So many years of repression, of just taking it. You'd think something has to give, sooner or later. Where is their outlet? Are we demanding too much of
them? Keep house, raise children, hold a job, cook dinner, tend the fields.
Sure, probably this is why they never shut the fuck up. If only they could find release from a different orifice maybe we could watch TV in peace.
Yeah, I know. They fart, too. But not like we fart! At least not most of them. The trailer trash women might let a big blast of fetid flatulence fly while watching The Price Is Right but what good does it do if hubby is working in the junkyard and not around to hear it? Lady-farts, generally speaking, are timid, tender things. "Pffffftoop." Like that. If you close your eyes you can almost see the little cloud of delicate vapor and you imagine it to be lilac-colored, don't you? It smells like shit and the chamomile tea they drank for before bed.
That cannot be satisfying. Not at all.
Burps are usually stifled by tapered fingers with painted nails, hurriedly placed across rose-colored lips. Hearty, gut-wrenching, rolling belches... you don't see that outside of Arkansas anymore.
The pressure to remain dainty and ladylike must be excruciating and all the picketing and protesting is pretty much over now so they don't even have that anymore. Dusty, faded signs lay forgotten in basements and garages, hearkening back to days of bra-burning and a time when they could get attention by flashing their tits. Now... tits are free, mostly online.
Their dejected eggs technically "release" every month, sure. "Sploop!" And another member of a limited supply begins its solemn and solitary journey down the fallopian tubes. But that can't be satisfying, either. Some women report actually feeling this. So what, then? An ovarian twinge of some sort? It just makes my heart ache, truly it does.
Surely we cannot put much hope in the feel-good moment when the tampon is yanked out. "Plfplfpoot!" That's not a natural release anyway. Some hypoallergenic cotton or whatever the fuck they are made of. Sticky, bloody, coagulated -- just a mess. It's more of a good-riddance thing, I have to assume.
Should a gentlemen "friend" pump them full of air during sexual intercourse and a vaginal tootsie-toot is released upon withdrawl of the phallus -- a "queef" to some -- is that a fulfilling experience? I think not, for the intake and release of air is simply not a biological property of the cooter itself. It is introduced.
Perhaps there is a sensation of relief when they nurse their young with lactating breasts. But that is likely more a relaxation of pressure from over-flowing milk ducts. Yes? It is not necessarily the release we are looking for. It is more duty and obligation and a good way to save money for shoes instead of purchasing Similac.
For those very, very few who actually experience orgasm (3%, by a gracious estimate), there is still no physical manifestation of release. At least not anything that matters. So what happens, then? Legend has it that there is a general quivering observed in the female genitalia, much like Jell-O. Things... wriggle. There are reports of a "tingling sensation." Sometimes "all over." That's adorable! We surely cannot deny them that. Yes, sometimes more fishy-fluid flows at the moment of and the moments leading up to climax. Yet even that lackluster dribble is often mistaken by women to be urine. How very sad. I have witnessed labial swelling with my own eyes, but only on film in recent years, thank God. But labial swelling certainly has nothing to do with release.
Even the "gushers," the dear ladies who stream out magnificent, geyser-like sprays of feminine slime... they don't generally report any sort of deep, internal freedom as a result. Not to mention the mess. Most men don't ever call them again. It's just too much to deal with. These poor souls cannot even take a dildo into bed with them. No, they are confined to the shower stall during masturbation.
It must be tragic to live life without the ability to explode your DNA onto someone's face, or in their hair, or all over their breasts, like Vesuvius upon unsuspecting residents of Pompeii and Herculaneum, a pyroclastic flow of life itself, the essence of being and existence, of purpose and meaning.
So, here, honey. Take my credit card.
Go get yourself something pretty.
Sure, probably this is why they never shut the fuck up. If only they could find release from a different orifice maybe we could watch TV in peace.
Yeah, I know. They fart, too. But not like we fart! At least not most of them. The trailer trash women might let a big blast of fetid flatulence fly while watching The Price Is Right but what good does it do if hubby is working in the junkyard and not around to hear it? Lady-farts, generally speaking, are timid, tender things. "Pffffftoop." Like that. If you close your eyes you can almost see the little cloud of delicate vapor and you imagine it to be lilac-colored, don't you? It smells like shit and the chamomile tea they drank for before bed.
That cannot be satisfying. Not at all.
Burps are usually stifled by tapered fingers with painted nails, hurriedly placed across rose-colored lips. Hearty, gut-wrenching, rolling belches... you don't see that outside of Arkansas anymore.
The pressure to remain dainty and ladylike must be excruciating and all the picketing and protesting is pretty much over now so they don't even have that anymore. Dusty, faded signs lay forgotten in basements and garages, hearkening back to days of bra-burning and a time when they could get attention by flashing their tits. Now... tits are free, mostly online.
Their dejected eggs technically "release" every month, sure. "Sploop!" And another member of a limited supply begins its solemn and solitary journey down the fallopian tubes. But that can't be satisfying, either. Some women report actually feeling this. So what, then? An ovarian twinge of some sort? It just makes my heart ache, truly it does.
Surely we cannot put much hope in the feel-good moment when the tampon is yanked out. "Plfplfpoot!" That's not a natural release anyway. Some hypoallergenic cotton or whatever the fuck they are made of. Sticky, bloody, coagulated -- just a mess. It's more of a good-riddance thing, I have to assume.
Should a gentlemen "friend" pump them full of air during sexual intercourse and a vaginal tootsie-toot is released upon withdrawl of the phallus -- a "queef" to some -- is that a fulfilling experience? I think not, for the intake and release of air is simply not a biological property of the cooter itself. It is introduced.
Perhaps there is a sensation of relief when they nurse their young with lactating breasts. But that is likely more a relaxation of pressure from over-flowing milk ducts. Yes? It is not necessarily the release we are looking for. It is more duty and obligation and a good way to save money for shoes instead of purchasing Similac.
For those very, very few who actually experience orgasm (3%, by a gracious estimate), there is still no physical manifestation of release. At least not anything that matters. So what happens, then? Legend has it that there is a general quivering observed in the female genitalia, much like Jell-O. Things... wriggle. There are reports of a "tingling sensation." Sometimes "all over." That's adorable! We surely cannot deny them that. Yes, sometimes more fishy-fluid flows at the moment of and the moments leading up to climax. Yet even that lackluster dribble is often mistaken by women to be urine. How very sad. I have witnessed labial swelling with my own eyes, but only on film in recent years, thank God. But labial swelling certainly has nothing to do with release.
Even the "gushers," the dear ladies who stream out magnificent, geyser-like sprays of feminine slime... they don't generally report any sort of deep, internal freedom as a result. Not to mention the mess. Most men don't ever call them again. It's just too much to deal with. These poor souls cannot even take a dildo into bed with them. No, they are confined to the shower stall during masturbation.
It must be tragic to live life without the ability to explode your DNA onto someone's face, or in their hair, or all over their breasts, like Vesuvius upon unsuspecting residents of Pompeii and Herculaneum, a pyroclastic flow of life itself, the essence of being and existence, of purpose and meaning.
So, here, honey. Take my credit card.
Go get yourself something pretty.
True. Or ANGER 101.
