Sometimes

Jul 222011
 

With Everyman Harris I say, “I sometimes like things that aren’t good for me,” and as much as I agree with that sentiment (and oh how very much I do agree with that sentiment) I’d also quite often like to amend the “like” to “do.”

Sometimes, sometimes I do things that aren’t good for me.

It’s not like I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t realize. I know when I’m operating against my own interests and I go right ahead and do it anyway.

Case in point:1

Him:  My name is [redacted] 29 6″5′ 7in thick like a cucumber. I find bbw ladies than thin ones. I would like to meet at noon today if interested. Cell [redacted] text me? I would like to have sex with you. Yes, I am an hour drives away from [your town]. I use to live there a few years ago. Want to meet at Motel 6 off Interstate [xxx] or at your place? All I need is an address if you want me to cum to your place.

Me:  What a delightful offer! I would absolutely LOVE to have a total stranger at my home without even once having heard his voice, and especially after he’s already gone against my express wishes in requesting that I text him for a hookup in the first place! That sounds just undeniably exciting! I can’t even imagine which of my wishes such a man might violate next! Won’t it be fun to find out!

Him: I just want a yes or no answer. I like your sarcasm to a point. If you want to say no, you can just tell me get lost. Which is it yes or no? I will meet you anywhere in [your town]. Text my cell please?

Me:  I am telling you in my sarcastic way that you are way out of line in ignoring the very exact guidelines that I set out in my profile. If you ignore a my wishes in one way, how could I possibly trust you to abide by my wishes in any other way? If you don’t want to come across as a complete jerk on this site, please consider adjusting your approach.

Him: Hey fyi, I just want to tell you. If you don’t like a person, damn you one should ignore email. Your sarcasm is so childish since your 42. What a douche you are!

Me: Hey fyi, I just want to tell you. If you don’t meet a person’s requirements, you should ignore their profile. Your anger is so childish since you’re 29. What a tool you are!

The thing is that I know better. I know better than to engage the weak, the witless, the hopelessly misguided. Yet I do it anyhow — which makes me as weak, witless and misguided as those I deride.

And surely, surely you’ve guessed that this post has less2 to do with trading insults with AFF tools and more3 to do with the countless other ways I waste energy in beating my head up against situations that will never be anything but not good for me.

  1. Grammatical usage throughout is of the original author. [↩]
  2. or nothing [↩]
  3. or everything [↩]
 AAG Entries, sex  6 Responses »

Great Muppety Odin I Miss That Sex

Jun 282011
 

In the past several1 months I have been without a regular partner. Perhaps you’ve noticed? Has it been obvious?

There were a few really lovely meetings with a friend at the bitter end of 2010 and the start of 2011 but those could hardly have been counted as regular and since then — since bleedin’ February — I’ve not gotten naked with anyone other than my own bad self. So long has it been that I fear my vagina may have given up hope and retracted the red carpet, and were I to examine matters closely down there I would find a surface smooth and unblemished as a Barbie doll’s.

I am not, to be clear, upset that my most recent companions weren’t able to make regular and ongoing appearances in my bedroom. These things happen. I don’t demand a lifelong contract before unhooking my bra, and the pleasure I got (and, I hope, gave) to those men was well worth it. Well worth it indeed.2

Nevertheless I’m getting restless, and the longer things go without success the louder the self-doubt murmurs. Am I so far over the hill as to be attractive to no one? Doesn’t anyone have use for a chick who’s got her shit together3 and a great big brain to boot? Do killer blowjob technique and a propensity for anal sex have no value anymore?

The danger is not, of course, that my vulva will fall off but is instead that I might eventually lose enough mojo that it would seem more logical to stay home and guard my heart instead of exposing it to any more weirdness, mayhem or pain. To stave off that horrifying eventuality I think it’s time to drop some of the almost unattainably high standards which have built up of late. Perhaps I shall take a slightly less rigorous stance in matters of grammar and spelling. I might agree to text with new love interests. I could think of considering members of the Christian crowd.

But never, ever a pro-lifer. I’ll gladly go Barbie-like before that.

  1. Cof cof seven eight [↩]
  2. Would that I could be so philosophical about every not entirely successful relationship, sexual or not. Maybe some day I will be. Maybe some day. [↩]
  3. mostly [↩]
 AAG Entries, Buffy, date, sex  14 Responses »

The Repercussions of Sexual Abuse, According to The Hairpin

Jun 012011
 

You know, I was really enjoying the articles put out by The Hairpin. Until this, in which a confused partner writes to “A Lady” for advice:

I have been with my fiance for 2 years and we are getting married in 2012. Last month she told me that she was severely (s.e.v.e.r.e.l.y.) sexually abused from age 7 to 12. Many many men, her father “renting her out,” making gangbang movies, etc. After something like a 72 hour crying fit, I recovered enough to be in awe that she is so well adjusted. Amazing educational background and career, no history of risky sexual behavior, and a really really nice, warm person. The problem is that our sex life has always had some level of daddy daughter role playing theme because this is the only way she can orgasm. Since I found out the details of her past, I CANNOT DO THIS EVER AGAIN. I even went through a brief (an hour or so about a week after hearing the details) period of being enraged with her for basically having me unwittingly reenact her abuse. Since the revelation, we haven’t had sex, though there’s a lot of cuddling and touching. She knows I’m not sexually rejecting her or anything and she says that she can have sex without the daddy daughter thing but that she just won’t orgasm. (Read the rest of the question here.)

To which our intrepid relationship columnist responded with the following salient points:

  1. “Right now it sounds like she is using the relationship as a shield — as a way to protect herself from having to get close to her trauma and, ultimately, in a way that eventually forestalls intimacy.”
  2. “I understand that sexual pleasure for people who have been abused is incredibly loaded and difficult and complicated. I understand that one of the legacies of abuse is that your body is so, so confused about what’s pleasurable, what’s arousing, what’s good, what’s bad.”
  3. “…she probably experiences a confusing and overwhelming flood of shame and pleasure when she orgasms. Our bodies betray us in this way, and I understand that, and I don’t judge it.”
  4. “…it troubles me that she has made you the silent partner in re-enacting her victimization for two years.”
  5. “She will never get to stop doing it. Oh, she must be so tired.” (Read the rest of her answers here.)

Now I’m not certain what qualifies A Lady to answer a question about this topic1. But as a survivor of abuse and someone who has enjoyed the Daddy-little girl dynamic, I’d like to respond to the points above:

  1. A shield? Really? You’re able to diagnose this from a letter written not by her but by her partner? And you say this even though he admits that she’s gone through counseling, hasn’t engaged in “risky”2 behavior and in general Has Her Act Together? Really?
  2. You know what, sometimes sex is complicated for me as a survivor. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s confusing. Sometimes it’s not — and usually when sex is confusing it has everything to do with the partners involved and nothing to do with abuse. People who have been abused are not irretrievably broken. Not every adult sexual experience is full of angst. And most of the time I find it very easy to differentiate between “good” and “bad” where my body is concerned. There have been times over the years that a partner unwittingly did something that yanked me into the past but to imply that this is a constant concern for every abused person (and especially for the partner of the letter writer) is presumptuous, condescending and frankly just awful.
  3. Oh, does she “probably” experience shame mixed with pleasure? And you can tell this…how? You’re deciding what’s going on in the head of a woman you’ve never even spoken to on the basis of her partner’s narrative? Oh right. You’re not judging. I forgot. Let me put this bluntly: I have called someone Daddy while I was coming and I felt no flood of shame. I was not in the least bit confused. I knew perfectly well that I — an adult! — was relating to another adult whom I loved very, very much and who had only my best interests at heart. People who have not been abused by their fathers can role-play Daddy-little girl scenarios which have no relation to their childhoods. Guess what? So can people who have been abused.
  4. No. A world of no. The letter writer was not a partner, silent or otherwise, in re-enacting abuse. His assumption that it was all a re-enactment doesn’t make it so. Why would the letter writer assume this? Why would A Lady not correct this assumption? Could it be because she has no training or experience in dealing with people who were sexually abused? Maybe?
  5. How unbearably patronizing. Sure it gets tiring to deal with sexual abuse but you know what’s even more tiring? Having to educate people again and again and again out of the misconception that survivors are either a) Sexless and frigid or b) Oversexed and acting out. Here is the message I’d love for everyone to know: Some survivors fall into those categories. Sometimes. But lots of us have patched things up enough to enjoy really stellar sex. Most of the time we are not made of glass. Most days we do not break. If you’re unsure about whether or not something is bothering us, ask. Don’t assume. And if you’re hanging out your shingle to give advice about sexual abuse, jesus do some research first.

But hey, what do I know. I’m just one ladyblogger doing her best to muddle through a world where people assume that your every sexual move must be tied to abuse. So let’s turn over the floor to Heather Corinna. What say you on the topic of sexual abuse, Scarleteen?3

“…it’s just not okay, wise, beneficial or kind to misrepresent people, and it’s particularly shitty to marginalize people who have been already been marginalized by abuse. In other words, everyone needs to know things like this because it’s unacceptable to stereotype survivors or other or objectify us further. (snip) If and when a young person has been raped or otherwise sexually abused, it’s also vital to do things that will help that person heal. Presenting someone as damaged goods does not help with healing: it just adds insult to injury. Suggesting that wanted, consensual sex must be a compulsion or post-traumatic reaction does not help anyone heal, particularly since part of most of our healing is to get to a place where we can have our own sexual life. Suggesting our minds, bodies and sexualities will never be fully our own is not only false, it also gives us the message that you think our rapists won in taking us, and we can never have our whole selves back. I have had to help plenty of survivors unpack their hurtful internalization of these messages, messages many have received from people and the world around them long after they were raped or abused, over and over again.” (read the rest of Heather Corinna’s excellent post here)

After our email exchange I’m happy to say that The Hairpin did include a link to the above Scarleteen piece. Thank you, Hairpin.

Dear Letter Writer, if I could give you advice it would be this:

Your partner has showed an enormous amount of trust in sharing this information. It had to have been hard to hear and upsetting. Please remember that she is the same woman now that she was before she disclosed the abuse to you, so try to drop the assumptions.

Unless she explicitly says that she is re-enacting her abuse when you’re having sex, chances are good that she’s not. If she tells you she’s not, take her word for it. And if she says she’s not interested in counseling, back off. It would be a compassionate and loving act for you to go to counseling so that you can understand a bit more about how people deal with abuse — I would have been overjoyed had anyone ever done that for me — but if her actions show you that she is a well-adjusted person, believe it. Don’t put your issues onto her.

Should you feel compelled to engage in Daddy-daughter play again right now? Of course not. But to give up something you both enjoy because you assume it’s a re-enactment of past abuse is sad for everyone involved. Get some counseling, read some books about abuse and for godssake ask her before assuming anything about what she’s feeling. After you’ve done these things you and she can reevaluate whether or not a power exchange can be a part of your relationship.

It makes me sad to think that people who have been abused read A Lady’s advice today and now believe that they are broken, or that their desire for power exchange is unhealthy, or that they’ll never be able to tell partners about the abuse without them freaking right the fuck out.

Hairpin, you’ve got some work to do before you’re ready to give out this kind of advice.

  1. I actually wrote to the editor of The Hairpin for clarification on this matter. A Lady possesses no formal training [↩]
  2. Yeah, no judgment there [↩]
  3. The emphasis below is mine [↩]
 AAG Entries, Philip Larkin, sex  20 Responses »

Shame

May 022011
 

Despite the best efforts of a few1 commentors, and my mother, I feel very little shame over any sexual misconduct in which I am alleged to have indulged. Wait, let me check!

Right, still very little shame.

Somehow this has not carried over into other facets of my life where the guilt — oh how very deep does the guilt run. This is nowhere so evident than in the absolute misery I’ve put myself through these past several years over the state of my lawn.

My little family lives in a neighborhood that could only be described as working class. We are surrounded by cubicle-jockeys, teachers, assembly-linespeople, truck drivers and a healthy contingent of grannies. No one, and I mean no one, cares a whit about maintaining golfcourse-like grass. But we do, for the most part, keep things neat. We mow weekly, and when late July rolls around (and in defiance of all logic) we set out the sprinklers to keep things green. Before I bore or otherwise acquired  children I did the same; additionally, I surrounded the entire house and bordered every inch of fence with gardens, which I filled with all manner of flora from the ornamental to the edible. Vividly do I remember being so pregnant I could barely see my toes and digging up one last patch of grass. I need to get this done before the baby arrives, I remember thinking. If I get it planted now, maintaining it after she’s here won’t be so difficult.

For the most part I was right; with one child and no other employment I had time enough to weed and fertilize, and every day during the growing season — every day! — I walked through my tiny domain and scuffed out with the toe of my shoe any weed brazen enough to show its spiny head. I even had time to take pictures of my handiwork, pictures which I painstakingly edited and which, if you’ve been here with me from the start, you might recall seeing regularly long ago. But then life (in the shape of two babies in quick succession and the end of a marriage) intervened, and by the time my husband left the family home and I was expected to earn enough money to satisfy three ravenous children, weeding the garden fell lower and lower on my list until it fell right off.

Then the guilt began: Each intervening year saw the yard grow more disheveled and the gardens less beautiful. Grass overtook the borders of fist-sized granite chunks I’d so carefully placed and choked out my lovely flowers. A local teenager with a lawnmower and a need for gas money managed the regular lawn care but as time went on scuffing out weeds with the toe of my shoe became less and less possible until at some point a couple years ago I pretty much gave up and let the shame grow as rampant as the weeds, weeds that hid even my carefully painted giraffe.2

Clearly this commercial played beneath my playtime too many times during my formative years. I believed it:

I can rub and scrub this old house til it’s shinin’ like a dime.
Feed the baby, grease the car and powder my face at the same time.
Get all dressed up, go out and swing til 4 a.m.
And then lay down at 5, jump up at 6, and start all over again.

So irrational are my thoughts on this topic that while we are outside playing I fret that we’re not inside cleaning. While we’re inside cleaning I worry that I’m not giving them enough culture. If we enjoy something cultural I’m convinced that my work is falling by the wayside. As I work I think of the ten-thousand things I need from the store. Shopping, I beat myself up over the fact that I’m not pulling weeds. And so it goes, a never-ending litany of guilt that I can’t get done everything that needs to be done and no matter how hard I try, all that’s happened is that my eldest is two-thirds of the way to being raised and I’ve not had nearly enough time with her. There is never enough time. I will never have enough time.

So in the minivan I play this. Loudly. Repeatedly. I sing along3 — for myself as much as for them. I hope the chorus bores into their little developing brains ’til they know that perfection is neither attainable nor necessary and that their self-worth is tied not to the number of weeds in their flower beds but is instead a function of how well they treat other people. I hope they will know this. I hope they will know this better than do I.

There is but one solution to my weed problem: I have purchased a huge quantity of mulch and bottles of the strongest weed killer I could find. I have begun a schedule of weed-killin’ that I resolve to carry out throughout the warm months ’til even the stubbornest specimens succumb. I have hired a teenager whose back is certainly stronger than my own4 to place the mulch in each flowerbed and around any plants that are not killed outright. The combination of a thick layer of wood chips and ongoing herbicidal blitz will surely knock things back to the point that I will no longer die a tiny death at the number of dandelions in the grass or foot-tall foxtails amongst the lilies. And then maybe next year I can get back to more toe-scuffing and less soul-crushing shame.

Maybe.

  1. A merciful few, all things considered [↩]
  2. This has not always been a bad thing. Right now the overgrown backyard is housing two pair of cardinals, a hideaway for the kids behind a seldom trimmed bush, and, next to the door, a mother duck warming a clutch of a dozen eggs. [↩]
  3. Nervous messed up marionette, flying alone on a prison ship. [I know those lyrics are misquoted but that is how I hear them. I think they're better this way.] [↩]
  4. Because he has not unloaded and spread out one-hundred bags of mulch a half-dozen times over the years [↩]
 AAG Entries, family, Feminism, sex  7 Responses »

Am I a Sex Addict?

Mar 292011
 

This showed up in my inbox last week and I can’t decide whether I should be amused or irritated:

I saw your blog and I wanted to reach out to you to see if this is for you. Sexual Addiction is a serious affliction that affects a countless number of people.

  • Are you dependent on sex?
  • Is your life negatively affected by sex?
  • Do you spend too much of your time thinking about sex?
  • Do you compulsively masturbate?
  • Do you compulsively solicit sex from strangers?
  • Do you spend all your money on internet porn?
  • Do you prostitute yourself for purposes of excitement rather than money?
  • Has your work been affected by sex?
  • Do you spend too much of your time at strip clubs, sex parlors, or adult video arcades?
  • Do you abandon commitments because of a need for anonymous sex?
  • Are you at constant risk for sexually transmitted disease due to unsafe sex practices?
  • Are you increasingly unable to perform sexually without other stimuli such as pornography, videos, “poppers,” drugs/alcohol, “toys,” etc.?

If you suffer from any of these afflictions, we are here to help! Sexual addiction is a “family disease”, meaning that it affects not only the addicted individual but also the entire family unit. It is also a disease that is progressive in nature, meaning that it does not get better on its own, nor does it go away over time. We are looking for individuals to participate in a revolutionary new documentary series where a noted sex therapist will guide you toward recovery.  If you are over the age of 18 and live in the greater Los Angeles area contact us immediately at [redacted].

I lean toward amusement because this is just so over the top. I mean, who isn’t at least a little dependent on sex? How much of my time is “too much” to be spent thinking about sex? Does anyone really spend all their money on internet porn? And yes, my work has been affected by sex. It’s been positively affected!

But I’m annoyed because as far as I can tell this was not a mass mailing. I am the only sexblogger to have been singled out! Surely I’m not the most obviously sex-addicted sexblogger out there!

Am I?

 AAG Entries, blogging, sex  16 Responses »

Pjur Power Cream

Mar 022011
 

Not long ago Garnet Joyce heard some of us talking on Twitter about ass-lube and offered up the tantalizing information that MyPleasure.com would be carrying a shinynew variety of Pjur lube very, very soon. This immediately gave me a boner because if I had to travel to Mars with only the things I could fit in a jetpack, a bottle of Pjur Original Bodyglide would be the first thing I’d tuck inside even before food or water, and if you think this makes no rational sense then you’ve never tried that lube.

[Aside: I wonder what would sex on Mars be like, other than breezy and dust-choked? OH LOOK, I'm not the only one to have considered this.]

I’ve sung hymns of praise to Original Pjur for years now because honestly it blows every other lube I’ve tried out of the motherfucking water — and I’ve tried a lot of lubes. It’s absolutely impossible for me to talk about lube without comparing it to Original Pjur. This perhaps makes me a horrible person and a bad sexytime reviewer. I don’t care. If Original Pjur stopped production I would buy every last bottle I could get my hands on and then when all were depleted I would stop having sex for good.

Ok, maybe that was an exaggeration. I would still have sex, but I wouldn’t enjoy it nearly so much and when each act was through I would weep stinging tears of abject sadness over the loss of my beloved Original Pjur.

Considering this, it was hard for me to believe that anything could match the joy I feel when Original Pjur is spread across my body. Nevertheless, I requested (read: begged) for Garnet to send me some of Pjur’s miraculous new product the very second it was unloaded from the truck. She agreed (I love her!) and told me that Pjur Power Cream was designed to have the same super-slippery properties of Pjur Bodyglide but in the form of a gel, which means that it stays put better than its thin-and-drippy counterpart.

This sounds like a really wonderful thing because if there is one teeny-tiny criticism I could level at regular Pjur it is the drippy factor. If you were to peek into my bedroom and look closely at the carpet next to my bed you would no doubt discern a number of discolored splotches where Original Pjur, in the process of being dripped onto my bottom, also dripped onto the floor. To my mind this is but a small price to pay for hours of stellar buttsex1, not to mention the fact that each time I espy these marks I get a tiny jolt of remembered pleasure. Drippy? Who cares about the drippy?

But if the same results could be achieved without the drippy, I’d be happy. I told a friend who’d in the past enjoyed the superslippery properties of Original Pjur with me about this little experiment and he agreed to participate in my study of Pjur Power. It comes in a black snap-top jar about the same size and shape as a container of Vick’s Vapor Rub, and that’s not where the comparisons end. It’s got kind of a cloudy-clear appearance, like the aforementioned mentholated rub. Or mucus.

Scratch that. We’ll just say it looks like the rub.

Between the fingers it feels a lot like Vaseline. Garnet warned me to use a clean hand to scoop it out of the container so as not to contaminate the rest of the product, a recommendation I followed as I spread the Power Cream all over my favorite red dildo and my pal’s bottom. It did, in fact, stay put admirably. Look ma, no drips! I suppose with a newly-boiled dildo you could just dunk it directly into the container, right?

I’d read some reviews of Power Cream that complained about a burning sensation during buttsex. Neither partner nor myself (I put it through its paces a few days later) felt any burning. My guess is that the users with annoyed bottoms acquired them not from the lube but from too-vigorous butt-play and would have had the same (or worse) results regardless of what lube they used. Two people: small sample size I know, but there you go.

I had no complaints with Power Cream’s lubricative properties either in hand-driving the dildo on my friend or in using it on myself. I would count it as nearly as slippery as Original Pjur, which means that it was more than slippery enough. Partner compared Power Cream’s consistency and effectiveness to Crisco, which in the past he has used for anal purposes. “Only this stuff doesn’t look as gross,” he reported, and I guess this is saying something.2

And the taste. You need to know about the taste. I scooped a microscopic sample out of the jar and onto my tongue while the partner, horrified, looked on. “You are not going to eat that,” he growled.

I have to, I said. It’s for science. Really it wasn’t horrible. While Original Pjur tastes like nothing and feels on the lips like ChapStick, Power Cream tastes…well, a little greasy. Encountering a leftover blob of it during a blowjob wouldn’t be my favorite thing in the world but it also wouldn’t kill the mood. For me. Then again, not even a tornado or impending revolution would kill the mood for me, so perhaps you shouldn’t take my word on this part.

Finally, the real test for me: How does it feel as it dries up? I cringe as gloopy lube dries on my skin. I shudder with revulsion as it forms sticky patches. I hurl as it flakes up. I’m happy to report that Power Cream did none of these things when I rubbed it onto my arm and watched the results. It behaved like really thick lotion, making my skin feel kind of coated but definitely not gross. I approve of this very, very much.

However, Power Cream really can’t replace the holistic usefulness of Original Pjur. Can you shine your leather sofa with Power Cream? Remove peanut butter from a toddler’s hair? Tame flyaway curls? Smooth calluses? You cannot. Will it stop hinges from squeaking? Maybe, but not so well as Original Pjur does. And Power Cream is of very limited usefulness as a massage oil, which is where Original Pjur really shines3.

Bottom4 line: If you’re really, really sloppy and you value your carpet more than I do mine, it might be worth your while to invest in a tub of Pjur Power Cream. Otherwise, stick with the original. You will be far happier.

  1. I wonder exactly how many total hours of buttsex I have enjoyed? I would need a stopwatch with a split timer to figure this out. Would that be distracting? It is SCIENCEY. [↩]
  2. Power Cream is also about a billion times more expensive than Criso but this is not all about the price. Right? [↩]
  3. Do you see what I did there? [↩]
  4. HA [↩]
 AAG Entries, sex, toys  16 Responses »

Ready

Mar 012011
 

Surely it starts well before the door opens; surely before a hot hand is laid on ready skin. It’s possible that it starts with the first picture  or the first few words exchanged, but more realistically it’s when he says Get here early because I’m going to fuck your ass, and that could take some time. Just writing the words now, a week later, makes me swallow hard and tingle in an altogether inappropriate fashion and if not for the demands of work and children — and even considering the events of last night — if I could I would take those words to bed with me and not let them up ’til they’d made me come five-hundred times. Which would take not even an hour, and is coincidentally almost the exact amount of time I spent yesterday readying my body for the date.

None of that time was spent doing my hair (unless by “doing” you mean “securing tightly in a band”) or putting on makeup. Instead I scrubbed and shaved and smoothed over rough spots. I painted toenails and filled myself with warm water time after time ’til it ran clear and once again I had to appreciate the ability of that activity to make me so very wobbly, so very poundy of heart and thumpy of cunt that I had to wonder why whywhywhy I only started doing it this year. Why didn’t I do it before on even one of the dozens or hundreds of times I got ready for sex — and not, as you may be imagining, solely for the sake of whatever degree of cleanliness can be conferred by plain water but instead because it’s impossible to be filled with water and not think of being filled with cock.

And then a man must be placed in a chair, tied up and blown so that he can get it hard; service the girl — not that it was difficult to do such a thing or even, technically, necessary, as by the time the ropes were tied and the chair spun ’round my mouth was a treat and not a tool. Don’t come, I threatened halfway through. I want you to put that in my ass, and before he could answer I realized that saying the latter made the former all the more difficult.

But it was managed; I watched from my knees as he prepared by dragging on a condom1, pulling his cock one-handed off to the side sofuckinghot to snug it tight right down to the base. And then the lube, dripped (and almost dropped, slippery thing) on him and on me and then rubbed on me, and then in me which regardless of whatever other perverse things we’ve done makes me cringe and blush so hard. And then pressure, and then a tiny jolt of almost-pain, and then that feeling of being so stretched open, so spread open, so full and wide and bursting-big as it angled down in me and I screamed and screamed and screamed.

I’m not sure if I could say that half of it is in the getting ready, but enough of the pleasure is there that to skimp on it would be foolish at best and self-sabotage at worst.

I never will.

  1. without a single word of complaint, ever, not even once [↩]
 AAG Entries, Buffy, buttsex, sex  3 Responses »

This Confuses Me So Hard

Feb 192011
 

This confuses me so hard I just…

I just…

I just don’t even know what to say.

Not safe for anything:

Continue reading »

 AAG Entries, sex  22 Responses »

Ho-To-Go

Feb 182011
 

Closed, you’d never know what wonders nestle inside. I’ve carried this little number1 to play parties and assignations a’plenty lo these many years and while it’s not in use it sits quietly on the laundry room shelf — or stays in the minivan, ready to be carried off into the night at a moment’s notice.

The advantages to maintaining such a object are clear: Important sexytime props need not clutter up one’s purse or pockets; leaks can be contained; and the dildos don’t go tumbling out at in the grocery store2

What’s in it now?

Click to embiggen.

  1. Sex is messy, yo.
  2. Jesus H. Christ doesn’t coming ever muss my ‘do.
  3. No one seems to want this. I wonder why not.3
  4. I tried one with a friend and thought it felt just fine. He was less impressed.
  5. I love this stuff.4
  6. Courtesy of the lovely Garnet Joyce and MyPleasure.com. I’ve tried it with a friend and on my own and … well, I didn’t hate it. Full review to come.
  7. I don’t know what the fuck this is. Bondage rope for teeny tiny elves?
  8. Black gloves, for fisting.
  9. In case the elves have a bondage emergency? I don’t know how some of this stuff winds up in here.
  10. Too big for me, perfect for a friend.
  11. You never know when you’ll need to deal with cockbreath.
  12. My beloved red dildo.5

By the way, I certainly didn’t come up with the term Ho-To-Go. I’m pretty sure someone on Twitter suggested it but it was long ago and I have no idea who it was.

Was it you? Fess up.

  1. Made by Devine Toys but no longer in production, it seems. [↩]
  2. Which has actually happened to me. Checkers frown on this kind of tomfoolery, BELIEVE IT. [↩]
  3. Do you? [↩]
  4. Wow, that is a really good price. Get some. You will thank me. [↩]
  5. I do not think they make the red Daddy anymore but this one is very similar. [↩]
 AAG Entries, sex  8 Responses »

On Being Welcome

Feb 172011
 

“My house is a wreck,” he warned repeatedly, and given the magnitude of bachelor-managed decrepitude I’ve witnessed in the past I was expecting the worst: moldering piles of laundry, towers of paper looming above the bed, reeking catboxes, shoes flung willy-nilly. On the drive there my body didn’t know whether to get turned on or attempt a wholesale disabling of the olfactory nerves, and a text from him once again warning against any white-glove tests1 did nothing to help matters.

If he honestly thought it was that bad or if for some reason known only to him it seemed advantageous to wind me up I’ll never know but I was shocked and not a little relieved to walk through his door without an assault on any of my delicate sensibilities. Clearly Martha Stewart did not live there2 but other than a layer of dust on the shelves of books I could find nothing objectionable — and I looked! “I still have to take a shower,” he said after relieving me of my coat and Ho-To-Go bag. “Why don’t you join me in a few minutes?”

I most surely will, I said, sitting on his bed and admiring the books3 So emboldened was I by the relative order that I called after him So where is it that you keep the porn?

He reappeared, naked, and gestured toward a particularly well-tended shelf. “Oh, and this is the most recent thing I found,” he said, handing me one crisp periodical before heading back to the bathroom. Dear reader, what was placed in my hands was not your typical skin mag filled with silicone and airbrushing and wildly improbably glossiness. Instead it was devoted to images of women who looked not dissimilar to myself engaging in the kind of sex I sincerely hoped to be having in the very near future.

I’d known of course that magazines like this existed but until last night I wasn’t aware of being with anyone who’d actually purchased one. Why should I have been surprised that he had? “What’s between your ears is 80% of what makes you hot. The rest is just the carrier for who you are,” I read in his profile late last year and the boner those two sentences gave me has barely subsided since then.

I can’t think of anything that would have made me feel more welcome.

  1. He need not have feared; I brought only black gloves [↩]
  2. She would have disapproved of the activities that took place just an hour later I am sure [↩]
  3. Tell me I am not the only one who upon entering a house for the first time immediately searches out the books? This may be the only drawback to the inevitable rise of electronic readers: that we can no longer ascertain and demonstrate character by means of book jackets. [↩]
 AAG Entries, sex  19 Responses »
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