A Letter to My G-Spot
Dear G-Spot,
Where the hell are you?
Do you even exist? Are you just a mere myth invented for the sole purpose of torturing women with high expectations and taunting men for their substandard horizontal techniques? Are you just a mere fragment spun from some lonely woman’s imagination as she lay under the heaving Wookish morbidly obese body of her panting husband to entice him to stop his one minute pounding of her disenchanted vaginal canal?
Where the f**kin’ hell are you?
Mommy-Calling
Truthfully speaking, in terms of attraction factor, I have learned to categorize men into three particular categories:
Hooters Man – one who prefers big breasts
Junk Man – one who prefers big buttocks
Tits & Ass Man – one who prefers a combination of both
As such , I have noted that most guys who end up liking me fall into the first category, the Hooters Man, because of, obviously, my unfortunately inappropriately-sized rack.
It is not, as most people would think, a blessing but rather, a curse.
I am not quite comfortable with these twin mountains infront of me. Having been brought up as a semi-tomboy during my childhood years, I wasn’t quite as happy that I got these so-called blessed gifts to all women. And at first, these weren’t really as annoying to me as they used to be. It wasn’t until I started medical school when I realized that I was actually more well-endowed than the rest of the girls I was hanging out with. For one, none of my ex-boyfriends mentioned it and even my boyfriend that time didn’t say it to my face. I noted this particular development after one of my younger classmates in medical school started calling me “Mommy [Mistress].”
I was scratching my head in obvious confusion one particular time and decided to ask FunnyBoy. “Why does Naruto keep calling me Mommy?”
He laughed. “You don’t know why?”
“No. Is that like some form of endearment to him?”
“I’m not even sure if I should tell you.”
“Oh, come on! I keep hearing him say it all the time. I feel like it’s some kind of joke that only the inner circle knows about and I’m not even in on.”
FunnyBoy laughed. “It’s the Mommy thing, [mistress]. It’s like Naruto wants you to take care of him, like a mother. And to do all the things that mommies do to their babies.”
“To babies?” Now I was more confused than ever. “Like what?”
“You really have no idea?”
“Oh, come on. Now I’m curious. I have a feeling I probably won’t like what I’m going to hear but tell me anyway.”
“You know, breastfeeding… Since you have, you know…” and he pouted his lips and pointed them to the direction of my chest.
Needless to say, I was mortified.
I couldn’t look at my Mommy-calling Naruto for some time. I asked Rockstar, who was my boyfriend that time, about the incident and he just grinned at me sheepishly.
“But [mistress], you do have big breasts. That’s why I feel so darn lucky having you,” he remarked patriotizingly.
I, of course, refused to accept that I had big breasts and proceeded to do the Meryl Streep thing in “Bridges of Madison Country” that night as I stripped off all my clothes and looked at my naked self infront of the mirror.
Shoot.
I did not want big breasts but it looks like I’m stuck with them, indefinitely.
I sighed. I can’t really understand why men are endlessly fascinated with breasts. It’s really just all ducts, lobules and fats. Lots and lots of fats. I find it strange how men do not grow out of their inborn fascination for breasts even after they have gotten over the breastfeeding phase during their infancy. I would have thought it would be incredibly a sexual turn–off if a man:
a) remembers that their own mothers and grandmothers have them
b) remembers that his father once provided sexual gratification to their mother by using them for foreplay
c) ergo, remembers that his father and mother had sex at one time or another
d) remembers that he used to be breastfeed through one of his mother’s own breasts
e) thinks that one day their woman’s breast will droop and sag
If you look at it that way, I would think that a man should be disgusted with breasts since it would be a reminder of a particular time in their life when they were still fragile, more vulnerable and less masculine.
So, guys, what do you think?
Rain Part Deux
I eventually got used to the Frenchkissing.
But the thing about kissing that way is, once you started doing that, eventually it has to lead to something more. Your partner looks forward to covering the rest of the bases and wants to accomplish that soon. A day before I was about to fly home for semestral break, Rain and I went to watch a movie. As we kissed in the dark, he started putting his hands around my face. Eventually, he started kissing my earlobe and neck region and when his hand started going lower, aiming for my breasts, I finally panicked and grabbed his hand to stop him.
Repeatedly. As one failed attempt just made him want to do another.
And another.
And still another.
While I continually refused to let him.
It got to a point that I didn’t want him to even kiss me anymore, because it will only give him an opportunity to try to attempt to put his hand inside my shirt again. But I never got mad at him, just kept stopping him whenever he tried to cop a feel. When we left the moviehouse, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary happened and we did not even discuss the incident except for his passing comment that he was sleepy and that next time, we should sleep together in a place somewhere in Sta. Mesa. I mumbled yes, not really thinking much about it, assuming that sleeping together meant relaxing and simply talking with each other while resting our weary backs in a bed until we actually literally fall asleep, and I was completely unaware then that Sta. Mesa was filled with a lot of cheap motels that offered plenty of short-time bargains.
As I went through my vacation, I pondered how I was going to approach my situation with Rain. I was curious, yes, but I wasn’t ready for all that touching the breasts kind of thing. He was just going too fast for me, who hasn’t had much experience in this field. I was hoping we wouldn’t get to the touching of erogenous zones until after two to three months of us dating but clearly, this wasn’t going to be the case with Rain. Plus, I didn’t really love him enough for me to actually want to do these things with him. I needed a certain level of comfort to be able to even consider doing these things with a guy and I certainly wasn’t feeling it with him. Until finally, I realized that the best way for me to get out of this situation was to break up with him.
When I got back to the big city, I started being cold and I refused to take his calls. When he finally cornered me at home one Sunday evening, I didn’t even want to prolong the agony with useless chit-chat.
“Hey, I’ve been calling you up again and again. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“I’ve been busy, Rain.”
“So, how have you been? I missed you, you know. Are we still on for mass tonight?”
“Listen, Rain, we need to break up.”
“What?”
“I’ve realized that I never really loved you in the first place.”
I think his jaw must have done some major dropping. His eyes looked slightly red. I don’t know if it was from holding back tears or from smoking pot (my cousins suspected that he probably smoked pot considering that his eyes looked partially shot most of the time and he lived in the next street from ours, where a lot of drug addicts apparently took residence).
He finally stood up from his seat. “So this is it then?”
“Yes.”
I really didn’t know of any comforting words to say to him. Plus I didn’t want to. I just wanted to get out of the relationship and get a clean break from him. The truth is, that was one of the most difficult things I had to do – to be heartless and a complete bitch to a guy who thought I was inlove with him. I’ve always been a nice girl, peace-loving, non-confrontational. Much as I might have toyed with Rain’s feelings a bit, making him think that I was inlove with him this whole time, I could have been nicer to him during the break-up. But I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea that there could still be any chance if he actually begged me. I seriously just wanted him to get out of my life so I can finally move on.
“Okay, goodbye then.”
“Goodbye.”
I called for him as he was about to walk out of the door. “Rain, I’m really sorry.”
He shrugged. “If that’s what you want, I respect that.”
I could only heave a huge sigh of relief as I watched the distance between us grow bigger and bigger.
Until I couldn’t see him anymore at all.
Faking the Big O
How come men do not realize it when a girl is faking it?
A few groans in between the kisses, a couple grunts here, a loud moan there, some oooohhhhs and aaaahhhhs and a long “Ohhhh, yesssss!” and they seriously believe their woman has actually achieved orgasm?
No wonder men are so dumb.
Speaking from my medical standpoint (which is basically short for, as far as I have read about in the past five years of faking my way through medical school, meaning, I miost likely am unsure about what I’m talking about but I’m making a intelligent guess), there is only one way that a woman can prove that she has genuinely achieved orgasm. And there is no way that this can even be faked.
That is if she squirts a significant amount of wet fluid that resemble the consistency (but is no way reminiscent of the smell) of pee.
If she remains dry as a bone after the big explosion, she probably faked it. If she didn’t require for at least a few seconds to recuperate from the so-called earth-shattering release, she most likely didn’t get it. If the post-coital fluid that comes out of her vajayjay is thick and viscous, that’s probably yours, you two-minute man.
The Rooster’s Cock
It had an extra ounce of flesh dangling from the base of the head, like a rooster’s crown, as if he had been circumcised the wrong way.
He said it brought added pleasure.
And so I was curious. As he inserted his average-sized penis into my body, I faked a shudder and moaned loudly. We moved together and I felt the initial stirrings of an impending orgasm as his cock brushed against the sensitive walls of my vagina. The pounding intensified, the vibrations escalated, until finally, he erupted, spewing a mass of warm seminal fluids into my birth canal.
He was all talk. I didn’t even feel the difference.
