We're sad to see summer go but at least we can look forward to cozy sweaters, all things Halloween, and guilt-free snuggling. So put your hoodie on, your favorite pair of Thundress underwear, and turn up the volume!
Imagine it’s a Saturday afternoon and you’re bored as hell. The guy you’re seeing is out of town, none of your friends are free, and Tinder is a stew of Donald Trump’s toenails and cottage cheese.
In times past you might have gone out looking for trouble. But since you are a grown up adult woman, you decide to try out this thing called “self care” that all the creamy-skinned babes on Tumblr are always talking about.
And what’s better for self care than a little spa treatment?!
We spend a lot of time thinking about where our food comes from. What’s in it? Is it local? Is it plant-based? Is it raw? How many calories? Will it get me closer to a threesome with Tom Hardy and Idris Elba?
Yet we rarely spend much time thinking about where our clothing comes from and what’s in it and how it will effect our health or menage potential. But why not?
Ahhhh Valentine’s Day! The only holiday where you can thank Hallmark for your blow job, Zales for your newly bleached bootyhole, and your local florist for the Sphynx cat that is now your vagina. To my knowledge, it’s the only international celebration where we honor a Catholic saint by exchanging sex acts for fancy dinners. And we punish non-participants in this Festival of Fellatio by calling them sad, lonely, or just bitter.
If you’ve been living here on planet earth for the last several weeks, you’ve seen the signs of a “menstrual revolution” on your newsfeeds, subway platforms, and pharmacy shelves. Periods are a natural part of life, and it feels like the world is finally coming around to accepting it. I’m a proud owner of a Diva Cup and Thinx underwear (and more), and I’m so glad to see these companies getting the attention they deserve. But changing how we treat our periods is just a prelude, not the revolution itself.
Now that we know Monsanto is pumping chemicals directly into your snatch, the need for coochie-friendly period products has never been greater! This is my first youtube video ever summarizing all the products I reviewed last month. What do you think?!
his week, I put a sponge in my vagina so that you don’t have to. That’s right. Here I am bra-less in oversized sweatpants and a hoodie stolen from a long-ago ex. There is a heating pad strapped to my middle like a fanny pack and I’m binge watching Jane the Virgin with A SEA SPONGE STUFFED INTO MY COOCHIE. I am so Spongebob Square Pussy right now, and it’s all for your educational purposes!
ne afternoon a few years ago, I tried to insert a DivaCup into my poon and it did not go well. I couldn’t get it in and when I did it was so uncomfortable it felt like I had put in a contact lens upside down — except the wrenching discomfort was in my vagina and not my eyeball. I spent the subsequent years explaining to anyone that would listen that the DivaCup simply didn’t work for my kind of pussy. I dodged their weird looks and continued with my regular routine of conventional tampons and pads, soaking up all types of toxic goo in the process.
Have you ever been at work typing away and you reach for the post-its or to check your phone, only to hear a muffled rustling noise from your nether regions? It takes a moment, but you realize with dread that it’s your “sanitary” pad crinkling like a toddler at day care. You stare straight ahead, careful not to move your body, while slowly swiveling your entire chair around to see if anyone else might have heard. And then there is the delicate maneuvering to get up from the chair and make it to the bathroom as quietly as possible and without a pronounced waddle. I don’t get grossed out by too many things, but this feeling of humid-diaper-ass makes me understand perfectly why babies wail uncontrollably when they need to be changed.
Over the last couple of months, I’ve been slowly test-driving a number of “alternative” period products. It was impossible to review them all during a single cycle because, cramps. And sore boobs. And generally nobody got time for learning any new shit or where to put it when your uterine lining is full-on hari kari and none of the godforsaken bodegas in your hood sell gluten-free chocolate chip Tate’s.
After my last blog post, The Myth of the Tight Pussy, I received a flood of responses from all kinds of people. Overall folks were resoundinglysupportive: pussies vary in size and stature, but they’re pretty much all awesome when you’re in there like swimwear. It was kind of amazing, even for me, to hear so many people shatter a myth that I’d secretly believed for so long. Thanks to everyone who wrote in!
According to Wikipedia, camel toe is “a slang term that refers to the outline of a woman’s labia majora, as seen through tightly fitting clothes.”
According to the photo of NJ Governor Chris Christie above, camel toe is the outline of any person’s crotch arranged in such a way as to resemble a labia majora. In most cases, it looks like a plump vagina because it is, in fact, a plump vagina. But just like we know that there are more than two genders and more than two sexualties, now thanks to Christie we know that there is more than one way to have a camel toe.
These days it seems like everyone and their veterinarian has an ethical product company. We are bombarded with new Kickstarter campaigns for the latest organic hamster shawls or Made in the USA artisanal chamber pots. If the Internet was real life, every time we went outside we’d be surrounded by a swarm of suspendered newsies shouting “Eco-friendly! Get ya eco-friendly here!” “Fair Trade for your old maid!” “100% ethical or your money back!”
Everyday I see men with fuller and juicier breasts than mine. They walk down the street with their manmelons bouncing freely, their nipples poking through their white tees eagerly jostling for a peek at the world. And no one seems to care at all. But I go to the grocery store without a bra (it’s one of the best things about having tiny breasts and I take advantage of it as frequently as possible), and men lose their gotdamn minds.
Let’s assume you already know about the horrible things that happen in clothing factories. You’ve watched the videos of bodies dragged from the rubble of this factory or that, heard stories of child labor, low pay, abuse,babies born in factory bathrooms, women turning to sex work when factory sewing was too terrible, etc.
For many of you, the question of what to do with your cooter coat was answered long ago. You are devoted to your monthly squats on the spa table, white paper crackling beneath your palms and kneecaps while a Russian lady sets your asshole on fire. Or maybe you’ve shelled out beaucoup bucks to get a tiny laser-filled dart zapped into each one of your pussyhair follicles so that you don’t have to frantically shave your bikini line in the soggy, poorly lit bathroom of Mr. Right (Now)’s apartment. I get it.