To boldly go where no man has gone before

A friend recently inquired, “Why don’t you just give fake names to people instead of clever titles?  Don’t you think it would be more believable?”  I thought for half a second, casually imbibing, and recalled the naming of The Kinky Wizard, which I’d be remiss not  to include.

The Kinky Wizard was an extremely intellectual young man pursuing the academic challenge of dissertation writing, creating lasers, and teaching at one of the world’s top ten universities.  In his spare time, he took me out for Asian food and got naked with me.    I had no complaints… until my inquiries got the best of me on fine evening.

Me (innocently pretending to be vaguely interested in his career more than his penis): So has any of your research been published?

Kinky Wizard: Sure, some of my research has been published, and some of my writing as well

Me: Really?  I knew you liked poetry…

Kinky Wizard: Yeah, but this was a little different.  It’s a crossword puzzle.

Okay, so publishing a crossword puzzle is pretty cool, and thus I was genuinely interested at this point.

Me: Awesome.  Any aspirations for the Times someday?

Kinky Wizard: Well this was a little different.  It was a sci-fi erotic crossword puzzle.

Me: Wow, what kind of clu……WHAT?!?!?  Sci…fi…erotic….croosssssswooorrrdd?

Now, I consider myself slightly creative and have a way with words.  My penchant towards a clever quip is innate, almost genetic.  I can express my emotions through sonnets and have an appreciation for  the finer elements of existence.  But this one blew me away.  Silence ensued, and the Kinky Wizard sat content.  Without further thought, I finished my beer, unhooked my bra, and told him I knew the answer to “one down”…

While this was nearly a year and a half ago, I still, to this day attempt to decipher some possible clues for a sci-fi erotic crossword puzzle.  Capt Kirk, any ideas?



Accomplishment of the Day:


Date for the story – Although you aren’t particularly attracted to someone going on a date with them would leave you a good story to share with your friends.

Me: Are you going to go out with that strange guy you met last Friday?

Her: I might DFTS, I need something new to blog about

Unfortunately, the shady guy from last Friday hasn’t proven to be much to blog about.  I’ll get back to you though.

Tea Time

Recently, I was feeling pretty guilty about the fact that I stopped responding to a guy I had been on a couple dates with on the mere base that he was….ugly.

 I had tried a couple dates because his emails were charming.  I even played the make out game a couple times, but even after five beers the face was still ugly….so I stopped picking up the phone when he called. 

I did feel guilty occasionally.  Until today when I went online and was reminded that he was a white rapper.  As if that mere fact wasn’t a deal breaker.  He posted new lyrics online. About Green Tea.  (I said he was white.)  For the sake of his identity, I’ll refrain from posting the whole thing here. Let’s just say there’s a reason rap is about making money and getting laid. 

Okay, for my own personal indulgence and your pure entertainment:

I’ve lowered my pulse rate, feel great, lost weight & I’m grateful for their herbal remedy
gives me enough verbal energy to keep spittin infinitely
and so much vitamin B they could sell my pee at GNC

Moral of the story, and I’ll speak his language:

I see you like tea, but you and me will never be because, you see, your face? UG-LY.

The end.

the Big Bang theory

Before you read this, I want to be clear that I wholeheartedly love science, and I am eternal grateful for scientific developments like penecilin, electricity, the internet, birthcontrol, and the sweet yellow color of processed cheese.  I also took home a sweet third place in my middle school science fair (I won for my own grade), and can sing the first 30 elements of the Periodic Table.  Perhaps this is why I am such a catch to my next WARNING catagory…..


I was reminded of this when I was in bed with the Kinky Wizard who is about to put it in when he says: “don’t mind me, I just may use your Center of Mass instead of your Center of Gravity, prepare for something wonderful”.  At the time all I could think of was how much everything he said sounded like a ride at Six Flags, so I went with it.  

Now, don’t get me wrong, it was “something wonderful”, but I still have no idea what the fuck he meant.  I’ve inquired with friends, but since they’re mostly “Social Scientists,” I’m left with “too bad we don’t teach women to love and embrace science”.  Granted my last science class was in high school with the nuns, and I’m thinking they wouldn’t “appreciate” (read: have a fucking clue) the question.  At this point, I’m gonna warn the Kinky Wizard – if you are reading – whatever crazy scientific method you are rocking down there, here’s my hypothesis. – If I moan, you are doing it right, no need to talk about it.  We can experiement whenever you want.

However, upon telling others this tale, I realized that he was not the first awkward scientist I have encountered.   

Sorry Scientist Sex Scenario # 1

 Biology Phd Student:  mid sex Wow, we would make really reccessive children

Sorry Scientist Sex Scenario #2

Me:  Really, why should I go down on you

Scientist: Well if you swallow, its only about 5 calories.  I mean semen is made of Vitamin C, citric acid, and the phosphates regulate the acidity…

but the winner of the Sorry Scientist Sex Competition….

The Scientist Virgin after going down on me for the first time: Wow, I wonder what the molecular make up of your vaginal secretions is…It would be really cool to look at it under a microscope.  Do you think all women have the same? I wonder if I could start a culture with what’s left on my fingers…

No joke.  Again, the hypothesis is: If I’m moaning, then keep doing it.  Do NOT talk about it.  I’m willing to experiment. 

also, why isn’t there a cooler word for a woman’s “wetness”  secretions, discharge…yikes.  I  thought it was good to get a woman wet…Clearly the stock holders of KY have a monopoly on naming this stuff.  What happened to cool terms – like “jizz” .  Yet another example of patriarchal society preventing women from loving their natural sexuality…sigh…

As always, thanks for reading, and be safe,


If by “Yoga” you mean heavy drinking and discussing politics…

This is a quick post adding to “Things I will Never Comprehend”  The list currently stands at

  1. Why the FUCK women wear shoes that hurt them so much
  2.  How Sarah Palin Gains Women Voters
  3. Everlasting Gobstoppers
  4. Gumby’s Gender

New additions include:

Number 1. Why 4 people in my life have asked me on dates to do YOGA.  First off, I don’t do yoga.  If you know me, you know I can’t concentrate for more that 14.7 seconds, my mind runs at a caffeine induced 638 mph, and I don’t bend into funny positions unless it will culminate in an orgasm.  I guess the better WTF is Where do I find men who do Yoga? The answer being suburban bars.  and be warned: Dads do Yoga.

Number 2. Catcalls

Do males seriously think that I will take off my clothes and suck their dick if they yell “hey baby” at me?  Has anything (re)productive ever happened from a catcall?  The best ever: “Hey Snowflake, I’d pay child support for the mixed babies we could make together” 

Do I need to say more?

Peace out, mofos.


Seducing Strangers?

Ah, the ultimate joys of public transportation – one of the few places in the world where you can be in an enclosed space with strangers with time to do nothing but read, spread germs, and, most importantly, perfect the fine art of the eye fuck.

I think I’ve obtained my M.ef – Thesis paper: Eye Fucking and the Use of Modern Technology: Ensuring The Hot Ipod Listener Doesn’t Notice You Want Them Because They’re Listening to Frank Sinatra. 

Admit it, it feels good to be eye fucked, that seductive stare from the creepy silver fox in the corner that you reciprocate by casually making out with your travel coffee mug to entice them for more what?! That’s only me? Hmmm… I find that public transportation is one of the few places where you can enjoy the vibration of the subway car and casually stare at the attractive folks in public.

 The issue is, too many really intense segments of staring sex culminate with the unfortunate reminder of your partner reaching his or her destination.    Screaming “was it good for you, too?” is not gonna cut it.   Yes, you guessed it, there’s a story behind this…

 Several nights ago, I found myself leaving some friends at a bar to head home.  My bed was winning the fight over the barstool.   However, when I met a salt and pepper stranger waiting for the T wearing an AIDS ribbon, my desire (sponsored by Smithwicks) to become friends overcame my normal solution of a one night eye stand.   Strolling over, we began to chat…Granted I’m 25 and he wouldn’t show me his ID  but the conversation proceeded:

Me: Why are you out late on a Sunday night?                                                                                                                                           Subway Silver Fox: Supporting a friend who just got divorced, but more importantly, to be lucky enough to talk to you                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Me: insert lame comment about shared interests                                                                                                                                         Subway Silver Fox: insert lame comment about successful employment

 Me and Subway Silver Fox: make out                                                                                                                                                          Subway Silver Fox: Shit, I missed my stop                                                                                                                                                    Me: hmm, this is mine. Peace out!

As I strolled home with a bounce in my step, I realized I gave him my real number.

 ….Fast forward to two weeks later….

Clutching my free newspaper and coffee mug I sit on the train. Two stops catch myself laughing as I delete text messages from my blackberry and look up. You guessed it:

SSF: Hey, do you remember me                                                                                                                                                                            Me:  Well, it’s a good story how could I forget ?

SSF: Seeing you sober makes me regret not calling you                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Me: Well this is my stop, you still have my number. Peace out

Internal Monologue: holy crap, he thought I was an Ugly Subway Girl!  Sorry Ugly Subway Girls, but you  totally exist. 

Moral of the story, I guess the eye fuck results in less chances of STDs, unwanted babies who don’t know their daddies, and awkward pre-coffee and work run ins.      But making out with strangers on public transportation results in their unfortunate long walk home, and my funny story.    I think it’s worth it.

Thats all for now. Thanks for reading!


Bit by the Scorpion bowl

Before I begin, I would like to inform the internet community that “Girls Night Out” should probably be renamed “Drama-Filled Evening with Lack of Decisions”.  But alas, recently an assortment of attractive young professional women decide it’s time to ditch the significant others (an easy job when you are flying solo), obey Lady Gaga, and “Just dance (dada doo doo mm)”. 


After a few Scorpion Bowls, getting awkwardly touched by Irish men, and the obligatory stereotypical “Girl talk” (“she’s engaged.” “They bought a house.” “He fills me with rage.” “I like your blouse”). ..perhaps Girl Talk would be more fun if done in rhyme? I am about to depart for the evening.  My budget can’t afford a cab and I must catch the last train home.  As I put on my scarf, the most attractive man I have seen in quite sometime enters the bar.  (Cue the dramatic lighting, wind blowing through his hair as he stands in a clam shell, and a strange combination of wedding bells and porn music).  Two friends are dragging me out the door when I see his JFK pin next to his “Real Men Don’t Rape” pin on his scally cap.  Okay. This is the ultimate turn on. 

Bolstered by my Kryptonite: Cuervo Confidence, I casually stroll over to the future father of my children (FFOMC) and explain:


Me: I need to get home, but there are not nearly enough ridiculously good looking people in the city, so you should call me

FFOMC:  You’re leaving?  Why don’t you stay? We haven’t talked

Me: I have to make the last train and can’t afford a cab (good, tell him you’re poor, idiot!), but you should call me.


At this point, I think it’s a great idea to give him my business card – one too many “How to Work a Room” networking workshop for me!

It wasn’t until consuming my hungover bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich that I recalled the scene and looked at my card:

FEMINIST Activist.  Girl’s Leadership. Workshops for Women.

Not really the suggested conversation topic in today’s society, let alone the one impression you want to have with someone you don’t want to scare away. 


I recently attended a discussion about dating while feminist.  Much of the discussion centered on when to talk about the F-word.  Usually this F-word came up after fucking.


One day I’ll learn that people have phones and could easily take my number.   … One day.


As always, keep loving and keep fighting,




Confession of the day: When I walk to work I like to guess who had sex that morning.  This is usually because I’m thinking that I wish I had sex that morning.  Today was a pretty slow day in the city