Under The Wagon

It's official...

http://www.underthewagon.com/

All the drunken sluttery, complete fiction, and other things I consider (self)important enough to put on the internet can now be found at a shiny new website...With updates EVERY week!

Plus, there are two new stories, including a new "Karla Guide," so you know that's gonna be hot!

Come on by, have a drink, and tell a friend!

Alright, I promise more orgasm guide will come soon (heh. Still funny), but I've been so busy making long distance O-faces, that I just had to share some new found talents...Please enjoy:

The Karla Guide to Cybersex

I'm telling you, I fucking ROCK at this.

I recently found someone who makes me a little gushy in the girl panties. However, said someone lives a jazillion miles away from said panties. Which is frustrating.

Love letters tenderly inscribed on high quality, heavyweight stationary (perhaps with those tiny wildflowers pressed into it) would make great reading material in my old age, when I could press them tight against the sagging flesh of my time-ravaged bosom. But what about the now? When I need some hard core dirty fuckin’?

Two options remained to my beau and me: Break up. Or start a rigorous routine of cybersex. Hello, my name is Karla, I’m fingering myself on the internet, and I’m GOOD at it.

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Step One: Setting the Scene
Or, “So, I’m having sex with you, I guess.”

Fantasies are fantastic! The most vital part of online nookie is your “Virtual Environment.” (Christ, does that sound gay.) Your job is to create a whole little world in your brain, using the power of your words. This is called “imagination” and being an “effective communicator.” If you have trouble writing your grocery list to get more than beer and menthol cigarettes, try reading. Grab a couple of cheap paperback romance novels from your mother’s basement (you don’t want to know what she was using them for, trust me). These are your primers. Romance novels, while aimed at despondent hausfraus, are vivid, literary journeys to orgasmville. Study them, even memorize a few key passages to use as needed. Just don’t call your beloved “Felicity Corsetheave” or “Tyrone Bulgecrotch” by accident.

Be descriptive. Instead of “I’m fucking you doggy style,” try “I’ve got you bent over a chair. You know, that old chair your grandmother gave you? The orange upholstered one with the gravy stain on the arm rest? You’re face down in it, baby.” For the ladies, expand your virtual wardrobe with flowing portrayals of sexy clothes you would never buy, or fit into. “Vinyl boots, thigh high fishnets, white panties and a Catwoman mask? I look GREAT!” It doesn’t matter if he’s sitting around in a stained t-shirt and boxers while she’s polishing off a tub of Hagen-Daaz…It’s all about creating a fantasy to suck you both in. “Suck” being the operative term.

Homework Assignment: visit exotic locales (hopefully ones with hot tubs) and have sex in fun and exciting places. Remember every moment, and describe them to your significant other. Paris, island resorts, and scenic ski chalets are good. Thai brothels and “Against the dumpster behind Jack-in-the-Box,” less so. Unless that’s where you had your first date or something. In that case, it‘s romantic.

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Step Two: The Lingo of Love
“You feel nice and stuff!”

Synonyms are sexy. A much neglected key to good cybersex is vocabulary. At some point you’re going to run out of ways to say “Your/My cock is so hard,“ Your/My pussy is so wet.“ Keeping a thesaurus by your bedside for easy reference is a great start. A few variations for “hard” and “wet” include:

Adamantine, callous, compacted, dense, firm, impenetrable, indurate, iron packed, rigid, rocky, stiff, thick, tough, unyielding
AND
Aqueous, clammy, dank, dripping, foggy, humid, moist, saturated, slimy, slushy, soggy, teeming, water-logged

My Roget’s didn’t include much in the way of cock or pussy (it NEVER does) that wasn’t animal related, so unless you’ve a vastly different idea of a good time than I do, dig into your favorite pornographic magazines for ideas. In just a few sentences I found:

Member, man-meat, schlong, dick, beef-stick, taskmaster, prick, pant-baloney, trouser trowel, penis
AND
Cunt, slit, fur lined pot, beaver, muff , warm velvet jewel box “Captain Snapper,” panty pudding, orifice

Mix and match to make such erotic phrases as “My adamantine taskmaster is entering your waterlogged panty pudding.” HOT!

Homework Assignment: look up synonyms for “Inserting,” “Throbbing” and “Taste so good, baby.” Also look up synonyms for “Baby.”

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Step Three: The Technical Stuff
“Are you…? Wait, I’m almost…Ah, shit.”

The one-handed typing predicament. The biggest question regarding cybersex: “Karla, but how do I…you know…do it? While writing stuff out?” The most prevalent solution is taking turns. You talk Schmoopy Pie through their good time, then Punkin’ Poodle gets you going for yours. It works fairly well, though I’m a big fan of taking a little more time, so you can both fake your orgasms (this IS the internet, they’ll never know) together. Experiment, be patient, and find out what works best for you. Expect plenty of times when you’re describing marmoset-crazed thrusting into damp crevices, while Love Turtle is still “slowly undoing each. Individual. Button.” Just roll with it. Eventually you’ll develop a style that has both of you exploding in globally devastating tsunamis of passion. And if you absolutely can’t figure out things like timing, creativity, and how to use your goddamn keyboard…

Buy a fucking web cam.

Sometimes a picture's worth a thousand words. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to jack off in front of a camera. Don’t be embarrassed. Remember you’re doing this for someone you care about (or at least someone you‘re paying to care about you). Wear a big enough smile, and you might be able to get away with being the "strong, silent type."

I'm a bad blogger.

I haven't been updating this baby much lately. My most recent excuse was a nice little vacation in Florida (See the pics here). Though that's hardly the full reason.

Part of the problem is poverty, which cuts down on my boozing, which cuts down on my opportunities to be a total asshat, and then write about it. The other problem isn't a problem per se, but there's currently a situation where I'm,uh...Happy? I think that's the word. And it's causing what I think might be called "feelings." It's weird, and wonderful and goofy, but it's totally sucking the funny out of me. And I seriously doubt y'all want to hear about my strolls through daisy laden fields of bunnies and unicorns, whilst singing joyous songs in the sun and weaving flowers in my hair.

In all honesty, I disgust me right now. This coming from a woman who's gleefully pissed her bed. With someone else in it.

Anyway, with less stories about falling down drunk and landing on a cock, where to take "Under The Wagon?" I've got a few ideas floating around, but wanted to see what my loving (albeit mostly Canadian) audience thought.

Got a minute? Lemme know what you'd like to see more of here. Go ahead and be specific (I'll get more random google hits if your answer includes "Thai hookers" and "HOTTTXXXV1agra4U."

Or, just answer the damn poll here.

My being a total retard for Under The Wagon a year ago resulted in an me having an article in The National Lampoon.

This the the coolest shit ever!

Bring on the coke and hookers!

So I'm famous now, right?

Fucking' A.

It’s not easy for women to have orgasms. No matter how sexually liberated you think you are, the simple fact is women are not conditioned to enjoy sex. I’ll be getting into the reasons behind this and how to overcome them in the next chapter, but in the meantime…Baby steps. First things first.

Ladies, today we’re gonna masturbate!

I don’t care if you’ve never done it (I’ve met girls that claim they haven’t. What frightens me? I’m pretty sure they were telling the truth.), or if you rub your pussy like it’s going out of style…Today we’re masturbating with purpose.

Here’s the deal, it’s well known that guys are wired to orgasm from visual and physical stimulation. Put a dirty magazine and a warm, damp sock in front of him, and your boy’ll have a fine time. Women don’t work that way. And that‘s okay. Being different is fine. It’s the (frequently psychotic) differences between the sexes that make life interesting.

Focus: Okay, so we don’t get off on the same things as guys (Are you a girl that likes porn? I’ll get to you later). What do girls find arousing? You know those Harlequin romance novels in the supermarket? With the ripped bodices and heaving bosoms on the cover? That is straight up, hard-core girl porn. You say your mom read that shit? Heh. Guess what she was doing with it. Female stimulation comes from the mind. Things we read, things we remember. Once again, it’s all in the wiring.

So what I want you to do right now is think about what turns you on. That funny, furry feeling in the pit of your stomach, right before your panties start dampening? What causes it? The scene in the movie with that amazing kiss? The way that guy in high school whispered in your ear that one time behind the gym? Hell, think of the pink stuffed bunny you used to rub against when you were 13, crying yourself to sleep because you KNEW God could see you!

Okay, that last one’s just me.

But concentrate on the things that get you hot. It doesn’t matter what. And then I want you to masturbate. I don’t care how. You know what works for you, right? Rubbing, grinding, fingering, or a goddamn cucumber hooked to a car battery. Deep down you KNOW what can get you off. Do it. You like watching porn (yes, some girls do, despite what I said earlier)? Watch some. You love your Venus Butterfly (Christ, I do!)? Flutter away. You like muttering “I just want to get married?” Mutter, my darling, mutter. It doesn’t matter how dirty, how cheap, how “shameful” you think what you’re doing feels…DO IT.

And now, pay attention.

What are you thinking about when you’re masturbating? Keep going, but keep part of your brain open to remember what you’re feeling right now. What are the thoughts going through your mind? Focus on them. The key right now is to recognize WHAT makes you come. While you’re coming. Don’t stress about how much time it takes. Don’t think about anything but making yourself feel fan-fucking-tastic. Relax. Enjoy. Remember.

And…Repeat. Seriously, take a week, where EVERY day you masturbate, and pay attention to what you’re doing. Whether you feel like doing it or not. Keep doing it.

Then go out and have sex.

Have sex. And totally ignore what the guy (or girl) is doing, other than going “Wow, that feels nice.” If it doesn’t feel nice, tell them WHAT feels nice (once again, we’ll go further into this in the next chapter). Think about all the things you concentrated on previously when you were masturbating. IGNORE everything else. Hone in on all those dirty, happy, little thoughts. And once again, don’t overstress yourself. If it doesn’t happen right away, it’s not a big deal. Just remember all the things that make you feel hot and sexy and warm and beautiful. Because when you are coming, you are hot and sexy and warm and beautiful. After that…Combine the physical with the mental. Mix the pushing and licking and touching with those memories of what makes you orgasm. Now that you know what makes you come…Think about THAT while you’re being touched and kissed and humped senseless. You don’t need to think about him (or her). It doesn’t matter what he (or she) is doing. Focus on yourself, what you’re remembering and what you’re feeling. Eventually, it’ll all come together.

Oh boy, will it come.


This is just to get you started. We’ll go into the second part of The Karla Guide to Female Orgasms: For the Ladies soon. But in the meantime…

Masturbate. I’m not shitting around here.

(God, I will never get tired of that joke)

A recent comment
...here is my question: Will you ever write a GIRLS Guide to the Female Orgasm? Some of us would like to read it. Uh...not me, though. Nope. It's for my friend. (Cough.)Thanks, Karla!
posted by Sofi

Thanks Sofi! Sofi has her own blog, http://thebeesknees.blogspot.com/ It's quite amusing and almost makes up for her being Canadian.

The next part of The Karla Guide to Female Orgasms will be up no later than Monday, maybe even this weekend.

It's for the ladies.

And it's dirrrrty.

More stuff for guys is on the way as well. Patience, my pretties. You've had lousy sex your entire lives, a few more weeks won't hurt ya'. Unless you only have a few weeks to live.

In which case, um...sorry. I guess.

I really want a cigarette right now. But at least I have gin. Boy, oh boy do I have gin!

Though it took me a while...

You'll recall the lovely boys of Carbonfour (great band, check out www.carbonfourmusic.com) bought me a bottle of Tanqueray 10 for my birthday. If you're a gin drinker, you must find a way to try this shit sometime. I happily advocate the selling of Mexican infants, kidneys, and your own blood relatives to finance this, should it prove necessary.

Sunday night I decided to enjoy a glass (okay, plastic cup) of this delightful spirit. I tried to open the bottle. For about 20 minutes. It hurt my hand, I was too tired to deal with it, and looked at my inability to get drunk on a Sunday night as a minor difficulty. I went to bed.

Monday night I had 2 Gin & Tonics (well gin) and 3 Long Island Ice Teas at Elbo Room. Once home, I could barely stand, much less attempt the stubborn bitch that was my Tanqueray cap. Though I apparently tried. I woke up with the bottle cradled in my arms. Still sealed tight.

I was hungover all day Tuesday. I was ready to enjoy some goddamn expensive gin. I tried running hot water over the cap, I tried varying grades of rough fabric (towel, washcloth, brillo pad), I inquired of friends, acquaintances, and total strangers about the best way to open the fucking bottle. Thanks to The Jay Pinkerton Message Board, by the way. I sought pliers and wrenches but the only ones in my possession proved too narrow to grip the sides of the cap. Because, you know...God hates me.

Finally I reached my limit. My hands were nearly bleeding. I was exhausted. I was sober.

I got the hammer.

I had every intention of smashing the top off this mother. I figured I could carefully distill the glass shards from my botanically distilled single batch gin (Dude, this is seriously good shit) and transfer it to some other, less worthy container. Tupperware, perhaps.

Like a scorned Valkyrie, I raised my mighty hammer high...Swung...Winced a little and hesitated while squeezing my eyes shut...

The moment of doubt resulted in a less than vigorous strike. Which was fucking awesome!

The hammer struck the cap sharply, nicely splitting it just enough to facilitate an easy opening.

God said, "Let there be gin." And it was good.

Goddamn, is that shit good.

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Tanqueray 10 is an amazingly smooth "sippable" gin. You really don't need any tonic or even lime to enjoy it. I'm drinking it straight right now (whee). However, I thought I'd invent a new cocktail...I call it "The DILLettante," it mixes gin with pickle juice.

The DILLettante sucks.

Okay, this is gonna be lame...

I don't really like the comment function on Blogger. You can't write in-depth replies, and I'm bad about emailing people back (though I do visit your sites) when I actually CAN email them back...Anonymous posts and all for people who don't want to register and shite...And well, it seemed like a good idea at the time and it was free...And, uh...Yeah.

Under The Wagon has a Message Board now. You'll notice it at the right side of the screen, looking at you with the big, winsome puppy dog eyes.

I don't know if this incredibly pretentious and lame, or just unnecessary.

But it's there.

It's a place for you to share your own drunken stories, link your blog or website, and ask questions that will actually get answered. Eventually I'll have a permanent catalogue of all my fiction there, and I'll probably throw in a photo gallery for good measure.

Yeah, this is definitely unnecessary.


Oh well. Have fun with it. Or just have fun watching it die a swift and painful death.

I'm gonna have to change Under The Wagon's subtitle...Hopefully.

I decided that after my birthday on Thursday, I would quit smoking.

I've always been adamantly anti-anti-smoking. I hate the way our government treats smokers, yet milks them for billions of dollars in "sin taxes" a year. If a governing body decides that a product is that harmful to the public, they should fucking outlaw it or stop being such a bunch of goddamn money grubbing whores. I know big tobacco lied about for years about the nature of their product (Booze manufacturers were ahead of the game. "This stuff? Oh, yeah. It's gonna fuck you and your fetus up good...Want some?), but at this point we all know it's bad. I didn't start smoking until I was legally old enough to do so, and I knew it was fucking stupid.

But I really enjoyed smoking. Oral fixation. Lighters to play with. And I don't care what anybody says...You look cool smoking. Just admit it already.

The Quit was supposed to start Friday...Presumably after I "farewell" smoked myself into oblivion at Thursday's festivities. However, I mistimed my final pack so I've slowly nursed my remaining smokes (Newport lights, which I don't even like) until this afternoon. After this...No mas.

There are some really good reasons for me to quit. My grandfather's current struggle with lung cancer, my grandmother's death last year. Increasing shortness of breath and rapid heart-rate. It'd make my mom happy (even though neither of us admits that I smoke). No more perpetual hacking cough, phlegm or bad breath (dead sexy), my clothes/apartment/hair won't smell like an ashtray...

I'd love to say that any of those are why I'm quitting. But no. It's because recently I've ran into more and more guys who won't date smokers. Some won't even have sex with them.

I'm not looking forward to quitting smoking. My teeth are already grinding. But, damn...That guy really won't fuck me if I'm a smoker?

Behold the motivating power of my vagina.


Game on.

I don't remember anything after 9:30.

I can't find my pretty new bottle of Tanqueray 10 (thanks, band boys!). Nobody better be fucking drinking it, that's all I can say.

I sure hope I have at least a few friends left...

Happy birthday to meeeeeeeeeeeee.


EDIT: I found my gin. It was behind my guitar case, under a bunch of coats that I didn't wear last night. And why wouldn't it be there, really?

Christ, I'm stupid.

First off, I previously stated that the presence of a cat at the Superbowl Party (once again, a lovely time all around, thanks Tucker) screwed up my allergies and was making me sick.

It was not the cat. It was the flu.

Hardcore, fuck you up, wish you were dead, where's my mommy, Flu. Monday was brutal, Tuesday had me envying tsunami victims. No Mardi Gras for Karla. However, I did learn two things:

1. God hates me. Can't believe I'm stuck with the fucking flu on "party week."
2. In the face of all common sense and decency, I have friends that love me.

Abbie brought me soup, Nyquil and juice on her lunch break...Several others called to offer help or condolences. Thanks kids, y'all are keen. But I don't want to get all soppy on ya'.

Today's my birthday.

I'm not feeling 100% better yet, but close enough, 'cause I've got some serious drinking to do tonight. I still have the cough (which I'm sure will disgust everyone in my immediate vicinity...it's a gross cough), but ultimately, I'm well enough to make myself ridiculously sick.

And really, that's all I ask for on my birthday anyway.

The Elbo Room tonight. 8pm. I'll be the one falling down a lot.

I had a great time at the Superbowl party. Tasty cheese dip was consumed and copious amounts of alcohol imbibed. I indiscriminately cheered for both football teams. My "zingers" outnumbered my "groaners." Mostly.

(My favorite comment of the night, made after a beer commercial where a bird defends an attractive woman from the men hitting on her: "That's a Cockblockatiel."
Shut up. I thought I was funny)

After the conclusion of both the game and the special Simpson's episode, I head home. I yell at a man begging people on the train for 20 bucks each. Seriously. What the fuck? He informs us that "If I don't come up with 2400 bucks in the next 24 hours, they're gonna kill me." I respond "If I had 20 bucks, don't you think I would have taken a cab?" "I'm just telling you, they're gonna kill me." "I guess you should have planned better then, huh?"

I'm a true humanitarian.

But karma's a bitch. I stumble home, check my email and AOL IM to see if anybody cool's online, then pass out at the stroke of midnight.

20 minutes later my phone rings.

"Booty call?" I perk up just enough to reach for the phone, don't recognize the number, and blearily lay back to wait for the voicemail.

"Uh, Karla, this is ____ at the station. It's 12:30 and you're supposed to be on next...I guess I'll just keep calling you, but um...I kinda need to take off here."

You've got to be shitting me. I was apparently scheduled to work the overnight shift tonight. Not that I'd been informed of this, but I was indeed on the schedule. Christ. I contemplate ignoring the call, murdering my boss, and quitting my job.

Rent's due this week. I pull on a pair of pants, rinse the beer film out of my mouth and grab a cab.

I'm half drunk, sleep deprived, and the hosts of the Superbowl party had a cat. I could ignore the allergic backlash if I was asleep, like I should be. As it is, I'm stuffed up and my lungs feel like they're on fire. Positively en fuego. I still have 2 hours to go. I feel like death.

This is turning into quite the buzzkill.

Oh well, Mardi Gras on Tuesday, Chinese New Year Wednesday, and Thursday is my birthday. A full week of celebration, just for me? Hell, yes.

And if I get anymore late night calls from work...Well, damn if I didn't just lose my cellphone. I'm ever so sorry.

Fuckers.

I'm going to a Superbowl party today. I stopped keeping track of football after the Bears broke my heart one too many times, so I really could give a shit about the game itself. But I'm always up for a social gathering, provided we're gathering around booze, and I'm looking forward to it. It'll be nice to make fun of the commercials with other people this year.

Side Note: One of the 6th grade teachers at my elementary school used to play for the New England Patriots. Serious. The kids in Mr. Smith's class were always exceptionally well behaved. In fact, after he started teaching, we were ALL exceptionally well behaved. He was a really nice guy, but when the shadow of 6 feet, 2 inches and 250 pounds of pure ebony muscle suddenly looms over you...That spitball doesn't seem quite as important.

Additional Side Note: I will tell this story at least 10 times during the course of the next day.

However, with 12 hours to kick-off, I've already managed to be the worst guest ever.

Yesterday I bought a case of beer to take to the party, and somehow a third of it ended up in my gullet. And there's still 12 hours to go...

Guess what? I am totally bringing half a case of beer to a party. I'm justifying it by also bringing the crackers and french onion dip that I'd purchased for my own selfish consumption. These have not been tampered with, even though I had every intention of devouring them in a stomach wrenching fashion. But I will be generous. The host requested merely that you bring either something to eat or drink. But I shall produce both. The case may be missing a few bottles, but I am a good person, and a gracious guest.

12 hours, huh?

Do you think they'll notice if I dig into the dip? Just a little bit?


Yeah, I know. I suck.

Just wait 'till I actually get there. People really need to learn not to invite me places.

A friend recently approached me at the bar we frequent.

“Hey, Karla, um…you know when we were, uh…”

“It’s called fucking, babe. Yes, what about it?” Friend and I have hooked up previously, but while I’m fun time, I’m not exactly “girlfriend material.” He’s now dating a very nice girl and he and I are just friends.

“You always came, right? And kinda easily. Well, (girlfriend) she doesn’t really, I mean, almost never…”

I'm not bragging out of turn, but I’ve heard this before. My orgasming ability has taken quite a few guys aback. The thing is, I am not genetically gifted with a pre-disposition for multiple orgasms. I had to teach myself how to come. And while I hate giving hints to the competition (i.e., any other girl who puts out), I’m tired of seeing my buddies in a tight spot…so to speak. And I hate seeing the few girls that actually befriend me go, “Well, I think I’ve had one.”

So here's the first part of Under the Wagon's new series:
The Karla Guide to Female Orgasms

Keep checking back, there’s plenty of advice for boys and some really important stuff for the ladies coming. Pun intentional.