‘True Blood’: Who’s Doing Who, A Brief Guide to Paranormal Sexual Mash-ups

If you are a remotely intelligent person who dabbles in sleazier affairs then you probably know that HBO’s ‘True Blood’ is back on the air.

Now, Alan Ball is a brilliant, brilliant man. Because when he started this Trash-O-Rama of hot paranormals banging the living hell out of one another, he stacked the cast with insanely beautiful people pretty much across the board. There is something for everyone in the ‘True Blood’–women, men, the gays, lesbians, furries, you name it, it’s got it in sweaty, oiled-up HD. Everyone is half naked and whacked out on something during ‘True Blood,’ which makes it like the best gay bar ever come to life in your very own fucking living room every Sunday night.

Hats off to Alan Ball and crew.

That said, I figured a little revisiting Who’s Doing Who (or is it Whom? Who cares?) and then some added Mind-Blowing Pairings thrown in for good measure. Because like any good orgy, ‘True Blood’ ain’t going down until everyone has practically gone down on everybody else.

Let’s go:

Sam and that hot shape-shifter chick, Luna. They met last season, part of Sam’s shape-shifter support group. When they got buck nekkid to go running through the woods like the Wild Stallions we know they are, well, we were a little impressed that Sam was actually going to score with someone pretty damn hot. The downside? She used to do a werewolf.

woof. woof.

Sam’s Mind-Blowing Pairing: Sookie. Bon Temps’ least-favorite waitress finally throws her drooling boss the pity fuck he’s been dying for.

Alcide and Eric Northman. If buff wolfman Alcide is going to be a bitch for anyone, it’s going to be for Eric Northman, Viking Stud, Fairy Fucker, All-Around Badass. If these two got naked and started rubbing their parts together my mind would literally fucking explode because it would not be able to handle the hotness.  The only question is would Eric ever let Alcide be Alpha Dog once in a while and go top? Oh, the sexual puns! They just keep writing themselves!

This plus...

This! Get outta the way, Sookie, you ruinin' my fantasy!

Eric’s Mind-Blowing Pairing: Bill Compton. I find Bill so incredibly boring that it would take an Eric fuck-over to breathe any life into this piece of walking dead.

Jessica and Jason. I’ve never been a huge Jason Stackhouse fan, but man, do they write some hilarious lines for this uber-stud with an IQ of a tit mouse (“Santa?” anyone?). Stackhouse is known for taking his shirt off, drinking beer, taking his shirt off, and screwing the ladies. A lot. And he seems pretty good at it actually, even though he’s probably like only Tom Cruise-sized in real life. Jason started banging his BFF’s hottie, Jessica, who is pretty damn sizzling hot as far as the show’s chicks go. Jason inspired one of the best lines last season by Sheriff Andy Bellefleur, “conscience off, dick on!”

In the back of a pick-up truck, oh yeah! This show just gets trashier and trashier...

 Jason’s Mind-blowing Pairing: Andy Bellefleur.

Pam and that ‘Law & Order: SVU’ dude. I’ve never liked Christopher Meloni, the latest cast member to join ‘True Blood’ as part of The Authority. I think it’s just that he has that whole asshole cop look to him. Perhaps that’s why they cast him as part of The Authority. And that is why I want Pam to eat his face off.

No one wants you here. Seriously. Get out of my show.

And ‘True Blood’ characters we never, ever want to see do it. Hoyt’s mom. Russell Edgington. Tara (again). No one cares what happens with Tara. And please, no more Andy Bellefleur ass shots.

They Used To Do It

Are you ever just kicking it down the street, minding your own sweet bizness, drinking your coffee, bopping along to Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam then get a shot of a memory and go, “I used to fuck that guy?”

Yeah, me too.

The other night, I was re-watching Chasing Amy—ah, the ’90s, Jason Lee had hair, you could smoke in bars, haircuts, makeup and shoes were flat and clunky—and I saw Ben Affleck in all his pre-Oscar glory. And I thought, “Wow, that guy’s been through the ringer…he used to date J-Lo for fuck’s sake.”

And so, I present a list of celebs who Used To Do It. Ready for this walk down memory lane? Let’s go!

• Let’s start with Bennifer—quite possibly the worst celeb hook-up/mash-up name of all time. Amid a frenzy circa the early ’oughts, somehow the world’s flattest, most boring white man (other than Tiger Woods) found America’s Rom-Com Sweetheart Who Isn’t White and they became a Power Celebrity Couple. Despite J-Lo’s damaged-goods status coming off a Puff Daddy/P. Diddy/Sean Dildo relationship, it was all a go—until Affleck got busted for going to a Vancouver “all-nude” strip club. It was about this same time that I came across one Mr. Ex J-Lo, Cris Judd, stood across from him and literally thought, “What’d she see in him? I wouldn’t fuck him.” There’s a Gigli joke in here somewhere. I’m just too lazy to write it.

ben affleck and jennifer lopez

'My Love Don't Cost a Thing' except a big-ass engagement ring.

• Sean Penn and Madonna. Holy cow, where do I start? In the midst of the ’80s Hollywood and Pop Music scene it was only a matter of time until these two scorching hot, blonde egomaniacs found one another. I remember as a wee lass watching SNL when Madonna hosted as she explained the media frenzy surrounding their nuptials, which were held on some sort of cliff somewhere, and she kept making not-funny potato salad jokes. Directors everywhere should have heeded this message—the woman cannot act, and even I, as a sheltered child, realized that this episode of SNL would not be funny. Penn and Madonna made it a whole four years before splitsville because apparently Penn is a wife-beater? WTF, Sean! And now you’re banging someone half your age in Scar-Jo? And I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that Madonna once fucked Prince during the ’80s—that shit blows my mind.

sean penn madonna

No bad touch, Sean, no bad touch.

• Before she was Brangelina or Hot Milf Numero Uno, Angelina Jolie was having allegedly drugged-up, alcoholic sex with her fellow blood-locket-wearing beau, Billy Bob. Now, this was a relationship I actually got. Sure, Billy Bob’s creepy in that blue-collar mechanic you need to stop by the shop after-hours so I can touch your tailpipe way, but he was hot. Sorry. I know I gots my tastes, and they may not run similar to yours, but there you have it.

angelina jolie and billy bob thornton

'We did it in the limo on the way over.' Remember that one? Memories.

• As long as we’re on it, let’s go Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow—can you imagine two more perfect, statuesque, blindingly beautiful people doing it? Neither can I.

gwyneth paltrow and brad pitt

That whole brother-sister banging in 'Game of Thrones' is beginning to make more sense to me.

• Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears…Oh, baby. You know when you write an entire fucking hit album based off telling your Ex off—and definitely calling her out on her whole virginity scam—that is one scorned loverman. The thing that gets me about this coupling is that it was Britney who cheated on Justin. Yep, guess who won?

justine timberlake and britney spears

I'm surprised anyone fucked these two after these outfits.

• Kim Kardashian and Ray J. So, back when I still got free porn, I got the Vivid video of Ray J banging Ms. Kim K. It sat on my floor for weeks, until one particular Sunday evening, after a few six-packs, greasy Thai food and chronic, my two female roommates and I put it into the VCR (VCRs! Again, how ’90s!) to behold the Most Boring Porn of All Time After One Night in Paris. Mesmerized by watching K’s large bottom go up and down, up and down, up and down, jiggling, jiggling, jiggling, our male roommate walked in to us three, stoned out of our minds, sitting in a row on the couch. “Huh, what’s up, guys?” he stammered. After that video, Kim Kardashian’s career indeed.

kim kardashian and ray j

OMFG, totally did not remember that THIS happened.

• Hugh Hefner and Crystal Harris. Well, actually, I’m willing to bet money that they never actually did it, but what the fuck. I need the trending Google search hits.

hugh hefner and crystal

Oh, lord.

• Anthony Weiner and his super-smoking, whip-smart wife Huma Abedin. They used to do it…I’m guessing no more.

anthony weiner

Stroke me, stroke me!

Carpe Diem, Motherfuckers (The Rick James Lesson)

I have very few regrets in life. Seriously, even most of the shit stuff had to happen to teach me a lesson. However, I have one regret so great, so haunting, that I have to write about it now to share my one of my biggest shames.

I didn’t go see Rick James play when I had the chance.

Now, of all the regrets—shitty decisions, shittier boyfriends, bad behavior, substance abuse, on and on—why would I choose this? Because every single fucking time I hear Rick James, especially “Super Freak,” I am tormented just a little more, with the pangs of that once-in-a-lifetime chance gone, vanished, like the sands of the hourglass.

Here’s the deal. I had a very large freeloading roommate in Vegas. You know when you need a roommate so badly—and one of your friends needs a place to crash—that you think it will be a totally awesome fix to have them move in and give you some cash in exchange for a bedroom for a few months? Yeah, it’s a bad idea.

Anyway, large, freeloading roommate promptly moved in, doubled the costs of my electric bill since he left everything on all the time (hey, electricity coming from California during the whole energy crisis/brownout time ain’t cheap) and started eating my food. Here’s another life lesson: Don’t live with a roommate who’s bigger than you are—they will eat your food and they will eat way more than you do. I’d go to the store and spend $200 on groceries and it would be fucking gone almost all gone two days later. Two days! Christ.

But I digress. Large roommate was unemployed and had few prospects, but I felt guilty so I would take him to shows, events, etc., that I was attending for my media job. Usually I could get him in for free, but drinks ain’t cheap, and I’d usually feel guilted into buying him a couple drinks, even food, etc. The fact that he was bleeding me dry at home—and then I was paying an extra $100-plus a night to let him tag along—was killing me. I mean, I had just kicked out my Grown Man Baby boyfriend for the exact same thing. I was tired of taking care of these fucking men.

And, so, when a musician friend scored a gig Opening for Rick James at an AVN Awards Party—and freeloader expressed a huge desire to go to said gig—I, who had promptly had enough of it, said, “Nope, not gonna go” ’cause I thought I was making a stand.

What a dumb fucking mistake.

See, not only did I sit home and do nothing, but practically everyone I knew went to that show, including my boyfriend at the time who came home and gave me the rundown. You know how you skip going out and then the next day, someone says, “It was the greatest party of all time! Monkeys served us champagne! Pony rides! Hugh Hefner was handing out $100 bills, and then the Playboy playmates did a striptease and started making out! Free drugs and booze!”

Um, yeah, it was like that.

“That was the greatest show of all time!” My drunk boyfriend told me when he came staggering over later. “We were backstage, hanging out with Rick James and all the porn stars, and then at one point, he invited us to come onstage and sing ‘Super Freak’ with him! And we were dancing with porn stars!”

Now, any girlfriend might be pissed that their boyfriend was dancing with porn stars and singing “Super Freak.” Not me. I was pissed that I wasn’t there dancing with porn stars and singing “Super Freak” with Rick James.

rick james

And now he's dead.

And, ladies and gentlemen, that is my greatest regret in life. What’s yours?

Places that Suck More to Date in than NYC

When considering leaving NYC, I thought, damn, there are a lot of East Coast cities I haven’t ever visited or visited in a while with a valid I.D.

Granted the Eastern Seaboard is filled with a plethora of American delights—you have the overt racism and fucking boring-as-all-get-out Boston (and what the fuck is with all the Irish people? It’s like they get off the airplane and go, “I can go ANYWHERE in America…Let’s go to Boston first!” You’d think one of them would spread the word already.); Philly, which is really just the Jersey Shore with fattier sandwiches; Baltimore, and let’s get real, we all saw The Wire, ain’t no one wanting to live in Baltimore; New York and all it’s in-your-face we’re-better-than-you New Yorkiness; and then D.C.

Fucking D.C. Where do I begin?

Now, the Eastern Seaboard in general is insanely tough for dating—everyone works all the time to afford the ridiculous standard of living—i.e. their 300-square-foot studio that’s $1,400 a month—and when they’re not working in their stupid industry of choice (Politics, Media, Finance), they’re out hitting the bars or their co-ed softball league or dog park to get laid.

In general, what the average relationship lifecycle spans through in three dates or so in ’Mer-Kuh gets crammed into about a four-hour night here in NYC. No one has time to learn your childhood regrets and fears. No one gives a shit about what you really wanted to major in in college. It’s get on that dick, get off and if you can remotely stand to look at each other the next morning over the Sunday Times Book section, then you got a shot in hell at a relationship.

That is, if the person you just fucked doesn’t express his desire to fuck your roommate over toast and eggs.

But at least NYC is NYC—it is the top, sorry guys, of the Eastern Seaboard cities. At least if you’re not getting laid, you can eat fantastic food, and go to museums and see fantastic art, and go to parks and see free music and immerse yourself in a truly international city. And, yes, I just said it, we’re better than you. And, yes, I know I’m a hypocrite.

But back to our neighbor to the South. Apparently, D.C., is an even tougher dating market than NYC. This I could hardly believe, but this article sums it up nicely.

Christy, you see, has some advice for Washington, D.C., women—leave. Apparently, she’s moved on to greener pastures of Pasadena, Calif., where she’s swimming in dick, we presume.

The article by Bloomberg News, which means it represents only the highest, most unbiased and truthfulness of all news organizations run by multibillionaire midgets, states that there are 112 women for every 100 men in D.C. And when you account for the gays (which these studies never do) you gotta take that down a smidgen. And I thought women in New York, where it’s been rumored there are as many as three women for every single guy (again, the gays skew that in the guys’ favor even more—love you, gays, but you’re fucking up my odds), have it bad.

So what’s a girl in the Junior Republican League to do? Go speed-dating, I guess. Or go hang out on U Street where you can meet prizes like this:

“Dating, in general, is pretty much ours to lose,” Subramarian, who has lived in New York, Seoul and Shanghai, said while scanning patrons at a bar on U Street, a popular strip for people his age. “It’s trial and error for pickup lines.”

While some doucebag with a micropenis is asking you if you like his $15,000 watch or negging you by telling you that one of your boobs is slightly bigger than the other but “still nice-sized,” you can look around the bar in D.C. and see your options. And let me tell you, I was just down there, and I didn’t see any. The Talent was severely lacking. It was like American U Beer Pong Leagues, little, angry Republicans running on the Mall and then a couple stoner hippies who seemed way too tired or disoriented to even care about something as remotely demanding as sex.

The article actually has the balls to end with a woman moving to NYC where she hooked up with her “musician” boyfriend on the LES and managed to have a relationship. I say this is just bad journalism. Next to no one meets a significant other in NYC—and if they tell you they do, they are either A) Lying or B) stuck in that relationship because they fucked everyone else in their respective scenes, gave each other herpes and now can find no one else to fuck. Fairy Tale of New York. The End.

But don’t fret, ladies, as Bloomberg article says, if you really want to get laid, you better leave the lower 48 and head to Alaska, where, as a friend once told me, “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”

Fucked-Up Shit: Orgies in Vegas (Part One, Definitely NSFW.)

Recently, a friend from Vegas visited NYC and regaled me with a tale the likes of which I haven’t heard for quite a while. See, he’s a musician and was hired to play this huge birthday party that ran well into the six figures that Caesar’s was throwing for some Japanese whale. No, not the fat, blubbery kind. The obscenely rich kind.

Anyway, the dude was like two hours late to this gallant affair that Usher and the Pussycat Dolls and other such celebs-for-hire were whored out to. Why? Because he spent the earlier hours of his birthday drinking. With Paris Hilton. By the pool. The two dingbats were taking bottles of Cristal and shaking them up and poring them all over themselves and the ground. Tens of thousands of dollars of champagne. Apparently some of that made it into the whale’s mouth, cause he was too drunk to make his own party on time. (FYI, who chooses to spend their birthday with Paris Hilton?)

See, that is fucked-up shit. As much as I hate hearing about rich people throwing the equivalent of a few dozen schools and healthcare for a few hundred people in Haiti or Somalia or similar on the ground, I love hearing about fucked-up shit. And man, have I missed being witness to some fucked-up shit.

So, here’s my most favorite fucked-up shit of all time.

A few years ago, when I was a reporter in Vegas, I was following this high-roller group of swingers. Now, these were not your ordinary, HBO After Dark, middle-aged, saggy, hippie, Burning Man, Free Love types of swingers.

Low Rent Orgy

Low rent orgy.

No, these swingers had money. And were attractive. And they only wanted to fuck other swingers who had money and were attractive. In short, it was like a very exclusive club for only beautiful, wealthy people. Like Posh and Becks invited you over for a pool party.

I spent about six months following the parties’ organizers. They would throw these really lavish affairs at different restaurants and casinos—with champagne and lovely food and fashion shows and the works. Then the rich people would meet other rich people at the parties and go fuck each other in their hotel suites.

High Rent Orgy

High rent orgy.

I knew that my little story on the swingers would not be complete until I witnessed one of these after-hours parties. It took some convincing and some time, but I finally got my shot.

In late July, there’s a main swingers convention in Vegas, and the high rollers were there to “recruit” or be on the lookout for other attractive, wealthy folks to fuck. After a few hours at the Tropicana’s swing-trash fest, the lady, let’s call her Jess, who I’d been following, turns to me and says, “You should come to the party tonight.”

Her husband looks at her like she’s crazy. Let a reporter into an after-party? “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jess was pretty adamant I go. “Oh, no, it’ll be totally fine.”

And so, we left the Tropicana, which is a pretty sleazy hotel and headed to Caesars, where some so-called rich dude was throwing an after-party en suite. Imagine this: five people wedged into an Audi sportscar with an almost nonexistent back seat, two chicks crammed in the back, changing into their Swinger Wear—which was basically nonexistent lingerie—thongs, bras, garters and such.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

We arrive at Caesars on a Saturday night and the place is packed with gamblers—as we stroll through the main casino floor, everyone is staring at us. No wonder. These chicks are practically naked. Some guy goes, “What’s up with those people?” The dealer deadpans, “There’s a swingers’ convention in town.”

Waiting at the VIP elevators—not the regular elevators, mind you, that take regular folks up to their regular hotel rooms—the host is introduced to us. Apparently, he’s got a thing for Jess. He also looks and talks like Andy Warhol. Let’s just call him Andy for that reason.

“How’re you doing at the tables tonight?” someone asks Andy.

“I was up $1.2 million last night,” he says. “I’m down $400,000 tonight.”

He’s massaging a handful of $5,000 chips in his hand, which I am pretty handily eyeballing. See, I’m pretty fucking broke. I figure, he’s drunk, he’s not paying attention, and he’s gonna drop one of those chips—which can pay my rent for six months.

Then Andy turns to Jess. “I want to fuck you.” She laughs.

So we get up to the suite. This is a suite. A couple thousand square feet. Top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Strip. Four bedrooms, a study, a living area, a kitchen, two bathrooms—and an open bar staffed by Mexicans. And man, those Mexicans kept their eyes glued to the ceiling the entire time. And a bouncer at the door.

Right after we walk in, this tanned, muscled-up chick comes up to Jess. I think she’s a body builder? “Hey, doll, how’re you doing?” she says, then lifts up what little skirt Jess is wearing and plants a big kiss right on her pussy. Seriously, this is her standard greeting. “Nice wax job.”

Now, I hadn’t eaten anything all night. Neither had Jess. And we figured there’d be some kind of food at this party. Nada. Nothing. However, a friend of Jess’ brings in a tray of muffins for her. “Very special muffins.” Starving, I scarf down two of them. I think you know where we’re headed here.

Things get off to a fairly slow start, but then people start getting real friendly. One minute you’re unknowingly scarfing down a pot muffin, the next, there’s an oiled-up threeway, like three greased pigs rolling around, on the leather sofa right next to you.

Jess and her husband swing exclusively with this other couple, let’s just call him Dr. San Fran and his wife, some biochemist. Dr. San Fran is hotter than shit, and I know that he’s considered somewhat of a boyfriend to Jess. So Dr. San Fran comes up to me and starts hitting on me. Now, I hadn’t participated, nor planned on participating, in any of these shenanigans, but sometimes when a hot, shirtless doctor comes up to you in a Hotel Suite at Caesars Palace and wants to kiss you in front of his girlfriend, well, you just gotta let him.

The night quickly becomes blurry—thanks pot muffins! Open bar!—and folks are really splintering off to get down to business. I realize at one point that everyone is off fucking or something, and I am sitting all alone on the couch. So, I decided to take a walk. And see what I can lift in the process. As I wander around the suite, picking up cigarettes, lighters, and Aveda body products courtesy of Caesars hospitality, I peak into the bedrooms. And let me tell you, watching swarthy, tanned, bored rich people fuck is … boring.

When a friend asked me to recap the next day, I said, “It was like being in a porno with an open bar.” Everyone’s physical appearance was unnatural, everyone was waxed within an inch of their lives, and everyone looked bored as they pounded away. And all that groaning and moaning sounded so fake. Plus, let’s just say I didn’t see a lot of condoms being used. Yucky.

Anyway, at some point Dr. San Fran and Jess come out, and we’re hanging. “Let’s go get some champagne,” someone suggests, so we go into the kitchen and there are cases of the stuff. Drinking champagne at an orgy at 4 a.m.! Who knew? Then Dr. San Fran’s wife comes running into the kitchen, “Hey, guys, do you wanna watch me fuck this guy?”

We all look at each other, shrug, “Why not?” and follow her into the bedroom.

All told, you can only watch people fuck each other for so long. I wanted to go home. I was lying in the living room on some chaise lounge, drinking champagne, watching the sun come up–the best part of the night, really–when some trashy-looking chick climbs on top of me and starts licking me. While the guy she came to the party with is intently watching us from some chair.

Now, I’m lying there thinking, “Should I just go with it.” Then I’m like, uh, no.

“I’m sorry, you’re attractive and all, but I’m not into it.” I tell her.

“Of course you’re not, Reporter!” she spats at me.

“How’d you know that?” I ask her.

“Who else would come to this party dressed like this?” she says, indicating that, unlike every other woman there, I am still clothed.

She gets off me. I finally find Jess and am like, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

While waiting for my party to get rounded up, the chick’s husband comes up to me. “So, what are you going to write about this?”

“I don’t know, just what it is,” I say, crushing out a cigarette.

“Well,” he says, getting real menacing-like. “I hope you treat it right.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He doesn’t answer. My posse finally rolls up, and we pile into the Audi. Dr. San Fran is driving me home, I am crammed in the middle of the two front-seats—no seat-belt, of course—when some drunk driver, swear to God, swerves at us on Sunset Blvd. south of the Strip. I can imagine the Clark Co. coroner telling my parents how I died, “Well, she was in an Audi with a bunch of swingers at 7 a.m. with no bra on.”

All told, my swingers experience was quite fun—silly, ridiculous—fun. But also quite sad. I think every couple I met was divorcing a year later. It was really the last bastion of party-going for them—the “we’re rich, bored, have everything and nothing thrills us” anymore. Let’s just say, there was more dead-eyed fucking than a Kim Kardashian porn.

And that is some fucked-up shit.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to buy vibrators from lesbians

One of my fondest, most magical memories involves interviewing a porn star.

I was on assignment in Las Vegas for our Sex Issue—something I got saddled with quite a bit since I was the only single person on staff. Anyway, I drove to some nondescript strip-mall/warehouse in the middle of nowhere to interview Serenity, who at the time was on contract with Wicked Pictures. At the end of our interview, she turns to me and goes, “So, you want some toys before you go?”

Did I!

So, Serenity, who was actually a very smart business lady who started her own toy company because she knew that she couldn’t be in pornos forever and she didn’t like most sex toys “because they’re made by men, for women, and they have no idea what we want…” took me into her warehouse. And let me tell you—you know that scene in Willy Wonka, where the kids get to literally go into the candy factory and see all the chocolate and wonderful sugary goodness and Oompa Loompas? It was just fucking like that, only with dildos and vibrators and Mexicans.

Serenity grabbed a couple cardboard boxes and took me around. “Do you want a 6-incher or 8-incher? Most women prefer six, but the eight is like a rocket-ship ride.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I said. “I better have the bigger one.”

“You better have both,” she said. And so, that little Wicked angel filled cardboard boxes with dozens of awesome sex toys. And promised to send me her videos since she didn’t have those in-house. I took those boxes back to my office, dumped ‘em out on my desk and set aside the shit I wanted—and gave the rest away to co-workers and friends.

Now, that stash has lasted me a long time. One by one, I’ve blown through those vibrators. And I’ve been down to the last one—a real trooper and my favorite—Pink Sparkly, for a few years now. In fact, I like Pink Sparkly so much that when its battery pack/remote control fell apart a few years ago, I duct-taped it back together.

However, last summer, I realized that its last days were pretty imminent. And as I actually had some extra scratch, I decided that it was time for a vibrator upgrade. And, as I didn’t want to wait around for my new vibrator, I decided to go to Babeland in Park Slope. Fuck it, I was in the neighborhood and figured I could get a quick sex toy fix.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

First off, I go into the store. I know what I want. And, whilst buying sex toys, etc., this is no time to be a shrinking violet. It’s like buying a car—you’re intimidated, you may not know exactly which model you’re getting, and you know you’re gonna spend way too much money on something that’s immediately gonna lose about 80 percent of its value once you drive it off the lot—but you gotta remain confident.

So the tatted-up lesbian store clerk approaches me.

“Yes,” I say. “I want a waterproof vibrator—not a dildo—that’s big and thick.”

She looks at me really strangely. “Well, we have these wonderful, waterproof mini-vibes over here…you can hold them underwater!” She gestures to a rack of teeny-tiny, maybe two- to three-inch plastic things—seriously, they look like suckers the fucking doctor gives you after a flu shot.

“Um, no,” I say. “It has to be bigger than that. I need something big.”

She looks really confused and frustrated with me. “Are you sure? Because many women enjoy these excellent, smaller toys…”

Now, don’t start that whole “it’s not the size, it’s the motion in the ocean” argument with me. I know that some women are very satisfied with men who are, um, less than endowed. I am not one of these women. I never have been and never will be. Do not fucking argue with me on this point.

I keep telling her no, no, no to the small shit and she keeps trying to sell me tiny things! I’m not exactly sure why the lesbian is trying to sell me on the idea that putting a glorified fucking finger puppet to my crotch is going to satisfy me, and I’m really getting annoyed. No offense, lesbians, but when a woman says she wants serious dick, she wants serious dick—not clit rockets, buzzers, or magic butterflies you put over your pussy. If I ever need to buy a strap-on, you’ll be the first I consult with. But do not question the fact that I am a Size Queen and that when I say that I do not want any vibrator smaller than a very large penis, trust me, I mean it.

I promptly tell her to quit wasting my time. “I’m a Size Queen,” I tell her. “There’s no way this is going to be staple of my repertoire. Show me the serious shit.”

So, in this so-called dildo store, they had all of three vibrators larger than six inches. Three. In the entire store. And they were all variations of the same vibrator made by the same company.

“These are German, and they’re, um, really good,” she says, I believe she’s kinda terrified of me now. “Um, it’s got lots of speeds and it’s real easy to adjust…like this…”

“Great, I’ll take the purple one.”

Now, vibes ain’t cheap. So after I slap down $70 plus tax for this hunk of silicone, I take it home with the knowledge that at least I’m gonna have a back-up or a friend for Pink Sparkly.

I get home and load it with batteries. All those awesome adjustments she showed me on the store’s model? Yeah, that’s bullshit. They don’t work—the adjustment button is insanely hard to press down on to change speeds. I mean, I’m literally leaning on this thing, putting all my body weight on it, practically breaking my thumbs, and it still won’t work. So, I’m stuck with one speed, essentially, the burn your clit off speed.

Now, I’m pissed. I spent $70 on this fucking thing? I’m taking it back.

There probably isn’t a more humiliating experience than returning a vibrator. But I would not be dissuaded. I spent good money on this cheap piece of shit, and where was this superior German engineering I was promised?

I take it back. “The speeds don’t work, I can barely push that button, it’s so hard,” I say. A different lesbian pulls out a rubber surgical glove, grabs my vibrator and starts trying to put it through its paces. After a few minutes of us standing there over my vibe, she goes, “Um, yeah, it’s not working. Pick out another one.”

So I pick out another one. And take it home. And it’s the same fucking shit. Still doesn’t adjust properly. But by this time I’ve had it. “I can’t keep taking vibrators back! This is consuming my life! Consuming. My. Life.” So, I just let the batteries run down a bit. Then it was sorta OK.

After this experience I realized many things: One, don’t buy vibrators from stores that are predominately used by lesbians and soccer moms—they won’t have a decent selection of shit for women who demand decent-sized dick. Two, order your sex goods from online (Good Vibrations is pretty awesome)—you get a better selection, cheaper prices and to keep your dignity. And three? Fuck, I wish I had my old job back, where I could go and visit a porn star, and she would just hook me up with that shit for free. And not question the fact that sometimes, a woman just needs eight fucking inches of Pink Sparkles.

Dicks Gone Wild!

It’s everywhere you go these days—the Internets, the newspapers, the cable-news networks, the subways. It’s dicks. And they’re inescapable. And like the many, many citations to that now-infamous Keith Richards quote about Mick Jagger’s dick being a “tiny todger,” the onslaught and build-up of sausage, penis, dicks has taken over the forefront of my brain, and I can’t take it anymore.

I gotta purge. So saddle up and enjoy the ride. (There ain’t no pics in this one. I like you guys too much for that.)

Now, I hate football, but I’ve been meaning to write about this here Brett Favre dick scandal over the past month or so. I’ve ignored it for the most part—hell, I hadn’t even seen Favre’s so-called cell penis pics until today—but I got the lowdown over at Deadspin. Favre leaves a bunch of really, really desperate messages on this cute Jersey girl’s phone, “Uh, I’m back at the hotel and….just chill…I’d love to have you come over tonight.” This guy sounds more desperate than a chubby Jo-Bros fan-club leader trying to score a date for her junior prom. Fuck, dude, you’re a Super Bowl Champ and Wrangler spokesman! Have some fucking cajones for fuck’s sake.

Well, we get to see Favre’s cajones. And let me tell you when those dick shots came on the screen, I was like, “Whoa! Yep, that’s some fucking dick!” And, much like was disclosed on Bill Mayer a few weeks back, let me reiterate for any of you gents out there who think sending a penis pic to any woman is a good idea—No Woman In The History of The World Wants to See a Picture of Your Dick. Now, I love me some dick, but I like it when it’s there explicitly and totally at attention for my personal purposes. And by that, I mean I only like dick when it’s hard and ready to fuck. Are we done fucking? Are you flaccid? Get the fuck out of my face.

However, I will say that I was somewhat impressed by the flaccid Favre. I’d say there’s potential there. He’s a grower, probably a seven-incher.

Moving on.

Wifey Deanna, showed up on “Good Morning America” to peddle her Jebus book and said about the whole shindig, “I’m a woman of faith…It will get me through this one.” Ha. Lady, you have won the fucking wifey lotto. What you need to do is get a D-I-V-O-R-C-E, then parlay all that cash and fuckability into Green Bay Packers fuckfest. Every fucking fan would want a piece of Favre’s woman. Also, according to one of my favorite porn sites, did you know that MILF porn is the top category in all porn? Use it, or lose it.

Kanye. Kanye, Kanye, Kanye. I like you. I’ve always liked you. You’re such a loudmouth dickhead. Even when you dissed American Sweetheart Taylor Swift, I thought it was kinda funny. I’m not surprised there’s a picture of your dick online—hell, I’m just surprised it didn’t show up sooner, write a hit mash-up with Jamie Foxx, and score a Smirnoff Ice commercial. It’s all right as far as dicks go, but your pubes could use a trim.

Oh, and also I love the fact that your dick showed up right around George W.’s book release and his saddest moment in all of his incredibly devoid, depressing, depraved eight years as president—when you said during that Katrina marathon that “George Bush doesn’t care about black people.” Ha! F-U, W!

So, dicks of the world? Let’s take a little break this November, shall we? Let’s let the boobs have the spotlight back. I mean, they’re much, much nicer to look at.

According to TV, being part of a couple sucks.

You know, a lot of folks sit and whine and wonder about how much better life would be if they were coupled up—you know antiquing! Brunching! Lying on a blanket in the park, making out! Yippers. It’s enough to drive any sane-minded person to sign up for a three-day trial account on eHarmony.

Well, fuck that. Watching TV today, I realized something with the onslaught of commercials, TV shows, etc., that all—each and every one!—explore the drudgeries of coupledom. Grab your KY His and Hers, kids. Like a late-night rendezvous with Charlie Sheen, this ain’t gonna go down easy.

Reasons why being a Couple Might Suck:

1. You know each other’s bowel schedules. Seriously. This is just way too close for comfort. I don’t give a fuck if you’re constipated, have diarrhea or need to a jack your colon up with some of that Jamie Lee Curtis-peddled probiotic shit, stat, I need not know about it. Just light a fucking match.

2. You, the Little Woman, get stuck doing Everything. I swear if I see more Swiffer, Mr. Clean or Febreze commercial where the chicks are sitting around and practically orgasming off a new product while their husbands are probably off playing golf, I’m gonna fucking puke.

3. P.S. Golf is fucking bullshit.

4. Need to trick your dipshit family into eating decent food, i.e. vegetables, with sugar-packed, disgusting spaghetti sauce? Is that your biggest thrill all day? Get yerself to a dildo store pronto, Prego lady.

5. You’re a man. You know how to handle situations, like driving your vintage muscle car that you bought during your midlife crisis of ’93 when your pubes started to go gray. Thank god there’s a boner pill that’s as unique as you.

6. Are you a superhot woman married to a disgusting pig of a husband (i.e. Jim Belushi, that fat fuck from “King of Queens,”) like every CBS/ABC sitcom made between 1992 and now? Too fucking bad, lady. That’s the way of the world. Now get under those covers and get ready to play Dutch Oven: The Return!

7. Did your partner make some frozen Barilla bullshit from a bag instead of taking you out to dinner? Haha. Ain’t so fucking great is it?

8. Does your wife get made at you when you bring a barbecue sandwich home and eat it and stain her dining-room tablecloth? Maybe, my friend, you need to find your balls.

9. Do you like your warm Betty Crocker brownie mix from the microwave more than sex? Yep, your life might suck a little.

10. The new Snuggies are here! The new Snuggies are here! Do you both own one?

Guest Post: Ladies, Please Don’t Do These Things on the Internets

I really hate to fan the flames of the He v. She debate, but I’m on a plane, bored, and I can’t afford anything in the Sky Mall catalog. Plus, I’m being forced to do this. (Ed. note: No, he’s not.)

1. Don’t say “I’m unsure about this whole Internet dating thing.” Good lord. Do you think there are little people in your TV putting on plays?

2. Your introductory message should not be “Just wanted to say hi!” Oh. Ok, then. You did that. It’s like getting an IM from your mother in a pink script font.

3. Don’t lie about your age, even if you explain why you did it in your profile. Unless you’re really looking forward to that awkward moment when you’re asked: “Why did you do that?” How’s that relationship built on trust starting out for you?

4. Don’t say you “love to laugh.” It’s like a guy saying “I like to take long shits.” This is a universal truth. Really? You love to laugh? Well, I fucking hate to laugh. I much prefer drawn-out bouts of petty arguing ending in slammed doors and the silent treatment.

5. Don’t write a paragraph (or two) that says that it’s difficult to sum yourself up in a paragraph. Guess what? It’s not. It may be fun to tell people you’re amalgam of paradoxes, but all that says is you’re pain the ass. I’m an atheistic pragmatic humanist. Do with that what you will, but you didn’t have to suffer through an entire paragraph to learn little except that I just looooove the Boston Red Sox. And to laugh!

6. Don’t say you’re just as comfortable in a dive bar as you are a fancy restaurant. Either pick the douchey finance guy or the starving artist/manchild who doesn’t bathe and wants to go dutch or always “forgets” his wallet. You can’t have it all.

7. Don’t list “Neutral Milk Hotel” as one of the bands you listen to. Really? Please. Nobody’s buying it. If that’s in regular rotation in your playlist, either (1) you’re lying, or (2) you’re totally lying. Reminds me of the time in college I tried to impress a girl by telling her I listened to Fugazi. Didn’t take her two seconds to call bullshit. I should have just been honest and said I was a Toad the Wet Sprocket-listening pussy.

8. If it’s OK for women to say “no one under 5’10” please,” then it’s OK for men to say “I humbly request to not be contacted by anyone with a Body Mass Index of over 20.” Sound absurd? I don’t begrudge anyone their preference, but this really gets on my tits, because I’m 5’8″, and I’ve been ruled out as a potential date by girls 3 inches shorter than me who need me to be taller than them on the rare occasion they wear 4-inch heels. It’s like not wanting to date girls over 4′ 10″ because I like to spontaneously break into a duck walk when the mood strikes.

9. Don’t say you want “someone who will call me on my shit.” Translation: “If you let me, I will peck and peck and peck you until you are a soggy, weeping shell of a man.”

10. Don’t post gratuitous cleavage and then say “friends first.” This is cognitive dissonance our Neanderthal brains can’t process. I just saw 75 percent of your breasts. We’re at second base already.

Roommate Jim

(Ed. note: I have violated at least three of these rules.)

Hey, Fellas, Please Don’t Do These Things on the Internets

This was in my Ok Cupid inbox. The one I haven’t checked for the entire month of August:

Hello potential girlfriend! I truly enjoyed reading your profile, you sound honest and genuine thats truly sexy in my book! It doesn’t hurt that you are gorgeous as well. I’m wondering if you might like to get to know one another over dinner or drinks this week sometime? Or brunch and a bike ride? Our possibilities are endless! Regardless I’m anticipating hearing from you soon.

Once I stopped laughing from the line “Hello potential girlfriend!” (and I laughed a long, long time) I marveled at this approach, the general cover letter approach. You just know this guy mustered these paltry 50 some words together and just fires it out at about 80 chicks per night, blanketing the Internets looking for “potential girlfriends.”

Online dating. I’ve decide to quit because I have never had a relationship develop from an online date. Also, combing the Internets for ass is taking away the one basic thing I pride myself on—completely sizing up and profiling other people in under 15 seconds.

Also, this article came out today in the NY Post on online dating, including this factoid: “Women’s desirability peaks age 21.”

Or, as Patton Oswalt says in his comedy routine, “Werewolves and Lollipops,” about turning 19: “Ah, it’s kinda wistful…41-year-old guys don’t want to fuck you anymore, ladies, it’s all downhill.”

But, fellas, if search for potential girlfriends, or troll for supplemental ass online, you must, here are some tips:

1. Don’t post a picture of your dick. Or your naked, headless body so we can marvel at your awesome pecs. Just put your junk away.

2. Don’t use exclamation points.

3. Same goes with emoticons, LOL-ing or anything that could be considered cloying or cute.

4. Unless you’re on Adult Friend Finder, don’t make explicit references to putting your body parts in someone else’s space while planning a date.*

5. I think this goes without saying, but don’t use a pic that has you 10 years younger/50 pounds lighter, then show up and not be those things. That sucks.

6. Don’t say you’re bisexual, dig Lady Gaga and expect a straight girl to take you seriously.

7. Bring her any sort of art and/or craft and/or pillow that you have stitched/glued together specifically for her. On your first date.**

8. Don’t be the creepy married/committed guy with no profile pic who IMs.

9. Don’t say you’re in a “creative” profession and make under $30K. Even if you do.

10. As long as we’re on that topic, don’t say that you’re an actor/musician/artist unless you actually make a feasible living doing these things.

11. Don’t work in hedge funds. (Translation: asshole at best; serial killer at worst)

12. Don’t be gay and masquerading as a straight man online. (Born-again Christians, I’m looking at you.)***

* I texted a guy about going out: “Let’s hang out, get a beer, or a sandwich. Or a beer and a sandwich.” He texted back: “haha, as long as I get to eat you.”
** Some guy, who seemed completely normal, showed up, and turned out to be a super-creepy, hippy-type dude instead of the rocker-type dude I had pictured online. “So, I brought you something,” he said, going into his hemp sack to pull something out. At this point I was backing away from him because I was pretty sure it was a butcher knife, gun or hacky sack. He pulls out this red heart-shaped pillow with my name stitched on the front with white letters that looks like a drunk eighth-grader made in Home Ec class. The “M, O, L” are really big and take up most of the front, while he’s crammed the last “l, y” into the side of the pillow. The date ended with him wanting me to go back to the South Side of Chicago to a church he lived in as “the caretaker,” so he could give me a back massage.
***Love the gays, but if you’re living in a major metropolitan area and are 36 years old and are clearly closeted, and rave on and on during your date about supposedly looking for “the one” to settle down with and raise some puppies to make your big Latin Catholic family happy (women don’t like this either, unless they’re crazy, btw), then please just be gay already and quit wasting a straight girl’s time.