Vibrations of a Vixen

…stories from under the sheets…

I MOVED! February 21, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 8:46 pm

And you should come check out my new pad. It’s here. And it’s brought to you by the lovely, the talented, the awkward, the amazing LILU!

I can’t thank her enough for making me look so freaking sexy and awesome. So update your feed! Re-subscribe! Send me love letters! And look at how pretty my new design is, including a new post about my mom.

Love, licks, and multiple vibrators,

~ Vixations


The Pinot Experiment: Update 2 February 19, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 12:56 pm

I can pretty much sum up this experiment as being an epic fail. Between the lack of credible advice and abandonment of responsibility in more ways than one, I can safely say that I am not one step closer to any conclusions. I haven’t been to the doctor because I don’t even know what ‘normal discharge’ means anymore and I don’t want them to be all ‘stop being fucking paranoid’ and ‘just use a damn condom for once.’ I ALREADY KNOW THAT, THANKS. And hey, Planned Parenthood, if you REALLY wanted to help, you could provide me with a fucking live-in gynecologist to help me actually get a good night’s sleep without worrying about yeast infections and BV and all that nonsense that may or may not have anything to do with sex with 31 year old uncircumsized penises. Peni? How come only some things become plural with the ‘i’? Like octopi. Who even makes these rules anyway? Can it be vaginae? Omg spell-check says that’s right. Haha. Vaginae. Say it. But not out loud if you’re at work. Okay sorry this is totally unrelated to anything. Moving on…

This week has been nothing but stressful (although sometimes in an awesome way) and I haven’t even had time to get drunk, let alone have sex with anyone. Except for last night. When my boss was in town and we totally took bong rips together and watched turtle races. Wait, that totally came out wrong. I DIDN’T HAVE SEX WITH MY BOSS. He’s married. With kids. And his whole family is amazing and I would never sleep with a married man. Unless… well, no unless. I would never do that. Anyway, I just got drunk with him. And high. And it was awesome. And I’m afraid to say this out loud, but I’m obviously going to say it anyway: I’m in love with every boy. In a way where I can’t tell the difference between if I just care about them because they’re awesome or if I actually want to jump on all of their cocks and spin around. Okay I’ve never actually done the spinny thing. But I’ve seen it done in pornos. And I want to do it. And so someone needs to help me with this via having a big enough penis for me to spin on and being strong enough to lift me up and turn me counter-clockwise. Because I’m a lefty. And counter-clockwise makes more sense. And maybe the reason I like tall men is because they ARE strong and often DO have big peni for me to spin on. And my really boss is tall. And oh. my. god. I need to stop thinking about having sex with ANYONE who pays me to book flights and hotels for him. I’m not a member of the mile-high club yet. HOLY SHIT SHUT UP YOU SKANK WHORE HOME WRECKER!

The being in love with everyone isn’t real. And I’m not actually attracted to my boss. It’s just horny-lost-drunk-girl who is experiencing a minor drought and thinks that sex with random men will somehow cure her need to run around and explore and do and be everything to everyone. My solution? Buy all of these things and spend the entire weekend locked in my room with a good Pinot and an even better porno. And clean that shit myself so there is no risk for anything related to infectious bacteria or herpes or commitment.

I’m clearly very hungover. Or still drunk. Or infected with a crazy turtle virus. And I’m going to stop talking now.

Things to look forward to? The launch of my awesomely amazing new blog design (courtesy of the beautiful AND talented Lilu) and the revealing of where I get all my raging sexuality. Hint: I got it from my Mama.

Listening to: Jay-Z – Off That (feat. Drake)


Goddamn Mormons. No Offense. February 17, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 3:48 pm

Here’s our second Vixations guest post! It’s from MikShorty, a girl who doesn’t mind a little romping in the bedroom, except for when it compromises her sleep schedule. A woman after my own heart. She wasn’t the whore here, but thought someone else was, w00t!:

About 4 years ago, I was touring New York City with my performing group for a week. In my 5 years with this group, a summer tour never went by without a tour romance. This time, my roommate had one of them.

For two nights in a row, she didn’t sleep in our room and she didn’t tell me until the third morning when she rolled into the room to get ready. She and the hottest guy on the tour were hooking up (she was the theater nerd and he was the hot jock). Of course, I was shocked but vowed to her that I wouldn’t say anything because it would cause insane drama among a few of the girls who were crushing on the guy.

That night however, she had warned me that she probably wouldn’t be back until around 1 or 2 AM and that he may or may not be with her when she does. I had no problems with that so long as they don’t wake me up. She asked me to keep the door cracked open so they could get in. So I went to bed on the top bunk as I had the entire tour and sure enough, a couple hours later, the door opened and 2 people came in. They crawled into the bunk beneath me as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

A few minutes later, the bed slightly starts to move a little. I figure they are just making out (that’s what hooking up meant with this group of people). But then it hit… over and over. The entire bunk bed was literally rocking beneath me. For about five minutes. I didn’t want to interrupt them because that would have been extremely awkward, so I decided to just chew out my roommate in the morning. At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Who on earth would be knocking that late at night?

Our door opens and there’s my roommate… on the other side of the door. Totally confused, I lift myself up to peer down onto the bottom bunk to see who was really rocking the bed. It turned out to be the couple who are both very Mormon, aka: the goodie-goods. The girl noticed I was awake and asked if they woke me up. I told her the truth and she said they would stop. They didn’t. I could still hear them panting when my roomie left after grabbing her pajamas.

The next morning, I woke up and saw two pairs of feet beneath me. I was glad to see that it was my roomie and the jock that time, and not the frisky Mormons. The Mormon couple wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the tour.  Presumably they were waiting for marriage before sex, so I still have no idea if they were just dry-humping or really going at it. (They are married now, so I guess it doesn’t really matter huh?) Either way it was just messed up to be right above them as they did it!

Listening to: Camera Obscura – French Navy


Two Thank You’s and My Very First TMI Thursday! February 11, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 11:11 am

First thing’s first:

Being new to the blogosphere has been really fun, but often scary as hell. We sit here, revealing our deepest thoughts to complete strangers via the internet, knowing that we WILL be judged, but also knowing that by putting ourselves out there we are opening up new doors with new opportunities and new friendships. I am so thankful for everyone I have ‘met’ through this completely ridiculous blog so far. I’m also thankful for the fact that there are indeed other crazies out there who have a little Vixen in them after all!

And now:

I wasn’t sure if TMI Thursday was really right for me, since so far ALL of my posts have revealed way Too Much Information, but I decided to save the real nasty ones for Thursdays. So here goes…my very first…
TMI Thursday
I’ll keep this one simple. It’s about vibrators. Don’t like vibrators? Stop reading my blog RIGHT FUCKING NOW because you don’t deserve to be here. Just kidding. Anyone who doesn’t ‘like’ vibrators is just scared of them and clearly hasn’t been sex toy shopping with moi.

I have lots of vibrators. Five to be exact. Well, used to be five. Now it’s four. How do you lose a vibrator? Well, I didn’t exactly lose it. It lost me. Or something.

The ‘My First Mini-G‘ vibrator was one of my faves, even though it wasn’t actually my first. Especially because it was purple. I don’t know why the one on that site isn’t purple. But it’s supposed to be. Anyway, I used to bring it with me places. Like, if I knew I was going to A’s house after work, I would put it in my purse so I’d have it to play with when I got to his place. He, UNlike most guys I’ve been with, wasn’t mortified by the use of vibrating toys in bed, and also wasn’t scared that my Mini-G would ever take the place of his perfect penis. Vibrators are definitely God’s Gift to Women, and I’ll admit that the fact that they are 100% reliable and can’t speak is definitely a plus, but they’ll never be the same as the good old penis in vagina.

After a while, I started using the vibrator more at his place than at my own, so I just kept it inside Willy (no, Willy is NOT the name of my vagina, it’s the name of my 1996 VW Passat, may he rest in peace). Willy was so old and really liked being dirty and rugged, so I kept him that way. I never got him washed once in the year that I had him. He didn’t have a glove compartment, so I kept my Mini-G in the center arm rest thing. One time, my dad came to visit for an event. I still had to work while he was here, so I let him drop me off at the office and then take my car to do whatever dads do in SoCal. The first day he was here, he picked me up at work in a car that I didn’t recognize at first. It was Willy, but with a face-lift. I didn’t think it was possible, but Willy was actually SHINY all around. Daddy had gotten him cleaned! I was feeling a little nostalgic, but didn’t mind the makeover. That is, until I got into the car.

‘I cleaned your car!’ he said. I see that. I see that the INSIDE had been DETAILED by MY DAD. Uhh, thanks, DAD. Now where’s my Mini-G?

Of course, I couldn’t say anything, and of course my awkward Dad would NEVER say anything to me about sex-related things. All I could do was pray that maybe I had left the vibrator at A’s house and that it wasn’t still in the armrest when he cleaned the car. After dropping my dad off at his hotel, I frantically texted A, sped home to look in my vibe collection, and found NO MINI-G.

To this day, my Mini-G has yet to turn up. And I still need to go to the Pleasure Chest to get a new one. All I can think is that he gave it to one of the homeless tranny hookers in West Hollywood near the auto body shop I go to. Or he took it home to use on his new girlfriend. EWW TMI!!!

Listening to: Lady GaGa – Beautiful Dirty Rich


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.


The Religious MILF January 20, 2010

Filed under: sex — vixations @ 10:36 am

This is the first Vixations Guest Post!

by Rupert Pumpkin

Should male guest bloggers be called something more appropriate? Stud Secrets? Cockations? That sounds like Caucasians. Well this post was written by a 20-something Caucasian male. So maybe it works.

When I asked Rupert Pumpkin what was going on in his head throughout the whole experience, he said this:

“Well there wasn’t much going through my head that I didn’t put there, to be honest. I was like, ‘Whaaat is going on. Should I do this? Yes. Done.'”

And that’s the difference between men and women, my friends. Amazing. Anyway, here goes…

I was home for the holidays, and decided to oblige my parents by attending church with them. I used to go to church twice a week anyways, so I figured one additional time wouldn’t hurt.  We get to church, and I’m feeling pretty haggard from the night before.  I’m dreading all the superficial what-are-you-doing-these-days catch up conversations that always seem to sprout up in these situations.  After somehow escaping to my seat and pretending to text some mystery friend on my phone, I look up and see her.  We lock eyes.  Holy shit! She looks great.  I can tell she is in one of those conversations that no one wants to be in.

The service starts and I get up to grab a drink of water, and I see her scurry out to the lobby.  Is she following me?  We talk for a few brief moments and catch up on life.  I haven’t seen you in years. You got divorced? Your 26th birthday is coming up? I am home for a few more days. We should hang out.  I don’t have your number anymore…

And it was that simple.  I had hooked up with her years ago, before she got married.  Maybe if I had some moral compass left after college, I wouldn’t have acted like this. Or maybe if I wasn’t in the midst of one of the worst droughts of my life I would have just smiled and let it be.  But I was on a mission.

I have to admit there were some red flags going off in my mind, maybe for about 25 seconds. I can recall numerous potential caveats: this woman just got divorced. Her husband cheated on her. She has a kid. She had to move back in with her mom. But… she’s a MILF. She weighs 100 pounds.  She’s Italian.  Smoking body.  She’s really sexy.  There is no doubt in my mind that she wants to fuck me.  What am I waiting for?

Sometimes women will complain that men think with their head and not their head. I was DEFINITELY thinking with my southernmost head here. I picked her up a few days later.  Shot the shit with her mom.  Took her out to a bar.  Had a few drinks. Talked about music. Swapped stories. Had a great time. Had a few more drinks. She wanted to pay the bar tab and I told her no. Paid the tab. Now what? As we walked to the car I asked her what we were doing next.  She responded, whatever you want. But she said it in the tone of voice that really meant, I don’t care as long as you fuck me as soon as possible.

As I’m driving home to my PARENTS’ house, I’m thinking, this is almost an unbelievable situation.  We get to my house, and I sneak her in.  What is this, high school revisited?  We head downstairs, tip-toeing around like we’re in the jungles of ‘Nam.  I throw on a Jimi Hendrix DVD.  I ask her if she wants a drink.  Next thing I know I’m fucking her on the pool table. Against the wall. On the floor. On the couch. From behind. She starts pulling out all these crazy porn-star positions. And Jimi is still shredding in the background. Let’s just say I was enjoying myself more than a little bit.

She tells me to cum in her mouth.  She looks at me and whispers, exhausted, spent, breathlessly, you’re the man.

It’s 4 A.M. and I take her home; I’m not really sure what to make of the situation. These types of things never happen to me. I’m never the man. But I have to ask: when’s the last time going to church got you laid, by a 25 year old, 100 pound, pure-bred Italian, smoking hot mom, in the basement of your parents’ house?