15 best porn sites for women

Alright so I want you to picture this. It's a Saturday arvo, I've done my supermarket pickings for the day, I've done two fitness classes, I'm ready for a little relaxy time. I've had a good, productive hour so far sitting infront of the fire watching such visionary masterpieces as Adventure Time, and listened to some music, while chowing down on half a pack of Tim Tams and a delicious chicken and avo focaccia. Now, the next bit, Id rather you didn't visualise although it's probably too late at this stage. It's Saturday afternoon bath time. I find having a bath on a Saturday afternoon serves a number of purposes, firstly being that it assists in the relaxation process of my weekend, and second, it gives me the chance to shave my legs in case I go out or have a gentleman come to visit and enjoy my great personality. Yah. 

So the bath is run, the water is hot, the cat is pissed, and the bath bombs are ready to engage. 10 minutes later I have managed to convince my feet that they are not, in fact, being sacrificed to some cannibal gods by being boiled to death, and it's now safe to lower the rest of me into the bath, which at the point has now frozen into some hunched over, alabaster statue with icicles suspended from my nose. The bath is now bright purple, because what's the point of having a bath bomb if it isn't going to stain you, the bath, and the lower half of the cat's tail the same colour as a delicious Shiraz. Clay mask is now being applied, covering my face with the kind of goopy white slop you only see in porn that you have to pay for, or see on SBS at 1am once a month. One leg is shaved, one is not - some may call it lazy, I call it 'asymmetrical'. Or lazy. Whatever. I'm not the cops. I'll do it later. Or just leave one leg in my jeans if anyone visits. Resourceful. 

So, all set, ready for some educational browsing of the interwebs. An article pops up called '15 Best Porn Sites for Women'. No, I wasn't looking for porn, but I was ok the Internet and I guess I should have expected it. Anyway, I'm intrigued because although I'm generally an advocate and enjoyer of the pornographic variety of film, photography and literature, I rarely find much that serves more purpose than to get a bit of a twinkle going that proceeds to plague me for days on end until I find a patient enough candidate to listen to me talk shit for an hour and still want to sleep with me afterwards. Plus it's from Cosmo. Yeah. It's bound to be good (about as good as my ex-husband was at making his own fucking doctors appointments anyway). 

Upon opening the page, Im faced with, as promised, 15 different websites that boast various mediums of the naughty variety. One has stories, one has videos, some and free, some are paid. Fairly run of the mill shit. Scrolling down, I see one page that piques my interest - it's called the Naughty Foreskin. My first thoughts were of a small, giggling, detached foreskin, pinching old ladies on the bottom and running away to hide behind it's pudgy, gigantic-breasted mother- foreskin, whilst an adorable foreskin-puppy bouces playfully near by (note I said foreskin puppy, and NOT puppy-foreskin - I might be crude but I am not an advocate of animal circumcision.). Alas, this site does not detail the adventures of afore(skin)mentioned cartoon character, but the most prolific and quite frankly enormous foreskin I've ever seen (on and off the Internet). The guy had a decent sized piece of salami going on, but this pertinent-penis-puppet, this wonderful-willy-warmer, this schlong-skin-suit, was absolutely the  greatest thing made on earth. I'm surprised the guy didn't have a small village hidden in that thing. You could make elastic bands for the rest of human eternity from this thing. It would make even the most experienced and widened of Jewish doctors feel young and fresh again. If he sold it to a tent manufacturer, they could easily make enough camping gear to service the entire Australian defence force. I bet he doesn't even need blankets on his bed. 'Don't worry about washing the sheets, love! I'll just get the old Lynx body wash into it!'. He could just pull it up and over himself, and have his very own little skin-sleeping bag. No need to worry about wet dreams either!! What a time to be alive. 

After all those thoughts, I came to the conclusion that not only do I need to not use my phone in the bath, but I also need to not eat quite so many TimTams before potentially watching porn. *proceeds to shave other leg*.

On cooking and why I don't do it often

I am not a cook. I am not some magnificent, domestic fucking goddess. I burnt shit, I end up eating raw biscuit batter more than I'd like to admit, and I may have struggled to boil water once or twice (to be fair, I was young and probably drunk). I am literally the personification of the song, 'You can't make a ho a housewife.'. But I get along ok. I can make reasonably healthy food as the time that I decided to actually learn to fend for myself was during my big health kick. And I am proud of the fact that I can crack eggs with one hand. How is this skill useful, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's not. But it looks fancy and if I'm naked while I do it, it seems more impressive. Anyway, I recently had a weekend in which I had managed to pull myself out of bed, attend two fitness classes and not instantly fall asleep infront of Netflix upon my return home. So I decided, 'Hey, the stove is starting to gather a small family of refugees and I'm getting closer to 31, better do some cooking before I forget how.' (This is entirely possible as once I forgot which pedal was the go one and which was the stop one in the car. I remembered after I took a wild guess and didn't press either and just let the car roll to a stop. Only four things were injured.). So out I got all my ingredients for making healthy shit, of which I have multitudes because apparently the best way to learn to cook is buy a metric fuckton of hipster ingredients in the hope you can impress some poor soul into thinking you're a fucking free-spirit, only to have them discover your extensive collection of sex toys and Playstation games after they take you on two dates and realise you are completely the opposite to free-spirited. Wanky stuff like coconut flour (that stuff is WEIRD to cook with, I thought it was my shitty cooking but it's just that its flour made of something that is absolutely not flour - some might say it's just powdered coconut but I think it's probably powdered death instead), or Maca powder, (which is meant to enhance your libido but the only thing it really enhances is your gag reflex), or fucking ground goat's nutsack, and whatever the hell else I bought on sale at the local health shop. So out it all comes, onto the bench, and I proceed to trawl the Internet for an equally wanky fedora-wearing recipe that's been all over Pintrest by someone called 'Skylah' or 'Swallows' or something. Chuck all the crap in a bowl. Think, 'Hey this is not too bad, let's double the amount of EVERYTHING because my life isn't fucking confusing enough as it is, and I need to sit for a good 5 minutes to figure out what 2x3/4 of a cup is. Yeah, jokes on you Mensa, turns out I'm only a genius when I'm drunk.'. So I do that, and now there is a HUGE load of batter in the bowl. The batter is fairly thick, something I pretend not to be impressed by (wink, wink), so clearly the only sensible thing to do is use the food processor to mix it up. Now, someone with a brain that functions better when NOT doused in vodka might think, 'Golly, those beaters sure do look mighty flimsy, maybe I should use the chopper thingy.'. Sadly, it was me cooking. Nek minit:

This is not some fancy designer beater thingy. Those beaters were both pointing skyward like a sweet young 14 year old at his first swimming carnival before I got to them. They're now more akin to a very drunk 50-something after a night out with the boys. Needless to say, this solved at least one problem for me, which was whether or not to share my delicious healthy cookies with my work colleagues, because the batter now held mystery bits of plastic. Everyone loves a lucky dip. So, at this point, I'd spent a good 20 minutes trying to do cooking stuff, which is pretty much my limit when it comes to paying attention to anything that isn't a naked person or a Japanese horror movie (note: I do not class both these things in the same category of excitement. Most of the time anyway.). So the double batch of batter was thrown upon the fucking pan-thingy in globs the size of cricket balls (really they were meant to be closer to small man-balls sized but fuck the police), and briskly shoved into the oven (amongst the refugees from earlier). Oh what's this? It's time to go out? But the biscuits have only been in for 5 minutes! Well I'll just turn off the oven and leave the biscuits in there because FRANK wants to go and get cider. THIS IS YIUR FAULT AGAIN, FRANK. 

I return home a few hours later to find that turning off the oven and leaving biscuits to 'keep cooking' does not, infact, work. At all. You do not end up with beautifully cooked giant, chewy cookies. You end up with a pan full of batter that has cooked on the top and looks akin to vomit that has been sitting in the sun for a few hours. The solution? Turn the oven back in and let it keep cooking, of course! Logic! And what shall we do while they cook for a little bit longer? Oh yes! A bath! Aren't you a clever girl! And since you've worked so hard today, you can have a little nap in the bath! 

Thirty minutes later and I awake to the smell of well-cooked biscuits and a very distressed cat (not a great indicator because distressed-cat is very similar to hungry-cat and I-just-took-a-dump-now-clean-it-up-cat, and I generally ignore it), throw myself from the bath, spraying bubbles and tepid water all over my bathroom, and run to the oven. 

There are some things in life you should consider before you open an oven. One of those is whether or not you are completely naked, wet, and half asleep. I am suddenly engulfed in smoke and start having flashbacks about my birth. I'm not sure why there was smoke but let's just say my Mum was a real hit with the blokes. Anyway, my biscuits are ruined, and even though I try REALLY REALLY hard to enjoy the carbon flavour my personal touch has brought to them, I just can't. The cat looks at me with disgust. I throw the biscuit at her and return to the bath. 

And THAT, is why I don't cook often. 

Chapter 1 of 1000 - The Beginning and The End of Victor's Legacy

So.  A mate of mine told me I should start a blog, because he seems to think I have some kind of amusing wit about me.  Whether or not this is true, and whether or not he is just saying this because, a. He feels sorry for me because I am 30 and live by myself with my cat and have a huge anime collection; or b. He has genuinely had way too much alcohol in a short span of time, I figured it couldn't hurt and if it was completely and utterly ridiculous I could just delete it.  And then ban him from my house and from drinking my beer.  However as a disclaimer prior to beginning this, I am obliged to inform everyone just how hilarious he is, and how similar he is to Kanye West, despite the fact that he is completely not at all like Kanye West. It started with a ranty Facebook post that I'd put on a mutual friend's wall, while I was waiting for him to arrive home from the airport. Id originally planned to do something else prior, so didn't mean to have an hour to kill before his homecoming. Anyway, it seems my brain functions during boredom in a similar way to that which Jack Russell Terrier might function when given multiple doses of Speed soaked in red cordial. Throw in a four year old at Frozen/Disney Princess themed party after having consumed several raspberry cupcakes and you've got yourself a fairly accurate representation of my inability to 'quietly' and 'maturely' entertain myself. 

So now I have some kind of obligation to be hilarious on cue. This guy is gonna owe me a LOT of pancake breakfasts. 

I grew up in what you might consider to be a reasonably normal family, until you started asking questions. My mum and two brothers and I lived in Kingston, and had some pets. By pets, I mean four cats, some pigs, lots of chooks, and, at one stage, 22 guinea pigs. 22, I hear you say, and the look that most people get says to me, 'Oh that's sweet how she exaggerates her childhood memories.'.  No, motherfucker, I do not exaggerate when it comes to goddamn guinea pigs. I might have slightly warped memories when it comes to what my mother told me about splashing water over the side of the bath (my distinct memory was Mum saying, "the floor will rot and the bath will fall under the house and you'll have to bathe with the monster trolls from 'Willow'", but she disagrees), or about the fact that I only hit my brother with a hammer because I had a lapse of judgement and thought he was a nail, but I NEVER, exaggerate about numbers of things and especially not guinea pigs. 

Anyway, the reason for having so many little hairy bean rats was because of the until setup, which given the fact that my mother already had three of us kids, probably should have been foreseen to a degree. We started off with five guinea pigs. Not sure why, maybe we only had two and shit got real Tasmanian all of a sudden. Anyway. There was one male. His name was Victor. He lived and died by his name. A Victor of guinea pig pussy he was indeed. Victor not only knocked up his girly piggy, but then proceeded to knock up his daughters. Not sure why we kept three females, as well as the original mother and father, but well, it was the 80s. Shit was cray, yo. 

So while Victor was playing piggy style with anything and everything he could get his claws into (I have a feeling he may have tried to have a go at the male rabbit at one point which might explain Victor's abrupt departure from this earth but again, I could be exaggerating), the ladies were popping out babies left, right and centre. We literally had enough guinea pigs to have two sports teams fighting it out for Victory (haha see what I did there?) in the backyard. We didn't, because there aren't too many sports that guinea pigs are particularly adept at, but we could have. Anyway, we had a total of 22 guinea pigs. Being a kindergartener, I utilised my counting skills to establish and maintain a record of how many babies we had, and thus placed myself at the forefront of guinea pig auditing for the household. Although there wasn't much competition given the fact that my first younger brother was too busy eating rabbit poo and my other brother was probably being born or something equally as boring. 

One night there was a huge downpour, and being four, I didn't put a lot of thought into the village of guinea pigs in the yard - animals coped with rain, they didn't have tiny Louis Vuitton bags to protect so they could get a bit wet now and then. Mum had my faeces-devouring brother and my probably-crowning brother to deal with, so they were my charges. 

The next day, I put on my plastic raincoat and Bubblegummers gumboots and stalked down to the cage in preparation for the daily auditing process, and to alert the guinea pigs to the morning head count. And that was the day I learnt what drowning was all about. One by one, I carefully placed the non-wriggling baby guinea pigs into my pockets, and trudged back up to the house. My four year old brain was pretty confused. Part of it thinking "Well they don't move heaps now, that's boring," and part thinking, "FUCK YES I CAN DRESS THEM UP - NO RESISTANCE!!".

My mother awake that morning to me taking sopping, wet, dead baby guinea pigs out of my pocket one at a time, and placing them on her bed. I don't remember her reaction exactly but I feel it wouldn't have been the same reaction as when your darling eldest child makes you a clay bowl for the first time, for example. Needless to say, our first experience in multiple incestuous relations amongst guinea pigs was our first, and also our last. 

My career as an auditor ended just as abruptly.