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Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I Get Off… great song by Halestorm

And conveniently fits the theme for what I am about to tell you. Family and squimish, save yourselves now and do not read any further.

Not sure what I was waiting for, really. What I expected, anticipated and maybe even hoped for, wasn’t in the cards, apparently.

I thought there should be some intensity in the moment. I may have considered the notion that the gates of Heaven could open and the light of the rapture would shine down upon me.

“Take me now, sweet Jesus!”

My engines revved at the thought of what was about to happen. And, in an odd way, I hoped it would be addictive. Plus, if it was, I was completely willing to forgo anything in my life, fuck you A&E’s Intervention. When I say I’d give anything, including my eyesight, I mean, everything!

If there is an opportunity to be addicted to pleasure, I was ready for it. Who wouldn’t be?

Like crack for your clit, marijuana for your muff, a bong for your beaver. Hook me up, dear dealer, this ol’ girl is in the prime of her life!

It was not so. Perhaps it was simply not meant to be.

A tingle, warmth, a feeling of something, anything? “Is this thing on?” I yelled to my nether region.

Although I’m unsure what the street value is on drugs, I am smart enough to know if something, natural or synthetic, is going to cost me $32.00 for POINT 34 ounces, it is going to take me for a ride and it better be good!

Seriously .34 oz.

I expected my twat to trip the fuck out. And yes, I wanted a cool sensation of being in the Swiss Alps. I mean shit, if a York Peppermint Patty can do that for 50 cents, it’s the least I should presume. Right?

KY Intense is “supposed” to make your toes curl.

Guess what? It doesn’t.

And how do I know this? Like I said earlier, I’m in the prime of my life and a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The instructions come with a diagram, and I guess if you are not familiar with pussy, you might need a map to find Mt. Clitoris, which is north of The Cave of Wonders, at the top of Labia Lane – no relation.

Maybe that was all they meant when they said intense. Because let’s face it, if you never knew where that little Mexican Jumping Bean was, this shit would be intense and would curl your toes.

In the real world, if you already can locate the clitoris, that’s all the intensity you ever really need. And there’s really no need for lube. The vagina is, in a way, a self-cleaning oven, in that it doesn’t need all those chemicals to get things cooking.

I am Lois Lane and I approve this message.