The Beautiful Kind

Are any of the following words still considered derogatory, or is this post superfluous?

We all know I’m a bitch - I can be nasty, moody and judgmental. I’m feminist but for the most part anti-feminine - I hate Kenny G, Valentine’s Day, manicures, weddings, romantic comedies, soap operas, high heels, women’s magazines, and most children.

I’m definitely a slut - “a woman with the morals of a man.” (urbandictionary.com)

I’m a nympho - a woman with a healthy sexual appetite (my definition).

I’m even a whore sometimes (giving sexual favors in exchange for remuneration). Any woman who allows a man to buy her drinks or dinner and then fools around with him is a whore, and hell I’ve accepted plane tickets, trips, cash…it’s cool that I like the sex, too, right?

But am I a cunt? A cunt is someone who is mean on purpose - I’m just mean for fun. Therefore, I am not a cunt.

Ah well, 4 out of 5 ain’t bad for The Beautiful Kind.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, and – newsflash - every American-style restaurant is PACKED with meat. It’s annoying as shit.

One place in mid-Missouri called the Apple Barrel had a buffet that was loaded with sliced cow swimming in gravy, turkey, fried chicken, pig chops - so many species represented, it could have been a petting zoo if it weren’t for the fact that all the critters were grossly mutilated. They also had a salad bar as an afterthought that featured the whitest lettuce I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it was like ghost lettuce. Apple Barrel, my ass, more like the Meat Barrel. We only stayed long enough to piss in their fly-happy bathroom.

And most restaurants even put meat in all their vegetable dishes. Beans, greens, hash browns - they’re all tainted with pig juice and muscle fibers.

Everywhere you go, meat dominates the scene – billboards, close ups of ribs coated with shiny corn syrup, it even seeps up your nostrils when you pass a stupid chain (I swear Applebee’s has such a rib fetish – I’ll bet they even serve rib pie.) And what’s with the term “baby back ribs” anyway? Do people pretend like they’re eating their own young when they gnaw on the bones?

Even traveling dignitaries get the American experience. Regarding the impending visit of a diplomat from another country, a White House rep was quoted saying, “He’ll get to choose between hamburgers and hot dogs!” It’s very easy to imagine this being said in a white trash accent.

Thank god for ethnic restaurants.

Sidenote: Another huge dominator in our culture is alcohol. I have a friend who doesn’t drink (in fact, he thinks drinking is morally wrong) and he gets as annoyed as I do with all the meat when it comes to all the beer ads, alcohol in movies, happy hours, booze at most social events – but since I’m a big lush this doesn’t bother me.

Dear Slut,
Would you rather a) have sex with someone you felt a positive personal connection with, even though you knew the person wouldn’t be very good at it, and hence the experience wouldn’t be that pleasurable? Or b) have sex with someone who was really good at it, even if you didn’t feel a positive personal connection with them?

(Some might say that the questions are making false presuppositions — that you’d automatically get pleasure from someone you felt close to, and that you couldn’t from someone you didn’t. But I don’t think so — we can imagine that the person you feel close to has a barbed penis - ouch! - and I’m pretty sure that you have an active enough imagination that you could fantasize your way into enjoying sex with the person you didn’t feel close to.)
- The Philosopher

Dear P,
OK, first of all I keep picturing a barbed penis. Thanks a lot. Besides that, I have about a million thoughts bouncing around my head, but will try to narrow it down to two points:

1. Naturally I’ve tried both scenarios you’ve described, and I’m going to have to go with option B. Once I was swinging with this couple, and I was not into the dude at all - bad tattoos, a sport-o, average cock, not smart. He wasn’t eloquent with his tongue, but omigosh he was good at pussy licking. His wife suggested, “Take her to The Chair, honey,” so he carried me over to this generic easy chair in their living room, sat down in it and plopped me on top of him. I rode him hard, and I’m not sure what it was about The Chair or the dude, but it was amazing, and I simultaneously orgasmed with this guy I wasn’t even attracted to. Who knew?

2. As for option A, why waste my time? Having sex with someone I lack that “spark” with really does feel like “bumping uglies.” Why not just stick to non-sack activities like discussing a book, cooking together, or going to the garden with the person I connect so well with on non-sexual levels? UNLESS I’m doing them a favor and trying to teach them a thing or two. I’ve helped many an inexperienced young stud explore how to pleasure a woman or indulge in uncommon positions or rougher-than-vanilla sex. This type of charity work warms my slutty little heart.

Send your pervy questions to love [at] thebeautifulkind . com

Wow, for the first time ever, I was actually excited to go to a hardware store. My guy wanted to buy ropes and hooks and lord knows what else for the big ass bondage bed he’s building for us. He also suggested shelves as part of the design for sex books and glass dildos, but I worry about them working their way to the edge when the bed rocks and conking us on the head like that creepy doll in Indiana. I suggested a built-in lube dispenser and a mini-fridge for beer, but not sure if that’s gonna happen.

Anyway, he wanted to go to Lowe’s instead of The Home Depot, which is the first glimmer of hope for me that he might be bi. The Home Depot is where blue collar wokers go to get sheet rock - Lowe’s is where gay couples go to get wall sconces.

Rope. What kind should we get? Since I’ve only gone as far as being tied up with ugly thrift store ties in the past, I wanted something soft for my skin, nothing scratchy and rough. The book we’ve been reading recommended hemp rope, but prepping that stuff sounded like a big ordeal, something a serial killer would do in preparation for his next victim - take the rope and boil it in a big pot for an hour, stirring often, then let it dry for a day or two, then carefully burn all the frayed bits off, turning the rope from a grassy green to a seasoned dark brown. Um, forget that.

I would have loved to have scored glow-in-the-dark rope, but the closest they had was this hot pink stuff that was too thin. Finally we chose this soft white nylon that, had it gone home with another person, would have been used to tie furniture to the roof of a car.

We fondled the rope in the aisle and giggled (well, I giggled).

“This will look great on you, hon,” he said.

Can’t. Wait.

- The Beautiful Kind

I started drinking coffee back in November, so have been to Starbucks about a million times since then because it’s where everyone and their donkey wants to meet up.

At first I would order a pastry to go with my coffee, but after about three times, I realized that Starbucks pastries SUCK.

They super suck. Not one of them is any good. Even the chocolate ones taste like they scribbled on them with a brown crayon. I won’t even accept any of their free samples anymore. I don’t understand how they probably sell a million slices of coffee cake a day and everyone eats it and doesn’t let on that it tastes like blocks of sawdust. Maybe I am surrounded by robots…

Last night I walked into the living room and announced to my beau, “The only way this

is coming off is for you to rip it off.”

“Done,” he said.

Camping in a lane between fields of soybeans is enough to make any red-blooded vegetarian horny, and my guy took full advantage of that.

It was night, and the fire was dying down. We spread a blanket out and shed our clothes. The gentle cooling breeze felt marvelous on our bare skin. I lay down on the blanket, and he lay on top of me, planting kisses on my face, neck, chest. The delicious smell of the burning wood was on his beard and skin - it was like being with Smokey the Bear.

As he moved on top of me, I looked up past his shoulder and saw all the dazzling stars pinpointed in the inky black sky. I really did feel like (a pretend) God was watching us, and that we were making love.

But of course I had to ruin the romance and make believe he was the older camp counselor dude who spent the day choosing which hot young camper he would steal away to seduce and nail after things settled down for the night.

“Do you like Panera?” my guy asked me as we were driving.

“Oh sure, if I want something dry and decorative, you know, like a paperweight,” I replied.

This snarky answer didn’t change his course, and five minutes later we were standing in line at Panera, about to pay them for something that we knew wouldn’t taste good. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found myself in this situation, due to convenience or meeting someone out in public. I guess you can’t get much safer than Panera - bland food, bland conversation. And that hideous elevator music they play! I wonder how many self-inflicted lobotomies have occurred within the confines of their Tuscan gold walls.

The tiny old woman staffing the register took his sandwich order, and asked if he’d like an apple to go with it.

“Is it sour?” he asked.

“It’s FUJI!” she bleated in a high-pitched voice.

“Fruity? Ah never mind, I’ll take a piece of bread instead.”

So then his plate had a sandwich on it, a roll, and another triangular piece of bread thrown on there, just for the hell of it.

Guess which bread tasted the best? NONE OF THEM. THEY HAVE NO TASTE. You might as well chew on a napkin and sip tap water. And stab yourself in the head with a knife. It was painful to watch him choke it down. Of course I didn’t get anything - their food doesn’t deserve to be eaten by me.

I think the problem is that they somehow got mixed up, and are selling the fake bread they use for their marketing photos. And just look! Those are totally sour apples in the background. Scammers.

Me: What do you fantasize about when we’re having sex?
Him: (caught off guard) Oh, I dunno. Someone watching us go at it? Two girls at once? But don’t worry - you’re in almost all my fantasies.
Me: (gives an obnoxious sideways smirk)
Him: What? I’m not in your fantasies?
Me: Oh, you’re in some of them, but for the most part, no.
Him: (looks puzzled and slightly hurt)
Me: Come on, I have such a high threshhold when it comes to sexual arousal that I have to throw dogs and dirty uncles in there. You’re not disgusting enough.
Him: (considers this) In your fantasy can I at least pop my head in the door and wave?
Me: Ha! Look, I’ll have you ravish one of your students, OK?
Him: Oh good…But I’d like you to be there, too.
Me: Fine, I’ll help.
Him: Perfect!

Last week I had to watch my mom for the day so my dad could run errands. She was having a psychotic episode and Dad didn’t know what to do with her. She kept wetting her pants and “wanting to go home” and letting the dogs out the front door.

So I was sitting at her house with my laptop, writing and fending off pesky mongrels.

“Whose house is this?” Mom asked me.

“Yours,” I said for the fourth time that day.

She looked at me, eyes glazed, smiling and incredulous. “No it’s not!”

“Yes it is.”

“These aren’t my things!”

“Unfortunately, they are. Jesus you have a lot of crap. You should get rid of some of it.”

“This house is similar to where I live, but not quite,” she decided.

“Uh huh.”

She labored to stand. She was wearing a shirt, a sweater, and a sock on one foot. “I’m going to get some pants,” she informed me, and shuffled back to her bedroom.

She came back out with a pair of socks, and sat down to put them on.

“Im still cold. I think I’ll put on some pants.” So she went back to her bedroom again, and came back with another pair of socks. She put this pair on, so now she was wearing 2 ½ pair of socks, and still no pants.

She attempted to stand again, and to my horror, toppled over with a tired shriek.

Crap.

I put down my laptop and tried to help her up, but she was big and round and I couldn’t even begin to get a grasp on her. “I want to get up,” she kept moaning.

I circled her for a few times and finally we gave up. I went back to her bedroom to get her a blanket. I hated to think of putting their blanket on the floor, as the floor was filthy, but saw that the ratty blanket on their bed was so matted with fur and grime that it looked like a homeless man had gotten in a fight with a werewolf on it. I shrugged and distastefully peeled it off the bed and brought it to her.

I fashioned a little floor cot for her and she promptly passed out.

I sat back down with my laptop, typing away, with my mother snoozing at my feet.

Periodically she would rouse briefly to “wish I could get up,” and each time she did I would ask her to scootch over to the couch.

Finally we shimmied her over enough so she could use it to right herself.

Phew. I went back to work and after a moment noticed her grunting with frustration.

“What’s the matter now?” I asked.

“I can’t get my shoe on!” she cried. She had her foot wedged in her purse.

She gave up and sat back and sighed.

A moment later, one of the dogs walked into the room.

“See that dog?” my mom asked me.

“Yes,” I said warily.

“You can see right through him,” she whispered in a confidential tone, smirking.

I corrected her. “That’s a girl dog, Mom.”

My beau and I are slowly making our way towards getting me tied up good and proper.

We got this book by “Fetish Diva” Midori, Ambassador to Kinky Pleasures, on Japanese bondage so we can read up on things to ensure we don’t cut off the circulation in my hands or strangle me (he’s not into necrophilia at all.)

The book takes you step-by-step through the most popular bondage positions you’ll see on the internet using photos and line drawings, but the best part is the prose that precedes each instruction that sets the scene and lets you get into the head of the “top” (doing the tying) or the “bottom” (being tied up). I have zero interest in tying my guy up, and am most interested in being used as an object of beauty by someone I trust, so it’s fun to read what the other person might be feeling, both perspectives. Really, it’s quite sweet.

For instance:

She is the beautiful kind. As I admire her, the vision of her bound body forms in my mind. The patterns emerge. With each length of the rope I am wrapping myself around her. The rope is the extension of my desire, lust and love for her. I see the lines sink into her curves. For a moment, as I gaze upon her, it’s me that is sinking into her flesh…

He watches me as I writhe in the ropes, feeling secure in them, feeling them gently dig into my skin. I feel the slow pressure on my pulsing clit. It makes me squirm even more. With every move I’m aware of him, all around me, as I swoon in his rope embrace. How easily he moves me! He pushes me off center, then back, assuring me of his control and my safety. I surrender further under his protective power…

And of course the book is done in a politically correct way with different body shapes and types represented. It’s interesting how the pics of the men tied up don’t excite me the way the pics featuring women do. And the tips are great, such as the suggestion to apply a vibrator to the ropes themselves, so the person tied up can feel the vibration being conducted along the tense ropes, setting more areas of the body afire. Can’t wait!

My trip to Canada earlier this summer reminded me of the only international swinging experience I’ve ever had.

My guy and I were traveling to Quebec City, so we checked out Swappernet.com to see if there were any cute couples up there we could hook up with. We found one and exchanged a couple emails, and agreed to meet for a dinner double date our second night in town.

The man was Miami Vice suave, older, sexy and trim, with those distiguished wrinkles around his eyes and a light pink button down shirt, white slacks, Kevin Costner thing going on. All this sounds cheesy, but it wasn’t. He was made more endearing by the fact that he was the former mayor of the small village they were from and spoke very little English, just French.

His wife was this total sexy little MILF, tiny, with a skimpy silky top and no bra. She told us in her husky French accent that she went braless in the summer. Lucky us. Her breasts looked absolutely beautiful, so soft and liberated, and those nipples… I ached to cup one (OK, both) in my hand. She acted as interpreter for her husband. They had four kids, and were in the process of adopting their 5th from China.

They pulled up to our quaint hotel in a snazzy red convertible, which we later found out was borrowed from a neighbor and was meant to impress us.

We ate at a Lebanese restaurant where they knew the owners, so we got the best seat in the house, the one elevated and in the window. They plied us with good food, wine and desserts, and we had a great time. But due to cultural barriers and having just met them, we weren’t sure if they wanted to come up to our hotel room afterwards.

So when they dropped us off, we awkwardly invited them up, and were surprised when they accepted.

I sure can’t remember how we got from stilted conversation to full swap mode, but we did. The lights in the room were off, so that we were bathed by the silvery street lights coming in through the window.

The room had two twin beds, so we all ended up on one narrow bed. I got with the debonair French Canadian, which was tres cool, but I was even more into watching my guy get it on with the hot MILF. He fucked her missionary, and she wrapped her legs around his torso and whispered high and breathless, over and over, “Oui! Oui! Oui!” …

And then they left and we never saw them again.

…there’s a convenience store that has an unusually high amount of pork skins and Crocs.

Seriously.

I’m talking at least four trashy kids running around in those hideous garbage-cans-as-footwear, and three large displays of pork skins - the kind that really does look like it was peeled from a creature with similar fat content to humans. It was very bad dream-ish. I suppose I deserved to be subjected to such heinous taste for how goddamn bitchy I am.

Number of lawn chairs sitting in the neighbor across the street’s yard: 22

Number of times I’ve seen someone sit in one of them: Zero

…one more person tells me I look like Joni Mitchell, I’m going to hit them over the head with a lute.

I am The Beautiful Kind, dammit!

My beau and I were on a road trip, and had been driving for hours.

“I’m bored!” I announced. “Can I give you road head or something?”

He laughed. “Why don’t you play with yourself?”

I considered this. I was funky down there, but what the hell. “OK.”

As I reached into my shorts, I grumbled, “Dammit, I wish I had my Pocket Rocket with me.” I had taken it out of my purse the last time I flew, and had forgotten to put it back. Hence, I was forced to diddle myself the old-fashioned way.

I started to finger myself, and he tried to reach down there, but I batted him away. “No way, I’m too funky right now. This is a job for experts.”

So instead he drove with one hand and used the other to firmly grope my upper body - he ran his hand over my shoulders, my neck, grabbed my chin, covered my face, reached rudely into my shirt and bra to paw at my tits.

The attention felt wonderful, and allowed me to escape into my fantasy as truck drivers whizzed by.

It took me about twenty minutes to get off. GOD it felt good. * Sigh * …

But dammit, what was I supposed to do with my stinkfinger? We didn’t have any Handi-Wipes in the car.

I held my dirty hand up helplessly as I looked around for something to clean it with.

Finally I resorted to taking the bottled water, rolling down the window and pouring it on my fingers.

PWAH

All the funky pussy water blew back in my face, and my guy laughed his ass off.

I guess I’m not the only one who gets aroused around books.

There was a funny article published recently on a local news channel website about how St. Louis libraries are infested with perverts. My mom told me about how forty years ago she caught some guy looking up her skirt when she worked at a library. Some things never change (well I doubt anyone would be too interested to look up my mom’s skirt these days.)

Men are passing teenagers lewd notes, flashing patrons in line, jacking off at computers…

An excerpt from the article:

In June 2006 at the main St. Louis County Library branch on South Lindbergh, it was about 3 p.m. when a library worker made this report: “…man at the Internet masturbating ….”

Webster Groves Police Chief Dale Curtis, the head of the St. Louis County Police Chiefs’ Association, said that if the suspect is doing something like that in the library there’s a “good chance” he’s doing it someplace else.

Ya think?! And hello, why is this article, dated July 2007, trying to suggest this is a recent shocking problem when it has to dig back more than a year for examples of indecency? Another funny bit:

Durnell said that even though libraries are full of great literature, you can’t let your guard down. He said a library is a public place and no different than a mall. He also said if you take you kids to the library, keep an eye on them, be careful and don’t leave them unattended for long.

For long?! C’mon, how long does it take to flash someone? I’m almost as annoyed with the people who compiled and supplied information for this article as I am for the men behaving like animals. A library isn’t a petting zoo, geez. Too bad these Gropey Guses can’t keep their dirty thoughts in their head like I do.

Dear Slut,
Since it’s summer and the city’s been in heatwave mode, any thoughts on tanlines? Me, I think I like them.
- Into 2-Tone

Dear Linespotter,
When you say tanlines, you mean this:

and not this:

right? OK, got it. First of all, you’ll be glad to know I scored the top pic from a blog featuring tanlines, so you can go check it out.

I can’t say I’m a big fan of tanlines. I avoid the sun and slather on sunscreen. I can’t understand why some women glue themselves to a poolside chair every summer, and I sure as hell don’t understand why someone would pay money to bake in a tanning bed. I know a lot of women tan in order to disguise blemishes, so to me a dark tan is like wearing too much makeup - makes the person look insecure. I prefer people’s natural skin color, and as you can tell from my sometimes Casper-like panty shots, I like for my skin to be uniform.

That said, I found this definition of “cleavite” on the Hot Chicks With Douchebags website to be charming:

Cleavite is not cleavage, and the two shall never be confused. Cleavite is the area of a woman’s cleavage that is paler than the rest due to less exposure to the sun. It is all that is holy and good in the universe. It tempts us with what is forbidden yet is being subtly and coyly revealed. It promises us wonders and worlds of exploration hidden behind that thin layer of fabric.

Yep, tanlines highlight the naughty bits. Now go ahead and imagine yourself rubbing sunscreen on the shoulders and back of that woman you saw wearing a bikini top yesterday at the Farmer’s Market. Yummy.

The other night I went to see a local band called N-2N play at Corky’s BBQ in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The band gets annoyed if you pronounce their name “N-2-N” instead of the way they intended it - “N-TUNE,” but they should have considered the fact that most people don’t read carefully before they created their logo. They should have kept N-2N as a vanity license plate and stuck with something less clever for a band name, like The Rolling Stones or The Supremes. Also, I think it’s funny that the drummer’s day job is neuropsychology.

The lead singer is this big, beautiful woman named Daphne. Her girlfriend, who looks like a cross between Richard Gere and Geoffrey Rush (she’s actually pretty sexy), always acts as bouncer, standing by the stage and making sure no one invades Daphne’s personal space. The band has a lesbian following, so there was a nice variety of people present. A woman who was shaped like mashed potatoes and looked like her name should be Marjorie danced (over)enthusiastically until her beer intake finally caught up with her and she fell heavily and dramatically on her ass in the middle of the dance floor.

There was this voluptuous Bettie Page-type woman who wore retro heels and a skirt that barely covered her ass. She played around with two bois all evening - lots of ass smacking was involved. This little threesome intrigued me - I love that gender bending shit. I hope they didn’t mind me staring.

The most annoying couple was this straight couple who reeked of “swinger” - the woman was a submissive redhead who wore a Hawaiian print dress, and her man was a total show-off. It was embarrassing to watch this guy, who looked like a computer programmer with his neat haircut, pleated slacks, and clip-on phone, dirty dance in his tight short sleeved shirt and necklace (I refuse to refer to it as a “chain” the way so many people charitably do when describing a man who wears such a thing.) It would have been nice if Marjorie had fallen on him - I wish God had a better sense of humor and could have made that happen for me.

I was hanging out with three total geek boys, and we went out into the adjoining hotel hallway to take a short break from the freak show. This is where we spotted the small open ballroom where six dressy African-American women in peacock blue, red, and turquoise were dancing to New Orleans music, circling the room waving cloth napkins. They saw us and, beaming, motioned us in, and of course we balked, but one of the geek boys, a consummate Southern gentleman, surprised us by exclaiming happily, “Second line dancing!” and pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket and leaping gracefully into the room.

I was horrified for a split second, but then came to my senses (thank you, beer) and the rest of us joined him and the women. They handed us cloth napkins and we bopped around the room. It was a precious moment, capping off a perfect night in the South.