When I first started reading and watching gay pornography, I was eight-years-old. Yes, that's right, eight. My father left his copy of penthouse forum on the back of a toilet and I stole it. Not that he ever questioned anyone about it, because how do you accuse your eight and seven year old children of stealing your smut? Honestly, what if they didn't take it? Now they know it's there and you can bet your sweet arse they'll get into it, if for no other reason than you obviously don't want them to. However, I digress. As I read through the magazine, there were many stories about guys getting it on with two girls and I became confused. It seemed odd that people would want to see two girls together and not two guys. A month later, and several more stolen issues, I stumbled across one labeled 'for couples.' There, in the middle of the magazine, were the gay stories, featuring men with other men.

It was a guilty pleasure at first and one that I couldn't admit to, because while I may have been a pervy little grammar-school student, my friends were not, nor would they understand why I stayed up at night taping episodes of 'Electric Blue' on Playboy so that I could masturbate to them in my room later. By highschool, most of my friends were boys and, being one of the guys and a perverted little sod right along with them, they saw no reason to pull any punches with me. Several times, there were references made to me getting it on with various other girls in the school and after listening to this for a year, I'd finally had enough. Leaning over, I grabbed the arm of one of my friends and said, "Hey, Justin, what do you think of that fine piece of arse?"

Justin, in the tradition of many men to come, replied, "Huh? What, the one with the blond hair? I didn't think you went for blondes?"

Denial is an ugly thing, so I quickly put him out of his misery, "No, not the girl, the guy she's with."

"Oh, well, I guess..."

"Sure wouldn't mind watching you have a go at him."

"..."

"What?"

"... that's really disgusting, Randi."

"Oh, what, and picturing me with my head buried between Lisa's legs is any better?"

Thus was born the cause to end all hypocrisy. I carried it onto bathroom commentary, going so far as to tell my friends that I had to 'take a piss,' or 'drop a mean dump.' It was crude, but effective. The graphic descriptions of impending bodily functions stopped almost altogether, with the exception of the occasional joke. My male friends learned that it was quite possible for women to masturbate and at an absurd rate, at that. No topic was sacred, but there will always be hypocrisy in the world and where I find it, I will fight it.

Especially when the battle is good for a few laughs.

In that vein, it has come to my attention that some men, quite a few in fact, enjoy having their women call them daddy in bed.

"Call me daddy, baby, oh yeah, call me daddy."

"Tell daddy what you like."

Really, that is hardly attractive. Change needs to be made and it must start in our bedrooms. I say that if men can try and encourage us to call them daddy, we should encourage them call us mommy. That's right. Mommy.

"Come on, sweetie, tell mommy what you want her to do."

"Oh, god, mommy likes it when you do that."

"Mommy thinks you've been a naughty boy and it's time for a spanking."

So far, I haven't been able to find any recruits. The boyfriend gave me a short pause, before saying, "That's nasty, baby" and threatening to take my internet away. My friend Jackie thought it was hysterical, but upon posing the idea to Tim, her husband and one of my loyal follower, we were met with a disbelieving stare before he turned around, heading up the stairs whining, "Squishy, help me, Randi's being weird again!" My last effort is going to be to sneak it to Squishy's new beau that, although she would never admit it, she likes to be called mommy in bed - that it really gets her going. Of course, Squishy may never forgive me if that works.