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

The Most Amazing Thing You'll Ever See.

FRIENDS!  Great news.

As you know, we've held off on self-publishing The Penis Chronicles because our aim has been to land a literary agent and go that route; and this is still our goal.

You also know by now, however, that this is a rather lengthy process, a great majority of which is spent waiting to hear back from agencies.  And then waiting some more.  And then having a snack.  And then waiting after that.

SO, in addition to querying our asses off (literally, our asses are gone), we're venturing into a smaller side project that will tie in very nicely: I Dated the Zodiac.

With our interest in astrology, we can't resist.

This will be a very short read and self-published.  In the name of marketing the shit out of ourselves (which is hard to do when you have no asses left), we've created a new blog, Twitter, Facebook, and StumbleUpon page for I Dated the Zodiac.  Things are a little nekkid right now, but pop a Xanax and relax.  We're getting to it.   

In case you missed them, here are the links to The Penis Chronicles' Twitter, Facebook, and StumbleUpon pages.

Our hopes are to use this new piece to get our foot in the door with a literary agency for The Penis Chronicles, and then make our first appearance on The Ellen DeGeneres Show.

Stay tuned for updates and social networking galore.

Love,
Megan and Dani

6 Reasons You Want to be Single

Ahh, yes.  And so, it happens again.  Another one bites the dust.  I dated a guy for a whole week, but it wasn't meant to be.  I thought I could look past his flaws--his snaggle tooth, his bald spot, and the way he says "I seen"--but alas, I couldn't.

Now I'm back to spending every night with my cat and masturbating so much that one arm is significantly more muscular than the other.  Suddenly, the light bulb went off:

Being single is way better!

Disagree?  You're wrong.  And I will tell you why, for the following reasons:

(1) You don't have to shave--ANYTHING.  Within days, you'll look like Chewbacca, but your boyfriend won't care--because you don't have one!

(2) You can fart and burp as much as you want without having to try and blame it on the cat.  

(3) You don't have to act like a lady when you rip into that bag of Fritos.  You want to be elbow-deep in that bag of Fritos for the next four hours while you watch Jersey Shore on Netflix?  You go, girl.

(4) And what are you going to do with that chip bag once it's empty?  If Snooki and JWoww are beating the shit out of Angelina and you don't want to miss it, go ahead and throw that chip bag on the floor while you continue your JS marathon.  That chip bag can stay there all damn night.  What's your boyfriend going to do about it, besides NOT EXIST?

(5) You can sleep with whoever you want, and no one can say a damn thing.  Go ahead and fuck the Atlanta Falcons' entire defensive line.  Use a condom, and God speed to you.      

(6) You still have some of his shirts in your apartment, right?  How lucky are you?  There are multiple uses for those shirts.  Didn't you say you ran out of toilet paper?

You're welcome.

Love,

Cori

xoxo

I Haven't Been Laid in Eight Months

I can't believe it.  I can't believe it's over.  I was serious about him.  I loved him.  I wanted to marry him.  I dated him for two whole weeks.  But then I realized he was dumber than a tack hammer and pulled the plug.  I can't stand the sight of him naked anymore and I keep forgetting to replace the batteries in my vibrator.  Before I know it, eight months have passed, and I've almost forgotten what a dick even looks like.

Eight months is a long time to go without sex.  Too long.  I start to fantasize about everything.  Inanimate objects make my vagina squeal.  I want to hump the mailman, the creepy neighbor that never puts a shirt on, the Asian chick doing my nails.  Oh yes.  Women start to look delicious.  Everything starts to look delicious.  The couch looks humpable, the chair, the edge of the bed.  Dogs that still have their balls make me blush.  I'm taking three showers a day just so that I can be close to a naked body--even if it's only my own.

I walk into Walmart and I'm immediately turned on by the plethora of shoppers with missing teeth, unibrows, and back boobs.  I start to imagine how sexy it could be to play with the rolls on their stomachs while they seductively lick the sauce off their lips from the family-size tray of lasagna they just bought for $2.

A man that smells nice and looks groomed bumps into me at the grocery store, and I cum in the produce aisle.  I practically have to handcuff myself to a watermelon so that I don't tackle the poor guy as he approaches the pretty blonde.  She's probably a slut in the sack.

Lucky bitch.

I'm walking through the park one day and spot a guy itching his balls.  I'm immediately turned on.  Five minutes later, I'm stopped by a cop.  I worry that maybe I parked in a handicap spot by accident, until I realize that I'm humping a bench.

Maybe I can get some strange through online dating.  ChristianMingle.com is starting to sound like a miracle; or I could always join Plenty of Fish, where all of the fish have 13 kids with five different women and have to use coupons at Taco Bell.

I'd totes sleep with my boss, who I definitely caught looking down my shirt.  People say you shouldn't shit where you eat, but I don't care anymore.  I'll shit where I please, and I'll like it.

Except he's actually gay.

....But I still tried anyway.......






                                                                                                                                  He said no.

NINE MONTHS, holy hell.

I'm foaming at the mouth.  I know that if I don't get some ass soon, I'm going to do something horrible--start drinking too much, pop some pills, add Rebecca Black to my YouTube playlist.

My ex isn't sounding so bad after all.  Sure, I caught him spelling his own name wrong.  Sure, he drives with the parking brake on.  Sure, he tried to pay for my dinner with Monopoly money.  But if I put a paper bag over his head while we do it...

Maybe I'll commit myself to a nunnery instead.

It's too much.  I can't handle it.  I could hump a tree.  I'm so horny that even TV Guide is masturbating material.  My legs are about to permanently seal shut, condemning me to a lonely, boner-less life.

And that's when my phone vibrates.

I immediately stick it down my pants, then decide that I might actually care about who's calling.  It's him.  It's the ex.  He wants to watch a movie.

We all know what that means.

I shave my legs for the first time in weeks, stun myself senseless with Xanax and half a bottle of Boone's Farm, and 20 minutes later, he's standing at my front door.

Slump's over!  God speed.

An Update on Our Endeavors...

Hey friends,

First off, thank you again for continuing to encourage us and show your support.  These two politically incorrect, incredibly inappropriate, and oftentimes unladylike writers are very grateful for all of you.

We aim to stay active on our networking pages and keep you all up to date.  As you have read in our recent posts, the book is (and has been) done and we've been querying agents.  Not everyone is familiar with the process, so we just wanted to briefly explain what we're doing.

Most of the time, this is done electronically.  Sometimes, it's snail mail.  Agents ask for a query letter, and sometimes--albeit very infrequently--a sample.  Each time we contact an agent, we adjust our query letter, since it's supposed to be personalized for that specific agent.  We do our research on who we're writing to, find the agents that we think might be the most interested in our genre and topic, and spend a great deal of time begging them to represent us telling them why we're qualified, what our book is about, and why we're a good addition to their agency.

Then, we wait approximately 400 years a couple weeks (sometimes less, sometimes more) to hear from these agencies.  This is an INCREDIBLY competitive business, so even though we're hilarious, innovative, and disgustingly witty very hard workers, we haven't found the agent yet.  However, as our query letters improve, the responses from these agents are actually getting noticeably better.  They're a lot more willing to talk to us, and have even provided some very promising feedback.

This business is very subjective, so while part of the battle is convincing a literary agent that you're not a complete asshole a strong and marketable writer, another part of it is getting them to love your story and stand behind your characters.

SO, you can probably see that it's a rather lengthy process, a great deal of which is spent querying and then waiting, and while you wait, you query again, and then wait again, but keep querying, and while you're waiting for the response to the last query, query again.***

It's super important for us to keep up this great momentum.  So keep reading, sharing, commenting, and telling us how much you love us.  Mention our book to your friends and direct them to our Facebook/Twitter/blog.  We'll always keep you in the loop, and we're so thrilled for the day when we can finally share the news that we've taken the next huge step and gotten an amazing literary agent!

And it WILL happen.  Megan has already picked out her dress for the book launch party.

Just kidding.

But not really.

Much love,
Megan and Dani

***Stab yourself in the eyeballs

I Fell In Love with My Fuck Buddy-Part DUECES!

So here I am, lying next to this gorgeous, smart, gorgeous, exotic looking, sweet talking, gorgeous man. I've been SURE for at least a week that I'm madly in love with him even though I know I shouldn't be. Even though he's stated that this is all he wants and all we'll ever be, even though I loved another man just two weeks ago....

As I look lovingly into his eyes, pretty positive that he felt the same way. I knew I had to say something. We couldn't go on like this. Pretending to not feel the way we feel (IN LOVE). I didn't want to jinx anything this time so I only told five or six or ten of my closest girlfriends. Ok, 12. And my mother..Anyway, they all thought the same thing. He was definitely in love with me, too.
But every time I tried to say something words would escape me or he'd have this look on his face like he was constipated or trying to figure out if the color of my thong was black or navy blue-that's really a crap shoot for guys, they're all color blind. You can't tell a guy you love him when he looks constipated. Not sexy.

I decided I would start seeing him more; I would make myself more available. If three-seven nights a week wasn't enough, surely....well, whatever more than seven nights a week was, that's what I would be! Morning, noon and night baby, all yours! I texted him after I left that night and said we should spend a night in cooking together, watching movies, making LOVE...the thought gave me tingles already! He said he was in, obvi.!

I hadn't heard from him the rest of the week. I figured he was obviously playing hard-to-get and why would he be as eager as I was? He didn't know I was in love with him, yet. So Saturday night rolls around, I call. No answer. No text. Nothing. Sad, depressed and thirsty, my girlfriend Susan and I went to a bar downtown to get a drink. And by 'a drink' I mean get wasted, then get high on our way to Denny's at 2am.

Even though I was feeling depressed I knew I at least looked hott so off we went into the night! Two drinks in and I spotted him. Not my fuck buddy. Someone better. Someone hotter. Someone more exotic looking than ever! Ok, he was a hipster just like all the other guys in the bar but he made his Flannel look like Channel diamonds and his scruffy face and long, tangled hair looked like the hipster version of James fucking Dean.

Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe I was in heat. Whatever it was, we locked eyes and I couldn't remember whats-his-fuck for the life of me. We got lost in each other and once I heard his accent it was like I was making out with Javier Bardem's younger, hotter, brother. YUM!
Needless to say, my fuck buddy can go fuck himself. I'm NOT in love with him....anymore. It's so weird how good sex can cloud a woman's thinking. Whoopsie!