“Oops, I have to feed my vagina”

Huffington Post ran an article today that made me want to poke my eye out.   Titled, “Oops, I slept with your boyfriend“, it was filled with the same vacuous, inane drivel a teenager might offer to a disapproving parent after getting caught sexting her 11th grade English Professor: “I knew it was wrong, but It just felt so right.”

Which is pretty much the crux of her argument.  While the author (and dating coach!?), Charlie, goes on and on about her ‘rules’ for her infidelity hook-ups – sober cheating only, please, and let’s make sure we both know what we’re going to be doing so that I can tell myself we’re being grownups about it… oh, and I probably won’t sleep with my girlfriend’s boyfriends… unless, you know, I want to – what she’s really reiterating with every word is that she’s a slave to her whims, a victim of her own vagina, a puppet to the wonton desires that drive our primordial brains to just fuck, fuck, fuck our way into a new generation of hunters, gatherers, and future fuckers.

Charlie is just doing her job as a good ape.

Gooooood ape, Charlie. Here’s a banana for you to suck on.

Unfortunately, Charlie seems to think her behavior places her in some sexually enlightened zone of “pleasure for pleasure’s sake”, when it reality it makes her a whirling sexual dervish of emotional destruction.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going out looking to f*ck guys who have girlfriends. And when someone tells me they have a girlfriend, I never pressure them to sleep with me. I don’t even disregard their relationship with some sort of “I don’t care if you don’t care,” or “she’ll never know.” Usually I ask them what her name is and how they met. Sometimes they show me pictures.

The few times I’ve found myself the mistress, we have had deep, real, meaningful conversations about their relationships and their commitments, their heart and their body. I encourage them to honor their commitments if that feels good to them. And sometimes it does. And sometimes it doesn’t.

Wow.  I mean, the psycho-analysis here is amazing – sometimes it feels good to honor your committments, and sometimes it doesnt?  WHERE HAS THIS GENIUS BEEN HIDING?  Oh, right – behind a penis.

Well, let me tell you something Charlie – you ain’t unveiling the unknown with that.  It IS hard to honor your commitments.  Whether to a lover, the military, a store you walked into short on cash, or a million other engagements – our lives are full of various commitments.  Commitments we decide each and every day to follow, or not.  But honoring our commitments is what lifts us out of Ape-Ville and secures us a place in Grown-Up-Land, and that’s something to actually be proud of.

But not Charlie… no, she’d rather feed her vagina at any cost – even if it makes her little more than a breakup toy:

My lovers have been in complicated relationships that are basically over but they can’t break up, and they are exhausted and need the kind of nurturing that you can only get when you are getting ridden hard and kissed passionately. I’ve had lovers with agreements that are unclear and undefined, with no way to clarify before one of us left town. I’ve had lovers who were very newly and casually trying out monogamy with someone and found that our long term friendship carried more strength, connection, healing and passion than their new quasi-relationship did. More than once I’ve had lovers who were separated, but not divorced, and we kept things under wraps for legal, or emotional purposes.

See, here’s the thing – I don’t care why Charlie loathes monogamy.  I don’t care what battles her Ego and Id are having on a daily basis.  I can’t see her nightmares, her heartbreak, her pains, or her joys (well, I guess we can see the sexual ones, since she’s put some of them on display).  She’s just a reckless chick who threw up a blog post celebrating her ego (and rubbing said ego in every other woman’s face).

What I do care about is that this woman has woven such an impressive web of bullshit around herself that she’s convinced it’s alright to summarily dismiss the rest of us V-card holders as idiots.  She’s the cockroach crawling all over Human Weakness, but it ain’t her fault, really – because her logic is “The penis does what the penis wants to do.”


See, what Charlie seems unable to recognize is that the world is not just some penis-filled buffet table for lucky ladies to gorge themselves on.  I mean, well, it kind of is…  But slapping your vagina on every penis in the place ain’t the way to lasting personal fulfillment, respect, or – you know – having any female friends to help hold your hair back when you find yourself vomiting up all that oh-so-yummy man-seed.

Because that’s the problem with buffets… they inspire gluttony.

And telling all us women of the world that our men are probably on your menu is nothing if not gluttonous.

So how about this for some advice:  Shut up.  Grow up.  Be a better human being.

Tell your vagina to look for attention from dudes who aren’t already suffering through one of those “commitments” you seem to despise.

Because the thing about monogomy is that is is hard.  It is a challenge.   But it’s a challenge not just because our naughty bits get frisky when they catch the sent of “other” naughty bits.  No – that’s so damn close to the surface that it’s almost laughable.

Monogamy is a challenge because when you’re in a relationship, you traverse two paths instead of one.  His potholes become mine, and my detours become his… We negotiate two battles instead of one, and if we don’t do it well, we might not remember take our gloves off when the foe is gone – financial worries can haunt a couple like ghosts,  sparring emotional/sexual inequalities between husband and wife might linger, and the exhaustion that children cause could salt every meal.

Your vagina, bobbing around there at the top of the pothole is just a shiny distraction that serves to help pull him out of deep and complicated waters… for a while.

But you’re just surface, baby.

And I’m deep.

Which is why I’ll accept the challenges of monogamy every day and twice on the weekends, if it means we come out the other side of those potholes together, as a stronger team and better people.

That’s much more satisfying than feeding on potholes.

You see, I’d much rather feed my vagina a fucking stallion than a whole platter of pussywillows.

Nom, nom, nom.



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