Archives For Sex

I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

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“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?”

I was trying to manuever us into the Cat position, and he was mystified.

Apparently, all the *other* women he’d been with had stupendous, earth-shaking orgasms just from the insertion of his Mighty Mighty Penis. And while this is certainly possible for me, why wouldn’t I want to have a different kind of orgasm, or three or seven?

 

Women don’t have sex to have orgasms. Unlike men, we don’t need that climax to feel complete. We have sex for all the other amazing feelings it elicits, but achieving orgasm is not always the be-all and end-all.

 

EXCEPT ME.

HELL YES, I WANT TO HAVE AN ORGASM AND IF I DON’T,  I GET PISSED OFF!

All these other spine tingling feelings are, well, spine tingling, but if I don’t climax, my vagina turns into a wildebeest and howls at the moon.

 

The reason why so many men are inept when it comes to making a woman climax is that too many women just fake it.

I have no idea why. That’s like going into a restaurant, ordering a fabulous meal, and then walking out, rubbing your stomach and saying,  “Wow, that sure was delicious,” and you didn’t eat anything.

Many women don’t want to explain to their partners what they need to have an orgasm. Maybe they feel like they need to present their orgasm to a man as proof of his prowess, to finesse his dainty ego. That’s ridiculous. Women are all so different, a good lover understands there will be a learning curve involved.

If a man can’t handle being told what gets you off, he’s not the right person to be having sex with. Period, end of story. Buh bye.

Some women start to feel bad if it’s taking too long. Don’t. Are you double parked? There is no “too long.” This isn’t a task that needs to be rushed through, like turning all the hangers in your closet in the same direction.

(Okay, if you have little kids, all bets are off. Then it’s every man/woman for himself until someone walks in. In this situation, I found that wedging a Hitachi Magic Wand in between the Ex and me sped up the whole orgasm process. It was magic, aside from my kid wondering why we were using a chainsaw in the house.)

 

We are all so different, not just in terms of sexual preference, but anatomically. Some women really have difficulty reaching climaxes through intercourse alone, which may be because their G-spots are small or more difficult to locate. Some women just prefer clitoral orgasms, whether they know where their G-spot is or not.

Tomato, To-mah-to. Whatever kind of orgasm it is, it’s irrelevant as long as it makes your whole body shake and your toes curl.

Also, the female hormones released in middle age (40 plus) increase a woman’s sex drive. No, this is not an urban myth. Yes, we get more sexual and orgasmic as we get older. It’s a beautiful thing. Vaginal orgasms only became an item on my sexual menu after I hit 40.

 

Men. Please know how to kiss. If you attempt to unhinge your jaw while flopping your tongue down my esophagus like a fish out of water, it’s not a good sign that you are responsive to my needs. I love the sounds of sex, but not the wet “flpflpflpflpflpflp” sound of your tongue slapping against the roof of my mouth.

If you like music to set a mood, then find something that’s going to play awhile without interruption. Never leave an iPod on shuffle. Woman don’t get quite as excited about the Pokemon theme song as you might imagine.

And we would prefer you not have a heart attack because you’re trying to keep up to “Trapped Under Ice” by Metallica. It’s hella awkward if you die on top of us.

Women’s lady parts are nature’s Rubik Cube. You’re going to have to invest a little time into figuring out what works for each woman. This is where the whole “faking it” thing is the Destroyer of Climaxes.

Men, be willing to try anything. There’s a whole world of sexual positions. Change it up. Be adventurous. Try the Flaming Amazon (set her pubes on fire), the Blanche Devereaux, (sex while watching a Golden Girls Marathon), the Texas Rodeo (mount her from behind like a wrestling hold, whisper in her ear, “this is how your sister likes it,” then try to stay on for 8 seconds.)

If you’re telling a man what you like, and he says, “It’s not sexy when women talk in bed,” find a way to get out of their, fast. Fake your own death if you have to. This is the same man who will squeeze your tits like a pair of bike horns. He doesn’t want you to explain anything. He thinks he can “read your signals” because you yelped and jerked out of his vicelike grip while he gave your breasts one-handed Indian burns.

 

Women of Earth, please stop faking it. If you fake your orgasms, he’s never going to learn anything. You are ruining him for all the women who come (or don’t) after you.

And men –  if your woman tells you, “The only way I can climax is for you to drive me to New York, escort me to the top of the Empire State Building and hum the Star Wars theme while you play with my butt,” your immediate response should be, “Let me get my keys.”

Wasn’t that a movie? “Sleepless In an Imperial Starship,” starring Tom Hanks?

 

Have you ever faked it, or been with someone who did? WHY??? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

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The Cute Guy’s ex girlfriend is making my life miserable. Why can’t we all just have sex and be one big happy polyamorous family?

I’m willing to overlook the fact that she looks like a middle-aged Snooki. She’ll be fine once I get her out of that desperate MILF outfit and hose her down.

 

Over the summer, CG wanted to spend time with me more regularly than I was comfortable with. At the same time, his ex girlfriend found out through the grapevine that we were seeing each other.

Old Snooki contacted him, flipping out that he had moved on. He was craving more company. In a dysfunctional cloud of jealousy and unresolved feelings,they began seeing one another again.

I really didn’t care. He’s a grown-ass man. He can do what he wants, as long as I don’t catch Herpes Simplex 2 from him. Then we would have a come-to-jesus moment which involved him strapped to a chair with hot sauce on his privates while Wonderwall played on bagpipes.

 

The problem is, Old Snooki does NOT want him seeing me. She’s making his life miserable over it.

He has feelings for her. He tells me “it’s complicated.”

 

I did stop seeing him at one point, to avoid the drama. But we ended up hanging out again because he has a huge penis we have fantastic chemistry.

He’s kind of perfect. He adds pizzazz to the neighborhood when he roars up to my driveway on his motorcycle. He’s super funny. He’s one of the few people who doesn’t exhaust me, even though our dates stretch into dawn. It’s probably because he’s your basic good dumb fuck  not into a lot of in-depth conversation.

 

But he COMPLAINS to ME about how crazy she is.

I’ve been called that by men, so I don’t usually take it too seriously. There’s “leaves nasty messages” crazy, and then there’s “slashes your tires and you end up in jail” crazy.

“Crazy” is something a man labels you after they’ve done shit so heinous that you find yourself at your wit’s end and driven to things like trying to embarrass them in the comment section of their blog, thus lending credibility to their claim.
oopsie. That’s another blog post.

All women are a little crazy. And crazy has its upside. Would I be proposing threesomes if I was normal?

 

Hot chicks are often crazy. If you meet a smoking hot, totally chill woman, she’s a transvestite.

But on the Crazy Matrix, Old Snooki is in the Danger Zone. That’s above the Red Line Sector which contains strippers, redheads, or anyone named Tiffany.

She keeps her hand on his leg to monitor whenever his phone goes off. When he’s with me, he’s nervous that he’ll go home to find her in his driveway. Waiting to smell him.

 

I proposed to CG that we have a threesome. She’s not my type but I’ll take one for the team.

She adamantly refuses.

I understand she’s emotionally attached, but does that have to mean exclusivity? I was in love with my husband, and we still occasionally opened Door Number Three. We even had a steady girlfriend for a while; a young woman we referred to as “Bus Girl” because she used to take the bus to where we live.

Bus Girl was an ex-gymnast, capable of Cirque du Soleil worthy feats of sexual prowess. She was 15 years younger than me, and fucked like a porno Energizer Bunny.

 

Things would be so EASY if Old Snooki just accepted me. The Cute Guy is too stressed over this, and it’s a buzz kill. I can’t continue to see him.

 

The only problem is, now I have visions of a threesome with him in my head.

As an alternative, I spoke to my bestie about him. Not my college or NY bestie. Another bestie. She’s a hot brunette with a terrific giggle and an ass like J Lo. We can call her “Troublemaker” because she is.

Troublemaker doesn’t live near me, but she’s planning to visit, now that I showed her CG’s picture.

Get your minds out of the gutter! I showed her his enormous penis.

 

Women. Men are not biologically programmed for monogamy. Stone Age men, unshackled by stifling societal mores, grabbed multiple cave ladies by the hair and hauled them back to the cave for hot Troglodyte sex.

It takes enormous effort for a man to be faithful. Their penises have a mind of their own. Boasting this protuberance is like owning an extra fridge just to stock beer in. If it’s there, you’re always waiting for a party to break out.

Letting them indulge in a little extracurricular activity sanctioned by you is a great way to let them know you appreciate their efforts.

And If you and your man have completely incompatible sex drives, with his being really high and yours much lower, why not invite another woman in the bedroom and let her play jiffy stiffy? It’s one less thing you have to do around the house, right?

There are so many reasons to indulge in threesomes, not the least of which is (as in the case of Bus Girl) designating the third-party to be the one to fetch drinks and snacks when you don’t feel like getting out of bed.

I could have used another woman for backup during my third trimester, when I was 11 months pregnant and still blowing my husband in restaurant bathrooms. In between Braxton Hicks contractions.

 

The threesome arrangement is not just for your man. Being with another woman is one of life’s great pleasures, ranking up there with shoe shopping and perfectly hot wiring a car.

If you’re daunted by the idea of eating a fur burger, you can keep everything above the waist. You think I’m gonna lick Old Snooki’s snatch? Not on your life. There’s no telling what I’ll find up there. If I put my ear to it like a seashell, her pussy will echo with the cries of a thousand desperate men.

 

Some men are completely disinterested in sex outside of their relationship. This is a unicorn. If you find a unicorn, capture it safely. Modern science would like to study and possibly replicate it.

 

If you do consider adding a woman to your relationship, there’s actually an app to help you find her.

Goddamn, I love technology.

Would you ever have a threesome? What if she had cool clothes you could borrow?
Have you had one? Fess up! 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.

When Cowbells Were Sexy

August 20, 2015 — 72 Comments

 

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who left home at 16. She claimed it was to attend school, but she chose the school based solely on how far away she could get.

She put hundreds of miles between her and where she never wanted to be again, and still they weren’t enough. She wanted to rid herself of that oppressive atmosphere, the pain and violence, the loneliness and sadness.

She carried with her the burden of her virginity, a gift she had been unable to give away.

It no longer felt like a gift; it was a yoke around her neck, binding her to what she knew would soon be the old version of herself. It suffocated her, like a coat of armor that made it impossible for her to dance gracefully through the world.

She had tried to unbind herself of this before, and others had tried with her, but none were succesful. She waited like a princess in a tower but no princes could manage to rescue her.

She was too young and small and strange and smart, and much, much too eager. And they joined her in this eagerness, falling upon her delicate frame, fumbling with clumsy hands.

While she stayed tethered. Turning every prince back into a frog.

And there were always brothers around, violent and shrewd. There were so many of them one was always somewhere she was. Guarding her.

They tried to tell her she couldn’t go away; they insisted she stay home to go to school, but she laughed in their faces. Their home had always been total anarchy and she left to her own devices. They would not tell her what to do now.

She left, and never returned.

 

It was a magical town at a magical time and she turned 17 there. It was a beautiful place with fields and waterfalls and lakes and woods and there she reinvented herself. Here she turned herself from a strange and skinny ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.

But still, there was the matter of her innocence. It was a shackle that dug into the tenderest parts of her soul.

Here, she waited. Because here there was magic.

Here, the weather got warm and she walked around the tiny town in her bare feet, putting out her thumb to get a ride from cars passing by. Driven by strangers who were always just friends she hadn’t yet met.

And in this clean air, she could finally. Breathe.

There was a boy who liked her. He wrote songs for her, which he played for her on guitar while they sat on a blanket by the waterfall and had picnics.

One day he filled her room with hundreds of wild flowers he picked in the woods. “White for purity,” he said, and she laughed and pressed them to her nose.

But this boy would not be The One.

 

 

And one early summer evening she stood on a porch and saw a man who saw her, seeing him.

And she knew he would be The One.

He was 21 and had one year left to her three. He was tall and strong and his eyes were green; the color of the moss next to the waterfall where that other boy had declared his love for her.

They stood on the crowded porch and the laughter of partygoers swirled all around them. But now there was no long any need to be there; in each other, they saw the reason they were both there. They left together as if it had already been decided.

Which it had.

 

And that night the walls of his room shimmered in different shades of gold. On the next night and every night thereafter they were just brown, but that first night she remembered them as gold.

And later she would remember his smile and his moss-green eyes and his strong gentle hands. And his patience.

 

There was wine and music and candles and the walls glowed in prisms of gold.

 

♪♫  Whatever colors you have in your mind,
       I’ll show them to you and you’ll see them shine ♪♫

 

Their rhythms were not in sync and her heart was beating too fast. So he moved very slowly.

And in the morning, as the sun rose over a pastoral country dawn, her face smeared with fatigue and want and need; finally, finally this man took from this girl what she had wanted so badly to give.

Finally, finally.

And she lay next to him, grateful and glad. And brought his hands to her mouth and kissed them.

She looked out the window and saw all the colors of the world opening to her at once.

There was nothing left of who she had been.

Finally, finally.

And she was Free.

 

 

The End

 

(But really, the Beginning)

 

 

Did you ever realize the clip-clopping sound in the beginning of “Lay Lady Lay” was cowbells? What songs remind you of the most incredible moments of your life?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

My Instagram Crush

August 18, 2015 — 111 Comments

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Well, that was bound to happen. After all, I’ve been on Instagram – what, a whole month?

 

What IS it with me and social media? How is it that I can get attracted to someone who I’ve never touched?

I’ve had mad crushes on people I’ve met blogging. Too many.

I fell in love with Jennie Saia after only blogging a few weeks, and only 2 weeks after “meeting” her. I actually declared my love for her in the comment section of a post I felt in every cell of my body. It’s there now, for all eternity – or until she shuts down her blog.

Jennie in real life turned out to be pretty much the same as Jennie on the blog. It’s very disappointing when you have feelings for someone based on how they write, or the personality they portray online, only to find they’re not at all like that when you really get to know them.

The Honoré de Balzac school of “be sexually charming and financially wise in your literary work, while in real life be a complete asshole who dies broke and in debt.”

I suppose I’m guilty of that. My blog persona is much tougher and care free, and way less needy and crazy, than me in real life.

 

I had a pointless, unsatisfying, destructive emotional affair with someone via Facebook. I was ripe for that one.

I’d just spent several months at the receiving end of a vicious hate campaign directed at me because my writing mentor was accused of being a predator and ousted offline. I would have grown attached to Hitler if he contacted me online and acted kind and sympathetic.

Actually, Hitler probably would have been less disingenuous. The whole experience was so bizarre I’m writing a book about it. You’ll have to wait for that one to come out to get those juicy details.

 

I’ve been temped on Twitter. I’ve been direct messaged by some really cute (I guess?) people who wanted to get to know me, but Twitter doesn’t do it for me. It’s like trying to connect with someone in a hippodrome while thousands of people shout to no one in particular “HEY LOOK AT ME HEY LISTEN HEY LOOK AT ME ME ME ME!”

 

I originally opened an Instagram account because I had broken up with Facebook after being booted off. I was told that people connected at BlogHer through instagram.

In the end, anyone I wanted to meet up with I texted, or, if I didn’t know their phone number, we tweeted one another. As a matter of fact, it was fun getting tweets from people like Kitten Holiday so we could announce online in front of all our followers just how awkward we felt at BlogHer:

 

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I like Instagram. I can get in, and get out and catch up with the latest adventures of friends and fellow bloggers. I don’t get sucked into a social media black hole; where I spend 10 minutes that morphs, through cyber alchemy, into 2 hours.

I don’t have much to say on Instagram; most people I follow don’t. A few words to caption your picture, some cool #hastags to encourage people to land on your photo. I have to stop myself from hashtagging every photo I post with “This is how we #fuckshitup.” It would make no sense, but still, the urge is there.

So what do I post? Rock tee shirts of the day, or skull tees of the day, usually. One or two pictures of my face from when I attended BlogHer, the first weekend I had my account.

Because I am a woman, and I don’t post pictures that attest to a husband or boyfriend, I receive direct messages on Instagram from men. I’m always a little surprised. My snarky personality is not at all in evidence; I say very little. I’m not scantily clad; although the very first picture I posted was the infamous one that showed up in the WordPress Reader, me in my bondage bra.

I snapped the pic and posted it because after I checked into the hotel, I realized that walking through the lobby of the Hilton clad in my bra was now off my bucket list, and I felt like commemorating the occasion with photographic evidence.

I ignore the messages.

Usually.

A really good looking English guy with a muscular physique and lots of ink starting “liking” all my rock tees and we followed each other. I say he’s English, but I really don’t know except he called me his “favourite” and I hope he’s not Canadian.

He appears to be traveling the world, or at least Europe, and I believe his home is in England. I’ve no clue. I know very little about him but he’s dead sexy to look at and he has a habit of captioning his photos with rock lyrics.

I’m a nerd with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of rock lyrics. I held back responding to his captions with the next line of the song so I wouldn’t seem like I was being a know-it-all until the day he posted a line from my favorite Patti Smith song, “Rock And Roll Nigger.” He wrote “outside of society” and I responded with “That’s where I want to be.”

He wrote that he couldn’t believe I knew that, and I answered that I couldn’t believe everyone else didn’t. It’s a fucking great song.

Seriously. Stop right this second and listen to it on YouTube. There isn’t one single thing I, or anyone for that matter, has to say that is more important than you listening to this song RIGHT THIS SECOND. I would post the video here but then it will show up in the Reader as my post image (ha, in your FACE WordPress, I am on to your trickery!)

It progressed from there. He would post a picture from where he was in the world, captioning it with a song lyric (“Look at those cavemen go”) and I would respond with the next lyric (“It’s the freakiest show”) and so on.

I got a direct message from him and I was instantly nervous. It’s SUCKS donkey balls when you open up a message from a man you don’t know and it’s a dick pic. And I liked his taste in music as well as his tattoos and muscles, so I did not want a reason to dislike him.

It was just this: “You drive me crazy.”

He’s only seen my covered torso. I don’t say anything flirty or sexy in any of my captions. Why was I driving him crazy? Was this a good thing?

So I asked him “is this a good thing?”
Apparently, it was. And so, it began.

 

Why do I develop crushes on people I’ll likely never meet? Won’t ever touch or hug or probably never even hear?

I suppose everyone who’s everyone had an online crush has a reason. For me, it’s safe. I can invest just a part of me, maybe more than I wanted intentionally, but certainly not the same amount I would invest in a real life person I was involved with.

It’s like having a de facto boyfriend, which is Latin for “my therapist is gonna love hearing about this guy.” You can’t get hurt, although in truth I did get hurt with that Facebook debacle, but that was only because he convinced me that we were having a “real” relationship and I bought it.

I won’t get fooled again.

I’m seeing someone in real life. Is it crazy that, at this moment, I like Instagram Man better?

Don’t answer that.

 

Did you ever have an online crush? (You KNOW you have). Was it fun? Can you talk about it even? 
If you can, then talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Follow me on Instagram so I look popular.