Wow, They Really Straightened Up the Place

Last night, I went dancing at a fine establishment known as a gay bar. Now, for any girl who likes to dance and doesn’t like 400 horny guys trying to rub their dicks on her, a gay bar has always been the perfect solution (gay girls are a lot less pushy than straight dudes). You get to dress up, break it down, and have fun with your friends without having boners shoved everywhere.

Or so I thought, because apparently, some giant asshole TOLD STRAIGHT GUYS. Yeah, that’s right. Some giant douche decided to spill the beans and whisper, “Psst! Pass it on! Tons of straight girls go to gay clubs–it’s the perfect place to meet the ladies!”

I mean, clearly, if I am a straight girl at a club with rainbow flags everywhere and bouncers who look like they just walked off a gay bondage porno, I am there for a reason. And the reason is not that I love listening to gay icons blare through speakers at 5,000,000 decibels. The reason is that I want to dance all night without having to awkwardly reject people. Nothing against guys who mack on girls at clubs–I mean, it’s a club. That’s like going to an opium den and being like, “God, what a bunch of drug addicts!” But come on! Sometimes, I just want to dance like a slut for me, you know?

Instead, I was assaulted last night by 387 straight dudes asking me to dance and following me around the club and totally trying to rub their creepy penises on me. And I’m not a bitch–I didn’t say, “Fuck you,” I said, “No, but why don’t you dance with all of us?” and gestured to my lovely friends. At which point the straight-man infiltrator would then proceed to shake his head to that request and then superglue his crotch to my butt.

This happened the entire night, including guys who just kept. Coming. Back. I would let them do their exciting little boner grindy dance for about two seconds, and then very smoothy lift their hands over our head and twirl around so we were all dancing together. Which worked for a while, until the Ted lookalike (of How I Met Your Mother fame). But I’m pretty sure he was gay (maybe? Do gay guys get boners when they dance with girls, because that was not a wallet pressing on my ass), so I just went with it.

On one hand, I can’t complain. They were all actually totally decent-looking, and three of them could even be classified as something approaching “hot.” And they were all, with the exception of a seriously misguided lil’ dude, taller than me. On the other hand–listen, dolls, if I was single, I would rub against you like a kitty cat and then do something a little naughty outside the club, BUT I’M NOT. So go back to a straight bar where one of the girls you dance with might actually sleep with you (but she probably won’t).

Advertisements

Don’t Debbie Down

I just watched The Truth About Cats and Dogs yesterday, by which I mean I fell asleep forty minutes into The Truth About Cats and Dogs. Before you immediately X out of your internet in fear of reading a whole post about an Uma Thurman movie, don’t worry. It just made me think of a stellar (read: stupid) blog topic for the day: Unconfident Debbie-Downer Type People!

Now, everybody knows someone like this. Maybe you are someone like this, but since you’re amazing enough to be reading my blog, I doubt it. You know the type: they complain constantly about themselves/how life hates them/how they have such bad luck/how nothing good ever comes their way. Usually, they attribute these complains to some personal trait. This probably generalizes to a whole bunch of Debbie Downers in a variety of situations, but I have most often encountered the Unconfident I-Am-So-Ugly-That-Life-Will-Never-Be-Good girl.

Take Janeane Garofalo from the Cats and Dogs movie. For the entire forty minutes my brain managed to focus on the TV without spontaneously combusting [note: if you typo this “cumbusting,” which I did, it’s a lot funnier], Jenny does nothing but bitch and complain about how she knows she is sooooo plain and hideous that the mere sight of her face turns men into eunuchs. In one scene, she drops salsa on her top BECAUSE SHE IS BEING A FUCKING SLOB AND WAVING AROUND A SALSA-COVERED CHIP and just says something to the effect of, “Oh, that would happen to me,” with such self-pity and desperation I think even the TV cringed.

I have, tragically, encountered this type of person more than once. Usually, they live on Tumblr, and churn out things like this. If you’re too lazy to click the link (no shame in that, man), it says, “If all girls started wearing no makeup and comfortable clothes, guys would have no choice but to fall for girls because of natural beauty.” I’ll give you a moment to swallow your vomit.

Now, that might seem a tad unrelated to the whole Uma Thurman movie, but the Unconfident People weave a tangled web, my friends. For the specific sub-set of Debbie Downers I’m talking about, their internal thought process apparently goes something like this:

“I do not think I am attractive.” –> “Good things happen to attractive people, but not to me, because [see previous].” –> “My life would be so much better if I was more attractive, but [see first statement].” –> “Therefore, I will hate everyone who I perceive to be attractive because [see second statement].”

As you can see, this complicated flow chart reflects the inner mind of an Unconfident Debbie Downer. Hate yourself, blame everything on earth on the thing you hate about yourself, and then hate everyone who has the trait you feel you’re lacking in. If I’m coming off a little harsh, it’s only because I want these people to SNAP OUT OF IT. Everyone has a good quality, and I am a firm believer that anyone can look attractive with proper care. For some reason, girls who long to be pretty but think they are ugly would rather bitch and complain about “slutty” girls with their whorish, eeeeevil makeup than slap some on themselves. News flash, Debbie Downers: that so-called tramp you’re hating on out of obvious jealousy probably looks exactly like you before she goes to the time and effort of making herself look better.

Don’t mistake me–girls do not need makeup. If you genuinely don’t like makeup, don’t wear it. But also, don’t bitch that you’re ugly, because God floated down from his cloud and make Revlon for a reason. And don’t call other girls sluts because they chose to do something you don’t. Oh, and as for that idiotic little Tumblr quote–any guy who wouldn’t date you because you don’t wear makeup is a massive douche, and not worth your time anyway.

My rant is nearing its close, so if you’ve hung in here this long, don’t think I’m a crazy. Everyone feels bad about themselves from time to time; it’s all a natural part of life and blah blah something holistic blah. All I am saying is that there is absolutley no reason to hate any part of your sexy self so think about that the next time you’re about to call someone you think (think! That doesn’t mean it’s true!) is prettier than you a fat, pig-faced whorebag.

This rant brought to you by the Coalition For People Who Are Sick of Hearing People Hate On Other People For Stupid Reasons Because We’re All Just Beautiful Flowers Anyway, Man.

Don’t Be a Halloweenie

I know that Halloween is over a month away, but I am already pretty excited. In fact, I started an orange-and-black paper-chain countdown, just like for Christmas, except it’s kind of long since there are 41 links on it. And I almost burned down my apartment by surrounding my bed with Jack-O-Lanterns, because I kicked one in my sleep and it rolled into the fake cobwebs I set up. I’ve already started my all-candy diet in preparation of the big day!

Okay, not really. Except for the first part, where I am reallymotherfuckingexcited for All Hallow’s Eve (is that the same thing as Halloween? If yes, I am very smart. If no, shut up, go read a history blog).

For those of you who have no sense of fun who don’t like Halloween, allow me to shoot down all your reasons so you will appreciate the best holiday ever.

“I’m too old to celebrate Halloween.”  If this is your excuse, you’re either 13, or stupid. And if you’re 13,  you should take advantage of the one time all year it’s okay to take candy from strangers. If you’re an adult-sized person, don’t be so crazy. You don’t say, “Gosh, sorry, Grandma, but I can’t come to Easter Sunday because I’m just kind of too old for Easter now!” No one is too old to dress up like a slut and get drunk with their friends in the name of whatever-Halloween-stands-for.

“I don’t like getting dressed up.”  Then wear your own clothes, and tell everyone you’re a serial killer, a la Wednesday from The Addams Family. Ta-da, problem solved.

Ariel isn't a serial killer. Don't even joke like that. This is just a really good costume.

“I am lame and I hate good things.”  I believe psychiatric help may be a good starting point for you. (Seriously, I’m out of reasons why someone could dislike Halloween.)

Okay! So now that I have bullied you into celebrating the Best Holiday Ever, we are all in the Halloween spirit. YAYYY! I mean, OOOOOO! (That’s how ghosts say yay.) Now comes the real problem…the costume. I’ve been kicking around a few ideas, but none of them have really grabbed me as of yet. I thought I might be Fiona from that weird episode of Adventure Time where it’s Fiona and Cake instead of Finn and Jake, and then I decided I might be some form of sexy animal, and then I thought up being one of the kindergartners from Recess, except slutty. Clearly I have a way to go.

Luckily, while I think about it, Halloween is the perfect excuse to eat lots of apple cider donuts and watch scary movies when I should be doing things a productive member of society would do. So no rush.

Fall in Line, Summer Sluts

I am excited for Fall Sexy.

What is Fall Sexy, you ask? (I heard you. You can’t deny it. You’re sitting there with your hands on the keyboard, talking out loud. That’s kind of weird. But doesn’t it feel like we’re having a conversation right now, except it’s like a conversation with a psychic on account of the fact that I heard you say, “What is Fall Sexy?” and I’m probably three hundred miles away? Oh, wait, you didn’t ask about Fall Sexy? Well, you sure have stuck in here reading this whole thing, then. Kudos.)

Sorry, I got a little carried away trying to convince certain People of the Internet that I’m a psychic. Anyway, Fall Sexy. Fall is just this great wonderful fabulous season, for a million reasons–it’s the perfect temperature, the air feels crisp, it’s beautiful, and everything just seems fucking great in the fall. But one of the best things is that it’s the perfect time to dress like a minxy vixen.

See, look at it this way: Winter is too cold to wear anything a little slutty outdoors. No strappy heels (and no heels at all, if you live in Snowhell like me), no dresses, and everything else covered up under a giant coat. And Summer is great to wear short-shorts and flirty little sundresses, but it’s way too hot to swan around in garters or long sleeves, both of which can be sodamnsexy. And fuck Spring, that shit is muddy.

Which leaves us with glorious glorious Fall. You can wear skirts, or you can wear pants. You can wear a whorish dress and then make it [a little] classier with a cardigan. And, my favorite part of all, you can wear hosiery. I go buck-fucking-wild with my stockings and thigh-highs and tights in the fall, because a.) you can wear the shortest skirts ever and no one can say a word, and b.) these things are sex on legs (literally).

Plus, in case you couldn’t tell from the way I kind of word-fucked it earlier, Fall is my favorite season. And everyone looks good when they’re happy. (Awww, look how I ended on that sweet sentimental note! Now go buy some whore outfits, you delicious slatterns. [Also, my goodness, there are a lot of synonyms for “slut.” But stop reading and go shopping, you trollop!])

Put This in Your Cookbook

How to Have a Good St. Patty’s Day: the Recipe

Ingredients:

  • Slutty green clothes (1 pair)
  • Alcohol (6 shots/3 mixed drinks; add more to taste)
  • Loud bar with grindy dance music and strobe lights (1)
  • Friends (any number; must be flavorful)
  • Money (a lot)

Directions:

  1. Put on slutty clothes with friends.
  2. Go to bar.
  3. Buy mixed drinks. Mix them liberally with friends and bar.
  4. Buy shots. Shake vigorously on the dance floor.
  5. Black out.

Seriously, it’s foolproof. Way easier than whipping up some souffle or whatever-the-fuck with Martha Stewart-level difficulty and weird foreign ingredients.

A Guide to Coming Out About Being a Sex Worker

Apparently, in Japan, they have all these crazy sex clubs where models swim around in fish tanks or serve drinks or get groped on a fake train. This just further serves to prove that Japanese people are really, extremely weird. It also proves that I should move to Japan and get a job.

See, I guess they have a thing for foreigners, when they’re not busy stuffing their own ladies into creepily underaged schoolgirl costumes and marrying anime characters. And being tall and blonde in Japan seems pretty damn foreign to me. I can swim in a fish tank, so I think I might have to buy some tickets.

Seriously, I’m going to stop stereotyping an entire country now (but seriously, they seem pretty weird) and get to the point. Oh, wait, I don’t have one. But my own mindless rambling did make me think, how would I tell my parents that I’m moving to Japan to be a sex worker?

Like, how do strippers break that news to the ‘rents? “How’d you pay for that new purse, honey?” “SLIDING UP AND DOWN A POLE IN A G-STRING AND SAVING ALL THE DOLLAR BILLS. Oh, fuck, that just slipped out. And also I’m a stripper.” Or prostitutes? Do you build up to it, or do you just toss it into conversation? Well, if you’re a stripper/hooker/something else awkwardly sexual for a job, it’s your lucky day! (Unless you got herpes at work. In which case, today is really not going well for you.) Because I have taken it upon myself to do y’all a favor and write:

The Wild Hearts Guide For Breaking the News About Your Awkwardly Sexual Job to Your Parents or Other Old Important People (You Know, Like Uncle Jake, Who You’ve Always Looked Up to, or Grandma): Five Different Ways to Tell Them You’re a Whore Awkwardly Sexual Worker

  1. Say it in frosting. Nothing takes the sting out of, “I wasted thousands of dollars on a college education only to become a Chippendale’s dancer” like a cake. Some suggestions for the icing? “I Am a Man-Whore. But Look, Cake!” Or maybe, “I Swallow ‘Frosting’ For a Living, So This Seemed Like a Fitting Way to Tell You.” (Pro tip: you might have trouble fitting that all on one cake. And also that’s disgusting. I am ashamed of myself. But not ashamed enough to press backspace.)
  2. Throw it into an unrelated conversation. Like this: “So, I told Gladys, no, those aren’t primroses! I mean, can you believe her?” “I can’t. Also, I’m a prostitute.” Never fails.
  3. Invite them to your place of work. Your mom might not agree to go to a strip club or phone sex hot-line headquarters at first, but if you guarantee a really great surprise, she might cave. And what’s more surprising than learning that your so-called “law firm internship” is actually at a place called HOT NUDE LIVE LADIES XXX?
  4. Leave a note on the refrigerator.
  5. Sit them down and tell them that while they may not agree with your lifestyle choices, it’s what you want. Wait, nahh, that’d never work. Buy them a bouquet with a card saying, “I turn tricks–that’s how I was able to afford this sweet bundle o’ flowers! You’re welcome!”

Was that helpful, or was that helpful?


In Your Face

I might officially be a kinky slut.

I mean that in the most positive way, of course. But I think there comes a point when you sort of reflect on all the sex stuff you’re into and then decide if you’re vanilla or chocolate-raspberry-swirl-with-crazy-ass-toppings. And that point came today about 0.03 seconds after I got a facial.

Please, I can't put a picture of that.

We’re not talking the spa kind, people. (Unless you go to a really weird spa. In which case, more power to you, but I feel like it’s my duty to point out that you could get paid for having someone come on your face instead of paying for it. But anyway.) The first thing that popped into my head wasn’t, “Ew,” or, “Not my face!” or, “I’m going to kill him!”; it was, “Mmmmm.”

I’m not saying that makes me a sick sexual deviant or anything, but I’m saying with confidence that I am the only girl I know in my age bracket who finds that sexy. I’d say that alone pretty much kicks me out of the vanilla category, although I’m not sure yet what flavor I am. (Taste me and tell me. Oooh, look, more sluttishness!) Seriously, though, I had a straight-up request for more sex on the blog, and I aim to please. So that was my dirty little sex thing of the day. Prrrrrrr.

In other news, if you’re sick of filthy mindless rambling, give me something to talk about.

Previous Older Entries