Things to Do in My Vagina When I’m Dead

I’ve not been laid for a year. The symptoms of chronic celibacy have become so severe that I’m getting pessimistic about my prognosis: I’ve developed a pathological disinterest in Nutella and spend most of my days drooling on the floor calling for my Stronic rabbit, which never comes.

I also keep making accidental puns.

This is a clear sign that I will definitely die tomorrow from the incurable effects of cock deficiency. Celibacy this deadly is malicious. One day you’re throwing out your mascara, and the next you’re wearing beige jerseys made entirely out of floofs.

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The spiders building cobwebs in my vagina have decided that their homes were too impermanent for the situation, so they’ve moved a chaise longue and a washing machine in there. The final stages of chronic sexlessness will soon take effect. I believe they entail taking up knitting, possibly in beige. The odds of my survival are less than zero, even if someone is nice enough to let me give him a blowjob today. I’m fucked. Not in that way, though, obviously. I’m not getting any fucking action. Sweet fuck all. I’m getting so little action that just saying ‘fuck’ over and over again is soothing enough to matter to me.

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Imposters in the Kink Community

When I found the kink community, I was an exhibitionist and a slave. That was another life. I’m living this life now, and every streak of exhibitionism in me has evaporated. These days, ‘demisexual’ probably describes me best, but that label will rub off soon enough. They usually do.


Kink has been a part of my life for over 20 years, and the only thing I’ve learned about my sexuality in all that time is that it’s a constantly evolving organism. The more certain I am that I’ve finally found a solid sexual identity, the more overwhelming the next transformation is. Buddhists say there is only one permanence: impermanence. In my life, I’ve been a a sub, a switch, a primal, a slut, and a masochist. I’ve been all hundred shades in between. There’s only one thing I’ve never been: static.

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How to Get Laid on Fetlife As a Straight Male

If you ask your average dudebro, Fetife sucks for getting laid. They’ll tell you it’s because the women on the site are nothing more than fake profiles with pictures stolen from last year’s Pirelli calendar. We’re all made out of pixels. It’s true. What other reason could there possibly be for their inability to find fetish delivery systems?

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Those dudebros have one thing in common: they trawl the site looking for sex, not people. They don’t go to events more than once or twice, so clearly they would know there are no real women on Fetlife. I’m rarely treated at parties the way I’m treated by Fetlife cock shot avatars. 90% of the men who are active in our community are charming and well mannered.

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The Instagram Ex-boyfriend Saga

I recently got my first smartphone. The world of social media just got bigger. Now I have websites inviting me to look at the perfectly photographed lives of everyone I’ve emailed in the last century.

Awesome </sarcasm>.

Thank you, Instagram, for reintroducing me to my favourite ex-boyfriend, his gorgeous girlfriend, and their impossibly cute newborn baby. That album totes made my day.

I hate you, Instagram.

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I know you’ve probably never had an ex given that you’re a website, so let me explain this to you like you’re made out of ones and zeroes. According to my ex-boyfriend fantasy, which is 100% accurate, all my exes went into a grief so palpable they could barely stand up after we broke up. They did eventually find happiness, but listen carefully, you idiotic sack of pixels: I said they found HAPPINESS. They did not find new girlfriends who apparently belong on the cover of Vogue. This is a critical part of my fantasy, and nobody, not even a Pinterest wannabe like you, is allowed to shatter my imaginings.

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We Are Not Safe (TW)

If the cute guy I went to primary school with—the one who was sweet and smiley—asked for some one-on-one time with me, I would do it. I’ve known the guy for almost my entire life, so of course, he’s proven himself trustworthy.

My cute, smiley primary school friend was Warren, and I wasn’t the only one who trusted him. My mother did. My friends did. Even some of his ex-girlfriends did, but yesterday, Warren became a convicted paedophile with almost 900 charges for rape, porn distribution, and paedophilia against him. That’s not the entire horror of the case, which I will leave out because you don’t want to know.

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The guy who always used to share his cokes with me on hot days has been given 32 life sentences.

Shocked. We are all beyond shocked, but why would we be? My primary school grade had about 200 students. That means, statistically, somewhere between two and 10 of them were paedophiles. 12 had personality disorders and more than 12 were rapists.

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The Tragedy of All My Lost Blowjob Time

There aren’t enough blowjobs on the internet. I know at least 80% of you are going to disrespectfully disagree with me, but I wasn’t aiming for objectivity. Opinions are opinions because they’re subjective.

Have you ever tried hunting for the perfect blowjob porn? It’s not exactly an easy exercise if you’re a connoisseur. Blowjobs are not all made equal, largely because a girl just can’t find enough realism out there in porn land. We either get so much fake female whining that we can’t hear the man, or we get fake male grunting or, nightmare above all nightmares, we get both. There just isn’t any decent blowjob porn that provides audio of authentic male pleasure.

I once stumbled on a podcast-type collection of men supposedly reaching the heights of ecstasy, so clearly I’m not the only one who appreciates such things BUT the audio was even more pathetic than what comes out of Pornhub. There just aren’t enough realistic, awesome-enough-to-please blowjobs on the internet.

Literally the only way someone like me can get her fix is by giving a fucking blowjob to someone, and <ahem> that is not a luxury a woman always has.

I truly do sympathise with the plight of cunnilingus fans who aren’t treated to enough K&P action. Okay, I don’t, because I get an average of 30 seconds of genuine man lust out of every five audio minutes, so I can’t afford to spare you any of it. Lucky for you, I’m not the one who chooses what goes into porn clips. I would, however, respectfully like to request more blowjob videos from those who have the luxury of a real cock on hand.


That Woman Who Cries…

I’m That Woman Who Cries Over Her Pet Five Years After It Died, so you can imagine how good I am at letting go of people. I carry around pieces of you. And you. And you. I’ve grieved you well enough, but I still wear that hoodie you left me that night we broke up. I still have the pendant you used to wear when I was six. I still read the letter you sent me a year before you died.

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Recently someone asked me how I let go. I don’t. I don’t want to. I learn to live with absence by bringing those I’ve lost closer. I keep the box of tricks they gave us that night at the theatre on my bookshelf. I have every hand-addressed envelope you ever sent me. I tattooed a line from one of your poems on my suicide scar. It reminds me of all the reasons I want to stay alive. I did as you asked the night we saw the moon in a footprint and you said it was a poem waiting to be written. I wish you’d been alive when I wrote it.

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