I’ve never been one of those girls that wants to talk about her ‘cycle’ on the internet. It’s unnecessary, it’s a little gross (as far as conversation topics go) and honestly… I’m a big girl and I can handle it.

WARNING: This post talks about a portion of the female reproductive system’s purpose that I would not usually discuss on the internet. This is not a gross story, but if you’re one of “those guys” that read my blog and want to pretend that those 5-7 days out of the month don’t happen… well, don’t read the rest of this.

Sorry if my disclaimer messed up our flow. Let’s get back to it.

I’ve known a fair number of girls that have zero hang-ups when it comes to talking about this topic, usually loudly and in a public place, and it drives me nuts. Usually, these are the same girls that want to talk about excrement in detail. Call me a prude but I don’t want to discuss that, either. Call me old fashioned, but I think I’m over the unladylike and/or crass thing when it comes to hearing other gals talk. Aside from when dealing with diaper-aged children, nursing home residents or in the confines of a health facility it’s completely unnecessary to make conversation about either topic.

I don’t want any of you thinking I’m grossed out by my own womanly cycle business; I’m definitely not. I just don’t think I need to talk about it all the time because after a whopping nine years, I think I have it pretty well figured out. At least enough to forgo making it a dinner topic, y’know? (For the record, thumbs up on period sex of all varieties. There, I said it.)

Put my above complaints aside momentarily, because what I really want to talk about Japanese artist Hiromi Ozaki making a piece of concept art that revolves around giving males sympathy menstruation. Did you make a face while reading that phrase? I know I did. Were this to ever make it beyond the ‘concept’ phase and into production, a man–or woman, I guess, as if any girl could ever forget what a period’s like–would receive small electrical shocks to simulate cramps. That part doesn’t sound too bad, it’s the added bit about a “blood releasing mechanism” that has me wrinkling my nose. I get that it’s art (for now), but come on.

The Salon.com article the exposed me to this nonsense had plenty of commentary to offer, so let me ask a question instead: WHY? Why would any dude, even one dying to get really in touch with his feminine side, want to know?

Ladies, it’s in your best interest that this contraption never becomes a reality. Not to downplay the fact that being a girl can really sucks sometimes, but our periods are a free pass from just about anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah I get it; we’re suffering once a month as no man will ever truly understand. While I know some broads wind up in crippling pain that apparently requires a Percocet prescription, that doesn’t mean I’m not rolling my eyes every time I hear a feeble “I’m on the rag”–that’s an excuse, not a reason.

I don’t see anything wrong with the fact that most girls have used their cycle as an explanation–it’s so handy, after all. You can tell you guy he just “doesn’t understand” and your gal pals will usually sympathize once they realize that’s why you’re bursting into tears mid-Gerber Graduates commercial. Periods are cool like that; they are the ultimate excuse because frankly, it’s better than anything else most of us can come up with on the spot. I feel like I’m a few years away from being robbed of the last good “justification” a gal can use without sounding like she’s copping-out.

Then again, I’m pretty sure nobody in their right mind would finance this. And even if they did, it’d take until I’m well past menopause for it to catch on here in the US. Really, it’d only be fucking over all those unborn future (female) whippersnappers. I bet they’ll need something new to complain about online by then.

When I first met Jess, I paid more attention to her clearly thrifted button up than I did her face. It was lightweight and cute, and it matched the fact that this was the kind of girl to wear Velcro Pumas regardless of the rest of her outfit. A late 20′s neo-hippie type. We made idle conversation and smoked weed, had lunch, talked. She wasn’t a pretty girl unless you meant it in an Ani Difranco kind of way, but she was interesting and her smile was nice. My obsession with teeth goes deep.

Waiting for a delivery in the front of the building, we start talking about college – I tell her I didn’t graduate because I think college is for chumps. She smiles, but doesn’t say anything until I finish up my three sentence thought on the topic. She’s back from Chile after teaching children English there for the past year, following receiving her Bachelor’s degree.

Someone has a degree, and someone else has her foot in her mouth – both of them, actually. I like her more for not taking offense and letting the conversation continue to flow. We talk tattoos, or rather, she asks me about mine. She’s quick to compliment, lightly touching when it’s not awkward. My baby crush begins to swell, but over the next few weeks I only see her in passing or when taking a quick smoke break behind the building.

It’s gay pride weekend and she’s standing at the door to the office, smiling and asking me questions. She’s leaving in an hour to volunteer at the event but hanging around… curious about all of my tattoos, what kind of weed I like to smoke, what I do when I’m not at work. Lately I’d been seeing women I’d want to sleep with everywhere, or wondering if that was even something I wanted to do. It’d been years since my last bisexuality stint that meant having a girlfriend. I’ve zoned out on her small belly, pushing against the fabric of her t-shirt. I’m entranced by it, though not sexually stimulated. She says my name, having clearly caught me staring.

“Sooo… do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend? Are you seeing anybody?”

She’s not sounding overly interested as she asks, but this feels like a probing question. I try to keep the conversation brief, summing up my few years of singledom and explaining them away with the fact I like to keep myself busy. When I ask her the same she tells me about some girl from California she’s been seeing, but is quick to tell me that it’s nothing serious since they’re not living near each other.

One of the older male clients is sitting a few feet from us as she explains her not-relationship, I wonder what he’s listening to this conversation. Is she just expressing a healthy level of interest in my life or does she want to see me naked? A few weeks ago I was thinking about how cute she was but I’m not feeling it today. Some element from before is missing.

Maybe it’s the horrible swooshy capri pants she’s wearing, or the fact she just got done telling me how she attends a Native American sweat lodge every Saturday night. Beating drums, singing songs, sweating in a mud hut… this girl might not smell like patchouli but I’m willing to bet she owns some. She might own bras too, but as far as I can tell she’s not wearing one. We’re too close to the swamp cooler to be comfortable, I feel how hard my nipples are under my shirt when I see hers. This line of thinking is making me feel so awkward; I am such a creep… I’m not even gay. (I think.) Maybe I just shouldn’t get so high at work anymore. Thinking this stuff is normal, right? Right.

She asks what I have going on for the weekend, I mumble something about not making plans and wonder if she’s going to invite me over before we’re interrupted. And she’s on her way out the door, off to talk about lesbo-rights with all her roller derby chick buddies.

This girl is my type, the kind I’m constantly trying to convince myself isn’t my type. They’re never that pretty but they’re into social activism and wearing bandanas over their hair in the heat. Nose piercings, chunky metal and stone rings on their fingers, light on the makeup. I’ve never slept with a woman that would be confused for a beauty queen. They’re always thicker in the hips, wry witted and mildly amused by my not-gay-only-sometimes outlook on sleeping with them.

I’ve seen her intentionally sculpted biceps, seen the muscles of her hands flexed. I shouldn’t be surprised at how strong she is as she works the tension from my shoulders late the next afternoon. I’m still not sure if I’ve read the signs correctly – I speak the language but only in bits and pieces, you know? I shouldn’t be letting her do this, I should, it feels nice. She plays with my hairline and I struggle not to freeze up. Am I supposed to say something? Is there a hand sign for “not gay, not really”?

“I like your shirt,” she whispers, her hand sliding below the neckline of my tank top. There’s a sparkly rainbow with a pegasus and DREAMS across the front in huge white letters, but that’s not what I’m focused on as I look down. The fabric moves, her hand underneath as she lightly runs her fingertips over my skin. She starts working her hands in an entirely new way, mouth against my earlobe as we move to the employee lounge. The door’s been left open and I mentally make note to close it next time something like this comes up.

I’m practically panting out of anxiety instead of arousal. I can’t breathe. The counter is cold on the backs of my thighs as she pulls my shirt up over my head. The No Bra Club had it’s first meeting of many that afternoon, alternating between too cool and too warm as the cooling system clicked itself on and off. Following a courtesy surface-wipe down, she sits down at the table and sets to work breaking up weed. She’s smirking at the joint she’s focused on rolling, not looking at me as she idly talks about her Ms. California. Was this her version of a post-coital glow? Talking about the girl that she probably wasn’t supposed to be fucking around on? The room smelled like pussy and pot until I opened a window, convinced everyone would notice when they got back from lunch. And they did, I think. But they didn’t say anything, and that was as good as permission to continue doing it in my mind.

Jess and I were sometimes-coffee and lunch friends by day, rarely lovers by night. We never held hands or kissed in public; I met a handful of her friends while making sure she never met any of mine. August rolled around, and she asked me where I stood when it came to the two of us. I didn’t realize that what was a low-key non-arrangement for me had become an emotional investment for her. I urged her not to fall in love with a straight girl–a few days later she told me she was going to give things a shot with the California girl over iced lattes.

I wasn’t sad things were over, but she was and that rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t mean to be some shitty straight chick in it for something different, though in the back of my mind I knew that’s what I was doing. After her last two weeks were up at work, I thought about texting her to wish her luck before deciding that was a bad idea. By the end of the year I had put the armpit-shaving hippie/roller derby girl I’d spent a splinter of my summer between the thighs of at the back of my mind.

Driving downtown yesterday, I spotted a cute girl with a pixie haircut in a wheelchair waiting to cross the street… it brought back the memories. I was queued up, even thought about pulling over to introduce myself for a split-second. Twenty minutes after remembering the last girl-on-girl tumble I’ve had in years and I was ready to meet new women that would wind up hating me later.

This is completely paraphrased and I can’t even tell you which of my friends originally said it, but it went something like this: There’s no such thing as a gateway drug. If you drink or do drugs, then you have made the decision to BE a person who drinks or does drugs. People, American people, too often are caught up in the minutia of the different negative connotations of abusing their bodies one way or another and attach their own version of righteousness or rationalize it however they want. The fact remains, you are fucking with your chemistry to achieve a certain effect.

How do you think this applies to sex? As boys and subsequently men, in our shit-talking circles be they around the sandbox, in the locker room, around the water cooler or snorting lines off the toilet tank in the rankest bathroom ever, I’m sure you’ve heard or have been the one saying, “I’d never pay for sex, never…ever!” And it would be said with the haughty self-righteousness of Alpha-Male Junior in training, wrapped and delivered with all the subtextual insecurity you could pack into one shitty little boast. But as you get older and try and fail and win and lose at sex-getting, relationship-having, girl-charming, you come to realize that that grey area and the notion of paying for it is a very wide river, with varying tides, ebbs and flows. We men, and even women, are always paying in one way or another for sex. It’s the natural flow of things. There’s a swinging pendulum and gain and loss and success and failure, but it’s safe to say 30 years away from the Swingin 70′s in our post-AIDS, post-celebutant, faux slut future, somehow, you pay.

That’s to say I am thinking of the first friend of mine to say he visited a prostitute. Granted, it was in Amsterdam. He said, “I had 3 things I planned on doing: smoking hash, getting a tattoo and seeing a hooker, and I did all three.” I was astonished in a way. I mean, I’ve always been a little naive when it comes to other people’s sexual activity.

In high school I kind of knew people were having sex, but I couldn’t picture it. Sex to me was a big black hole during puberty. Pre-puberty (we’re talking like 5 years old) I had managed to stick my dick in or around ever hole in/on my girlfriends. Looking back, playing doctor was kind of shockingly erotic — we knew we were doing something “sexual” yet were completely innocent. I remember standing on the corner with my girlfriend (yes, still around 5 years old, saying, “Let’s do it like in the movies,” and we kissed for a long time.

After my hormones kicked in I had no real sexual relations until about 16, so my only thoughts on other people’s sexuality came from porn, which my cousin introduced me to around 12, again I was shocked to finally know, to finally see what it REALLY looked like when people had sex. At least that was my impression until I actually started doing it. Even then, it probably wasn’t until my late 20′s with broadband internet that one could really see how awkward sex really was.

So here was my friend telling me about his training-wheels prostitute story. I say that because if you’re going to get a hooker, Amsterdam is probably the simplest and in its own way most sterile way to do it. It’s basically like going through the drive through. The only thing complicated about it is one’s own indecisiveness. Who to fuck?

Sex and drugs, then. You ARE the kind of person that would do drugs. You ARE the kind of person that would pay for sex, with money. With a real person. Or…

I saw my first prostitute a day after leaving what became a toxic two-month relationship with a girl I’d been doing drugs with all summer. I had smoked pot off and on since about 17. I tried coke for the first time at 25. I did acid, mushrooms and ecstasy somewhere in the middle. At around 30 I found myself on the other side of a glass pipe smoking crystal meth, as my future girlfriend, unbeknownst to me, a meth addict, looked on and said, “What the fuck are you doing.” Three summers later I was living in her apartment snorting meth 2 or 3 times a day, loving it until it became so chaotic I had to get the fuck out of there.

I was in Buenos Aires, I had just arrived about 10 hours earlier. I was with a friend who grew up there. Our night was ending and we were wasted. Smashed together in a cab, 4 of us were redirected to a brothel, which turned out to be the happiest place on earth. There were about 100 girls kind of clustered together around the bar, maybe about 45 or 50 guys scattered around the room, some playing pool, some dancing with girls, others watching sports, everyone was smiling. I was tired. Honestly, I was scared. I was sharing a room with a dude who was not scared, and was DOWN for it. That meant if he picked up a hooker there, we were in the same room, this was probably going to scar me for life. I HAD to get one also. I was coming down off meth, I was a basket case internally, but I really needed to get the girl and the drugs off my mind.

We talked about it for a second: Let’s find 2 girls who are already together and get this going before it gets any later and all the good ones are taken. We looked behind us and there were two decent looking, dark-skinned girls dancing with each other. About 10 minutes later we were out the door. I was about to be someone that paid for sex. Looking back, everything that happened during the drug-addled two months prior prepped me to see the reality of the dark side of male-female relationships. Sure it’s not nearly as negative as I am making it out to be, but then maybe what I’m talking about is just a colder, harder dystopic version of important attributes like COMMUNICATION and COMPROMISE that seem to go missing from most of your fucked up 21st century relationships.

I had 2 more encounters with prostitutes over the next 3 years. Both in Amsterdam. One was good, one was horribly unsatisfactory. In all 3 cases I came under 5 minutes and none of those orgasms felt like ORGASMS. They were like the kind of orgasms you have when you are full of anxiety and can’t sleep the night before a job interview, or a business trip with 24 hours of flying, or the LSATs. You pull on your half-limp dick just to get off and hope the chemical rush you get in your head will be enough to make you fall asleep. It’s never good like that.

I’ve thought about getting hookers about 1000 other times. But it’s all wrapped up in that same, “I’d never pay for sex…” bullshit. It’s not always as cheap as Buenos Aires or Amsterdam to get a hooker, at least one that wouldn’t be terrified to be with. To be with a LADY. Quality. But the finances also, one would want to believe, negate the notion of STDs, that the fine lady would be somewhat discriminating, even if most of her rich partners probably aren’t. But then I think back to my Amsterdam sex. Aside from her the base of her hand touching my pubic area, and my hands on her ass and tits, maybe her hair, my thighs and her ass, there was barely ANY actual unprotected contact. I mean, I barely was inside her. It’s pretty sterile, folks. In Buenos Aires I played with my girl’s pussy for a little while, much to her surprise and appreciation. That was really the only bodily fluid contact I can remember.

But here I am now. I’ve tried more drugs than most people would admit. I rarely do any. I paid for sex with a real person 3 times, with money, and haven’t done it since. Yet, I am now someone who does drugs, gateway or not, and I am someone who pays for sex.

Usually I try to stay out of my dude friends’ business; they tend to date the most insane girls ever and for the most part I let them because after three weeks they clue in & dump ‘em. Except one of my friends didn’t clue in, and I asked him to write about it a bit now that they’ve had a messy breakup laced with internet drama and an airing of each other’s dirty laundry. Which means of course I invited him to air his frustrations via my blog, because that’s what friends do!

Right?

Am I wrong to think that steady sex is an important factor in a successful relationship? Everyone’s definition of “steady sex” is way different. For me it means daily, or at least 4 to 5 times a week. So, if that’s the case, why did I spend a year with someone who only fucked me a couple of times a month?

When we first met, it was a few times a week. I thought nothing of it because our sexual chemistry was great. I figured she’d just get to a point where she felt super comfortable and then I’d tear it up a few times a day… then it started to dwindle.

After a few months it was once a week, then once every two weeks. Every time we fucked, I wasn’t supposed do anything other than just missionary. When I said “turn over” or something, I got the “I don’t want to” or a “noooo, I’m lazy.” Really, this bitch would not let me express my artistic sexuality. After six months I asked myself, “Why am I jerking off so goddamn much? I have a bitch in my bed every night. There should be lips, snatch or bootyhole around my dick.”

I brought it up with the gal and I got the typical “I’m tired,” “I work too much,” “I’m just not in the mood” excuses. I worked far more hours than she did and came home tired. but I made sure my dick was ready for anything.

Of course, this turned into an argument which ended with some make-up sex…but again, the day after it was as dry as Ashy Larry. I was concerned because we had this vacation coming up and if I didn’t get crazy pussy for the money I shelled out, I was going to be super pissed. I just wanted to be intimate with the person I loved, you know?

So there we are in a foreign country, staying in a 5-star hotel overlooking a lake. There was something she kept calling “scenery”, wild animals running about and all kinds of shit chicks appreciate. I dropped money on expensive dinners, souvenirs, tattoos, etc. every day. Yet each night ended early with me wondering what her fucking problem was.

The last night we’re there, I am waiting to unload a monster nut and as I’m trying to initiate some intimacy she tells me she’s exhausted. I was pissed. We got back home the next day and I laid on the guilt about her not fucking me on this trip. As she was working on making it up to me, I made sure to “accidentally” cum on her face. Monster load in her eye. It was classic and I managed to make my “I’m sorry” believable while not smiling… it was fucking hard. She was lucky so many of her rat-fink friends were around during this trip, or I would have gotten my fuck on elsewhere.

Month 7 came and went without even a game of “just the tip.” She insisted that I was not the problem, but I was becoming “overly sexual” to which I replied, “IF YOU DIDN’T HOLD OUT ON THE PUSSY, YOU WOULDN’T BE SO IRRITATED BY ME TRYING TO FUCK YOU ALL THE TIME.”

I gave up after this… over the span of summer to winter we fucked maybe 10 times. Each time was like the first time I lost my virginity all over again. I didn’t even know what to do or how to react during the times my dick was in her mouth (which was even more limited than penetration). There was even a rare moment where we had sex two days in a row. This may sound pathetic, but trust me, if you’re not getting enough pussy, you’ll remember each and every time you got your dick wet.

When you suspect something, you suspect something… I went through her phone. Shitty move, but something was up. There were several texts to one of her girlfriends, the worst one read “I know what you mean. I’m already thinking what it’d be like to bone somebody who isn’t John Doe.”

John Doe being me, of course.

“What did I just read? Did this bitch just say she wanted to fuck other people?” I said to myself. Not only was she saying she didn’t want me anymore, but she was talking about having sex! I brought it up, only to learn she was “confused” and felt weird about us but didn’t want to break it off. I, stupidly, didn’t tell her to go fuck herself right then and there. The next month was really just a prolonged ending-she moved out and got her own place. We were still together, but broke up Christmas night because I’ve “changed.” A bullshit reason, but I was actually relieved.

Now I miss the convenience of having someone there (rarely) but that’s it. I know at some point I’ll find myself a bad bitch who is willing to do freaky shit with me whenever I want. Before I go I have to ask: What is wrong with these broads who don’t want to fuck on the regular? Ladies, if you love your man and he loves you back then FUCK HIM. Fuck him often, fuck him well. Do freak shit that will keep him around forever. Guys, if you’ve been in it with a broad for a long time and she’s not fucking you as much as you want, you need to leave that bitch. There are freak ho’s out there that will do it a lot more than the one you got.

I’m so proud of you, buddy.

Even if you don’t watch the whole thing, at least think about some of the numbers you heard and from which people. Honestly, society doesn’t allow for the average citizen to really come anywhere near to being a nine. Certainly not when you’re holding these average Joe’s to celebrity standards. For example I think most men would rate Megan Fox a nine, if not an easy ten on the attractiveness scale. (Again, this is based only on looks. Because really, nobody could even know anything about your personality based on sight alone.)

The photos on the left are of Megan Fox around 2004, roughly an epic 8. Plastic surgery she has had includes: two nose jobs, lips, Botox on her forehead and around the mouth, and breast implants from an ‘A’ to a large ‘B’. If you want to look at her physical appearance changes that didn’t require surgery she’s also let her eyebrows grow in, got a tan, found a fabulous make up artist (no more freckles!), a new hairstylist and wardrobe team. Don’t get me wrong, bitch is smoking hot–when she’s not talking.

What I’m getting at here is where does that leave the rest of us? How does the average male on the street hold up to the Justin Timberlakes, Brad Pitts and George Clooneys? When that’s what a woman thinks she deserves–another topic for another time, I assure you–how is she possibly going to handle realizing that her high standards will never be met? And guys I’m sorry but odds are you will never fuck a Jessica Alba, Angelina Jolie, or Megan Fox… so why does that seem to be what guys expect?

I can’t even tell you how many people I know that ruin a good thing in the pursuit of someone just like who they already have… except better. Instead of telling you all the painfully obvious reasons why that is foolish (because it won’t change anything) I think a change is in order. People are going to need to start taking the George Carlin approach.

“I have never fucked a 10. Never fucked a 10! But one night, I fucked five 2′s!”

And really, is that so bad?

- Invoke you & your date’s sense of childhood wonder with a trip to the planetarium. If you’re suffering from back pain, had shoulder surgery, or are otherwise entitled to do so… smoke a joint first. (Maybe buy your tickets prior to the smoking though, so nobody gets paranoid.) Go to the latest show they offer and maybe you can do some soul/mouth searching while looking at the stars. This is a date I still haven’t been on because my birthday date flaked. It’s also the best idea I’ve ever had, and I am determined to go with someone who will want to make out after.

- Determined to involve booze with your outing? Fine. Purchase some shooters of peppermint Schnapp’s. Bring them along on a date that will be spent judging someone’s intellect and ability to hold a conversation–like wandering around in a park/open space without any particular agenda. My apologies in advance as this idea is sort-of cutesy and has a little Christmas feel in there (sorry, Jew friends). Find a nearby Starbucks & get hot cocoa. Add the peppermint Shnapp’s you purchased earlier. If you’re straight-edge, I’d say go the creme de menthe route except that’s just dumb.

- If the idea of drinking Shnapp’s doesn’t grab you, why not go for wine instead? Pick up a bottle of something relatively inexpensive and go to a park. Or better yet, see if there’s any kind of wine tasting going on in your area. You don’t have to be living in the Napa Valley to enjoy a wine tasting. Plus, some chicks will misinterpret your interest in wine as a hidden way to tell if you are “cultured”. Bonus points!

- Museums are a good date for people you actually enjoy being around and conversing with… one top of one other big bonus: there’s no time limit. Probably not a good first date just because it’s too awesome to waste on just anyone.

And don’t you worry your pretty little heads – I have more e-dates I really did go on to talk about, too.

Rammstein was already on my “ridiculous” list before I saw this video. Then again, the last one I watched involved a rubber dildo spewing white stuff onto a crowd at a live performance. I was hanging out with some weird WASP type that I was severely infatuated with at like, age 14. That’s a different topic entirely, though.

Do you remember watching them perform in that movie XXX? Yes, the one with Vin Diesel. You have to understand… this was prior to an epiphany that just because Vin Diesel is ripped does not mean he’s hot. For the record, I don’t think the dudes from Rammstein are hot either. I think I do feel weird about watching this video, regardless. Don’t click that link at work, y’all!

You think I’m joking? Here’s what nearly $7,000 can get me.

For starters, I get to choose my ideal male’s body type. I’ve never been into overly ripped guys, so let’s start with option B.

With three options for the facial structure I’m having a really hard time picking one. After all, they all have a bit too much going on with how square their jaw is. Don’t worry, I eventually settled on “Michael”, considering he looks the least mentally challenged out of the bunch.

Add in fair skin, because I’m not sure which of the other options to select… along with gray eyes and no “hair stubble” and it looks like I’m well on my way to the perfect man. I even get to choose that my ideal boyfriend will never have facial hair. I am so excited to never feel like my face has been thoroughly abused by sandpaper again! But that’s not all! Oh hell no, there’s even further specifications to be made my friends!

I mean, how often does a girl get to choose what size penis she wants her man to have? I’m going to pick up one of the large option (I get to be a superficial jerk now and again too, guys) but I will definitely make sure it’s the detachable version in case I have a downsized–or upsized!–day in the near future. No point in making my fully customizable man stuck with a penis of my choosing forever!

Taking it a step further, I would prefer to have my man complete with some neatly trimmed brunette pubic hair. $100 extra dollars well spent, I say!

For another $75 extra I can throw on hair in style M02 (translation: scenester-hipster chic styling) and viola!

My dream boyfriend is now a reality! The total cost of this babe is a mere $6,674 USD. Shipping is free, that’s a $500 savings! So I think my real question is, how much overtime am I going to have to put in somewhere to make sure I never need “real” man again? (And we’re using that term loosely, for the moment.)

I’m hoping that John Mayer is also a fan of the Kink.com circle of website and doesn’t want all his super-yuppie fans find out that he is really into WiredPussy.com or something. Or worse yet, maybe he’s checking out the Men In Pain videos. By the way, if you’re a sick fuck like us (potentially) him, here’s a link to a bunch of freebies from all their content sites.

You’re welcome.

SILICONE: Generally a long lasting lubricant that is less likely to get sticky feeling the way water-based lubes. Serious downsides include that it’s not safe for use with all adult sex toy materials, or condoms. Bummer unless you’re either flying solo or in a committed relationship. Or just living on the edge, I guess.

Pjur Woman – For a silicone based lubricant, this is exceptionally light. Perfect for those of you out there looking for something that doesn’t make you feel like someone popped a bottle of Vasilene out to use without getting sticky/drying out the way a water based lubricant would. Personally I think it’s lightness makes it ideal for solo or couples vaginal sex only. SKIP IT: If you’re looking for something good for the region even further south, I suggest you pick a slightly heavier lube.

Toko – I originally purchased this lube on a whim–it was affordable and came in a pretty decent sized bottle. I have to say overall I was pretty impressed by it. It’s a very slick lube but slightly more substantial than the Pjur Woman, making it far more ideal for any kind of rear entry. ;)

WATER-BASED: Ideal for use with most sex toys but more importantly it’s condom safe. However water based lubes have a tendency to not last as long and frequently wind up feeling “sticky” if you don’t add more to the mix sooner rather than later.

Pink Water – After hearing rave reviews of the silicone-based Pink lube, I thought I’d give their water-based version a shot. I am so glad I did–this stuff borders on magical, all things considered. It’s light but not too light, and doesn’t get sticky mid-use, which is usually my main complaint about water-based lubricants. They offer three different sized bottles, so it’s ideal for stashing in a bedside drawer (6.75 fl. oz.) or your purse if you grab the smallest size–a bargain buy at $7! What can I say, you never know when something like this will come in handy! Be careful, the cap is pretty easily knocked off and the curves of this bottle can make it slightly difficult to handle if your hands aren’t dry. This is officially one of my two must-have out of all the lubes I’ve tried.

Maximus – From my experience this lube is pretty decent considering a) it’s water based – meaning perfect for use with condoms, b) it’s cheap and c) you get a lot for your money. Plus the feel of this lube is not quite as “jelly”-like as some other water-based products I’ve found. While that essential lube dispersing pump is pretty handy in the heat of the moment, it’s sort of an eyesore to have near the bed. I wouldn’t advise laying the bottle on it’s side for storage in a bedside drawer, so hopefully everyone getting near your bed is already cruising for some action and won’t be put off by such a blatant display of desire to make t3h fuck.

KY – Okay, this is a dick thing to say and I accept that: I hate KY. I’ll use it to stretch my ears, but never any other orifices, mmkay? The consistency borders on medical feeling–which is fine if that’s what you’re into–but when I’m trying to feel sexy this just doesn’t cut it. Plus I’ve noticed once friction is added in KY gets sticky pretty quickly. Gentlemen: if you want a lady to stick around for some serious play, UPGRADE YOUR LUBE SELECTION!

OIL-BASED

Vulva Balm – Alright I admit I have precisely zero previous experience with oil-based lubes. I got this in “Rapturous Rose” and while it does have a pretty natural rose scent I think it’s a product really reserved for those concerned with the scent of their lady bits, as well as those who aren’t going to be asking someone to perform oral sex on them. I gave it a taste; I’m sure your lover would rather not. I will say that this was an incredibly hydrating treat for such delicate skin, might be good to keep on hand as summer approaches. You know, just in case you’re hitting the pool on a regular basis. This product is also not condom safe, and you need to be cautious of how much actually winds up being used internally–oil based products can lead to problems with thrush if not used properly.

HOUSEHOLD ITEMS: I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard some ridiculous ideas for what is suitable for use as lube out of household items. To date some of the best include lotion, conditioner, olive oil, milk, butter/Crisco, . Gentlemen, ladies–do not use these things as lubricant. I don’t care what your partner says about how they’ve “done it plenty of times”, there is no excuse not to be looking out for your genitals best interest. And I’m willing to bet it’s not going to be very fun to explain to your doctor what a moron you are when you get a sweet infection from using one of these items.

Long story short? Buy some lube. More specifically, buy some good lube that caters to your needs–and don’t cheap out, either.