How to Get a Friggin’ Response
Respond, dammit!
Hi-ho, readers! Many of you have been yelling at me lately, telling me I need to post more. (This is a good kind of yelling, I don’t mind.) And you’re right. I do. And this week, I have a shiny new post for all of you!
It’s located over at the We Love Dates blog – I did a little guest appearance there. Remember Liz, who provided last week’s post? Well, we did a little swapping – a little tit for tat, if you will. Whatever that means.
The focus of the post is “How to Get a Fuckin’ Response” on online dating sites. This one’s mainly for the fellas, but I’d love for the ladies to chime in as well.
So get yo’ ass over there – and let me know what you think!
A Dating DOH! from Guest Blogger Liz
Hey kids! I have an extra special treat for you this week: a guest post by a fellow Angeleno, the lovely Liz from We Love Dates! Woooooooooo! Alright, alright, simmer down. Liz has got one doozy of a dating story to share with y’all, and I can actually say this shiz has never happened to me. It’s like something out of a bad sitcom. One with a laugh track. But it’s much more entertaining because it’s real. STFU and get to it, you say? Fine, I can take a hint. Take it away, Liz!
***
Hello loves. I’m Liz and I blog at We Love Dates and No Strings Dating.
And for the most part, I really do love dates. I like getting dressed up all cute, I like drinking wine when I curl my hair and get ready, and I find the anticipation of the unknown pretty damn exhilarating.
Will we have anything to talk about?
Is he as hot as I remember?
I wonder if he’s going to kiss me…I wonder if I’ll even want him to.
Should I wear my sexy underwear or my rainbow brite ones?
As a dating blogger, dates are semi scientific experiments for me, and I actually love it when a date goes horribly wrong. Awkward situations are my kind of Christmas morning. I have to get my material from somewhere, and people love a good train wreck. My favorite as of late?
Spike your tea with some whiskey and get comfy, it’s story time.
I’m an equal opportunist dater. Yes, I write for an online dating blog, but who are we kidding? I’ll go out with anybody with a pulse, a penis and sexy forearms (don’t know what it is, I love me some defined forearms) it doesn’t matter how I meet him. Moving right along…I had just started dating a guy I met IRL at a mutual friend’s birthday party in West Hollywood. Cute, successful, funny, the whole thing–and of course, I wasn’t really feeling it. There just wasn’t much of a spark. It wasn’t serious and we hadn’t yet had any kind of “talk,” so I kept my online dating profiles active and kept browsing around online, hoping that someone would catch my eye.
I started emailing back and forth with a guy who was sexy as hell in his photos and his emails made me laugh out loud. Pretty soon, emailing turned into g-chat, which quickly turned into texting, followed by late night phone calls. AKA, phone sex. Duh.
We hadn’t made concrete plans to meet yet because he was traveling for work, but I knew that once he got back we’d make it happen. So I kept talking to him as much as possible, all while still going out on dates with the guy from the party. He’d take me to dinner, we’d have a good but not great time, he’d peck me good-night, and I’d spend the night talking to my internet lover until the wee hours of the morning.
This is what being single in L.A. looks like.
Anyway, party boy and I decided to grab lunch in Burbank one sunny day and he casually mentioned that his best friend was flying into the Burbank airport that was down the street at the same time and might come meet us for a drink. I didn’t think much of it until I remembered that my phone sex buddy had told me he was flying into Burbank today too… No way, I thought. L.A isn’t that small.
When I heard my date say, “He’s here,” I was shoving a hamburger the size of a bowling ball into my mouth and had ketchup all over my face. I looked up, and there he was. He looked just like his photos, except he was wearing more clothes… it was my worst fear confirmed.
L.A. really IS that small.
Best of 2011
Image courtesy of GAGBAY
Happy motherfucking 2012!
Whew, there’s nothing like a gratuitous F-bomb to kick off my first blog post of the year.
I recently stumbled across a blog that dedicated an entire page to explaining why it was “F-bomb free.” I think he was a dad and felt the need to be, ya know, responsible and stuff. And I respect it, really. Good for you, Mac.
As for myself, I feel no compunction whatsoever to be responsible and, while I try not to use the word haphazardly, I sometimes just really appreciate the impact of a well-placed fuck. I suspect Chris Rock would agree.
But this post really isn’t about the F word. I somehow went off on a tangent right after the first sentence. Fuck me!
This post is a tribute to lazy sitcom producers who put together those annoying “highlight” shows when the writers are on strike.
That’s right – it’s Single Girl Blogging’s Best of 2011! Even though I’m not, technically, on strike. But I am lazy.
So go ahead and catch up on what you might have missed, or just take a stroll down memory lane with me. Let’s hold hands.
I present the top 10 posts of 2011 by pageviews, as reported by WordPress.
Top 10 Single Girl Blogging Posts of 2011
10. We Broke Up
People enjoyed my sad story of how Tom and I broke up. Your supportive comments really touched my heart. (P.S., we got back together.)
9. Please Don’t Make Me Do It
I would rather dine on the smegma of a homeless man than be subjected to any more of this.
8. My Date at the Gay Bar
Gay bars are for gays (and the women who love them). So why would he take me here?
7. Eleven Inches
Picked up at the pump by an amateur John Holmes.
6. The Ass Man Cometh
He liked asses so much, he had his head up his own.
5. Case Study: A Good Online Dating Profile
I found an online dating profile that didn’t suck! Here’s why.
4. The Craigslist Creep
Ladies, beware of the Craigslist Creep. He uses a phony photo and resembles a shell-less turtle.
3. Do You Fart in Front of Your Boyfriend?
Let’s face it, sometimes you just can’t hold the suckers in.
2. How I Learned What Hump Meant
A third grade bully schooled me on sex. Thanks for trying, Dad.
And the #1 Single Girl Blogging post of 2012 is…
1. Top 5 Breakup Songs
Evidently, a lot of people are Googling this. I really do believe music is instrumental (pun not originally intended, but hey, it works) in getting us through tough times.
Whoomp, there it is! Hey-o, taking you allllllll the way back to 1993. By the way, if you’re feeling particularly nostalgic (or have an enviable amount of time on your hands), check out my Best of 2010.
So which was your fave, motherfuckers?
(I felt compelled to wrap it up with an F-bomb, just to bring this thing full circle.)
Holiday Gift Guide for Guys Who are Not Your Boyfriend Yet
It is better to give than to receive.
Except, of course, if we’re talking about oral sex.
Oh, and in one other situation: When it’s Christmas and you’re in an undefined relationship.
Two years ago at this time, I had been dating a guy named Jorge on and off for about a year. I had ended it twice because he wasn’t ready for a relationship and I was. No hard feelings, I said. But he kept coming back, saying that he really liked me and wanted to “try.” And I was a sucker.
When Christmas rolled around, I thought it would be appropriate to give him a gift. Nothing extravagant, as we hadn’t declared boyfriend-girlfriend status yet. Just something that said “We’ve been banging for nearly a year and I’ve enjoyed it.”
I braved the parking at Venice Beach on two separate occasions and scoured the boardwalk trying to find the vendor who sold an artifact Jorge admired once when we were there. When I couldn’t find the vendor, I was dejected. Still determined to find the second most perfect gift, I searched the malls and settled on a very cool Armani Exchange shirt I knew he’d like, even though it cost a bit more than I’d wanted to spend.
When Christmas arrived, he told me he didn’t get me anything because he was broke. Funny, because two days earlier he spent $50 on a pair of earbuds he didn’t need.
I felt like an idiot marinated in loser juice.
He felt a little guilty and was touched at my efforts, but I could tell it was the beginning of the end. Because this meant I cared more than he did – and we both knew it. Sure enough, he bailed about a month later.
Many of my girlfriends have similar stories. Around the holidays, many women are overcome with the spirit of giving and tend to go overboard with a new beau.
Fewer things are more awkward than dating someone new around the holidays. If you don’t give something and he does, you feel like a jackass. And if you do give something and he doesn’t, you feel like a dumbass.
The sad reality is, most of us would rather feel like a jackass than a dumbass.
So, my advice to the ladies on holiday gift giving to new dudes is this: less is more. And if you get caught empty-handed when he proffers a present, you can always whip up some last minute blow job coupons, and trust me, he’ll be happy as a clam.
Here are my gift-giving guidelines for guys who are not your boyfriend (yet):
Dating one month or less:
- Nada. Unless you’re one of those nutty couples who rush into things at Kardashian speed, nothing is expected if you’ve been dating less than a month.
- Baked goods. If you feel oddly compelled to give something, bake him some homemade banana bread or a pie. He’s a guy, he’ll dig it. Unless he’s a pastry chef.
Dating one to three months:
- Sexy lingerie. For yourself. Wear it one night and wrap yourself in a big bow. If things don’t work out, you keep the mesh teddy.
- DVD or book. Pick a non-romantic genre, like comedy, action or hardcore porn. Don’t spend a lot of money, maybe $20. Remember, you can always add BJ coupons if necessary.
Dating more than three months:
This is tricky. If it’s been more than three months and you’re not exclusive, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. A few weeks before, feel it out with a “So, what’s on your Christmas list?” If he blows it off, play it safe and stick with the guidelines above. If he asks about yours and hints that he might get you something, you might be safe to go a little further, like:
- Concert tickets. But only if you get them dirt cheap on Goldstar and it’s a band you like, too.
- Something related to alcohol. A flask, a beer mug, a respectable bottle of booze.
- A brick of cocaine. Kidding. That’s WAY too expensive.
Many women are natural-born givers. Resist this urge. Giving too much to a man who is not your boyfriend can easily freak him out. Remember, you’re a woman. You can easily make up for it with sex.
So, remember the basics:
- Less is more
- Steer clear of anything mushy or romantic
- BJ coupons work great in a pinch
And incidentally, ladies, don’t go apoplectic if he gives you something super lame. Many guys are just naturally clueless when it comes to that stuff. It’s a missing gene or something. I know, life’s not fair.
***
Ever had a gift-giving catastrophe with a new relationship? Please share so the rest of us don’t feel so dumb.
A Clothing Optional Christmas
This holiday season, my gay bf had his heart set on vacationing at a clothing-optional gay resort in Palm Springs, a.k.a. Gay Mecca. Because like most red-blooded Americans, he wanted to wake up on Christmas morning surrounded by packages.
Alas, after much searching, gay bf discovered that Gay Mecca books up quickly during the holidays, and not a room was available. He couldn’t even get in through the back door.
Dejected and sad, gay bf has been moping around of late. He was really looking forward to celebrating the birth of Christ with a good ol’ fashioned same-sex orgy filled with six-packs. And I’m not talking about beer.
Initially, I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I thought a little dose of reality might help the situation.
When men fantasize about nude resorts, nude beaches and the like, they nonsensically imagine the attendees to resemble Hayaks and McConaugheys. Even if they themselves look more like a DeVito.
When I was just out of college, I traveled to Europe with some girlfriends. We met some guys along the way and they got all worked up about going to a nude beach in the south of France. When we arrived, they were in for a rude awakening.
The Expectation:
The Reality:
I’m willing to bet my boobs that the experience at the nude resort is similar. Attempting to lift his spirits, I let gay bf in on the secret.
The Expectation (and image portrayed on resort website):
The Reality:
Gay bf feels a little bit better now. Nevertheless, he says he is going to book early next year.
Sigh. That’s a man for you.
***
Ever been to a nude beach, resort or church social? What was your experience?
Why I Shouldn’t Have Kids
All my life, I thought I wanted kids. I just knew I’d be the coolest mom ever – the one my daughter’s friends would want to hang out with and my son’s friends would want to pork.
I’ve always considered myself a person of superior intellect and moral integrity and would surely pass these traits along to my offspring. They would grow into upstanding members of society who, ultimately, would make the world a better place.
But then I’d visit a girlfriend and observe her kids engage in a no-holds-barred bitch fight over who got the bigger scoop of Chunky Monkey. Or I’d watch my pregnant co-worker develop jowls and cankles seemingly overnight. Or I’d notice that all the moms I know appear noticeably more wrinkled and, well, tired than the childless women.
And then I contemplate my own existence. My shower doors are bountifully sprouting a new form of life. I’ve been driving around with one hubcap missing for more than six months. And now, as I glance over at my side table, I see that I’ve killed my lucky bamboo.
With all this ineptitude at life glaring at me in the face, I wonder how I could possibly take care of a child when I can barely take care of myself?
I Can’t Handle the Truth
First off, I cherish my sleep and would have extreme difficulty enduring nightly tit chewing sessions at three o’clock in the morning. Maybe when I was 20 and the guy had some good ecstasy, but not anymore. I would almost certainly be driven to throw a lactating labrador into the crib and let the kid suckle on her teats. My child might not ever advance to standing on hind legs, but that’s a risk I would just have to take. It’s either that or Baby Valium.
And once they get older, it doesn’t get any better. I mean, really? You need to eat three meals a day? Unless popcorn and frozen soybeans constitute a meal, I’m in deep trouble. I foresee regular visits from child protective services as permanent fixture on my Outlook calendar.
Beyond the burden of nourishing the child, there’s my decidedly low tolerance for a particular sound that comes out of these urchins that makes me want to immediately destroy the source. You are all familiar with this noise. The shrill, piercing shriek emitted at an octave so exceedingly high it normally can only be reached by a humpback whale or one of the Bee Gees. I sometimes hear this screech while in the frozen aisle at the grocery store. I fear the freezer doors will shatter and I’ll be mutilated by a flying shard of glass to the throat. And this would be preferable to the screaming.
My Dream Child
Years ago when I was a waitress at a fancy restaurant, an Asian couple came in with the cutest little boy dressed in a private school uniform, complete with beanie, bow tie and short pants. He couldn’t have been more than six, and he was the most well behaved child I’d ever encountered. He spoke clearly, said “may I,” “please” and “thank you” and sat perfectly still throughout the entire meal. I began to think there was hope for humanity – and my sanity.
Then I thought about what those parents must’ve done to that kid to make him so mannerly. They probably whipped him senseless upon the sight of a skid mark on his underwear and locked him in a serpent-filled torture chamber if he brought home an A-.
And with these thoughts, a grin slowly crept across my face. I became giddy at this incredible opportunity I’d be presented with if I bore a child. Finally — I could let my real personality shine through and have a neat, well-mannered kid. Jackpot!
I began to dream up names for my progeny and decided I’d call it Fritz, regardless of gender… until a disturbing thought entered my head. I envisioned Fritz, 20 years later, discussing his/her “troubled” childhood on the Tyra Banks show.
“My mother was an absolute monster,” Fritz would tell Tyra, her naturally humongous breasts now grazing her size 20 thighs. “She would dance like Cha-Cha DiGregorio in the middle of Walgreens just to embarrass me, and she believed in weekly waterboarding sessions to keep me in line. One day I snapped. And that’s why I opened fire on all those people at the Maroon 5 reunion concert.”
I mused on this detail for a moment. It dawned on me that if Tyra Banks somehow wound up in this scenario, maybe child rearing wasn’t my strong suit.
I imagine there are many mothers reading this with mouths agape in disgust, thinking what a terrible, terrible human being I must be.
But in my heart, I know there are moms out there who are reading this now with a tear in their eye, clutching their breast and nodding their head, thinking, “At last, somebody understands me.”
Hot Guys Doing Horoscopes
Hey there friends, Romans and countrymen. Apologies for not posting for a spell. I’ve been out of town and taking care of business, so I thought I’d throw my ladies and gays a little eye candy to make up for it. Sorry, straight dudes. You can grab a Maxim.
If you’re into astrology and “What’s your sign?” and all that jazz — or if you just like looking at hot guys — I highly suggest this site. I’m no psychic, but I see masturbation in your future.
I like Mr. Virgo the best (below). Yummy. Which is your favorite?
Hoochie Halloween [re-post]
Oh, come on. Ladybugs don't wear legwarmers.
Note: I originally posted this last year on November 1, but because it is hoochie season once again and people seemed to enjoy it, I am re-posting for your ghoulish pleasure. Happy Hoochie Halloween!
***
I didn’t dress up for Halloween last night. Why? Frankly, I’m over it.
What was once a day observed for children to panhandle for candy and throw poo bags at neighbors has now become an excuse for women to dress like sluts and men to dress like women.
Now, the idea of men dressing like women I rather like. Let guys get a taste of what we gals go though to look beautiful. My ex once dressed as a woman for Halloween and he bitched and complained all night about his feet hurting. From a two-inch chunky heel, mind you. Shiz, those are my comfy shoes.
As for the women dressing slutty, I’m not sure when this all started. As a child, I have no recollection of mistaking regular adult women for prostitutes.
I think it began some time in the 90s. I remember going to a Halloween party and seeing a woman sporting nothing but a red bathing suit that said “Baywatch.” My friends and I laughed at her and figured she must be desperate for attention.
Little did we know it was only the beginning of Hoochie Halloween.
I really don’t hold it against women who do the Halloween ho-down anymore, because these days, it’s almost as though we don’t have a choice. It has now become status quo to don a costume that displays every square inch of flesh save for nipples, buttcrack and landing strip.
Not to mention, there is a lot of pressure to sex it up on this day. I mean, if every other chick at the party looks like this:
You might feel a bit dowdy turning up like this:
No one wants to be the cow at a hooker parade. You may not be desperate for attention, but you won’t get any attention in this getup. Men simply wouldn’t respond to a costume like this. Yes, your teats are exposed — but there are four of them, and that’s a little scary for men. Even on Halloween.
And if you’re in a relationship, you gotta keep your man’s eyes on you and not on the tsunami of tits coming at him from every other direction. That’s right, the relationship bitches are often the trampiest of all the Halloween floozies.
The whole ordeal has just become a bit ridiculous. So that’s why I pass on Halloween.
Yes, yes, I know. If my self-esteem were higher I wouldn’t give a shit, rock the cow costume if I wanted to and feel good about it. But give me a break. I live in LA. Women wear stilettos to Rite Aid.
And I know it’s sometimes fun to let your hair down and be sexy for a night. I do it, too. But if I dress like a slutty cop, slutty bee or slutty Snuffleupagus, I’m simply conforming to a trend I deem silly and will just blend in with all the other boobs and bare midriffs bouncing around.
I prefer to dress like a big ho on my own terms, not because a holiday tells me I should. Unless, of course, it’s Easter.
But There’s a Bigger Problem
In all honesty, the reason I don’t dress up for Halloween actually has little to do with my nonconformist nature or my gross insecurities.
Do you want to know the real reason I don’t play the Halloween hooch?
Because it’s fucking COLD.
It’s almost November, for crying out loud! I know I live in Southern California, but I’m the girl who shivers in her hooded parka when everyone else is sweating. I’d freeze my ass off wearing next-to-nothing at a bone-chilling 62 degrees. I certainly wouldn’t enjoy myself.
For me to go out on Halloween, I’d need to dress up like a grizzly bear to keep warm. Unfortunately, a search for “women’s grizzly bear costume” produced these results:
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Sigh.
It just wasn’t meant to be. So I am sitting at home on All Hallows’ Eve, writing this blog post in my very unsexy, very warm, leopard-print Snuggie.
Public Service Announcement: Beware of STDs
Last week I wrote about how women should not be shamed or embarrassed for having sex in abundance. And while I stand behind every word 100 percent, my conscience (and a Twitter follower) started to niggle at me just a wee bit.
So here I am, doing the responsible thing. I know, I know.
I had considered adding an STD disclaimer to the post, but wanted the focus to remain on societal attitudes toward women’s sexuality, not veer into the repercussions of casual sex. It was a writer’s choice.
I trust everyone knows that unprotected sex and sometimes even protected sex have the potential to lead to viruses and infections and other dangerous situations like 10-pound humans emerging from your vag. And the more partners you have, the more your risk goes up, as I mentioned in this post.
And if you didn’t know, I’m telling you now. That’s just the deal, folks.
However, this deal goes for both men and women alike. So if we’re going to frown upon having a bountiful number (and what is bountiful, anyway?) of sexual partners, let’s frown in a non-discriminatory way, shall we?
That’s all I’m sayin’.
…
Actually, it’s not. Don’t frown. You’ll get frown lines. And judging others is lame. That doesn’t negate my other point: STDs are real. And a bad thing.
Um, can I go now?
***
P.S. Sorry to be a killjoy.
P.P.S. Wear a condom. Always.
P.P.P.S. Even if you wear condoms, you can still get herpes or warts or crabs. And condoms can break.
P.P.P.P.S. My conscience is somewhat clearer, but I feel like your mom.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I snickered a little when I wrote “P.P.” Maybe not so much your mom.
What’s Your Number? Who Gives a Sh*t?
In the new movie, “What’s Your Number,” the main character fears she has slept with too many men – thanks to Cosmo – and tries to get back together with one of her exes so she doesn’t go over a certain number.
And just how many boys has this brazen hussy boned, you ask?
Nineteen. No, not nineteen hundred. Nineteen.
Does anyone else think this is weird? Okay, weird’s not the right word. Try outlandishly fucking ridiculous?
If 19 is a lot then I’m Superho.
In real life our leading lady, Anna Faris, is 34 years old. Let’s say her character in the movie is the same age – hell, let’s be generous and say she’s 30.
And let’s say she lost her virginity at 17, the average age according to the always-accurate Wikipedia.
Now, I hate math as much as any writer, but let’s do some simple arithmetic, shall we?
The Math
30 – 17 = 13
19 ÷ 13 = 1.46
So, according to my calculations, that means that in 13 years of copulation, she’s porked an average of 1.46 men a year.
Pardon my French, but THAT’S NOT A FUCKING LOT!!!
My friends, 1.46 men a year does not a slut make. IMHO. That’s “in my humble opinion,” not “I’m ho.”
But then again, maybe I am.
Big Fat Ho
When I was younger, some people considered me a slut. And yes, I slept with more than 1.46 men a year. Maybe four or five a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Is that excessive? I didn’t think so. But I guess some people did.
Let’s talk a little about promiscuity and society’s expectations for women, shall we?
Some therapists and regular people who think they know a lot will tell you that women who “sleep around” are insecure and unconsciously try to win boys’ affection by having sex with them. I mean, their intentions are unconscious; they’re conscious when they have sex. Well, sometimes.
I can consciously say that this simply was not the deal for me. The deal was this:
I fucking loved sex!
Sex was the best feeling in the world, so why would anybody not want to have it all the time? I didn’t use sex as a “tool,” and I didn’t feel like I was compromising myself.
Men often refer to women having sex as “giving it up.” But I never felt like I was “giving” anything. I felt that I was getting something – getting happy, getting my rocks off, getting a blissfully euphoric sensation all over mah womanly bo-dy.
I didn’t necessarily go out at night searching for sex on the regular (although I have), and I didn’t get down with “just anyone,” but maybe every three months I’d be at a party and meet a guy. We start making out and we’re into each other and my vag starts to growl, sort of like how my stomach growls when it’s hungry. I don’t deprive myself of food when I’m starving, so why would I deny myself sex when I’m horny?
It just made sense to me at the time: if you’re hungry, eat; if you’re horny, screw. And frankly, I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it.
You see, my father taught me about the facts of life and Haley taught me about the mechanics of sex, but nobody ever told me about the politics of sex.
You know, that a girl is supposed to withhold sex for as long as possible. That guys don’t like girls who have sex with them “too soon.” Blah, blah, blah.
The Love Boat Wasn’t Real?
I suppose I got most of my information about sex and relationships through TV and movies. On The Love Boat, two people would meet, make whoopie and get engaged in the span of a one-week pleasure cruise, so what seemed to be the problem? Sex on the first date didn’t seem to be an issue for those couples.
Then, sometime during my college years, I realized that boys often don’t stick around if you make whoopie with them “too soon.” Which was a bummer, because I usually only did it with guys I liked. Okay, maybe I only knew them for a short time, but what I did know, I liked. And I thought they liked me. Why else would they sleep with me?
Unfortunately, no one ever told me that boys sometimes use girls for sex then dump them, either. It didn’t happen like that on The Love Boat, so I learned this lesson the hard way.
Now that I was beginning to realize what society really thought of girls who liked sex, and had sex, I started to feel bad about myself. And it wasn’t because of some innate feminine instinct that tells you to be chaste, but because of external judgment by peers who were taught early on by the church or their parents or other authoritative figure that girls who go all the way are whores.
Before all this, I didn’t know. As they say, ignorance is bliss.
I recognize the value in certain societal conventions. Say “bless you” when someone sneezes, hold the elevator door for others, don’t call your boss a shithead to her face. But this one – this one about the slut-shaming – I just don’t understand. Who does it benefit?
Sex feels fucking fantastic, and it’s not because I’m some kind of nymphomaniac. It’s supposed to feel good and we’re supposed to want to do it – Mother Nature designed it that way so we’d keep the human race going.
It was we humans who decided that 19 dudes are too many for a girl. So can’t we humans un-decide it?
I am by no means advocating for girls to go hog wild upon reading this and mount a truckload of penises. It’s all about individual choice and if you don’t want to, bloody hell, don’t do it.
I’m just saying don’t judge those who do.
