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Anal dirge prat

“Queen of Anal” sex writer Tristan Taormino, as she appears on her dust jacket

 

“Queen of Anal” sex writer Tristan Taormino, as she appears in real life.

She’s Thomas Pynchon’s niece, you know? Although that doesn’t explain why she has a man’s name. Or why her surname is a bastardised Sicilian town. And I also know that I should stop being shocked that people who appear presentable after 20 pounds of slap under a lighting rig the size and complexity of the Forth Bridge actually look like, y’know, your common-or-garden hoodrat in the plain light of day. And also maybe I shouldn’t be surprised in the first place that someone whose main selling point is a love of anal sex looks as rough as sandpaper. But… I dunno. I think the time has come for jihad on all sex bloggers, sex writers, sex columnists, and anyone else who managed one mildly funny 300 piece about shitting themselves during a blow job once and now churn out copy week in, week out that usually revolves around some “I went for a massage the other week…. AND FUCKED THE MASSEUSE!” bullshitting.

Still, at least this woman justifies her place in society thanks to the message board on her website, where anal sex afficionados fantasise about Guy Ritchie being pegged, respond to a person telling the group that they enjoy being strangled until the point of blacking out that “you have a unique interest but that’s normal” and my personal favourite, deciding as to whether or not rimming after anal sex is an AIDS risk with a poll. If only they’d have had a quick show of hands in the first chapter of “And The Band Played On”, maybe so many of these tragic deaths could have been avoided. Or at least if that guy hadn’t fucked that green monkey.

Anyway, join us next week for more casual misogyny disguised as searing political insight.

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