One D at a Time

Rape Can Be Boring

Ugh, this Monday sucked So. Much. First, Time Warner in Brooklyn got completely shut down for a while, making it impossible to do my job, which meant that I'd actually have to get out of my muumuu, take a shower, and drag my ass into the city to work at my company's new office, which I've never even been to. I walked into my bedroom to get dressed and saw that there was liquid all over the floor. My first reaction was to blame the dog for pissing, but I noticed that there was just way too much fluid, and I looked up to see that water was pouring out of my ceiling, and the ceiling was actually like falling apart and shit.

So then I had to get on the horn with a plumber, who wanted to charge me $125 an hour just to look at the fucking mess, then I had my editor on the other line, who wanted me to dictate the text of my post to her, so she could throw something up on the site during the internet outage. Everything was so hectic for about an hour. Then by the time I got on a pair of ratty jeans and a T-shirt, the internet was back. Then I went to take a piss and saw that I was spotting, which is totally weird, because I just finished my period a week ago. I'm thinking it was from the stress. Oh, and I didn't even mention that I'm in the middle of quitting smoking and was on my third day of Zyban/Welbutrin.

The Fear of Being Alone

I think I'm so into anatomical abnormalities like conjoined twins because the nature of their physicality automatically brings up questions about subjects I'm particularly interested in like sex, honesty, bowel movements, and the meanings of privacy and loneliness. That said, I'm way into the Schappell twins (pictured above) for reasons beyond those I listed—which I'll get to in a minute—but let's just start with their country music video:

420!

Happy 4/20! I've actually never really been the type to like go all out of 4/20, or even remember to celebrate it at all. I don't take getting stoned that seriously—although now it's kind of part of my job, so I guess I sorta do. So, as part of that, we made a special 420 episode of Pot Psychology, featuring Gavin McInnes as Jambi the genie.

Why I Never Write Here, And Other Things That Are Wrong With Me

I go through phases where I just completely avoid this site. I get caught up in my day job and other freelance stuff, but honestly, I could totally make more time to write here than I have been. The truth is, I've been dealing with something lately that I never really had to before. When I stopped being anonymous, and the people in my life knew that my interactions with them were potential fodder for something I might write, things changed. I began getting requests like, "Please, please don't write about this."

The thing is, no matter what I write, it's never truly about anyone else—it's always about me. (And even when people are shitheads, I still don't name names.) However, when I think it might affect the relationships in my life, or I think the request is super important to a person, I won't write about something they ask me not to, no matter how juicy the subject matter, as with my trip to Peru. I'm not a completely heartless bitch, after all.

Mostly, I respect their wishes because for a long time, I thought (and was told) that this blog is a large part of why my ex-boyfriend and I couldn't make things work, and I wanted to be careful not to similarly destroy other relationships. After we broke up, I was really down on myself, thinking, Christ, if a pornographer can't deal with my crap, who the hell can? Now that I am no longer anonymous, I feared I had screwed myself out of getting fucked ever again, or out of anyone willingly falling in love with me. I had resigned myself to thinking that I'd made my bed, and now I would be sleeping alone in it, for the rest of my whore-y life.

High Again

I posted a new installment of Pot Psychology that Rich and I shot over on Jezebel last week, and in typical stoner fashion, I forgot to post it here. Oops. I answered questions about tight vaginas, security deposits, and hooking up with coworkers. Anyways, enjoy!

A Breakdown in Communication, Part 2

OK, so the dude that I wrote about who sent me that series of bizarre and inappropriate MySpace messages is totally freaking out right now. And you know what that means—more messages and emails! He's pissed because I posted a screen shot of one of the messages he sent me. I blurred out his name and picture, but he's like completely bugging because he seems to think that people can see what it says or make out his face. The thing is, the only people who would figure it out are people who know his MySpace page really well. People like his girlfriend I guess? I mean, it's not like future employers or whatever are reading the archives of this blog, looking for blurred out thumbnails that resemble him. Anyway, here is the first of the new batch of messages he sent me:

8:45 AM
Subject: Picture
Can you just take my picture off of your blog?   It could really fuck my life up.

I ignored it. And he didn't like that one bit.

Stoner Advice

So, I have this column on Jezebel called Pot Psychology, in which people send in questions and I answer them while stoned. It had always been a written column before, but this time around Alex Goldberg and I made it into a video, which co-stars Rich. Anyway, go check it out.

Kokie Monster

Everyone heard about Kokie’s the same way: “Hey, have you been to Kokie’s? It’s a COKE bar called KOKIE’S!”

Vice just published a great oral history on one of my old haunts—Kokie's, a bar on Berry and N. 3rd that served low-grade cocaine out of a "DJ booth," and sometimes, alternately, a utility closet. (The location is now a bar called The Levee.) I mostly went there circa 1999 - 2001. It was about a tenth as classy as the picture above would indicate. I seem to remember dirty walls and folding tables and chairs in the back room. There would usually be Hispanic people dancing to like salsa music or something along those lines. In the front, on the bar, there was a water cooler and little plastic cups for all the people who were there to blow the last of their evening's cash on blow. I actually would never really hang out there. I was always quickly in and out, because I was often by myself, and well aware that I attracted the wrong kind of attention. That was back when I was really into dressing like a party extra from Bachelor Party, so I was usually in fishnets, fake lashes, a ratty rabbit fur coat and a pleather skirt. I looked like a hooker straight outta 1984.

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.

This Is What Happens When You Look For a Date on the Internet

This guy entered my contest. He will not be entering me. This just isn't the kind of physical activity I ever have in mind. Oh, and here he is, wrestling with young boys.

But wait. It gets better.

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!

Mr. Telephone Man

I've been meaning to discuss this commercial for a long time. It's for Red Hot Dateline, which apparently is a cross between phone sex, an escort service, and casual encounters for men seeking women whose main selling point is that they're local. However, if the commercial is to be believed, it's really for braless immigrant gym bunnies who have nothing better to do than voluntarily meet strange men in a motel room.

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.

I Can Feel the Soil Falling Over My Head

I've been avoiding posting here for the past few weeks. Mainly because every time I sit down to write about sex, I'm reminded that I haven't actually been having it lately. For the past two weeks I've been extremely emotional. I think it has to do with the amount of ecstasy I took at this party the Saturday before Halloween. I ate six pills throughout the night and then snorted several more (through a tampon applicator, as one incriminating photo would indicate). I hadn't done ecstasy in like seven years, and never so much at one time. The fallout from that was brutal.

The following Tuesday, my mental state was grim, and I wasn't doing too much better physically, either. My head was pounding all day long and in the evening I vomited twice. But what really fucked me up was the incessant sobbing. Hour and hours of sobbing. I don't cry very often. I try to avoid it as much as possible. So when I do cry, it's bad. What's worse is that the sobbing fits were triggered by a recent breakup. With a boy. Whom I loved very much. I had ignored my feelings about it for like a month, always pushing it to the back of my brain, convincing myself that I was too busy to think about it or deal with it. And to be honest, I was, so that was working out for me. But I think the ecstasy uncorked all of the shit I had bottled up, and having been shaken, I exploded.

It may seem as though I'm an open book, since I tend to be frank about a lot of things that, for most people, are unmentionable. But in actuality, I'm really deliberate when it comes to what I choose to disclose. For me, talking about physical stuff is exactly the same as what it involves—it's skin, it's just surface. It's important, but it's not entirely me, only one small part. I've been very careful not to discuss, in depth, the relationship I'd been having, mainly because emotions are a bummer. Even at their best, emotions sorta suck. Right? Like, does anyone really want to hear how absolutely happily in love another person is? It's just irritating.

But now I'm miserable. And my misery is intensified by the fact that I'm finding it difficult to be attracted to other people, and can't bring myself to bring anyone home with me. In the past, I'd always handled my breakups by drowning my sorrows in other dudes' cum.

Dear Mommy and Daddy

Please do not read this page! I'm begging you. Read the stuff on Jezebel. Thanks.

I got a call from my dad this morning. It's the first time I've heard from either of my parents since my picture was posted. I didn't tell them about any of it, but my dad reads Gawker every day so he found out that way. He said, "I saw that moniker of yours, 'Slut Machine.' Jesus." Then he chuckled, but like in an embarrassed way. Still haven't heard from Teesh (that's my mom). More to come on that.

Meet Dana

Cokane (red shirt) had a going away BBQ on Saturday because she's moving to the deep south this week. It was bittersweet—we had a lot of fun and laughed really hard, but we're all gonna miss her a lot. It sort of marks an end of an era. Everyone's moving away, or moving in with with BFs, or getting married. Everyone's growing up. Well, actually, not everyone. Drunky Brewster's Calisha Jenkins (far left) and Dana (the chick on the ground) are holding it down. I've never told you guys about Dana before. All I have to say is: Don't threaten her with a good time.

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.

Work It Out

I guess this explains why I loved Mousercise so much.

Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

I really messed up my vadge this past week, worse than any wear and tear it's endured before. And this one wasn't even sex related. I went on an uncharacteristic bike ride just for fun, with no real destination in mind. About a quarter mile into it, my crotch started to itch, in the upper labia. I hoped it would just go away, but with each pump of my pedals, the sensation seemed to multiply. It was really driving me nuts, but I didn't want to stop and just start picking at my pussy in public. So I started grinding on the hard rubber of the bicycle seat, which actually proved to be affective.

The pointy front part of the seat really hit the spot, so much so that I thought my leg might start twitching or something. I sort of went to town on it, which I'm sure looked way more obscene than if I'd just quickly scratched my lips with my hand on the sly. Right as I was in mid grind, I must've hit a ditch, or a bump, or something, because all of a sudden the seat slammed up into my clit like a battering ram.

Bra Ha Ha Ha Ha

Is anyone else besides young Long Island moms interested in this product? Seriously, this seems like the kind of thing I would've thought up when I was stoned, and then realized how retarded it was once I sobered up, like when I decided I'd become a millionaire by inventing teeth guards especially for dick-sucking, so I wouldn't have to keep cutting up my upper lip all the time.

I can see how the idea might seem like a good one, in its drawing-board stage, but the materials they used to execute it look like the cheesy trim sold at the Polish craft store on Manhattan Avenue that I frequent. (They have really great religious needlepoint patterns there.) In fact, this model sort of looks like one of the Polish checkout girls at the Associated down the street.

Personally, I think if you're whorey enough to buy a top that doesn't stay on properly, then you should just commit to the look by displaying the thick elastic of your bra.

Non-Sexual Crush

Even though I really like the lyrics and sentiment behind "Smile" (since I can totally relate to enjoying a jerky ex's whiny suffering), I hadn't been that interested in Lily Allen's music. But she keeps saying stuff that cracks my shit up. Like when she ran her mouth off to New York Mag about how she got drunk and referred to Tinsley Mortimer as Ashley Winksdale, and then went on to talk trash on her skinny sister. ("She's very tall and beautiful, but then again, I'm rich and talented.")  But the outtakes of this interview she gave on that normally atrocious E! show The Daily 10 makes me totally want to be BFF with her. I love a girl I can talk about smelly pussies and big dicks with. Also, Debbie Matenopoulos' spastic, physical reactions makes me like her a lot more, too.

Special Delivery

Porno and pizza delivery have proved to be a time-honored and natural pairing. Recognizing this, Winnipeg businessman Corey Wildeman opened up Porno Pizza, a pizza delivery service that includes a nudie picture beneath the pizza, that becomes visible as you take each slice away. So under your pizza pie you might find a cream pie. Or not. Wildeman says that the photos range in dirtiness from Playboy pictorial to something that "Larry Flynt would blush at." Is that even possible?

It's not clear as to whether or not the photos are original content provided by Porno Pizza, but what is known is that the pizza guy is only delivering pizza and a photo, and not any action to his customers. (It is Canada after all, and not NYC.) And that actually might come as unwelcome info upon his arrival, because according to Wildeman, 75 - 80% of the clientele are women, who perhaps are hoping for a side of sausage.

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.

I Love New York

For many reasons, but here's one of 'em: A pizza parlor that doubles as a cheap (as in inexpensive...um, I think) place to get a lap dance, and possibly pick up a hooker. But my favorite part about it, is that it was on the 11 o'clock news, and had been advertised all day with this live-nude-girls neon-type graphic. The fact that no one in the city—including the NYPD vice squad—is bothered by this business makes this "investigative report" more like an advertorial for the joint.

Mr. Winehouse Owes Me 30 Quid

The half a fag in the pink cowboy hat is Blake Fielder-Civil, the dude who inspired much of Amy Winehouse's critically acclaimed Back to Black. He cheated on her, broke her heart into a million pieces, and when she became internationally famous and revered, he hopped back on her coattails and rode them all the way down the aisle to a quickie ceremony, making him a sort of British Kevin Federline. Up until this weekend, I had absolutely no idea that the Blake that Amy married was the same dirt bag, asshole, good-for-nothing, hot Blake that I previously knew (and Frenched). It's sort of freaking me out.

W4 Mocking Others

For shits and giggles (and for the sake of procrastination) I've been trolling the "erotic services" listings on Craigslist. I can't believe I've never done this before—it's been endlessly entertaining, and actually, really educational, too. (I never knew what DATY meant before all this.) I compiled some of my fave posts from the past few days.

What do you think funds this sexless Williamsburg manorexic's "art" and penchant for $100 hookers—trust fund or early inheritance?

This girl's wardrobe looks like Drunky Brewster's costumes.

Hipster dudes may be cool living among minorities in Bushwick, but they still don't want to put their wieners in them.

Sometimes I wish there were scratch 'n' sniff options for the internet—but not in this case.

This guy really knows how to approach his demographic.

Apparently, though, a lot of crackwhores have internet access. Surprise, surprise, they aren't always upstanding people.

Do you think this guy is just really thirsty?

I'm not gonna make fun of this one. He's hot. I just thought I'd point you girls in the right direction, if you're interested in a guy that DATY.

I guess this is a warning?

I think the thirsty guy drank all this girl's milk.

One time I bought these super strong mushrooms in Amsterdam, and I ended up eating them in this hotel room in Paris. The trip began going south, and I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. To my horror, something like these top photos was staring back at me.

He wants peepee in his coke.

Hot Lips

I've been working on this series called Pimp My Vadge for Jezebel, trying to figure out with the deal is with this new trend in plastic surgery—labiaplasty. I assure you, I'm totally cool with the current state of my labia, and was never even aware that any women had issues with their own. Anyway, I got consultations for labiaplasty and recorded audio of them. Check them all out here.

The first time, I went to a male doctor, the second time I visited a female doctor, and for my final consultation, I sought the opinion of a pornographer—Mitch Fontaine of Burning Angel. He told me that my vagina was charming. But I sort of knew that anyway.

Vibrating Cock Ring On TV!

I could not fucking believe my bloodshot eyes when I saw this commercial on MTV the other night. It's for the Durex Ring, a vibrating cock ring. Yeah, the product isn't that great (if you actually use it as instructed, you have to keep the ween in you, no thrusting, just to feel the vibe on your clit) but still, this is huge. I love the idea of guys carrying around a Ring in their wallets as they would a condom. It's about time that women's likes and needs are addressed and advertised in such a way. (And, newsflash: Axe cologne doesn't do it for us at all.)

This commercial will hopefully work toward expunging the stigma associated with vibrators that the women who use them are lonely, ugly, and dateless. This is progress, people! We haven't necessarily arrived, but we're cumming.

Reviews!

So I wrote a review (a complaint really) of Knocked Up, posted at Jezebel today. Last week I reviewed another bar bathroom (K&M in Williamsburg) for the Potty Girl column at Gawker. And then the commenters reviewed me. I inspired poetry! At least no one said they wanted to punch me in my vagina this time.

Gimme a P, Gimme an E, Gimme an R-I-O-D!

Having a period fucking sucks. But there are two instances when I'm thankful for my menses:

1. The few seconds of relief it brings each month, confirming that the pull-out has worked its magic yet again.
2. Commercials like this one:

I love all the ways that they contort their bodies, reminding us with each split, cartwheel, and high kick that they have absorbent cotton wedged up their see you next Tuesdays. This is my favorite part:

You just know that this commercial is the work of a marketing team made up primarily of middle-aged men. They think that the best way to advertise a "sports" tampon (whatever the fuck that is) would be to show cheerleaders. And they think that teenagers wear giant, white granny panties. And they think the term "bring it" is cheerleader specific, because apparently their focus study was based on a seven-year-old Kirsten Dunst movie (which I love, btw).

But still, I really love commercials like these, because cheesy or not, it's a period vagina in your face. And that shit is funny. So, please keep making these. Bring it, boys, bring it, bring it!

Porno Makes Triumphant Return to Times Square

I rarely make it above 14th Street, so I was shocked the last time I was in Times Square and saw this gianormous billboard for Jenna Jameson and Janine's new girl-on-girl flick Janine Loves Jenna—right next to the M&Ms store. How family!

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.

Blind Item Bonanza!

What artist, once featured in the Whitney Biennial, has been trying his hand at a career as a porn star, only to be mocked by industry insiders? Unbeknown to him, his lackluster and unreliable performances have earned him the nickname "Mr. Softee."

What starlet with very public substance abuse issues doesn't limit her powder intake to snorting alone? Not too long ago, she spent 1 night in a bathroom at an after party freebasing the stuff with the ex-bf of her rival. She should be careful though—the ex-bf has a history of cashing in on embarrassing girls much more famous than he.

What overweight comedian—whom many believe has a problem with alcohol—tried to cop a feel on a certain sex blogger after she repeatedly told him that she just wanted to remain friends? One night after some heavy drinking, she passed out at his Brooklyn apartment, only to wake up with his hand cupping her boob. Unlike his standup, she didn't find it funny.

Which dude from Mastodon hit on my male friend when we were waiting for our pictures to develop at the photo booth of Union Pool? The aggressive dude, who was wasted enough to poke his head out of the closet, had a really creepy tone and no concept of personal space. He eventually had to be dragged away by some apologetic friends of his.

Something to Chew on

There's now a spearmint-flavored, chewable birth control pill on the market called Femcon Fe, that's supposed to be a "convenient, new option for busy women on the go." Check out the commercial:

How does chewing the pill make anything more convenient for "women on the go," especially when, according to the Femcon Fe site, if you chew the pill, you have to immediately drink a full 8 oz glass of liquid? It seems like a lot less of a hassle to swallow the pill with a swig of water or some spit in your mouth.

I guess the idea is that people will just think you're chewing gum or something, so you can pop it in your mouth during a business meeting and not have your coworkers know that you—gasp!—are a responsible, sexually active person or that you—gasp!—need your periods regulated. But what happens if, during that meeting, accounts payable sitting next to you is like, "Hey, can I get a piece?" Then you'll have to discreetly explain these spearmint chews are just for you because you love riding bareback.

Femcon Fe is also designed to make oral contraception an option for women who have difficulty taking pills, even though most birth control pills are about half the size of a Tic Tac. I resent the time that was wasted catering medical research of women's sexual health to this. 'Cause like, I have a sneaking suspicion that some chick who has issues swallowing isn't all that into sex to begin with.

I Love Barbara Walters

Barbara Walters is the faggiest obsession I've had in a long time—and I've been into some pretty faggy shit. I'm talking vacations to Dollywood, Mariah Carey, reality TV shows involving models/designers/Jordan, child beauty pageants, Celine Dione, and of course, the Beales. While there's obviously some crossover, there's definitely a difference between "faggy" and "girlie." Being a straight girl who usually behaves like a gay man, I'm totally fascinated by gender being a social construct.

Last week's episode of 20/20 was all about transgendered children and it was fascinating for many reasons. First of all, it's crazy to see kids be so firm about knowing who they are at such a young age, because I feel like that's something that most people struggle with for a large portion of their lives. Secondly, it was crazy to hear Barbara Walters say "dick." I know that the nature of this subject matter is very serious, but how it was nurtured in this special was hilarious. Ha! See, the two aren't mutually exclusive.

Rich and I watched this over and over again, realizing that it was an instant classic. We made a little clip show of our favorite moments.

Retard Redux

A few months ago I posted on retard romance. Ever since then, you would not believe how many people have found my site by Googling "down syndrome porno" or "retard sex." A commenter on this site actually posted a link to some real retard porn. It's incredibly disturbing, not because I feel like the retarded girl is being exploited (she obviously seems to be liking it) but because the audio track haunts me for days each time I've viewed it. I keep hearing, "Ooh, is good! Is gooooood!" Oh, God, now I'm thinking about it again. Gross. Anyway, after the jump, check it out.

Fun Bags

Someone in the Ziploc marketing team pulled a real boner when they developed "Fun Bags."

Or maybe they were trying to be all subliminal or something. Obviously these are aimed at children, many of whom were raised on food from fun bags, if you know what I mean, and surely, you must.

I'm not sure if these are sold anymore. I used to get my weed delivered in these, when I ordered larger quantities. When my dealer first told me what they're called, I think I laughed for like three minutes straight. It's still funny to me now, even though I'm not presently stoned. But shit, I should be. It's Friday.

Real as They Cum

It sort of blows my mind that I've been recently accused of being a fake. Considering the James Freys and Laura Alberts of the world, I guess I can see where some people are coming from in their assumption that I'm embellishing my anecdotes, if not completely pulling them out of my ass. But as I've said before, I'm the laziest person on the face of the couch. I am so lacking in motivation to the point that I can barely manage to roll out of bed before 11 to walk my dog. (Sometimes, particularly when horribly hungover, I have a mental debate over which would be worse, facing the freezing cold or having to sop up a piss pond in my living room.)

Creating and maintaining a fake blog is completely beyond my scope of effort. And much like with orgasms, there's no point in faking it! Like, what would I get out of it?

Kim's Shady

This is totally off topic for me as it has nothing to do with sex or drugs (well, at least, it has nothing to do with me partaking in such), but I just need to bring it up. I've been treating Anna Nicole Smith's death like it's September 11. I'm glued to the news and each update is shocking. I constantly need more new information. Of all the interviews and statements that both the respectable and tabloid media have scrambled to get from (at best) tertiary parties involved in Anna's life, why the hell hasn't anyone been able to track down Kimmy? Christ, I've seen not one but two interviews with fucking Bobby Trendy, yet there's been nary a mention of Anna's former assistant who appeared on her E! reality show. On a whim, I decided to look her up on Myspace and check it out:

Doesn't she look like Christina Ricci in Monster?

She has her profile set to private. I tried to befriend her, but when I entered in her last name (Walther) I was told that it was wrong, and I was denied. So, I'm wondering if I'm just the smartest tacky investigative reporter of all time to have found her or if Kimmy has gone out of her way to ensure that she be left alone.

Off the Wall

Of all the salacious artifacts cataloged on parisexposed.com (currently suffering from injunctivitis), this is by far my favorite.

From left to right we have an ailing senior citizen receiving oxygen, Nicole Richie, Michael Jackson, Paris and Nicky Hilton. Kudos to Nicky and her tanning bed efforts. Her skin is 16 shades darker than either