Fetish Week: WAM

Come one, come all to the grand opening of Fetish Week! I’ve decided to devote one post a week to a fetish I find on Wikipedia, because that is clearly a good use of my time. Besides, it is really hard to run out of things to write about with all the, um, sexy fetishes out there. I decided to start Fetish Week off with a non-creepy one: WAM!

WAM is “wet and messy” fetishism, which is not as gross as it sounds (or is exactly as non-gross as it sounds, if you don’t have a dirty mind. Which you clearly do, because you’re reading a post about fetishes, you filthy fuck). WAM-lovers just get off to people covering themselves [Ed. note: I totally typo'd that as "them elves," and I'm pretty sure that's a whole different fetish] with messy things, like mud or whipped cream. It’s not even weird, really. Like, what guy doesn’t want to see his girlfriend rub oil all over herself?

Plus, the best part? WAM doesn’t include anything disgusting like “wet and messy” kinda implies. No bodily fluids, no puke (apparently that’s a thing? Thanks, Wikipedia), no nothing. Mud is pretty much the grossest thing on there, and since mud wrestling is about as common as a ladybug with spots, even that doesn’t faze me.

So, now that you’ve learned and adopted a new fetish, enjoy jerking off with ketchup like one WAMmer did! Or, you know, stay tuned for next week–but put on your seatbelt, because I’m going to pick freakier and freakier ones until your minds explode. (That’s called brainexplodingophilia.)

I’m Hungover

You know what’s fun? Bar-hopping and flirting with all the tall manly bouncers. You know what’s not fun? The morning after, when it feels like the chestburster from Alien lives inside you, except it’s made of puke.

I would like to kill myself just to not feel like a giant brick with a stomachache, but if I did, I don’t know how you would all survive without my beautiful posts to get you through the day. And being the wonderful girl that I am, I just couldn’t let that happen, so I guess I’ll live to write another day.

But seriously, vodka cranberries and Bahama Mamas, you are vicious and I hate you. (Until next weekend, and then we can kiss and make up.) And as for you stupid lucky non-hungover Readers: THIS.

I Hate Your Face

Have you ever been dating someone, and you either don’t really care for them or you’re falling out of love, and all you can see are their flaws? One day they’re handsome and charming, and the next day you squint at their face in total disgust and think, “Well, fuck me, you’re positively revolting!”

That’s mean, I know. But I can’t help it. My first serious boyfriend and I were that awful couple that never loved each other at the same time, so for the first year of our relationship I ignored him and flirted with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who smiled in my direction (which, let’s be honest, is a lot of Toms and Dicks). And then I finally started to like him as much as he liked me, and then BAM, he wasn’t feeling it as much, and then we both were matched in our misery and broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens, life goes on.

But let me tell you, during that year, all I could see was his Stupid Ugly Face. Due to the virtue of our locations I only saw him once a week, less if I could avoid him, but his mug was still a horrible shock whenever it came swimming into view on our weekly rendezvous. He had these horrid–tiny, miniscule, possibly the size of an atom–white dots near his eyes. And a giant nose that probably weighed 700 pounds. And his pores, his pores! His stupid rough hair and by GOD was his smile unpleasant, and why did his nostrils flare when he BREATHED?

You get the idea. I would literally sit in his crumbly apartment and stare at his face with confusion. But I guess this makes sense, because I didn’t really care for him and I had tried to dump him and blahblahblah.

The real problem lies in that I do this with everyone. Yeah, you heard me. Everyone. Close friends and my current beau get a pass, because my heart is fully of warm squishy feelings for them and therefore my brain cannot produce enough hatred to formulate mean thoughts about them. But strangers? Oh holy FUCK do I scrutinize you.

It’s not that I mean to. I fully realize what a shallow bitchbag I sound like, and in the interest of fairness, I do it to myself too. I could stand in front of the mirror with professional makeup on and just think about my face until I’ve magically morphed into a drooling, deformed troll. Blame the media or fashion magazines (or, if you want, my keen and observant eye) but it’s like looking at words and trying not to read them: your brain just does it. At least, my bitchbrain does.

So you know how your acquaintance asks if the hideous pimple on their face is noticeable, and you say no, because maybe you didn’t even look? Yeah, well, I saw it. And since I’m as sweet as apple pie, I won’t say a thing, but holy God is that a zit. And as for you, I see those bags under your eyes and the lint on your sweater and that weird tooth and the place by your jaw where the foundation isn’t blended right. But weirdly, I still think you–and most everyone, even after my brain rips them to shreds–is beautiful! It’s a rare gift. (Now fix that foundation, gorgeous.)

Well,

I can’t think of anything to write about. So instead: a picture of balloons and gorgeous lingerie.

Any suggestions, Dearest Readers? I know your smart little brains are just bursting with rainbow-colored imaginations chock-full of perfect blog topics for me to write about. Throw it in the comments. I will even write a story about you, or write a letter to your boyfriend dumping him, or a haiku about pennies! CLEARLY I NEED IDEAS.

Why Women Hate Samantha Brick

(Hint: it’s not because she’s beautiful.) I’m not sure if any of you have had the pleasure to read Samantha Brick’s columns in The Daily Mail, but she came out with a doozy, titled, “There are downsides to looking this pretty–Why women hate me for being beautiful.” This is Samantha, by the way.

I’ll just let that sink in. Now, in the interest of fairness, Samantha is British, so the semi-busted teeth are not her fault. And besides her mouth (and looking slightly like Sloth from The Goonies if you look at her really fast then look away), she is really not ugly. She’s pretty, even–look at this picture.


But holy mother of pearl, is she delusional. You really have to read the article, but I’ll spare you and just pop in some highlights.

“While I’m no Elle Macpherson, I’m tall, slim, blonde and, so I’m often told, a good-looking woman. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being pretty — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks.”

“I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.”

“Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in a room.”

Um…yeeeeeah. Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think people hate you because you’re so ridiculously beautiful that their husbands would fall at your feet and your smile makes them want to rip off their own faces in jealousy. I’m pretty sure the reason people actually hate you is that you’re more conceited than Kanye West.

Loving yourself is just ducky, and thinking that you are a hot motherfuckin’ tamale is also totally kosher. Even kind of secretly thinking you look better than everyone in the room is sort of acceptable. BUT YOU CAN’T ACT LIKE IT. That’s the cardinal rule. There’s confidence, and then there’s swaning around complaining in a newspaper about how tough life is when you’re sooooooooo beautiful. I mean, you just sound like a twat.

On one foot, I sort of feel bad for ol’ Sammy Brick, because she really isn’t ugly and the whole Internet has just gone insane with comments about how hideous she is. Her personality isn’t cute, but her face is–she’s just not drop-dead, knock-‘em-over gorgeous, which is how she writes about herself. I mean, has she ever seen a model? Or a celebrity? Or, you know, someone with white teeth (stupid question, she’s English)? But still, she writes in the article about how “not one girlfriend has ever asked [Samantha] to be her bridesmaid.” She obviously attributes this to the fact that she’s so stunning, the bride’s husband would inevitably veer over to Samantha and give her the ring instead. But, tragically obviously to the rest of the world, it’s clearly because she’s annoying as fuck and has no real friends.

On the other foot, come on, Sammy. You get free champagne and have doors opened for you and all that, so shut the fuck up and enjoy it.

Do You, Unattractive, Take Handsome to Be Your Lawfully Wedded Husband?

I think everyone knows an “unattractive guy, pretty girl” couple. It’s just the way of the world. The Unattractive Guy is probably funny, and failing that, he is probably sweet, nice, and doesn’t mention his thing for BDSM choking on the first date. And the Pretty Girl is sick of hot douchebags, and so she goes for personality instead and lives happily ever after with Unattractive Guy.

If they turned around, you'd be shocked by how ugly he is.

It’s just life. Boys are shallower, and girls care about personality more. And there are exceptions and blah-blah-blah, but the general rule is that the dude is going to date the hot chick, and the chick is going to date the nice, funny guy. Every time some (usually hideously ugly) man posts on Facebook: “The good guy never gets the girl,” I think to myself, “Well, sweetheart, even she has limits.” I mean, a pretty girl will date a nice, plain-looking or even slightly-ugly-but-plays-it-off-well-with-a-beard guy, but if you’re fugly and fat (and nice), that’s a whole new plate of pie.

But the Unattractive Girl, Handsome Guy couple? That is way less typical. If you see a pretty girl walking around with a plain-t0-slightly-ugly guy, you probably don’t do a double take, unless you’re turning around to stare at her butt. But when you see a plan-to-ugly girl walking around with some handsome, muscular fellow, you think to yourself, “Whaaathefuck?” It’s weird. I mean, I’m happy for Unattractive Girl, although if I was dating way up I’d be constantly afraid someone not-ugly would swoop in and steal my man.

If you haven’t seen the UG-HG coupling in nature, well, you’re in luck, because last night I had the good fortune to witness the very beginning of an UG-HG relationship! That’s right, folks–The WildHearts strapped on her explorer hat and headed into the wild to witness this all go down. (Or, you know, I was at the bar casually sipping the world’s most expensive Appletini and saw it all play out.)

Handsome Guy was not my type, but he was definitely a lot of other girls’ dreamboat: tall, cropped blonde hair, handsome face and big muscly arms, one of which had a non-tribal tattoo on it. He was good-looking in that all-American Army boy kind of way, and he knew it. And all these little drunk sluts were flitting around him like whore-moths to a light, and what did he do?

Mack on the Plainest of Janes next to him at the bar. I mean, I am not exaggerating when I say that this girl could’ve stepped into a wallpaper and faded away completely. The only reason I was even aware of her existence was because it was so shocking that Handsome Guy was hitting on her. She had really lank, limp hair the color of mice poo, a plain, tired face, and a weak chin, which all matched her hideous grandma sweater and bad posture. I mean, she could be sweet as pie and all that shit, but that is what she looked like, before anyone accuses me of Level 10 Bitchiness.

And Handsome Guy LOVED her. I am not kidding; he wanted to drop to one knee and propose to her with a bottle cap. He didn’t even seem drunk. He laughed at everything she said, never so much as glanced at any of the twats screaming with drunk excitement a foot away, and basically looked like a little puppy wiggling at a new bone. In fact,  Unattractive Girl actually seemed less interested.

I guess my point is, it was weird? And everyone should date who they love, but if you’re so funky-looking that some bitchy blogger writes a post about you the next day, you should maybe not go to crowded bars in SalVo sweaters that probably smell like mothballs? And everyone should drink Appletinis if they have a $20 to spare?

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