He Said/She Said Review: Lick My Monstrous Balls!

This is the inaugural He Said/She Said blog. Both my special manslut, Sam, and I will be giving our 2 cents on the various Sex Toys and accoutrements we enjoy together (p.s. He's got a really hot New Zealand accent).

Virgie Said: Ok, there a few things I need to admit before I give my honest opinion about Lick My Monstrous Balls (heretofore referred to as LMMB): 1. I love, love, love Azlea Antistia (because of her fabulously enormo nipples), and she was a big motivator in my selection of LMMB. 2. I was so excited about Azlea that I forgot how much I absolutely despise Vivid Productions. Everyone is blond and muscular and plasticy, and I'm way more into freak nasty amateur-looking porn with slightly homely people in it.

Downside: If you're in it for the monstrous ball licking (or the Azlea scene), you'll be disappointed. I didn't see a single set of huge balls and there was only a smattering of tongue-to-sac action. This was a compilation DVD; I hate when production companies take the lazy route and compile scenes that seem only minimally related to the title of the film.

Upside: The DVD is fucking long. Even if you just stroked once a minute for the entirety of the film, you're guaranteed to have at least 1 nut (though Sam touched my nipple while watching LMMB and it wasn't hard). It's a good value for $6 in that sense. Also, if you do like stereotypically attractive porn people, you'll probably enjoy yourself.

Sam Said: In many ways “Lick my Monstrous Balls” is probably best as a couples film, if only because saying “Lick my monstrous balls!!” to each other is probably the most fun you are going to have with this movie. The women are too hot, in that could- work-retail kinda way, the men are too hot in that could-be-strippers kinda way and the camera work and editing are too good in that cold, ironic would –be –better – off – working –for –David-Lynch kinda way. This is of course all good in its way, and LMMB would in fact make a much better art house film than anything Mr. Lynch has made since Twin Peaks, but it just ain’t good porn.

There is simply no hotness, no aggression, and no spontaneity. Everything feels like it was carefully negotiated, if not choreographed ahead of time, and that everyone is just there for the cash. This is of course probably true, but if there is one thing I do not want in my porn it is truth. I want my porn sluts to lie to me. I want to believe that they are there because there is nowhere they would rather be than being triple stuffed by anything with a cock, and that once the camera stopped rolling she blew the whole crew just for the sheer joy of a mouth full of nut. And Lick my Monstrous Balls never even tries to create that illusion. Even the seasoned sluts, like Olivia Del Rio, Cherokee, Nicole Sheridan and Azlea Antistia (all of whom I would watch eating a sandwich) while doing there best to let their sex freak flag fly, are reduced to a motherly attitude of “trust me I know I what I am doing” rather than true nut busting nympho fuck monster vibe they have when allowed to bring their A game.

On the other hand it is Four hours long and comes with a free bonus CD, and it’s called “Lick my Monstrous Balls” which has to be worth something. But all in all, unless you can get for six dollars, I would only recommend it if your little brother is at the age where he needs some porn and you want to get him something that won’t turn him into a sex offender.

On that note, if you read that whole blog, you oughtta treat yourself to a brand, spankin' new vibrator!

Tune in next week when Sam and I will review Vibrating Panties...oooooh!

SexToy.com Review #2: The Inflatable Wedge

Just busted open one of my newest Sex Toys! As promised, this review is all about The Inflatable Wedge. Now, I've been coveting and lusting after and scheming to get a wedge since 2006. While at the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas a while back, I was introduced to the inflatable version of this fabu sex enhancement piece.

In case you haven't heard of The Wedge, it's literally a soft-yet-firm ramp used to enhance sexual positions. Think: doggy with ass raised, but with no effort on your part. The sight of George Clooney carting one around in the Coen Brothers' Burn After Reading made me have to adjust my skirt a little (i.e. HOT!).

The problem with the traditional (non-inflatable) wedge is that when you're not using the thing, where the hell do you put a big, non-collapsible, fat ol' piece of sex furniture? I don't know about you, but I have roommates and leaving your sex furniture for the whole world to see is just fucken tacky. Plus, you can't take it on a plane or a road trip.

The Inflatable Wedge is a smarter, cheaper version with all the same perks (plus, some hidden perks.. more on that in a sec). It gets you into naughty positions without all the sweat and tears. The one I got from sextoy.com comes with a foot pump, some terribly unhelpful instructions and a couple of patches + glue (in case your spiked collar punctures it or something).

Word to the wise: some prep time is required. I sat down with my timer and found that it took me a little over 10 minutes to inflate it. Considering the average sex act doesn't even last 10 minutes, I would pre-inflate. Do this before your partner comes over for some enhanced doggy or anal sex, mmk?

Hidden Perk #1: the foot pump fit perfectly between my thighs, so I got a little faux thighmaster action during inflation.

On matters of color, texture, weight-support, here's my two cents: it comes in a borderline classy wine color. The texture is perfect, non-slip and fairly soft. I'm a big girl, and I felt very secure that the thing wasn't going to pop (NB: don't over inflate!).

Hidden Perk #2: Because this is like an enormous, firm pillow it takes stress off my back. I have a little bit of lower back pain (thanks, ginormous boobs!), and I always welcome something that’s going to make fun time a little less stressful on my back.

I have to be honest and say that I haven’t had sex with anyone but myself on it, but even masturbating on it felt better! Trust me! I’m dying to use this cushion for some pushin.’ I’ll be having sex on it soon, and promise to get back to you on how that turns out. But I just can’t imagine it will be anything short of A-Mazing.

Ok, Hidden Perk #3: Doggy style can sometimes make me self-conscious about gravity making my tummy look less-than-ideal. With the Inflatable Wedge, this problem is completely eliminated ‘cause you’re lying on something. So, you get the added stimulation + a built-in tum-tum minimizer!

In conclusion: BUY IT! If you're as much of a g-spot stimulation loving pillow queen as me, you'll thank me for recommending this thing.

P.S. Add vibrator for consciousness-altering orgasms!

Fatties of the World Unite!

I was born into a world where fat women are outlaws, living on the outskirts of womanhood, chastised for their role in eroding the standards of beauty.

As a man once told me: “Never met a guy who didn’t love fat girls. Never met a guy who would tell his friends.”

Fat is synonymous with ugly. Ugly is a funny word because it’s quite prescriptive. You are either beautiful or you are ugly. The other funny thing about the U-word is that every woman has been, is currently or will be UGLY. Because ugly encompasses those who are disabled, old, sick, sad, needy, disproportionately-featured and, yes, fat. We live in pursuit of un-ugliness, and we fight a losing battle. Why not opt out?

My early experience with my fatness is not too terribly unique in the fat girl narrative: made fun of every day for approximately twelve years, utterly de-sexualized, chronic dieting, wishing I was dead, hating seeing myself, fantasizing about taking a big knife to every inch of fat on my body, wishing for invisibility (not even bothering with acceptance or celebration), starving, crying, hurting. By the time I was through with high school, I was quite thoroughly convinced that I was so ugly that I didn’t deserve to be loved or really even looked at.

The victimization of fat people is inhuman, and far more acceptable (and in vogue, with books like Skinny Bitch hitting best seller status) than other forms of oppression. How many fat women have never been in a relationship where they were actually recognized as a girlfriend? Innumerable. How many fat women don’t wear what they want, eat what they want, go where they want because they want to avoid looks, judgment, appraisal? I think this is called segregation is some places. Self-imposed segregation is not always different from compulsory apartheid.

I wasn’t always fat. No, let me rephrase that. At a couple points in my life I have been in that delicate place where your boobs:hips ratio is “acceptable,” that you’re considered “voluptuous.” I discovered that when I was voluptuous, men came up to me on the street just to tell me I was beautiful. They were unashamed to hit on me with their friends. They wanted to take me out to dinner. Oh, the world was pretty fucking great.

But I couldn’t keep it up. Eating nothing and exercising three hours every, single day was not sustainable for a natural born fatty like myself. I had undiagnosed anxiety. I wasn’t eating enough protein. The truth is I was weak and had no energy. My only function was to be pretty enough for men to like me for more than fucking (but as it turns out, you’re rarely good enough for more than fucking regardless).

Even now that I am more successful, more skilled in the bedroom, more communicative, more articulate, more open, better traveled, better educated, more bubbly, and larger breasted than most I still (*I still*) don’t get treated the same as thin women. And, no, it’s not about thinking I’m beautiful. It’s not about being open. It’s not any of that shit you read in self-love books. The world hasn’t caught up. Men still want to fuck me (oh, do they want to fuck me!! and squeeze me and watch me model lingerie and have me blindfold them and have me smother them with my fat ass and my fat tits), and not date me. I still have to convince myself that I’m OK. Men still tell me I’m one of the sexiest women they’ve ever met, and I still have only ever had 1 real relationship.

Just the other day I spoke with a man who told me that it wasn’t easy loving fat girls. It’s not easy getting shit from your friends. It’s not easy taking her out and knowing that people are thinking you’re weird. It’s not easy only finding women who look like her in the fetish/freak section of the porn store. I know. What a pity.

I wonder how much harder my life would be if I didn’t have enormous boobs. They’re within the realm of normal. They’re fantasy material. They have power. They make it easy for people to look to the man I’m dating and say “Oh, yeah. He’s with her because of her tits.” And he’s got a free fat girl pass.

I’m one of those progressive, fat-loving, fat activist fat girls. I often try to forget that I live in a cruelly anti-fat culture. We are political through t-shirts and not actions. We spend more than we make. We buy fair-trade coffee instead of not. We buy purses that cost more than our rent because it matters that some jealous bitch is going to covet that purse. We date men we don’t like because at least they’re 6 feet of “masculine height” makes you look diminutive. We eat salad instead of crème brulee. We deny rather than affirm. We hate rather than love. We criticize instead of celebrate.

Women are complicit in the fat hate. Just about a year ago, I was wearing one of my many utterly fabulous outfits, and a woman on the train (whose partner was a fellow fatty) audibly “whispered” that I was too fat to be wearing that. I let her know that my body was mine and that her beliefs were really unacceptable.

It’s odd to me how much fat people are hated, especially fat women. I’ve tried to analyze what this is about. The only sophisticated critique I’ve managed to come up with is that it’s enraging to people when women don’t look the way they’re “supposed” to look. Women are eye candy, and it’s a violation of the social beauty contract when women don’t fit into the narrow category of “hot.” The description of this word vacillates between stick thin and perfectly voluptuous, between short hair and long hair, bangs and no bangs, glasses or no glasses, dark and exotic or pale and milky.

My fat is political. My fat is political because I’m keeping it. Acceptance does not lure me into starving and self-hatred anymore. That word – FAT – is used to scare women, but it doesn’t scare me any more. My fat is political because when I show it off, it makes people mad. I can’t make generalities of those who hate fat, but it seems to really piss off both men and women. My fat is political because it’s fucking hot

And to conclude – let your fat ass light up the night ‘cause dessert is better than dick and fat is totally edgy!

"I do" is the sound of the soul leaving the vagina

After watching Revolutionary Road, I've decided to write a much belated marriage-bashing blog. Ok, so I'm 26, and I guess the marriage+baby self-induced anguish is abreast. We live in interesting times indeed. We're in the midst of a great human transition: the transition between babies meaning free slaves and babies meaning 25 year fiscal commitment. And I can't tell you how much this has fucked with our culture as we know it. Marriage as it (sort of) exists today originated in ancient Rome, where your wife was just one of the many women you porked, but the only one whose son was going to get all your shit. Today, it's supposed to mean romance, commitment... tax breaks (and maybe Prop 8 has given it a newly invigorated homophobic tinge too. Ah, smell that sweet American oppression). I guess I'm a bit irked by the pervasive pro-marriage, pro-baby propaganda I feel inundated by. Enormous decisions are minimized and then normalized by the folks who happen to own most of the wealth and media power in the country. Blah blah blah.. conspiracy theory.. blah blah. Ok, back to good old marriage bashing, Now, if you're going to get married, the least you can do it not have a big wedding. I can give you 3 reasons right now why you shouldn't have a wedding: 1. it costs a lot (take just the invitation money alone and you can buy yourself a trip to Fresno). 2. your cousin, Chonita, who swears that she (and Jesus) wish you the best, is going to tell everyone that you got felt up before the big day, which is true, but damn, you can't not invite her because then she'll spread a rumor that you're a witch and the actual reason behind so-and-so's infertility (maybe that's just in Mexican families). and 3. that fillet mignon you want to serve so you look all bad ass is, like, $28 a plate, and you don't know anyone who deserves a free $30 meal as far as you remember, right?