Archives For Sex

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



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:


IMG_6615 2



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.


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.

Punk Rock MILF

July 14, 2015 — 112 Comments

CFB762OW0AAcaZu 2


He said, “Oh, my wife and I have very generic sex. She doesn’t really have any deep-seated issues.”

The implication being that I’m uninhibited and adventurous in bed because I’m meschugena (that’s street Jew for crazy bitch.)

I’m not buying that. If your wife is vanilla, don’t attribute it to her clean bill of mental health. She’s just a starfish fuck.


Psychological baggage may prevent women from getting close to men, or make them difficult and needy. It doesn’t make you a hot scromp.


I’m the first one to admit I have raving daddy issues. But it’s not like I’m a cliched “daddy issues girl” who ended up on a stripper pole or addicted to drugs. 




At any rate, everyone has baggage. Here’s to life in all its fucked up glory. I still maintain that emotional issues won’t turn you into a nymphomaniac with lascivious tastes in bed. That’s just blind luck.


I recently stumbled across a Subreddit called Dead Bedrooms.

*Please note: Do not surf Reddit. You will see things you cannot unsee. There isn’t enough eye bleach in the world to cleanse what I have seen, while searching for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the dark and lonely night.

Apparently, this is a Thing – it’s when a couple, married or otherwise, doesn’t have sex because one of them is LL (low libido). And it’s not always the woman, although that is the more common scenario.

I’m in groups where married woman discuss sex as if it’s an unpleasant chore. Particularly stay-at-home moms, who have to spend a day taking care of squalling brats. Nothing drains a libido faster than exhaustion accompanied by puke, poop, and spit up. It’s ironic that the ultimate expression of womanhood, being a mother, can leave one feeling  sexless and decidedly unfeminine.


I usually keep quiet during these discussions, unless blow jobs are being discussed. I’m enthusiastically pro-blow and try to put in a good word for checking the mic ever since a friends marriage broke up, over blow jobs.

But I don’t join in the I-hate-having-to-fuck my-husband discussions, because I don’t want to disagree and feel like I’m gloating.

I should preface this by saying that I have always had a very strong libido. Even as a kid. I used to watch Star Trek and get little twinges over Mr. Spock (don’t you dare judge me and RIP Leonard Nimoy).  And later, over Charlie’s Angels – but that’s a whole other story.

I grew up in the New York City projects and had the hots for The Jackson Five. All of them. Individually, not some jungle-fever gang bang.

Before you send a marching band to my house to play “Me So Horny” this has not always been positive. There’s such a thing as incompatible sex drives. A relationship I had in my 20’s, the love of my life, the “one who got away” – died of sexual incompatibility.

If I’m in a relationship, I’m an “every day” girl. This man was more of the “once or twice a week” persuasion.  It was a source of constant frustration to me, and not just sexual. It’s emotionally frustrating to walk around all the time throbbing at the heart and the pussy.

I tried everything. I fed him tiger penis soup from China and horny goat weed from India. I dressed as Leela from Futurama.

I went unfucked.

While choosing an island in the Caribbean for our vacation, I said, “I really don’t care where we go. As long as we can have sex five times a day.”

He was visibly horrified.

We broke up soon after that.


I had a really strong sex life with my Ex, which is probably why he still stalks me.

We never had that post-baby “don’t touch me” thing happen. We had plenty of sex with that little bassinet right in our bedroom. When my doctor told us to wait six weeks after my son was born to have sex, my Ex said, “Wait a minute. Is that for anal, too?”

Even 14 years into our relationship our sex life really never dwindled or got stale. I don’t know exactly what to attribute that to. I wish I did, and could articulate it to couples who are experiencing Dead Bedroom.

I am adventurous, energetic and kinky as hell, but not because of my “deep seated issues.” Maybe it’s because I’m from New York, and have been exposed to a veritable cornucopia of kinky fuckery? Or because I started exploring my sexuality in college, in a hippie-ish, upstate New York “land that time forgot”? Is it because I grew up with five brothers, and there was so much sperm flung around our apartment it was like living in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo?


Sex is one of the most fun activities a couple can engage in. It costs nothing. It’s fantastic cardio. The hormones released are natural mood enhancers. Certain positions, like reverse cowgirl, are great for working out your hamstrings and quads.  Reverse cowgirl is also a fabulous position for hitting a woman’s G-spot.

Yes, a G-spot exists. We’re not talking Big Foot or Chupacabra. Although it is pretty fucked up that something which feels that amazing you have to go on a mystical quest to find, whereas everything you need to make a man orgasm is just protruding out there, waggling at you.


Women who think having sex with their husbands is like facing a long layover at a crowded airport during a snowstorm, think again.


Women are complicated creatures who need to feel safe, protected, and taken care of.  Men are generally far less complicated. They need to be fed and fucked. If you want him attending to your needs, attend to his.

Sex is a powerful stress reliever. It releases calming hormones in the brain, which is balm for the body. Sex correlates to healing faster, getting sick less often and living longer. A panacea for so much of what ails us- automatically installed in our own bodies!

It feels good. Stop denying yourself one of the worlds’ greatest pleasures. Most men are more than happy to give a woman an orgasm. A man I was involved with recently was a sexual gem, more invested in making me have an orgasm than in having one himself. Do both of you a favor, and accept this graciously, and repeatedly.

Reclaim your femininity; your essence. Particularly if you’re a woman who spends her day cleaning up poo and puke and spit and All The Things. You need to remember that you’re a goddess. There’s nothing more restorative than finding yourself through the touch of another.


I’m not some kind of sexual superstar. I just feel empowered because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly.

The physical pleasure of sex, the freedom of it, connects two human beings in a way that lets them endure the pains and losses of being human. It’s a life affirming expression of joy and trust.



The title of this post is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful Sisterwife Mandi, who referred to me in a conversation as “Punk MILF.”

Mandi is the author of Dear Stephanie, an intense, sizzling, roller coaster of a read. Because I love you all, and because

I’m a proud Book Pimp,


please leave a comment. We’ll do a drawing and one of you will win a copy!



Is your sex drive compatible with that of your Significant Other? 
Have you ever heard of Dead Bedroom? How about Tiger Penis Soup? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 



I don’t care if they legalize gay marriage throughout the galaxy, two women together is an anathema.

It’s no secret that I was seriously involved with two in my lifetime:

Debby, who I met when I was a phone girl in a whore house, and Nicolette, my beautiful, impossibly bitchy lesbian girlfriend.


For the record, I don’t identify as bisexual, or pan sexual, (someone sexually attracted to pancakes) or gender fluid, (like transmission fluid, only more difficult to find at Home Depot) or polysexual, or any of that crap.

If I had to say which gender I’ve been in love with and had relationships with more, it would be men. But my attraction to women has existed for as long as my sexuality has.

When I fall in love, or lust, I don’t hold anyone’s gender against them.



Well. Actually, when possible, I try to avoid falling in love with women. Bitches be crazy.


I’m a woman, and even I will admit that women are a complete mystery. Like quantum physics, or how Stephen Tyler can get his mouth open so wide.


In a recent study done at John Hopkins which I made up, 99% of all women were prone to saying “Fine” when, in fact, they were very NOT fine.

And I’m as ill-equipped as a man to answer those carefully constructed impossible questions where there is only one “right” answer. The kind that if you don’t get right, you’d better prepare for an epic tantrum to come steaming towards you like a fully loaded freight train.


Women’s hormones run amuck every month. When two women live together, their cycles gradually adjust until the two of them are in menstrual sync. Do you understand what a crap fest it is to have shark week in tamden? It’s a week of wild accusations and random crying and way too much chocolate.


And the talking. I sometimes talk so much I want to punch myself in the face repeatedly. Put two women together? So. Much.Talking.

Communication is an important part of any relationship but for lesbians, talking is like breathing. Her constant questions make me feel as if I’m getting drained like a vampire, getting weaker every minute. They need to fill every moment with conversation, even if it’s the 5th time you’ve heard about that time she stole Paris Hilton’s birthday cake and gave it to the the homeless.

Lesbians get serious quickly, and I mean by the third date they’re driving their U-Haul to your house. One minute, you’re exploring whether or not she’s the right height to make scissoring work, the next you’re surrounded by her vegan cookbooks and flannel shirts and her goddamn CAT.

When I date a man, he’s usually just your garden variety man.

But lesbians are grouped by category. Oh, she’s Butch? But is she a Stone Butch or a Soft Butch? Is she a Sport Dyke or actually a Chapstick Lesbian? Oh she’s Femme? But is she a Blue Jean Femme? Is she a Stone Femme? What if she’s a Lipstick Lesbian? It’s mind-boggling.



Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean that I have a high tolerance for irrational behavior. I’m just as lost as any man when it comes to mysterious female behavior.

When I ask her what’s wrong, why does she say “nothing” and act cold?

Why do I have to go to the bathroom with her, or with any woman?

Why is she asking for my opinion when she just wants me to agree with her?

Why is she flapping the fuck out if I don’t answer her text messages?

Why do I have to sit there for half an hour while she decides what to order?

Why, for the love of all that is HOLY, does she beat a subject to death, pick it up again, kill it again, then burn it, gather all the ashes and beat it again?


Trying to figure out a woman – I might as well try to wrap my brain around God or Time or the Infinite Universe.

When you’re a woman who dates other women, it’s all just a writhing mass of mutual need.


Don’t get me wrong, though. I love women.

I love how smooth their skin is, how silky their hair feels, the way they smell, they way their lips are so much softer then a man’s, their soft squishy boobs…


Wait, what was I saying?

Right! Dating women.

At least when you’re dating a woman you can act as crazy as you feel.


But I’m allergic to cats, I don’t want to be forced to see Tegan and Sara and I refuse to drive a Subaru Outback. Don’t roll your eyes. These stereotypes exist for a reason.



I’m grateful that gay marriage has been made legal in all 50 states. I just don’t support any marriage.


But I will continue to be attracted to, and date, both genders. As a matter of fact, I’m eating a popsicle right now.  And I can both lick AND suck it.

That’s to remind me that I can keep my options open.


Have you ever felt like women were impossible to understand? Even if you are one?
Does two women married sound as nightmarish to you as it does to me?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

Blow Job

May 26, 2015 — 97 Comments

Blow job


My public (all four of them) demanded more Spoken Word. 

So here it is. 

CLICK HERE and listen to me on SoundCloud.

And thank you for listening, and continuing to break the the “4th wall” of blogging!

You are awesome!

( for those of you who prefer the written word, below is the text.)




So, he says to me, “We don’t have to have sex. Can you just give me a blow job?”

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to,” I reply.

“But baby, why don’t you want to?”


I don’t know. Maybe the sight of you whining like a petulant 8 year old who got slapped in the face at his own birthday party is a turn off.

Maybe it’s because you threw up a gang sign and talked about black music that black people don’t even listen to

Maybe I’m just not turned on by your pretentious microbrewery obsession, the cruelty free almond butter and artisanal dark roast you had for breakfast this morning,

And I’m completely underwhelmed by your overpriced John Varvatos sneakers, now you know you paid $250 for a pair of Converse, right?

I just don’t want to, do I have to have a reason?

Excuse me, did I miss something?

Was there a part of the sexual revolution I was married through? Is oral sex no longer considered sex, and is in fact some cretinous extension of afterdate etiquette?  You take me to the Olive Garden and and I suck your dick?

I don’t owe you anything. And even if I did, I don’t deal in oral currency.


Ohhh, he said. You women. You’re all alike. It’s not like I asked to fuck you. It’s just your mouth.


Well, if you must know, I consider oral sex more intimate than intercourse.

When you’re fucking me, I can go away somewhere.

I’m on all fours, you’re behind me, and I’m checking my polish for chips.

You’re on top of me, sweating and groaning, and I’m making a few moans and a shopping list.

Now I’m on top, squirming ecstatically, AND writing this blog post at the same time.



When I get on my knees in front of you

You thrusting, me gagging,

When I’m giving you “come to Jesus” upper tier fellatio,

When I choke on a pube like a cat with a hair ball,

when I’m going at it like a fat kid trying to suck the last bit of Slurpee out of a cup while riding a jackhammer,


When I’ve been down there so long I’m gonna need a tetanus shot and a muscle relaxant so I can chew my food the next day,

When I am sucking your dick,


There is no escape.



For every time I did it when I didn’t want to

For every friend of mine who ever did when she didn’t want to

For every women on the motherfucking planet who EVER did when she didn’t want to

Just because we’re women in a high-supply sexual economy doesn’t mean we can’t turn down a low return investment


We have the power to say NO.

We are coherent, intelligent and mature women and as we navigate the sexual landscape of the new millennium we are reclaiming our bodies and we are TAKING BACK THE NIGHT!


“Oh,”he says.


Well, can I get a hand job?”



Has anyone ever just assumed you were going to have sex with them?
When did suburban dads become hipster douchebags?
Talk to me.  I’m listening.