Vibrations of a Vixen

…stories from under the sheets…

How My Hamster Saved My Sex Life February 8, 2010

Filed under: rants,relationships,sex — vixations @ 12:30 pm

I never really made a set ‘list’ of things I always wanted in a man, but it has occurred to me that there are a few VERY important qualities/habits that I simply cannot tolerate. I refuse to sleep with/date a man who:

1. doesn’t drink

2. is addicted to cigarettes

3. has pants that are smaller than mine

4. can’t laugh at himself

Recently, I added another quality to the list. The quality is two-fold. And it involves my pet hamster.

Your what? Yes. I have a pet hamster.

I have a thing about pets. Whenever I move to a new city, I have to get something to take care of. Nothing crazy like a cat or a puppy. I usually get something easy, like a fish. That way if I forget about it, or go away for a few days, or someone pours beer in the tank, it won’t die (for the most part).

Moving to California was no different. The second I finished moving in, I went to Petco. I had every intention of buying a goldfish. Instead, I walked out, 30 minutes later, with a baby hamster, a wire cage, and all these stupid toys and treats for the thing. When I say ‘stupid toys’ I mean things like a purple piece of plastic that looks exactly like a miniature version of the carriage that Cinderella took to the ball. Most people think the hamster is weird, and in turn think I’m TOTALLY weird/crazy for keeping a small rodent in my room. Other people (like me) think she’s wicked cute and don’t mind having her around.

After a year and a half, I’ve noticed that it’s usually women, often accused of being pussies about everything, who like her the most. It’s the men, on the other hand, who actually shriek when I take her out of her cage. She is brown and furry and weighs less than a pound. Also her name is Pancake. Who’s the pussy now, bitches?

So there’s one part of fifth quality that I won’t tolerate in a man. It’s one thing if you get a little freaked out when you see my mini nugget made of fur, but it’s quite another if you refuse to touch her, and actually have to LEAVE THE ROOM whenever she’s out of her cage. Believe it or not, I have met men of this caliber of pussyness. And these men are not for me.

Here’s the other part: Rodents are nocturnal, so Pancake likes to do annoying things like run in her wheel, eat an entire bowl of food, and chew on her wire cage in the middle of the night. I, like most 20-somethings, have fought on the insomnia-battlefield, but for the most part I am able to stay asleep once I actually fall asleep, so the hamster’s nocturnal noises don’t usually bother me. Apparently, some guys are extremely bothered by it. Like the one who after spending the night in my room proclaimed that he just had THE WORST SLEEP HE’S EVER HAD IN HIS LIFE EVER AND THAT PANCAKE SHOULD DIE. Or the one who climbed over me in the middle of the night so he could be furthest away from her cage. Or the one who had to stare at her in her cage for 20 minutes, saying over and over, ‘YOU have a HAMSTER??’ Yes, idiot. I have a hamster. You’re looking at her. She’s not going anywhere.

Let me add that all these men were strangely shitty in bed. In different ways. One had a pencil dick. One couldn’t stay completely hard. One kissed like a dead fish. If asked, they might argue that their less-than-awesome bedroom skills have nothing to do with their hate/fear of rodents. I say there is a direct correlation. If you’re a light sleeper, you can’t sleep in my bed. If you are THAT afraid of rodents, you should probably jump off a cliff. And if you don’t get along with Pancake for whatever reason, you don’t get along with my vagina. The end.

Listening to: Best of Bootie 2009 Mashups


White Lies February 1, 2010

Filed under: rants,sex — vixations @ 9:42 pm

Okay, so, I lied. Well, sort of. I mean, I guess I didn’t LIE necessarily. I just omitted the truth.

In my last post, I talked about My Brazilian, his irresponsability (yes, I spelled that wrong on purpose because that’s how HE spelled it), and the fact that there’s only ONE reason I can proudly say I’ve never been pregnant (and it’s definitely not because I always use a condom or only sleep with men that shoot blanks or have had my tubes tied): I’m really good at taking birth control.

The birth control pill is 99.9% effective, and I’m pretty sure the only reason they can’t say it’s 100% effective is because they would totally get sued every day by all the idiots that forget to take it or mix it with other pills that make it less effective. I believe that if taken correctly, the pill is 100% effective. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just sterile. Who knows.

I guess when you wake up every morning and the first thing you think about is sex, the next logical thought is clearly ‘No babies for me!’ <pops birth control pill>. It also doesn’t hurt that I’ve been on the pill since I was 16.

Now, for the first time in my history of pill-taking, I missed my pill. For three weeks.



My prescription ran out, and I didn’t go get a refill. Why? The reason is two-fold: First of all, I sort of wanted to try that thing that my friends try sometimes where you say to yourself, “I’m not going to take birth control, and then because I know I’m not taking it, I won’t have unprotected sex.”

Here’s the thing ladies, THAT NEVER WORKS. Habits die hard. Especially bad ones. Don’t kid yourselves.

The second reason is that California (and the entire health care system) decided to start sucking. Maybe they’ve always sucked. I don’t know. All I know is I used to get free birth control when I used this pretty teal card that Planned Parenthood gave me because I was poor and a huge slut. Somehow, starting in the new year, I no longer qualify for the free-everything card even though my income really hasn’t changed and I haven’t started being less of a huge slut. And now California no longer gives me free birth control. Instead, they charge me 39 dollars and 9 cents for one month of GENERIC birth control pills. That’s $39.09 for 28 pills that are smaller than my fingertip. You do the math. And then say it with me: FUCK YOU CALIFORNIA HEALTH CARE!

They also won’t let me get more than one month of pills at a time. So, um, what the FUCK are you expecting me to do here? Actually go into CVS and stand in line for 20 minutes at the drop-off window, wait a day, and then stand in line at the pick-up window for ANOTHER 20 minutes? And then repeat the whole process next month? That’s ludicrous I tell you! And I don’t have time for this shit!

Okay, I realize that I’m being totally irrational. There are a lot of people out there who have to deal with being really sick and living on the street and not having access to any form of health care whatsoever.

On the other hand, WHY do they think Lifetime made a movie based on a true story called The Pregnancy Pact? And what about the ridiculous rise in teen pregnancy in the past year? MAYBE things like this are happening because y’all are makin’ it too hard for us po’ folks to get our pills!!!!

(that was me being Texan white trash. no offense to anyone from Texas. or anyone who is white trash. although I think if you were white trash you probably wouldn’t realize it. you also probably wouldn’t be reading this blog, even though you probably should…)

ANYWAY, my point is that I’m a sexually active girl, so you knew that my beef with birth control would come out sooner or later. And I really honestly think that this is huge problem with our system. In any other scenario, I would not have taken the morning-after-pill. Plan B is not a form of birth control, it’s a back-up, and I never want to take it again. But, I will take it if these people don’t give me my pills. For LESS than 40 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers a month. Can I get a HELL YEA?? Slash can we start a ‘Sluts for Free Contraception’ movement? Slash does anyone work for a pharmacy that can steal some pills for me? I take Ocella. Or Yasmin. Or ANYTHING that makes babies not form in my body. I’ll bake you cookies. And give you a fat kiss and/or a lap dance. And you’ll be doing a huge favor for humanity by NOT letting a big Slutty McSlutterson like me create spawn. So, yea. Thanks in advance.


My Brazilian. My (ir)Responsibility. January 29, 2010

Filed under: hypersex,rants — vixations @ 11:37 am

My Brazilian decided to leave the sunny City of Angels and move on to more, well, European adventures. He packed up his apartment, sold the Ikea bed that I sold him several months ago, and took about 900 bags on the airplane to Germany. Or London? I don’t fucking care. Anyway, the Brazilian decided to spend the night before he left with none other than the wonderful MOI! Why? I had no effing clue. I’m fun, but I’m not SO fun that you’d want to spend your entire last night in America with me before MOVING away to another continent. It was a Sunday. I was already drunk (naturally), and he brought over a bottle of wine from the 7-11. Even after only a few dates, he knows me well.

There I was, drunk on the couch, watching E!, and squealing about the Giuliana and Bill show because the guy I made out with on Friday happened to be on it. My roommate knew all about it. My Brazilian didn’t. Not like he would have cared. He speaks good English, but sometimes I feel like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Maybe because I talk too fast. Or too high-pitched. Especially while drunk. Maybe he’s like those animals that can only hear certain pitches. Did I just make that up?

The most likely explanation is that he really doesn’t care what I say at all, he just came over so he could sleep with me. Same reason why any guy comes over on a Sunday night. Right? I mean he certainly didn’t come over to watch Giuliana and Bill.

So we drank more. Much more. Until I decided I wanted to be horizontal, and I didn’t care if he wanted to join. The next part is a blur. Sometimes when I close my eyes I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Maybe that’s how I’m able to convince myself that things like naked Brazilians in my bed are okay.


If only I HAD sick days at this god-forsaken hell hole also known as my job.

The next afternoon, I received a message via Facebook from the Brazilian.

Subject: hi from London

Message (abbreviated):

so just wanted to say that was great meeting you, i like your fun sweet easy-going personality and most of all, i like that you are a very truthful (is that a word?) and original person

wish you the best!


PS.: as usual… sorry about the irresponsability that day, my fault! Would you hate me forever if I asked you to take one of those day after pills?


You can’t make this shit up. He doesn’t even know if ‘truthful’ is a word. Or how to spell ‘irresponsibility.’ And, REALLY? One of those ‘day after pills’???? Great. He DIDN’T use a condom. Again. After I FREAKED OUT last time. What the hell is wrong with everyone??? Why is it MY responsibility to ask YOU to throw a rubber on your South American cock? Why is it that I always have to prevent the babies and the diseases? I’m not responsible at all! If you were worried about little children running around, don’t fucking cum in me. Or get a vasectomy. OR USE A CONDOM. Especially when I’m half in dream state and half totally wasted. It’s YOUR COCK and therefore YOUR RESPONSIBILITY if my egg gets fertilized. It doesn’t fertilize itself, idiot. And you don’t just take the ‘day after pill’ whenever the fuck you want. It’s SO BAD for you. Not as bad as an actual abortion I guess, but you’re only supposed to take Plan B like twice in your life. This is something all boys should know. There are some retarded females out there who take it all the time, but I certainly don’t. In fact, I’ve never taken it before. Because I’m SO GOOD at taking my birth control, and I’ve been on it basically since I left the womb and there’s no way I’m getting pregnant anytime soon, even if I stop taking it. Also, I’m petrified of taking any pills (other than birth control) or putting chemicals into my body (which makes no sense, because I take birth control every day). I don’t take painkillers because I’m convinced I’ll get an ulcer or have a heart attack and die.

But, there’s no way I could ever take care of ANYONE else besides myself, and maybe the Brazilian has really fertile spermies, and since the message came less than 36 hours after the act, and I had a Plan B pack in my bathroom that Planned Parenthood gave me for free (because they know I’m a huge slut), I decided to open it, take a deep breath, and swallow it.

And that was the longest sentence ever.

Then I thought about all the ways I could die. Maybe Plan B will eat my stomach from the inside out and my intestines will fall out. Maybe the sperm-killing chemicals will also kill all of my white blood cells and I’ll contract swine flu and AIDS at the same time and slowly suffer for the next three weeks until my head explodes and there’s blood and dead sperm everywhere.

Clearly, I didn’t die. I didn’t even get sick. Although other girls have told me horror stories about having to skip school/work because the pill gave them the most evil and debilitating cramps of their lives. Oh, the sperm-killing terribleness!! Don’t we suffer enough with the monthly flow and the baby birthing??

These kinds of drugs were obviously created by men. If I had it my way, I would give all boys some kind of ‘night of’ pill before they sleep with me, not ‘morning after’ pill. That way I would be sure that if any of their sperm found a way into my ovaries, no babies would be made. And I wouldn’t even have to hear from them the next day.

Sounds like a win-win situation to me. Now, who’s the female pharmacist that’s going to patent this drug?? And what shall we call it?


I Have a Death Wish. January 8, 2010

Filed under: rants,sex — vixations @ 4:30 pm

But not for myself. Because I might not have to ASK 2010 to kill me. It might do that on its own.

My 2010 death wish is for whoever decided that skinny jeans look good on guys. And whoever decided that all aspiring band members should wear them (in case that person isn’t the same as the one who invented their appeal in the first place). Here’s why:

A few years ago I was working for a music production company. They also managed bands at the time. I became pretty close with one of the bands we managed (I’m tempted to say the name here, but I won’t), and started hanging out with them outside of work and shows. When I say I started ‘hanging out’ with them, I really mean this is when we started having drinks together, as opposed to just being drunk around each other. I also brought my best friend into the mix, who started ‘hanging out’ with my boss. One wasted night before I had any form of common sense (not to say I have much now, but I had zero then), my friend and I were conned into going back to my boss’s PARENTS’ house downtown for some post-partying action. I have no idea why going back to my BOSS’S PARENTS’ house didn’t seem weird to me at the time. Maybe because I was hammered. Or maybe because I was 18. Or maybe because, like I said, I had zero common sense.

‘We have wine, and vodka, and my parents are out of town.’ So we get to raid their liquor cabinet and go down on each other in your parents’ bed? Like high school all over again.

What the hell does this have to do with skinny jeans? Well, before I go any further with the story, here’s my beef with skinny jeans: Guys weren’t born to have curves like girls. For the most part, they are triangle-shaped, which is not nearly as pretty as the womanly hourglass shape. Male top halves are noticeably bigger than their bottom halves, and a lot of them were born with hairy chicken legs. Okay, they weren’t hairy when they were born, but lay off, they can’t help it. That said, why would ANYONE come up with a style that accentuates these unfortunate parts and cramps the ballsack? Any guy that wears skinny jeans MUST have a small penis and shrunken balls. Otherwise they wouldn’t fit. Right?

This brings me to my next skinny-jean-beef: Too many guys in bands wear skinny jeans. And there’s no functional reason for it. And I love guys in bands. I love to think that they all have big cocks and are super rhythmic in bed. Probably the reason I especially love drummers. Mmm. Anyway, if they are all wearing skinny jeans, that means their cocks are SMALL. And a small cock with rhythm < a big cock without it. Actually a small cock with rhythm < a lot of things. Like tequila. And cheese. Okay, everything < tequila and cheese, so that was a bad example. But you can always spot the small-dick-band members by their tousled, sideswept hair and their stupid jeans and their shoes. Boys in bands wear Converse, some form of vintage cowboy boot, or loafers. The shoes are one thing.

But the skinny pants?

After some more drinking, the debauchery began. I don’t remember the details. All I remember is waking up in the middle of the night, looking around, realizing that I was not in my boss’s bedroom or the guest room, but that I was IN MY BOSS’S PARENTS’ BED with the bass player from the band. Naked. And SO THIRSTY. And IN MY BOSS’S PARENTS’ BED. And what. the. fuck.

I got the naked hipster next to me to get up, put some pants on, and get us some water to minimize the effects of the nearby hangover. Which was still REALLY bad, by the way, despite the H2O chug session. Like, so bad that I didn’t even care when the boss’s parents came home early from ‘being out of town’ to empty bottles everywhere and an unmade bed. I think I left my underwear there too because I never saw it after that night. And it was super cute. Sad face.

Before all that, when we first woke up the next morning, he got up, put some pants on, and went to the bathroom. When he came back to bed, he took the pants off, and laughed. ‘What’s funny?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, I just realized I had put your pants on by accident. I was wondering why they felt a little big. Haha.’

Why they felt a little BIG?! Ha ha?? ExCUSE me?? Your skinny pants are SMALLER than MY skinny pants? But they’re SKINNY pants! That means that’s as SKINNY as I get! And I’m a girl! And that means that your skinny pants don’t FIT me! In what UNIVERSE is it okay for men to wear smaller skinny pants than women??

This one, apparently. And this is why I don’t hook up with hipsters anymore. And why look at boys’ hips and butts before I even talk to them to make SURE that their jeans will be bigger than mine so that they can’t ‘accidentally’ put my jeans on in the middle of the night and wonder why they’re too big. And also why I have a death wish.

So, small-dick-squished-balls-rhythmic-hipster-band-member-fashion-designer, you better keep one eye open when you’re sleeping because I am coming. And I will strangle you with a pair of size 25 skinny man pants. And you won’t be able to torture any more curvaceous women with your too-tight-ball-shrinking pair of jeans.