You know how this works by now, loves. Welcome to TMI Thursday: The Sex Toy Edition
Word of warning before we start, I’m going to be talking about masturbation in this post. A lot. So if that kind of talk makes you uncomfortable, then please go here and come back another day.
You’re still here Reader?
It’s going to be an interesting ride to say the least.
My thought upon seeing the Pocket Gal was: “This isn’t going to cover me.”
But I figure I should give at least a little credence to one-size-fits-all and put it away. Not going to use it when I’m not horny. It’s like eating when you’re not hungry. No fun.
So come Tuesday, I was feeling The Itch.
Figuring I had about two hours before Scarlett got home from work, I decided to take my toy out for a spin.
Gotta admit though, I felt horribly weird at first.Then I got into it.
Having gone cold turkey for a while, my orgasm was more intense than normal. Had it not been for that I wouldn’t have gotten nearly as much use out of this thing. And when I say more intense, I mean my legs were like jelly and I had that glorious little high of post-orgasm happiness.
I tried it again last night for the purposes of my review and well, my opinion of it kind of lowered a bit.
Because I like to end things on a good note (TWSS), let’s start with the negative side of this sitch.
- The toy is short. We’re talking 4″ inches here. Unless you’re below-average length, there’ll be no going balls deep on this one. It is good for stimulating the tip of the penis and the ribbed texture does feel good but unless you’re going through a serious dry spell there is nothing spectacular on this front.
- The big problem I have here though? Cleaning. The end is open so you will have to clean up the mess afterwards. Plus this thing isn’t pure silicon so you can’t really sterilize it. Using a condom here is definitely recommended as that simplifies things greatly. Also would not recommend using this to practice oral skills on for this reason and the fact that it does not feel good to the tongue. At all. Don’t ask.
So on to the good side of things now.
- The material is transluscent so you can see yourself moving in and out. For those who are very visually stimulated, I can see this as a turn-on.
- This thing is superbly portable. I’ve checked and it fits into the pocket of jeans, coats, backpacks, or in luggage for those solo trips.
- Training. Guys and women who are thinking about getting this for their FWB/boyfriend/husband, remember how I said that this toy was short and good at stimulating the tip of your penis? This toy does work as a good, if not great, trainer as it is easier to control ejaculation with just the tip. What does this mean? More lasting power. Something I can’t imagine anyone would really complain about.
My final thoughts?
For my first toy, it is a decent go. It’s very affordable at a bit over $20 plus shipping. Works as a tool for orgasm training, if not oral. A bit on the short side, which was a negative for me, but I suppose it being termed the Pocket Gal is an apt description. All in all, it seems to be so OK it’s decent. Not too bad, not too good. Just average. Honestly, I suggest saving up for some of the better ones. The Fleshlight looks promising.
All in all, I give this one…
‘Til next time loves…
*Seriously. This was a lot of fun to write.
**I seriously want to hug everyone who commented on Monday’s post. You people rock my socks.
***The “I’ll Be In My Bunk” image belongs to beefranck and is inspired by a line in Firefly. You can guess the meaning.
First let me say thanks my lovelies for all the book recommendations, I think I’ll be busy for a while. And an extra big thank you to Jean for that super list.
Now moving on to the main event of the evening afternoon morning.
Appearances can be deceiving.
People who don’t know me well assume that I am mild-mannered and timid. How this occurs is beyond my comprehension considering I drop the f-bomb like it’s going out of style and can turn most remarks to mean something perverted.
Most likely it’s that people see that most of my friends are female and from that decide I must not have much interest in the fairer sex.
Considering how much I love sex, that’s patently untrue.
Due to the fact that none of my close female friends feel at all weird talking about their PMS cramps and how much a pain tampons are, people seem to forget that I am a guy. One, who while he may be discreet about it most of the time, thinks about sex as much as any other. If not more so.
So this dry spell? NOT FUCKING COOL.
Because of my old-fashionedness, I know that if I were to have sex with The Girl at this point then I would feel wrong. Why? Not fully sure. What I do know is that I’m not willing to fuck this up by thinking with my dick. Probably good part of the reason why me and V imploded so spectacularly. Aside from, you know, the whole long distance and racial slur situations.
Sometimes a date with Rosie Palms just doesn’t cut it. Then Scarlett, in her normal fashion, simply asks why don’t I just buy a sex toy to help make things interesting.
The idea had never occurred to me. And for some reason, I felt ashamed for even considering it.
Long-repressed Catholic Guilt?
Then I remembered just who the fuck I am.
I’m the guy who can make a female jealous of a grape.
I’m the guy who laughed in a girl’s face when she thought a five-inch cock was huge.
I’m the guy who demonstrated his lack of gag reflex by sliding a 20 oz bottle into his mouth.
It arrives tomorrow. *grin*
Happy TMI Thursday, loves.
*My toy was found here
[or “But Mommy, where do Baby Smurfs come from?”]
As our dear Lilu always says: “Join us all in humiliating the crap out of ourselves every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week?” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!”
I all ready know I’m going to Hell. My handbasket has long been on layaway at Michael’s and the decorations are on stand-by. With the things that come out of my mouth, this is simply advance preparation.
But sometimes I am convinced that somewhere inside of me is the unconscious desire to piss all over my box seat in Hell. Things like making zombie jokes about Michael Jackson the day he died, failing to not snigger when Anna Nicole Smith died, and finding the mullet equal parts horrific and utterly fascinating? All sure-fire tickets to burning. Today’s story is worse.
I’m fairly positive most of us saw Hanna-Barbera cartoons when we were kids even if it was just the Flintstones and the Jetsons. Another little “nugget” were the quirky, communist pygmies more commonly referred to as the Smurfs. Here is a quick vid to refresh your memory.
The man in the dress, this real nutjob called Gargamel, basically wants to bake the little suckers into a pie. A pie? Seriously? Anyhoodle, so this guy comes up with all this crazy schemes to catch them with the…not quite sure “help” is the right word but he has this evil cat with a crazy ass laugh. I see this show now and can only wonder what the fuck the creators were smoking to come up with this shit.
Now the show caught a lot of flack for what is now called The Smurfette Principle where a show will feature just one female and she will be a highly stereotyped one. Considering the target audience, I don’t see it mattering all that much. But during a late-night conversation with Scarlett that involved a ridiculous amount of booze, we somehow get on the topic of where baby Smurfs come from.
Scarlett: “If there’s a Papa Smurf, then there has to be a Mama Smurf somewhere?”
Me: “Maybe she died or maybe she couldn’t handle that many kids.”
Scarlett: “Or maybe she never existed. If the cake is a lie then maybe Mama Smurf is too.”
Me: “If the smurf is a lie, then where the hell did that entire village come from?’
Scarlett: “Maybe the smurf fucked a rock. It would explain so much.”
Me: “Maybe Gargamel wasn’t evil. Maybe he was just a stalker with a crush.”
Scarlett: “You’re drunk.”
Me: “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong though. Maybe he wanted Papa Smurf to himself hence the whole wanting-a-pie which we all know is a metaphor for some lovin’.”
Scarlett: “So what would happen if he succeeded?”
I pull out my laptop and show her the screen.
She gives me a drunken glare which looks like constipation followed up with a smack to the back of the head.
Scarlett: “I hate you.”
Me: “And I revel in it.”
That picture folks? I’ll just post the link as it is very NSFW.
You’re welcome Internets. You’re welcome.
As Lilu always says: “Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!”
This little nugget takes places years ago, when Clinton was still president, Fbook didn’t exist, and I was still innocent.
Now when I was younger, I was a wild sleeper. It was not uncommon for me to wake up halfway sprawled on the floor in the middle of the night. Nor was it for me to find myself bruised from banging against the wall.
Apparently somewhere down the line, I picked up the nifty habit of sleepwalking.
Once when my mom’s much younger sister was spending the night with us, I tried to go out the front door at 3 AM. The only reason I didn’t make it out was because our alarm went off.
For the next year, I’d have various incidents in my sleep like trying to eat one of my sister’s dolls or once finding myself laying on the kitchen floor. Weird shit like that.
The last incident, now that was a doozy.
I woke up one morning, showered and got ready to catch the bus. I notice my mom and sister giving me weird looks but don’t pay much attention to it. As I’m walking into the kitchen I notice a few drops of yellow liquid on the floor, again I write it off.
It’s when I see that our trashcan has been cleaned overnight and still smells of bleach that I start putting things together.
The final clue? I remember using the bathroom in my dreams.
The conclusion I reached…yeah, not pretty.
As soon as I get home, I ask my mom if I did anything weird the night before. She changes the subject. I ask my sister. Same thing.
To this day, I still don’t know for sure if I pissed in our trash can in my sleep. If so, I’ll just call it early practice for those nights where I’m drunk enough to piss in strange places (hasn’t happened yet to my knowledge).
Whoever said ignorance was bliss should be punched in the crotch.
Come and join in the debauchery and hilarity of TMI Thursdays. You know you want to.
So this past Sunday was, as you all know, Easter Zombie Jesus Day which was also the day of my Confirmation. Which means that I had about 11 people coming over for Easter supper that afternoon.
Now normally I hang around after Mass and eat breakfast/lunch with the other college-age kids in Raleigh but I had other plans so I needed to book it back to the Hill.
I am sitting in the pew, talking to one of my friends from Cary, when I feel and hear the rumble. Worse still, she heard the rumble. At this point, I excuse myself and leave the sanctuary to go to the bathroom.
Here’s the problem though kids. Half of our church is being renovated right now which means two of the four restrooms in the building are out of service.
At this point Murphy kicks in to remind me of just who’s boss. Both bathrooms are occupied and neither has less than five people in line waiting for their turns.
Not wanting to find myself literally in deep doodoo.
So I hotfoot it out of the church, knowing I have maybe half a minute tops before I had a rather embarrassing incident on my hands and in my pants.
My best alternative? A porta-john around the corner.
With hindsight, I know it was a little too good to be true. It was unoccupied. Hell, the thing was even fully stocked with toilet paper. False sense of security, much?
There I am, cleaning up after relieving myself when I feel the intense need to pee. This should have been a no-brainer as I was all ready hovering over a waiting toilet. Well folks, things with me are never quite that simple.
As I’m aiming, my foot slips on something wet and I start to fall sideways. Reflex kicks in at this point and I put my arm out to stop myself from crashing head first against the wall.
Given the reality, I now kind of wish I had.
My arm was now bicep deep in shit and other fluids that I couldn’t begin to categorize. But wait, it gets better still. Attempts to simply pull my arm out so I can change into a t-shirt proved futile. My hand was, again literally, plastered to the bottom of the john by a large piece of shit.
Eventually one of the foremen working on the church heard my struggle and asked what was wrong.
The look of shock on his face upon opening that door almost made the experience worth it.
First for those who asked about the shenanigans yesterday. While I did not manage to take a picture of Scarlett and Marilyn’s reactions, I did snag one of one of my neighbours doing something interesting.
Speaks for itself, don’t it? I think I’ll make the boob cupcakes next time.
Anywhoodle welcome to another lovely edition of TMI Thursday, my freaky darlings. Remember how I said I would probably never be able to top my close encounter with Aunt Flow? Yeah, I apparently get off on outdoing myself. It’s bad folks, it’s bad. Goes without saying but there is a sexual content warning ahead.
But please enjoy the show.
I’m sure all of you will agree that a shower at the right temperature and pressure is amazing.
And sex…well that goes without saying.
So putting the two together is something truly glorious indeed. I think I’m just turned on by water but as Eva is quick to point out I’m a perv a la Jason Biggs. Yeah, can’t fully deny that one.
It was an unusually warm day and we had it entirely to ourselves and ended up spending about 2 hours playing basketball and heading to my apartment for movies. Now at this point, we’re both sweaty so a shower and change of clothes are most definitely in order.
I promise the following conversation is verbatim.
Eva: “As Earth-conscious young adults, we should conserve on water.”
Me: “Did you really use the environment as an excuse to get me in the shower with you?”
Eva: “Yeah. Lame huh?”
Me: “More like I’m impressed you said that with a completely straight face.”
So cut a bit later in the shower (and Eva, I don’t think spending so long in there counts as being conservative — just sayin’) where she has her back to me as we have our fun. Now as I have her hair in my face I can’t really see what I’m doing down there, keep that in mind folks. As I was much more interested in the sense of touch at that point I didn’t mind too much.
Yeah, that was a mistake.
After a rather…spirited move on her part, I slipped out and in a haze she spins in my arms and after telling me to hold steady pretty much impales herself.
Normally there might have been mild discomfort for a few seconds because of the force and then it goes away. Not so in this case. I find myself somewhere a good bit tighter than I’m used to and she lets out what sounds like a grunt. Her description, not mine. Apparently I was holding myself differently than what she had thought I would.
The end result?
The jigsaw puzzle was put together but not in the way we intended to.
I start to pull out when she tells me to stop for a second and let her try something. She does. I almost lose it right there.
Her only response?
“This could be fun.”
*Note: I originally wasn’t going to share this one but Eva insisted it was a bit too funny not to. I personally think she enjoys the e-infamy more as much as I do.