Bad Advice

Dirty Girl!

Last week my boyfriend called me at the office and yelped into the phone, "I think your friend Rachel is masturbating on Real Sex!"

Yeah, probably, I replied, shrugging to myself. Rachel Kramer Bussel has been writing about sex for many years now, but for those of us lucky enough to know her, the naughty stuff seems such a small part of who she is. When I think of Rachel, I don't think about nipple clamps or penises—the first things that springs to mind are cupcakes. Then babies. Then a mountain of overstuffed tote bags, brimming with manuscripts, books, and god knows what else—with a cute little lady struggling under their weight. If I ever win Lotto, I'm hiring Rachel a sherpa.

But while I sometimes forget about Rachel's prurient side, the fact is, she's an amazing sex writer and editor. Witness her latest collection, Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women. Hello, there's a nipple on the cover! And plenty of titillating goodness inside. You can check out the blog for more, but I've got a filthy little piece for you right here (I like to think she chose this bit for me because it's very catholic—just like moi):

We stood in silence, awed by the power of the place. The ceilings were three stories high, and arched with solid oak beams. The ceiling was covered with a mural of the Virgin Mary, and the stained glass windows on either side rose two stories before joining the mural in a cacophony of color and priceless artistry. Even the pews were lovely, obviously hand-carved out of expensive woods. Three steps led to the altar. An imposing crucifix hung as the focal point in the massive church.

What if Ann Coulter had hot sex with Carrie Bradshaw and their demon spawn decided to blog?

I imagine that they would sound something like these ladies right here.

Isn't Online Dating Impersonal Enough?

Last week we met the woman who was too inept to write her own ad; this week it's a guy who wants to hire someone to do all the legwork for him:

I need someone to work for me for the next week or two writing responses to personals ads and updating my photos and profile. You will work from my office. Pay is $10/hour. You should be creative and intelligent. Job starts immediately. Please tell me something about you. You should be a well-dressed, attractive and intelligent person since that is who I want to meet and you should be on the same wavelength as those kinds of women.

Also, my latest Seattle column is up and here's last week's if you missed it.

Listen to the Voice of Seduction

Speaking of ass-fucking, have you been watching "The Pick-Up Artist" on Vh1? I have a pretty high tolerance for bad TV and even I can't stomach it. That these dorks are relying on a spazzy Jamiroquoi wannabe who calls himself "Mystery" to get them laid is a cross between scary and just plain sad. And his sidekicks are even worse—especially the deeply closeted gentleman with the fancy black streak in his blonde hair.

But even worse than Mystery's lame name, fuzzy hat and eyeliner is his voice. Go on. Turn it up. I guarantee that ten years ago his conversations ran more along the lines of "The Ferengi rules of Acquisition explicitly state that blah, blah, blah. . ." So nasal, so Canadian, so completely and utterly, not hot.

UPDATE: Read my friend Diane Mapes' awesome piece on the Pick-Up Artist at the Seattle PI!

Doggie Style!

I just received an anonymous photo of Frankenstein that is so scandalous. . . so shocking. . . so, so, so, sick, I decided to post it only after the jump. So if you're under 21 and/or weak of stomach, please refrain from looking.

ButGettingLaidFeelsBetter.com

Thanks, Feministing!

Here are some other things that feel better than not having sex:

• Getting a pedicure.
• Petting my cat.
• Flapping my arms like a bird, while running in a small circle.
• Pondering my mortality.
• Taking the crosstown bus at rush hour.
• Listening to the new Throbbing Gristle CD, though not by much.
• Washing my scanties in the bathroom sink.

I just realized my list is really boring. What do you prefer to abstinence?

I Had a Dream. . . .

I'll keep this brief as I am well-aware how irritating other people's dreams are. But last night I dreamt I had a three-way with David Beckham (totally understandable) and . . . 

Is he a sociopath or is it just the Asperger's?

You know how everyone (okay, me) is always talking smack about the crazy jackasses they used to date? At least if you mine this site for tail, you'll have an official diagnosis going into it. That could've saved me a lot of time back in the day.

The Magic is Gone

I threw out my lucky shirt the other day. It's the end of an era. Even though that shirt had gotten me tons of ass back in the day, I had to face facts that it was over. Done. What was once nice was now holey, smelled weird even when it was clean, and wasn't actually very flattering anymore. Truth be told, it was never particularly flattering, but it had this odd effect on men. It definitely wasn't a hoochie shirt, but I think it worked because it had the stealth cleavage thing going for it. Kind of baggy, but always open just a little too far. It also had these subtle lacey inserts that made it obvious what color bra you were wearing.

That's a photo of my friend Julie wearing the shirt. I made her put it on for a personal ad photo shoot we did a few years back. Though she was dubious about its powers being transferable, I knew my shirt would get her laid too. And, as happens so often, I was correct. It truly was a magical garment. I bought it in a thrift store and it served me well for many years. Maybe I should've given my booty blouse an official burial or something, but instead, I just tossed it in the garbage. Perhaps a hobo lady will fish it out of the can and she'll end up getting finger-banged in the bathroom at Botanica. Not that I'd ever do anything like that. . . .

Anyway, I'm procrastinating. Here are a few things I've been thinking about in order to avoid working on my column:

• I love this cat.
• Jim Knipfel is back!
• Do you think I should buy this dress?
• What about this bag? Rose says yes (but she'd been drinking, Boyfriend says no (but then, he'd been drinking too). I'll tally your votes at the end of the day and act accordingly.
• This made me gasp. I thought it was a joke. But it's not. Show people are the devil, I tell ya!
• I might have mentioned that I'm woken up by a piledriver (construction equipment, not sex or wrestling related) between 7:15 and 7:30 every day. It's good to see that the construction that's preventing me from getting my beauty sleep is going to be tasteful and lovely once it's completed.

The Bad Kiss

Now this to me is a bad kiss. Bushie's moving in for a smooch and Condi is giving him the head turn combined with the fish face. Either one would be bad on their own, but combined? GWB ain't getting no tongue offa Condi. Though I'm betting most men don't.

I'm looking for examples of bad kisses/ers. I've had lickers, slurpers, deep-tonguers, and guys who kept their mouths clamped shut tighter than the Laura Bush's asshole. I want to hear about your rotten makeouts and if any of you had any luck showing them the right way to do things. If so, how'd you do it? Yes, this is for a column I'm working on. You can either email me, or post in the comments. Thanks!