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Monday, January 28, 2002



For some reason, I've been thinking about sex a lot lately. This preoccupation has not been helped by the fact that I have heard two different couples getting it on during the past week. Of course, this preoccupation with nookie has paved the way for countless sex-related discussions with my friends. Our last discussion was centered on that age-old question: "Was it sex?"

Of course, this dilemma was most famously debated by our very own President Clinton. However, while his reason for discussing it was to cover his ass, ours is quite different.

Our main discussion centered around how people of different sexual orientations define sex. If you're a straight woman, you probably define sex as penetration of some sort, e.g., Boy meets girl, Boy sticks it in girl, Boy climaxes, Girl breaks out vibrator after boy leaves. But what if you're a bisexual woman? If you spend two hours with your face buried in another girl's muff, but there is no penetration, do you call it sex? Well, I sure as hell would.

This also harkens back to that classic argument between Banky and Alyssa in Chasing Amy: does there have to be penetration in order for it to be called sex? Well, that's just not fair to our lesbian and bisexual lady friends out there, is it? Just because they don't have a penis, we can't call it sex? Nope, I don't think so. So, then, in the spirit of gender equality, if oral sex between two women is sex, then so is oral sex between a man and a woman (sorry, Mr. Clinton), or between two men. And if a woman fingering a woman is sex, then so is a man fingering a woman or a man giving another man a handjob.

Using this definition, almost all sexual activity can be considered sex. Now, my girlfriends and I thought this was too broad a definition. So, we came up with something better that we could all agree upon:

  • If you came, it was sex.
  • If you didn't come, it wasn't sex.
  • If you don't remember it the next morning, it wasn't sex.

    This is a much better definition. Using this new definition, I've had sex with myself MANY more times than I have with anyone else. In addition, I only had sex once with my ex-boyfriend Joseph! This definition wipes out all of that bad sex that I know most of my lady friends have had. Not only that, it conveniently gets rid of those nasty drunken dalliances you may have had with that neighbor guy after too much champagne and cheese doodles during the Super Bowl or that clingy girl from accounting in the supply closet at the office holiday party. It makes sense! I've already applied it to my life, and it's made me feel better already. Try it! And if your newly-revised sexual history leaves you with something to be desired, go out and find yourself a new friend. Using our definition, that drunken sex that you'll end up having in the backseat of his Yugo won't even count!


    babbled by Kat @ 3:22:00 PM | |


    Saturday, January 12, 2002



    You know what I've been thinking about? Masturbation.

    Yeah, I knew that would get your attention.

    I started thinking about this because of my roommate's cat. Wait, that sounds wrong. Anyway, I live in a big loft apartment, and have no wall or door blocking entrance to my part of the space. My roommate's cat, for some reason, seems to prefer sleeping on my bed. He also has incredible timing, as he tends to walk in and stare at me while I'm beating up the little man in the boat. I've gotten pretty good at ignoring him, but it's pretty disconcerting when he is sitting on the bed with me while I'm interfering with myself. And it's especially strange when he decides it's a really good idea to curl up between my feet when I'm auditioning the finger puppets.

    Now, when I rub one out, I like a little privacy. Which makes it tough for me to feel comfortable getting a stinky pinky when we have houseguests sleeping on the futon that's 15 feet away from my bed. I can hear them breathing normally, so I can assume they would hear the change in my breathing patterns when I'm polishing the pearl. But there are just some nights when I can't sleep without the stress release that accompanies buffin' the muffin, so I go right ahead. I mean, damn, it's MY house, after all.

    This brings me to another thought: people who claim that they never polish the pickle or caress the kitty really don't seem all that credible to me. It's rarer among men - most of them will fully admit to seasoning their meat on a regular basis. In fact, most of the guys I know are pretty damn proud of their pud wrestling frequency. I've actually heard quite a few of them bragging about how often they shake hands with shorty. Conversely, I've met quite a few women who claim that they never shoot the pink marble. Granted, a lot of the girls who say that they never shuck the oyster are quite young and really haven't become fully comfortable with their sexuality, so I can buy that claim for some of the younger ladies. But for any woman with a reasonable amount of sexual experience, I'd say that those who deny tickling the taco are not telling the truth. Sure, they may only open the honey pot on rare occasions, but I can't believe that they never feed their meter. That's crazy talk.

    For example, I have a good friend who says that she never parts the petals. I have a hard time believing this for a couple of reasons, but one stands out as the most prominent: she's never stressed out. Ever. Now, I know there are some people who are just naturally calm, but I don't buy it that she's that calm without ever relieving a little tension by buttering the biscuit. Even when everything is going well and I have no reason to be tense, sometimes I feel the urge to rough up the suspect a little. Obviously, tension release isn't the only reason to frost the muffin - I've stirred the cauldron on quite a few occasions when I've read some incendiary material (like Maxim- yeah, I know I'm superficial) or when I've missed an opportunity to have a sushi party with others involved. Hell, everyone gets a little horny on occasion, right? And aside from jumping on the first person you see and humping their leg, the most immediate way to take care of that urge is to spend a little time praising the orchid.

    I'm sure there are lots of ladies who feel the way that I do about punching the chipmunk. If you do, or even if you don't, email me. Tell me stories about your rosebud rubbing adventures. I'm dying to hear them.


    babbled by Kat @ 8:02:00 PM | |


    Sunday, January 06, 2002



    Last night, I went with a very lovely grrl to see Wil Wheaton perform at the Acme Comedy Theater. I admit, the main attraction for us was the chance to oogle Wil Wheaton's goodies up close, but we were pleasantly surprised by the fact that the Acme Comedy players are all very funny.

    The approximately two-hour show consisted of 16 sketches. The main highlight for the Wil Wheaton fans among us was the sketch entitled "Shut Up Wesley", which was written by, you guessed it, Wil Wheaton himself. In the sketch, he rather eloquently lampoons those Star Trek fans who seem to think that Star Trek is *real* and not just a TV show. Of course, when he utters that timeless phrase, "Captain, one to beam up", it takes me back to a place of teenage crushes and tight red Starfleet uniforms, but I digress.

    If you are in the Los Angeles area, I highly recommend paying a visit to the Acme Comedy Theater. Even if Wil Wheaton isn't performing that night, the other very talented and very funny players will keep your craving for comedy satisfied. Of course, if he *is* performing that night, pray to the deity of your choosing that they are doing the sketch entitled "What Dreams May Come" that evening, because it involves Wil Wheaton's very perky ass gyrating under a blanket. Now that's a memory I'll cherish for a lifetime.


    babbled by Kat @ 2:42:00 PM | |