I was working as a journalist in Saint Petersburg when the butt pain started. The doctor’s heavy Russian accent made me believe I had “gemroids,” which sounded like asteroids made of gemstones, which seemed a lot better than what I actually had: hemorrhoids. More than a month later, it had all gotten much, much worse.
I sat across from the doctor. He was very Russian. His English wasn’t excellent. He smiled.
“So, you have problem with the anus, yes?”
He gave my midsection a concerned look. “What?”
“Well,” I told him, “it is excruciating in my — well, my…
My date watched me from behind her vegan banh-mi and said, “You look like Bradley Cooper.”
“Thank — “
“But, like Bradley Cooper in A Star Is Born. Have you seen it?”
“Yeah — Lady Gaga was great.”
“So, I look like an alcoholic Bradley Cooper?”
She nodded, took a bite, and said, “Don’t watch me chew.”
I waited. She swallowed and said, “Yeah, maybe not alcohol, though.”
“So I look like a heroin-addicted Bradley Cooper?” I joked.
“Yes!” she cried, placing her banh-mi back on her plate.
“But,” she clarified, “not like you’re on heroin, but…
I fit in at the gym about as well as a Disney Princess in a BDSM studio. I don’t get the culture: running, lifting, grunting, groaning, flexing. I’ve never understood the axioms of “power through” or “feel the burn” or “do three more.” The only times that “power through,” “do three more,” or “feel the burn” apply to my life is over a plate of chicken wings. I don’t feel a need to get stronger or run faster. Who do I have to run from? Who is trying to hurt me? …
Have you recently found yourself thinking:
“Golly, I do wonder if my husband likes the meals I prepare for him each day when he gets home from work!”
Probably not because that would mean you’re a time-traveling housewife from the 1950s, and I’d hope you’ve got better shit to do.
However, I recently came across an article that sought to answer this question (for some fuckin’ reason). It was called “5 Signs Your Husband Secretly Hates Your Cooking”. …
My brother is pretty hot but — and I can’t believe porn sites need me to clarify this — I don’t want to fuck him.
I’ve wanted to have sex with a lot of things throughout my life: women, men, pool jets. I even went through an adolescent phase where I had lots of confusing thoughts about the Tazmanian Devil. I’ve gone down many sexual fantasy rabbit holes: strangers in the night, cops and robbers, bad teachers, etc. Yet, never have I been in a sexual mood and thought:
“Oh, you know what I’d really like to do right now…
originally published in Lustery POV
Look, I’m not saying you want to fuck your dog. I’m just asking the question: Do you want to fuck your dog?
Wait, sorry. Hold on, let me start from the beginning.
There is a man I work with. I’ll call him Mr. Gordon. He is big, broad-shouldered and sweaty. I want him to hold me. I want Mr. Gordon to hold me in his big sweaty arms.
Recently, my brother had a baby — my brother is big like Mr. Gordon. On Sundays, I Skype with my brother while he feeds his baby. When…
Whatever other beautiful things your partner’s mouth may ever do; speak your vows, name your firstborn child, or eulogize you at your funeral, the hardest thing that mouth will ever do for you just ended with you blowing a load in it. So — if that mouth wants a kiss —
— you owe it a Goddamn kiss.
Now, I understand that some men have their reservations about kissing a post-blow-job mouth, and so I’ve asked around, collecting a few, and decided to point out why they’re a load of garbage.
Okay — look, if your dick is so gross…
It always comes in the same variations, whether in person, in articles, in comments, and so on.
And so on, and so on, and you have no clue what you’re talking about. It is astounding, the arrogance, the presumption, the ignorance, of Americans to label an entire country as believing, doing, thinking, one thing. Countries have millions of people all with different ideas about the world. …
There are some feelings that have left me since the invention of the cellphone.
And so on. Yet, these feelings have been replaced with oh-so-many more. Like:
My friend got a new watch recently. It was sent to her by a friend from her hometown. When she showed it to me, explained how she got it, finished gushing over the different features, she asked, “Do you think he thinks about me when he masturbates?”
(It was a nice watch.)
I was honest — as I try to be — and told her, “Yeah, probably.”
This is not because all men who buy watches for people masturbate to them. I’ve bought a watch for my sister before and only ever masturbated about her once. …