Because sexism is the cosmic joke.

gasmorg:

I Was Objectified When I Wore Cosmic Pants to a Comedy Open Mic

Last week, my friend and I went to a bar in downtown San Francisco to see some stand-up comedy. For the sake of this story, we’ll call my friend The Foxy Lesbo. The bar was small, well lit, and very crowded — with women making up about 10 percent of the audience that night. At the front there was a “stage,” which was actually just a slightly elevated, carpeted piece of floor at the front of the room. The Foxy Lesbo and I wandered to the back and found a couple of empty seats.

Before leaving to go out that evening, I made the decision to don leggings that had a print depicting outer space. At the time, I had no idea that the clothing choice would directly affect several interactions I’d experience throughout the night — but more on that later.

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Should I paste this photo into my resume?

It’s SFW.

I haven’t gotten out of my pajamas all day. A dream is a wish your heart makes.

Said The Writer

You claim to understand me, yet you haven’t even read me.

Say you’re not a feminist, and you’ll be endearing to many boys. Say you are a feminist, and you’ll find (and keep) a few good men.

Worth it.

I recently performed at Bawdy Storytelling, the show where people get on stage and tell their true tales of sexual adventure.

If you care, you can read my piece on Medium about what it was like to get up on stage.

If you watch me perform and want to know more about OMXperience, read my article.

If you want to suck a dick, this is not the place for you. Get off the computer and go get some.

I went to the orgasmic meditation conference and wrote about it. 

Oh. OH! Yes.

gasmorg:

A Stranger Touched My Clit and I Liked It

Over the past few years, OneTaste, the orgasmic meditation organization, has been gaining popularity. So when OneTaste decided to throw their 2014 OMX Conference in Oakland, Calif., journalist Krissy Eliot set out to provide a first person account of what it’s like to experience three days of orgasmic meditation (OM).

DAY ONE

It was a sunny March afternoon and the line was out the door at The Oakland Scottish Rite Center, so I took my place in line next to a woman with light blue veins tattooed on her forehead. As I introduced myself to her, a bunch of males turned to locate the source of my voice, and I felt their eyes scan the length of my body as they checked me out. I pulled my jacket tightly around myself out of shyness, because I knew that they had one thing on their minds: these men wanted to stroke my clit — and the clits of many other women, if they could manage it.

I was at the 2014 OMXperience, a three day conference thrown by the orgasmic meditation organization,OneTaste. The company was founded in 2001 by Nicole Daedone — a clever businesswoman who found out how to make serious bank on the female orgasm. The conference was to feature talks from the likes of feminist author Naomi Wolf and biophysicist Reese Jones, while offering massages, raffles, dances parties, and of course — orgasmic meditation or “OM” sessions.

When I walked into the lobby, I was handed a lanyard with a name tag and was immediately herded up the stairs with a bunch of other people to what they called “The Safety Room” — where two women in blue OMX v-necks explained how we could simplify our emotions by defining our feelings as green, yellow, and red (any other emotions would not compute). They told us to be present in our bodies and try to stay in the green zone, but if ever we were to enter the yellow or red zone, we should immediately talk to the staff, who are trained to take care of us (whatever that meant). We were then handed a red card that we were supposed to keep behind our name tag, so if we were feeling “red” we could hold it up for help.

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Thursday night: eat an entire medium pizza by yourself; lie around naked; put Sennheiser headphones on; become a demon.

Dear Millennials — when do you think parents should talk to their kids about sex?

I want to know your opinion.

People don’t like my heterosexual posts.