Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the category “Sex Humor”

Sex Goop

Gwyneth Paltrow irritates the shit out of me.

For numerous reasons.

Maybe because she thinks she needs to tell everyone her cooch is now au naturel and  how unhealthy shaving your bits is.

Or maybe because she tries to tell you what to feed your family when she has a celebrity chef and a ghostwriter for her cookbook.

Or maybe it’s because she CAN’T FUCKING STOP TALKING ABOUT HOW AMAZINGLY COPACETIC AND UNDERSTANDING HER AND CHRIS MARTIN’S DIVORCE WAS.

Yeah, and I fucking fart glitter.

Now Gwyneth and Goop, her website that’s named after the nastiness that collects in your shower drain where she sells overpriced organic shit, thinks they need to come into YOUR bedroom.

With their $15,000 gold dildo.

And organic lube, because she stole the idea for this off of the Netflix show “Grace & Frankie”, and because according to her extensive research, lube is toxic.

Well now you tell us Gwyneth.

Seriously, isn’t the toxic lube issue just a little more important than whether or not you’re walking around with a grizzly bear between your thighs?  You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?

We’re all out here flicking the bean with toxic lube, putting Chernobyl grade KY in our cooters, and you’re just trying to find the perfect juice cleanse.

I hate to tell you Gwyneth, but you’re the last person I’d come to for lube or sex toy advice.

Maybe you can get “Bae” to buy some. Sounds like she might need to liven things up in the bedroom to keep that man of her’s from straying.

 

 

Sex Lube and Fine Dining

Kiwi-Strawberry, Passionfruit, Sweet Cherry, Tropical Punch. None of those flavors gets me in the mood, and they actually make me feel like someone might yell out “Hey Kool-Aid” and a giant pitcher is going to come busting through the wall, so who in the hell ever thought fruit flavored sex lube was a good idea?

I like pina coladas, but I don’t want one slathered on my cooter, and I certainly don’t want to have to lick it off some dude’s meat sword!

My mouth may spew expletives and be crass, but I have a rather refined palette. I like good food and drinks.  I want taste explosions in my mouth.  I want my culinary experiences to be as pleasurable as sex, so that got me to thinking.

Why not combine the two?

I think lube should start coming in flavors like filet mignon, or merlot, or chocolate mousse,or maybe Texas BBQ brisket flavor, which would come with a bonus of Lonestar flavored edible undies.

Or maybe hot beef sandwich flavor, or apple pie, or cinnamon roll.

Or maybe even a sushi flavored one. (Lord help you if you don’t need a lube to attain that particular flavor!)

Pretty sure I need to get a patent for this stuff.  Seriously.  This could be the next big thing.

Just think about it.

When was the last time you saw your man tear into anything fruity?  You want your man lusting after you like he lusts after a T-bone and a shot of whiskey.

And guys, can you think of a better way to get your woman to orally pleasure you than to rub some lube flavored like chocolate salted caramel on your weiner?

That’s what I thought.

If you need me I’ll be at the patent office.

P.S. I’m taking applications from men who’d like to help me taste test.

Willy (Wonka) Envy

Look but don't touch!

You can look but you can’t touch!

I had to admit it to My Man.

Like Charlie standing outside the sweet shop without money to buy a Wonka Bar, I was envious.

My Man had gotten The Golden Ticket of blogging. He had been Freshly Pressed.

 

GOLDENTICKET

I think this is what it was like for My Man to get Freshly Pressed.

My Man was excited, and rightly so. This was something he had been striving for since beginning blogging.

I admire him, because unlike me, he actually has blogging goals. I just kind of post an eclectic mess, in an extremely random fashion, thinking that maybe one day I’ll hit some sort of blogging payola.

My Man on the other hand, strives for a certain number of subscribers and views, and usually posts a certain number of days a week. He’s dedicated to his craft.

I’m just hanging around like Veruca, screaming every once in awhile like a spoiled brat, and licking the damn wallpaper.

 

That means immediately!!

That means immediately!!

And not only did I have to admit to My Man that the little green monster of envy had bitten my fat bottom when he was FP’d, I also had to admit to being visited by that damn thing called jealousy.

You know why? My Man has groupies.

I mean with a blog like his it’s to be expected. Every naughty little Catholic school girl for miles flocks to worship at his altar, led there by the search term, “What would Jesus Christ do?”. Wait. Maybe it was the search term, “What would Johnny Cash do?”. I always get that mixed up.

But Man In Black groupies, or “Sisters” with bad habits, either way, they adore him. They want to prostrate themselves and profess their undying devotion to his particular brand of religion. They’re willing to flagellate themselves in order to wash his feet, and kiss his ring, and open their mouths for him to place his “communion wafers” so delicately on their salivating tongues.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene's standing around my man.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene’s in training, standing around my man.

Bless him, I think, as I make the sign of the cross while kicking bitches out of the way to get to him, My Man is understanding of my envy of his Freshly Pressed status. As writers we all want to be acknowledged in that Golden Ticket way, and he doesn’t think I’m a slimy Slugworth to admit my envy of that status.

The jealousy he gets, but tells me it is quite unnecessary, as I am the only fat bottom girl who will lick his lolly.

And I’ve learned, that regardless of the female masses who adore him, at the end of the day, and the beginning, and in the middle, he’s My Man. He’s my Everlasting Gobstopper. He’s the one who every day, makes me feel like I’ve stolen a sip of a Fizzy Lifting Drink and that I can achieve new heights just because he’s there holding my hand.

***This is written all in good fun, as My Man is quite aware I am extremely proud of him, and adore his wicked sense of humor, his sexy brain, and also the python in his pants. He’s very talented, and I only hope I will have the pleasure of riding his coattails, and maybe a part of his anatomy, into a life filled with fame and fortune! And he is always there, supporting my writing, and as my muse. Some day, hopefully we will collaborate on a writing project, because we’re a dynamic duo and will kick some literary ass!

Happy Tears

“What the hell are happy tears?” My Man asked.

“Those are tears you cry when you’re happy. Haven’t you ever cried happy tears? Didn’t you cry happy tears when your kids were born?” I asked, knowing how dedicated My Man is to his children, evidenced by the numerous activities he delivers them to weekly, and by his ability not to choke them out when they don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.

“Ummmm. . . no, because if I did I’d have a vagina,” My Man said.

Interesting, I thought. Is it only the fairer sex who cries happy tears?

I needed to do more research on this subject.

So I posed the same question to a bunch of the guys I work with while sitting around the lunch table yesterday. They all screwed up their faces in the same quizzical way, and cocked their eyebrows at me like I was nuts for even insinuating there might be even a drop of ocular saltwater shed over happiness.

“If I was really happy and I had a tail, I’d wag it. But happy tears? Oh hell no,” said my boss.

“If I had cried “happy tears” when my kids were born, my wife would’ve kicked me out of the room and told me not to come back until I had that shit fixed,” said the operations manager.

“Don’t they make a pill for that?” said another one.

So I’m getting the picture that most guys don’t cry happy tears. I think in general most guys reserve crying for emotions on the opposite side of the spectrum, and only take them out when they really need them—like when they get their dick caught in their zipper, or when the really hot chick they’ve been dying to bone finally agrees to a rut-fest, but not without a condom, and the one they’ve been carrying around in their wallet for just such an occasion is dry and brittle and crumbles in their sweaty hands.

But I’ll tell you what. I’m good with the fact My Man doesn’t cry happy tears. I much prefer a happy slap on the ass from him anyway.

Cozies for Nether Regions and an Item Which Makes it Look Like Your Head is Popping Out of One

It’s cold here. Not like “I need a cozy for my cock because I walk out the door and have icicles dangling from my balls and am sure I’ve been teleported to Canada” kind of cold, but fucking cold nonetheless.  Which by the way, if you do need a cozy for your cock, may I suggest a hand-knitted delight like this trouser snake special I found over on etsy. Sort of frightening, yet suggestive at the same time.

cozy

The seller does note the following in the description:  You will receive a random shaft colour combo in the standard 7.5″ unless you specify 2 colours/custom size in your Message To Seller. Do your cock a favor guys, and get out the ruler.  Do you really want your meat stick swimming around in this dick scarf because you lied and told the seller it was an 8 incher instead of the 5.25 inches that it is?

I think the cock and ball cozy is an amazing idea.  The turtleneck, on the other hand, not so much.  Seriously, whose fucking idea was this?  Did the fashion designers of the early 20th century get together and say to each other, “It’s Ice Age cold outside.  We need to design a shirt that comes all the way up the neck and feels like it’s garroting you.  You know, sort of like auto-erotic asphyxiation, but a lot less pleasurable.”

I’m certainly no fashion plate, and tend to stay far away from the catwalk, but I thought these things went out with the”OMG your thighs are going to rub together and start a forest fire” corduroy trousers with bell bottoms and clogs with wooden heels. Which by the way I miss terribly. The clogs, not the corduroy pants.

My suggestion?  Try a scarf.  Try a snood.  Try a micro-fleece neck warmer. Try anything but a turtleneck, because no matter how good you think it looks, it just doesn’t.  It makes your head look like it’s popping out of your mother’s vag on your birthday.  The last guy that looked good in a turtleneck?  Ron Burgundy.  And we all know you can’t look better than him, so just give it up.

ronburgundy

 

 

 

 

 

My Baby Plays a Mean Meat Whistle

The "B" is silent.

The “B” is silent.

Bacon. Sex. Bacon. Sex. It’s kind of a toss-up. Seriously. That’s how much I love bacon. So I just came right out and asked him. “Would it bother you if I were to eat bacon while we were having sex?”

Now you might not be quite as enamored of the swine and bovine as I am, so that question might shock you. But to my warped mind, eating a pork product, or any other tasty meat treat while having sex makes perfect sense, and here are the reasons why:

1. In my neck of the woods, sex is sometimes referred to as “porkin'”. Example: “I was porkin’ this chick the other night. . .”

2. How many times have you heard of a man’s equipment being referred to in “meat” vernacular? For example:

Men can “beat their meat”, or “slap their salami”.
They can slip a woman the “hot beef injection”.
Hey baby, wanna ride the “bologney pony”?
Your wife or girlfriend’s favorite dinner? “Tube steak!”
“Pork sword”
“Weiner”. (Not to be confused with Anthony, whose weiner everyone has seen thanks to the internet.)

3. Let’s not forget that an erection is oft referred to as a “boner”. Meat often comes with bones in it. And as AC/DC says, I’m pretty sure “just givin’ the dog a bone” refers to putting your man meat in a chick’s mouth, but I could be wrong.

4. There’s also musical meat. Example: “Hey honey, why don’t you come over here and play a tune on my “meat whistle”. If you don’t know all the notes, you can just hum.”

4. Last but not least, meat terms you never want to be associated with your penis: vienna sausage, little smokie. When it comes to meat, the serving size does matter. Don’t let her bullshit you.

So you see, it all makes perfect sense now, doesn’t it?

Oh, and just in case you were interested? He told me it wouldn’t bother him a bit, just don’t forget to melt some cheese on it and dip it in mayo. I’m thinking he might be a keeper.

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