Archive for the Sexy Stuff Category

You Can’t Say V****a in Michigan

Posted in Politics/Current Events, Sexy Stuff with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2012 by Nicole Chardenet

PARENTAL ADVISORY ALERT: There are no dirty, filthy, embarrassingly medical terms for human genitalia in this post. There are, however, dangerous opinions rendered by a v****a-packin’ uppity beeyotch which could make your Teabagging Uncle Robert blow a gasket at Thanksgiving when the talk turns to politics, as it inevitably does, despite your mother’s plea every year to PLEASE not mention Obama in front of Robert, or, for that matter, Rush Limbaugh to your extremist cousin Lydia who can be counted on to yell, “PLEASE PASS THE SWEET POTATOES TO THE SLUT!” while loudly declaiming any interest in the main event on the menu since it was apparently tortured, starved, caged, beaten, stomped on, waterboarded, and anally electrocuted at length before it plopped on the center of the table.

You can’t say v****a in Michigan. You know what I mean <wink wink, nudge nudge>. This is because of something Democrat state representative Lisa Brown said during a lawmaking session last week. I’ll paraphrase here for the delicate sensibilities of Michiganders (and by ‘delicate Michiganders’ I mean those lawmakers in possession of a li’l winkie who were nevertheless trying to pass laws controlling what Michigan women do with their tee-tee maker), who will pass out like Miss Pittypat with the vapours if I say the word v****a).

What Rep. Brown said, during a debate over legislation to impose more restrictions on abortion clinics was, ““I’m flattered that you are all so interested in my tee-tee maker [remember, I'm paraphrasing], but no means no.”

However, Republican (of course!) Representative Mike Callton, after he was revived with a lot of fanning and some smelling salts, said, “What she said was offensive. It was so offensive, I don’t even want to say it in front of women. I would not say that in mixed company.”

Thank you for your sense of propriety, Rep. Callton. Because most women have *no* idea what a v****a is and would have just gone and asked embarrassing questions of their mothers.

“DOOOON’T say chicken brzzzzzzz! Say chicken CHESTS! There are ladies present!” – Republican Rep. Mike Callton at home

Boy!  All that over the medical term for a lady’s tee-tee maker! Usually it takes the synonymous “C” word to send little old ladies – and Republican men – into a swooning fit.  One wonders if Rep. Callton covers the legs of his pianos and blushes at the indelicacy of allowing books by male and female authors to inhabit the same shelf.  Together!  On the same shelf! Oh, the indecency of it all!)

Quicker than you can say, “Pass the KY jelly, I wanna get Princess Leia’ed tonight,” all those lawmakers with li’l winkies banned Ms. Brown and another female lawmaker from the chamber.

So of course, now that you can’t say v****a in Michigan, all Michiganders can do is shout about v****as.  Let’s remember, the state isn’t all red, and as we all know from the antics of Bill Clinton, Anthony <snicker!> Wiener and John Edwards, liberal Democrats aren’t the slightest bit afraid of tee-tee makers.  Republican politicians, on the other hand, as is demonstrated over and over again every time they step into a legislative session, are so deathly afraid of a woman’s tee-tee maker that the bulk of their sex scandals involve other men.

(A few notable Republicans such as Governor Mark Sanford and Arnold Schwarzenegger have been involved in sex scandals with women, but that just makes them deeply weird and maybe just a little bit perverted.  They put their li’l winkie in her tee-tee maker?!?!  EWWWWW!!!  Gross!!!  Girl cooties <snicker> of the very worst variety!!!)

Anyway, thousands of protesters showed up at the Michigan state capitol Monday evening for the express purpose of yelling vag–er, I mean tee-tee maker–at the top of their lungs and to demand the reinstatement of Rep. Brown as well as Democratic Rep. Barb Byrum, who did not say tee-tee maker in front of people with li’l winkies, but who nevertheless insisted on being heard while said li’l winkie possessors were busily working on yet more tee-tee maker control. It’s interesting to note that Rep. Byrum had already sponsored an amendment requiring any man who wanted a vasectomy for his li’l winkie to provide proof that it addresses a life-threatening condition or a medical emergency. I hope it also states that the decision to allow the vasectomy shall be rendered by an all-female panel, since obviously it’s a ludicrous idea that men have any right to decide what to do with their own bodies.

Hey, I promised I wouldn’t *use* the word v****a; I never said I wouldn’t include pictures of v****a-shaped cupcakes!

Eve Ensler, the famed writer of The Tee-Tee Maker Dialogues was there to read from her infamous ode to the yawning yoni while women waved placards that read Mitts off my bitts and I Didn’t Come From Your Rib, You Came From My Tee-Tee Maker (well okay, you know what she meant!)

Camille Paglia believes that the mighty muff’s ‘cosmic sexual power’ is what men truly fear and which has given women the power all throughout the ages, even if it doesn’t look like it, with purdah, burqas, red tents, female genital mutiliations and the whole ugly morass of misogynist history. And she may well be right, since all of these, clearly, are men’s historic attempts to control that which they all most desperately desire (well, except for the gay dudes anyway) and which as any straight women will attest they are constantly trying to get into.

Most men, it seems, can’t control themselves around ladies’ tee-tee makers, and men always want to be in control, so I guess it makes sense, in some weird twisted sense, for the more insecure ones to think they need to control access to those cunning crescents.

And if that’s going to be the case, boys, then from now on WE decide who is worthy of receiving Viagra.

Step away from the little blue pills, Mr. Limbaugh. The panel has rendered its verdict.

Top 10 Things A Man Should Never Do On A First Date

Posted in Geeks/Nerds, Sexy Stuff, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 27, 2012 by Nicole Chardenet

10.  A man should not show up drunk and an hour and a half late.  You’d think after 32 years of MADD threats and all those scary gross movies they made us watch in Driver’s Ed that no one needed to be reminded of brains and gore and guts splattered all over the highway like some horrendous Jackson Pollock road pizza.  Well, apparently you do, and you know who you are, even though I doubt you’ll ever read this.

What showed up. And about 40 lbs heavier.

What he texted me.

9.  A man should never send a picture of himself looking like a young Richard Pryor and show up looking like Morgan Freeman.  (Yeah yeah, I know you guys don’t like it when women send pictures of themselves 35 years and 200 lbs ago!  Hope they end with the first date too!)

8.  A man should never turn everything I say into a double entendre.  Him: “I’m hungry.”  “Me: “Well why don’t you order something to eat.” Him: (Giving me what I assume he thinks is a smoldering look) “That’s not what I’m hungry for.”  Well I hope you’re hungry for your twelfth viewing of Debbie Does Duluth with a handy jar of Mazola at your elbow because my amazing psychic powers tell me that’s in your immediate future tonight.

7.  A man’s online profile photo should look enough like him so that, when he feels an attack of the guilties and emails saying, “Here’s a somewhat more updated picture of me,” I should be able to pick him out in a photo that shows only two people. If he has gained so much weight and gotten so much scruffier that I have to squint and mutter, “Is he the guy on the left or the guy on the right? How can he be the guy on the left?  It doesn’t even look like him, but the caption says it’s him.  He’s not the stuffed grizzly bear in the background, is he?  Or the big desk lamp?” then really, just post the most recent picture online.  You’ll get fewer first dates but you’ll never wind up on anyone’s Top Ten list. 

6.  A man should never say on a first date that he thinks rim jobs are fun.  Ewwwwww.  (No, I’m not gonna link to an explanation.  I might get, like, contact cholera from it.  Google it, or ask your mother.  No, wait, just Google it.  And no good-night kiss for you!)

5.  A man should never end every sentence he utters with, “…and stuff.”  As in, “I went to work and stuff, and I had a meeting with the boss and stuff, and we went over this big project and stuff, and then I ate lunch and stuff…” (Okay, my bad for going out with a 28-year old and stuff. It was several years ago and stuff.)

4.  A man should never throw himself at me on a first date and whine, “But I need affection and cuddling!” when I fend him off with a nail-studded clue-by-four.  I don’t want to hear about your physical needs on the first date.  I do not want you diving down my blouse like an estrogen-seeking testosterone missile.  Guaranteed you will never learn the colour of my underwear.  You might learn what a restraining order is, though.

I promise it won’t hurt. You won’t even bleed.

3.  A man shouldn’t look terrified (even if he is) and mumble something about whether I understand how the Catholic Church feels about premarital sex.  Dude, you’re 37 years old.  You’d BETTER not be what I think you are! (Okay, my bad for going out with a Toronto guy.)

2.  A man should never ask me, I repeat, on a first date, if I’ve ever had sex with a woman.  And I won’t ask him if he’s ever had sex.  Period.  Which I will ask purely out of curiosity since he will never get past the first date regardless of what you answer.


What’s the all-time Number One thing you should NEVER

do on a first date?  Drumroll, please!!!

A MAN SHOULD NEVER ANNOUNCE, OVER DINNER, THIRTY MINUTES AFTER MEETING ME FOR THE FIRST TIME, THAT HE’S KILLED 59 PEOPLE.  Yes, this really happened to me!  Of course my first thought was, Oh my God he’s a serial killer! Then my second thought was, Okay, he’s probably in the military.  Which he was, a sniper in South America in the ’80s.  Fair enough.  Still, a lot of women won’t regard that as something to brag about. War is like politics and sausage.  Both are necessary but you don’t want to know how it’s done. (That was only the first example of his appalling lack of common sense.)

Men, I’m sure you’ve had some truly appalling experiences with women on first dates.  By all means, please feel free to bitch, moan, whine, rant, complain, and threaten to never go near anything in a shorty shirt and a g-string ever again.  Since I don’t date women I can’t speak from personal experience.  (Lesbians/bi’s, please feel free to bitch moan whine blah blah blah away too!)

Longer, Thicker, Harder, Massive!

Posted in Geeks/Nerds, Pop Culture, Sexy Stuff with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 4, 2012 by Nicole Chardenet

I have a dirty little secret.  I miss penis enlargement ads. Between the successful takedown of several large spammers and my own efforts, I get almost no spam any more.  Believe me, I don’t miss 99.999% of it.  Just the best of the make her long for your schlong ads sent by people in countries for whom English is not to be speaking the language of primary. Many of these foreign fraudsters possessed all the communication skills of the friendly folks who brought us All Your Base Are Belong To Us or Engrish.

I adored the way they tried to find new and unique ways to refer to a man’s pride and joy without actually using the clinical term for it. (And I have to admit the cleverness lacking in calling it a ‘man’s pride and joy’ would not make it into Nicole’s Hall of Sham(e) below.)

Big enough for ya?

I don’t think anyone went broke underestimating the number of males who suspect they’re under-endowed, or who believe that having a perfectly normal ‘love cannon’ is simply not acceptable to modern females who want it to be no less than the size of the rod in a Tom of Finland cartoon. What was a wank fantasy for post-War gay males, apparently, is only good enough for today’s voracious woman.

“Smilin’ Bob” from the old Enzyte commercials. Bogus penis pills that were actually advertised on American TV for awhile in the early ’00s.

As much as we might laugh at the ridiculous claim that some miracle pill can produce three inches in a month or a thicker girth in seven days, articles I’ve read over the years indicate that not only men respond to these, but women as well. I am so curious about this! Do you hand them to your lover, a tacit admission that he’s not satisfying you? Or do you tell him they’re “vitamin supplements”? Or do you crush them into powder and mix them in with his mashed potatoes?

Every once in awhile some spammer’s servers got hacked and customer data was exposed for all the world to see just how massive and imposing some men’s…….gullibility really was. Several years ago I read of a case where an enlargement spammer’s customers included men with college educations and prominent jobs on Wall Street. (As Xaviera Hollander, the Happy Hooker once put it, “When the stocks go up, the cocks go up!”) You’d think these people would be smart enough not to fall for one-eyed trouser snake oil, but apparently the fear of not measuring up, as it were, overrides any logic circuits in the male brain and they whip out……..the ol’ credit card.

For awhile I kept a list of some of my favourite enlargement spam headlines. A few are more for, er, performance issues rather than size.


Make your love torpedo drive all the way to her tanker

Your girl very likes to be engaged in love! And can not you do love long?

Would you like to be a sculptor of your own penis?
(Does this involve plaster-of-Paris?)

Literally become a monster snake in my pants
(This just scares me. I don’t want to be a monster snake & I’m very sure if I was I wouldn’t fit in your pants even if your name was Michael Moore!)

Hoist your darling sexual times

The One Secret to Giving Your Woman Paralyzing Orrgasms That Will Have Her Brainwashed
(Does that mean I’ll turn into a Teabagger?)

Capture rapturous girls’ looks on your zipper protuberance!
(Jim is bustin’ out all ohhh-ver!)

Deeper in her shaft

Doping for your porksword…Be her mighty night predator!
(H1N1 isn’t now an STD, is it, you swine?)

2 Steamy Small penis sex Positions – Supercharge Her Pleasure No Matter How mSall You Are!
(Not an enlargement ad, obviously, but if all else fails…)

Don’t let porksword rust – Support your custard launcher – It’s like having a female catcher
(Three utterly unrelated mental images. I mean WTF is a ‘female catcher’?)

Make your tentacle work well – Prosperity in banging – Cures bed fast finish
(Attention all hentai lovers!)

Negroes admire with the of the size – we will surpass them!
(I have read that the real reason many men want bigger you-know-whats is to impress the guys in the locker room. Yes really. You can draw your own conclusions about the Average Male from that.)

Rasputin’s alleged preserved ding-dong, or just a giant clam?

Power up your pork rocket – Neither rod will stay so long – Nail her like a youngster
(How many rods do you have, exactly?)

Harder banging is real
(Good to know. I was afraid it was all a fig newton of my imagination!)

Your wood will be prefect for her fornicator – Lite your bedroom with fire once and for all!
(We’re gonna have to hurry before we die of smoke inhalation!)

Stop repelling your manliness – Get hot in a while – Make your intruder the best for her – If she is tired of your night games you can rock her world using our products!

You’ll brake walls with your boner
(Does this mean you can use your boner to brake your car so you don’t hit a wall?)

Your shlong can be shlonger
(Oh, that’s original.)

Virtual Sax can not be compared with real pleasure!
(Sex is still better than jazz music)

Make your weapon of love shoot twice more at one night! With our goods it isn’t a limit!
(Hope you’ve got a permit for that thing)

Your unstoppable love force will be all about you
(May the Love Force be with you, young Skywalker)

Desire will literally circulate in your wang
(That’s gotta feel weird)

Do not let your intentions in love go flop anymore!
(Heaven forfend)

Three girls at one night? It is easy for your manhood when you know our address in Internet!
(Because, like, the women who will agree to ménage-à-quatres live at your place?)

Get incredible sizing profit in pants
(Ironically this was for a thyroid drug!)

You can drill ladies better! Faster rod boosting!

The dangers of addiction.

Women will see your talent in drilling and banging
(Who knew carpentry was so erotic?)

Breakthrough in wang-liftin!
(Is this an Olympic event?)

Impulse for manliness ideals of bed-marathons

You’ll be able to invade so deep into woman, she’ll scream and shout like crazy

Be her wild banger!
(But don’t mash her potatoes)

The quicker pecker picker-upper!
(Someone’s showing their age)

You’ll fap with eager on it
(WTF? I’m fairly certain ‘fap’ is a reference to masturbation, but why would you want to get bigger if you’re by yourself?  Maybe you need to shoot over a few of those Hot Filpnio grils who are dying to meet YOU!!! spams)

If you aren’t American you may have missed the classic “Smilin’ Bob” Enzyte commercials:

Don’cha think if it was possible for medical science to give you a longer, thicker, harder, more massive Pied Piper that most men today would be forced to go everywhere pushing a wheelbarrow in front of them? Believe me, the marketing success is guaranteed. As soon as a REAL enlargement pill works, Pfizer and Eli Lilly will be all over it like a banker on a bailout!

Now if your problem is erectile dysfunction, and you’re short of cash, there is an alleged cure that’s a lot cheaper than Viagra…however, you’re not gonna like it…

Show your (naughty) bits for freedom!

Posted in Sexy Stuff with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 12, 2011 by Nicole Chardenet

Gwen Jacob is the reason why Toronto should be awash in naked female boobs, even though it’s not.  Twenty years ago the naughty 19-year-old questioned why it was okay for men to go topless but not women.  So, she went topless, got arrested, and to make a long story short, five years later the Ontario Court of Appeal agreed with her and since then women have had the freedom to go as bare from the waist up as any man.  And while few women do, it’s given women the right to breastfeed in public without worrying that their hot, naked mammaries are causing a wave of boners throughout the streetcar.  I mean, even if they are, this is Canada, and Canada is part of the West, and it’s pretty much a given deal in most places that men are expected to control themselves around women’s bodies.  It’s amazing just what a few expectations can do to change a man’s behaviour.  In some parts of the world where women have few to no rights, sexual harassment is commonplace and largely unpunished.  But men from those cultures seem to have no problem controlling themselves in Canada where jail time and stiff – erm – fines are the consequences for roving hands – or roving anything else, for that matter.

Ow. That's all I have to say.

Last night I found myself in a friendly debate with a friend who, in my opinion, is in denial of his conservative leanings.  He complained about a movie called Short Bus that you supposedly can rent from the Toronto Library that he described as an otherwise boring artsy-fartsy movie, the first scene of which is five minutes of a man fellating himself.  “Do you think taxpayers’ money should pay for this?” he demanded.

It was hard for me to say not seeing it in the context of the entire movie.  So I asked him whether he thought that all movies with dick in them should be banned, and then, whether vajayjay should be banned too.  Then I asked about boobs.  Yes, he said, he thought they should be.  Male boobs too I asked?  He had to think about it but conceded yes, that’s only fair.  (Well, at least he was consistent.  So maybe he’s not completely a conservative, even though he likes to defend uber-extreme-right Toronto Mayor Rob Ford.)

No boobs allowed. Because men are infantilized and can't control themselves at the sight of an areola.

Why ban boobs? I asked.  Because, sez he, they’re sexualized.

I didn’t question it too much at the time – or we might have been distracted by our friends, we were at a public gathering – but this morning while reading an article in the Toronto Star that mentioned Gwen Jacob, Breast Freedom Chick – I was reminded of last night’s entertaining conversation.

Women’s breasts are sexualized, huh?  By whom?  Certainly not by women – we don’t care that much about breasts, except insofar as we define ourselves by male standards of beauty, hence the popularity of boob jobs.  But, as I’m fond of saying, if all the men disappeared tomorrow, any plastic surgeons left would have to get real jobs.  Because who the hell would subject themselves to the torture chamber of plastic inserts, Botox injections and lipsuction if not for male-defined standards of beauty?  Good Goddess, anorexics could eat again.  Women could gain weight and no one would care because fat lesbians never seem to have a problem getting dates.

Breasts are hardly sexualized by babies.  In fact, they’re there not for male pleasure, but to feed the kids.  No, breasts are sexualized by naughty men, and men only – so ‘splain to me, Ricky, why we should cover up just because you guys are afraid you’ll pop a boner on the streetcar?

So then I got to thinking.  Why are genitals even sexualized?

Okay okay, that’s what you use if you’re going to have sex – one set, at least, unless you’ve got some really unusual fetishes.  Still, what would it be like if we were all running around naked?  Okay, in Canada mostly we’d be victims of unusual new cases of frostbite but during that two-week period in late July when it’s actually warm enough to wear summer clothes, what would happen?

Well, if you’ve ever been to Hanlan’s Point, the nude beach on Toronto Centre Island, you’d know that really, nothing much to see here.  Real life is not like a French movie.  Even real French beaches (if you’ve ever been to one) are not like a French movie.  Real people doff their duds there, and you see their real-life bodies.

The novelty of being around a bunch of naked people dies after about ten minutes.  Women are usually a minority and I for one don’t feel much threatened by being surrounded by a lot of dangling wang.  Okay, it helps that most of the men there wouldn’t be interested in anything I have anyway because nude beaches attract gay men like publicity attracts Kardashians.  But even if they’re straight – and you see plenty of families and male-female couples – at my age, I figure if they’re looking they’re just plain desperate, and if that’s the biggest thrill of your day, babe, well then, I just feel sorry for you!

So what if everyone had the freedom to just walk around naked, weather permitting?  After awhile, if enough people did it, who would really care?  I’ll bet, actually, that a lot of men wouldn’t do it because they’d be worried about appearing ‘too small’.  Or that women might titter behind their hands to their friends as they walked by.

If my experience at Hanlan’s Point – or any nude beach for that matter – is any indication of the average, I can guarantee you that the only men who will do this is the old and unsightly.  Young, hot, studly men will most likely at least keep their Speedos on.  I was at Hanlan’s Point this summer during Pride Week and on that day the beach was the most crowded I’ve ever seen – mostly with absolutely drop-dead-gorgeous young men.  Almost all of whom didn’t go au naturel.

Think of the diminished importance of male genitalia if we saw it every day on the street.  ‘Flashers’ use their equipment as weapons against women, to upset and frighten them.  Why?  The fact is, flashers are almost never rapists.  They won’t hurt you.  They just get a thrill out of upsetting you with their mighty mandingo.  What sort of power would male genitalia have over the female psyche if they were as common as left elbows?ObDefiance: Underneath these burqas all these women are *completely naked*!!!

Sexualized, indeed.  In some places a woman’s hair and ankles are considered too sexually provocative for public view.  Famously, in Afghanistan, all parts of a woman are considered so morally dangerous that they must be covered head to toe at all time.  Who decided that?  I’ll bet it wasn’t the women.

Public nudity – everywhere – would desexualize everything (trust me, this isn’t much of a sacrifice for Toronto guys ;) and render breasts and genitalia about as scandalous as your eyebrows.

I’d suggest that as the next step for the Occupy movement, but unfortunately, it’s gotten way too cold for that sort of thing.

Too bad we didn’t think about this in September!

Oh relax, guys. If you looked at this it doesn't mean you're gay!

Video Book Review: “Sex at Dawn”, Or Clan of the Cave Slut, if you prefer

Posted in Pop Culture, Sexy Stuff, Video Book Reviews with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2011 by Nicole Chardenet

Was early man (and woman) polygamous and polyamorous?  According to this book, our cave forecritters had sex with everyone who didn’t move fast enough, and argues that we modern humans aren’t much different (yeah, we’re looking at you, Tiger Woods, Adam Giam-boner, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and of course we won’t forget you, Madonna!)  And, they ask, if that’s what the default setting is for both genders (they don’t fall for all that, “men are wired to be sluts and women are wired to settle on one person” stuff), then maybe should we rethink our ideas on mongamy, since no one’s been really practicing it anyway?

It might not turn you into a politically correct sex machine but it will definitely make you think.  This is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time!

Now excuse me, I’m off to shag the Toronto Maple Leafs.

Kidding, kidding!!!  Yes really.

You think if I was going to become a post-modern cave slut that I’d start by shagging THAT group of total losers?!?!

Eeeek! Gay people!!! Run away, run away!!!

Posted in Canada, Politics/Current Events, Pop Culture, Sexy Stuff on July 2, 2011 by Nicole Chardenet

Tomorrow is the always-entertaining Gay Pride Parade, one of the biggest and flashiest in all the world, and we Torontonians are pretty damned proud of that, thankyouverymuch.  We’re diverse and multicultural and we really don’t care if it upsets the homophobes.  Of which the first and foremost may be our own Mayor Rob Ford, self-described “300 pounds of fun” who hied his and his family’s arses to cottage country this weekend because, “Erm, my family comes first.”  Never mind that he couldn’t make a single one of an entire week of Pride events, so there goes that theory.  I don’t call him Mayor Edsel for nuthin’.  He’s been a gigantic failure almost from the get-go.  Just the other day he turned down the offer of two free nurses from the province, demonstrating once again that Conservative politicians (and small-c conservative politicians, as demonstrated consistently in the US) can’t do math.  Mayor Edsel was elected on a promise to ‘stop the gravy train’ at City Hall, making ‘gravy train’ the biggest meme in the city since last year’s G20 debacle did the same for “police brutality.”  Apparently ‘gravy train’ isn’t just defined by mismanagement of taxpayers’ dollars, but it also means ‘benefits to the city that don’t cost us anything.’

But pardon me, I digress.  Like absolutely everyone urged him to go to the Pride Parade to prove he wasn’t a homophobe but the Mayor refused.  I don’t know if there will be a last-minute appearance, even his usually equally-idiot brother Doug Ford, a city councillor who recently urged a poor person at a town hall meeting to ‘get a job’, told him he needed to do it.  Granted, the Mayor may not be homophobic so much as chicken-hearted – he sent one of his lackeys to address the crowd on his behalf at the ceremonial Pride flag raising and she was heckled.  Probably he’s afraid the same will be done to him if he appears in the Parade, and even worse, what if some dude tries to stick his tongue down his throat?!?!

I imagine homophobes will be exiting the city in droves, rather than deal with the glittery, disco-ey, incandescently flamboyant display of boy-on-boy concupiscence that is Toronto’s Pride and joy.  Oh sure, Pride week is about more than just the right for guys to get married and live unhappily forever after just like straight people, but seriously, that’s what homophobes get all het up about, not chicks-on-chicks (OH PLEASE!!!).  And bisexual chicks?  Totally hot as far as your average straight man is concerned, and a fantasy they hope to find under the tree at Christmas.  Maybe they’re not so keen on the drag queen/transvestite/transsexual thing, but really, it’s uniquely the idea of two boys – two guys – two big strong strapping manly men with bulging muscles and dressed all in leather getting down on the couch and – OMG LET ME RUN FOR THE BORDER JUST AS FAST AS I CAN SO I CAN GO TO A NICE SAFE FOREIGN STATE LIKE ARKANSAS OR WYOMING WHERE THEY KILL THOSE PEOPLE FOR DOING @#$% LIKE THAT…!!!

Lesbians. Getting men off since the dawn of time.

(But not chicks.  Chicks on chicks is totally hot!  They just want you to remember that.  But not the sort of chicks you see marching in the Dyke Parade.  This fantasy always means really hot gorgeous thin actresses well-paid to do all that stuff in extremely entertaining pr0n flicks.)

I really don’t get homophobia.  It definitely seems to be more of a guy thing, probably related to misogyny because so many of these guys who get hysterics at the idea of two guys getting it on together also seem to have serious issues with women.  Although some of them at least may simply not know how to live in a world without clear gender divisions.  Not sure why, because I fail to see how what others do with each other involves you in any way.  I mean, even if you’re propositioned by a gay person, who cares?  Just tell them you don’t play for Team Rainbow.  They’ve made a mistake with you, rather like when you’re a tourist in a foreign country and you stop someone to ask for directions and oops, they’re tourists too and have no idea how you get to the London Bridge or the World’s Biggest Ball of Belly Button Lint or whatever.

So tomorrow I’m going with my friend Barry who’s one of the least -ist people I know – he totally gets how ALL racism is wrong (even when non-white people do it), ALL sexism is wrong (even when practiced by women), and how ALL discrimination and bigotry is wrong, even though he doesn’t really want to think about two dudes getting it on either.  Barry’s enough of a man to know that real men do whatever the hell they want, including attending the Pride Parade, without having to worry that they’re gay.  Or that someone might see them and wonder if they’re gay.

Fly the Rainbow Flag proudly, my Toronto brothers and sisters!!!

DSK: Mais qu’a celà ne tienne en France!

Posted in Politics/Current Events, Sexy Stuff with tags , , , , , on May 19, 2011 by Nicole Chardenet

"Mais non, Charlie Sheen, you are not aging as well as I am. And my goddesses are French!"

“But eet’s not a problem in France!”  One can only imagine what hosemonster Dominique Strauss-Kahn, known as DSK in France, said after he was arrested in New York for allegedly assaulting a chambermaid in his hotel.  France’s leading horndog, and this is a country where the sitting President divorced his current wife and married a chanteuse, must have been le shocked et l’appalled to find that it’s not, strictly speaking, acceptable or legal to force your disgusting old-man attentions on a woman half your age who is clearly resisting.  Le WTF? the rest of us might ask, because DSK’s horndoggery goes above and beyond anything pulled thus far by Arnold, Jude, Tiger or Toronto’s own Giam-boner, as the lady in question was hardly willing, and apparently, she wasn’t his first victim, ‘victim’ being defined as, ‘unwilling’.

It’s raised questions once again about sexual harassment, which is defined much

"She ees mine as soon as his back is turned"

more liberally, it seems, in the U.S., where Monsieur pulled the wrong peckerdillo, than in France, where it’s accepted that men will be a bit more, ah, aggressive in their courtship. I mean, they don’t call him le seducteur for nothing…

Now here’s something I didn’t know, courtesy of a column in the Toronto Star earlier this week: Confident, outspoken women in male-dominated environments are more often sexually harassed than quiet, deferential woman in more traditional (read: low-paying) jobs.  All I will say is, hmmmmmm, that sure sheds some light on something in my past.  Yup, colour me uppity.  And no, he didn’t get away with it…that’s the problem when you harass strong, confident women.  They make sure you never do it again and they keep their job in the process.

What it comes down to, the pundits are saying, is that DSK thinks he’s entitled to do anything he wants because he’s rich and powerful.  I think that’s grossly unfair.  A lot of men think they’re entitled to do anything they want even if they’re not rich and powerful.  Crap, who in hell would ever think to schtup a loser like Joey Buttafuoco?

But, it always helps if you have money and power.  Women gravitate to it like flies to you-know-what, and then act all hurt and stuff when they find out that Darling Hubby has been schtupping strippers or impregnating the help or sexting, like, everybody.  And when they put up with this merde, yeah, I’m looking at you, Madame DSK and also Mrs. Clinton, it just sends a message that this is okay behaviour.

See, that’s the price you pay for being with a rich man.  You have to share him with a lot of bimbos, and he in turn will share his STDs with you.

"Oh la la. My life le suques!"

Honestly, ladies, don’t waste your time with rich and powerful men.  Become rich and powerful yourself and marry a himbo who makes less money than you who will have to stay faithful if he wants to be kept in the style to which he’s become accustomed.  And for the love of pete, file charges against any dickhead who forces himself on you!  Don’t listen to your mom when she discourages you from doing otherwise.

Hot Bananas! A torrid tale of pulmonate porking

Posted in Science/Technology, Sexy Stuff with tags , , , , , , , on March 31, 2011 by Nicole Chardenet

It’s spring.  So I’m gonna flash you with some romantic flash fiction!  Enjoy, or hurl your lunch. Either way my work is done. ;)


by Nicole Chardenet

A sluggy tale of romance and pulmonate porking – hot, torrid, wild, steamy, and most of all SLIMY gastropod sex!!!

Take notes.  This is all based on actual biology.  There will be a short quiz afterward…

Hey baby, you ever do it in the air?”

Uh, is there any other way?” I asked. We’re all members of the Metre-High Club.

We could do it on a rock wall,” it said. Well, that would be a new one for me. Last year, the first time I ever mated, my mate and I did it suspended from a thread of slime about sixteen inches long. While a rock wall had an air of kinky novelty about it, I wanted to stick to what I knew. Look, this is only my second time shagging ever, you know? I’ve probably got four more good shags left in me assuming I’m not eaten by a bird or used as bait by some fisherman.

What do you expect? I’m a banana slug, in some unsuspecting home owner’s garden, and hey, it’s spring. Lovely, glorious spring, warm and moist and hardly any birds around because their migration systems have been totally hosed by global warming for the last several years.

What’s your name?” I asked it. It was the hottest slug I’d seen in a year. Long, stoplight yellow, and covered in slime, just the way I like ‘em.

Terry,” it said. “And yours?”

Kelly,” I replied. We’re hermaphroditic, although occasionally some of us are turned into females. Which won’t happen to me because I’m very careful where I stick my thing when mating. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I am extremely well-endowed for a banana slug. My mighty mandingo is nearly half my total body length. Well okay, so is everyone else’s, unless they’ve been apophollated, which happens if you get stuck in someone’s orifice. Whoever isn’t stuck gnaws off the pathetic pecker of the one who is. That’s how you get chick-ified.

So we circled each other yin/yang-style first, doing a size check on the other’s tunnel o’ love, then began our mating dance, waving our colossal love cannons in the air above our heads, which you can do when it’s located there. We circled for hours, then dangled from a long strand of slug snot, swaying in the gentle breezes as we writhed around and engaged in a mutual sluggy shag-a-thon. I came, it came. It was great. It was beautiful. I quivered from the sheer glory of the miracle of mutual reproduction.

Terry pulled out of me. “Okay, it was nice bumping slimies with you,” it said. “I’d like to stick around and chat, maybe share a plate of fungi or dog poop, but I gotta run. If I hurry home I can just catch the last episode of The Big Bang Theory. So can you please disengage?”

Can I what?”

Can you unfasten yourself please?”


WILL YOU PULL YOUR DICK OUT OF MY—what the hell do biologists call these orifices anyway?”

I don’t know,” I said, “but okay. Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you.”

I pulled. And tugged. And yanked.

What’s the matter?” Terry asked.

Oh no! I’m stuck!”

Oh shit.


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