy eyes that are unnaturally blue or green. Wouldn’t it be nice if they embraced their “True” mentality and featured a real guy who is on the site? You know, someone less alien and more human, with plain old brown eyes, a receding hairline, and a pot belly? And why does this guy have a terrycloth towel up against his face - is it supposed to make you think he just got out of the shower? Or maybe a gay bath house? GOD those eyes are creeping me out…

Individually served frosted cakes. In wrappers you can chew on like a disgusting pig.

God I love cupcakes.

A friend of mine makes vegan cupcakes - Elvis peanut butter, Oreo, S’mores, espresso - each garnished with peanuts, Oreos, graham crackers, coffee beans and fabulously frilly icing… GODDAMN.

Wouldn’t it be sexy to be in bed and feed each other cupcakes? Lick frosting off each other’s fingers, maybe smear it on each other and eat it off, a cupcake smashed on each tit, the thought of doing laundry to rid the bed of crumbs like bed lice the furthest thought from your mind? SIGH.

If someone forced me at gunpoint to get married, I would get a cupcake tree in lieu of a wedding cake. I fantasize of birthday parties (no, you don’t have to be a kid) with enough glorious cupcakes so that each guest would get two and get to take one home for later, to either share with a friend or eat in the kitchen at 2am. I would even embrace Hostess cupcakes, as they are so chocolatey and have that (almost) irresistable squiggle of white icing, except they contain beef fat and chemicals galore. Gross.

Check out this cute photo series by Luke Stephenson featuring men sporting their morning wood. I love the rumpled clothes they slept in, their hairy legs, their average bodies, their sleepy or unassuming postures, that they woke up ready for action (or needing to pee, oh hurry up and get back here!)

I like that he has other photo series showcasing subjects such as chefs and budgies. (Male budgies are called cocks by the way, and you can tell which are male and which are female by the color of the area right above their beak called a cere. The boys have a blue cere, the girls have pink!)

My FAVORITE magazine is BUST. The latest issue features an article about a remote region in China where there is a matriarchal society known as the Women’s Kingdom. Check it out:

The Mosuo have their own language and ancient religion, Daba, involving the worship of a “guardian mother goddess,” which they practice alongside Tibetan Buddhism.

Mosuo women do not believe in traditional marriage; instead, they practice what they call “walking marriage.” A man “walks” into a woman’s bedroom at night, and she decides if she wants him to stay. In the morning, before dawn, he must leave before he makes a nuisance of himself, preferably by crawling out the window.

If the two get along with each other, they stick together. When they fall out of love, they split completely without drama or hard feelings.