HockeyBitch

HockeyBitch Aphrodite

I discovered late in life that I’m an athlete. As a child I simply couldn’t compete as I couldn’t breathe, living with my father who was a heavy smoker; 4 packs a day smoker. Our white painted walls and ceilings were stained a sickly yellow, and I stunk of smoke all the time. As a result, I would horrifyingly be the second to last one picked for anything at gym time, second before the poor little fattest girl in school, Maureen. It was humiliating.

Not anymore! My lungs have healed and now, oh yes, I’m a fast little Goddess; it’s exhilarating after those painful formative years of gasping for air when I’d run. And nowadays I have endurance like nobody’s business.

Last September I took up Hockey after ditching nearly 10 years of Tae Kwon Do training (yes, I can kick your ass or at bare minimum surprise the shit out of you and run like hell). And now I’m just completely obsessed with it; I’m a self-titled hockeybitch. I love to play with the boys in a coed league, so I’m still getting my testosterone hit since leaving my first love, Tae Kwon Do.

The changing rooms at this league are coed, even. This makes for an interesting situation. Many men are not shy in the least, taking showers in the buff, not a care in the world if Aphrodite takes a peek. Which I do, of course, who doesn’t? And they sideways-ogle me when I take off my pants, but usually they take great pains not to show it, which is adorable, and I respect their effort. However they have no idea how much I don’t care that they might take a peek. Fuck, I work hard to keep fit. I’m not going to fuck you, but look all you like!

Anyway, at the last game the bathroom was coed as well, and lo and behold a young buck came in as I was removing my contacts and confidently strode right over to the urinal directly to my left, and facing away he spread his legs, whipped it out and peed. Cock in hand we had a polite little post game conversation.

“Good game out there.”

“Yeah, it was great. Good pace...” etc. etc.

You stole the puck from me you cocksure little wiener. But suddenly I have no problem forgiving. I was trying desperately to hide my astonishment and glee. My own darling husband can’t even pee in front of me, so I was just totally dumbfounded that he could break the seal with me standing 4 feet behind him.

I wrapped up and left, silently cursing my ingrained politeness. In hindsight I should have simply leaned against the sink, faced him, and kept chatting till he wrapped it up, tucked it away, and had to turn and face me, the little shit. Checkmate! I’m not exactly shy myself. Just polite, that’s all. And perhaps just not that ballsy.

Anyway, it’s nice to not be the second to last one picked anymore due to shitty smoke infested lungs. The guys have no qualms about passing to me, I can catch a puck and skate it up there with elation laden speed. Keeping up with the boys is a riot. It’s nice to come full circle in life.

Cheers to my dear, fat, sweet childhood comrade in slowness, Maureen, I hope she’s made her own full circle and become a hot sexy bitch shooting for playboy. She deserves it. Been there, and it sucked.

Mr. Hefner's Playthings

I miss the TV show “The Girls Next Door.”

It was like watching some fascinating foreign culture for me, Aphrodite the Anthropologist living in Conservative, Bible-Thumping America. I confess it looked like an Easter basket full of sugary delight to this square peg living in a round box. I’d probably have sex with Hef, too, he’s the sexiest 80 year old out there. Something about that guy. Really, it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s his energy, his aura. His confidence. Maybe it’s his power. I’ll never know. I just like him.

But yeah, I’d have great fun living in the mansion; living out a fantasy of being a man’s plaything, indulged and spoiled, coddled and spanked. I could definitely do that.

Hef played a role, like it or not, in the sexual revolution. I’m certain he played a role in MY sexual evolution; a post yet to come. I just found an excellent quote in Esquire magazine from Hugh Hefner. This is one reason why I appreciate the man, and probably just one of a plethora of reasons why he gets so much putty tat,

“I wanted to edit a magazine free of guilt about sex and the benefits of materialism, a magazine that tried to put some of the play and pleasure back into life.”

Yes, yes, yes, oh yes, I love the way he thinks. To this guilt laden ex-catholic recovering her appreciation of sexuality he paints a heavenly picture. Call me a hedonist.

Anyway, responding to criticism that his monthly objectified women, Anthropological Mr.Hefner said,

“Playboy treats women – and men, too, for that matter – as sexual beings, not as sexual objects. Women are the major beneficiaries of sexual emancipation because they’ve been the major victims of our repressive sexual heritage, which relegated them to the level of chattel – first as the possession of their fathers and then of their husbands. Female virginity has been prized in our society simply because an unused possession is valued more highly than a used one.”

No wonder I loved Playboy Magazine from an early age. The man thinks just like I do.

So while the girls were indeed, in my opinion, his playthings and therefore objectified to some degree, their adult decision was entirely voluntary, so I find nothing wrong with that – the street goes both ways. But why, I ask you, why is nobody saying the girls used Hef? They certainly did, to some degree, but as far as I could tell it was a win-win situation for all involved; I use your sexy youthful gorgeous body, you use me for my money and power, we’re all hunky-dory. I was elated to see the final show where when they wanted to leave he simply supported their decision, kissed them a loving goodbye, told them to come back and see him. He only wanted them there if they wanted to be there. Ultimately not his toys, but girls with freedom to stay if they like or go if they prefer.

Of course, there are plenty of other cookies in his cookie jar, so I guess it’s no big deal in the end if they walk. Or perhaps it’s that old saying if you love something set it free concept, maybe? Never know.

I’m not your average girl next door, living in Midwest religious vanilla society. At least in my mind I’m not. So the the Wonka-World lifestyle they led was scrumpdilly-icious to me, and I miss the light entertainment.

I’ll just have to get by on the monthly magazine, darn it.

Darling Ponyboy

When I was sixteen I started dating Ponyboy.

I was ripe for the picking, shall we say. Masturbatory excesses notwithstanding, I had crossed a long, dry desert of prepubescent catholic upbringing amongst a bunch of boys who wouldn’t ask me out, fucking losers, and I was ready for a long drink of ice cool holywater.

I met my first lover on a group date where he was supposed to be set up with a friend of mine. I about wet my pants (lovely double entendre there) when I saw him. There, striding down his sidewalk in front of his parent’s small 1950s house was my fantasy man. He looked shockingly similar to John Taylor of Duran Duran. The hair. Oh, the hair. And the body. And the soccer player legs. I was head over heels in love with John Taylor. Hungry like the Wolf, indeed.

Turned out Ponyboy liked me more than my friend (I was utterly surprised), and we started dating. And exploring our sexuality. I was totally shocked by what this boy made me feel. Welcome to WonkaWorld, Aphrodite! Here’s your Golden Ticket.

Soon enough we were planning to get married (and he was undoubtedly planning to get in my pants). First love, big time. And naturally, he was dealing with an Aphrodite on the verge of discovering her sexuality, so he didn’t have to do much convincing. Done deal. He was getting inside, deep, deep inside for sure. I managed to qualify it in my horned up little mind by convincing myself we were getting married anyway, so what the hell. God wouldn’t mind.

In the meantime, I was as yet quite virginal and petrified of touching him, particularily fearful of touching that large-ish rock solid thing I’d only felt pressed against me. Eventually he literally took my hand and forced me to feel it. Oh, man, how hot is that I ask you now, but then, I was terrified. And for good reason.

Turns out I picked a remarkably stacked stallion to ride for my first time.

Gasp. Huge. Biggest I’ve ever had since and likely ever will. This boy would make a bajillion doing porn, seriously people. And he told me he was small! WHAT?! So there you go, rather than face yet another even LARGER prospect, I thought I would just marry this one and save myself the angst.

So the day arrived, and at dusk we headed in his dad’s SUV to the neighborhood park where as a small child I had seen a couple in their 30s making out on a blanket, how poetically karmic. I was just off a modeling thing so I was all trussed up looking like a certified ‘ho, I even had red mascara on. It only served to throw fuel on my fuck-me-now fire; I was so freaking worked up and was just dying to give it a shot. I knew it’d hurt the first time, but how bad could it hurt, really?

Oh, so naïve, little Aphrodite.

Searing hot pain, stretching me senseless. I didn’t realize normal, smart people don’t lose their virginity to men with huge cocks, but remember, I was operating on the information that it was SMALL. I memorized its girth using my forearm…just a minute, I’ll get a measure to report….

Ummm, I’m putting it at a good seven inches at least. Girth, people. And I’d guess at least nine-ish in length. I am not exaggerating. A magnificent member, to be sure. Unfortunately I was a VIRGIN. To a grown woman who became something of a size queen, it’s worthy of serious worship and awe and wonder (no, husband, I’m not secretly fucking Ponyboy, don’t worry)! I can look at it in a whole different light, now, 23 years and a few lovers later. Well, I can think about it, I mean. Husband needs to understand I’m reminiscing, not journaling. And husband’s unit is nothing to scoff at, I’ll just say. Ponyboy was just one of those in that 5% that are over 6 inches.

Anyway, so we’re making an awkward, gallant go at it in the back of his dad’s car.

“Whoa! Stop!”
“Okay. You okay?” Breathe, breathe, relax.
“Go slow. Really really slow, okay? STOP! Okay, slow, slow. STOP!”

WOW, it was rough going. Anyway, didn’t exactly work because in the middle of our trying to fit his throbbing hard baseball bat into my teeny tiny keyhole, we saw some headlights indicating somebody decided to visit the park at a very inopportune time.

The police!! The POLICE ruined my precious de-virginizing ceremony. Flashlight bounching up to the car, Ponyboy scrambling up to the front seat frantically pulling on his pants over his unmistakable hard on.

Tap tap tap. Roll roll roll. A flashlight beam in our faces and a few questions about age and where we lived (and a cop thinking who's the 'ho), and we were told crisply to “Be on your way.”

Nice. I am Aphrodite’s seething sexual frustration.

Whatever, we tried again another day, gradually inching toward success, or some semblance of success anyway, so John Ponyboy Taylor owns Aphrodite’s Cherry and started me off on an extremely exciting foray into my own sexuality. We managed to do it a few times before I was romanced and scooped up by a Swede on the football team (I’m going to hell, God will never forgive me).

Much to my surprise, I discovered Ponyboy lied a bit about being small. Be careful what you wish for! But my little Swedish Tickler had a body to die for, and a great personality, so I learned the dry hump quick as a whistle.

No Sex For You! *read like the soup nazi*

Just watched an Oprah show about 14 year old kids who think they are ready to have sex.

Gasp!

I know it happens all the time, but it was so painful to watch the actual hormone laden kids sit there in their quasi-confident state facing the world declaring their readiness to have sex. How (pant pant) ready (pant pant) they are, and how (pant pant) in love they are, and how (pant pant) it’s the next step in their love. The poor boy looked like he was still in potty training for Christ’s sake. Pubescent throbbing in his pants, probably lured there by his girlfriend who thought it was the coolest thing ever, to face OPRAH, and her reknowned female sex therapist, Dr. so and so, who has got her shit together like no-ones business. Talk about up shit crick without a paddle! He probably figured it would get him an inch closer to the Holy Grail. Poor thing. Oprah and Dr. GotHerShitTogether sliced off that dream with more finesse and speed than the doctor who performed his circumcision.

There was this whole jacked up debate amongst all involved about whether or not to provide condoms and if in doing so they are giving the go ahead, giving permission to have sex.

Fucking ridiculous.

I’m of the midset that says absolutely fork out the condoms. And yes, educate them on the correct use of them, God forbid they come off due to misuse or break because of incorrect fit. Been there on both fronts, and it was scary.

Talk all you fucking want, people, if the kid wants it bad enough he’ll (or she’ll) get it SOMEHOW. You just won’t hear about it.

I started having sex at sixteen, and that seems impossibly young now. We had dated for EVER (oooo, a whole 7 months), and we were convinced we’d be married September 3rd, 1989, much to my nunnery dropout mother’s horror and forbiddance. But we did it, had sex, I mean, not married, and that’s a story in itself. A really, really good one, actually.

My mother was right in the end, not because the boy wasn’t right, but because I was too young. I was just blinded by my desire and his sweetness. So I jumped in the sexual pool, and I took a swim. And by golly, the water was just fiiiine.

Anyway, the marriage date came and went while I came and went about my business figuring out my own sexuality, post-catholic-upbringing (so it’s been a long haul, trust me), with other boys I had “long relationships” with. For some reason I kept trying to justify it by convincing myself I was going to marry the boys. I’d like to go back and just fuck one of them for the sake of fucking them, for the sake of sex and pleasure, and no other stinking reason. I wonder how many of the boys dealt with that kind of guilt? How many needed to justify it?

Maybe I’ll work up a post about my experience losing my virginity for shits and giggles…write it as who I am now, looking back, recounting the day and all the details. Then after I’m done go fish out my journal from back then and transcribe it here word for word, straight out of my 16 year old brain. I believe my best friend still has the actual date I lost my virginity in her Rainman Brain, because obviously I called her up the second I did it. April something, 1986 I think? So I’m coming upon my 23rd or so (?) lost my virginity anniversary date.

Gasp.

Something to ponder.

My panties as a parting gift for Brian at Primordial Blog.

We suffer a gaping loss in the blogging world. A terrible loss of an insanely intelligent blogger. Making the world a little less stupider, Brian, at Primordial Blog.

Brian has been thrown under the bus by (I'm guessssing) *music cue – dun dun duuun* The Anonymous Troll. I’m sickened by this person’s actions; their cowardice, self-righteousness, and their underhandedness. Yet another shining example of why religious people scare me.

Brian has been hung upon the cross, dying alone for us all, because he was man enough to stand by his word and not forsake his belief in the scientific accuracy of Darwin. That man had a set of balls on him the size of Texas for standing up and speaking his mind and not hiding behind a false identity. He was the real deal. Now, I never met Brian, but oh yeah, I’d do him (*were I not married. Calm down husband). He looked cute on his picture, but the brain is what pulled my panties off. Nothing like an intelligent man. I’ll miss him.

My guess is The Troll reads my blog, because they are, indeed, a closet pervert till the end. Ogle the sexy Aphrodite, relish it, but keep it secret, because you have a so-called Christian image to uphold. You did what you did out of childish revenge. What would Jesus do? Certainly not what you did. And Brian? Turned the other cheek, in my opinion, offering an intellectual dialog. Best to burn him at the stake before he starts making realistic sounding assertations, right? Fry him up in a pan because he has different opinions than you. What is the world coming to when someone does something so nasty? It’s so sad.

Anyone else care to sign the funereal guestbook here, in honor of Brainiac Brian as I liked to call him, please do. Show the love people.

I’ve come to take you down from the cross, darling Brian. Those balls, my Goddess, they are spectacular.

Bravo, Brian. Bravo.

Spoo in Whoville, or Aphrodite's Cum Quandary

Okay, I need a little help. Who can help Aphrodite with her cumming quandary?

I love to think I’m pretty well versed in the whole semantics of smut, but darn it I’m so cumfoundedly curious. Can anyone tell me why the word “come” is shortened to “cum” when it’s used in a sexual context? Inquiring minds want to know.

Pardon my pornographic righteousness, but it looks like someone made a stoopid spalling mistake. I’m an avid reader of dirt and every time I see that word it just bothers me. Oh, no, no, not because I don’t like come. Or cum, if you prefer. It’s just that it pokes me, that spelling. I get all jacked off thinking it’s a typo. It’s like someone writing dum instead of dumb.

So how the hell did that word get that way? Or am I simply mistaking it, thinking the word “cum” came from “come” somehow? This is sounding dangerously close to pornographic Dr. Seuss (that might be a fun read, maybe I’ve found my calling). But actually could it be a totally separate word, not derived from “come” in anyway?

Put it into Wikipedia and up cummes “orgasm.” At Dictionary.com, cum is given a teeny tiny smidgen of space interspersed with what you, you dirty slut, obviously must have meant, “come,” clearly you made a mistake you idiot. However, they do obligingly slather us with two whole lines of spoo hidden between pragmatic definitions of the much less tantalizing word “coming.” The word “Cum” is labeled “vulgar, semen ejaculated during orgasm.” Preeetty narrow and not real informative and I don’t personally find it vulgar, nor find the word itself vulgar. What the flagnog, it’s just a word, people, we assign its vulgarity. I don’t know about other women, but my OWN orgasms are not certainly not vulgar I guaran-freakin'-tee it, and I myself do not shoot semen or anything else for that matter. However! I’m absolutely, positively, without a doubt certain I repeatedly, oh yesss, repeatedly experience a sensation known as cumming. So according to dictionary.com, only dudes cum. No fucking wonder I suffer from penis envy.

So maybe I’M “coming”, then. Maybe that’s it! Hmmm. But you look up that one and there is no dictionary qualified female “coming during orgasm.” Again, women’s sexuality is so dirty nobody even will address it. Kidding. Sort of.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe I should just lighten the fuck up and simply enjoy my cumming, but I just prefer the word “come”, myself. It conveys an action. A state of motion. “An arrival, in due course,” dictionary.com tells us. Oh, yeah, baby, I’ve arrived. I’m arrrrriving! Wonder what my husband would say if next time I was riding him I shrieked a frenzied, “I’m arriving! I’m arriving!”

Come. I want you to come. Fill me up with your come. Pound your come into me.

Come now, come now, can you tell? Come now, cum now, will you yell?
Come now, oh, oh yes do tell, who knows how this cummed to be?

What is derivative of this word? Is it Latin or French? Is it of Nordic origin, some rough viking warrior pounding his maiden with her hair wrapped around his fist and he's yelling, "I'M ARRIVING!" Maybe Canadian. They’re full of perverts up there. ;) Or perhaps it cums from fucking Whoville. Dirty fuckin’ Who’s, shooting their who-spoo all over their shiny who-shoes.

Ever yours,
AphroditeBob Ovulatingpants.