I can’t find them.
This is why I organize everything. I just hate losing things. I am not a clean freak. Ask every cat hair ball roaming around my laminate floors.
But I do like to find things. Hence, the twenty million plastic organizers of all shapes and sizes in every closet and drawer.
Not knowing where something is sucks.
Not knowing where your G-spot is… is just odd.
I mean the Grafenberg spot. I didn’t even know the proper name until a gay man told me. Dan Savage.
Note to self: You need more gay men in your life. How the hell are you going know anything about your vagina without them? You are clearly not a reliable source.
And yes, I love that he is gay. My favorite Margaret Cho joke is: “If it weren’t for gay men, I wouldn’t talk to men at all.”
I would totally talk to straight men. I just don’t want them in my house or bathroom.
But most importantly, I love Dan Savage [Dan Savage please have my baby. I know you are gay. But please have my baby, and most importantly, raise it in your house] because he helps me realize that I am not the only clueless person there is when it comes to sex. [He is also funny as hell. And hot. Have my baby, Dan.]
I think I am really honest. But who wants to be honest when they are naked. That can’t lead to anything good.
If I am pushed to the limit – then I will fess up in the most indelicate way.
Once some dude stuck his tongue in my ear. [Hey dude, I can't think of the last time a cotton swab was in there? I'm just sayin' it's not on the top of the to-do list.]
Mostly, it was the sloshing sound that was driving me nuts.
It was so loud. And so um… sloshy.
“Oh, gooooooood. Please stop putting your tongue in my ear,” I said exasperated.
I still cringe thinking about it.
Question: Remember the good old days when people said “Hey, can I stick my tongue in there?” before they stuck there tongue in there?
Saliva does not belong in my ear.
Just keep all of your saliva in your body. Okay? [Commingling saliva is gross. There. I said it.]
Look, I am not a germophobe. I just want all of your germs to stay away from me.
That’s called germ-territorial.
My ideal sex would be this.
The guy wraps himself in a hefty bag. Seals the top and bottom with duct tape. Cut a hole for one index finger, which will stimulate my clitoris for – like 50 frigging hours – until I orgasm. And then, him and all his saliva can get the hell out of my house.
Anyway, thank you Dan Savage you beautiful, sexy gay man [have my baby, dammit] – for explaining my Grafenberg to me. I still don’t know where the hell it is, but at least I have a map now?
Even with a map I get lost.
People always tell me to get a GPS. Literally, the heavens will open and the answers to everything will become clear once I have one. [It's kinda of like Google for your car.]
The last thing I need is a computer-voice taunting me – mocking me – as I am lost 2 blocks away from my stupid little house – in the middle of nowhere, USA. [Yes, I am living the dream.]
I am severely directionally-challenged.
Which is clearly okay when I am outside of my house. But I figure I should be able to find all of my body parts without too much stress.
Where to start?
Where to begin?
I’ll lay down on my bed and just start reaching in my vagina like I’m reaching for the last cookie at the bottom of the jar with my index finger.
I hate when people just leave one cookie.
Just take them all already. [You are not showing restraint. You are showing indecision.]
And there I was legs akimbo, reaching for the cookie.
Reaching for the bottom.
Reaching all around.
And I just got bored.
And I got nothin’. No Grafenberg.
But I did find my keys. Not in my vagina. That would be odd.
Then, I hatched a plan.
I brought this magnetic Christmas wreath hanger that I affixed to the back of my steel front door.
Now, I just hang my keys right where I can see them.
If only everything were that easy.
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