Thursday, November 13, 2008

in the league of the clit

–noun Anatomy.
the erectile organ of the vulva, homologous to the penis of the male.

I don't think I necessarily agree with this definition entirely, at least the part pertaining to the penis of the male. If literature on the clitoris continues to compare the clit to the penis then it will only perpetuate the lack of skilled clit commanders in this world. Men will never master the art of tapping into this source of pleasure if they think it even remotely works the same as their dick.

First of all, the clitoris exists soley to provide sexual pleasure to us women, also known as goddesses. The clitoral glans (not to be mistaken for glands) has more nerve endings than the penis, consequently making our magic button a little more magically sensitive than your (male) magic wand. With this information on the table now I would like to extend a message to all you men out there who don't really understand: STOP PUTTING SO MUCH PRESSURE ON MY CLIT. It hurts. It's ticklish. It's not fun or sexy or pleasurable.

Secondly, the clitoris allows the blood that flows INTO it back OUT again continuously, allowing for us goddesses to experience multiple orgasms (A side note: one orgasm is more than enough for me to handle, though many women swear by their multi-dose of the big O). The penis is not this smart. Instead, men have to wait some set amount of time before he can get going again, and this interval changes for everyone.

So in a nutshell, don't suck the clit off when you're going down on us. Don't put too much pressure until advised to do so (some women have a less sensitive clit and need lots of pressure). And for the love of the sex gods, do not bite down.

Now accepting applications for Clit Commanders of all ranks.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

a mimbo could be your slave

Last night I went on a pseudo-date with the most beautiful piece of man meat here in my town of Whistler, British Columbia. I say pseudo-date due to the fact that an actual date usually possesses the intention of getting to know someone you're attracted to, having some time alone with them, some conversation perhaps. Conversation I did not engage in. Physical interaction however, was plentiful.

His lips touched mine so passionately and desperately I thought he may consume my very existence right there in that kiss. He was so hungry for me. His hands travelled along my body and my skin responded with millions of goosebumps on every part of me. I was paralyzed with pleasure. But it was then, in those very moments of pure euphoria that I realized "shit, I'm on a date with a mimbo." How could I let this happen? How did I get involved with such a vacant being? I was so very disappointed in myself. Was it his beautiful baby blues? Was it the smile from cheek to cheek? It certainly wasn't his charm. This poor little man had been pursuing me for a little while now, asking me to spend time with him. I hesitated at first because I am (as always) hung up on someone else. But that was the reason I decided to say yes after all. I thought if I became involved with someone else, perhaps my emotional attachment to the other would dissolve.

Let me tell you something: it doesn't work that way. At least not with someone who has nothing more to offer you than an orgasm and hours upon hours of cuddles. That's another thing, the dude wanted to hold me constantly! Cuddling with someone you aren't into as a person is not satisfying, it's just fucking suffocating.
I didn't sleep with him (thank god), but I did get a preview of the situation 'down there' and is it ever satisfying. Girth, length, smoothness of skin, shaved pubes, the works! Yes that's right ladies and gents, my mimbo has a perfect penis. PERFECT. No curving in any direction, no foreskin, no hair, and no erectile dysfunction. Should I decide to sleep with him I'm sure I'll be tickled pink...

Even with a perfect penis and a perfect body and a smile that sends me away to some far land where beautiful people are my slaves and the beds are draped in silk, I have no interest in him. He has nothing to say. Nothing at all. He even mentioned he was glad Bush wasn't recently re-elected....BUSH. Oh my goodness. During one of the very rare moments we exchanged a few words I counted the amount of times he said the word 'like.' I don't even want to repeat the number for I'm afraid you wouldn't believe me.

Whistler is full of his type of man: Hot, talented rider, tall T's and mad steeze.....Oh ya...and dumb as Alicia Silverstone in Clueless. In the morning when I left I patted him on the head with utmost pity and said "catchya later." I left him there like a poor puppy, all alone while his owners are off to work. I doubt I'll hang out with him again, but if I do it'll be to feed the kitty and nothing else.