This past weekend, James Bond and I celebrated our two year anniversary by driving down to San Diego, getting up at 5:45am, and running a 15K race.

Well, actually, our real anniversary is on Tuesday and I’m the only one who ran the 15K race, but I did manage to convince him to a) come with me, b) wake up in the pitch black dark, c) run the 5K race that was happening that same morning, and d) do it all in the name of an “anniversary celebration.”

I WIN. Or, wait, maybe he wins because he’s the one doing the nice-y nice things for me while I’m the asshole who’s all, “LET’S DRIVE 120 MILES TO PAY SOMEONE TO TIME US WHILE WE RUN AROUND AT THE CRACK OF DAWN WITH A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WE DON’T EVEN KNOW. YEAH!!! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!”

The race was fucking awesome though. I mean, the race itself wasn’t anything special, but I had this crazy out-of-body moment around mile 8 where I was all, “holy shit, LOOK WHAT MY BODY CAN DO” and it made me remember what Gretchen brilliantly dubbed the “Nicki Minaj moment,” which is basically any real life version of that line in Nicki Minaj’s song that goes “Yes I did, yes I did, somebody please tell him who the eff I is” that in my mind loosely translates to, “YOU BEST BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS CRAZY ASS THING. BAM!” Which is why you’ll see Gretchen and I occasionally yelling “NICKI MINAJ” at each other on Facebook and Twitter as a new go-to mantra for things we maybe don’t think we can do but are totally going to do anyway because bitch please.

So yeah, I ran 9.3 miles (NICKI MINAJ!!) and am now desperately in need of a Thai massage – even though I’m pretty sure getting a massage when I’m this sore could KILL ME DEAD. God, will you listen to me and my first world problems? “How soon is too soon to pay someone to rub my sore muscles after finishing my expensive and equally first world recreational activity?”

Yeah. THAT.

So, no massage for me. Instead, I got to come home from San Diego and have one of my biggest and most irrational fears realized, and honestly, I almost don’t want to tell you about it because there’s absolutely no way you can say that you’re not judging me and also that you’re not a liar in the same sentence and have both of those things be accurate. Seriously, even I judge me for this one.

Here’s the deal. I’m scared of alarm clocks. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. I’m not scared of alarm clocks, what I’m scared of is the possibility that something horribly annoying, like an alarm going off, will start and then just never stop. It’s why I hate when people say the same thing over and over again, like “Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole” if they’re trying to get my attention, or why I freak out when people repeatedly tap me on the shoulder or something, because WHAT IF IT NEVER STOPS? Think about it. What if your alarm went off in the morning and then it just NEVER STOPPED. EVER. EVERRRRR!!!

I’ve always known that this is an irrational fear, which is the only thing that’s kept it in check. I mean, of course the car alarm and the radio static and the blinking lights are going to stop, right? WRONG. Last night, James Bond put a pizza in the oven and set a timer on his iPhone for when to take it out. Then, just before the timer went off, the screen froze – we couldn’t click anywhere, couldn’t turn it off, couldn’t do anything – and then, of course, the timer went off. Loud, incessant, beeping, vibrating, with NO WAY TO TURN IT OFF. It just kept going off and going off and going off and I thought, “Oh my god, this is it. I’m going to have to listen to this sound FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE,” because that’s totally how I feel when repetitive noises get started. That’s where the fear comes from, the brain-eating belief that, no matter what, I’ll be subjected to whatever the thing is from now until the end of time forever and ever amen.

So there we were, trying to turn the phone off, trying to unfreeze it, plugging it into the wall, plugging it into the computer, pushing every button, smacking the screen, EVERYTHING, but it wouldn’t stop. Cue mild hysteria that ended with me burying the phone under a pillow to muffle the sound, closing the bedroom door, and hiding in the living room until it died or faded or gave up or did whatever the hell iPhone alarms do when they realize you’re not paying attention to them anymore because you’re LOSING YOUR MOTHER EFFING MIND OVER HERE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Damn it. Why am I telling you about this?! It’s bad enough that James Bond has had to put up with me and my quirky shenanigans for the past two years (HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!), but now I’m voluntarily sharing it with everyone on the entire internet? SMOOTH, WOMAN.

Although, really, I don’t think the alarm clock thing is my point here. I think my point is that even though I’m out of my mind at least 96% of the time, James Bond still loves me and never even threatens to abandon me in a warehouse filled with blaring car alarms and smoke detectors, even though I’m sure that sometimes I totally deserve it.

That’s what love is, I think. Finding someone who looks at you when you’re at your craziest and says, “Fuck it, I’m in.”

(HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!!)

When I was single, I ate a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was easy, I was lazy (read: hungover), and cooking was clearly not worth interrupting my dedicated “roam aimlessly around the internet” time.

Looking back, I can best define my single years by three things: vodka, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and spontaneous decisions. It’s no surprise that the vodka and the spontaneity often went hand in hand, and that in light of the excess of the two I was often left with just enough energy to force myself to eat PB&J while sprawled across the floor.

It’s a strange and freeing process, thinking about the details of who you used to be, and as James Bond and I celebrate our year-and-a-half anniversary this month, I’m feeling a little bit of shock at how much has changed in such a short amount of time.

They say that you can’t look to your partner to make you happy, and I believe that’s true. They say that you need to be a whole person on your own in order to be part of a successful relationship, and I believe that that’s true, too. But what they don’t tell you – what nobody seems willing to tell you – is that it’s also okay to work this stuff out with someone else by your side. It’s okay to admit that you’re the best version of yourself because of the person that you love.

And yet, there still seems to be a stigma of weakness surrounding these beliefs. It’s like, at some point during the drive down Feminism Road, a few people got out and put up sign posts declaring that being a strong, kickass woman meant that you had to stand completely on your own.

And it’s not just the issue of relationships. Lately, I’ve begun to notice some polarizing and not-so-nice groups popping up around the internet with all sorts of definitive opinions on what it means to be a woman. Clusters of people who believe so strongly that you have to breastfeed, or that you have to take time to travel abroad, or that you have to ditch your 9-to-5 in favor of an entrepreneurial career path, otherwise you’re a giant failure.

Seriously? Fuck that.

I might breastfeed and I might not. I might spend a year backpacking through South America and I might not. I chose the entrepreneurial route, but I also see a huge number of benefits in sticking with the alternative. And yes, being a strong woman means being responsible for your own happiness, but no one ever tells you that it’s okay to admit to being happier because of someone else. It doesn’t make you weak or cliche, it doesn’t make you less of a fucking rockstar, and it doesn’t mean that you need your man to complete you in some intense, Jerry Maguire kind of way. It just means that you’re your best self as a result of the growth you’ve done alongside someone else, and that’s okay.

You certainly aren’t any less you because you’re part of a we.

My vagina and I are in an enormous fight. The kind where you’re too angry to yell and scream, so you just give each other the silent treatment for three days until one of you breaks down like a little bitch and apologizes.

Yeah, that kind.

It all started last month when my Fairy Vagina Parents over at Babeland sent me the new OhMiBod Better Than Chocolate to experiment with. When it arrived I was all, “Clearly I’ve reached a new level of high-tech-ness now that I own a vibrator that hooks into my iPod and masturbates me to the beat.”

(Spoiler alert: Susan B. Anthony is totally somersaulting across her grave in excitement right now over how much progress our generation has made in empowering women.)

Can you imagine, though? Women weren’t allowed to fucking vote 91 years ago, and now we can freely purchase vibrators that allow us to wirelessly DJ our own orgasms.

I’m pretty sure that’s as good as it gets.

Except for the fact that in addition to making you a high-tech and empowered goddess woman, the OhMiBod also promotes multiculturalism by including translations of its instructions into an absurd amount of languages, meaning that not only will you wind up completely satisfied (you know, satisfied), you’ll also find comfort in knowing that if you’re ever in Germany with a gun to your head being asked to properly translate the phrase “Privacy Pouch,” you’ll be able to get out alive by having learned from the OhMiBod that in German, “Privacy Pouch” is “Aufbewahrungsbeutel.”

I couldn’t make this shit up. Except wait, watch this:

Slkdjdskgjf

That’s basically the same thing, right?

Just kidding German people, come back! I totally respect the fact that your language looks like angry keypunching and I promise that you have the same shot as everyone else at winning one of these orgasm music machines in the comments section of this post.

I should warn you though – not “you” the Germans, but the general “you,” (God this is spiraling out of control pretty quickly) – that there’s something you need to be prepared for in order to use this toy. You need to be prepared for your vagina to DESERT you and your good musical taste by getting more excited when a song by Ke$sha comes on than anything else.

KE$HA.

KE$HA!!

I’m sorry vagina, but no, that’s just unacceptable behavior right there. Are you listening to me?? WE DON’T GET TURNED ON BY KE$HA. We don’t find it arousing that she has chosen to use a fucking dollar sign in the middle of her name. Or at least, I don’t, but apparently my vagina does?

What a traitor.

So yeah, my vagina is on time out until it can learn that John Mayer > Ke$ha. This time out means that I haven’t even used all the features of my new toy, like the the fact that it’s, wait for it, Skype-compatible, letting you get off to the sound and rhythm of someone else’s voice via the computer.

High fives for sexy long distance relationships! With Germans! I seriously don’t think dead women’s rights activists could be more proud.

PS – Is it weird that in the 709 words I’ve used in a sex toy review post, 38 of them have been to make reference to dead feminists?

PPS- Did you know that in spite of what I thought before looking it up online, Gloria Steinem is actually still alive and therefore cannot be counted as one of the dead feminists I was referring to up there, even though she was initially the first person I thought of when getting ready to list dead feminists?

PPPS – Change that dead feminist word count to 94.

PPPPS – I guess that means that Gloria Steinem is technically eligible to comment for a chance to win an OhMiBod

PPPPPS- Babeland is having a sale from now through February 11 in which you can get up to $30 off your order, plus free shipping and delivery in time for Valentine’s Day so you can either a) spice up your sex life or b) masturbate until you forget that you don’t have a sex life. See? Babeland’s got you covered either way.

PPPPPPS- Oh, I’m finished, I just wanted to see what it would like like with just one more P.

{Update: our winner is comment number 63, Formica Dinette!}

So, James Bond and I moved in together this weekend!

As a result, I now have twice as much stuff, half as much storage space, and someone who is more or less obligated to deal with me at all times.

In exchange, I’ve replaced James Bond’s non-functioning wireless router with my totally functioning wireless router and have since learned that these devices are basically magic because they automatically carry your old network name over to your new place. Which is to say that James Bond is now stuck with a publicly visible network named “Horse Vagina,” something I think is obsessively hysterical and he thinks is probably the tip of the iceberg of what his life will be like now that I’m here 24/7.

OH WELL, OOPSIE, TOO LATE!!

If you don’t masturbate and have never seen an episode of The Jetsons, this post probably isn’t for you.

Actually, if you don’t masturbate and have never seen an episode of The Jetsons, I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing with your life. Really. Go rub one out and find that shit on Netflix. But not at the same time. Well, maybe at the same time. Give me a second, you’ll see.

A few weeks ago, my Fairy Vagina Parents (read: Babeland) asked if I’d like to try one of their new Toyfriend vibrators. At first I was all, “Is it possible for one girl to have too many vibrators?” But that thought only lasted a few seconds as I clicked the link, looked at this new collection of toys, and realized that I was being offered the chance to orgasm to something that could totally have been on The Jetsons.

Dude, remember The Jetsons? George and his 9 hour “full time” work week, Jane and her fashion obsession, Judy and her digital diary, Elroy and his expertise in space science. And the dog! And the robot maid! And something about cogs!

Seriously though, look at those vibrators and tell me that Jane wasn’t using them to get herself off while George was repeatedly being fired and unfired from Spacely Space Sprockets. She so was.

When it came time for me to pick which of the four toys I wanted, I couldn’t decide. Black rabbit ears? Pink bubble antenna? Yellow space creature? Blue satellite!? I realized that no matter which one I picked, however, I’d now be thinking about The Jetsons the entire time I used it and would therefore qualify as either extremely fucked up or overwhelmingly awesome on the sexual fetish scale. Or both. Hopefully both. After reading more about the toys, I learned that they’re 100% waterproof, which is when I told myself to just pick one already because there are much worse things in the world than enjoying a futuristic orgasm in the bathtub while wondering if George Jetson’s carpet matches his drapes.

Yes, this is the type of stuff I think about.

I settled on the pink bubble antenna one, hoping it didn’t double as some kind of uber powerful laser because really, that’s just too dangerous of a two-for-one product, even for the future. Luckily, it arrived laser-free and ready to be tested and while the second of the two speeds was too intense for me, the overall feel of the toy and its shape and thickness were fantastic. Also, so colorful! Also, I get to masturbate like Judy Jetson! Except for the fact that she was only 16. Wait, I *totally* masturbated when I was 16. Never mind. Way to go Judy!

(Did I just virtually high five a fictitious teenager from the year 2362 about her sexual behavior? This is so not what Hanna-Barbera originally intended.)

Anyway, to recap: the future of sexy time looks pretty damn good, Judy Jetson was probably a whore, and you now have the chance to win your choice of one of these laser-free but totally satellite-like vibrators, Jetsons theme song not included.

Just kidding, here’s a link to The Jetsons theme song. Extra points to anyone who listens to this during orgasm and then manages to get it out of their head afterward. Double extra points to anyone who can teach my car to turn into a briefcase like George’s so that I never have to learn to parallel park. Triple extra points to anyone who wants to help me Google “Jetsons porn” after this so I can publish the results and ensure that this blog is blocked from all places of employment for the rest of time.

{Update: the random number generator picked comment #43. Happy futuristic orgasms to Jessica!}

It started out as two different trips that were to take place side by side. James Bond would fly to his hometown of Denver for 10 days to visit his family and friends, and I would fly to Denver for the last four days of his trip to visit my friends. We’d be in his city, but on our own terms, and we’d be able to fly back to San Francisco together.

That was phase one. But our relationship evolved and all of the sudden we were in phase two, where we’d be in his city and we’d be on our own terms but we’d also allow for overlap – he’d meet my friends, I’d meet his. And then came phase three, where in addition to the meeting of each other’s friends, there would also be the having dinner with his mother.

I reacted calmly. Which is to say that in a dictionary where “reacting calmly” translates to “freaking the fuck out,” I reacted very calmly, thinking rational things like, “What if she shakes my hand and senses that I write about my vagina on the internet?!”

And then there was the picking of the outfit. “It’s going to be too hot for long sleeves!” I yelled to Jamie. She asked why I needed to wear long sleeves. “The wrist tattoos! What if she hates the wrist tattoos!”

Two days before my flight: Reacting. Very. Calmly. Indeed.

But then the phone call came and all of the sudden we were in phase four, the phase where he was getting rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix and I was spending whatever I had to spend to get to Denver on the next available flight.

In the five hours that passed between that phone call and the one telling me that he was out of surgery and in recovery, I realized two things.

Thing one is that you really don’t know how deeply you’re in the hole of I’m-unlimited-crazy-about-him until you look up and see that ground level is thundering light-years above your head.

Thing two is that the tattoo crisis and the insecurities don’t matter. The wondering what to talk about over dinner doesn’t matter. Showing up at the hospital makeup-free and altitude-sick with tattooed wrist in full display – none of it matters.

What matters is spending more than 80 hours at the hospital and getting the chance to join an overwhelmingly wonderful group of people in taking care of the person you all can’t stop caring about. What matters is that he says yes to my wrist tattoos and yes to me writing about my vagina on the internet and yes to me as I am, even if it’s challenging.

What matters is that I found someone to give that card to, the one I bought in Arizona last August and promised myself I’d save until I meant the words on the front:

“I’m not sure,” she said, “at what point it is advisable to admit to liking you a great deal more than I planned.”

**
Update – James Bond, who’s still in Denver and just got out of the hospital, emailed and asked me to include his insanely lovely response to this post:

Cramped in my bed, graciously accepting another visitor, Nicole and I exchange looks. With a look I feel her unspoken sympathy, and I express thanks adding, I will add details later. At certain points I was done and Nicole filled in. She so sweetly and adeptly took over in ways not easily understood.

One of my best friends asked me, so what is the moral, what is the bigger picture. I actually, being known for a bit of verbosity, responded simply, “…. I could not prepare for what happened. Each day provides for different circumstances. It doesn’t help to worry about yet unknown factors. And it really helps to have a partner [looking to Nicole as my co-conspirator].”

As James Bond, I must maintain a certain amount of independence. Right? Well I would happily trade the golden gun, access to SPECTRE, all the Aston Martins, and other gadgets (even including the jet pack) for Nicole to continue taking me on.
**

::heart explodes::

On days when I’m irrationally stressed out, I take a few minutes to sit quietly and play the “this-would-be-worse-if” game until I calm down. You know, that game that’s supposed to put things into perspective because you realize shit isn’t that bad after being all, “This would be worse if I was in the middle of a tornado” or, “This would be worse if I only had one leg” or, “This would be worse if I were allergic to cheese” or, “This would be worse if a wild horse charged through the door and kicked me in the face while peeing all over the floor.” Usually though, the game ends when I think, “This would be worse if my vagina looked like some of those weird vaginas in sketchy porn movies where the clit is long and stretched out like a baby penis.”

(No, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at baby penis. I mean any time! I don’t spend any time looking at baby penis! Shut up. I DON’T. I’m just saying that I’m grateful for my normal vagina okay that’s all thank you amen.)

Seriously though, I think it’s pretty safe to say that my vagina is my favorite thing in existence. And yes, I know I’m supposed to say “vulva” instead of vagina because that’s anatomically correct but the word vulva makes my insides die a little bit so I’m just going to keep saying vagina regardless of what you and your judgey mcjudgerstein friends think.

Because my vagina is special. So special, in fact, that it even has it’s own schedule. I’ll be sitting down to make plans for the week and I’ll have to be all, “Wait, which sex toy am I reviewing on Tuesday?” and “When’s my Brazilian waxing appointment?” and “Do I have time to try the Vajacial?” (an actual 50 minute facial-like spa service for the vagina that’s being offered here in San Francisco).

It’s basically come down to my needing a separate planner just for my vagina. I swear that bitch has a more active schedule than I do. Like, over the past month it was “Must use the sex swing!” and “Must take a road trip to Oregon to cross another state off my Sex in 50 States List!” and “Must charge the $109 cock ring that the gorgeous people at Babeland sent me!” Oh, the ever exhausting horror.

JUST KIDDING. ME SO LUCKY. THIS THE BEST VIBRATING COCK RING EVER.

It’s like, imagine the best sex you’ve ever had. And then imagine that that sex went to the gym for like eleventy hundred hours and got even sexier. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex also brought you flowers wrapped in brown paper. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex remembered to get you flowers more creative than roses and also threw in a massage, an iPod shuffle, and sixteen very sincere compliments. That’s sex using the LELO Tor.

No joke, this thing has six different stimulation modes and some are fast and some are slow and some are pulsing and OH MY GOD THE PULSING MODES and it’s so easy to use and the crazy things holds its charge for like two fucking hours and and and seriously I think if I had sex with someone while he was wearing this thing for two entire hours I’d be dead from too! many! explosive! orgasms! Also, after a little research I learned that “Tor” is a name from Norse Mythology, so you might as well be having a threesome with your man and a Scandinavian man. Or your dildo and a Scandinavian man. Or, well, I don’t know the details but there’s definitely room for a Scandinavian man in there somewhere. Yum.

Did I mention that I love this sex toy? And did I also mention that I love Babeland enough to have signed up for their affiliate program (see sidebar) and that if you ever decide to buy sex toys you should do it through this link so that in turn, I can buy more tequila?

ORGASMS FOR YOU + TEQUILA FOR ME = WIN WIN SITUATION

Sidenote: If you live in NYC or Seattle, you should seriously take one of the workshops offered at your local Babeland store. They’re amazing.

Double sidenote: Babeland should open a store in San Francisco.

Triple sidenote: I’d totally get trained to teach said workshops.

Quadruple sidenote: I don’t have anything else to say here, but I really just wanted to see if I could spell the word “quadruple” without needing spell check. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere: high five, me too. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere and who also continually try to add a “p” to hamster and at least twelve unnecessary letters to the word “privilege,” let’s all remember that even though we’re shit spellers, this would be worse if we had tiny baby penis clits and if I didn’t have the LELO Tor.

See? ALL BETTER NOW.

A few weeks ago, the kickass people at AdultSexToys.com sent me a Clone-A-Pussy kit so that I could make a chocolate replica of my vagina. It’s things like this that make it really weird to date me because I call at noon on a Tuesday and I’m all, “Would you like to come over for dinner and chocolate vagina?” and he’s like, “??” and I’m all, “I’m pretty sure the fine print of the Universal Dating Manual states that whenever the girl would like help creating an exact mold of her vagina, the guy says yes” and he’s like, “I’ll bring Champagne” and I’m all, “I’m adding that to the manual.” And then he really did come over and he really did bring Champagne because he’s the best of the best and I drank it and he drank it and Jamie drank it because of course Jamie was there too and I made them both five cheese stuffed shells for dinner which was my way of saying, “Thank you for constantly putting up with my shenanigans and for loving my vagina so dearly.”

After dinner we opened the kit and read through the instructions and they were all, “The first step is to thoroughly wash your vagina with soap and water” so I went into the bathroom and took off my pants and did as I was told and then I changed into a long hippie skirt that solved the problem of “How do I have access to my vagina during the molding process without running around the apartment naked?” because I’m totally more modest than you’d think and I don’t run around naked that often. And then steps two and three are to mix the molding powder with lukewarm water and pour it into the molding container but you have to do it quickly because it turns to gel after like actually one minute and then step four is to stand there and press the molding container against your vagina and it urges you to “be sure your entire vulva is covered” which is probably my new favorite sentence ever and is also the strangest part of the process because you’re just STANDING THERE for like FOUR WHOLE MINUTES with gel pressed against your vagina and your legs are spread wide open because who the who wants a mold of the *outside* of their vagina?? But then the mold solidifies and you peel it off and put it in the freezer and melt the chocolate and pour it into the mold and put it back in the freezer and then you take it out of the freezer and remove it from the mold and OH MY GOD IT ACTUALLY WORKS. Like, I stood in the middle of the kitchen squealing and then I made everyone eat part of it except I wasn’t looking when Jamie took her bite and she’s all, “YOU AREN’T GOING TO WATCH ME EAT YOUR VAGINA?” which actually replaces “be sure your entire vulva is covered” as my new favorite ever sentence.

So, to recap, Jamie is awesome and the guy I’m dating is awesome except let’s call him James Bond from now on because “the guy I’m dating” is annoying to type and there are tons of totally legit parallels between them like how James Bond is mysterious and this guy is sort of mysterious and how James Bond is, well, fuck, that’s all I’ve got because I hope I’m not dating someone who’s secretly British with a closet full of tuxedos and guns and leggy women. Actually, I hope I’m not dating someone who keeps women of any leg length stored in a closet. Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the Clone-A-Pussy kit and how it’s awesome and how I’m totally going to do what the package suggests and make other things with the reusable mold like vagina soap and vagina candles and VAGINA ICE CUBES because it instructs you to “fill with water or your favorite juice and freeze for a refreshing treat on a hot day.” FAVORITE JUICE. APPLE JUICE VULVA.

Who wants to make apple juice vulva with me? And who wants to buy a vagina candle? OH MY GOD I SHOULD SELL VAGINA CANDLES. And who wants to win one of these kits? Yes, they’re letting me do a giveaway for you lucky vaginas and dude vaginas and fuck, if chocolate vaginas make an appearance in the next Bond movie I’m totally going to sue.

Happy Thursday.

PS- If I win that lawsuit I’ll buy EVERYONE a Clone-A-Pussy kit. You’re welcome in advance. Happy Thursday once again.

[UPDATE: James Bond has picked a winner. He picked Jenn. He picked Jenn because he liked that she and KYLECOOPER entered the contest together. He has a condition for Jenn winning though. Jenn & KYLECOOPER, are you listening? His condition is that you guys have to tell me the story about using the mold so that I can tell it to him. Cool? Cool.]

When I first moved here, one of my blog readers immediately forwarded me a list of 60 Super Sexy Things To Do in San Francisco. Because I’m sexy. Or, well, I don’t know why else. So yeah, let’s go with the sexy thing.

When I first got the email, I thought, “You know, my blog readers really are the best of the best.” You bitches and dude bitches are always looking out for me and keeping me up to date by sending me fun links and hilarious links and dirty links. And horrifying links. Man, I’ve gotten a lot of horrifying links.

Like, did you know that there’s a website that sells dildos in the shape of animal penises? You can just click on over to the category of “unnatural dildos & dongs” and buy a full size canine penis, or a whale penis, or an 18.5 inch horse penis (I KNOW RIGHT??), or, wait for it, a WOLF PENIS. Let’s not discuss the amount of time I’ve spent on this website. Let’s also not discuss the people who are actually buying these dildos. Actually no, let’s do discuss them.

One reviewer of the wolf penis dildo exclaims, “Okay, I always wanted to see a wolf’s penis and have sex with one. I’m crazy, so I bought this wolf penis dildo. I just got it a week ago and I held it in my hand saying OMG I’m holding a wolf penis. HeHe I lubed it up and shoved it in my ass and when I got to the knot I had to sit on it to get it in. Soon as it popped in it felt so amazing. I leave it in my ass for an hour and sometimes ram it in and out. OMG, It’s amazing and it’s in my ass as I write this. I love wolves penis.”

Please tell me this sort of makes you want to die. Just a little bit. Just enough so that you never have to think about this ever again ever. Yeah, me too. I’m sorry I shared this with you, I really am. But also I’m not, because at least now I don’t have to suffer through this all by myself anymore. I know, I’m selfish. But maybe the review is a joke? Maybe no one has ever purchased this item and someone is actually just sick enough to write fake reviews for stuff like this all over the internet.

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the 60 sexy things list. Luckily, animal sex isn’t on the list. Wait, hang on, it’s San Francisco, let me double check.

Nope, we’re good.

So, item number eight on the list is to dine in the dark at Opaque, a restaurant where you eat a multi-course meal in straight up pitch black darkness. I’ve always wanted to do this, and by “always” I mean “ever since I read about how Chelsea Handler did it and if you know me you know I’m obsessed with Chelsea Handler in a probably not okay way and so dining in the dark at Opaque is number 125 on my Life List because maybe if I do everything that Chelsea does she’ll be my friend.”

(I get creepier every day, huh?)

Despite the fact that my only draw to this dinner was a head full of Chelsea Handler fantasies, it was actually incredible. Definitely a 39 on an awesome scale from 3-17. It was also a learning experience of sorts. For example, I learned that I’ve never been in pitch black eyes-don’t-ever-adjust dark before. And I learned that buttering bread in this kind of dark makes you feel like an idiot. And I learned that being blind would suck. And that food tastes different when you can’t see it. And that you absolutely can’t go to an in the pitch black eyes-don’t-ever-adjust dark event with someone you aren’t comfortable touching. Not touching touching. Well, maybe. It’s certainly dark enough. Not that I did that. This isn’t that kind of story.

See Mom?! THIS FINALLY ISN’T THAT KIND OF STORY.

Unless Chelsea wants it to be.

HI CHELSEA

So I came to this realization recently, and it’s less about grammar and more about arousal, but perhaps the most awkwardly horrible time to make a typo is while dirty texting. Because I mean, it’s all hot and sexy until somebody wants you to do something to their hard coke.  Or you’re so turned on that it’s making you wat.

Because you make the typo, right, but then what? Do you ignore it? Do you keep texting? Do you quickly type the hottest thing you can think of so as not to change the mood? Or do you acknowledge it and immediately text back with *wet! I mean wet! YOU’RE MAKING ME SO WET!

God technology complicates sex. Actually no, you know what really complicates sex? The fucking iPhone. The fucking iPhone and its fucking auto correcting of words for no good reason. Like, stop changing “fuck” to “duck.” Have I ever typed duck? No seriously, when’s the last time I ever, ever texted ANYONE about ducks? Never, that’s when. I’ve never texted anyone about ducks. But do you know which word I do use in almost every single text? Fuck. Do you hear that, iPhone? Fuck is my favorite word and you clearly need to just get your shit together already and start recognizing that I like fucking more than I like water birds. And, actually, while we’re having it out, I’d like to also request that you stop anticipating my needs and prematurely inserting the word “Bette” when all I’m trying to do is type “better.” I mean, who the fuck is Bette? There isn’t anyone in my contacts named Bette. In fact, I’m pretty sure there hasn’t even been a single person in the world named Bette since like 1957.

Which makes me think that the guy who programmed the iPhone has an enormous crush on some old chick named Bette. Or maybe his mom’s name is Bette. Or maybe he’s really old and back in college he used to get head from this super hot chick named Bette until she left him for a football player with a really nice car and he’s pissed as hell because he hasn’t had it that good since then and now he’s married and bitter because he spends his days programming iPhones and doesn’t even have a good blowjob to come home to and the crazy thing is that his wife totally *would* blow him, but he never bothers to go down on her first and has absolutely no idea that her clit is shaped like a wishbone or that all clits are shaped like wishbones which leaves him working for Apple and her wildly unsatisfied in the pants and me with an iPhone that thinks I want to duck Bette.

Wait, so, that wishbone thing. Did you know that? Because I totally didn’t and yet I’ve been wearing a small gold wishbone necklace for the past six months and talking about wishbones and luck and how I believe we make our own luck and then I find out last week that what I’ve really been doing this entire time is wearing a GOLDEN CLITORIS around my neck and maybe THAT’S why I’ve been having such incredible orgasms lately.

THE POWER OF THE NECKLACE.

Well, the power of the necklace backed up by the power of my newest favorite sex book, Moregasm: Babeland’s Guide to Mind-Blowing Sex that’s full of incredible tips and incredible photography and the incredible ability to turn me on from just flipping through the pages. Yes, it’s that awesome. Do you want one? I have four to give away. Four! Free! Books! About! Wishbone! Clits!

And I know, I know, between this and the Texts from Last Night book and the blog redesign I’ve been doing a lot of giveaways lately but it’s only because I think you bitches & dude bitches are fantastic and I love you and it’s Valentine’s Day and this is the last giveaway I’m doing for a while but it’s totally worth it because it’s a book that, among other things, taught me the real shape of my clit and if you’re still all, “enough already with the giveaways,” I sort of want to make it up to you by posting a picture in which I’m holding said book and am also maybe a little bit topless but I know that if I did that, somebody would get all snarky and bring up the fact that I’m 24 years old and therefore probably too old to wear pigtail braids but I don’t give a swimming horse vagina because I hate blow drying my hair and I fucking love pigtail braids and you can just shut your lips and and and no topless photo for you.

{Winners! Jessica, Ev’Yan, Jenny, and Alana!}