Here’s to a Wetter & Better 2012

Thank you to Astroglide and Single Edition for sponsoring this post. All opinions are my own.

My view on lube has changed over the years. When I was younger and having a lot of awkward sex, I’d often reach for the lube to help make the process smoother ie. when the guy was larger than normal, I wasn’t turned on enough* or when I was no longer really enjoying myself because my partner was pounding away on me like a jack rabbit on meth. Clearly, these are bigger issues that probably could have been solved with a bit of communication but I was young and didn’t know any better. In my youthful ignorance I saw lube as a utilitarian product used to make sex that wasn’t really working “work”

(*never a good reason to use lube, ever. Actually, if you’re not turned on you probably shouldn’t be having sex in the first place but that is a whole other blog post)

As I got older, became more comfortable with myself, and the sex got better, I decided I no longer “needed” lube. It wasn’t until I was in a stable relationship and started experimenting with sex again while writing this blog that I realized lube isn’t about necessity…it’s about FUN! Sex with lube can make something that’s already good even better by enhancing your intimate play.

You also don’t need to be in a steady relationship to enjoy the benefits of lube in the bedroom. Single ladies can have fun with lube too! I recommend trying some lube next time you have shower sex – it seriously makes the whole thing much easier so you can just relax and enjoy the experience while you cling to that shower rod for dear life. Plus, having a well stocked collection of condoms and lube on hand, makes you one bad-ass chick. Any guy who doesn’t agree should be kicked out of your bedroom and to the curb (you can tell him Skinny Dip told you so.)

You can also use lube for one of my favorite uses: TOYS! If you haven’t tried using your sex toys with lube, you are seriously missing out. It just makes. everything. better.

Astroglide is a leading brand recommended by Doctors (OB/Gyns, GP’s and other specialty practices) and was actually the first lube I ever tried because it was available at my local drugstore.  Astroglide has expanded their product line since the days when I first tried it to include more options:

Astroglide original: Astroglide Original feels the most like the body’s own natural lubrication and is designed to make sex better. You can use it in the bedroom, in the shower, or take the fun outdoors -it’s really up to how creative you want to get!

Astroglide X Premium Silicone: This is the lube that will allow you to totally roll like the female Notorious B.I.G – you know, “watch a movie in the jacuzzi, smoke L’s while you……” well, you get the rest. This lube is great for making water play extra special (shower sex! pool sex! Jacuzzi sex! Ocean sex! – why not?) and is made with ingredients that act as natural skin conditioners. Although this lube is awesome for H2O activities, don’t use it with your silicone toys. Silicone and silicone don’t play well together. Instead, choose Astroglide Original to use with your silicone playmates.

Astroglide Natural: I’m really sensitive so I like to keep things as natural as possible. I was happy to see that there is now Astroglide Natural which is made with botanical ingredients like Aloe, Chamomile Flower Extract, Vitamins C&E and free of Glycerin, Parabens & Alcohol. If you are sensitive as well, you might find this one works best for you too.

If this was an episode of Oprah, this would now be the moment where I say:

“Look under your chairs!”

If you’ve never personal lubricant before you now have no excuse! As part of their “Wetter is Better: Single Ladies Love Lube too” campaign, Astroglide is giving away free samples to all of my readers. You just have to click on this link and they will send you your very own sample of Astroglide.

Yay, free lube for all!

What Do I Have to Do to Get Sexually Harrassed in this Town?!

A few days before New Years I was walking through Chapters, browsing books when the song “Seasons of Love” (from the musical Rent) come on the store’s stereo system. I started humming along to the song’s chorus:

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes…”

It’s a beautiful song and while listening to it I should have been having a misty-eyed moment about love and loss and everything that has happened this year but instead what popped into my head was: “That’s how long it feels like since someone has tried to hit on me.”

In truth it hasn’t been a year, it’s really only been about two months. Since arriving in my hometown for my extended visit from Toronto I haven’t been the recipient of a single cheesy pick-up line, cat-call or creepy side glance…at least none that I have noticed. Lately, it’s like I’m the Invisible Woman and it’s starting to freak me out. Without encounters with guys like Lunch Dude or Pervy Single Dad, where am I supposed to get inspiration for snarky blog posts?

This has only made me realize what a hot bed of sexual harassment and unwanted male attention the city of Toronto is. Not to toot my own horn or anything but I find it’s almost impossible to go anywhere in Toronto without getting hit on by someone.

Take my old neighborhood for example. Everyday when I’d walk by the Greek cafes where the old men would sit out front smoking and drinking espresso, some old fart would always holler some kind of  incomprehensible but surely disgusting cat call (which always made me grateful I can only understand a few words of Greek). My neighborhood also had no shortage of low rider cars with drivers who would lean out the window and yell “Yo mamacita…how you doing?” over the pounding chugga chugga chugga bass of the reggaeton song blasting out of their car stereo.

Then, there was the Dufferin Mall where you could show up wearing no make-up and a giant parka and still be guaranteed to get hit on by a teen thug, someone’s baby daddy or an old Portuguese grandpa who will grab your arm while you’re lined up in the food court just to tell you in broken English that you remind him of his dead wife.

Last spring I even got chatted up in the waiting room of H&R Block which is just slightly more sexy than being hit on in the waiting room of the gynecologists office – something that hasn’t happened to me…yet. It’s a hot mess out there and Torontonians have no shame in their game.

I’m convinced that none of these scenarios would happen in my hometown. I’m not even sure if the opposite sex speaks to each other (unless you’ve known eachother since kindergarten and even then…)

My best friend and I have come up with a few theories on why male/female relations are so stand offish in Victoria:

1) People are either too married or too old. The myth about Victoria is that it’s the land of “the newly wed and nearly dead.” We have the highest percentage of retirees of all cities in Canada with approximately 6.4 percent of the population over the age of 80. Decent single guys who still have all their teeth get snatched up pretty fast.

2) People are too laid back. Between all the kayaking, biking, hiking, canoeing, boogie boarding, vision quests, endless coffee shop visits and crystal healing seminars who has time to hit on people? Rejection might like, totally harsh your chill vibe.

3) People are too stoned to care. Given BC’s reputation for it’s excellent marijuana and what goes down at my parent’s friend’s dinner parties, this is actually a very real possibility.

4) People are too politically correct. This is a government town. Lots of people work for the provincial public service which means they have to attend mandatory anti-sexual harassment awareness seminars. People are afraid. To say or do anything.

5) The problem is me. Have I let myself go and become fugly? Because seriously, I feel like I am sporting an invisible uni-brow wherever I go.

[My best-friend interjected here and said it’s not that I look any different, it’s just that post-break up I’m putting out a clear “don’t fucking touch me” vibe.]

Hi. What is your secret talent? I repel men.

Well, it’s something because up until a few days ago this is the only thing I’ve experienced that comes anywhere close to “flirtation”.

It’s OK, my own life gives me nightmares too.

On New Years Eve, I got chatted up by one guy who revealed within seconds of the conversation he was from…yes, Toronto. This explains why he was talking to me however, it doesn’t explain why he was wearing suspenders and a gold tie clip. Was his outfit meant to be ironic? I never found out. I snapped his suspenders (probably giving him nipple chafing in the process) and told him:

“Nice outfit. It’s very 1980’s investment banker. Kind of like you’re channeling Patrick Bateman‘s wardrobe”

He wasn’t sure what to say. We chatted for a few more minutes before he asked “What’s your name again?” and politely excused himself. I’m starting to think #5 is true. Maybe I’m just a giant asshole.

I was still mulling this over in my head when I headed to McDonald’s the next day for my annual New Years Day Filet o’ Fish meal. All my questions from the past two months were answered when I went up to the counter to ask for extra napkins and the guy serving me said:

“Here you go…SIR”

Now I get it!

Everyone thinks I’m a dude.

This totally explains why the first thing New Years Guy blurted out as soon as he met me was:


[Disclaimer: I know that sexual harassment is a serious issue. Making unwanted sexual advances on anyone is totally not cool. However, when your life already seems a bit out of sorts, you cling to anything that feels “normal”  – even if “normal” for you means a pantless homeless guy jumping out from behind a bush to greet you on a busy street.]

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #2

Dear ______,


There I said it. I probably should have told you that 10 years ago when I broke up with you but I didn’t. I’m sure by now someone has told you this. Or some other girl you’ve dated has tried to stage an intervention. Or you’ve figured it out on your own (I hope).

It feels a bit weird writing you a letter because I often wonder if you’d even remember me, like if we happened to run into each other on the street…or in the liquor store. If you need a bit of a refresher, here it is: I met you the summer of 2000 at a cheesy bar in my hometown. I was home for the summer, after my first school year in Toronto and was on the rebound from a bad relationship. I was out with my friend that night, soaking my troubles in whatever neon colored-tropical flavored-vodka infused bitch pop I was drinking that week. When I saw you, my first thought was that you were precisely the kind of guy I NEVER date. You looked like the stereotypical West Coast surfer dude (a look that seems to overpopulate my hometown): Yellowy bleach blond spiky hair, deep tan, Hawaiian shirt, pucca shell necklace. You also had these piercing ice blue eyes. When you looked at me with those eyes, I forgave the Hawaiian shirt. You were hot, in a “could be mistaken for a member of a late 90’s boy band” kind of way. I’ve always abhorred boy bands. So, the idea of dating you seemed kinky and exotic like dating the enemy. You also drove a truck, sold car parts for a living and enjoyed Bryan Adams. We had absolutely nothing in common. You were 25. I was 19. I decided that you would make the perfect summer fling.

A few nights later we went out on our first date. After a movie and some margaritas, we ended up back at your apartment. Once inside your place, you dimmed the lights, lit candles all over the apartment and spread a blanket on the floor of your living room. Sitting on the blanket together, you poured us two glasses of wine. After a few sips of wine we were making out on the blanket. When we started peeling off each others clothes, you paused, looked at me & my ivory colored skin and dark curly hair and said “Wow, I’ve never seen a girl without a suntan. You’re beautiful. Like a painting from the Renaissance. Like the Venus de Milo“. Then you said the words that every girl wants to hear “You deserve to be worshiped” (How do you say no to that?!). And that’s exactly what you did: you started at my feet, massaging them, sucking on each of my toes, kissing my ankles, allowing your tongue to travel up my calf…no body part was neglected that night as you worked your way back up to my lips to kiss me (much, much later). We never slept together that night but, I remember my back arching in pleasure as I came. hard. many times. on your living room floor. It was totally hot. It was exactly what my body needed. In the morning, I crept home with shaky legs on a multiple orgasm high.

Everything went downhill from there.

That many orgasms in one night can turn you into a bit of a dum-dum. I had a serious case of sexually transmitted stupidity. This explains dates #2-#5.

Date #2. A few days later I went back to your apartment. Everything looked different in the light of day, without the distraction of the margaritas, the candles, THE WINE, or your head between my legs. How did I not notice that your curtains were made of fabric printed with a Marijuana Leaf motif? Or the giant Marijuana Leaf FLAG on the living room wall? Or the creepy terrarium with the Lizard inside? Or the Star Wars paraphernalia? And how did I not notice the giant BONG on your coffee table? Or the other half dozen bongs all over the living room? Was this really the apartment of the guy I had shared Chardonnay and a candle-light pic-nic with just a few nights before?! When you caught me staring at the bong, you asked “Wanna take a hit off of my Old Lady?” (huh?). I politely declined. Despite growing up on the West Coast weed has never been my thing. You replied “Suit yourself! Don’t mind if I do!”. Then you dove face down into the bong. I sat on the couch, drinking the beer you had handed me (after mentioning you’d already had 6) and watched you orally pleasure your “Old Lady”. I would have preferred if you had been orally pleasuring me. But, like I said before I was 19 and a bit of a dum-dum. At this moment I was really turned off by you but then I thought of the orgasms (orgasms? bong? orgasms? bong?) and said to myself the thing that all 19 year-olds making bad dating choices say “I’m just going to see where this goes“. I dove down and took a hit off of the “Old Lady” and hoped for the best.

Date #3. I barely remember this date. What I do remember is that it involved another cheesy bar in my hometown, lots of Red Bull and an OBSCENE amount of Tequila. One moment we’re jumping around to Basement Jaxx, the next I’m outside in a parking lot watching you puke behind a parked car. At the time I thought “This is gross!” but the joke was on me. As soon as I got home, I was more sick than I have ever been in my life. ALL NIGHT. Scary sick. TMI: I threw up and threw up until I was just throwing up stomach acid and blood. I started to cry. My Mom completely freaked out (rightfully so) and got on the phone to the doctor’s office. She was convinced that I had an ulcer and a ‘very low alcohol tolerance’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her daughter had a bit of a substance abuse problem of her own.

To say I was slightly “troubled” at 19 would be putting it mildly. A lot of bad stuff had happened during my first semester of college. Traumatic stuff. Rather than really face what I was going through, I figured the best thing to do was to have as much fun as possible ALL THE TIME. I was all about “self-medicating”. When I would drink, I wouldn’t just have a few. I would drink to the point of oblivion where everything I felt didn’t matter anymore. Comfortably numb was my preferred state of being. I tried to explain this to you a few times but then realized that I couldn’t. I didn’t trust you enough to tell you about the things that had happened and why I was drinking in the first place. I couldn’t even admit these things to my best friends.

When I told you about throwing up blood you said,

“That happens to me all the time”


As messed up as I was, I knew that being around you wasn’t good for me. But, instead of walking away at that point (hey, remember those orgasms?!) I told myself two other lies that 19-year old dum-dums making bad decisions tell themselves:

Just because HE’S drinking, doesn’t mean I have to. Besides, maybe I can help him

Which brings us to date #4. I decided that I would plan a “sober” date for us (after date #3 I couldn’t even look at a bottle of liquor without feeling nauseous). I was house sitting for my Dad and decided to have all of my girlfriends over for dinner…and invite YOU to meet EVERYONE! You showed up bleary eyed, stumbling, WASTED, with a six pack. You proceeded to sit down in front of my Dad’s TV and drink six more beers. When my girlfriends went home, I suggested that maybe you should lie down for a bit and “sleep it off”. I went to go get something from the bathroom, when I came back into the room you had taken off all of your clothes and you were standing in the middle of the room STARK NAKED.


At which point, you ran out of the room and puked in my Dad’s toilet.

As far as Summer Flings go, I was kind of hoping mine would be more along the lines of “Dirty Dancing” or “Blue Lagoon” (naked teens on a deserted island!). Instead, my summer romance had turned into “Leaving Las Vegas”.

When the amount of puke in a relationship outnumbers the amount of orgasms, that’s when you know its OVER….which totally doesn’t explain why there was a date#5.

For date #5, you asked me to the movies. Barring you managing to smuggle in a flask in the pocket of your Hawaiian shirt, I figured the movies were probably “safe”. When we arrived to the theater and you suggested we “Grab a Drink before the show”I knew it was now or never. I HAD to break-up with you. So, while we sat at the bar across the street from the movie theater, you nursing a Pint and me a tiny cup of coffee, I told you it was over. I wish I had told you the truth, that your drinking really bothered me. That I thought you needed help. But, I didn’t. I barely knew you. I don’t think I could have saved you. Not, when I needed saving myself. Instead I came up with some other bullshit reason for why I was breaking up with you: “Its not you…It’s me”

The fact of the matter was, it totally was you.

We never spoke after that night. A few months later, my best friend and I were driving through town. I looked out my window and saw you in the car next to us. Your head was hanging out of the passenger seat window. The only time I have ever leaned out of a car window like that is when I’ve had so much to drink that I am about to spill my guts. It was 2pm in the afternoon. I knew at that moment I had made the right decision.

You were a nice guy. A good-looking guy. A really good toe-sucker. We both needed help. I hope you’ve found that help. I hope you’re happy and in a good place now.



What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #1

Dear ________ ,

Originally I wasn’t going to write you a letter because our break-up was pretty cut and dry. You were too old for me. We were both at different points in our lives. When we broke up, we shook hands as friends and never spoke again. But here is what I should have said to you when I had the chance:


They’re pretentious. They’re elitist. They are total ASS-HATS.

Hanging out with them while we were dating was honestly one of the most painful experiences of my life. Don’t believe me? Let me refresh your memory. Here are a few things that happened while we were dating that convinced me your friends were douche-bags:

1. The Ikea incident: While we were dating I had to move apartments. Your best friend kindly volunteered to help me move. While you guys were moving you managed to break the legs off of my Ikea computer desk. When this happened, you and your friend started laughing.

Me: “You guys just broke my desk”
Your friend: “It was a crappy desk anyways. I think I just did you a favor. What is this.. Ikea?”
Me: “Yeah thanks. Now my desk has no legs”
Your friend: “You should really spend the money and buy better stuff Simone. Ikea is for low income people”

I really wanted to yell at your friend and say: I just graduated university and have 30K worth of debt. I AM LOW INCOME. And you just amputated my desk. ASSHOLE.

But I didn’t. I swallowed my feelings while you stood by idly, laughing with your friend as he made fun of my stuff. I should have broken up with you then.

2. The Wife: Your best friend’s wife is a total SHE-DOUCHE. I just had to put it out there. She’s one of the most controlling, competitive people I have ever met. I tried to be friends with her but it stopped being fun when I realized she tried to control every. single. social. situation. The worst was when we’d hang out with both of them and she’d pick these crazy fights with your best friend. They’d be swapping passive aggressive comments across the dinner table while we were held hostage, listening to this crap. It was seriously stuff right off of the pages of “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Wolf”. If I wanted to watch that, I’d rent the DVD. At least then I’d be allowed popcorn. The worst fight was definitely the one that took place at the Mexican restaurant. Between your friends embarrassing comments about how much they loved “ethnic food” and their public display of relationship problems, the staff was totally staring at our table. I just wanted to grab one of the oversize sombreros off of the wall so I could hide under it until this whole mess was over.

I know you found these fights totally awkward and inappropriate. But you never did or said anything.

The day I completely wrote your friend’s wife off as a SHE-DOUCHE was the night I showed up at your birthday toting my vintage Louis Vuitton bag. I had recently got my first “real job” and just felt like dressing up that night. As soon as she noticed the bag she was suddenly nicer to me than she had ever been. She pulled me aside and said condescendingly “Oh, Simone. Isn’t it nice to finally be able to buy nice things for yourself?“. Then, she held up her $700 pocket book and said “Welcome to the Club!“.

What I really should have said to her was this: The purse is three years old. I bought it with my own money (vintage). And despite being a CHARITY CASE in your eyes, I DO have nice things. I just don’t wear my nice things around you because frankly, you’re not worth it. And unlike you, I don’t need to rub these things in other people’s faces because my whole sense of worth isn’t built around what kind of monogram is on my purse. I actually feel really bad for you that this is how you see yourself and the world. Whatever “Club” you think you belong to, I’m not interested in joining.

3. The Hitler incident: This is what convinced me once and for all that your best friend was an asshole. We were driving through a “low income” area of Toronto that is known for its high density housing projects and large immigrant population. Your friend says,

“This neighborhood is disgusting. It doesn’t even deserve to exist”
Me: “I have friends who grew up around here”
Him: “Well, its disgusting. The city should just bulldoze the whole area”
Me: “Umm, I don’t think the residents would be too happy about that”
Him: “I would just round everyone up, put them on buses and ship them off to farms in the country. Maybe they’d learn how to become productive members of society”
Me: “Oh you mean sort of like how Hitler rounded up the Jews and sent them off somewhere?”


Your friend stared DAGGERS into my eyes. I’m pretty sure at that moment he hated me. And I hated him. That was also the moment I lost respect for you for not standing up against your friend’s obviously fucked up values.

You became an asshole by association.

4. The Trapeze: You and your best friend were really into Kite Surfing. My new boyfriend says that this “sport” is retarded and for pussies. I have to agree with him here. Because of your obsession with Kite surfing I will never, EVER date another guy who plays a sport that can have the prefix “XTREME” placed in front of it. I hated Kite Surfing because it totally monopolized our time together. One Friday night we went over to your friend’s house because he had set up a Trapeze swing in his loft that apparently simulated the “aerial movement” (?) of being on an actual board. I sat on the sofa, watching two 35 year old guys swing from one end of your friend’s loft to the other, like overgrown monkeys. Eventually I got so bored that I fell asleep sitting up. When I woke up, I looked at my phone and saw that 3 hours had passed. I don’t think you had even noticed that I was unconscious. I realized at this point that there wasn’t room for me in this bro-mance.

I never understood why you liked hanging out with these people so much. I always thought you were “different”. I thought you were better than all this. But, it can’t be denied that the people you choose to surround yourself with ARE a reflection on who you are and your values. You CHOSE to be these people’s friends. Looking back on you and me, I can now see how much of your friends values were your own.

I don’t think you really liked me for who I was. Not really.

There were many, many times where you criticized the way I dressed and the things I liked. You called them “tacky”. You thought I was too bright. Too glittery. My personality too brash. My hair too curly. My earrings too big. Around you, I toned down so much of myself just so that you and your friends wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I straightened my hair. I listened to my Roots CD in private (because you thought my music taste sucked.) I tried to become the white-washed-WASP-y-white-cotton-pantie-wearing-GAP-commercial-girl that you wanted. But it didn’t work. Because that’s not who I am. I will never be white cotton panties. I will always be leather and lace and garters and bright colors. And as much as YOU hated it I love animal print (in moderation.) I have Eastern European roots-wearing animal print is like my fucking birth-right.Deal with it. I love music with bass and dancing around the living room to Craig Mack with the volume cranked. Your comments hurt my feelings because when I met you, I was happy with who I was ( I still am). It was you who didn’t like who I was.

Honestly, I think you only stayed with me because you thought I was hot and liked fucking me. When I stopped wanting to fuck you, I think we both just decided to cut our losses.

But that’s OK. Water under the bridge. In the end we both wanted people that neither of us were. You wanted a girl that would stroke your ego. I wanted a guy who stood up for what he believed in. Neither of us got what we wanted from each other.

And I hated your friends.

That pretty much sums it up.


Skinny Dip

What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?


Latest pins

Follow on Pinterest