If you were ever a curious teen, you may recall Forever by Judy Blume. There was a young lass, a young lad and a whole lot of shaggery. And a penis named Ralph. It is only referred to as Ralph for the entire story. You can imagine the millions of naive young pups across the globe, relying on Judy Blume as their sole means of sex education, growing up thinking that Ralph was the official anatomical term for this wonderful contraption. But really, what an unappealing name for a penis. Ralph. Was the young lad in the novel inspired the collected works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, the overpriced elegance of Ralph Lauren, or the antics of Ralph Malph on Happy Days? Or perhaps he really liked the Karate Kid movies and thought Ralph (Macchio) was a more memorable moniker for his member than The Old Dude Who Plays Mr Miyagi.
Category Archives: Tits and Arse
You Can’t Always Get What You Want
"Miss Shauny, you have nice skin. I would love to have skin like yours."
"But you have really perky tits!"*
"Yes, well, but… I'd much rather have your nice skin."
"Nooo! Perky tits beats nice skin every time!"
"Nooo! I don't think so!"
"I'll trade you my beautiful skin for your beautiful boobies."
Why can't people ever be happy with what they've got?
* I was drunk.
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Come Together
Keep you calendars free on May 18-19 for the Fourth Annual Masturbate-A-Thon! Get down with yourself all in the name of charity. There's even prizes to be won:
"If you use vibrators, watch porn or plug it in, enter in the "Plug in" section and win $100 off your May electricity bill… and if you're a manual type of person, there is the "Lube Up" category where you can win $100 of lubricant."
The idea is you get your family and neighbours to sponsor you, just like a read-a-thon or a walk-a-thon. So what do you think is a reasonable rate, two dollars per orgasm?
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Tough Tits!
Back when I was moonlighting as a public servant last year, Miss E and I both worked with Sargeant Sue, the one who's lunch I chucked out and accused me of being a lesbian. The topic du jour was Childbirth, not a subject Miss E or I introduced, but once Sue got rambling there was no stopping her.
"It's all downhill after the first one," she told us sagely. "Your arse doubles in size, your skin goes to pot and the boobs start moving south!"
Miss E and I shared pained glances.
"BREASTFEEDING!" she crowed, "Now that's nasty business. Babies may look sweet and innocent, but once they latch onto your nipple, they cling on for dear life! Sucking away like a leech! The little buggers!"
We pleaded with her that we had heard enough, Miss E slid under her desk, I shoved my earphones further into my ears, but Sue would not be silenced.
"But I wisened up in time for the second baby. I was prepared. I TOUGHENED UP MY TITS!". Her voice pinged off the cubicle walls so the whole floor could hear.
"It's very simple," she explained. "Every night before bed, I'd get in front of the bathroom mirror, get out the toothbrush, and give me nipples a good scrub!"
She got out of her chair to demonstrate, pen in hand. Clothing on, thank lord. "Scrub the left! Scrub the right!" she cackled, her hands moving in circular motions like Mr Miyagi in the Karate Kid "Right circle! Left circle! Wax on! Wax off!"
"Worked like a charm," she concluded. "So with the second kid, I didn't feel a thing!"
Brushing my teeth was very traumatic for weeks after that one.
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Red Rooter
Back in the day, when we had a hankerin' for a Red Rooster dinner, we would say, "Let's go root the Red fella".
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Recommendations? Oh my.
Whenever I arrive at amazon.com and see that greeting, I get a little excited. Not about the recommendations in store for me, but by the line itself. There's something rather saucy about it. I think it's all in the full stops.
Hello Miss Shauny. *lingering pause* We have recommendations for you. *significant look*
Recommendations? I say breathlessly. Do you really? Oh my. Show me your recommendations. Please. Hurry now. And this book, spotted at the physiotherapists office yesterday. Tee hee, tee hee!
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How I Learned To Love My Boobies
Mmmmmm. The smell of chlorine on your skin is so…. bloody revolting. But I do believe I am quite taken with this gym caper lately. My sister and I are hooked on the rowing machine. The gym has two of them at opposite sides of the room, so we'd look over the river of stepping machines that seperated us and wave, "I say, lovely day for a row, eh chum?". It's really quite difficult if you really get into it, your shoulders tend to scream in protest, but it's fun to test your limits. I yelled at my sister to pick up her pace a bit and she yelled back, "I can't help it, I've got a slow boat!"
After that I soaked my aching muscles in the spa. The spa is set upon some lovely wooden stage-type construction, flanked by plastic plants, with charming wood panelling for that porno set ambience. From this secluded position, you can watch people come and go in the change rooms.
I'm always amazed with the ease and indifference that patrons shed their stinky workout gear and parade around starkers. I always turn up to the gym ready to start, and either go home stinky or run prudishly to the showers and change there. I expose not so much as a lily white toe to anyone!
I found myself unable to resist peeking at other chicks' boobs from the safety of fake plastic ferns in that critical, comparitive, scientific kind of way. Being largely of the heterosexual persuasion it's not like I see naked breasts very often. It's bizarre to see how different they are! I am so used to the ones that I lug around, that I never fully appreciated that there are also little ones and pointy ones and bouncy ones and wacky nipples and all sorts of crazy shit. They're so diverse, but each with their own charms! Really!
It made me realise how silly I am to waste so much time being paranoid about how I look, think that this bit or that bit of me wasn't perfect or looked funny or should be smaller or bigger or tanner or whatever. Who's to say what's normal or perfect? I really should just love the bod I've been given and just get comfortable in my own skin like the gals at my gym seem to be comfy in theirs. Paranoia is just far too exhausting.
Such a painfully obvious revelation that most people figured out eons ago, but for a fretting dork like me it was all new.
I got out of the spa and danced in front of the mirrors in my cozzies for a minute while George Harrison appreciatively crooned My Sweet Lord over the radio.
…
Saturday afternoon was spent at the NPG, (as in the National Portrait Gallery, not Prince's New Power Generation. Spending time with them lacks any real appeal for me) for the absolutely wonderful Tête à Tête – Portraits by Henri Cartier-Bresson. Subjects include Albert Camus, Truman Capote, Marilyn Monroe, Picasso, Coco Chanel, William Faulkner, blah blah blah. Great stuff that leaves you thinking, "Oooh I'll have to go get his/her book/movie/whatever". I lack the art wanker brain to wax lyrical about how good it was, but if it's possible for you to get to Canberra by July 15, I heartily recommend it. And it's only $2 to get in!
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Ginger Rivers
I'm going to be late for work today because I'm waiting here for the electrician to arrive to fix the exhaust fan in our bathroom. Sounds like a porn movie plot if I ever heard one.
Speaking of porn, I have a good porn name. You know that old thing where you take the name of the first pet you had and the first street you lived on? Ginger the Cat and Rivers Road gives me the ultra foxy porn name of Ginger Rivers. What's yours?
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Romance, lack thereof
Today marks one year since Rhiannon arrived back home from her American jaunt, bringing with her among other thoughtful gifts, a big mother bottle of Ralph Lauren Romance eau de lovely perfume for her favourite big sister (me).
While in the following year I have smelled absolutely divine, I have not flung my legs round the waist of a well-chiseled man as he gazed adoringly into my mud-pie eyes, nor had one drop to his knees to kiss my lovely belly, as illustrated here in the RL advertising campaign.
On some level I guess I thought my delicate fragrance would have incited such romantic behaviour. I haven't even had some grotty VB-scented geezer try to cop a feel in a pub. What is wrong with me? I'm sending back the half empty bottle! It's a dud, Ralph! A dud, I tells ya!