Archive for January, 2009


I think it’s fair to assume that all of us have crushes on famous folk. Some, of course, are more predictable than others. Brad Pitt and George Clooney are obvious choices, and there’s the whole ‘scarlah’ spectrum of our crushes of shame. Erotomania sufferers aside, none of us are delusional enough to think that Brad or George are going to wander into our lives and want to run off with us. But what happens when you want to revoke your crush? One of my long-standing objects of lust is Giovanni Ribisi. Yes, him of Saving Private Ryan, Lost in Translation and, oh, Phoebe’s dimwit brother in Friends. But imagine my shock on discoving that he’s an active, enthusiastic Scientologist. Heck, my lust instantly evaporated. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a live-and-let-live kinda girl, but Scientology creeps the HELL outta me. How can a seemingly rational, cool guy like him be so taken with a cult that doesn’t believe in psychiatry?

So he’s off my “list”. Good thing I haven’t got it laminated.

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Dear reader, I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I was to read that Kanye West is on for starring in a porno. Not that I’m a huge fan of Kanye per se (too sulky for my personal taste, and that’s before we mention the Brazil-sized ego). I’m more impressed with the type of skin flick that Kanye would like to make. We’re not just talking any old run-of-the-mill, 22-positions-with-some-pneumatic-bint malarkey either. Rather, he has admitted that he wouldn’t be averse to the idea of doing a bisexual flick with a man and a woman.  Now, threesomes are as old as time itself (probably), but the idea of a threesome with two men who wouldn’t mind socking it to each other is a concept that completely cranks my chain. None of your fake-shock-macho-bullshit-when-swords-get-accidentally-crossed rubbish for me, nosiree bob. Truth be told, this has been one of my longest standing fantasies – a threesome situation where everyone is…you know, giving and getting to beat the band.


Barely able to contain my excitement and/or raging libido, I made the mistake of saying all this out loud at my place of work. A pack of rabid, farting dogs would have gotten a warmer reception. ‘Ewwwwww,’ said one colleague, looking me up and down for any other outward signs of perversion or freakery. I should also point out that my workplace would be considered fairly progressive and dynamic…it’s certainly no convent. But seriously; is my sexual fantasy du choix – and the public airing thereof – really something that should have gone past the censors?


Anyway, the whole episode got me to thinking about my long-standing, semi-professional career as a masturbator (what’s the female equivalent of wanking…is is ‘fanking’? Or ‘womanking’? Anyrooooad). As mentioned in a previous post, this is something I have been doing since I was about 5 or 6. Obviously back then, I had no idea that it was something sexual or could be perceived as ‘dirty’ by anyone. All I knew is that it made me feel good. Again, this may be a case of The Sex Freak Overshareth, but thankfully I know I’m not alone here…another friend of mine had been doing the same since she was very young too. I may as well offer up the following disclaimer: I don’t mention this in a bid to open up a whole can of worms about paedophilia/children as sexual beings. I’m merely talking about my own personal experience here.


A few years later, things cranked up a notch when I found my first Playboy magazine, stashed away in my dad’s bedroom locker. I should state for the record that I am probably about 98% heterosexual (right now), but anyway, the Playboy magazine breathed fresh impetus into my ‘little activity’. I wasn’t that attracted to the women in hindsight, but the pictures did provide a handy springboard from which I could concoct my own fantasy scenarios, often including a sleazy photographer and a milk-fed, virginal model desperate to get ahead. Yes, I was a would-be Seymour Butts even back then, so help us all.


In the decades since, my tastes for porn have become more refined and the Internet has proved to be manna from heaven for anyone partial to a fiddle. Truth be told, I am faddy to the point of fickleness when it comes to porn. One week I can’t get enough of gang bangs; the next I am practically gasping for grainy, grimy amateur stuff. I also had a prolonged period of watching nothing but gay porn (though, curiously enough, have never really gotten ‘into’ lesbian porn. Too much boobage and not enough willy in any one frame). I also found perverse pleasure in watching the Gene Simmons sex tape, something I’m still scratching my…er, head over (c’mon, it’s Gene Simmons. You still would). Round about now though, I’m hankering after vanilla flavoured, Joy Of Sex, one-guy-one-girl porn. Sometimes it’s nice to get back to one’s roots.


So how about you lot…anyone brave enough to fess up to their own pornographic proclivities or fantasies? More importantly, one question is looming large in my mind. Given my early start was I – as I’ve always suspected – truly the naughtiest girl in my primary school?


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Kermit Bale

Christian Bale. Kermit the Frog. Who knew they were kindred spirits?
totally hilarious (and slightly insane) gallery of images that proves Kermit and Christian have a lot in common just gets funnier and funnier as it goes on….

Link via Jezebel.

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The Veet Bush post got me thinking about body hair. I’m currently rocking some very hairy legs. Before Christmas I decided I was going to stop shaving my legs because it’s a pain in the bum. No wait. That sounds like a grand feminist statement, which would be misleading. I stopped shaving my legs in order to grow the hair, so I could then wax it off, which would mean no more shaving every odd day.julia-roberts-arm

The thing is, it’s been months now and I’ve kind of forgotten about waxing my legs. It hasn’t really affected my life in any negative way, so I’m kind of putting it off for a while whilst walking around on fuzzy pins.

Last week, I was round at a friend’s house for dinner and the subject of body hair came up.  She’s French and told me she only started shaving her pits when she came to Ireland. French women don’t shave their armpits. I’m thinking, ‘wow, AND you guys have more sex too.’ So if French men and women don’t mind, why should Irish men and women? Ninnies.

For some people, hairiness is a deal-breaker though. Remember all the nonsense that went on when Julia Roberts and Drew Barrymore flaunted their hairy pits on the red carpet? How dare they soil the sanctity of the red carpet!

I personally think if you’re in the sack with someone and you pull off your keks to reveal hairy legs they’d shrug and carry on. It’s not a deal-breaker for me. Although recently another friend was turned off when she discovered (all too late) that a guy had shaved his nethers (isn’t that tricky and dangerous?) and his armpits. Why do people get so upset about body hair? Is it all just crazy social conditioning?

I always remember when I was a child my mother always had hairy pits. She never shaved and never looked gross. In fact, she always looked kind of cool.

I’m thinking I might experiment and stop shaving the pits too. Who knows, next time you see me, I might even have a ‘tache.

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veet2veetHow much do I like this ad for Veet? A LOT.  Ah Veet, you may make bikini line regrowth scratchier than old vinyl, but your political heart is in the right place.

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We got nominated! For several Irish Blog Awards! Thanks to whoever nominated us for Best Arts and Culture Blog, Best Group Blog and Best Newcomer. You are all too, too kind. Vielen Dank!

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tamponI was sad to hear this week that John Mortimer (of Rumpole of the Bailey fame) passed away at 85. I wasn’t particularly a huge fan of his avuncular barrister creation, but as a kid I got a kick out of the fact that he called his wife Hilda “She Who Must Be Obeyed”. Mortimer wrote a ton of plays and novels, but he looms large in my memory for an entirely different reason.

One fateful Friday night in the 1980s, I was watching The Late Late Show with my mother. Up popped John Mortimer as a guest regaling Gaybo and the audience with witty tales of legal life and literary anecdotes. My mother had just finished blow-drying my hair for me when she started “the talk” and told me all about periods.  My 10-year-old self was a bit horrified at first, but aware that I was being told grown-up woman stuff. As John waxed lyrical about Rumpole, I was learning about eggs, fallopian tubes and using sanitary towels.

To this day, whenever I see Mortimer on TV, I think about that night and will always associate him with finding out about the joys of periods.

So where/when/how did you find out about Aunt Flo/Eve’s Curse/your flowers?

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