Chocolate, Vanilla or Strawberry?

I was dating a guy in NYC a couple of years ago whom I suspected, might be obsessed with anal sex. I suspected this because he used to fumble around my downstairs with his penis, like someone making their way through somebody elses house during a blackout wielding nothing but a broken torch to guide them. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, naively wondering if he was having trouble finding the correct hole. You know, the one that naturally lubricates itself, is directly adjacent to the clitoris and stretches in an accommodating manner. This fumbling business happened a lot. The next clue, was the off handed comments he would frequently make referring to anal sex.  Months later, when I was back in Australia continuing a relationship with him, he sent me a dick pic. It was awful on so many levels.

Two things stood out the most, the pubes that had been given the haircut of a Gregorian monk, and the anal porn captured in a freeze frame in the background. Both things, disturbing in equal measures. One of my girlfriends was crashing at mine during this period and I showed her the picture. She gasped. Then laughed. Then turned the lights on for me, illuminating the fact that yes, this manchild was obsessed with anal sex. Just as I’d suspected! Ding!! She pieced the puzzle of the photograph together with a conversation I’d had with her once about being bored with the sex because he always had to finish by flipping me over, pushing my face down in a pillow and pounding one out.


To this day, she still cannot believe that I can be so dense. So unquestioning. So simultaneously inexperienced but experienced. It wasn’t obvious to me. I’d been in relationships for the better part of twelve and a half years since I was a teenager and had been terrorised by a small number of shit dicks in between (the trauma caused by weird ass, marshmallow, enoki mushroom, mini winni dicks was so real that Shit Dick is #1 on my Deal Breaker List).

I’ve had anal sex before. When I was 19. It hurt like Hades and the experience can only be likened to having a sword shoved up my arse. I told him so. I also asked him if he actually really wanted to have anal sex or was he just joking, to which he replied….

“No! I’ve done it a few times before. But I wasn’t that into it…you know….sometimes you pull out and get a whiff….”

Thereby eliminating ANY chance that he had of me exploring the option again. Deny, deny, deny. All that attempted anal probing. For nothing. What an idiot. If he weren’t such a closet anal prober, he would be able to plan in advance and be with someone who keeps a bathroom cabinet shelf full of spare douches. Denying himself his best chances of world class whiffless butthole surfing.

Like a small child who had tried to sneak his spoon into the neapolitan icecream tub and steal aaaaaall the chocolate flavour and having the lid slammed down on him. Cutting the spoon off in the nick of time as it blindly wandered the stripes, pretending it wasn’t sure if it was the strawberry, vanilla or chocolate flavour that he was attempting to lodge his spoon in. He would’ve got further if he’d been honest about it. I told him this as we remained friends for a couple of years after the demise of our vanilla dating experience.  Until I visited NYC again in October last year. I was supposed to stay at his place in the East Village for five nights. I had expressed several times before hand that there would be no spooning, no kissing, no sexing for it was neither my vanilla, strawberry nor my chocolate stripe that enjoyed the aggressive, porn computed tappings of his spoon. I drew the lines of clear platonic borders and I expressed this several times, but his ego was beyond borders. Total waste of a good spoon. Strong. Rock solid. Upstanding. I warned him, the lid to my tub of icecream closed to him in 2013 and was not about to open any time soon aka ever.

I ran away after two nights. Lids to all of my flavours safely sealed, without danger of intruders. Since returning to Melbourne, there’s been only two fumblings. Both with inflatable spoons that just haven’t quite had enough in them to make it smoothly into even the vanilla tub, let alone work its way over to chocolate. I consider myself as in the midst of a drought. Waiting patiently for a solid, unwavering, good looking spoon to come along and hang with my forkables. A spoon that isn’t attached to a lying misogynist with anal shame and mummy issues would be great.

It’s A Dog’s Life

Over the years I’ve noticed that people think the life of a stripper is shimmering with ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ glamour and lashings of debaucherous activities. The goggles of the average punter are both beer drenched AND rose tinted. When a fat, smelly, balding man tells me I must really enjoy teasing him, I think to myself it must be wonderful to be out there in the world, functioning with that level of delusion. They think that we are so sexually charged that we’ll fuck anything. To them, our lives must be a blurry patchwork of promiscuous sex, sequins, smudged mascara,  promiscuity, and mountains of cocaine.

Although this may be the case for some, it is not for me. I won’t be coy about it. I have my moments. I adore drugs. We’ve had some good times. Rarely any bad. They’re like the friend that I might not speak to for 6 months, but when we see each other again, it’s as if no time has passed at all. We understand each other. We love each other’s company. Sometimes we spend hours enjoying the comfortable silence of old friends. Sometimes we make ze partee.

Contrary to customer belief, I don’t go back to the hotel rooms of guys after my 11 hour shift, smoke a crack pipe and party on Wayne. Party on Garth. More often than not, my drug intake has been characterised by tracksuit pants, joints and an early onset diabetes inducing amount of confectionary. In the early days back home, hallucinogens and forest parties were our weekend ritual. Or in more manic times, tracksuit pants, my best friend, a plate of cocaine, broom, mop, chemicals and a very satisfying 4-6 hours of house cleaning. You can justify anything when you’re going through a break up, and I do love a clean house.

Tonight I noted that my evening’s activity may just be enough to dispel the myth of the sex, drugs and sparkle tassle joy luck good time life of a stripper.

Insert “disturbing content” warning here.

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Every couple of months, my dog Chockie has a stinky but. It’s not the kind of smell you can ignore. An additional open door or window will not suffice. If you want revenge on someone, you could conceal a bag of prawn heads in their bedroom air vent, or you could lend them my dog. Gooby squid left in the bin over a few warm days, stewing in it’s own thickening juices, is the most accurate description I can give you.

My boyfriend likes to say it smells like “off box”. Could it be true? Is there really a level of personal hygiene out there that is so low or is it an urban myth? I feel like it must just be post footy training locker room banter. I kind of want to ask him to elaborate and dispel the myth. But I just can’t do it. No one wants to think about their boyfriend’s face buried in another girl’s vagina. Particularly if the cha cha smells like the your dog’s arsehole. That’s just weird and gross. Note to self, ask Bennie St boys to clarify. Urban myth or horrific fact?

Where normal dogs will poo or drag their but across the ground to mark their territory and leave their scent, my poor Chocorette dog’s anal glands get blocked. After spending a ridiculous amount of money getting the vet to unblock them, I learnt how to do it myself.

And so earlier tonight, as I had my latex gloved, vaseline lubricated finger positioned at 10 o’clock, up my dog’s but hole, expressing her anal glands into a piece of folded toilet paper, I thought to myself “If those men could see me now!”