Okay, I’m sick and I can’t concentrate, which is a writer’s nightmare, so I decide to go trolling around Amazon to read reader reviews — and to my lucky surprise, this gem was waiting for me in the reviews for The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio:
(one star) The marriage bed is undefiled
After 18 years of marriage, I sought an appropriate book that might help me become more pleasing to my husband. I could find no detailed explanations in christian literature, although I knew that the Bible explicity tells the "older women to teach the younger women HOW to love their husbands"…so I sought a book that might not violate my conscious. I bought this book because I thought the author might be sympathetic to women who are turned off and feel violated by explicit pornographic photos. This book had no photos but it does take unexpected turns that does violate the consciouses of women who have christian character.
There are subjects that I just prefer not to know about when I search on enriching our love life! I don’t want to know about lesbian’s with strap ons or descriptions of homosexual men. I don’t want to hear about group sex or surprise sexual encounters with roadside stranger’s.
The only redeeming factor was the complete description of the male anatomy and a few sporatic suggestions about technique.
I just felt that all the accolades this book has received, someone needs to warn those who are wanting to perserve the sanctity of the marriage bed, this book is not for them.
Indeed — if you want an undefiled bed of any kind, certainly do not buy my books! Like something scary waiting in the woods to devour the devout conscience of the subjugated moralistically religious housewife, my books will not only defile that bed, but I guarantee they’ll burn holes in your sheets, make your sanctified bed into a blazing bonfire of orgiastic lesbian strap-on homosexual sex-with-strangers lust, and you and your lover, whoever they might be, will be transformed into raging orally fixated sex bunnies who know what to do when they travel south, know what I mean? I am sorry if this poor lady feels violated by my book. And I am sorry that she thinks I am an older woman (ahem!). I am also sorry that she managed to totally miss all the illustrations (?). But mostly I’m amused to watch her morals collide with her desires, like a car wreck in slow motion.
But I mean, come on. She bought a book on cocksucking. Besides, I hear the bible’s pretty dirty all on its own. What does she need my book for?
Oh, and some sad news: I killed my favorite dildo. Here is my ode to Woody:
Woody R.I.P 8/7/2003 – 8/27/2003
Woody was a firm man. Sometimes he was a firm woman. Woody didn’t care what gender I made him, as long as I made him. The ten girls writhing in Crisco-smeared knots onscreen never made Woody jealous, nor did the much larger phalluses on the TV he was prone to imitate. When Woody first arrived at Good Vibes, my eyes locked on his one single staring, unblinking eye, and our lube-drenched destiny was sealed. I loved Woody not because he was he was a giant among dildos — though he was in stamina. Woody was a silicone everyman. A non-porous bitch who lived to please me. Marbled, with a flared base, a nice fat head and the adventurousness of Laura Croft.
I didn’t kill Woody because he made me jealous — no, no. We had an open agreement — as long as we both shared, boys or girls, Woody and I were a modern pair. It was an accident. A crime of passion. Okay, a crime of raging lust. The video was cued up. My pajamas were off, panties dangling from an ankle. My parts were all slicked up, and now it was Woody’s turn. I poured the fateful handful — of silicone lube, and rubbed it all over Woody, just the way he and I liked it (sniff). Everything seemed fine, and then — Woody started to absorb the lube. And grow strangely sticky. My blood ran cold. I knew right then — but only then, I swear! I knew that Woody was one of those silicone dildos incompatible with silicone lube. Dammit — I had heard about this phenomenon from Shar and Jackie, but now I knew the facts, the hard way. All worked up, and no Woody. So it was all an accident, see? No dame in her right mind would off her Woody just when she needed him most. That’s my story, anyway — and I’m stickin’ to it.
