I'm Fucking Sick of Prudish Bitches

Whenever I start a conversation with girls about sex, in particular masturbation, there’s always that one bitch who turns red (about the color of the cherry she has that desperately needs to be popped), crosses her arms in total discomfort, and says (in a sort of hushed whisper that plainly displays her embarrassment at being associated with even my name), "Karen!" while glancing around to make sure that no one else is overhearing the "disgusting" things I’m saying. Um, bitch please, I know your perfectly manicured little fingers are sticky sometimes just like the rest of ours because let’s face it: we all masturbate. So quit judging! I mean seriously if you don’t masturbate then I judge you because it means you’re missing out on a wonderful time.

The clitoris is hands down (pun intended—hands down there are so very useful) my favorite organ of the body. It really ought to be every woman’s. The little son of a bitch is powerful! Fingers, tongues, penises, vibrators…all capable of stimulating the shit out of it; you don’t get much more versatile than that. Hell, even the mullet with its business in the front, party in the back style is not as versatile as that. Not completely sure why I picked the mullet as my analogy there (must be an Alabama thing), but point made. I think clit may even be my favorite four letter word other than "fuck," which is really saying something because as anyone who knows me can attest, I love the word "fuck," and it makes up a gargantuan percentage of my vocabulary.

I personally will masturbate just about any time, any where. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but nature calls. If I’m driving to work and realize that I’m about to have to work an eight hour shift without getting off (both in the work day sense and in the cumming sense), you bet your happy ass my hands go right down my pants. Sure, I’ve had moments where I’ve gotten a bit excessively distracted and almost crashed the car, but that orgasm damn sure made it worth the near collision!

The worst is when I’m on a crowded interstate trying to change lanes and dodge around cars just so that I can get ahead of the pack so that my fellow drivers don’t realize that the weird fuck next to them has her hand down her pants. These are the times when I mentally slap myself for being too cheap to get my windows tinted (I cannot physically slap myself because my hands are otherwise occupied). I have mastered the art of driving with my knees; I deserve some sort of award, I believe.

Of course, audiences have never done a whole lot to stop me from doing my business. If people notice, oh well. I return their shocked looks with a quick shrug of the shoulder as if to say, "Well, if you had any clue how stressed out I am right now, you’d totally understand the necessity." It’s just one of those unavoidable things. Hell, sometimes a good, kind audience willing to offer a helping hand gets me there faster. There are some generous people out there, especially at parties and other drunken get-togethers! As people who have ever partied with me are aware, alcohol flows straight to my vagina rather than my liver, so public masturbation is more common when my Blood Alcohol Content is riding high.

I never need a particular sound or image to really get the horniness flowing. I think merely breathing in air is enough to do the trick. Sure, I do love watching porn, but I have masturbated to anything and everything, much to the chagrin of many people I know. Filling a dead silence with the buzzing of a vibrator could be embarrassing, I suppose; I can at least see it from their point of view. It is even a running joke with my roommates; if Nickelback is playing, it means I’m going at it. Of course, I have progressed far beyond the confines of Nickelback CDs.

I have attacked myself to the tune of every single Jason Aldean song there is because his voice just does it for me. It’s not "Tattoos on This Town" anymore; it’s more like "Slug Trail on These Sheets." Even the sad, depressing songs just make me want to fuck Jason or, in his absence, fuck myself. He can be moaning on and on about the "Heartache that Don’t Stop Hurting," and I’m over there moaning equally loudly about the "Orgasms that Don’t Stop Flowing," in my mind orgasms given by Jason’s tongue on my pussy. A girl can dream, right? Oh and dream I do! And for all the people who think it’s sick and perverted that I have such dreams and that I take these fantasies out on my vibrator with the strength of an army of men, I’m fucking sick of prudish bitches!