THE SECRET WORLD OF WOMEN

Ladies, I love you all for a million reasons and am forever grateful for my ability to be able to hang out with you and have you feel completely comfortable, so much at ease that you let loose and just be yourselves, shedding the veneer of ladylike comportment and revealing your secret, vulgar wench. For you guys out there who don’t realize it, women may at times chastise us dudes for our tasteless and/or “gross” behavior and project outrage over such mannish ways offending their tender sensibilities, but lemme tell ya that chicks are far, far worse in their bluntness and take-you-there discussions of their bodily functions, secretions, excretions, and hairiness. I've complained about being on the receiving end of this over the years, but as of the other night I officially give up and accept my fate.

Since I was in my tweens, for better or worse I’ve been given access to the secret world of women thanks to being a pretty good listener who can offer a decent piece of advice once in a while, and because my presence gives some of them a guinea pig to see just how much estrogenic candor even a supposedly enlightened male can take and at times that free pass into the earthier realm of feminine discourse has given me both pause and great amusement. For instance, when it comes to talking about their monthly, moon-related woes, some women use such charming euphemisms as “the drip,” “chumming” — as in “Yeah, I’m chumming and the Great White’s on it’s way,” with Great White being a brilliant nickname for a tampon or sanitary napkin — and “flushing out the pink sink,” but I particularly love a blanket term for women coined by a waitress I know. She refers to herself and other females as “bleedies,” and the first time I heard her say that I nearly snarfed the beer I was drinking out of my nose and onto the waitress’ mouth-watering rack.

The mention of their own equipment in terms that de-eroticizes the female form is quite sobering and it makes me remember that a woman’s body is not just some strokeable, fuckable rec room of smooth skin and jubbly bits, but also a biological machine heir to malfunctions and aesthetic/olfactory unpleasantness and mundanity just as annoying and repulsive as those experienced by guys, only women deal with such matters in a more realistic and function-oriented way. My friend Nina, a terrific lady I met during my notorious collegiate years, was needlessly critical of her physical attributes and once referred to her breasts as “udders,” thinking that they were in aspect more like the mammalian appendages found on common farm animals in general and goats in particular. I stopped short at that statement, bewildered by her harsh self-deprecation — I’d sneaked a peek at her goods more than once when she’d leaned over in my face, and I thought her girls were quite enchanting — but then her words clicked in the more analytical hemisphere of my brain and I said to myself, “Ya know, she’s right. Technically speaking, they are udders.” All horny thoughts that I could have had died instantly on the vine and I flashed on an image of Nina, all bespectacled, stoned, and smiling, her visage fused with the form of a she-goat in some barnyard or children's petting zoo, a Dr. Moreau-style chimera/humanimal whose udders wobbled to and fro like a rubber glove filled with ball bearings.

Absolutely no boner for that one, folks. But the ultimate boner killer goes to a discussion I witnessed the other night, a boozy exchange that gave me an all-new and all-horrifying term that I just have to share with you.

I was out with two women, a blonde and a brunette (who shall both remain nameless), who had both been imbibing quite heavily over the course of the evening, and when we piled into a cab bound for Brooklyn the brunette of the pair began to question whether or not she should go to visit her boyfriend, her concerns stemming from the fact that she was having her period and suffering from a virulent urinary tract infection; this had been briefly discussed earlier in the evening and the blonde, who didn’t like the boyfriend, suggested that the brunette should give it a miss. I volunteered that such issues could be worked around, a point that put the brunette at ease, and we left it at that while we pursued the night’s other distractions.

So we’re on our way back to Brooklyn and I’m in the back of a cab with these two bombed chicks, when the brunette begins to whine about her need for a proper seeing-to and how it conflicted with the current sorry state of her Good Place. She moaned on and on about “but I’ve got my period,” or “I’ve got a UTI,” all while her head kept flopping over onto my shoulder and chest. That wouldn’t necessarily have been so bad if the two of them hadn’t then decided to regale me with tales of the many times they’d been kicked out of taxis before arriving at their destinations thanks to them puking all over the cab’s back seat. They drunkenly guffawed at the time the brunette had to copiously vomit into the blonde’s handbag and how they both had to scoop up the puke and chuck it out the window as the car sped across the Manhattan Bridge, the brunette vomiting endlessly all the while.

As visions of myself getting covered in half-digested hot dogs, gin, and single-malt whiskey flashed in my mind, the gynecological debate resumed, this time with the blonde taking command and offering that no guy would want to see the brunette in the condition she was in; “Look at yourself! You’re fuckin’ wasted, you’re slurring your words and you look like a fuckin’ retard. And now you wanna go see this guy and you’re all fucked up down there, and you’ve got your period, plus a UTI, and you’re gonna put your boy through that? You know what you’ve done? You’ve fuckin’ tripe-bagged him, dude. You’ve fuckin’ tripe-bagged him! No guy wants to be face-to-face with that shit! Jesus!”

Yes, “tripe-bagged.” In other words, getting nailed in the face with gory butcher’s waste.

I have to say that at the same time as it’s completely stomach-turning, as a wordsmith I had to admire the term for its one-hundred percent effectiveness in conveying both the blonde’s point, and for its ability to conjure up an image of how H.P. Lovecraft may have perceived an issue of HUSTLER (I know HUSTLER doesn’t depict pussies that look like they’d been hit full-throttle by the Superchief, but you get my point).

So we eventually dropped off the brunette (she of the slaughterhouse vadge) and relegated her boyfriend to an evening of being “tripe-bagged.”

Tripe and onions. Uh, I'll pass...

And on that note, do any of you have more such charming turns of phrase that I can add to my lexicon? What other horrible shit have you been holding out on me? Please feel free to write in and contribute!

The blonde creative genius behind the term "tripe-bagging," with pals.

YOUR PUSSY: A COMPLAINT

Ladies, a word, please.

As has been stated endlessly in previous posts, I love me some pussy. Really and truly, I do. However, I have absolutely zero interest in whatever may ail your most holy of intimate places, and I think that most men would agree with me on this.

You see, all of my life I have always had more female friends than male, and many women tend to speak to me with the candor that they usually reserve only for other females (Jeff the bartender calls this my “gay ear”); that’s great, and I am flattered that you feel comfortable enough to let me into the mysterious and arcane world of chickness, but this blessing has often turned into a curse, specifically when you feel the need to fill me in on every detail of your gynecological issues.

Let me assure you that I, and most likely most other men (and many other women, for that matter) DO NOT want to hear about how you just got “the drip” or the relative viscosity of said flow, how your girl stuff may reek like a cheese factory or a trout farm, visceral descriptions of your scorched earth vulvic mound after shaving yourselves smooth and the rashes and ingrown hairs that accompany such grooming habits, the details of your getting genital warts removed, and most of all, the horrific details of your yeast infections and the methods with which you deal with them.

That said, I hereby call a moratorium on any and all such discussions with me unless it is an absolute emergency. I would be more willing to put up with all of this if I were your husband or boyfriend, in other words actually getting some of the pussy whose issues and upkeep I am forced to endure the tales about, but since you have not earned the privilege to pass such info on to me, please keep it to yourself.

I thank you for your time.

BY ANY OTHER NAME

Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore in a publicity shot for GOLDFINGER (1964).

Ladies, once again one of my favorite subjects has been greatly on my mind — namely your pussies — and I need your feedback.

I often find myself in situations where I'm in conversation with a group of women and the subjects soon turn ribald; guys, don't let them fool you, women talk about all sorts of raunchy shit all the time and can be far, FAR more filthy and graphic than we usually get. A good example of this was the other night when a few nice young ladies I know were discussing certain aspects of a new boyfriend, exchanging every possible detail about the guy, and the girlfriend in question eventually offered up details about her own equipment that one would think best reserved for her OBGYN. She referred to her genitalia as her "junk," and upon hearing that I thought back to the women I have known intimately over the years and how they talked about their bits. One or two used "cunt" ( a term I rather dislike due to its guttural sound rather than any perceived offensive content), most liked "pussy" and several skirted the issue of using a term altogether, opting instead for "down there" or some other such vague turn of phrase.

So, ladies, when you give voice regarding your own vaginalicious excellence, what do you call it? Write in and lemme know; as you have no doubt gathered by now, I spend much of my time pondering the deeper issues of existence...

THAT MOST INTIMATE KISS: SOME THOUGHTS ON EATING PUSSY

Since as far back as I can remember the human female has fascinated me. Ladies, I love the way you think, the way your bodies yield when held close, that look in your eyes that says, “I have secrets that you’d love to unravel,” the way you move… Shit, I just love everything about you. And as a man who piously worships at the female altar, I love to give you that special kiss. You know what I’m talking about. Whistling in the wheat field. Yodeling in the valley. Getting a taste of the pink delight. Eating the fish sandwich. You guessed it, chica; I’m talking about that face-first greeting to the one hundred percent all-girl sandwich meat. Yes, I’m talking about eating your pussy until your eyes roll back into your skull, your knees wobble like a Jell-O mold during a major earthquake, and your nose starts to bleed.

The phrasing may seem crass, but true passion is seldom eloquent.

Some guys refuse to even entertain the thought of orally pleasing a lady — especially many members of my own highly rhythmic special interest group — and I not only pity them, but I also pity their women. These men usually explain away their reluctance with pronouncements that the pussy is “nasty.” In my opinion, I think they are skittish thanks to ignorance, fear, and belief in such outright falsehoods as the long-held male belief that woman-stuff smells like fish; perhaps when the woman in question is gynecologically ill or putting up with certain punctual annoyances that their gender is heir to, but usually the stuff is quite nice. So, guys, butch up and go south.

It’s not the hardest thing in the world to do, especially if you communicate with your partner. Newsflash, fellas: women like to come just as much as you do, and if you show an eagerness to get them there, they will direct you with the same aplomb as that displayed by a skilled air traffic controller. Some like the “alphabet” method — wherein you lick the alphabet, but if you do that I advise against humming the “Alphabet Song” — others like aggressive attention to their clit, there are those who like a gentle kissing effect to the aforementioned “yummy button” coupled with some manual stimulation to their G-spot, exactly the same as the aforementioned only with the added bonus of a friendly digit up the booty, and the real adventurers who enjoy that most personal lick accompanied by a carefully and patiently administered hand that becomes a gentle fist, filling her utterly in ways that a penis just isn’t equipped to do… The variations are endless, so ask her what she likes, you horny fool!

But then there is that most frightening of anomalies: the woman who finds her own good stuff to be repellent and disgusting, thereby being grossed-out in the first place, and utterly unwilling to let the kind headsman get down to business. These women, I am convinced, were raised by repressed mothers and had no borderline-nymphomaniac friends or sisters to inform them that good, orally-generated, ear-grabbing orgasms are the exact cosmic opposite of such things as the Black Plague, the Holocaust, and GIGLI, and may not necessarily be beyond help, but those whom I have run into with this sad affliction are impossible to convince otherwise and so I politely get out of being with them. I mean, how the fuck do you get someone over her deeply rooted genital self-hatred without years of therapy? Sadly, I am merely a blogger and not a sexologist, so the answers to such questions cannot be provided by your humble cunnilinguist. If any of you readers — particularly the female ones — can add any constructive comments, or even your own advice for the would-be oralist, please send your comments and I will eventually craft an entry culled from your musings, so don’t delay, send them today! And don’t be afraid to be graphically honest; the details are always fun!