In search of clitoris



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I tried to rampage my way through a breakup a couple years ago. Pity for me, I did it in New Orleans, where half-decent casual sex with a guy over 5’6 is well-nigh impossible to find; When I moved down here with a male friend he couldn’t shut up about all the great chocha that was getting catapulted at him, and I quickly figured out why: women here are fucking gagging for even competent dick.

Fast forward to Spring 2013. I pulled myself out of my hole, put on a series of dresses, and played nice with the first three likely-looking assholes who smelled tear blood in the water. Not one of them made me come. None of them even tried. I wondered if I was in the 1950s, if they considered female orgasm a myth. I thought I had gotten bedbugs from the first, because sunlight revealed a bedroom so dirty I started to psychosomatically itch. Another never touched my clit, after three times repeating that it was the best head he had ever had. I’m not sure if he knows what a clit is, as when I rubbed it myself he looked confused. The third one I don’t remember at all; at that point I was despondent. I do remember that when I asked my slutty female friends for referrals they sighed, considered, then allowed that they never got any good strange either. They pointed out that if I was going to have a lot of shitty sex, I should try to get paid for it.

Guys of New Orleans, this is a shout-out to your decency;

I know you live in a city where it’s so hot that a cumulative 4 oz. of clothing is not just appropriate but the only reasonable option six months out of the year; where the dance craze du ans involves ladies making fucky motions as fast as they can; where drinking does not lubricate one’s social life but the other way around: this doesn’t forgive your execrable skills and lethargy in the sack.

Tighten. The Fuck. Up.;

It is right there, at the upper apex of the labia minora.