The other day this email from someone I’ll call Beatrix arrived in my email. Will you help me answer it?
I have a fabulous, wonderful lover with whom I have been exploring new delights as well as being confronted by some faulty programming. Not to be too blunt but I’m having trouble with anal sex.
I never tried anal before but it’s great with this man. However, I’m really bothered by the sensation of the outward stroke because it feels so similar to … well, umm… pooping. I’m terrified that I’m going to be messy all over him! So far, knock wood, it’s been relatively clean. I try to be aware and err on the far side of caution but I also think that has limited my enjoyment and caused missed opportunities. I am extremely bathroom shy and feel really awkward about this. Will this sensation-confusion lessen with time?
I’ve been sexually active for over 20 years and have had many, many orgasms but with this guy? It’s awesome, and I want so badly to be comfortable in reality with all these things that I’m comfortable with in theory. Do you have any advice?
I’m not sure I’d call it faulty programming, Beatrix. I’d be more inclined to call it Tremendously Helpful Conditioning.
Nearly every time since you were two years old that your body has noted the combination of ass-ular fullness plus outward movement, it has sent along a signal to your brain that you should get to the bathroom right now. And nearly every time you’ve immediately trotted your fanny off to the toilet to take care of business in privacy, only returning when all traces of the …er…event were completely eradicated.
You’ve been perfecting this response for nearly your entire life because it’s expected by everyone from the person who toilet-trained you to the guy sitting next to you on the bus that you’ll get it right every single time. Chances are that you’ve grown pretty darn good at it, as the rewards for being good at it (and the corresponding punishments for being bad at it) are high.
When you have buttsex you’re asking your body to ignore nearly 40 years of conditioning. It’s going to take some time to unhook the connection in your mind between that feeling and needing to go right now. The good news is that eventually your ass will learn that the sensation of ass-ular fullness + outward movement does not necessarily mean only one thing. It will learn that it can in fact mean two things, and the longer you have buttsex without the arrival of a poo-pocalypse the easier it will be for your brain to distinguish the two.
Nevertheless, you go rooting around up there long enough and odds are good that something will eventually break free. For this reason it behooves you to speak up to your partner. “Lover,” you should say, sporting a big smile and as much playful chutzpah as you can muster, “I so enjoy anal sex with you. But I’m always worried that I’m going to crap all over your dick.” Or, if you’re feeling slightly less playful and chutzpahish you could substitute “make a mess” for the final five words above.
Either would work, because they both give him the chance to tell you that no good relationship ever fell apart over poo and that he would adore you just as much after the poo-pocalypse as before.
Readers, I feel quite certain that some of you have experienced worries similar to Beatrix’s. Will you contribute additional advice in the comments below?
My boss, the inimitable Jane from Jane’s Guide, recently began tweeting. If you’d like a closer look at the ins and outs of running a porn-review website you really should follow her.
Welcome to Twitter, Jane. Have a cookie.
–(Jane’s Guide on Twitter)
When you insult or offend someone, always admit it and apologize promptly, even if it wasn’t your intention or you had no idea. It is always better to be a penitent villain than to appear so socially inept as to not recognize when you’ve hurt the people around you. An evil genius is someone to bring to your side, a blundering fool is someone to keep as far away from you as possible.
via Sans Jupe
Please forgive me. I’m working my poor lil ass off trying to finish up projects for a few clients. Monday will, no doubt, find me in a much more relaxed state as opposed to clinging to the ceiling by my toenails which is where I am right now.
 Amazing artwork, Map of Canada and the US, by Oupelay on DeviantArt, please check out the rest of his fantastic gallery.
You’ve just flipped the January page on your 2010 Sex Blogger Calendar, whispered a fond farewell to the lovely Mia Martina, and greeted the awesome Abiola Abrahms, who graces February’s page, and here I am about to talk to you about 2011. If it seems early to you, you’re not alone; it seems early to me too. But 2011 is going to be a bigger and better year, hopefully for all of us, and certainly for this amazing project that started as a whim, a fun project with friends that would benefit our sex positive community, one balmy summer night.
Many of you, after seeing our fabulous calendar or coming to our kick-ass launch party, expressed an interest in being a model. We heard you and we want to give you the opportunity to be even more involved. So for 2011, we’re going NATIONAL! Yes, you heard it right, the NYC SexBlogger Calendar wants to be even more inclusive in 2011. We want any sex positive blogger/internet personality - male, female, gay, straight, queer, trans, any race, any orientation, any size - who writes/podcasts/video blogs about sex or sexuality to feel free to submit a photo. While our 2010 models are free to submit a photo, we’d like nothing better than to get thirteen brand new faces and their accompanying hot bods. I’ll get into those details in a moment, but that’s not the only change we’ve made.
For the last two years, the calendar proceeds have gone to Sex Work Awareness and allowed them to fund Speak Up!, a one day seminar in 2009 that expanded to a weekend in 2010. We are so proud to have provided the funding for those events. Megan Andelloux, in her fight with the town of Pawtucket, RI to open her adult sex education facility, The Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health, used the training she received last year which helped her win battle and CSPH is now open for business. This year, we’re thrilled to announce that the funds raised by the calendar will go to Woodhull Freedom Foundation. Woodhull Freedom Foundation Affirms SexualFreedom as a Fundamental Human Right!
We’ve known of and been supportive of WFF but when we met and talked with the board members and advisory committee of WFF at their fundraiser, a diverse group including the fabulous Carol Queen, we were really impressed with them, their professionalism and their goals. WFF has a broader focus than SWA and we want our little calendar to benefit all kinds of sexual freedom. In changing core attitudes, defining sexual freedom as a basic human right, sex workers too will reap benefits.
Now, how do you submit a photo and what is expected if we pick you to be in the 2011 calendar?
First, you email us one or more professional quality photo that represents what sexual freedom means to you or how you express your sexual freedom. The photo is to be 12 x 12 (this is SQUARE, people, be sure to let the photographer know this in advance of shooting, most photos are rectangular, so the photographer has to look with a different eye in order to shoot for square artwork). The format will be CMYK, 12 x 12 full bleed, 300 DPIx 12 full bleed image. If you’d like to discuss concepts before working with a photographer, please email me at Tess@tiedupevents.com
Along with your photo, please send a short bio and a short (or long, if you’re feeling particularly verbose on the topic) post talking about how your photo represents your sexual freedom. We would like all entrants to be able to attend our launch party on November 5, 201o in NYC, this is one reason we’re giving you all so much notice, so that plans can be hatched and funds reserved. You’ll be required to post a button on your site that links to the calendar blog and once chosen, we’ll provide a special button for models.
Because we want to also support our economy as well as our fundamental right to sexual freedom, despite our difficulties last year, we are committed to printing the calendar in the US of A, we’re not sure how much nudity we can get away with. If you feel like baring it all, we’re right there with you but we also need to be realistic about what we can get printed, so please give us some softer options. Last year, the mere sight of nipples in two photos caused a printer, even in this economy, to turn down the job.
Please include in your email any suggestions you have for promoting the calendar and WFF on your site -contests, etc. Working with us in promoting the calendar is an important component of being a part of this project.
Submissions must be received by May 1, 2010.
More details will follow and we’ll post the Photo Submission Guidelines on a separate page so you can review them easily.
In the meantime, if you’d be so kind as to repost this far and wide, from sea to shining sea, we’d be most appreciative. Let’s get everyone who believes that sexual freedom is a fundamental human right talking and participating in this project and sharing in the fun with us.
–originally posted at Going National in 2011!. Please share!
Almost exactly four years ago Shay from The S-Spot instituted a feature called Cunt-blogging Wednesday. She linked to the very first edition in her post yesterday, and as I clicked idly through I came across something that looked so very familiar.
Hm. Wonder who that crazy blogger chick was?
***Whoops, link was broken! Now it’s fixed! Thanks, alert readers!***
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
Him: What’s on your agenda for this evening?
Me: Work work work work work work work work work work work work.
Me: I have nothing written for tomorrow.
Me: I suck.
Him: No you don’t. Well, only in the best of ways.
Him: That should be your new tagline.
Me: What, “I suck”?
Him: “Sucks only in the best of ways.”
Imagine:
It’s Tuesday night and you’re slogging through the usual Tuesday night routine. Dinner is spaghetti. The sauce is from a jar and doesn’t contain all that much meat but you’ve certainly had worse. You read the newspaper while your kids do homework then run off to play. There’s an overabundance of whining during the former and screaming during the latter but it all blends in to the sound of the television (flickering ominously enough to make you wonder if it’s not about time for a new one), the dishwasher (another thing you know will soon need to be replaced if you’re honest about the difficulty you have in latching the door) and the laundry (you hope the burning-rubber smell that hangs over it during the spin cycle won’t get any worse at least until the teevee and the dishwasher issues have been addressed).
Around 9, kids finally in bed, laundry (for the moment) caught up and dishwasher unloaded, you collapse onto the couch with the remote and a handful of Cheese Nips. Randomly you flip around the channels for an hour then doze off before the weather comes on. The only reason you rouse enough to stumble to bed is that a rogue spring rubs into your lower back, but with so many other things near the end of their life-cycles it will be years before you’ll be able to afford a new couch.
Before falling fully asleep you sort through your duties for tomorrow, the usual Wednesday routine of getting reluctant children to school, working for an irascible boss, coming home to a wrecked house and falling asleep with a spring in your back before 10:15. You drift off, wishing vaguely that things were just a little bit easier.
When you awake the first thing you notice is the smell, or rather the absence of the usual smell, which at this hour of the morning should be your partner’s shampoo, your kids’ cheap body spray and the faint tang of your own unwashed, sleep-sticky body. Instead you get a whiff of what seems to be flowers. You hoist open an eye. It is flowers, a whole bouquet of them, and as far as you can tell these are no grocery store posies. They look professionally arranged and far too big for your bedside table.
Except that it isn’t your bedside table. Now that you’ve cracked through the layer of sleep in your eyes you can see that it’s been replaced by something on an altogether different scale from the one that’s served you since college. Your bed feels somehow different too, and as you struggle upright to see what’s happened you notice that in this vast and soullessly clean white bed you’re not alone.
“Good morning sweetheart,” says a beaming woman dressed in head-to-toe white so pure it almost glows. “Welcome to your new home! I’m so glad you’re here!”
Despite her radiant happiness you can’t choke back the fear-spurred anger. “Who are you? Where the hell am I?”
“This is your new home, darling. I rescued you from that horrible place you were in before. I’m going to take care of you. Everything’s going to be just fine,” she answers, and you are stunned when she reaches over to stroke the damp hair gently off your forehead.
You pull away, as guilty as if you’d cheated. “You rescued me? I didn’t need to be rescued!”
The woman in white laughs softly and moves on to stroking your arm. “It’s ok, honey. I know this is hard, but soon everything will be fine. You’ll forget all about that horrible place.”
That wasn’t horrible. It was my home. You think this but do not say it because the white woman has smoothly exited the bed and seems bent on pulling you after her. Stunned, you can’t even speak as she efficiently undresses, bathes and dries you, murmuring softly the whole time about the wonderful adventures the two of you will soon enjoy. “We’ll just get rid of these nasty things,” she says, dropping your old garments into the trash before replacing them with brand-new clothes still stiff from the wrappers.
Finally the questions start to flow when she places a vast assortment of your favorite breakfast fare on the table. “What about my job? Where will I live? I want to see my family!”
She hovers over you, ensuring that neither your plate nor glass empties while not once raising her voice above the most gentle of tones. “You don’t want to go back to that place, dear,” she says. “Here you’ll never have to worry. I can give you anything you could possibly want. Nothing is broken, nothing is old. There’s plenty of money. You don’t even have to work. This is why I took you away from that other place. You can have a happy life here.”
But here’s the thing, which you realize but can’t quite articulate to the beaming woman as later she tucks you back into the vast white bed. You really weren’t all that unhappy in your old life.
Can you imagine how this would feel? Now imagine it from the perspective of an infant who has the most vague understanding of what’s happened — or an older child, who horrifyingly does.
Adoption’s blessings get all the press, but no blessing arrives without at least a hint of tragedy in its wake, made even worse by the failure to acknowledge it.
I put down my fork. “Must we discuss this during brunch?”
“No, it was really cool.”
“Surely it was a mini football. Some little Nerf thing.”
“Oh it was full-size. It had ridges.”
Once again I had to stop eating eggs. “And she put the entire thing inside her?”
“She did.” He didn’t seem to be having any problems with his pancakes and bacon. “And the funny thing was that you couldn’t see it from the outside. It totally disappeared and her vagina closed up after it. Isn’t that cool?” I said nothing. “So, do you have a football somewhere at your house?”
“I don’t think so.”
“If you can take my fist I bet you could take at least some of a football.”
I buttered a biscuit. “What I find cool is anal fisting.” I may have announced this just a smidge too loudly, as the man in the next booth over swiveled his head around in our direction. “They rub Crisco all the way up to their shoulders and when they’re in…” I mimed rotating my arm through a narrow passageway, “When they’re in, it’s like their whole arm has disappeared.”
It was his turn to put down his fork. “Don’t get any ideas, missy.”
“No it would be awesome. You can put a football in me and I’ll fist you until my fingers come out your mouth.”
“Maybe we should just go home and cuddle.”
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