In Space, No One Can Hear Your Screaming Orgasm

Even as an avowed skeptic, there are a few things in life I have not questioned: the sky is blue, water is wet, Donald Trump will never be the Republican nominee for President, and astronauts have had sex in space.

For years and years and years, I’ve assumed astronauts have had sex in space. Of course they have! It’s probably one of the first things they did, as soon as they heard the word “Liftoff!” and right after they switched the jet propulsion rockets to autopilot, or whatever. (Please don’t leave a message explaining space travel to me in the comments, it will just make my head hurt, and this blog is about sex, a topic about which I’m just marginally more informed.)

Granted, the astronauts may have only had that solo sort of sex, you know, the kind where you fantasize that James Franco is your boyfriend, and that probably got interrupted by another astronaut banging on the toilet compartment door, asking, “What are you doing in there for so long? You’re supposed to be on a space walk!”

I remained convinced that the astronauts (or the cosmonauts, or whoever) had sex in space until I watched the documentary A Year in Space Wednesday night, which chronicles American astronaut Scott Kelly’s year-long mission aboard the International Space Station. The film is streaming online at through April 2, so if you missed the original broadcast, you can still catch it there.


If you watch the documentary, which I recommend that you do, because it’s fascinating, and beautiful, and quite literally marvelous, the first thing you might notice is that the members of the crew on the International Space Station never have a good hair day. Their hair stands up and away from their scalp all the time, as though they’re forever receiving the most horrible scare of their life, or a constant electric shock.

Needless to say, it’s not a flattering look.

As we’ve all known at least as far back as Farrah Fawcett, a good hairstyle improves your chances of getting laid. And as I’ve known ever since I received a very unfortunate The Rachel back in the ’90s, a bad haircut dooms you to at least six weeks alone with only fantasies of James Franco (or whoever) to keep you warm.

I’m thinking this hair thing is the reason why Scott Kelly shaves his head bald, a style I’d recommend for the entire crew, even the women, if they want to have sex.

As it turns out, they may not even want to, as hard difficult as some of my readers may find that to believe. There’s this thing called “space sickness” which is a kind of constant nausea caused by a disruption to the vestibular system due to weightlessness. Fortunately, the nausea only lasts for a few days, and the human body eventually (and amazingly!) adapts to the environment.

I’m figuring around day three or thereabout, the astronauts stop throwing up and their thoughts return to sex.

Once you get beyond the dizziness and nausea, you still might face other difficulties in joining the 278 Kilometers High Club. Microgravity allows our internal fluids to flow from the lower half of our bodies, where on Earth they tend to settle, and where our sexy parts are situated, into the upper half of our bodies. If you watch A Year in Space you’ll notice how puffy and bloated everyone’s face is, as though they’re all retaining way too much water during a particularly difficult menstrual cycle.

So even if the desire to have sex is there, the ability to have sex may be gone. And I’m not just talking about boners here–blood flow is integral to the sexual experience of women, as well, and it makes a lot of good stuff happen down there for us.

If you research this topic further (I know you’re probably Googling already), you’ll find the answer to whether human beings have had sex in space is unclear. At least, no one is saying whether they have or not. If I were a betting woman, I’d gamble on the fact that they have conducted experiments involving human sexuality. I mean, they’ve studied the effects of the gravity on maintenance of muscle mass in zebrafish and I want to believe someone up there is at least having a bit of fun.



The BBC in the USA


The way we used to watch television

I’ve stopped watching television. No, I haven’t turned into one of those people who chucks their TV out the nearest window and then loudly proclaims to anyone who will listen that I don’t even miss it, really, I don’t, and, anyway, I have so much more free time now, that’s, you know, free, instead of sponsored by Stains Be Gone! laundry detergent (or whatever). Instead, my television viewing, like so much of my life, has become a matter of semantics: yes, it’s true, I no longer watch television; now, here in the 21st century, I stream it.


As we do here in the future, I subscribed to the British television streaming service Acorn TV, which should not be confused with the Acorns micro-investing application, although icons for both appear on my iPhone. Let’s hope I never mix them up and lose 43¢ in the stock market when I just want to watch The Great British Bake Off.AcornTV:Acorns

I’ll stop here to say I continue to be gobsmacked by how rapidly technology is changing our lives, and how different my kids’ childhood is from my own: today, there is no gathering around the television on Sunday nights to watch, say, 21 Jump Street, just like there are no report cards brought home to be signed by proud/disappointed parents. Report cards still exist but only in electronic form, transmitted through the atmosphere to something called the Parent Portal on the school district website, which is as science fiction-y as it sounds. Shows like 21 Jump Street are still produced, I guess, but my kids are too busy following YouTube stars on Instagram to gather around the television. They know they can always catch up with television shows any time On Demand.

OK, Luddite rant over, let’s get back to Acorn TV.

If you go to Acorn TV’s website, you’ll see they promise all the best of British television, and I like British television–or so I assumed from years of watching PBS– and the subscription was free, and I thought, why not? So I signed up.

But the thing is, what PBS has been feeding us all these years, it’s not even British television. For example, the show Downton Abbey–did you know it’s only half British? The series is produced in a partnership between Carnival Films, which is based in London, and Masterpiece, the production company of WGBH, a Boston based television station that is responsible for more than two-thirds of PBS’s national programming.

(And, while we’re taking the blame credit for half of Downton Abbey, we Americans can also claim half of Winston Churchill, whose mother, Jenny, was born and raised in Brooklyn).

Can you believe it? Most of PBS programming isn’t British at all–it’s as American as, well, Winston Churchill! But all these years they’ve been leading us to believe with their fancy accents, and their fancy manor houses, and their fancy Marmite, that they’re British!

Now that I’m watching 100% British shows on Acorn TV, I can understand why television executives might want to add a bit of American before broadcasting here. Do you know that old joke about the US and Great Britain being separated by a common language? Tune into an episode of Vera, a crime drama set in the north of England, and try to follow the action without turning on the closed captioning.

Here’s another obstacle UK shows face in getting on US television: the gross error in nomenclature you may have noticed in the title of that video clip, “Vera, New Series.” Over there, they call each new batch of a particular show a series instead of a season, as we Americans do, and (I’m sure) God intended. Vera is not, in fact, a new television show at all. It’s been airing since 2011, and that video clip is promoting the 2015 season of the show. I don’t know how they got this wrong, but I suspect it’s somehow related to all those unnecessary U’s they insert all over the place. Regardless, it’s an absolute deal breaker for me as I’m too old and too easily confused to call anything other than what I’ve always been calling it, which is why I’ve owned a succession of cats all named Mitzy.

If you haven’t been dissuaded by that series/season thing and you still think you want to watch Vera, I’m afraid the only way you can is with a subscription to Acorn TV. Alternatively, you could move to the UK and watch it there. Without considering the (possibly prohibitive?) relocation expenses, that option will cost you, as well: the Brits have this thing called the television license licence fee that’s collected by the BBC to fund television, radio and online services. That will run you “£145.50 for a colour and£49.00 for a black and white” which pays for all the fancy costumes and cases of Marmite, I suppose.

As for Downton Abbey, you can watch the sixth and very last series season on Sunday nights on PBS. Check your local listings. Or don’t. I’m sure you can watch it On Demand any time. Or stream it through your robot phone, if you want.

Royalty free stock photos including an image of the old TV can be found at The screenshot of my phone is my own.






Faster, Stronger, Smarter, Better

So here’s another TLC reality show I’m probably not going to watch: The Man With No Penis.

Don’t think I don’t want to.  I’m absolutely dying to know how The Man With No Penis Andrew Wardle managed to sex over 100 women even though, you know, he was lacking a bit of equipment most of us heterosexual ladies (and quite a few homosexual gentlemen, I imagine) feel is integral to the act. Still, I’m not going to watch because I’m boycotting TLC right now. It’s that The Human Incubator Show that’s got me going. My blood just boils every time I see a member of that litter clogging up my entertainment news feed. I want to read Gwyneth Paltrow’s diet tips, or how much one of the Kardashians weighs (it doesn’t matter which one), and not so much about Super Uterus.

Call me crazy, but I still cling to the notion that motherhood should be more about quality, rather than quantity. While the jury is still out on the two specimens I’ve produced (so far it’s been a mixed bag: the six-year old received another conduct report from her teacher last week, while the eleven-year old got placed in Advanced English Language Arts for next year), they’re currently taking up space on the living room couch, expanding their minds by watching a rerun of Jessie.

It’s that episode where Jessie writes the angry song about her boyfriend that winds up posted on YouTube by accident.

“Why do the girls on all these shows all want to be pop stars?” I asked while walking into the living to pick up the two microphones empty paper towel rolls my daughters had abandoned there. Originally, there had been only one microphone empty paper towel roll, but that had caused fighting and tears, so I unraveled an entire roll of Bounty to keep the peace. The unused paper towels now resided in a messy pile on the kitchen counter, a way stop before they made their way into the trash as I cleared the counter before starting dinner. “How come no one wants to be an accountant or a biologist?”

How come there aren't any shows about public sanitation workers?

How come there aren’t any shows about public sanitation workers?

“Or President of the United States!” my six-year old chimed in. She has an idea for a television show, starring herself, about the first six-year old President. I figure, why not a six year old President? Did you ever really think we’d elect a black guy in your lifetime, either?

Last night, as I helped her get ready for bed, she interrupted  her teeth-brushing to describe an intricately plotted episode that involved a birthday party and an assassination attempt.

I would be lying if I told you I didn’t think about stealing the idea for a story I’m writing.

“Yes, or the President of the United States,” I agreed.

“That’s dumb,” my eleven-year old said. It’s not clear whether that’s her opinion of the President Show or the Accountant Show or the Biologist Show. She put her earbuds back in her ears and pretended not to watch Jessie.

You rolls the dice, you takes yer chances.

You roll the dice, you take your chances.

So I have two kids, the same way I have two cats, and we used to have two guinea pigs, until Lulu’s sister, Nibbles, died quietly in her sleep a few months ago. That’s the way I want to go, with a tummy full of hay, nestled into a bed of recycled repurposed wood pulp, my head full of dreams of giant carrots and slices of sweet bell pepper.

The point I’m making is that I like the number two, which probably explains why I keep writing blog posts about polyandry to the discomfort of my (so far only one) husband.

Of course, the number of children one has is a personal choice, and who am I to say if you should have one or two or nineteen kids? I had two because we live in a three bedroom house and the thought of packing up all our crap and moving it all to a bigger house has been enough to keep me on Ortho-Evra®.

If you haven’t made up your mind yet on the number of children you should have, let me share with you the best argument I can make about having at least two children. Here it is: “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe the Super Uterus just followed that advice to the extreme. She’s got 19 (and counting!) baskets out there, so perhaps she’s just playing the odds, spreading around her eggs. Maybe it’s got nothing at all to do with that “quiverfull” bullshit, and really it’s just a gambling habit she can’t break.

Super Uterus: I can feel it.Today is our lucky day. We need to have sex now. I know this next one will turn out to be the scientist who cures cancer or maybe the pitcher for the Cubs who finally wins game seven of the World Series.

Super Sperm: Um, I dunno. That last one you pushed out has crossed eyes and a lisp. I don’t see curing cancer or the Cubs in that future. What did we name it, anyway?

Super UterusHer. I wish you would stop calling them “it.”

Super Sperm: Ok, her. What’s her name?

Super Uterus: Who knows? I just call her “Cross Eyes.” I can’t keep them straight, I’m too busy with all these pregnancies.

Super Sperm: Tell me about it. I almost added that kid with the runny nose as a beneficiary on my life insurance policy before the neighbors came over with the police and snatched him back. Did you know he didn’t belong to us?

Super Uterus: You let the neighbors take Snot Nose?

Super Sperm: They had a DNA test! I couldn’t stop them!

Super Uterus: (weeping) I loved him the best!

So maybe every month, as the Duggars try to get knocked up again, as Michelle lies there after sex, with her feet in the air, saturating her cervix with Jim Bob’s little spermies, they’re just hoping that this next baby will be faster, stronger, smarter, better than the previous nineteen disappointments.

The Man with No Penis is scheduled to air on TLC in the US in late summer.

New episodes of Nineteen and Counting: the Story of the Super Uterus  appear each Tuesday on TLC at 9/8C.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at photo of Debby Ryan comes from the Disney website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.

How The Learning Channel Helps Me Keep My New Year’s Resolutions

There’s is nothing quite like an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive to get me to clean out my refrigerator. Perhaps you have not seen the show, so let me explain that Hoarding: Buried Alive on The Learning Channel TLC is another one of those reality television shows I watch that makes my husband question why he married me.

I made you go see Amores Perros, but you made me go to the symphony, so we're even.

I made you go see Amores Perros, but you made me go to the symphony, so we’re even.

“Do you remember when we were dating and you used to talk about poetry and art and drag me to all those foreign films?” he asked.

“Shh! She’s having a melt down over throwing out a used cotton ball!”

Anyway, keeping my fridge cleaner is one of my New Year’s resolutions. I’ve been trying to get my family onboard with my organizing and decluttering, but so far I’ve had only limited success.

For example, one night, over dinner, I approached them with an idea. “I’ve been thinking about all the clothes each of us has, filling up the closets. Why don’t we each pick one outfit we like best, and get rid of all the rest? Think of the space we’ll free up!”

While I think I got my family to consider the idea, the plan ultimately fell apart when my youngest burst into tears trying to choose between her “Everything is Awesome” sweatshirt and her Elsa and Anna hoodie.

“Why is she crying?” my older daughter, who has taken to watching reality shows with me, asked. “It’s not like we’re asking her to throw out a used cotton ball.”

As I scrolled through the listings on TLC, I found that there are shows that I don’t even have to watch to get me to keep my resolutions. For example, there’s one called My 600 lb LifeThe title alone keeps me training for the half marathon I hope to complete in 2015.

Last night a new show premiered that should help all the folks who resolved to get married this year. It’s called My Husband’s Not Gay, the most deceptive title since Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare. The entire premise of the show is that the husbands are, actually, gay. For reals. Otherwise it would be a show about a bunch of married heterosexuals, and who wants to gawk at see that?

I guess I’m not surprised there are women who marry gay men knowingly (and I’m definitely not surprised that TLC would broadcast a show about them). I had a friend in college who found herself repeatedly attracted to obviously–at least it was obvious to everyone else–gay men. It got to be a joke that any guy she thought was cute had to be gay. Anyway, I do understand why some women might prefer this sort of arrangement.

Sex toy.

Sex toy.

I do wonder, however, what it’s like to be partnered with someone who doesn’t (and never did) desire you. For me, I was never able to connect with a man emotionally that I did not connect with physically. I’ve been married awhile, my relationship has weathered its share of storms, there are plenty of nights when I’d rather watch the Hoarders: Buried Alive marathon rather than swing from the chandelier with my husband, but I wonder how long my relationship would have lasted if I had married a man who never wanted to swing from the chandelier with me.


Royalty-free stock photos, including the images in this post, can be found at

Sex The Americans Style

I’ve been watching a lot of sex on television lately, and it’s almost all doggy style.

The other day I was binge-watching, which is the the way I consume almost all of my television in the 21st century.  I’m sure when I’m older I’ll bore regale my grandchildren with tales of how once there was a time when there was absolutely no sex on television and the entire family would gather together in the living room each evening to watch shows that were only broadcast once, or at least not again until summer reruns.

Yes, I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be sounding just like that really old guy in line behind me at the supermarket who noticed I was buying a six pack of Coke Zero and decided to share this scintillating fact from his youth: “Back then you could get a Dr. Pepper for a dime!”

Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a lot of doggy-style sex on TV.  The position is also known as “the congress of the cow” according to the Kama Sutra but I’m not recommending you use that term because no one wants to think about cows during sex.  Of course, I’m not sure anyone wants to think about dogs during sex, either, except maybe other dogs.


Even cows don’t like to think about cows during sex. We think about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

But there I was stuck thinking about dogs and sex after having seen not one, not two, but three instances of rear entry sex while binge watching the second season of the Cold War period drama, The Americans. It all happened in episode six, “Behind the Red Door.” Apparently what’s “behind the red door” is lots and lots of coitus more ferarum. First we see married Russian spies Philip and Elizabeth spicing up their sex life with role play and “wild sex,” which seems to mean nothing more than “doggy style sex.”  Next, we see Nicaraguan super-spy Lucia bent over a desk looking up at a portrait of Ronald Reagan on the wall while congressional aid Carl gives it to her from behind.  Finally, as the episode ends, Philip stumbles upon a couple having sex out on a fire escape (I think) and they, as well, are doing it like they do it on the Discovery Channel.

As luck would have it, while I’m thinking about dogs and sex and whether or not my butt looks as good as Keri Russell’s when I’m lying face down on a bed, I came across this article over on Slate, “‘Doggy Style’ Doesn’t Mean What You Think It Means.”

And the article was right!  “Doggy style” is nothing like what I thought! In fact, it’s absolutely horrible, with the poor boy-dog being stuck inside the poor girl-dog for up to an hour (an hour!) afterwards.  From the article:

Apparently, dogs doing it for the first time can get a little freaked out about the prolonged attachment, as do first-time dog breeders. If you should ever find yourself in this situation, The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds suggests you prevent the female dog from trying to rip free from the male, because doing so can cause serious injury to the penis. Breeding websites recommend you get down on the floor and comfort the female.

I need some comforting just from reading that paragraph!

I’ve never been a fan of the position, anyway, because I need to see the man’s my husband’s face while we’re doing it, just to make sure he’s not thinking about some other woman, or dogs or cows, while he’s having sex with me.

You can see more doggy style sex, and maybe more of Keri Russell’s ass, on The Americans Wednesdays at 10pm on FX.

Five Things I Would Do if I Could Travel Back in Time

According to the physicists, time travel is possible but only into the future, so there’s no chance for me to go back in time and zip up my slacks before my presentation to the senior vice presidents in 2003.

Nor is there any hope that I’ll be able to go back in time and make out with James Fraser, the sexy 18th century Scotsman who is the love interest of heroine Claire Randall in Diane Galbadon’s Outlander series of books about love and sex and time travel.  The books are coming to television this summer in a miniseries on Starz.

I’m currently reading the first book, Outlander.  The novel was published in the UK under the title Cross Stitch and I guess I understand why the publishers changed the title for the American audience because Cross Stitch sounds to this American like a murder mystery involving embroidery rather than science fiction involving time travel and sex: the protagonist, Claire Randall, gets it on a lot with her 20th century husband, Frank, in the first fifty pages or so, and, although I haven’t gotten that far yet, I’m expecting her to get it on, a lot, with her 18th century lover in future chapters.

I’m not sure if the first thing I would do as a time traveler would be to have sex but it would certainly be in the top five.  I don’t think it counts as cheating if you have sex in a time where it is theoretically impossible for you to be, right?  Well, I’m not going to count it.

No, they aren't!  Stop saying that!

They’re having sex in there.

Speaking of physicists and their strange ideas about time-space travel, when I was in college I triggered an absolute melt down in a physics major when I suggested that astronauts had sex in space.  He was excitedly telling me about the latest space shuttle mission (that’s nerd for flirting) when I interrupted his explanation of trajectory and aerobraking by asking (and this is nerd for foreplay), “Do you think they’ve had sex on the Space Shuttle?”

He insisted they didn’t, and I insisted they must have, and, yada yada yada*, I never had sex with him.

Anyway, here are the top five things I would do if I could travel back in time.

  1. Zip up my pants.
  2. Kill Hitler.
  3. Tell Einstein that it appears he was wrong about the time travel thing.
  4. Bet my entire 401k balance on the Boston Red Sox winning the 2013 World Series.
  5. Show off my freaky 21st century sex moves.

Outlander, a Starz original series, premieres in summer 2014.

*I still miss Seinfeld.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

A Different Sort of Hunger Games

I can’t decide what I find more amazing about the news story, Woman Sets Speed Record Eating 72-Ounce Steak: is it the size of the steak (four and a half pounds!) or the speed it took Molly Schuyler to eat it (four minutes!)?

There used to be a reality show on the Travel Channel, Man v. Food, in which the host took on eating challenges at restaurants around the United States.  On one episode he ate a bucket of chicken wings, on another episode he ate a gigantic burrito–you get the idea.  I first discovered the show when I was pregnant and ravenous and nauseous (all at the same time) years ago.  The show has since wrapped production but it airs endlessly in repeats so you can still catch it if you want to watch a guy eat a whole mess of not-always-appetizing food.

Here’s a bit from the episode filmed in Philadelphia where he ate a giant cheesesteak, natch.

I like burritos and chicken wings and steak as much as the next non-competitive food eating woman, but just last week at Outback Steakhouse® I dithered over whether to order the 6 oz. or 9 oz. filet.

My Patient Bloke Husband:  How hungry are you?

Sheila Me: I’m pretty hungry.

No Rules. Just Right. Wait, there is one rule. You have to eat it all in four minutes.

My Decisive Bloke Husband: The nine ounce.

Sheila Me: I may not be that hungry.

My Five Year Old Joey:  (pointing to the 20 oz. Porterhouse) I want this.

My Nine Year Old Joey: You can’t get that.  You have to order off the Joey menu.  (pointing to the 24 oz. ribeye)  I’m gonna order that, though.

Outback Server: Are you folks ready to order?

My Annoyed Bloke Husband: They’ll both have the Grilled Cheese-a-roos.  She’ll have the 9 oz filet and I’ll have the New York Strip.  And a Classic Steakhouse Martini.  Make it a double.

Needless to say, I didn’t finish the 9 oz filet (I knew I should have ordered the 6 oz!) and I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could scarf down 72 ounces of beef, like Molly Schuyler did. And she weighs 120 pounds, so she ate 1/27 of her weight!  She’s sort of like those ants who can lift 50x their own weight, only instead of heaving that grain of sand to the very top of the anthill, she eats it!

You can (still!) watch episodes of Man v. Food on the Travel Channel.  Check your cable listings for dates and times.

The image in this post comes from the Outback Steakhouse® corporate website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.

The Daily Prompt today:

Click over to whatever website you visit most frequently to get news. Find the third headline on the page. Make sure that headline is in your post.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us a CURRENT EVENT.

How Many New Yorkers Voted for Bill De Blasio Because He Has the Power to Convert Lesbians?

I’m finally caught up with all the episodes of American Horror Story: Coven and I think (so far) it’s the best season ever.  I’m particularly enjoying the four young witches (Taissa Farmiga, Emma Roberts, Gabourey Sidige, Jamie Brewer) as they figure out how to use and control their witchy superpowers.

The show got me wondering if I were a witch what sort of superpower I would like to possess.

  • Would I want Zoe’s ability to cause fatal bleeding in her sexual partners?  If you’ve read this blog at all, you know my answer is a resounding “No.”  I’m still wondering what sort of benefit this power bestows, and why she didn’t jump off the nearest bridge as soon as she found out she had it (of course, if she did, that wouldn’t be a very interesting character arc for the show, I guess).
  • How about Madison’s telekinesis? I think this would be pretty good, mostly because it would make it easier to clean my kitchen.
  • I think I’ll pass on Queenie’s “human voodoo doll” ability.  Not sure I want to stick my arm in a vat of boiling oil, or slit my own throat, even if the effects of my act happen to someone else and I’m left unscathed.
  • I know I definitely don’t want Nan’s clairvoyance.  I’m happy to live my life blissfully ignorant of what everyone else in the world thinks of me, thank you very much.

There’s another superpower none of the characters on the show possess that I find myself wishing for: invisibility.  I wished I had this power way back in kindergarten when I wet my pants.  I would again wish for this power in junior high when Ms. Evangeliste caught me writing my initials and Robert Borchek’s inside a heart I drew on the desk of my fourth period science class.  And again in high school when I tripped and fell and gashed my chin while running onto the court to replace the Middle Blocker late in a volleyball game (there’s a reason why the coach kept me on the bench most of the season).  And again in my junior year in college when I walked in on my roommate and her boyfriend.  And again, last week, when I used the word “circumcised” when I meant the word “circumscribed” . . .

He's got to have a big dong, right?

One New York, Rising Together and Converting Lesbians

But perhaps the most powerful superpower of all is the one possessed by New York City’s mayor-elect Bill de Blasio.  Mr. de Blasio, you may have heard, is married to Chirlane McCray, a lovely woman who, way back in 1979, was so certain of her sexuality she penned a piece for Essence magazine titled, “I Am a Lesbian.”  Only it turned out not so much, because she married her husband in 1994 and had heterosexual sex at least two times, producing two children, and the de Blasios remain married to this day and, I assume, continue fucking having marital relations.

So if Bill de Blasio* can convert an avowed lesbian, a woman who didn’t just come out to a few friends and family, mind you, not a woman who “experimented” one crazy Friday night when she had few too many dirty martinis, but rather a woman who announced to all the world her sexual orientation in a national magazine, surely he’s the right man for the job of governing the Big Apple.

You can catch new episodes of American Horror Story: Coven Wednesdays at 10pm on FX.

*He’s also a fan of the 2013 World Champion Boston Red Sox, a fact which almost had me moving to NYC just to vote for him.

Like a Certified Virgin

Recently, the Quebec College of Physicians had to warn its members not to issue virginity certificates.

I’ll wait a moment while you clean off the coffee (or Coca Cola or Victory Gin or whatever you’re drinking) you just spewed all over your computer monitor.

Here’s more on the story from the Toronto Sun article “‘Virginity Certificates’ a No-No, says Quebec College of Physicians”:

 Quebec’s college of physicians is threatening to fine any members who issue virginity certificates.

“A virginity certificate is not a medical act,” said Dr. Charles Bernard, president of the college, while acknowledging that the attestations are rarely issued.


Donuts and virgins go great together.

I like how the Quebec College of Physicians issued a “no-no” which is what I used to say to my toddler when she wandered too close to the fire place.  A “No-no” from the Quebec College of Physicians is like a judicial injunction, I guess, or maybe a Papal bull.  The idea of a “No-no” makes me imagine a Canadian physician sitting at his desk, retrieving a pen from a drawer, preparing to sign his John Hancock (or whatever they call it in Canada.  A Tim Hortons, maybe?) to the crisp sheepskin that virginity certificates most certainly must be printed on and then some interfering College of Physicians guy comes rushing into the room, wagging his finger and screaming “No-no!” at the top of his lungs.

Anyway, back to the virgins.  

I’m going to ignore the reasons why a patient would seek a Virginity Certificate from her doctor because I’m an American and a feminist and horny so thinking about that makes me all sorts of angry, and this blog is about the funny, not the angry, so let’s go with that.

Red Robin Bottomless Steak Fries®

Virgins and non-virgins can agree about one thing: Red Robin Bottomless Steak Fries® are awesome.

I’ve got to wonder if a Virginity Certificate might be good for anything other than, you know, the obvious.  Like would it get me discounts somewhere?  Could I show my Virginity Certificate at Red Robin and get unlimited  Bottomless Steak Fries®?  Well, I could show them the certificate, but they give Bottomless Steak Fries® to everyone, virgin or not.  The server might look at me a bit differently, though.

My husband is a physician, though of the American variety, not québécois, and I thought he could issue me my Virginity Certificate and I would try to use it around town to get free stuff.

Sexually Active Me: Say, would you issue me a Virginity Certificate?

My Not As Sexually Active As He Would Like to Be Husband (hey, we have two kids.  You try and find time for sex): There are a lot of things wrong with that question.  But let’s start with the fact that you’re not a virgin, though you’ve been acting like one lately.

Sexually Active Me: Are you about to turn my certified virgin blog post into a big complaint about how you’re not getting enough sex?  I don’t think my readers need to hear any more from you, then.

So you can see my husband would not assist me in my effort to scam free stuff for virgins.  I decided to look elsewhere and I came upon this website (what did we do before the internet?):  For the very reasonable price of $1USD (that’s $1.03 to all you Canadians getting the no-no from your doctors), I can get a very official piece of paper declaring me a certified virgin.

But long time readers of this blog will know that I am cheap frugal, so the thought of parting with even a single dollar to document my certified virginity goes against everything I believe in.  There has got to be a cheaper way to let the world know who’s a virgin and who isn’t, right?

I’ve got it.  I’ll start playing World of Warcraft, watching Dr. Who and writing a blog.

The images in this post can be found on the media pages of Red Robin® and Tim Hortons.

Not So Secret Sex Lives

His penis is really small.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a swinger. So is your husband, by the way.

In case you were busy doing anything else something else on Saturday at 10/9 central, you may have missed the season premiere of Secret Sex Lives: Swingers on Discovery Fit & Health.  The title of the show is a bit of a misnomer, since I’m not sure how “secret” your sex life is when you’re being filmed for a reality television show, but I guess since they aren’t showing the actual sex acts, maybe that’s the part that’s secret?

The show is populated by the usual cast of degenerates characters.   There’s a southern Baptist woman, Rebecca, who apparently is so conflicted about her religious and sexual feelings that she agrees to appear on a reality TV show broadcasting the fact that she fucks a lot of people, both men and women, while her fiancé (soon-to-be reluctant husband) looks on.  I lost count of

God is watching.  And he doesn't like what you're doing one bit.

Thou shalt not swing.

how many Commandments she’s breaking mid way through the episode and that’s when she decided to receive “counseling” from a Baptist minister.  In a torturous dialogue with the poor guy, which you can view here, she appears to have believed there could be some sort of Biblical dispensation that might allow her to swing without having to say fifty Hail Marys afterward (or whatever Baptists do as penance.  I was raised Catholic, so what do I know?).  Alas, it was not to be, and her minister, who she was probably thinking about fucking during the entire conversation, wasn’t able to reconcile her sex life with any religion with which he was familiar. Maybe she can try Scientology?

Rebecca’s fiancé, Chris, is so committed to the “lifestyle” that he intends to swing on their honeymoon. Good fucking grief.  If I can’t hold my newlywed husband’s attention through a four night/three day discount vacation to Niagara Falls, I doubt if he’s going to respond to my requests to unload the fucking dishwasher for fuck’s sake if he wants to eat fucking dinner tonight, some ten or so years later.  So I don’t hold out much hope that Rebecca and Chris will be celebrating any golden anniversaries together.

There’s also the obligatory black couple, Dana and Loveless.  In addition to being black, the couple is also old.  And by old, I mean older than me, which puts them in their forties or so, I guess.  Loveless has gray hair flecking his goatee, so he probably has gray pubes, too–oh, wait, what am I thinking? Loveless’s privates are probably as bald as his head.  There is no way any one in this crowd is sporting any stray pubic hairs.

There’s also an Asian, Jaime, because why not get the entire UN involved?

The episode spends a lot of time showing the conversation at a “swinging party” the couples attend, exchanging bon mots as a prelude to fucking.  Did I say “bon mots”?  What I meant to say was “inane conversation that if you said anywhere else other than on a reality tv show about swinging would get you kicked in the crotch and/or arrested.”  The witty repartee that is intended to charm the pants off the other party goers includes questions like: “What sexual positions do you like?” as well as comments like “We were just talking about tit fucking.”  The good bits dirty words, of course, are bleeped out for the television audience (in case any little kids might be watching?), and  I guess no one cares enough to chat about the escalating situation in Syria, or the Red Sox drive to the playoffs, or how much their boss sucks, and they mainly are stuck on the topic of sex, like a phonograph needle skipping on the scratch in an old LP.  I like to talk about sex as much as anyone else, but I’d rather that conversation take place after you’ve bought me dinner, told me my hair looks nice, and we’re alone, and not with three other couples ready for a spirited game of Round Robin.

The party conversation got me wondering what a married man might say to convince me to sleep with him.  I decided it might be something like, “I have less than 24 hours to live and it’s my last wish to have sex with a tall, dorky blonde.  Are you game?”  Or maybe even, “Your husband is cheating on you.  How about a little revenge sex with me?” Still, upon hearing either one of those offers, I’m more likely to burst into tears than jump onto the nearest penis.

You can see future episodes of Secret Sex Lives: Swingers  every Saturday, 10/9c on Discovery Fit & Health.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.