X S E X


FUCK YOU, JAX! by khemistry
August 22, 2014, 6:18 am
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: ,

Jaxon, you are a dickhead and here’s a bi girl who’s gonna kick the tar out of your ass! You SEE what you do to me, you ass! You bring out the Mississippi in me! I FUCKING HATE THAT PLACE! I left because they don’t believe in dancing! That’s right, ladies n gents! Dancing! Not talking about twerking and all that shite. I mean just gettin down town with Julie Brown (oops! Better be careful or I will reveal my age). My church didn’t believe in dancing. My Mom took ALL my Motley Crue (Nikki Sixx I want to sex your sixx stik) posters are BURNED THEM! I kissed a girl in front of them, got in my car and LEFT. And that’s the truth.

I like dick. I like pussy.  You call it the “c” word, or twat or vagina and I will KILL YOUR ASS.

Just WAIT until I see you with Purvis.  He won’t be able to help you anyway, he can’t half walk! So you are MINE!

HURRAH TO BISEXUALITY!!! Give me some pussy, give me some dick. Both at once.

I’m Katy Khemistry and I’m going to kick this guy’s ass. Dumb ass.

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3Jane’s Guide to Guys by khemistry

3JANE’S GUIDE TO GUYS: Episode 1: Baby’s Daddy Likes to Play Rough

It is with some trepidation that I’ve agreed to write the Intro to 3Jane’s new XSEX column (cleverly entitled “3Jane’s Guide to Guys”). I say “trepidation” (instead of, say, “horror”) NOT because 3Jane isn’t clever, witty, and generally spot-on with her observations. I don’t always agree with her, and she pisses me off–a lot. And frequently, too.  But she’s a good friend. Actually, she’s one of my best friends (and probably the closest female friend I’ve ever had). Maybe that is because we’ve never complicated things by sleeping together. And we’ve never been intimate for two very specific reasons: 1. Despite the fact that I’ve tried, I know somewhere deep inside the blackness that passes for my soul that if we DID get it on, we’d probably fall apart as friends. We’re just too much alike. Both of us are dominant (sexually)–and you know that just NEVER works. But we also think alike. Which is, if you knew her, pretty amusing. The truth is, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We are both prone to adding witty reparte to otherwise serious posts by using parenthesis ( “(” and “)” ) to stand in for the statement: “I’m going to be a smart-ass now. Please be patient. We’ll be returning to our regularly-scheduled post in just a few moments.” We’re also both extremely prone to chosing the wrong significant other. But the REAL reason I’ve never gotten a piece of Jane is…2. She’s a confirmed rug-munching dyke. However, know this: even though I’m proud that Jane has committed to a regular column for XSEX…it won’t stop me from trying to turn her to the dark side. Having said that, I’m still filled with doubt that she can pull this column off. Why? See #2. above. You see, I’m not sold on the idea that a late-twentysomething Hott tm lesbo like Jane can be considered an expert on all things guy. After all, she’s never been closely exposed to ding-dongage. And as we all know, guys are pretty much 96.78% penis. However, I BELIEVE in Jane. Kinda. And she thinks that her “professional distance” from dick will somehow give her an edge. So I’m willing to say: Good Luck, Jane! Go with God, girl. Get some.  -GP

Thanks…I think. So here’s the deal: I probably should try to make my first foray into the world of guyness a serious examination of how I see the male of the species. But I’ve never really been that good at doing things that I “probably” should do, so I’m kicking that idea to the curb. Instead, my first post will be about my friend Shay’s freak of a baby’s daddy. He is, after all, a guy. In theory.

What I don’t understand, even after ten years out-of-the-closet as a (to borrow Greg’s term) “confirmed rug-munching dyke” (yeah, that’s so original), is how some homosexuals (in my experience, mostly guys) can’t seem to forgive themselves for their gayness. Of course, I live in Atlanta, which is a pretty cosmopolitan city. It is, as you may or not know, the capital of the New South. It’s also the home to the Dirty South–which I admit, I’m not quite sure what that even means. I will tell you a secret about Greg, though, since he called me a rug-munching dyke. (Please note that this will be the last time that phrase is used in this post). Greg lives in Alabama (which is pretty funny), but he was born in Hotlanta. He was born in East Point, to be exact. This is a really ghetto part of the city, and is known for producing some really talented hip-hop artists. Of course, when Greg was born, East Point was mostly a working-class white area. But he likes to tell people that he was born in the hood as he secretly believes this makes him seem gangsta. It doesn’t. It’s sad, white boy. Sad. Now don’t ever call me a rug-munching dyke again (okay, I lied), or i will tell everyone how you and your little brother used to dress up and act out the Rush song “By-Tor and the Snowdog” with a long choreographed “fight” using plastic swords and fake blood.

Anyway, my friend Shay used to date this he-man woman-beater type that liked to pretend he hated queers. So it was with a certain glee that I took the news he was asking her to use a strap-on on his poor, skinny little bum. Not only that, but he was prone to squeal (Deliverance-style I’m guessing) during the application of the ticklestick, moaning “Rip me open! Do it! Tear my ass!” and other such sweet-nothings. Greg was horrified. I was amused. You see, inside of every he-man redneck is a little ass-maggot who just wants to be punished. So why pretend?

I suppose there are different reasons for living your lie-of-choice. But I happen to know this cretin went happily through high school picking on kids that happened to be smaller than him or who made the mistake of trying to get good grades so they could secure themselves a scholarship and–thus–a ticket out of the backwoods hell-holes where they lived. Guys’s like baby’s daddy seem to be all-to0-common in this world, and that is just plain sad. When a kid is 14, he’s already half-drunk on all the clotted hormones, unsure of himself and his sexuality. It’s a normal part of growing up, and nobody in their right mind would want to do it over once they’ve slipped through the magical portal into adulthood and figured out a little better what their place is in the scheme of things. During this awkward stage, when your own body is betraying you and everything seems really surreal, do you really need the added pressure of some closeted homophobe telling everyone you are a faggot? So maybe I should have paid a little more attention in psychology, but it really makes me wonder what this is all about. Self loathing? I don’t know.

But I’m an evil bitch and I told Shay how to put this asshole in his place. Next time he wants to be anally violated, mix a couple drops of chili oil into the lube. While he’s screaming, straddle him and slap him to get his attention. I’m not advocating abuse, but you’ll need to slap him to get his attention away from Mount Vesuvi-ass. When you have it, look him right in the eyes and say: “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll castrate you with piano wire.” He won’t be hitting you again.

Ta-ta for now, sweets!   -3Jane.



Dress-up Rebel Without a Cause by Gregory Purvis

The Uber-sexual: today’s Generation Next is in truth Generation X…or, to be more precise, Generation XXX.

By the time your average teenaged male reaches “adulthood” (supposedly 18 if Uncle Sam needs the deed on your ass…just don’t expect to be able to browse your local adult bookstore or buy a beer to lower your inhibitions…as if you had any left to lower, right?)  he’s seen over a gazillion sex acts.

The Internet has made porn just as much a part of the American (wet) dream as momma, apple pie and the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

And Columbine, ‘torture videos’, and youTube braggin’ rights for killing puppies and girl-gang gang-bangs. So maybe sex really IS more dangerous than violence? Well, there is the whole AIDS thing still lurking about.

But as long as we’re humpin’ apple pies

Once again, America celebrates its Puritanical witch-burnin’ Good Ole Boy past: violence? okay by me. Sex? Ummmm….no. Sorry. That’s just going a bit too far.

You can play with all the guns and grenades you want…but what you CAN’T play with is yourself.

Masturbation is a no-no.