One D at a Time

Story Time

A few months back, Rachel Kramer Bussell asked me to take part in her monthly reading series "In the Flesh." I was like pooping my pants about it up until the actual event, which was on May 15. I get crazy stage fright. But the crowd was really great and accepting and made me a feel a little more comfortable. (It also helped that Rachel bought just about every flavor of Doritos to make me feel at home.) The theme of the night was "True Sex Confessions," so I read a story I wrote for Vice last summer about when I hired a male hooker off Craigslist to date rape me. I got so nervous and lost my place while reading a couple times…and because the reading was taped, all my fumbles are available for your viewing pleasure. Here's Part 1:

Part 2, which is actually way better, after the jump.

Got My Swerve On With A Curved One

That's a chocolate dick pop. I made it from a mold I cast of a real boner. (I also did one of my vulva, but it came out looking like shit—literally.) You can read all about the whole process on Jezebel.

Needless to say, I ended up having sex with that dick (not the chocolate one, but the original that's attached to a 22-year-old who was able to reboot after only 10 or 15 minutes!), and I saved that story for here.

More Penis on tha Website

The best email I've received in months:

Hey I'm ashley and I just found ur website and although I think its a
good website there are some stuff I don't understand. Like are u a porn
star, askin cuz u got to go to those porn parties. Also I think u should
put more pics of penis on tha website...lol

It came from a Tmail account. I'm glad that I'm resonating with the Sidekick generation. And she's right about penis on tha website. Here ya go, kids:

P.S. That's not my hand.

Wet 'N Wild

Today, I wrote about female ejaculation for Jezebel. It includes the first time I squirted, as well as an explanation of what the fluid is that comes out, and where the hell it's coming from. Check it out here!

A Breakdown in Communication

I get some strange emails from people who contact me through this site. None of them really affect me.  (Well, except in the case of this one lesbian/tranny crazy druggie weirdo who was harassing me online for a bit before she/he/it was apparently committed to some kind of institution.) For the most part, I tend to be contacted by dudes looking to get laid because they assume that I'm a sure thing since I write about how I like sex. Actually, here's some kind of SMS with a phone number attached that I just got today.

"A tell me wat u think of my dick i need a girls oppinion im 18 i would like it if u could send me a pic of ur pussy im into phone sex if u want to exchange pics"

I mean, this could be spam. It's always kind of difficult to discern between real emails and sex spam, because a lot of the content is totally relevant to me and what I write about. But something about this tells me it's real. Seriously though, for the record, just because I like fucking, doesn't mean that I like fucking everyone.

Anyway, I recently received a thread of messages on MySpace from a guy that I slept with a handful of times seven years ago. He was always socially awkward, to the point where it was kinda painful to experience. And it looks like some things never change!

Porn Again: My Adult Entertainment Expo Recap

So I got back from Vegas a few days ago, and I've been trying to readjust. I'm still not getting enough sleep, and my perineum is fucked from, well, too much fucking, while my asshole is all torn up from my unwise, drunken decision to attempt anal with no lube. I'm in pain and I've been walking around my apartment like a cowboy, with my legs kinda bent and wide apart.

To be honest, I had sex the weekend before I left for Vegas with this guy I was seeing briefly like three years ago. He has the fattest dick in the world—to the point where it's uncomfortable—and that sorta messed me up. Then the next day I boned this other guy, which only made the situation worse. So I went to the gyno to get checked out, and he prescribed me this cortisone-type cream to allow it to heal faster. He told me I shouldn't "make love" for a week. In my head I was like, "Uh, I never do."

But really, for a slut, finding out she can't fuck when she's going to Vegas for the porno convention is like a virgin finding out she got her period on her wedding day. It's devastating! So I just threw caution to the wind and did what I normally would. I am paying the price right now.

It was sorta worth it, though. I had so much fun, and made a lot of friends, and learned a thing or two.

I chronicled my adventures over on Jezebel, and also posted my interview with Tristan Taormino, as well as a photo gallery of some of the fashions from the convention. Tomorrow I'll be putting up a sex toy review. Spoiler alert: It sucked! Didn't hold a candle to my Magic Wand. Anyway, check 'em out:

Diary Entry #1:
You Never Forget Your First Time: My Day At The Adult Entertainment Expo

Diary Entry #2:
Last Night I Boned An AVN Award Nominee

Diary Entry #3:
The AVN Convention & Awards: I Came, I Saw, & I Came Again

Convention Fashion:
Fear And Clothing In Las Vegas

Interview:
Tristan Taormino: "Porn Is As Cerebral As It Is Visceral"

Live Blog:
2008 AVN Awards: Dispatches From The Front

What Happens in Vegas Gets Posted on the Internet

Right now I'm in Las Vegas attending the Adult Entertainment Expo and the AVN Awards (the Oscars of porno), covering it for Jezebel. Things have been really tiring—oddly more work than play—but I've been chronicling the whole thing, so check out my first and second Vegas diary entries. The picture above is me and Tommy Pistol at the Village Voice/Babeland party in a suite at the Venetian on Thursday night. That drink later ended up all over me. But I ended up party hopping and eventually boning.

I'm about to leave for the awards show. I'm walking the red carpet. I bought a sorta kinda titty dress, but something tell me I'm still gonna look like a nun in comparison to the rest of the attendees.

I'll be posting more on this later, and I'll provide links to an interview I did with Tristan Taormino, as well as sex toy reviews.

NYE Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

In the photo above, I'm the girl in the middle. You'd think I was wearing lipstick or something, but my lips are actually stained from the countless red jello shots I'd been spoon eating for about six straight hours. It was the only meal I had all day, which essentially made the first half of the night a time I never want to forget, and the second half of the night a time I'm glad I can't remember. (BTW, even though I was blotto by the time this was taken, I still had the wherewithal to smile with my eyes.)

I'm not really one to puke when I get trashed. Usually, I don't even know that I'm drunk until I wake up the next morning with a killer hangover. So it came as a shock to me that just as I was starting to enjoy the middle-of-the-party-not-so-secret sex I was having, I began to feel queasy. I don't know how long that dude was thrusting away on top of me. I couldn't even venture a guess, but I do remember that he started having boner issues again, from being so trashed. I closed my eyes in hopes that it would stop the room from spinning, but it only made matters worse. I think I said something to the effect of, "Are you gonna cum or what?" If he replied, I don't remember, but I got the impression that the answer was invariably no. I pushed him off me, rolled over and sat up. Words may have been exchanged, but the only thing I could focus on was the puke that was winning the fight on its way up from my stomach. I couldn't find my tights anywhere (and I never had any panties on to begin with), so I just tugged my skirt down, and stumbled out of my bedroom.

If Nothing Else, At Least I Got To Have Sex On New Year's Eve

I have to say that for all the shit that went down at my New Year's Eve party, and the expensive mess that resulted from it, one of the things I regret the most is that this is the closest thing I have of a picture of my outfit that night, which was really, really cute. The shoes aren't even in the shot.

I wasn't planning on writing about my party. I guess I'm more comfortable talking about what goes on inside of my vagina than inside my home. And I know that might seem weird. But anyway, when I woke up on New Year's Day, my house was totally trashed. And I really had expected a mess, but there was some damage, and I'd heard some tales of some shit that went down after I passed out that really pissed me off. Anyway, it's a long, story, but I ended up sending out an email to my party invite list with a hidden link I made on my site that contained pictures of the damages, a link to send me a PayPal payment, and a rant about how disappointed I was that my friends did that in my house, not strangers or party crashers. The email ended up on a couple of different websites and message boards, so now I'm just like, fuck it, lemme just spill the beans. I shouldn't have held back in the first place, like I've been doing for weeks on this site, because I've been nervous that I can't really be as brutally honest as I used to be, now that people know my name and what I look like.

But whatever, I'm over that. I'm over everything, really. So let's get to it. I'll fess up to what I can remember about who showed up, who puked, who got weird, and of course, who I fucked. Oh, and duh, the whole "contest" thing.

Win a Date With Me for New Year's Eve

These are my tits.

You'll probably get a chance to touch them if you go out with me on New Year's Eve. Seriously, I don't have a date, and I don't have time to conduct the kind of field work it would take in order to find one. So here's the deal: I'm gonna hold a "contest" to ring in the new year with me, which means you have to kiss me at midnight.

Here are the rules:

• You must be a straight dude.
• You must be willing to at least French, if not bang. However, I reserve the right to put a stop to any physical interaction if I find you creepy or less appealing in person.
• You must live in NYC.
• You must be between the ages of 18 and 36. No exceptions. Unless you're almost 18. Then we can maybe just hold hands till your birthday.
• You must be willing to come to Brooklyn.
• No AIDS please.

Here's how to apply:

• Email me your picture—I'd appreciate one face shot and one full-body. MySpace and Facebook links are also welcome. (And if you send me a video, you'll get extra points.)
• Entries accepted until December 30.

Good luck to you!

Don't Call It A Comeback

Not to get all sappy or whatever, but I really appreciated all of the kind wishes and words of encouragement regarding my last post. I was just venting and didn't realize anyone would give a shit. So thanks. I think my brain has evened out after all the drugs, and I'm doing much better. One day last week, I realized I hadn't cried for two whole days. It was kind of like when I quit smoking with Wellbutrin. It took me a few days to realize I hadn't had a cigarette in a while. I hadn't even noticed I wasn't missing it. I'm still a little sad about the way things went down, and I still kind of miss him, but not nearly as much. And also, I've since remembered that I broke up with him—and I remembered the reasons why.

But enough of that! I'm back to my old self. I still haven't slept with anyone, but now I'm really ready. I'm back on the block, and I'm looking to go around it again, many, many times. Lucky for me, I've already received a bunch of applicants willing to fill the, uh, position. After the jump, check out the pictures this guy sent me of his giant cock.

Calling All Cocks: I'm in Need of Dick

I'm working on a project this weekend in Williamsburg, for which I need boys who are willing to allow me to film their erect penises.

• This isn't for a porno, but for documentary purposes. That means no money shots.
• This doesn't require total nudity, just the ween.
• It is up to the subject whether or not his face will be in the shot. (It's not necessary, but it would be nice.)
• I can provide booze as compensation for participation.

Do you think you're "up" for it? Then please email me!

Playing With Myself

Living alone and working full-time from home has been getting lonely. Most days, I'm too tired and drained to make the effort to get dressed and go out, which means that I've been spending a lot of nights in, which means I've been spending a lot of nights masturbating. I've previously stated how I wasn't all that into porno as a means for getting off, but I think that's beginning to change, as being a shut-in has gotten me addicted to XTube.

I'm really particular when it comes to the clips I watch. I only really like boy solo scenes that include the face, 'cause facial expressions when they come are key. I prefer amateur stuff, because those guys tend to be straight (or at least do a better job at convincing me).

Anyway, I found two videos of guys jerking off the other night that I got really into, so I invented a game to be played with my Hitachi Magic Wand. The first video is just under six minutes long (which, for a jerk off scene is great), so I challenged myself to see how many times I could come with the Wand while watching. The second video is only 42 seconds long, so I challenged myself to see if I could finish before he did. After the jump, the results and the vids.

I Don't Show, I Tell

I've been to a Rated X Panty Party or two in the past, but they aren't particularly my scene. Despite the fact that I'm typically all TMI, I'm not an exhibitionist. And actually, I don't think I'm a voyeur either (unless you count my enthusiasm for reality TV), so seeing scantily clad people is sorta whatevs to me. But when I was asked to cover the party for Fleshbot with photog Nikola Tamindzic, I thought I could use the gig as a way to get boys to show me their dicks so as to balance out all the tit shots that make it into these party coverage photos. Anyway, check out my write up here, and an extended photo gallery here.

What I didn't mention is that my wallet got stolen. My purse doesn't close so I think someone dipped their hand in there during the Hot Body Contest (pictured above). I was pretty tanked by the time I realized that my money and shit was gone, so I panicked and started crying. I'm way more embarrassed by that, than the fact that I fluffed like five dudes whose faces I can't recall.

This Is How You Ask a Dude on a Date Via IM

I'm pink.

Not Another Porno Movie

I'm not a big porno watcher. I'm not a particularly visual person when it comes to masturbating. Nothing can really get me there the way my imagination can. Well, actually, I was into looking at homo thugs for a little bit, but that's pretty much where it starts and ends for me. I've been with guys that wanted some porn on while we were doing it, and I've never been opposed to that. I mean, as long as they don't come between me and my toys, they can have whatever aids they need.

That said, I'm really supportive of the porn industry as a whole. I think it's an incredibly instrumental part of maintaining our ever-threatened civil liberties and freedom of speech. Plus, it's a good, safe way for girls to make a buck in the sex industry.

Anyway, all that crap aside, Burning Angel's latest feature, Not Another Porno Movie looks really fucking funny. Check out the trailer after the jump.

Temporary Solutions for a Permanent Problem

According to 61.1% of you who voted in the most recent Lunchtime Poll, cranberry juice (aka "slut juice," as I affectionately call it) is your remedy of choice for dealing with UTIs (aka "the bane of my existence," as I unaffectionately call it). I was shocked that 4.3% actually voted for garlic—I never realized so many hippies read this site. 10.5% of you are into Azo, which I've certainly used in a pinch, but my go-to cure is Cipro, which raked in 24.1% of the vote. I need prescribed meds to deal with the bacteria that takes up shop in between my legs. I might have maxed out my usage on that shit, as I'm aware one can build up tolerances to antibiotics. If Brooklyn is ever really hit with a crop duster anthrax attack, I'm screwed.

I've been plagued with UTIs for as long as I can remember, because long before my love of dick, I had a love of lengthy bubble baths. But those early infections were never anything serious, with the irritation only lasting a day or two, before I even had a chance to treat them. In fact, I never even knew that's what was happening to me until later on when I lost my virginity and had the mother of all UTIs.

Missionary Statement

I'm on vacation at my parents' Jersey shore house. For the whole week it's just me, my dog, and them. It's very wholesome and I'm going out of my mind. There isn't much to do for entertainment, and there is no one fuckable on this island. (Well, except for Jon Stewart, who was next to me on the elliptical at the gym on Monday, but he's married with a family and stuff.) It's good for me to get out of the city and away from the debauchery, but I wish to shit I'd brought a vibrator with me. The depths of my sloth have reached a new low—I'm too lazy to use my hand anymore. I don't even try.

Bad Blood

I passed out naked—after a drunken weekday night—without brushing my teeth or removing my makeup or contacts. When I woke up early the next morning, my face was nestled in the hairy confines of the cranny of this bearded dude's neck, with one arm and one leg draped over him. The new summer sun had risen in a big way, blaring on us like lasers through the shitty Ikea blinds I'd mildly incorrectly hung myself. He and I were drenched with sweat, but my throat was arid. I peeled myself off him and rolled over to my nightstand, where an opened Diet Coke had been residing for God knows how long. After a few desperate swigs, I decided to make the enormous effort of traveling tens of feet to the kitchen for some water.

When I sat up, I felt a gush between my legs and was gripped with abdominal pain. CRAMPS! Ugh. The last thing I needed to accompany this massive hangover. Grimacing, I got up to look for a pair of old, ratty panties and some PJs. I glanced over my shoulder to see if the boy had stirred. He hadn't. But I noticed a giant multi-colored stain—half damp and maroon, half dry and chocolate-milky. And it was touching his leg. Oops.

Blowing Hot Air

Well, it finally happened. I farted during sex. I don't mean a queef—I'm talking from my butt. And it was loud.

I mean, given the probability theory, it was bound to happen. Considering how often I fuck (and perhaps, more importantly, how much Mexican food I eat), not farting during at least one sexual encounter would be like taking a walk in a downpour and not getting hit with a rain drop. It's just math, people.

I've come close before, but each time, I could feel it coming on, and was able to take preventative measures to ensure against any audible gas emissions.

Anyway, there I was, missionary position on my couch, getting pounded. I tensed up my abdominal muscles in order to lift my hips toward him. But as I pushed myself up, I inadvertently let one rip. Like a Snake Nut Can, it was an unwelcome surprise that could not be stopped or suppressed whatsoever, once unleashed.

And The Wiener Is...

After nearly 3,000 votes placed, we finally have a winning ween in the Reader's Pole contest. Thanks to our generous sponsors, BurningAngel.com and BUST Magazine, the lucky guy will be receiving a T-shirt that'll help get him laid, and some porno—so you know, either way, he's cumming. After the jump, check out the prized penis.

Happy Birthday to D!

I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of my first post on this site. Yay! It's been a pretty good year. Aside from using this blog to air my dirty panties, I've managed to procure some work and a little bit of press from it. Take a trip down memory lane and read my first evs post. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, haters and appreciators alike (but more to the appreciators, obvs).

Cock Shopping

I was walking down Manhattan Ave. and saw this joint. Obviously, I had to go in and see what they had to offer. Unfortunately, they didn't have the kind of Ds I was in the market for, but they did have have a whole bin of these:

$3 DDD bras. I was able to fit my whole face in one cup. When I pulled it away, my eye makeup and lipstick left an imprint of my face—just like Jesus...or Tammy Faye.

Mutual Cravings and Moans

I walked in on a guy masturbating.

It was around 9 a.m., which is super early for me, but I had some bullshit obligation (work, actually) to be awake for, so I was in my kitchen poking around in my fridge for a caffeinated drink. The best I could find was a Diet Coke, so I popped it open and shuffled my slippers back to my bedroom. I'd left a boy in there that I'd been spooning with just before, so I wanted to be creepy and stare at him while he was sleeping.

When I pushed open the door, he was standing in the middle of my room, mid-wank. I busted into one of those mouth-fart laughs, and he snapped his hand away from his crotch, leaving his boner standing there, all alone. He clearly hadn't expected me, which of course is weird, seeing as how it's my fucking bedroom and, at 9 a.m., if I'm not laying in a ditch somewhere, it's the place where I'm most likely to be found.

After the shock on his face wore off, he started giggling. I was glad he wasn't all weird about getting caught red handed—or red palmed, rather.

Reader's Pole '07: Semi-Finalists

If my vadge had gotten as many dick entries as my inbox has these past few weeks, it would've formed callouses. I can't believe how many dudes were willing to email pictures of their dicks to some girl they don't know. I don't think any of them read this site, because while I love cock and everything, I also spend a good deal of time ridiculing my encounters with it. It will be no different in this instance.

This contest is anonymous, and most of the guys who entered didn't tell me their names. If they wanted to really keep their identities a secret, then they shouldn't have sent me their dick pics with the email addresses they use for their Myspace accounts. (Or maybe they weren't thinking properly because the blood had drained from their brains in order to create those boners.) One of the highlights of this whole contest has been checking out the dudes on Myspace and seeing what they were all about and more importantly, what they look like. If it hadn't been for that little trick, I would've never known that I have a reader in a semi-successful entertainer whose semi-erect penis impressed me as much as his insipid work.

The response to my call for entries was a bit overwhelming. To help me narrow down the list of potential candidates, I put together a panel of experts, who know a lot about Ds, made up of myself, two other drunk sluts, a gay man, and a hooker. After the jump, find out how we determined who will still be in the running towards becoming One D's Reader's Pole.
 

Wasting Time Making Time

The idea of tanric sex always seemed so boring to me. I don't really want to do anything for six hours at a time, unless it's laying across my couch, smoking weed and watching a Top Model marathon. Well, I guess for some people, that could sort of be on the level of orgasmic.

But really, I have friends who'll talk about how they love fucking for hours, and they do it on the regular, and all I can think about is how unappealing that sounds to me. I mean, the chafing alone. But there have been like two or three times that I've engaged in a nonstop marathon sesh. Of course, every single one of those was drug-induced. And the one that took place in my bedroom this weekend was no exception. It was fun at the time, but I'm dealing with the aftermath right now. I feel like I got hit by a car and immediately underwent an episiotomy. Everything is sore—my neck, my back, my pussy and my crack.

Novel Piece Prize

OK, so like I said earlier, I'm totally serious about this Reader's Pole contest I'll be conducting. In fact, I've even gone so far as to secure some fabulous prizes.

Co-sponsoring the contest are BUST, the magazine for women with something to get off their chests, and BurningAngel.com, porno that proves that punk's not dead—it's naked.

After the jump, check out the rules, how to enter, and see what the winning wiener stands to gain.

Gimme a D!

I know I'm always all, "I love dick!" But that's 'cause I do.

Anyway, in the wee hours of Sunday morning, I received a wonderful Easter egg in the form of a drunken email from a loyal reader. He wrote:

"ok.. got and idea for you... a real viewers pole..  all the guys that love your site send one in.  I'll start it off.

 

Love the blog"

And attached, there was a picture of his ween. (Apparently, Jesus wasn't the only one to have risen that day.)

I think this is a fantasdick idea. Regulators, mount up! All boys who read this site, I'd like you to ask not what your slutty blogger can do for you, but what you can do for your slutty blogger. Send me a pic of your boner. Let's have a beau-D pageant as the next Lunchtime Poll! I'm so excited about this. This will be completely anonymous—no names or faces. Just the part that matters. (My email is to the left, to the left.)

Looking forward to looking,
SM

Alexis Arquette: Chick with a Dick

So, it's been established that I like Ds. I like to suck 'em, fuck 'em, yank 'em, stick 'em in my ass, stick 'em between my boobs, draw smiley faces on their heads, you name it. (Well, actually, I'll name it. You won't tell me shit about shit.) Anyway, I'm really into looking at photos of naked celebrity ween. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll look at photos of naked celebrity anything—girls, boys, whatevs. In the case of Alexis Arquette, the answer is C. whatevs. Formerly a gay man who would occasionally perform in drag, Alexis now identifies as transgendered. On her season of Surreal Life, Alexis explained her request to be referred to as a female, and she threw a shit fit when Tawny Kitaen wanted to borrow one of her wigs, because apparently that's a sensitive subject for someone trying to reestablish their sex. But personally, I wouldn't want Tawny's haystack of a head of hair touching any of my property either.

Alexis's journey leading up to her sex reassignment surgery is supposed to be documented for a project called Alexis Arquette: She's My Brother, which, oddly enough, is not being directed by her sister, sometime director Rosanna Arquette, but by some guy to whom she's not related.

I can certainly see why Alexis would want to have the surgery in order to live her life as a female, seeing as how her dick is a HUGE reminder that she was in fact born a man.

After the jump, check out God's GIANT gender gaffe.

Doin' the Butt, Ow!

My philosophy concerning most matters is to never say never. You just don't know how life will unfurl, so having a stringent set of rules to abide by from here to eternity isn't so realistic. Most people come to this conclusion after some reflection and the realization that perhaps they don't have all the answers. But for me, it was a bit different. I arrived at the "never say never" mindset due to the fact that I'd always said that I would never have anal sex, but then, eventually, I did.

Much like my most expensive pair of shoes, I really like the idea of anal, but when put to use, it really hurts.

I hope the shoe analogy wasn't too Bradshaw, but it's totally true. And I don't care what people say about getting what you pay for—expensive shoes hurt, even the Tara Subkoff for Easy Spirit wedges that I have. Oddly enough, those were the shoes I was wearing the first time I had my back field plowed.

The Fabulous Life of Slut Machine

I’ve been staying at a friend’s beach house, which sits atop a cliff on the coast of Peru. I’m typing this as I watch the sun set. Thanks to the free accommodations (which include a pool, a chef, and a maid) and some frequent flyer miles, this trip has thus far cost me $180, and that’s after I bought a couple bottles of wine, a couple meals, a couple souvenirs, and got a couple pairs of boots fixed.

Anyway, I didn't forget about D since I've been here. I made one in the sand today.

And look, I gave it crabs.

OK, I'm off to the farmacia.

Valentine's D

It's always special when Valentine's Day falls on Hump Day. Well, I guess it's not special, it's just kinda funny. Actually, it's not even funny. It barely evokes a "heh"—kinda like Dane Cook. Speaking of dicks, I hope this one of Ashton Kutcher moves you. And for you fellas (the straight ones), I got a lil sumpin' for you, too.

Extravadanza!

I can't take credit for the title of this post. A year or two ago I went to a taping of Live with Regis and Kelly with my mom and Tony Danza was the guest. Reeg kept shouting, "Extravadanza!" for no reason whatsoever throughout the whole show, all Tourette's like.

Anyway, I found this naked shot—wiener and all—of him from when he was young. He's hot! Really fucking hot! I had no idea.

After the jump, Tony Danza's Italian sausage.

The Members of Jackass

I'm into lowbrow humor and male nudity. Accordingly, I'm into Jackass.

Those guys seem to be really interested in each other's penises. But you know, I'm interested in their penises, too. After the jump, the cast's members!

Confessions of a Catholic Schoolgirl

You know, I often write here about how I’m easy, but I’m also easy to buy for. My kid sister gave me Confessions of a Video Vixen for Christmas, which I'd been wanting to read for a while. I’ve always found Karrine Steffans to be smart and well-spoken in interviews. I really liked when she was on Tyra’s show and truly held her own when TyTy tried to stuff a spoonful of sanctimony down Karrine’s throat. Silly Tyra, Superhead doesn’t have a gag reflex! She’ll take in that whole spoon, drain it, and return it right back to where she got it from

The reason why I wanted to read Confessions so bad was because I thought I’d relate to the kiss-and-tell aspect. I thought I’d relate to someone unabashedly reveling in her conquests. However, I was a bit disappointed. The writing style was a bit…blah. But more than that, I was disappointed in the fact that Karrine wasn’t so unabashed. She writes as the conquered, rather than the conquerer. Hers is a cautionary tale, rather than a celebratory one. Ultimately, I realized that perhaps I don’t have the regrets that Karrine does because while she’s used sex to get ahead in life, I just use it to get head.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally role-play as a whore.

The Good Ol' Ds

To all the Ds I've loved before, thanks for making this year one of my most satisfying. And here's to keeping it up in 2007.

Happy New Year!

P.S. Thanks to Ray Ray from Duke for the awesome photo!

Do You Believe in Magic?

Ever since I wore out my old vibrator, I hadn’t been as enthusiastic about masturbating. Yeah, I still did it all the time, but it took a lot more effort to get there. Sometimes I would use like two bullets and a slim vibe all at the same time, and it still didn’t equal the power of my dearly departed Dr. Scholl’s. I’d occasionally even stoop to using my hand, high-school style. With my heart pounding and my arm sore, I realized I was too out of shape for that shit.

Thankfully, a boy gave me this for Christmas.

A Hitachi Magic Wand!!!

It may have been the first time ever in the history of opening presents that I 100% meant it when I exclaimed, “Just what I always wanted!"

Lazy Days, Lazy Lays

I haven't died—although it feels like I have. I'm detoxing right now, doing that Master Cleanse program, which means that I've stopped stuffing my orifices with drugs, booze and food for two weeks. To make matters worse, I hadn't stuffed any D into my orifices since Thanksgiving. (But I do give thanks for that three-input sesh that took place in the men's sauna of a clubhouse. It was steamy, to say the least.)

I just haven't felt like having sex, which made bikini waxing seem pointless, so I stopped doing that, too. It's a jungle down there. A boy saw me pee yesterday and he told me that I'd shock people in the '70s with the size of my bush. My pads don't even like it. I have my period right now, and this morning, when I went to pull my panties off, one of the wings tried to do the waxing for me. It killed. I need to make an appointment as soon as the bleeding stops.

Not waxing, fucking, or writing has nothing to do with laziness. Well, that's a little bit of a lie. I can be the laziest being on the face of the couch. Sometimes I'll watch a really shitty channel for a long time because the remote is too far away.

Normally, I'm immersed in sex. It’s what I’m thinking about, what I’m planning on, and what influences my decisions. But sometimes I'm just too lazy.

I had one BF who was really into morning sex, and I’d rather not wake up before noon. He was always bugging me at like 7 am, which meant that I'd probably had about an hour of sleep. I’d lay on my stomach—naked and immobile—and whine, “Can’t you just jerk off on my ass?”

Luck of the Drawers

After a few rough nights this week, I’m beginning to feel like I could model for a PSA campaign on substance abuse—you know, kinda like those “Smoking is very glamorous” posters where the lady smoker is old and looks like Florrie Fisher. My nails are shredded, my breath smells, I’m bloated, my hair is a pile of uncontrollable cowlicks, my skin is at once greasy and flaky, and that area between my butt and vadge is really irritated, which in turn, makes the rest of me irritable. Oh yeah, and I fell asleep wearing my contacts so many times this week that I ripped them—my last pair! So until I get my new box, I’m now back to four-eyes.

But you know what? If I went out looking like this, I’m certain that I would have more luck with D than when I spend three hours getting ready. It always works like that. It’s part of what I call the “Luck of the Drawers” theory, whereby you are more likely to go home with a dude when you are wearing your oldest, end-of-the-laundry-cycle, most ill-fitting, period-stained, tattered pair of underpants. They’re practically a good-luck charm, to the point that—if I really wanted to get laid on a certain night—I might think twice about the cute little coochie-cutters I was about to step into.

Of course, if you do go home with someone, under the “Drawers” law, it’s best that you never get with that person ever again, because frankly, they’re dirty pigs for fucking such a nasty girl—you know it and they know it.

But dirty pigs and nasty girls always have great sex—we all know it.

A Lick in the Butt

I kinda like getting my asshole licked. Actually, I kinda love it. I suppose it’s just another on the laundry list of ways that I’m faggy.

But I’m pretty new to the whole licking thing—or rather, the hole-licking thing. Not because I didn’t ever want it, but because it had never been offered. A tossed salad isn’t typically something on the one-night-stand menu. And I’d never bothered to address or request it, mainly out of fear that I’d be expected to reciprocate.

The first time was a little over a year ago, and it was with Eeyore, whom I’ve told you a little about. It was actually on the first night he came home with me, which probs has something to do with the fact that my memories of sex with him are mostly framed in diffused lighting and bass-laden, bow-chicka-bow-wow music.

I felt a little bit guilty about letting him do that, considering I’d taken a major coke shit earlier that night. But I suppose I was too wasted to be considerate. There are rumors that Brooklyn coke is cut with baby laxative, and I can’t entirely rule that out, because sometimes I suck up one line and I’m Queen of the Throne with a royal flush.

Anyway, all this talk about shit and bathrooms segues perfectly into how I met Eeyore—while waiting in line for the can at Union Pool.

Horny Girl, Interrupted

I hate when dicks don’t work right.

What I hate more is that I’m expected—practically required—to respond to dick failure with empathy, support, and comforting words like, “Really, it’s OK” or, “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I just wanted to spend time with you.” Because really, it’s not OK, you should worry about it, and I wanted to spend time fucking you, and now you’ve ruined it.

Yeah, a limp dick will happen to most people eventually, and for the most part, the dude can’t help it. Bird shit will hit most people eventually, and for the most part, we can’t help it—that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still pissed off when it does.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not dependent on a partner or a dick to get me off. I just resent the time I invested and regret the D I chose. It’s like choosing the crappy curtain on Let’s Make a Deal, behind which there’s a wheelbarrow full of rolling pins or something. Considering the limp dick, I guess a rolling pin might come in handy.

I Want Your Text

“Hey whatr you up to”

That was a text I received at 5:12 am, Monday morning, Labor Day weekend. I didn’t recognize the number. In the morning, I texted back, “Who is this?”

The response I received—almost immediately—was, “Nobody.”

Ha! I’ve known tons of nobodies over the years. I racked my brain for who it might be. I was intrigued because I was pretty sure that this was a mass booty text. Why did I think that? Because I invented that trick. The mass text is one of my tried and true tools for getting laid on nights when the bars are full of ugly.

You see, when I’m in need of sexual healing, I turn to my phone, which may just be the richest resource of ready and willing D in all of N.Y.C. I type something really generic like, “Hey, what’s going on?” and then send it out to every dude in my phone that I wouldn’t mind fucking that night. I typically get four or five responses, and then choose the hottest of those.

I was thinking that my mystery man must be a casualty from my semi-annual cell contact list overhaul. This occurs when I wake up with a bad hangover and an outbox full of mass texts to dudes I really shouldn’t be contacting for sex, any time of the day, for whatever reason. It’s on these groggy, achy-breaky mornings when I erase numbers and temporarily learn the embarrassing lesson that perhaps text is best when it’s one on one.

Fags Are Gay

I don’t think there’s very much talent involved in gaydar. As far as I’m concerned, if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, then, well, it’s a homosexual. But seriously, mannerisms are very telling. So last October when I met a foursome of tote-bag-toting, limp-wristed, effeminate men all dancing to Madonna’s "Holiday," I thought I’d made four new gay boyfriends. They were all wearing black turtlenecks, but they may as well have been swathed in rainbow flags. One of the dudes is even in a queer-friendly band.

But I was to find out that three of the four guys claimed to be straight. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather boa. I still got them to take their clothes off and make out with each other on my couch, while I watched.

My Name Is Not Samantha, She’s Got Nothin’ On Me

My life is folding in on me. On Monday, I was at 2A, and who did I see? Jake Bronstein. He had his pants on this time. Even though he sent me that email claiming not to remember me, I still hid my face with my hair and played wallflower until he left. On Tuesday, I was on a date at a Williamsburg restaurant, and guess who was my waiter. The dude with the average-sized D who insisted on wearing a magnum. Then last night I received this email from that DJ I told you about regarding this site:

"samantha
your phone is out of service
need to talk"

At first I thought he was making some sort of snide SATC reference with "Samantha," because I've fucked so many dudes, but I know this guy, and