by: Carolyna Shelton

Lying in bed, steeped in sweat and mildly delusional with a fever from the H1N1 piggy flu, I have had the perfect angle from which to contemplate how breasts are the ultimate fashion accessory—and such a revelation seemed appropriate to celebrate fashion week. It’s not that my breasts are feeling particularly fashionable this week, but the wife-beater that has been sprayed on with sweat for days now, and which I’ve been too weak to remove, has provided a good view of them; I’ve been unable to concentrate on much else.

My breasts have had less support than even South Carolina Governor/political dog tick Mark Sanford this week. They report that my armpits are their soul mates and that they have a “level of sophistication … so fitting with [their] beauty.” It appears they are going to leave office and go to their lovers once and for all if I don’t get out of this bed and put on a bra.

From my helpless vantage point, I started thinking about breasts and all they symbolize. Can you even fathom the message we send to young girls? “You want to get A’s in school, but heaven forbid you have an A for your boobies’ grade.” “Your market value, much like a KFC bucket, will be judged, in part, by the size of your breasts.” “Those assets that were installed much like teats on a cow? They are your female kryptonite, the very power of your womanhood.” And I, as a feminist who chafes ideologically at this neolithic notion, have bought into it—hook, line and creamers.

I remember how important underwear was to us in sixth grade. Those of us who were more of the “A”-student type, would stare longingly at the conspicuous straps of our more boobalicious classmates. Some of the more desperate “carpenter’s dream” girls would stuff their “Her First Bras” with tissue, but after one girl’s stuffing sneaked out during a lively game of kick-ball, I was never brave enough to try it. I can still hear the jeers, “Kleenex, Kleenex; I gotta blow my nose!” The girl could have gone on to become the first flat-chested Supreme Court Justice, and she still would have been known for posterity as “The Honorable Justice Snot Rag.”

I even remember making a deal with God; I told Him I wouldn’t mind starting my period if He would just grant me boobs. I’m not pointing fingers, but I kept my end of the deal.

Though I had no physiological need for a bra, I begged for one until my mother relented. I was so proud of the garment that had all the support of a Snoopy Band-Aid—which was about twice as much as I actually needed. I even wore my bra to bed, despite my father’s snide salvo, “Choke a chicken, and it’ll die.” He was right. My chickens have remained sickly pullets for life.

Throughout the years I would try to enhance my breasts with eye-manipulating designs, which were woefully obvious in their lame attempts at producing boobage. I’m sure no one noticed that my swimsuits had outrageously wide stripes at the bust which dwindled down to mere wisps at my waist. Underwires were the cheat of choice, too, and the early models would dig into the tender, fatless flesh and leave scars. We of the faux flapjacks didn’t mind though; they created an illusion of cleavage, so we suffered in the name of all that was womanly. Then came the Wonder Bra, and, suddenly, the playing field was leveled! Wonder indeed! We had scoops! So we couldn’t draw a deep breath and courted dizzy bouts of the vapors like our corseted foremothers; we had proper cleavage and curves! That is, until we got a date, and we could either deflate in shame or make out fully clothed, like virtuous little curvy nuns.

Nowadays, breast-enhancement surgery has become the tata equalizer for many women. ABC news reported in July of 2007 that boob jobs are becoming a relatively common high-school graduation gift. I’m so sure my parents would have gone for that one. I can hear it now: “But, Mom, all my friends are getting C cups!” And my mom would answer, “If all your friends jumped off the roof, would you jump too?” I would have surely thought, “I wouldn’t want to jump if I had bigger boobs”—but it would have been fruitless to argue.

Many of us still doggedly refuse the silicon option and try things like the water bra (the Titanic of undergarments) or the three-click system that is supposed to pump up your jams exponentially with each click. There are other options, too. At ezinearticles.com, I read a column by Jenny Bolton who swears you can grow a bountiful crop by eating estrogen-rich foods like flax, tofu and soybeans. Bolton says, “Having small and underdeveloped breasts is a huge problem which affects millions of women throughout the world, but it’s one which you can cure by eating certain types of foods.” This was the first time I’d read that being small-breasted was a malady and could be cured. However, I must report that I eat F-cups’ worth of these foods every week, and I still have very modest melons.

Creams, pills, pumps and even massage techniques aside (readers know they will look this one up), the only real non-surgical tricks to growing boobs are gaining 20 pounds or nursing a baby. For the record, nursing boobs are fabulous, curvy and voluptuous; post-nursing boobs flap like used-car lot flags.

Over the years, I’ve made peace with my modest melons. Sometimes I wear a sports bra and flatten myself into half a sex-change; sometimes, I wear a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra just to change the landscape. I like for anyone who may study my boobs to have a surreal day every time his eyes leave my face. I recently caught a male reading my T-shirt for much longer than it would normally take to read the words, “See girl run.” Bet I can guess the lay of the land that day.

I’m mature enough now to realize that the boobs don’t make the woman. It’s hard to believe anyone could be so shallow as to think the essence of being female is all bound up with fatty mammary tissue. It’s an anachronistic idea that is long overdue to be euthanized because everyone knows the true essence of womanhood is in the legs and ass. Hard to believe I’ve been sitting on my womanhood all this time, but there you have it: True fashion is in the assets, and the emphasis is clearly placed on the “ass.”

by: Carolyna Shelton

“Sometimes a snake orgy is just a snake orgy.”

Well, ain’t that just the truth? My great-uncle Elmoden always said this every Thanksgiving (along with, “That crunchy part is bird shot,” and “Who smells like mothballs?”), so the words caught my attention. I found the pithy statement while researching randy reptiles. No, not dates on Match.com; I mean real serpents. Snakes have been on my mind, and not euphemistically either, you ssssexual deviants.

Recently, I took my son to a snake museum, and found that for less than $20, I had a full afternoon’s entertainment; I was thrilled to the depths of my cloaca. (Not really; that’s a reptilian multi-purpose orifice. I did once know a chick who had only one hole, but I digress.) I am not saying I want to flick tongues with something venomous (not that I haven’t), but Ms. Auntie Carolyna is interested in more than the one-eyed variety.

I thoroughly love snakes. I credit the late Steve Irwin’s demented reptilian antics with this infatuation. He made me peek through my fingers and realize that snakes are “beautiful lovers” (his words), and are nature’s fluid and brilliant calligraphy. Post-reptilian epiphany, I’ve been their defender, flinging myself in front of an undulating rat snake in the back yard to protect it from a rake, and being a hero to my young son by pulling over to examine flattened fauna on a roadside so he could ID a copperhead.

So the afternoon at the snake museum was a good one, made even better because we happened to be present at feeding time. Child and I were in awe as vipers struck at the steaming bodies of rats plucked from hot water. We were close enough to be slung with water from a rat as a constrictor deep-throated a carcass.

During the feeding we were introduced to someone rather fascinating (in the way a third nipple is fascinating); I’ll call him the “Snake Master” (SM). I had been watching the SM from the time he strode regally into the feeding arena. He carried himself as if he were a hiss apart from the rest of us. He was somewhat attractive, and it was obvious that he capitalized on his farm team celebrityhood. He strode about, making practiced quips and flicking rat corpses deftly.

With a steely squint, he educated us on how the venom from a particular snake would course through our veins, boiling us from the inside out, or how the rough scales on one species would stimulate the females to sexual readiness. At this point, I wondered if my impending “Birds and Bees” talk with my 7-year-old would now be more of a “Snakes and Bees” talk on the way home. (“Now, son, snakes have hemipenes because two spiny weenies have to be better than one, right? And you think that’s something? Honeybees’ testicles explode after fornication!”) The universe would be better if many peoples’ testicles exploded upon sexual maturity.

Speaking of, once the ectothermic SM completed his presentation, he went to warm himself on a rock. In his forked dispassion, he dissed my hatchling and all the others. His dislike of children was very apparent, and he made me long once again for at least one stupid superpower so I could shrink him to the size of the hapless rats skewered on dripping fangs. His frigid, flippant remarks in response to the excited questions of his young admirers earned him the glare of doom from Auntie Carolyna, who imagined he was quite suited for the company of vipers. Perhaps he wondered why a six-foot-tall brunette, muttering quietly about superpowers, was staring him down as he strode past.

While reading about the sexual lives of reptiles like anacondas and garter snakes, I learned about “breeding balls” (similar to high-school proms), which brought to light my opening quotation. It seems that a female gets in the mood, secretes and primps, and then finds herself under a big squirmy breeding ball of frustrated males; she then films her antics for Internet distribution. No, wait. That’s Paris Hilton. But it’s a similar concept. Apparently, there’s only one belle of the ball, and she has a very full dance card (featuring Duran Duran’s “Union of the Snake”); meanwhile, the cross-eyed, dry-humping males are trying every trick in the book to bump cloacae with the serpentine slut. Some males (let’s call one of them ‘RuPaul’) even release a faux female pheromone to make other male snakes confused.Once the others are distracted trying to hump RuPaul, he wriggles closer to cloaca heaven and goes for prize.

So anyway, Susan MacCarthy writes on Salon.com, “Looking at an orgiastic writhing ball of mating snakes, and pondering the fact that female adders mate with many males, [author and biologist Marlene] Zuk does not conclude that all males are beasts nor that we must reclaim the female as sexually empowered earth-goddess, but that animals are interesting to study and that not all stories have morals: ‘Sometimes—snake sex is only about sex among snakes.’”

This may be true, according to Zuk and my great-uncle Elmoden, but I do see a bit of a moral in this case. It goes like this: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, even if that hand is small and is raised to ask dumb questions. And if the SM doesn’t give a boiled rat’s ass about the hands that feed him, he can kiss my cloaca.

by: Carolyna Shelton

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens….”

These may be somebody’s (a former nun’s; life is sparse in the convent) favorite things, but I think my list is better. My “These Are My Favorite Things” song goes like this:

“Godiva chocolate to eat all I could/cold beer and naptime and good morning wood…”

What? Like it isn’t one of your favorite things, too.

I have been researching penises, which makes being a sex writer a fantastic excuse to surround myself with books that have titles like, Why Do Men Have Nipples? (Leyner and Goldberg, Three Rivers Press). I also have Men’s Health, which is my favorite men’s insecurity magazine, and a font of helpful info about men and their twigs and berries.
Studying so my readers can be uplifted has been a hard challenge, but I am up for the task; so, pass the KY and let’s get to it, shall we?

Top 10 Phallic Phacts (brought to you by Trojan Magnums, the condom you have to buy unless you want to announce that you have a wee winkie):

10. Let’s start with morning wood, aka Morning Glory, or in more medical terminology, “Nocturnal Tumescence.” According to Leyner and Goldberg, these involuntary erections occur during REM sleep, which is common just before waking up. One benefit of morning wood is that erections inhibit urination so when one has a full bladder in the early morning, he doesn’t pee pee the bed and risk a seriously un-sexy occasion Now isn’t that a thoughtful design touch, men? Who wants to wake up smelling like a nursing home laundry hamper? Plus, it helps to be able to tell the missus she’s responsible for the lumber. Everybody wins!

9. To break or not break the boner! While there’s no actual bone there, one can actually fracture his penis, which requires emergency surgery to correct. And what’s the most common reason for a phallic fracture? Vigorous masturbation, says Mike Zimmerman of Men’s Health, who also notes, “Some risks are just worth taking.”

8. Foreskin from circumcised babies has been used for skin graphs for burn victims. According to Zimmerman, one foreskin can stretch to 23,000 square meters, which, when considering the United States covers 9,629,091 square kilometers, that would mean he would have whacked off the foreskins of 418,656,130 infants, we could solve our UV woes with an expandable tarp.

7. Speaking of male circumcision, here are some snippy facts from Why Do Men Have Nipples?
· Circumcision was advocated in the 12th century to curb men’s sexual appetites.
· It was used in English-speaking countries in the 1800s to reduce masturbation.
· Non-religion circumcision is performed far more often in the U.S. than anywhere else in the world. Sixty-five percent of boys are circumcised, having 33-50 of their penile skin removed as well as nearly all of their neuroreceptors.

6. Any guy wondering what he’s missing? Well, turns out guys can grow their foreskin back. The curious can visit www.cirp.org for help, but be forewarned: The need to attach wiener weights may cause security issues at airports and government buildings.

Airport guard: “I don’t understand it. You’re still setting off the metal detector.”

You (whispering desperately): “It’s my wiener weights.”

Airport guard: “Your weiner weights? Security! We have a code ‘4-Skin’ at Gate 6!”

If wiener weights are a bit off-putting, apparently, men can resort to a more manual form of growth encouragement called “tugging.” Seems to me that “tugging” is an imperative man-thang from the time he-babies develop the “seek and grip” reflex; why don’t they all grow new foreskins if this works?

5. Guys are either “growers” or “showers,” meaning the presentation when they are not thinking about sex (which is only during prostate exams or when seeing their grandmother’s in the shower) has little(!) to do with the presentation at show time. Also, the average length of a male’s penis for Kinsey’s study in 1942 was 6.2 inches. The average length in a 1991 study was 5.1 inches. This trend indicates some bad news, men. (Oh, and men who have a penis that is more than 2.5 standard deviations smaller than the norm, well, they have a micropenis, which is hardly(!) a designation any guy wants when shopping for condoms.)

4. Penises are really shaped like boomerangs. The root of the penis is inside, attached to the pubic bone, creating the boomerang shape. So I think a great new euphemism would be the “Thunder from Down Under.” Though, if any man said that to me, I would laugh helplessly before giving up and turning to the Internet for sex.

3. Penises have a mind of their own. Hahahahaha! Who knew? Erections answer to the sympathetic nervous system, which as it turns out, doesn’t feel sorry for any man’s penis, even just a little. Wood happens. It’s as simple as that.

2. German researchers say the average bout of intercourse takes a surprisingly efficient (and hardly satisfying for one of us) two minutes and 50 seconds. Kind of makes one wonder why such a brief endeavor occupies 740 hours of thought a year, according to one of my favorite afternoon radio shows.

1. And the number one phallic phact: Ejaculation requires no brain activity whatsoever. The order to climax comes directly from the spinal cord (or perhaps a dominatrix). Getting off is truly a no-brainer after all.

Despite all of the oddness, they still are among hot among “My Favorite Things.” Beats “schnitzel with noodles” any day.

by: Carolyna Shelton

I recently returned from my annual pilgrimage to the beach. My goodness, my middle-aged mommy butt has been quite full of herself since we got back. I had been dreading cramming the jiggly bits into a swimsuit and facing the harsh summer daylight. I even greased up and wiggled into a Miracle Suit (the miracle is that the seams don’t rupture along the fault lines and cause a 7.3-magnitude ass quake). I sucked in my belly so hard that I over-inflated my corneas.

However, once I hit the beach, I looked around and had a startling revelation: I looked freaking great! I mean, here I was, hairless in all the right places, and I was age-appropriately covered; also, my skin was a normal color, not the hue of a bloody hunk of ground chuck because I was determined to demonstrate to all that I’d gotten my money’s worth. I did not sport any unfortunate vaginal region tattoos leaking their way down my legs, nor could I lose, say, a bag of Funyuns or a big ol’ box o’ wine somewhere in a belly that lapped a woeful bikini. I was feeling pretty doggone sporty—yessirree!

Nevermind that I immediately stepped in a sandy sinkhole and made an abrupt facial landing that jarred a few fillings loose, I am a passable MILF, all gravity considered. I think if it came to a MILF contest between, say, Bea Arthur (rest her soul) and me, I would win, hands down (granted I’m warmer at this point).

This realization caused me to think about beach myths, and I pondered a few of these as I plodded my way judgmentally up the beach.

Beach Myth #1: It’s my body, and I can wear whatever I want to the beach. No, as a matter of fact, we cannot. As a 40-plus, middle-aged mom who fights a losing battle with beer and chocolate, I cannot wear a French bikini. Doing so would likely cause a tear in the space-time continuum, and perhaps, life as we know it would cease to exist. It is my responsibility as a human being to avoid forcing my stretch marks upon the world. It is a man’s duty, sir, to step away from that Speedo. Remember the rule when purchasing men’s swimwear: “If you can’t see your sack, take the Speedo right back.”

As for women, if that muffin top looks like a Bundt cake in a measuring cup, it’s time to consider something gauzy and modest—like a choir robe, perhaps.

Beach Myth #2: I’m on vacation! I don’t have to shave! Au contraire, my furry little manx. Those who don’t depilate, end up looking like they’re smuggling Groucho Marx in the crotchal region. People will gawk and judge for this. I’m sorry to have to be the barrier of bad news, but those who want to be recognized for their intelligence, inner beauty or perhaps the skill of being able to discreetly pee in knee-deep waves will have to divert peoples’ helpless stares from the twat.

Trim those whiskers, ma’am, or at least braid them and work in some festive beads.

Beach Myth #3: Sunburn is sexy, and people will be so envious that I spent my vacation at the beach! Um, guess what? Sunburn is a burn, actually. Like fire. We won’t be envious. In fact, we will think most are a special kind of stupid to go out day after day, courting skin grafts and weeks wrapped in wet sheets. We will be much more impressed by folks who spend the middle of the day inside having sex, instead of being outside, roasting like a suckling pig.

And speaking of, Beach Myth #4: Beach sex is the best sex. It all sounds so sexy and romantic, doesn’t it? The soothing sound of the waves. The soft, air-brushed light of a rising full moon. The beach blanket. The crabs. The children armed with Maglites who scamper up, screeching, “Mommy! Daddy! We found another double one!” I have found, whilst interviewing the Sexual Advisory Group (SAG), that usually one beach encounter pretty much took care of the urge for further encounters. Most cited the unfortunate sand abrasions as the top reason to eschew surfside shagging.

SAG member “S” did report that he got lucky on a teenage beach trip—so lucky, in fact, that he didn’t even finish the, um, dance, so to speak. He hit it once or twice upon the sands and then high-tailed it (or something) back to his hotel to report his good fortune to his friends. It didn’t dawn on him until later that, usually, the experience is a bit more rewarding if one actually finishes the deed, instead of just doing a couple of steps and quitting for emergency PR purposes.

Another “S” said a former boyfriend thought he wanted to have a little shag, but as it turns out, he merely had to poop, which ended up being somewhat of a mood killer. “Hard to believe I let that one get away,” S marveled.

And finally, we have SAG member “C,” who relayed the following tail, er, tale. She said one night, she and her mister walked out beyond the light of the hotels and houses. He suggested a little shag and cleverly advised her to “bend over like you’re hunting seashells.” She pondered exactly what she would have thought, had she seen a man’s silhouette proximately assisting a woman who was doggedly picking up shells in the dark. Still, she was game, and as a testament to the effective multitasking abilities of women, she mused, “I actually did pick up a few shells.”

So, I think we can all see that while the beach is the quintessential summer pilgrimage, it is best to avoid perpetuating the myths at all costs. Meanwhile, forgive me if I’m a little smug after my vacation, but it’s not every day that I can kick a TV star’s ass in a MILF contest.

by: Carolyna Shelton

There are many things in life that baffle and befuddle me. For example, I am just astounded that I can fit hundreds of songs on an iPod that is the size of a Frito. How can this possibly be? I grew up in an age when a “portable” stereo weighed 30 pounds and used more electricity than a theme park; I can’t comprehend the innards of my itty-bitty iPod that make it so agreeable.

Additionally, I am amazed that every time I need to use the bathroom, I become the most vitally essential person in the world. All of my phones ring, my husband is hollering for me because someone has come to visit, and my son’s desperate fingers are wiggling under the bathroom door, pleading, as if for his very life, for me to come out and put batteries in his light saber right now before civilization as we know it is lost to the dark side.

I am baffled at how food that tastes good is bad for me and vice versa. Why should this be? Why shouldn’t doughnuts and beer have a vital place on the food pyramid? What the hell is so great about broccoli anyway?

In a peripherally related issue, I’m equally stunned when I see my ass in the mirror. I mean, whose ass is that? And why is it following me around like it does? And why does a camera add 10 pounds? Just how many cameras are pointed on my ass at any given time?

But I think perhaps the one thing that confounds me above all else is why homophobic people are so captivated and intimately involved with the details of the sex lives of same-sex couples. I hear it all the time. People who are anti-gay are preoccupied with who does what to whom, and who gets to play outfield or shortstop or whatever. Why is this? They will froth righteous spit bubbles of tiresome platitudes that are vehemently anti-everything-that-ain’t-like-me. They’ll fling the Bible about and pluck Old-Testament verses to add as punctuation to their arguments (failing to notice homosexuals didn’t even make the top 10 or flagrantly ignoring Deuteronomy’s helpful guidelines for when to stone one’s children or entire family [answer: during long car rides especially if the Xanax is running low]). The nekked truth is: They are disgusted and preoccupied with the sexual nature of the relationships.

This is interesting to me because such inquisitive judgers aren’t even a little curious about heterosexuals’ sweaty and sticky relationships. We never hear someone say of a married couple, “I wonder who plays catcher in that relationship,” or “Which one do you think acts like the woman?” They presume it’s the woman, but based on the absorbed, mouth-breathing, size-sifting men I’ve seen at Victoria’s Secret, that’s not always the case.

So, in the spirit of being enthusiastically judgmental, it’s time we ask who has the right to shame others for their sexual behavior? Well, I do, of course. I will be the one to question and dictate the sexual nature of all relationships, excluding homosexuals because I figure they’ve done their time in the Column of Judgment. That’s just the kind of selfless sex writer I am. Don’t thank me. The flaming e-mails I’ll receive upon publication will be thanks a-plenty. (You can find me at www.myspace.com/carolynashelton and Facebook now.)

To save time, I have created my own top 10 list for people to follow to escape my wrathful judgment and condemnation:

1. Thou shalt not parade around in skimpy lingerie and think thou art sexy when, in fact, thou lookest like thou art smuggling a chinchilla in thy crotch. Wax thyself and rethink that body stocking with the handy access portal; thou looketh like a bank-robbing vagina.

2. Thou can be ugly, stupid or unpleasant, but if thou happen to be two of the three, thou shalt stick to masturbation and not fornicate on chance thou may inadvertently reproduce. In fact, if thou art all three, thou shalt not even masturbate on chance a naked, fertile woman might wander within range.

3. If thou art a man and thou wearest a g-string and thinketh thou art hot, thou art sadly mistaken.

4. If thou art a man and thou art always on the bottom, thou art lazy and shalt be ashamed. If thou art a woman and useth a headache as an excuse not to shag, thou shalt google “sex and endorphins” and learn how sex is actually good for thy headache. If thou useth thy head as an excuse more than twice, thou shalt shut up and see a doctor.

5. Thou shalt scrub thy private parts so they don’t stinketh like a Calabash dumpster upon commencement of sex. Thou shalt also scour thy butt.

6. Thou shalt repeat after me: “Women are like stone-ground grits, not instant. They taketh at least 20 minutes to get ready.”

7. Thou shalt appreciate a bit of meat upon thy woman, and thou shalt scoff at bounteous breasts and tiny waists because, frankly, thou art no Calvin-Klein model thyself. Thou art more of a KFC model or perhaps Krispy Kreme, and thou needeth to get over thyself.

8. If thou coveteth thy neighbor’s wife, for goodness sake, thou shalt not holler out her name whilst shagging. If thou doeseth this, thou art an idiot.

9. Thou shalt comprehend the concept of pre-foreplay, which involves equal sharing of household unpleasantries prior to commencement of sex. If thou doeseth the floors, thou shalt get laid. If thou comest home and ploppeth upon the couch because thou art tired, thou shalt lay thyself.

10. If thou squisheth out a naughty noise from thy woman during sex, thou shalt pretend not to notice, and thou shalt never reinact the scene for thy nasty friends for a cheap laugh. Thou shalt not release any naughty noises thyself, and if thou accidently doeseth this, thou shalt not laugh at thy accomplishment.

If any one doesn’t care for these helpful commandments, well, that confounds me, too. Why would anyone not appreciate having intrusive bedroom guidance by a nosy, opinionated, and creepily curious stranger? Baffling, isn’t it?