NSFW – Page 2

The Kiss List

I kept a list of all of the people I've kissed and done, uhhh, other stuff with. Doesn't everyone have one? @foxywinepocket | humor

This past weekend, my freighbors (neighbors who are also friends) and I were sitting around a fire pit, drinking wine, and shooting the shit. We told stories of past parties, neighbors we have violated, and other ridiculous shenanigans.

The exact sequence of events is a little fuzzy (did I mention the wine?), but as often happens when I’m around, the conversation turned to sex. Somehow (I’m certain it wasn’t me though) we started playing “Slutty, Nerdy, or Normal.” You know, the game where you self-select one of those words to describe your sexual history and try to guess (without judgment—this is all in good fun) which your friends will pick? That one.

When I declared myself “normal,” my freighbors didn’t believe me. They suggested I was lying and/or hiding something. Fortunately, for my good name (meaning I wasn’t lying), I have proof.

I have a Kiss List.

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What Do You Do with a Bag of Dickeys?

I’m giving away a bag of dickeys. Want some?

I guess before any dickey transactions, I should give you a little warm-up. See, when I was in junior high, I wore a lot of oversized sweatshirts and Cosby sweaters (wait—are we still allowed to use that phrase?). Underneath these garments, I always wore turtlenecks. Not because it’s cold here in the mild-weather-capital of the world. Because that’s what we did in middle school. It was The Look.

See? (I could have included at least a dozen more horrible photos.)

So I’m getting ready to attend a conference in Baltimore, and one of the parties has a Middle School to the Max theme. Naturally I thought of my sweatshirt and turtleneck combination. But it will be June in Baltimore—two layers would turn me into a sweaty, melty mess. (Not unlike when I discovered my 8^th grade boyfriend had kissed another girl, but I don’t want to repeat that look.)

Clearly, I had to get my hands on a dickey. (That’s what she said.)

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Oh My Vulva, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

Oh My Vulva, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me? @foxywinepocket

I’ve been good to my female parts all of my life. I go to the doctor regularly and keep a tidy house. I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for over twenty years, and my lady garden has not received many visitors—either foreign or domestic. And because of my mother’s nightmare-inducing warnings about Toxic Shock Syndrome, I fastidiously clean “down there” and obsessively change all of my feminine hygiene products.

Recently, however, my vulva betrayed me. She allowed passage to a very unwelcome guest.

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

If You Had a Dirty Little Secret, Would You Tell Your Spouse?

I did something the other day that required a confession to my husband. Would you have done it? @foxywinepocket | humor

It’s no secret that I will never again wax my hoo-ha. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like to spruce up my nether region for Mr. Foxy. I mean, I don’t go crazy on the vaginal beautification front, but I like to keep things neat. Mostly that involves shaving.

Recently, however, my friend was describing how she kept her kitty “High and Tight,” meaning short all over and clean-shaven around the edges. Think “crew cut” for the lady down below.

As my wedding anniversary was approaching, I wanted to try something new and different for Mr. Foxy. “High and Tight” sounded like just the thing.

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Are They Sending Me Recipes or Porn?

Are They Sending Me Recipes or Porn? @foxywinepocket

Mr. Foxy and I were having a lazy Saturday morning drinking coffee and hanging out in the living room when I got an email with the subject line, “You Can’t Resist a Chocolate Chubbie…”

I choked on my coffee and then looked over both of my shoulders to see if anyone was watching me open what could possibly be porn. (Because OF COURSE I OPENED IT.)

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

5 Lessons I Learned at the “Adult Boutique”

5 Lessons I Learned at the "Adult Boutique" @foxywinepocket #allthenopesinnopeland #twocatholicschoolgirlswalkintoasexshop

Two Catholic school girls walk into a sex shop…

That’s not the opening line to a joke. That actually happened. My freighbor (friend + neighbor) and I, both Catholic school survivors, recently went to an adult boutique to buy a present for another freighbor. We were going to a party celebrating her 40^th birthday and 15^th wedding anniversary.

Naturally, given the momentous occasions, we decided sex toys were the most appropriate gift. (Believe it or not, it wasn’t my idea.)

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Are You Playing Cards Against Humanity Correctly?

Are You Playing Cards Against Humanity Correctly? @foxywinepocket #iamahorribleperson #humor #notforeveryone

I am a horrible person.

How do I know? Because Cards Against Humanity is my absolute favorite game in the entire world, and it’s “a party game for horrible people.” IT SAYS SO RIGHT ON THE BOX. Ergo, I am a horrible person. But I’m okay with that.

Actually, I’m not much of a game player. I hate ugly competition and mind-numbing repetitive rounds of pointless ladder climbing, passing go and maybe collecting $200, and trying to remember where the frakking cherry card is. I. Hate. It. All. But I love Cards Against Humanity because it truly doesn’t matter who wins or loses. The end result is not the important part. It’s HOW you play the game.

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What Women REALLY Think About Blowjobs

What Women REALLY Think About Blowjobs @foxywinepocket #humor

Okay, a quick recap first.

Last year I wrote a ridiculous book review in which I dismissed the book’s believability because real-life women don’t enjoy giving blowjobs as much as the protagonist. After getting some hate-mail (from men), I conducted a very scientific research study that involved ~~badgering~~ interviewing my friends to collect data to support my original assertion. Then, I ran a survey to collect even more data from you readers, but I messed that up by not limiting survey responses. (READ: my husband choose “YES, YES, YES!” 485,972,498,752,984,755 times.)

So, I forgot the whole topic. (Much like I forget about blowjobs.)

Finally, last week I made a joke about apology blowjobs (that’s a thing, really), realized I should have reported back about the tainted survey, and then ran a new survey, asking you (yet again) what you thought about blowjobs.

All caught up now? Good. Let’s get to that new survey.

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Now Is Your Chance: Tell Me What You Think About Blowjobs

Now Is Your Chance: Tell Me What You Think about Blowjobs #science #research #totallylegit

“Exams Start… Now” by Ryan McGilchrist is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0. Cropped from original and added title graphic overlay.

Normally I have to get on my knees and beg people to read my blog. (Although my husband would like me on my knees for other reasons.) I plaster links all over Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and other people’s blogs. And I hope that readers come.

But sometimes people find my blog on their own. Mostly by searching for specific things on the Internet. This can be horrifying. (I’m not even going to tell you about the searches that lead people to this article.)

Earlier this week, someone found my blog by searching for “i’m sorry blowjob.” Sure, I’ve talked about blowjobs before (not really in the positive sense). But I decided to have a little fun with the search on Facebook and Twitter:

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Why I’ll Never Have Another Brazilian Again

Why I'll Never Have Another Brazilian Again | @foxywinepocket | humor | anti-wax

My husband and I have been married for over 17 years (obviously, I was a teen bride—OBVIOUSLY) so it can sometimes be a challenge to keep the spice in our sex life. We’ve used lots of things over the years: lingerie, toys, porn, you know the drill (we have never used a drill).

But my favorite “spice” is pubic hair art. That is, over the years, I’ve shaved various shapes into my pubic region: hearts, arrows, a martini glass, his initial, etc. (My God, I just realized that I’m an artist, and my medium is pubic hair.) If a particular piece doesn’t come out well, I just make it a Rorschach test, and we have great sex anyway.

(I will not be including any of those pictures with this post.)

For my husband’s last birthday, I decided to surprise him with a Brazilian. Now, I’ve never had a wax job on any part of me before, much less one where they remove everything from my hoo-ha. (I know, they don’t actually have to remove everything, but I figured go big or go home, right?) I decided that I could spare some hair in honor of my husband.

I didn’t think much of the whole process when I was scheduling the appointment, but honestly, I was a little nervous when the day came. When the technician arrived, I gave her a frightened look.

“First time?” she inquired.

“Yep,” I chirped softly.

She then proceeded to explain the process and how she was going to remove the most sensitive hair first and then the rest of it. Then she moved the blanket.

“Oh. Uhhhhh, well, first we need to trim the hair back a bit. Quite a bit.”

I guess I had a forest going on there. I silently cursed my Italian grandmother. And the technician proceeded to trim my pubes with teeny tiny scissors (at least she didn’t have to get out a chainsaw), which actually tickled a bit. So I giggled and then got nervous about giggling over someone touching my pubic hair. Because it seemed vaguely inappropriate. (But it felt kinda nice.)

“Okay, now that we’ve trimmed the hair, I’m going to remove the most sensitive area first.”

“I’ve pushed out two kids. How hard can this be?” I pretended to be brave.

“Okay, then, here I go.”

“HOLYMOTHEROFUCKINGSHITBALLSMOTHERFUCKER!!” I screamed in my head.

But what I uttered through clenched teeth was a weak, “I’m okay.”

And then she pressed her hand against my pubic bone (I assume to alleviate the pain).

“Harder! Harder! HARDERRRRR!” I screamed. Only that might have caused some more awkwardness.

After she threw me a weird glance, she assured me, “Well, that was the worst one. It gets easier from here.”

And it went like that for one fucking long session. Time became meaningless. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and not kicking her in the fucking face. Breathe in. Breathe out. Restrain foot. Repeat.

Fortunately, she was right. The first one was the worst. (But the rest sucked pretty hard too.) After removing all of my hair, she applied some sort of soothing salve. It had a name. I don’t remember it. I was kind a hoping for a massage. Or a cigarette.

But the awkward sexual innuendo and the pain are not the reasons I will no longer be getting Brazilians. No, I could deal with those again. There are three other reasons I will no longer be waxing the hooha:

1. After the technician left the room, I picked myself up off of the table. Actually I kind of slid off of the table in my own sweat. I walked over to the mirror to examine myself, and I was horrified. Not because I looked like a prepubescent girl (although that was slightly horrifying). I was horrified because it was at that moment that I realized that my pregnancy stretch marks went ALL THE WAY DOWN INTO MY TANTALIZING TRIANGLE. They looked like grotesque, greedy little fingers pointing the way down. Or lightening bolts threatening to strike any who enter.

Fortunately for me, my husband didn’t seem to notice the stretch marks. He was quite happy with the results. Also, he was too busy noticing that…

2… Without the hair there to provide a buffer, I was horny as hell. Constantly. This became a problem. (My husband didn’t think this was a problem.) It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing, I wanted to attack my husband. Or the waiter. Or the lamppost. Suffice it to say, we had a lot of sex over the next week. But the constant horniness only lasted until…

3… The hair started growing back, and I switched from ecstasy to agony. AGONY. Apparently—and no one warned me about this—I am not a good candidate for waxing. The itching, while annoying, was the least of my problems. Turns out that I am prone to ingrown hairs, and they hurt like a mofo. I started telling my husband I had boils and scurvy and bad, bad shit. I looked like a diseased slave from Game of Thrones. Not even a Dothraki would ravage me.

So, basically, I’m done with the Brazilians. Forever. I’ll stick to pubic hair art to spice things up.

I’m thinking about a chili pepper next.

Why I'll Never Have Another Brazilian Again | @foxywinepocket | humor | anti-wax

Photo Credit: ssuaphoto / 123RF Stock Photo

Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)