Miss Piggy is a Fag Hag

I relate very deeply and empathically with Miss Piggy's philosophy of life, i.e., "everything I want, I deserve." Now, onto warranting my claim about Miss P's fag hag status. She has superb and yet totally tacky fashion sense. She's a fatty. And can't some frogs change gender.. ergo, could Kermit be a drag queen or a tranny? Highly likely if you ask me.

Also, Miss Piggy loves feathers, wears blonde wigs, and isn't afraid to cut a bitch and get dirty. I guess the philosophical quandary remains: can one be a fag hag without the seemingly requisite homo sidekick? I would argue that a fag hag is born not made!

Art for the sake of Tart

This is my newest in boob art pieces. I woke up a couple weeks ago with the desire to paint my areola and create! My guest room is currently lined with breast art. Yum!

p.s. my birfday was yesterday. I turned 26. During my routine hair parting session yesterday morning, I discovered 6 gray hairs. I had a mini-attack. I felt a twinge of fear, panic, an oh-my-god-my-ass-is-this-old moment, if you will. And then I figured: ah, fuggit.

Yours in Gray Hair Having Tit Lurve
x( . )( . )x,
v

www.BreastFetishist.com

In My Cuntry

I spent yesterday and part of today at a sex ed conference... yeah, I know what you're thinking: we must have been anally fisting the night away! Sadly, nothing of the sort. I was actually a bit.. hermm.. disappointed to witness the tameness of this crowd'o'folk ordained to teach others about using rubbers, how to cure irritated, red weiner, and other such fabulous things.

And why was I at this conference? Because I'm a sex educator. I teach young women lots of things: like how to protect themselves from STDs, how not to get preggers (if they don't want to be), how to negotiate boundaries, how to communicate about sex, their rights as patients, minor consent laws, how to masturbate (sex can wait, masturbate!). I teach them where/what their cervix and clit are, what LGBTIQQ stands for, how to say no, how to say "I'm beautiful the way I am," and hot shit like that. Does any of this sound criminal or perverse?

And yet, I felt completely uncomfortable (and this is me, remember) even saying the word menstruation. I didn't hear the words penis, vagina, anus (let alone my prefered wang, pussy, asshole) a single time. In fact, the one time that a vagina was referenced, it was called "down there." Now, mine is not a generation of subtlety, people. My pussy stopped being a "down there" about 8 years ago.

And speaking of my cunt, she was trembling in her chonies a little earlier thinking about all this talk of 'Merican values, these budget cuts that affect sex ed programs (while abstinence-only funding abounds and is readily available for any agency willing to speak only about abstaining) and all the 'publicans hating on my right to choose. It just gives me the heeby-jeebies thinking about potentially living in a place where I couldn't access condoms or birth control pills or an abortion.

And if you're reading this, do me a favor and keep that one eye you use for trolling porn all day and use it for reading about some of the totally-not-OK polemicizing of rights that rich white women fought for in the 70s, dammit (thank you, rich white ladies!)!

Mmmmk. I'm tired now, and have to stare at my boobies in an attempt to forget all this crazy shit.

x( . )( . )x,
v

www.BreastFetishist.com

Busty, Brilliant Type seeks Insta-Love with Pseudo-Intellectual

I ran into an ad I'd written for Craig's List Women Seeking Men.. oh, oh, the title was : Busty, Brilliant Type seeks Insta-Love with Pseudo-Intellectual.

Dear Man Who Is Reading This,

I have a great brain, a great rack, and two X
chromosomes (and all of the myth, lore, biological
imperatives, etc. that that entails). I laugh often
and often too loudly for the reserved taste of tapas
establishments. The upside: people feel funny around
me, and I like that! A few of my favorite things
include: 1. cheese, 2. creme brulee, 3. non-fiction,
4. talking about my boobs, 5. polemicizing, 6.
pedicures, and 7. not making obscure references to
19th century Dutch art. I haven't read half the books
on my book shelf. I love the smell of jasmine. I spend
too much money on shirts that make my boobs look big
(because pretty much all of them do, but I just keep
thinking it's a magical shirt trick) and really large,
brightly colored belts. I eat shrimp even though I
know that they are harvested unethically.

Let's pretend we're on top of the moon, discussing our
hopes, goals, dreams, and expectations. If I were
allowed (with no penalties!) to say what I really
wanted, I'd say that I want a truffle buffet in my own
home, the magical power of never getting food
poisoning ever again (or diabetes! Am I the only
person whose mother spoke to her about the risk of
diabetes every day of their childhood?), an ambient
music machine that would sense my awakening each
morning and begin to play Sade, an itty bitty monkey
that never pooped, and an insta-boyfriend + maybe
something connective, dare I say "deep?"

Boyfriendly duties will include: sucking face,
touching my boobs, constructing laurels made from tiny
daisies, talking, eye contact, cuddling,
movie-watching, and dinner-sharing.

Please address all inquiries to above address.

Sincereley,

me

Orgasm Planet: Turn On = Turn Off

In reading Louanne Brizendine's The Female Brain, there was a section on the female brain and sex. Among plenty of amazing facts, was one that I can't seem to get out of my own brain: That when a female orgasms the amygdala, or emotional center of her brain, shuts down. It just *poof* turns off. They did brain scans of men and women during orgasm and found that men's brains light up like a Christmas tree.

So, before I got to work this morning I masturbated twice. The first orgasm was one of those ooh-oh-accidentally-swiped-my-clitoral-hood-and-now-I'm-cumming cums. Usually after Nut Numero 1, I just turn the porn off, and perhaps pee, shower, or internally wax poetic about how post-orgasmic contemplation sucks. But this time I was on the phone when I nut, and for some reason I left the porn going; it got me hot again. Hence unlikely nut #2. I really love multiply orgasming because the spasms just keep getting more and more delicious. The record for nuts in a night? 9. I was in Mexico, and had bought one of those naughty little comic books they sell on the corner near the bakery. Usually the themes range from semi-rape with a huge titted blonde whose nipples are poking through that rag that's doubling as a dress to semi-rape with a huge titted brunette whose nipples are poking through that rag that's doubling as a shirt and a pair of daisy dukes. But the fare had widened that particular evening to include a small comic that included a nipple-crazed monkey that had escaped from a local zoo. One enormous-breasted woman found him near a garbage dump and before she knew it the lusty ape was sucking on her and all of her friends' nipples (the word of choice in the comic was actually "chupones," which translates to "pacifiers") at all hours of the day and night. They passed the monkey around and the hairy little fucker was allegedly giving better suck-jobs "than their husbands!" What I love about comics are the onomatopoeias: slurp! smack! pop! squish! flurp!

But with me orgasms are a bit complicated. I mean I can have as many as I want, but only *I* can give them to me. It's estimated that fewer than half of U.S. women orgasm during penetrative sex. I never have. And, omg, does it ever piss me off when a man acts like my nut is his property. No, actually, I decide whether I want mustard on my sandwich. I decide whether I want to order dessert. And I decide whether I'm going to get some nut up in this mix.

So, uh, stayed tune for the next rant ;)
v

www.BreastFetishist.com

Fuck the Cardigan-Wearing Prudes!

In a conversation that, actually, just took place about 13 seconds ago, the phrase, "I sometimes feel like a woman can't have a sexuality and still be a person in the eyes of men" popped out, and I was too angered not to blog about the issue. I was talking about me and the myriad other women who don't get to be sexual and a 100%human at the same time. Because it's 2008, and women still aren't allowed to want some dickin, and not get indicted on charges of big fat hoe. We're expected to be the keepers of the secret, the blase spectators of our own (sex) lives, the coquettish baby girls who think sex and penises are kinda gross. Well, I say Fuck the Cardigan Wearing Prudes and their Fan Club!

The story isn't a new one, but I guess I'm feeling a bit of that woman rage or something. I'm one of many women who, from a young age, was very sexual. I felt sexual, acted sexual, did sexual things before I even understood what intercourse was or what sex meant. I was masturbating before I knew anyone else in the world had this gift of self-inspiring orgasm. I didn't learn about all the woman sex codes until I was older. I think the first time I really believed all of it was more than old wives' tales was when I was with a super yummy, musician cutie boysicle in college. We had talked on a sofa for almost two hours. When we got up to my bedroom, he went straight for my tits, but when he asked for sex I wasn't in the mood, so I said no. He pulled the nipple out of his mouth, smiled, and said "oooh. I love that you said no. I don't like girls who want to have sex right away." And instead of thinking, "what a fucking moron," I thought "oooh, I'm soo good at being a girl!"

I was in another conversation with a man recently who said that he didn't think it appropriate when women "advertised" their sexuality. Why should he have to be subjected to women who choose not to wear underwear or women who want the world to know that they're available for some pleasure? I'm sitting there, listening to this man while wearing something I saw on a prositute last Tuesday, and he abruptly said, "oh. oh. I don't mean you. I mean, I don't think you do that." My thought was: "that's odd that you don't mean me because every morning I wake up and think 'how can I put my sexuality on blast for the world to see today?'" And it's true. I've shown more cleavage than most porn stars. When I go out, I have a designated areola patroler, who makes sure one of those massive suckers hasn't popped out of my inappropriately tight / lowcut clothing. And fuck yeah, I'm going to "subject" you to my sexuality. My sexuality is part of my freedom, and I've found men who can't handle that are deeply concerned by the threat of female pleasure (and its corollary: "fuck you").

Anyway, I haven't felt this pissed since I was in that feminist cult back at Cal. It feels kinda good. :)

Yours in GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU FUCKING FUCK,
v

x( . )( . )x
www.BreastFetishist.com

Ethical Slit Part II: Fidelity Gene?

Ok, Anonymous, this is for you!

Before I continue along the same train of thought, can I just tell you about how my vagina is undergoing this incredible change: it wants sex, it's juicier. It still smells like lemon tart, but the walls are more sensitive. Before my pussy didn't speak so often (well, really only on extreme occassions when its Tyranosaraus Rex side would rear its ugly head, demanding in monosyllabic grunt-roars that I feed it some wang), now I feel that she outspeaks my rather vociferously needy tatas. And also, I've been having all these sex dreams lately! This morning my need to pee roused me from a dream about this big, dumb Italian guy with an enormo-schlong jacking it for me. I had no idea who he was, but he had sort of that Sylvester Stalone upturned lip thing going on. I'm looking over his shoulder, and, like, telling him how hot it was that he was masturbating for me. Hello! Where did this shit come from? I mean, not that I don't love it, right.

Ok, ok. Back to ethical slutness. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if there's a gene for fidelity, but I definitely, definitely know plenty of people on both the chronic infidelity and the pathologically faithful sides of the fence. I've met people who've told me that cheating becomes a psychological impossibility once they're in a relationship (even if they're not so pleased with said r'ship). And, surprise!, the people I've heard this from are men. In fact, I used to date one (hell, I'm in love with one of them right now too). I've met a lot of women and men who, conversely, can't stop their wandering eye despite love, connection, and potential loss of their partner (eg, yours truly).

So, let's look back at my family tree: My gramma has been faithful to one man for her whole life. She's about 70 now, and been married for almost 50 years. My mom.. not so much. She claims after being seduced intensely by another man, she sought lurve outside of her failing marriage. Understandable, certainly! And then I came along, and I haven't been "faithful" for a single one of my relationships. wtf?

It's not always that things get stifling (though that can happen), it's that I just want to have my cake and eat it too. I'm a taurus. And at some point, after I've fought the urge to explore outside the r'ship for as long as I can stand it, I seek excitement (emotional sometimes, but usually just erotic) often because I want to stay in the relationship, but the tension and tedium of playing with the same person really starts to get to me. I've found that when I don't whore around for long enough, I start thinking about break-up as often as I'm thinking about boobs. The "cheat" can feel like a breath of air after a long time under water.

The thing is, I'm not sure how many people were born to cheat and how many weren't. But I know a thing or two about human nature, and I think that we go with our inclinations and our desires more often than we'd like to allow ourselves to believe we do. Maybe it's that the aforementioned get more out of not cheating while the rest of us just don't.

Does infidelty of the heart count as much as putting your dick in a stranger? Does letting dude down the street suck my tits really matter as much if it makes being with the man I love that much more interesting? Are secrets the essence of spice? Or is radical honesty the perfect solution to all woes?

My answers: No. No. Yes. No, but it's a great way to get some quick'n'dirty drama (if you're into that sort of thing ;))

x( . )( . )x,
v

p.s. hey, my slit is pretty ethical!
www.BreastFetishist.com

Ethical Slut : My Tits Belong to the World

I have to admit that I have yet to crack open The Ethical Slut. It's sitting there on my bookshelf with the rest of the I-totally-just-bought-this-to-impress-people-who-come-over-and-will-likely-never-even-skim-this collection. Sigh. Regardless, I know the premise, the philosophy. Do I believe in ethical sluthood? In theory, yes. In practice, I'm not so sure. Well, when you (like me) are a slut, and the stakes are high, can you get rid of the slut that courses through your veins?

My mother and gramma have given me a few key pieces of advice throughout my formative years: 1. Men like it when you're a little bit dumber than them, and even though you aren't just pretend. 2. Tight clothes are a good thing. 3. If you want to keep a relationship, never tell a man if you've cheated on him.

Now, I hate the word cheating. It just sounds so... unethical. So, let's use "whoring around." I have a bit of a history with the aforementioned, and I'm going to out myself as to the reasons I think I have a problem with dallying. The first, and easier to explain, is that I like playing with new people. New person. New voice. New hands and new set of mouth and wiener. All good things. The next is a little more deeply embedded into my psyche: I have a horrible insecurity that I'm not pretty enough to merit male attention. And once I've managed to prove to myself that a man does think I'm attractive, I feel good, but I don't feel... well, satisfied (this is the nature of neurosis, right?!). One moment I'm floating on a cloud and the next I'm thinking something along the lines of "Yes he likes to lick my asshole, but what if he doesn't really think I'm pretty? And even if he does, what if every other man in the world doesn't? I must go and find out!" God knows there's no shortage of men who are willing to make you feel pretty for up to 3 hours.

But then there comes along someone special, someone who likes you for who you are, and who thinks you're the greatest, sexiest person in the world. And maybe you even think the same thing, but does that mean your slut goes away? I'm not sure. My instinct is to say NO; your slut doesn't go away any more than your hair color changes or your pussy stops looking like a chia pet. And what does it mean to suppress the slut in me? Is it some denial of an integral part of myself or just plain discipline over the urgings of my loins?

My "whoring around" in the context of my insane boob fetish plays out a little differently than your typical infidelity. I'm of the belief that when you have tits as great as mine, they cannot truly belong to one person... that's like denying the world the Grand Canyon or Las Vegas or cheese. My tits belong to the world, and I don't need to have intercourse to be satisfied.

Bah. I have to go, but I'll attempt to finish this later.