Humor
Prepping Your Pup for Your Slut Era
Since you, at best, have the understanding of a four year old, I’m going to try and describe why you don’t need to worry about my raspy moans
Little Puppy, Mommy wants to talk to you about something serious. I’ve noticed that you’ve been sniffing outside my bedroom door whenever I’m furiously rubbing at the apex of my thighs in a desperate attempt to feel something. But despite how I scream at you, you haven’t learned that the dulcet buzzing you hear is not an invitation to jump on my bed and ruin the fantasy from the Star Wars fanfiction I was reading. Baby, I want you to start interpreting that mechanical humming as a warning that Mommy is about to arch off the bed and make the metaphorical kessel run faster than Han Solo.
Since you, at best, have the understanding of a four year old, I’m going to try and describe why you don’t need to worry about my raspy moans. It’s like when you’re on my very expensive couch licking yourself and I tell you to stop and you give me a look because stopping wouldn’t feel good. Or when you whine at the back door when I made you leave your stick outside. That’s how I feel when you scratch and cry at my bathroom door when I’m in the shower, two fingers deep just as my regency audiobook gets to where the viscount lifts up Lady Cecily’s skirts.
Look, you were spayed at eight months and have avoided the idea of genitals, let alone sex, by slamming your butt into the ground any time another dog gets near you. So you’ll never really get my love of being boned. But maybe you can understand my love of toys. Like you, Mommy has a whole basket of colorful and noisy objects to play with. But while you pull squeakers from your plush toys, Mommy squeaks when she puts a special toy inside herself. Just like you squeeze your little stuffed cow, I squeeze my inner walls around something stuffed inside me. Don’t be frightened! It’s the same kind of innocent pleasure you get from ripping the felt off tennis balls!
Speaking of balls, Pupsicles: I want to graduate from toys to playing with human men. That means you’ll have to endure the smell of drugstore body spray, unwashed feet, and thrifted jean jackets (because Mommy likes the “artsy” guys). And I know this might be very hard for you to understand because you try your best to keep men out of the house like a good guard dog, but I like to play games with these men. It’s like my own version of tug of war, but instead of your toy, my hair is the rope being tugged, and the man is trying to bury his bone inside of me. I know it sounds like two dogs fighting for dominance, but I swear everyone is having a good time and that Mommy always comes out on top.
So Sweet Peanut, maybe you can focus on your own pleasure when Mommy’s new paramours come over? Go on the couch! Reach around and lick yourself! There’s going to be quite a few late night visitors and I can’t afford the fancy stimulation toys you need to keep your attention away from my bedroom because I’ve already spent a month’s salary at the adult toy store.
Rebecca Silver is a writer and stand-up comic in Chicago. She tells jokes about failures, family, and other things that start with an “f” because she believes in the rule of threes. Follow her on Instagram or Medium.
