The 7 Stages of Orgasm

Climaxing isn't a sprint.  It's not like you flip a switch and, "Oh hay, I came."  It's like reading a novel, starting with the beginnings of, "This better be good," to, "STFUomgthatwasawesome."  You tiptoe through the process, mind traveling through a series of thoughts, starting with...

Stage 1: You Could Be Watching Netflix Right Now

It's that last minute regret.  Kind of like buyer's remorse.  You know this is probably going to take awhile, but it'd be rude to RSVP and then bail at the last minute.  So you hunker down, hope for the best, and try to stop thinking about the last episode of Dexter.

Stage 2: ...This Might Not Suck

You were trying to keep busy by attempting to count how many DVDs he had on the shelf across the room when it hit you: This is starting to vaguely resemble something that could potentially feel pleasurable.  Indeed!  This man has some semblance of knowledge of the female anatomy.  Give him a cookie.

Stage 3: NOPE NOPE NOPE Not the Back Door

Maybe he got lost.  Maybe he intentionally veered off Google Maps and took a detour.  Regardless, he is a gentleman and you are a lady, and the prison hole is a definite no-no region.

Stage 4: For the LOVE OF GOD Don't Stop What You're Doing

Like Edison and the light bulb, he's got it.  He's found the magic spot.  He knows not to touch it directly, so instead he drives around it like a cul-de-sac.  Your muscles start to pulse and contract and you pray to sweet baby Jesus that in your uncontrolled spasming, you don't accidentally fart on his face.

Stage 5: You're So Close, We're So Close, the Neighbor Down the Street is So Close

You can't remember the last time you had this much fun without a vibrator.  It's happening.  It's coming.  You can feel it rising up through your toesies.  Quick.  Arch your back.  Flip your hair.  Lick your lips.  How's your o-face?  Is it pretty?

Stage 6:

FHOUEHF UWEHYR*(Y$WQ TG$WHIBKHRbfdiu47u8tyo83qh;U AKJERBFZRgwf 489wt[g$ wiuebf qurb 3894GTR4IU Wr#r#whq3W2e#hy HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Stage 7: Jk. It Was a Wet Dream and You're Late for Work. 

The Night I Didn't Get Engaged

Why is everybody getting married and having babies?  And by "everybody," I clearly mean, "not me."

Judy Dumbfuck was dating a guy for five minutes before he got down on one hairy, ugly, fat knee and proposed with a ring that no doubt came from the bottom of a cereal box.  She said, "Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"  I bet my mom $5 they'd be divorced within a year.  At least they won't need a prenup.  They're broke and don't own shit.  There's nothing to nup.  You can't split nothing in half.

Melanie Shithead got engaged, too.  Melanie's been dating the guy for the last 800 years.  Melanie's now-fiance is perfect: handsome, rich, tall, ripped, intelligent, honest, loyal, and devoted.  Melanie's ring is so heavy, she walks with a limp.  Melanie is a lucky little fuck nugget.

Crystal Shit-My-Pants is on Baby #3.  She and her husband hate each other.  But it doesn't matter, because they had cute Christmas cards and write sweet messages on each other's Facebooks and act like he isn't actually porking that waitress from Denny's.  Crystal gives her children eccentric and unique names.  Literally.  She named them Eccentric and Unique.  #3 is going to be Individual.  All three will be ridiculed endlessly by their peers.  I'll continue to point out how fat Crystal is going to get and the fact that when she laughs a little too hard, she might pee herself.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend treats me with the utmost respect.  He buys me flowers regularly and takes me on exotic trips.  He tells me he loves me every single day and pampers me like the princess I am.  He loves taking me to his family's house and introducing me to all of his friends.  I'm his #1 priority, and my happiness means the world to him doesn't exist.

Every single night, I fall asleep to some boring documentary on Netflix.  I'm pale and fat, and my neighbor checks in once a week to make sure I'm not dead.  I once finished an entire box of Twinkies in one sitting and I think I'm growing a mustache. My mom tried to pay her coworker to take me on a date, but he said there wasn't enough money in the world.

Enjoy your marriages, you dolts.  I hope your babies look like Jabba the Hutt.

Love,
Corrine
xoxo

Your Life in One Aisle of Wal-Mart and Why Guys Have It Easy--A Story by Corrine Miles

What is it about Wal-Mart?  Are they just trying to humiliate and degrade women?

It's the section of the store that we all hate going to: the feminine/"private" section.

Stay with me on this.

You start at the very beginning of the shelf.  They have every variety of Tampax and Kotex you could ever dream of.  Long pads, short pads, thick pads, thin pads, pads with wings, pads without wings, pads that are scented, pads that just smell like cotton...

Tampons with a braided string, tampons with a normal, boring string, tampons that smell good, tampons that just smell like tampons, tampons for heavy flows, tampons for light flows, tampons for teeny weeny vaginas, and tampons for really BIG vaginas.

But they cost a fortune and Wal-Mart knows that you might just go without, especially in your delicate and hormonal state, so next on the shelf is the generic brand of everything listed above, for those of us who aren't afraid to stick cardboard applicators in our cooches or use pads that fall apart if you fart too hard.

And they know--they KNOW--that while you're on the rag, you're probably not going to want to have sex since you feel like a giant heap of shit, so just to torture you, they stock the KY and other "intimate gels" right after.  Those gels that give you that great "tingling sensation" and make intimacy more enjoyable in all its slippery goodness?  Yeah.  You won't be needing that this week.

Thanks Wal-Mart.

But here's the silver lining: You're riding the cotton rocket because you're definitely not pregnant and you'd like to keep it that way, right?  Perfect!  Because next on the shelf are condoms for when your period is over and you're back to being the hypersexual slut nugget who wants to jump her boyfriend's bones.  Ribbed for her pleasure, ultra-sensitive, ones with an extra big tip, small condoms, average-sized condoms, big condoms, and the Magnums that you know damn well would be baggy on any asshole who claimed he needed them.

Sometimes shit happens though, right?  Maybe that condom breaks.  Maybe the moron you're dating went ahead with the Magnum anyway, which immediately slipped off and got lost in the massive cave that is your vagina.  You suddenly realize that you haven't had to tap into your assortment of pads and tampons for quite some time and upon consulting your calendar, you realize that Aunt Flo is ten days late.

Well shit.

You start to panic, but don't.  You know how you left off at the KY?  Wal-Mart must have a sixth sense about these things because next to the KY are the pregnancy tests.  Need to know if you've been sperminated?  You're in luck!  They're already within arm's reach.

So you spend $20 on a two-pack of First Response and haul ass to the Wal-Mart bathroom.  You're so nervous that you don't even care that the stall door doesn't lock and there's urine on the seat.  Five minutes later, two lines pop up on the stick and you realize that you officially have a fetus growing in your abdomen.

The next several decades of your life suddenly flash before your eyes.  You realize that you might very well have to marry the guy who knocked you up and will probably end up saddled with four more kids.  You can say good-bye to your sex life because you'll be too busy driving them to soccer and karate and clarinet lessons.  Besides, after Baby #2, you'll never lose that weight and will feel so fat and ugly that you'll probably never let your husband see you naked again.

Before you know it, you're 80 years old.  And you know what?  Wal-Mart has been keeping a close eye on you.  Because right after the pregnancy tests, at the verrrrrrrry end of that section of the store that nobody likes, are the adult diapers.  You used to be this hot young thing who was super cool with her menstrual flow and pads and tampons and KY warming gel and condoms and pregnancy tests and now you can't help but piss your pants on a daily basis.  

So basically, Wal-Mart just bitch slapped you in the genitalia and is still laughing hysterically about it.

Think it's easy being a girl?