My dudes. Have you been feeling a tad bit neglected with all the vag talk I’ve been doing lately? “Why it always gotta be about the vag? Why no peen love???” I can hear you ask yourselves. Believe me, we at POOG central feel your pain. We would LOVE to write about peen every now and again, but instead, it’s “OMIGOD DON’T PUT ROCKS IN YOUR VAG” all the damn time up in this bitch. Well, this week is your lucky week if you’re looking for something creative and fun* to do with your peen during #sessytimes, and it’s so revolutionary, it’ll blow your head–er, mind.
My fellows. Condoms are the worst, amirite???** I mean, how the hell can you enjoy sex with the equivalent of a sock hanging off your dick? Never mind that you’re actually experiencing peen in puss which is delightful even while encasing your dick in Saran Wrap. I mean, come on! Even mediocre sex is better than no sex most of the time, and I’m willing to bet that most dudes are over the moon just to get their dick wet whenever they can.
However. I can understand that bare is better than there. I feel the same when I’m sexing a dude. I like bareback, but I don’t like the problems that can accompany such reckless behavior. If only there was a product that could make it feel as good as it does bare, but with the protection afforded to you by a condom. If only…But wait! There is one! It’s called Jiftip the Diktip, and my dudes, they have you covered. Literally! It’s an adhesive for your peenhole and how does it work? Like this!
Ladies. We need to talk. Are you like me in that you’ve tried all the vag tricks out there, and you’re bored out of your mind? You’ve done the jade eggs, the dry ice treatment, the wasp balls, and you’ve vajazzled the hell out of your pubic area because it don’t mean a thing if your vag ain’t got that bling! Who doesn’t love running around looking as if Tinkerbell farted all over your pubic bone?
But, let’s face it, ladies. You can only paint a unicorn on your vag so many times before it gets boring. You need to ramp up the excitement! Why only use glitter to decorate the outside of your vag when you can use it inside as well??? You read it right. The newest trend in glitter and pussies is glitter bombing your own vag!
Woo-hoo! It’s a disco party up in there, and no one can even see it! Party over here, party over there, it’s a party of one, perhaps two, unless you’re into crowds, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
I saw this on my FB friend, Mia Raven’s page, and I thought it was a joke at first. I mean, what’s the point of putting glitter inside you? No one’s going to see it, and if you’re doing it for sexy times, it just makes things extra-messy.
Also, is it something you tell your lover ahead of time? I mean, do you casually drop it in conversation during dinner? Or do you just do it and let your lover be surprised when s/he parts your lower lips and gets an eyeful of color? Continue Reading
I became aware of something that for someone in my business* is like the Super Bowl, PBO’s inauguration day (COME BACK, BARACK!), and a wet sloppy kiss from Jason Momoa all rolled up into one: goop’s first ever wellness summit, called In Goop Health. Which makes no fucking sense to me. Is it supposed to be a riff off in good health? It vaguely reminds me of In God We Trust, but I don’t think that’s supposed to be it. I think it’s the former, but it’s still enough to make me go, ‘Huh?’ The summit was this past Saturday in Culver City, CA, and it would have been my dream to go all Samantha Bee at the Republican convention up in this bitch. One of my all-time favorite skits is when she tried to get Republicans to say the word ‘choice’ in reference to Bristol Palin’s decision to have her baby, and the lengths to which they refuse to do so until the very end is laughable. I love how Sam doesn’t give the word to them, she just makes them finally have to say it.
I think I’d take a slightly different tack, though. I’d go incognito as one of them! Granted, I’d have to buy a pair of Sweaty Betty Haven Yoga Pants, but they’re only available in black. While this is my favorite color, it’s not really acceptable for the goop crowd. I don’t want to be stereotypical, but I may have to turn to lululemon for my white yoga pants needs. This may surprise you, but I haven’t looked at yoga pants in–well, ever, really. What I’m discovering is that the traditional yoga pants, as it were, has been replaced by the semi-transparent leggings, and I am not having ANY of that. I did manage to find Dance Studio Pants III (Regular) in white that will work, and the name is almost as long as the pants are expensive. It would be worth it, though, if it meant I could flit amongst the goopies–goopites?–undetected. Add to that a Balenciaga Classic Hip Bag for the low, low price of $850, and I’m good to go!
The base fee for the day was $500. That was the no-frills ticket, and you had to pony up $1,500 if you wanted the privilege of supping and drinking with Gwyneth and her pals. I can’t imagine anything I’d want to do more than watch Gwyneth sprinkle Moon Juice Brain Dust in her morning smoothie which includes ingredients such as maca, ashwagandha, ho shou wu, and cordyceps. The recipe suggests different Dusts for different times, and this is straight text, “Sex Dust, for, you know”. Seriously? We’re (presumably) grown-ass adults. We can say we’re fucking, can’t we?
Anyhoo, most of the write-ups about the ‘summit’ were straightforward, taking what the speakers said at face value, or even gushing about them. The one publication that actually took time to dismantle all the bullshit is, incredibly, The New York Post. The first paragraph reads as if it’s from The Onion:
Gwyneth Paltrow’s inaugural health-and-wellness summit on Saturday kicked off just as you’d expect: well-groomed women wearing yoga pants and expensive handbags hooking themselves up to IVs and oxygen tubes in a parking lot, experiences otherwise associated with the glamour of getting triaged at a disaster site.
In fact, I was pretty sure I was being pranked, but, sadly or gladly, that was just the tip of the goopy icebearg! There was talk of ‘integral photosynthesis’ and of ‘the ontological experience called your life’. There was a presentation of a 10-minute face-lift that included local anesthesia and needles being poked in someone’s face. This procedure is apparently one of the simple things in life costing $3,500 and one of the side effects may be blindness. It’s better to look good than to be able to see, amirite ladies???
Ed. Note: We here at POOG* are constantly on the look out for all things vag-related. We call upon you, the POOG patrol to point out any and all atrocities you see that concern the crotch (peen, too, though there’s less of that) to our administration. Tweet me @asiangrrlMN or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org with all your fascinating/horrific hoo-ha articles, and we will address the ones that tickle our yoni, er, fancy. This week’s installment is not related to Gwyneth, astonishingly enough, but don’t worry. We’ll get back to her soon.
As my faithful readers know, I’m very committed to making sure my vag is in the best shape it can possibly be. That means I wash it regularly, which is all it needs because it’s self-cleaning. However, there’s a new ‘vaginal therapy’ that is all the rage on Etsy.** It’s putting oak gall up your hoo-ha to tighten and dry your vag because we all know that loose lips don’t get any dick! The gall of having flapping labia! (Get it?? The gall? No appreciation for my wit.) Oak gall is when a wasp deposits its larva into an oak tree. The tree becomes irritated (wouldn’t you?) and secretes tannic and gallic acids around the larvae. This formation is essential the gall, or as I like to call it, the gall ball. Hey, ho, it’s a gall ball party in your vag! Doesn’t that sound appetizing? Oh, and the gall is astringent, which makes it doubly fun. I don’t know about you, but I love putting untested astringent wasp excreta in my pussy. I could do that shit every day! Who doesn’t like a little sting and burn in her private parts? I certainly do! That’s why I slather my cervix with Sriracha every night before I go to bed. Sure, it means that my vag feels like its engorged with flames when I wake up, but that’s just an added benefit!
Once again, it’s up to Dr. Gunter, my Gwyneth Paltrow whisperer, who I have just promoted to vagina whisperer to give the medical 411 on why you shouldn’t insert gall balls into your lady bits. She handles the science, I deal with the sarcasm and snark. In her blog post on the subject, she tells you exactly why it’s a bad idea to put an unknown astringent up your hoo-ha. You wouldn’t think a grown woman would have to be told this, but here we are. I am thankful for Dr. Gunter’s tireless devotion to debunking all this vag-related hokum.
I also really appreciate that the purveyors of this bullshit are calling it traditional medicine. They claim that women in Southeast Asia, particularly Malaysia and Indonesia use it to snap their uteri back in shape after birthing some babies, and at least they went Southeast Asian this time for their mystical Orient bullshit rather than East Asian, but still. Stop using my global sisters to sell your shit, people! I know it gives your crap instant gravitas, but it’s racist as hell. “Peasant women in Malaysia are squatting in the rice fields, smearing their lady parts with ground up wasp nest to regain the pep in their puss!” It’s antiquated, outdated, and pretty foul to boot. It’s funny, really, how you never hear about a product being sold that was used by ancient Icelandic women or some shit. It’s always Asian women, and usually concubines/empresses. Otherwise, it’s tantric and yoni, which is also grotesque, albeit amusing in a dark way. Below is a satire video by Awkwafina and Margaret Cho (goddess!) skewering all the played-out and stale stereotypes about Asian women.
Attention POOG Patrol!* It has come to my attention that Gwyneth Paltrow is all up in her feels about people clapping back at her for her quackery ‘science’. She went all in, saying:
I’m interested in criticism based on facts, not projections….If you want to fuck with me, bring your A-game.
Italics are mine, but the quotes are pure Gwyneth. Look at how hard she’s trying to be by dropping an F-bomb when she’s all, “COME AT ME, BRO!”! Ride or die, Gwyneth. Ride or die! She’s squadding up, imagining that she’s the Wu-Tang Clan.
I can imagine her saying to her bestie, “Hold my Urban Satchel Louis Vuitton Bag and my earrings by Tiffany, darling; I’m going in!” before sailing in on her Jimmy Choos and flailing her fists about. Then, when she breaks a nail at the first punch thrown, she scurries to her resident masseuse to relieve the tension. She’s so adorable when she’s angry, and it’s hard to take her seriously, but I have a few things to say in response to her (because of course I do).
First of all, I don’t need my A-game to fuck with her. I don’t need my mental taiji or anything other than Google and my Auntie Cherry Blossom to decimate Gwyneth and her ‘facts’. I can do it with one eye closed and one hand tied behind my back. Admittedly, it’d take much longer because I’d have to type one-handed, but I’m used to that on account of my cat, Shadow, sitting on my chest as I’m trying to type. Hunt and peck is infuriating when I type 100+ words a minute, but it’s doable. It just gives me more time to think of my zingers with my rapier-sharp wit. Gwyneth may have money, fame, and beauty on her side, but I have my wits and my words which I’ll pit against hers any time. I’m like Professor Elemental pulling on his fighting trousers, but she’s no Mr.B The Gentleman Rhymer.
Hey, ladies. Don’t you hate it when you’ve done your Kegels and you’ve stuffed jade eggs up your hoo-ha, and, yet, you feel as if your vag isn’t as strong as it should be? Well, then do I have the answer for you! It’s Vaginal Kung Fu, and it apparently has been all the rage for the past few years. I saw a mention of it on my Twitter by my Gwyneth Paltrow whisperer, Dr. Jen Gunter*, and I had to read her article because of my morbid curiosity. And because I needed a topic for this week’s POOG post, but that’s definitely secondary! She had me at Vaginal Kung Fu, yo! How could I not be drawn to the ancient art of my people as proposed by an American TV doctor (actual doctor with a talk show) with a 2 star rating on Yelp!? And, with all the anti-choice bills the Republicans are pushing and passing, my vag needs to be in tiptop shape to fight!
I wanna be Vaginal Kung-Fu fightin’!
My uterus will kick as fast as lightning!
I can feel my pelvic muscles tightening!
This is gonna be so enlightening!
The article that Dr. Gunter is dissecting appeared in Allure magazine, and I read it with increasing horror and amazement. There’s an update to the article warning of the risks–they didn’t think to include that in the actual article, mind you–and they quote Dr. Hilda Hutcherson, MD, a professor of obstetrics and gynecology at Columbia University Medical Center, “Kegels are great! Everyone should do them. But some women can’t figure out which muscle to contract.” She adds, “The vaginal weights make that easy and more fun.” I think the good doctor and I need to have a chat about her idea of fun. Also, if a woman doesn’t know how to do Kegels properly, she can ask her doctor. What? No, Minna, get out! What a revolutionary idea! Now why would I want to do that when I can simply shove weights into my vag in the privacy of my own home? Never mind that I might not know how heavy the weights should be and that you still have to contract the muscles around the weight, I should just do it! Oh, wait. I should ask my doctor about it first? Then why the fuck wouldn’t I just ask how to do Kegels properly? (Read Dr. Gunter’s article linked above for tips on how to do exactly that. Yes, I know I footnoted it, but it’s important enough to mention again.)
Asia has many things to offer to the West, starting with the best cuisine in the world, bar none. I may be a tad biased because I’m Taiwanese, and we have dumplings and radish cakes and sticky rice and gua bao (pork belly buns) and my favorite dessert of all time, douhua (soft tofu and soft peanuts in syrup–it’s fantastic), but I also love Chinese (which is quite similar), Thai, and sushi. Asian art and culture are rich with history as well, not to mention music, spiritualism, and philosophy. The one thing I would not turn to Asia for, however, is advice on stuffing things up my vag. Such as jade eggs that cost $66 per egg.
Yes! After a week off, I am back on the goop beat, and this time I’m tackling noted Sinologist, Gwyneth Paltrow, who is pushing this shit on her website. From the product description:
Yoni eggs, once the strictly guarded secret of Chinese concubines and royalty in antiquity, harness the power of energy work, crystal healing, and a Kegel-like physical practice. Jade eggs’ power to cleanse and clear make them ideal for detox, too.
Have a load off because there’s quite a bit to unpack here. First of all, Asian women don’t have sex secrets that we’re keeping from you*. Even if we did, do you really think someone suddenly and magically discovered this secret without it becoming breaking news? I just imagine some execs sitting in a room, saying to each other, “Guys. We bought these jade rocks. Now we have to do something with them. Bob? What’s your idea?”
Bob: “What about as decorative bookends?”
Jim (the boss): “No! That’s not exotic enough. Bookends? Really, Bob? You’re fired!”
Bob (frantic): “How about if we have girls put them in their lady bits? That’s exotic!”
Jim: “That’s brilliant, Bob! But how are we going to get them to do that?”
Bob: “I know! We’ll tell them it’s an ancient Chinese secret! Like it’s Calgon! Except, it’s not detergent because you wouldn’t want to put that in your–”
Jim: “Loving it. Loving it. Give me more.
Bob (warning up to his idea): It’s the secret of concubines and empresses!** We tell the ladies that if they do it, they will be like royalty!
Jim: Will that be enough? Maybe for the first time, but how do we get them to keep doing it?
Jim: Genius. Pure genius. Except for the last! You’re now VP, Bob.
I dunno. Maybe I’m biased because I hate Americans getting all airy-fairy about Asian mysticism, so let’s have a chat with my Auntie Cherry Blossom, who is my conduit to the spiritual world. I light some jasmine incense and immediately start coughing because I’m allergic to it, but I woman up because it’s her favorite scent. I make sure to turn on the Taiwanese-ghost-to-English translation app (ghosttoenglishtranslator.com) on my phone so I can understand what she’s saying. I remember her musical preference and put on Michelle Kwan (no, not that one) playing Metallica’s One on the guzheng.
Ladies, have you ever been going about your day, perhaps doing Downward-Facing Dog in yoga class and wondering if the pot roast will be ready for dinner by the time you get home, when suddenly, you think, “Is my tampon doing enough for me? Is it going to absorb all the blood that my body is gushing out during my period?” Or perhaps you’re driving to your daughter’s school to pick up little Lizzie from soccer practice, and you’re suddenly afraid your pad is overflowing with blood. Never mind that you’ve been dealing with your period since you were an early teen and could apply the tampon or pad in your sleep–now, it’s all you can do not to be consumed by the very natural bodily process that most women deal with for most of their lives.
Well, fear no longer because a Wichita chiropractor, Daniel Dopps, has got you covered with his newly patented Mensez Feminine Lip-Stick! Lip-stick. Because it’s like a lipstick and because it makes your lips stick. Get it? Isn’t he so clever? Plus, Mensez is a play on menses, and it sounds like men, so this is the labia lipstick strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. From the above link:
Mensez feminine lipstick is a natural patented compound of amino acids and oil in a lipstick applicator that is applied to the labia minora and causes them to cling together in a manner strong enough to retain menstrual fluid in the vestibule above the labia minora where the vaginal opening and urethra exit. The Mensez compound is instantly washed away with urine, which releases the menstrual fluid along with the urine into the toilet every time a woman urinates. No pads or tampons are needed. Safe, secure and clean.
Sounds great, right*? I mean, what woman doesn’t want to glue her vag shut for three days and retain a pool of blood up inside her body? What girl hasn’t dreamed of such a thing?
I have dealt with hypothyroidism for over thirty years of my life, so you can imagine the surprise and delight* I felt when I learned that famed endocrinologist, Gwyneth Paltrow, decided to share her knowledge on the subject. Now, you would think that means she consulted experts or read several studies on the subject, right? Ha, nope. Scientific data is for nerds, yo, and we all know Gwyneth is too cool for school. She doesn’t need to talk to an actual doctor on the subject. Why should she when she has the Medical Medium, Anthony William, to tell her all she needs to know on the subject? You think I kid? I do not. He is a man who claims to have access to a high-level spirit** who disperses medical knowledge that will stun and amaze you! For only five payments of $29.99 each, you, too, can have the secrets to eternal li–oh, sorry. Something about him just brings out the huckster in me. I’m sure it’s not related to him being a snake oil salesman. Anyway, his solution to hypothyroidism is to take iodine supplements, and he has a lot of gobbledy-gook to back up his claim. No actual studies, mind you, but plenty of gibberish that sounds as if it might be plausible. Did I mention he’s not an actual doctor? No? Well, he’s not, but I guess when you have a high-level spirit on your side, who needs a measly piece of paper that says MD on it? Not Anthony William!
I’ve decided to talk to my own high-level spirit, my great-great-great-great (pauses, counts, adds one more great) aunt whose name translates as She Who Causes Cherry Blossoms to Swirl Around Your House in English, but I call her Auntie Cherry Blossom because who’s got time to say all that? I pull out my crystal ball and focus all my energy on the astral plane. Not the Serengeti Plains, by the way, which is what happened last time, and wherever my honorable ancestors may be, that ain’t it. I chant her name softly while I play a recording of a pipa playing in the background. I make sure my phone has the Taiwanese-ghost-to-English translation app (ghosttoenglishtranslator.com) installed so I can actually understand what my Auntie Cherry Blossom is saying to me. I wait impatiently, but she’s running on Taiwanese time, which means she shows up twenty minutes after I called upon her. She’s a tiny, ancient Taiwanese woman with her snowy white hair bundled on top of her head. She’s staring at me with a gimlet eye because I woke her up from her sleep. I’ve always been shitty with time zones, especially when they are thirteen hours apart, or is it fourteen? And, why do ghosts need sleep, anyway? I dismiss this as unimportant because I don’t want to waste Auntie Cherry Blossom’s endless supply of time.
You’ve read all the Fifty Shades of Grey books and watched the movie several times with your girlfriends (and you’re eagerly awaiting the sequel) while getting drunk on Cosmos and doing your nails. You and your girlfriends giggle over your sexual escapades as you get sloppy drunk, but inside, you know there’s something missing from your bedroom adventures. “It’s fine,” you tell your partner after the missionary position for the third time this week. Maybe, if you’re both feeling adventurous, you get on top for reverse cowgirl. It’s fifteen minutes of pumping, and when it’s done, you think to yourself, “Is that it?” You’ve dreamed of your own Christian Grey, and sometimes, in your deepest, darkest fantasies, you ARE Christian Grey*. After several acrimonious conversations in which the words, “You’ve never satisfied me!” were uttered, you’ve finally convinced your partner to put a toe in the BDSM waters.
You’ve been looking forward to it all day while schlepping the kids to soccer practice and back, and once you’re sure they’re sound asleep for the night, you’re keen to set the scene. You place candles all around your bedroom with vague ideas of wax dripping later on, and you search your iTunes for a little Lords of Acid. Rough Sex and The Power is Mine, specifically. You put on your brand new black latex outfit that makes you feel as if you’re trapped in an Iron Maiden, but it’s worth it, damn it, because you feel like a goddess. You want everything to be perfect for when your partner comes home and is ready to play.
Once everything is ready and your partner is firmly trussed up, you open up your nightstand drawer and lovingly pull out the fifteen thousand golden dildo you have nestled inside.
Wait a minute. Hold up. I know this is your fantasy, but I really must stop you there. I bit my tongue when you were swooning over Christian Grey. I nodded in approval when you mentioned Lords of Acid. I tempered my negativity at the latex bodysuit.** Spending fifteen thousand on a golden dildo, however, is the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, no matter what noted sexologist, Gywneth Paltrow, says. The description for this expensive bauble is, “It’s perfect for those who understand that you can’t put a price on pleasure.” There are so many things wrong with that statement (which is reminiscent of the apocryphal, “Let them eat cake”), starting with, “Yes, you fucking can!” You most certainly can put a price on pleasure, and we do it all the time. Is this movie worth fifteen bucks? Is this video game worth sixty? Is this surf and turf dinner worth a hundred? Secondly, the notion that you have to spend five figures on a dildo in order to attain true pleasure is…breathe, Minna, breathe. Since I’m trying to watch my blood pressure, let’s just focus on the price, shall we?
We need to have an intervention. Let’s sit.
::pats seat next to me::
I’ve been around the dominatrix block a time or two, and let me tell you, you do not need to spend $15,000 on a dildo to peg your partner. Listen to Auntie Minna. My whipping days may be over, but I still know a thing or two about a thing or two. You can buy the Simon Peg (it’s a play on Simon Pegg. Get it?) that is a dildo expressly for pegging, and it costs $49.99 at the Smitten Kitten, a local (MN) progressive sex store. Fifty bucks! That’s 3% of the cost of the golden dildo if my math is right. Even if it’s not, it’s still a pittance compared to $15,000. If even that is too much for you, then you can go even cheaper by visiting your local grocery store. Remember my post about steaming veggies? Well, they can double as dildi*** in a pinch. Cucumbers, zucchinis, even carrots with their tapered end and their wide end. A pound of zucchini will set you back roughly two bucks, and you can choose a wide assortment of sizes to find the one that is just perfect for your puss without being in danger of losing your house.
Do you know what you can do with $15,000? You can put a down payment on a house. You can take a trip around the world–lavishly. You can put a kid through one year of college at a state school. Those are the big things you can do with it, and there a a million little ones as well. What you do not want to do with it is spend it on a golden dildo! What is the point? Your innards will not be thinking, “Oh, this dildo is different. It’s not the regular old plastic/glass/steel shit. It’s gold-plated, just like my vag! Your vag doesn’t care. Your partner’s vag/asshole won’t care, either. A dildo by any other name will still work just fucking fine.
Girl. Listen. You do NOT need to take out a second mortgage to have spectacular sexy times! Believe me, nothing kills the mood faster than worrying about how you’re going to pay the electricity bill. As you’re whipping your partner’s ass, there’s a corner of your mind scheming about sending the check for the phone bill to the electric company and vice-versa**** so you don’t have to deal with the overdraft in your bank account for a few more days. It’s hard to be at your dominating best when the travails of your daily life weigh heavily on your mind. Your mentality is the most important part of sexing, and a untroubled partner is HOT.
So, put away your stressed credit card and open your fridge instead. Pick the perfect zucchini and start pegging! I guarantee your partner won’t know the difference, but your wallet sure will.
*I haven’t read the books or seen the movies other than brief excerpts and clips, but I know the general gist.
**I’m allergic. ::shudders::
***Or dildos if you want to be pedantic.
****I know most bills are paid by direct deposit these days. I’m just making a point. Geez.