Alphabet Soup: O is for Orgasm

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

It’s finally Friday, y’all! I’m up at indecent hours of the morning like an actual person, what’s that all about?! Work last night was a dud of the biggest kind. We were meant to work 7 hours and instead worked only 3. All I wanted afterwards was a glass of wine and an orgasm.

O is for Orgasm

Orgasms, especially female ones, have this almost mythical quality within sex. How to achieve them, how to give them to other people, is sex good without them. These are questions that people ask themselves and others all the time. And, it’s understandable. We all have insecurities when it comes to sex and the orgasm is touted as the be all, end all of sexual encounters. The idea is that if there wasn’t an orgasm something failed.

I love sex and I love orgasms, but not having one doesn’t automatically mean it was bad sex for me. Sometimes I’ve been drinking and I’m dehydrated or he gets overly excited and goes off before either of us wanted him to. These things happen. They don’t, however, change the experience for me. I’ve had great sex that has ended without an orgasm and I’m okay with that. I’ve never felt like I’m going without, unless it’s a partner who doesn’t even try. Then he can go fuck himself. Literally. Because I won’t ever again.

There’s pleasure in giving and receiving pleasure. Obvious as it sounds. In savoring that moment when your body is alive and electricity is coursing through it. That pocket in time where you’re locked in place with someone else and the rest of the world takes a back seat. The entire world, with its worries and its sorrows and its anger, moves to the back burner as you suck and fuck and kiss your way through someone else.

Sex for me is always such an experience. That moment when kissing changes and you both feel that new intent. Getting to know a new partner, their little sexual quirks. The first seconds of penetration when your entire being gathers at that meeting point. The moving around, the changes, the surprises, the noise. Sex is an experience that is unparalleled for me. And it doesn’t become less if I don’t orgasm.

If sex is a sundae, then the orgasm is the cherry on top. If my ice cream guy leaves the cherry off, but gives me extra scoops of ice cream, I’m pretty much set. For everything else, there’s Visa. And by Visa, I mean vibrators.


Is the cherry on top essential in your sundae? Let me know in the comments below!

Keep it frosty, readers.


Alphabet Soup: L is for List

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

You’re halfway through the week and I’m right there with you, telling you stuff you don’t need to know, but that will hopefully amuse you! I live to make you guys happy. And in the distance I’m a Slave for you plays softly, Britney’s ethereal voice encasing the moment in perfect memory. I’m clearly a poet. (In case you’re of the Sheldon variety, that was sarcasm.)

Moving on…

I don’t know about you guys, but I love lists. Crossing things off them makes me happy and making them makes me feel like I’m getting shit done. But there’s a whole thing about lists, people use them in poetry, in art. They’ve become a something beyond what’s practical, fearlessly entering into the realm of the abstract and the conceptual. They’re interesting stuff, lists are. So, in honor of my love for lists and my post travel funk I’ve decided to list some things for you.

L is for List

5 Things I Did For The First Time During This Trip


I ate venison, mussels, lamb, and langostines. I had a variety of candies from the UK for the first time, like Crunchies and tea cakes and tablet. Seriously, going grocery shopping was kind of an adventure. There was also Millionaire Shortbread and Sticky Toffee Pudding. The stuff I tried, foodwise, was amazing! I kept thinking back to people saying that food in the UK was bland and uninteresting. What a lie! I had a cheese and tomato risotto that I still dream about to this day. Of course, I had fish and chips dinners – some good, some less so. Also, who knew beans for breakfast could be so good? The Brits, that’s who.


In keeping with the stuff I put in my mouth for the first time theme (go on, chuckle, you know you want to), I discovered Zubrowka. It’s a type of vodka flavored with what I’ve seen described as “pungent” Bison grass. I hung out with a guy in London who offered to buy me a drink and bought me this. Now I’ve never been into vodka, but he was nice and he paid, so why not? HOLY SNACK BALLS! I was wildly unprepared for it to taste that good! It was mixed with apple juice and pretty much just tasted like apples and cinnamon, without the tinny flavor I’ve come to associate with vodka.

Needless to say, I was hooked and bought a bottle without hesitating. Interestingly enough, it’s actually illegal in the States. The Bison grass has a chemical called coumarin which is prohibited by the FDA because it thins the blood and is, therefore, potentially toxic. The people who make Zubrowka have come up with a new blend that’s been scrubbed of the chemical, specifically for the American public. It’s called (or going to be called) Zu. I’m excited to try it and see if it holds up to the original!


Speaking of drinking, I did the drunk peeing outside thing for the first time. Behind a tree, while Liverpool guy held my purse. It was more motivated by the fact that I’d never done it before, than it was by the need to pee. Although, not gonna lie, I really had to pee. Let’s just say it was a multipurpose affair. Good times. Especially since nothing bit me in weird places and no one caught me with my pants down. #Success


This trip was the first time I’d had to take more than two trips to get somewhere. On my way to Scotland, I took four planes. I spent over 20 hours in transit. It was the same thing getting down to England, I took four different trains to get to Liverpool. Thinking about it, it was the same on the way back. I took 3 planes to get to Boston, which was beautifully offset by an 8 hour layover in London. (Where I bought my Zubrowka bottle and finished my souvenir shopping, so I guess I can’t complain that much).


While I was in New York I had sex with two different people in less than 12 hours. That was new, also kind of unexpected. It was great though! 6’7 made another appearance (you can VERY briefly read about his first appearance here). This is a guy who was vacationing here in the island with some friends, my best friend and I got to talking with him and one of his friends at a bar, and the rest is history. By history I mean we most definitely hooked up and since we’re destined to repeat history, I hooked up with him again when I was in New York. It was really nice, afterwards we talked for hours. He’s funny and sweet and so very talented with his hands.

When I woke up on Monday, I was meant to go have breakfast with a friend. However, I also needed to pack and check out. He, being the wise man that he is, offered to deliver breakfast instead so that I could pack and generally be more relaxed about life. Who turns down food delivery? My first thought was, “Hell yeah, I don’t have to put real pants on! Sweatpants for the win!”.

By the time he came over, bearing more food than was necessary so that I’d have snacks and stuff while at the airport, I was already done packing. We ate, talked, napped because neither one of us had gotten much sleep the night before. Then the sex happened and WHOA, talk about the biggest dick I’ve ever had in my life. I had no idea what to do with myself. Seriously. The phrase “fuller than I’ve ever been before” suddenly made sense. He was also very talented with his hands. We finished with just enough time for me to take a quick shower, pick up the last bits and pieces I had strewn about, and make it for my 1pm check out. Because he called the hotel and got them to push it back an hour.

Yep. That happened.

As lists go, maybe it stretches the concept. However, there are still numbers involved, so I’m calling it a list. Come at me, bro!

Share some lists with me, guys. Let’s get the list ball rolling. I hope you’re having a wonderful Wednesday and if you’re not, just remember the week is almost over. Stay cool, readers!

Alphabet Soup: D is for Dick

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

Hello everyone! It’s Friday once again and I don’t know about you, but I’m unpleasantly hungover. That’s what happens when you drink Tequila, boys and girls! Hopefully your day is off to a better start than mine. Because you’re beautiful and I love you.

D is for Dick

Dicks have become a widespread unit of measurement, for both men and women. From the moment you realize only boys have it, to that professor in college who only sees the world in relation to the phallus, dicks constantly determine our (subjective) reality. They’ve become a measure of worth, the national average dictating who has a right to feel manly and who will never be able to “hold on to a girl”. They’re a supposed visual reminder of women’s morals. Too many of them and you’re a slut. And yet too few, past a certain age, and the dick-shaped negative space in your life becomes an invitation for everyone to wonder about your sexuality. Like there is a Goldilocks number out there that’s just right, except no one’s found it because it’s entirely subjective and depends on those judging you.

Guys send pictures of their dicks like calling cards. Like “Naw, you don’t need my number. With a picture of my dick you’ll be able to pick me out in a crowd”. And I can’t help but wonder if even as a joke that has some ring of truth to it. Have we all convinced ourselves that a dick is so powerful? Have women inadvertently promoted this delusion that we are are as awestruck and inspired as men are by their own dicks? And if so, does that mean that in this social currency our vaginas should be what matter most about us? Because very few women were ever taught to feel proud of lips that can’t speak. Then again, few were ever taught to speak with either set of lips, so maybe there’s something to it after all.

There is a dick shaped space left in my heart, sounds like the worst verse ever written in poetry. And yet, I keep circling back to it. Sluts, prudes, MEN (with all capitals to properly communicate their manliness), men (lowercase because their dick isn’t big enough), all determined by the amount and quality of the dicks they’ve possessed or haven’t or continuously do. And so girls lie about having had sex so they can escape being called a prude. They lie about the number of guys they’ve slept with to avoid being called a slut. And men say things like “It’s cold” when it’s too small, “I know you want it” when they’re proud of what they’ve got.

Even so, there are times when I can’t help but want my circumstances to be influenced by a dick. Like that moment when you’re leaning in to kiss a guy and you feel it against you, a shared wish turning into a promise. Like that precise instant when someone enters you and your entire being condenses into that one entry point. When the sum of his and her parts equal something greater, or just great. Like every time sex ends and your skin glistens and your body aches and there’s nothing. A happy nothing. You both leave. Space defined by the absence of everything that makes up two people. Dicks cease to be relevant.

In the end, when it counts, we’re measured by nothing more than silence and the steps we take to get away from the pieces of ourselves we’ve left behind.