I yell at movie screens. And televisions, especially commercials. Talk radio, motivational speakers, elementary school plays…

What the hell, if you’re going to do Grease, Rizzo has to miss her period, it’s integral, I could give two fucks that they’re eight. Maybe don’t do Grease until everyone is menstruating, John Travolta is turning in his grave!

I also yell at books. Andy hates when I read next to him, because it’s a mix of exaggerated sighs and moments where I just toss the Kindle on the floor and walk away.

Yeah, you remember that it’s not an actual book, right? Because you keep doing this and I’m beginning to think you have an anger problem.

It could be due to sloppy grammar, asinine plots lines, ridiculous character names, the list goes on. But the biggest offender? Erotic fiction. Smut. I know, I read a ton of it and I love it, but I swear to God, I have yet to come across a book that doesn’t have me, at least once, questioning my taste in literature.

I’ll be blunt… it’s just not fucking realistic. Think sparkly brooding vampires or coming of age English wizards are hard to swallow? Try spending the day in Smutville, but leave your lube and concept of plausibility at home, you won’t need either of them.

sex with socks on

My body betrayed me. Yeah, I’m not sure what kind of self esteem issues you have going on here in Smut Town, but aside from a wonky gallbladder, crapping my pants in college, or the occasional weird vagina noise during sex (it’s just air, y’all), my body almost never betrays me. The whole situation where some douchebag in a fancy suit is taking his man-period out on me on the regular until one day he grabs my thigh, and suddenly against my will, my nipples go hard? Yeah, that never happens. In the words of Taylor Swift, like… ever.

I felt him release inside of me. Maybe I have an insensitive vagina, but I’ve never felt anything shot from any penis, inside me. Honestly, this sounds weird and make me question his diet and flow issues, he should probably see a urologist.

She was so wet it was dripping. Alright, first, ew. Second, if my sheets had a catch phrase, it’d be “get the stuff.” And by “stuff,” I mean lube. In Eroticville, I’ve never once read about a couple in the heat of the moment reaching in the drawer for that one sticky bottle of lube. So either they are lying, or there’s a whole gaggle of fictional women limping around with a bad case of rug burn.

Herpes and pregnancy don’t exist. “I’m on the pill and disease free according to my doctor who I see regularly for screenings like most normal women my age who can totally afford their birth control and office visit co-pays.” “Sounds legit, let’s have sex.” People, if this was true, we wouldn’t need Maury. But it isn’t. And we do.

Yeast infections and UTIs also don’t exist. In Smutty Town, people have crazy sex, put stuff in their vaginas then butts then vaginas again, climax, and then either go about their work day or fall asleep in bed together. A. It’s like wiping, y’all; front to back. And B. if I don’t hop out of bed and squat over a toilet to let everything fall out of me for five minutes, I’m looking at at least a week of yogurt and Pyridium.

Nobody’s had their first period yet. Apparently. Either the entire book is so well timed that it coincides with the 24 days the woman is not menstruating, or everyone in Smut Springs has early onset menopause, it could be environmental, somebody should test the soil and water sources. The exception being, shudder, when Christan pulled Ana’s tampon out in Fifty Shades of Grey. That really happened, I remember because I was eating soup during that part, and now I can’t eat soup. Remember guys, it’s not love until you have the sex during your period talk.

Vagina synonyms are hard. “He stroked my sex…” alright you know what, I’m gonna stop you right there. You know who talks like that? Creepy guys on AOL Instant Messenger and Buffalo Bill…he makes her put the lotion on it, I mean, we can all hear him saying that right now, right!? Sex, cookie, folds, slick entrance, core, womanhood, oonie, bud, kitty, mound, honey-bucket, apex (dude, is that a math word!?). I know the word vagina can get redundant, and pussy seems crass, so I’ve come up with some alternatives to help break things up a bit and feel less like I’m describing intercourse to my grandmother…. bungalow of shame, the deathly hallows, snack pack, Narnia, panty canoe, nut snuggie, absolutely any of the first names from the show Happy Days.

He’s hard… again. Who’s writing this book? Dudes? And I’m not just saying that because I assume guys want to make it sound like they are bad asses, I just assume it’s a man because what kind of woman actually wants to have sex for over 30 minutes? Anymore than that and my crotch goes numb, I walk funny, and I’m craving Hot Pockets.

Living in a word without backne or razor burn or leg stubble sounds lovely, I like to visit there sometimes, but I can only suspend reality for so long until I throw my Kindle across the room and stomp away.

I mean, my weepy entry can only take so much embellished fictional pounding until it starts to feel like a disillusioned stretched out purse you can’t seem to find your ringing cell phone in. How that for erotic prose?

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