On Cosmo

I hate Cosmo.
Actual hate.

And I'll tell you why. Largely because it's my blog, and so I get to rant about whatever, so yep.

We ladies have got 3 sexually penetrable orifices. Men have four limbs, 4.5 limbs if we're counting the penis. Granted, there are some gents who range more in the 4.05 range. But let's just pick a good middle ground imaginary but point-conveying number. How about 4.33? Cause "it's not the size that counts", which is exactly what we'll say until a few hours after a messy breakup, in which case -truth's out- we were laughing inwardly the entire time. That moaning sound? That was just from the effort it took to keep said laugh on the inside. BUT I digress.

SO, the maximum combination of limb and orifice? 13. Yep. And the estimated number of years humans have been making the two-backed beast? Wikipedia says 200,000 years. Surely we have come up with every combination and position for said combination by now. Right?

So tell me, Internetz, how is it that every single time I'm in line at the grocery store there's some underfed, scantily clad, mouth breathing woman staring at me from the cover of a Cosmopolitan magazine, promising to share "25 dirty new sex secrets that will drive him wild". Reeeeally? Every month Cosmo concocts some "new" tidbits that we've somehow overlooked for eons?

I made the mistake of Google searching "mouth breathing woman" without Safe Search on.
This was image #6.
I am completely serious.

Initially, I thought "Wow! What genius minds have they devoted to such mundane things? Surely any human capable of discovering that many previously undiscovered secrets about such a well explored topic must be a real analytical mastermind. Or a tantric sex buddha or something. Tantralytical! How is that not a word yet?

However, my suspicion was aroused (pun intended) by the fact that this information was from the same tome of wisdom that boasted that eyeliner was this season's beauty secret. Hey, Cosmo. Maybe secret means something different to you, but ever since the ancient Egyptians, the cat's been out of the bag on that one. (You don't even know how hard I worked to restrain myself from saying "The Bast is out of the bag". Egypt? Cats? Oh sacrilege, you're fun in any pantheon.)

So I decided to scope out some of these relations revelations.

I'll spare you the agony and paraphrase them.

These secrets included gems like:

Lick his penis. He's into that.
Don't be smelly.
Look like you're having fun.
Let him put it in you.
Have boobies.
While having boobies, try bouncing a lot.
Put a finger in his ass while going down on-

WHOA, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second. Cosmo, whatterya tryin' do to me here?

Isn't that the kind of thing we should, ya know, awkwardly talk about at some point after bringing it up in what might be the least expected of segues? I guess I'm a prude for thinking that digital penetration should involve some kind of consent or something. Silly me. But I'm pretty sure if the roles were reversed, and that were attempted without some kind of discourse first, there'd be a squeak followed by the unmistakable sound of my anus never forgiving you ever. And also punching.

Maybe that same issue should have had an article about cleverly concealing fist-shaped forehead bruises. In fact, maybe it did. I wouldn't know. I was too busy stuffing it back onto the rack, disappointed.