Meet Janet. Janet, bless her heart, has never seen a dick pic. (It’s unclear whether she’s seen a dick in real life, but I’m guessing yes.) Some may call her lucky, but I think it’s a shame. I have four dick pics on my phone right now. (I’m not bragging — most of them are old. I never throw away dick pics. That’s the first rule of Dick Pic Club.) Janet’s friends thought it was a shame too, so they put together a slideshow of 89 dick pics for Janet to click through and comment on, which she does in the video above. Hey Janet, I’ve got numbers 90, 91, 92 and 93, if you want ‘em. [via The Hairpin]
James Teague is gone, but he is certainly not forgotten. The 19-year-old was drinking heavily on a skiing trip in New Zealand when he tragically fell from his hotel balcony, hit his head on the parking lot pavement below and died. Like many sad stories of young death, 9news in Australia honored the teen by displaying a photo of him … throwing the Shocker … alongside three girls. Okay, maybe that doesn’t happen too often.
It can only be assumed that the news station intern in charge of compiling photos for James’ memorial segment was unaware of the sexual gesture, which means “two in the pink, one in the stink” (or for those of you who really need things spelled out, two fingers in the vagina and one in the butt). Gone are the days of memorializing those who’ve passed by sharing family photos and smiling graduation pictures. [Gawker]
A few months ago, Amelia and I were talking about rape threats against women who write online. It seems like it happens to feminist writers Zerlina Maxwell, Amanda Hess and Jessica Valenti every day. Amelia asked if any readers have threatened to rape or otherwise harm me. The honest truth is that it only happened once — on Twitter a few years ago. The man had zero followers and had only tweeted a handful of times, all of which were incendiary remarks or threats against other liberals. I didn’t suspect he posed a serious threat to my safety, so I just blocked him. Do I even have to say I’m grateful that this was the one and only time some stranger threatened me?
That one incident isn’t the complete picture, though. A better question to ask in order to illustrate the at-times unsavory experience of being a feminist writer online would be about the kinds of inquiries I get on social media or in my inbox. Nearly every single day, a man emails asking me personal information about my sexuality, for an invitation to a sex party, or straight-up propositions me for sex. Keep reading »
I have big boobs. Whereas some women would kill to have the knockers I have, I’ve never been a huge fan of them. I mean, yes, it’s a pretty impressive rack, but at the price of back pain and the inability to get a dress to fit me properly, I’d prefer them to be smaller. I think I’d be happy with a nice B-cup, which is a small cry from the Double-D situation I have at the moment.
Not too surprisingly, my boobs have always been a favorite physical asset of the men I’ve dated. They’ve loved my brain, I think, and I’ve always been complimented on my sick sense of humor and my eyes, but when it came to my boobs, well, they’ve always won major points with the guys in my life, both straight and gay. In addition to being an ideal place for the men I’ve been intimate with to put their hands or rest their head, my boobs have provided other, more exciting experiences. What could be more exciting than a breast for a pillow, you ask? Keep reading »
One time, when I was 17, I broke my boyfriend’s penis.
We had been cooped up for days in his mother’s basement which had a kitchenette and a bathroom and a TV, so we saw no reason to leave. This was summer in East LA, so the sounds that floated in our window were of chickens and barking dogs and car alarms. One time, there was a foot chase that we watched cautiously out his bedroom window, the tottering, overweight policeman tripping down the ravine with his flashlight, the person he was chasing already lost in the dark. Read more on Your Tango…