America, Go To Your Room

I can't believe I live in a country where pharmacists can refuse to prescribe birth control for women if it is against their personal "beliefs," but now Viagra is going to be covered under most health plans.

I sure hope all this Viagra is to better facilitate the conception of babies in "wholesome," "Christian" marriages.

Theoretically, what is to protect these un-contracepted women from the possible impregnations of Viagrated fratboys, if their pharmacist gets all uppity on their poor selves? Why are men allowed to bang away for unskilled hours at a time but if a chick doesn't want to get pregnant she is — to put it plainly — screwed?

Gentle Reader — I'm not anti-Viagra — we've all experienced disappointment when a hard-on is a no-show. Yet, we all also should know by now that a boner is not the be-all and end-all of sexual pleasure, unless you are a fifteen-year old boy. But then, ours repeatedly proves itself to be a throughly adolescent culture. It's all about who can poke poke poke away for the longest at the lucky girl with the blondest, fakest boobs. Hey, dude! I'll race ya!!

Let me tell you something, men of America — Girls don't come from thinking of England as your cock plows their furrow for the 4th hour with two to go! America, why don't you stop waving around that giant foam finger and looking for the Jumbotron while you get it on? Jesus.

Now, I love sex and think about sex all day long. Sex with my husband is the greatest ever! It's the greatest. And guess what? It's not because he's on Viagra and has his cock in me for six hours. Bo-RING! It's so American in the most restraining-order-requiring way that the government will gladly pay for its male citizens' hard-ons, given that this "assistance" in no way guarantees the basic understanding to pleasure their now-to-be-fearful of-unwanted-preganancied paramours properly. Wait! Maybe the guy could just fuck you in the ass for six hours! Or wait — would that be too "gay?"

Good for me, America, that I've taken my Awesome Blossom off the menu! Where is the drug that compels men to brush your hair and then eat your pussy for six uninterrupted hours before fucking you? That's what I'd like to know! And no, Sting, I don't mean you and your namby-pamby tantric nonsense.

Thank heavens I'm married to Trey! I am so grateful that I will get on my knees and thank my lucky stars — among other things — the minute I get home! Move over, Janice!